A Tale of Two Grandmothers

(Note: This is an author’s essay I wrote for Janet Rudolph’s Mystery Readers Journal, published earlier this year. To learn more about contributing an essay to MRI, refer to this. I’ll be posting an essay I wrote for Mystery Scene next month.)

NAOMI HIRAHARA

My Mas Arai mysteries, featuring a Japanese American gardener and atomic-bomb survivor, are largely set in the United States, but the threads of two stories take us back to Japan. And in these two cases, it was a personal connection–in fact, two grandmothers–which led me to specific material clues that ended up in the center of my mysteries.

My late maternal grandmother, Chiyoko, had an unflinching eye for the truth. Although genteel and elegant, she never covered up anything in the name of civility. She lived most of her life in Hiroshima, her birthplace, but spent about a year with our family in Altadena, California, when my brother, eight years younger than me, was born. I also frequently traveled to Japan as a child and young adult. Chiyoko was the only obaachan (grandmother)–in fact, grandparent–that I had really known.

After I met my future husband, another grandmother would enter my life. Her name was Kame, but everyone–even those not related to her–referred to her as Mama. She had come to America as a picture bride from Okinawa in the early 1900s. She was short and squat and often boasted about making the best Japanese food in the western hemisphere. She grew Okinawan winter melons called goya, zucchini-shaped vegetables with a bumpy exterior, outside her fourplex in the middle of urban Los Angeles and distributed the exotic vegetables to all her Latino neighbors. In addition to her world famous maze gohan (rice mixed with red beans), she also cooked potfuls of snake that apparently filled her kitchen with a powerful aroma.

These two women had amazing stories of survival and tragedy. My grandmother had survived the atomic bomb in Hiroshima, but lost her husband, my grandfather, in the blast. Mama, on the other hand, had been sent to a detention center in Heart Mountain, Wyoming, where she claimed that she made the best Japanese pickles within her block of barracks.

When I visited my grandmother in my early twenties, I heard that she had contributed an illustration to a Japanese television network, NHK, for a project the station was spearheading. It was a picture of a dead man she had seen while escaping the ravages of the Hiroshima bomb. It had been a few days since the blast, and the corpse was deteriorating in the summer heat. But somehow the man’s name tag, required by the Japanese government, was still visible, so my grandmother, the ever-dutiful citizen, wrote the name down. Later she drew a picture, complete with maggots coming out of the man’s belly, and his name.

While recording something so horrific seems grotesque to western sensibilities, but I understood my grandmother’s motivations. She, my uncle, and my mother had searched hopelessly through ground zero to find any signs of my grandfather. She felt that it was her duty to retrieve any remains and in probably the same spirit, she created the picture to honor this stranger’s life. Apparently the man’s family felt the same way. After identifying the illustration, they thanked my grandmother for taking the time to recognize the death of one person when the lives of so many hundreds of thousands had been lost.

Somehow that illustration stayed with me–both its beauty and grotesqueness. When my first book, SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI, evolved into a mystery, I knew that somehow this illustration had to become a clue.

Mama, on the other hand, had lived a different type of life here in the United States. Her broken English was peppered with Spanish words, so sometimes it was difficult to follow the language she was speaking. She and her husband had religiously followed the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball team. "I Love Lucy" was her favorite television program.

But the Okinawan culture was also deeply ingrained in their lives through not only food but also music. Her husband had played the snakeskin shamisen, called the sanshin in Okinawan. He had passed away before I started dating my husband, but I saw pictures of him in a black hakama, Japanese flowing pants, proudly holding onto the sanshin.

Mama died several months after she turned one hundred. She didn’t quite make it to our wedding day. When the family was cleaning out her unit in their fourplex, I spied a dusty, battered sanshin on a chair. It was only for a minute, but that image stayed with me and became the title for the third Mas Arai mystery, SNAKESKIN SHAMISEN.

Both Mama and Obaachan are gone now. Much like the material things these women left, the illustration in SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI and the musical instrument in SNAKESKIN SHAMISEN take on lives of their own. Of course, without the stories of the people who touched them, these objects are meaningless. So here these material clues are not only keys to unraveling fictional crimes, but remnants of real and amazing lives lived.

OC SAYS HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO SISTERS IN CRIME: I haven’t been getting out much in mystery circles these days, so it was great fun for me to party with the Orange County chapter of Sisters in Crime at their 20^th anniversary celebration of the national organization at Book Carnival in Orange earlier this month. President Theresa Schwegel ensured that everything ran smoothly, including hiring an improv group that left dead bodies in the store throughout the event. It was good to see both Colin Cotterill and Eric Stone after their long road trip throughout the U.S. (Eric measured bookstore attendees by tonnage–hilarious). In addition to my favs, Patricia Smiley, John Morgan Wilson, and Sue Ann Jaffarian, I got to meet for the first time Taffy Cannon and Dianne Emiley, another Pasadena author that I’ve heard so much about. On the right is Dianne (center) and Number One mystery fan Emily (right). And yes, sadly, I’m the short one. I really forget what a munchkin I am until I see photos like this. (And I’m wearing heels!) Sigh. (Photo courtesy of Theresa Schwegel)

CHINA DOLLS WORK IT: I had the pleasure yesterday of meeting with two upcoming debut authors, Michelle Yu and Blossom Kan, actually cousins (I can’t remember if they are first, second, etc.), who will be releasing their chicklit novel, CHINA DOLLS, around Chinese New Year next February. These two New Yorkers were in L.A. to do some research for their next novel as well as to make some contacts. I give props to their editor Diana Sze, St. Martin’s Press, and the authors for working it so early in Southern California.

SUBMIT YOUR BACKSTORIES: M.J. Rose on her fabulous blog, Buzz, Balls and Hype, reports that some of her Backstory entries, written by various authors on their books, will be reposted on The Huffington Post. The Huffington Report is among of the Top 100 blogs out there in the nation (and maybe the world), so this is a great opportunity for authors. Check it out. I have my own Huffington story to share. When Arianna’s ex, Michael Huffington, was running for Senate, I sent our associate editor at The Rafu Shimpo, Takeshi Nakayama, to cover a press event. Several days later we received a thank-you note from the campaign addressed to Jakishi Nacoljaba, a strange Finnish-African hybrid. We figured out Takeshi’s bad handwriting was the culprit, but hey, couldn’t have the campaign staffer double checked? Shortly thereafter I started calling Takeshi, Jakishi Nacoljaba. Has a ring to it, right?

WEDNESDAY’S WORD: obaachan (SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI, page 76) and obasan (SUMMER OF BIG BACHI, page 216)

Well, I defined obaachan for you up above–grandma. The suffix, chan, denotes affection or endearment. You can use san to create obaasan, as well, which is a more formal version. Obasan, with a shorter "a" sound means aunt or lady.

BILLBOARDS & OTHER PROMOTIONAL TIDBITS

Denise Dietz

I wonder how much it would cost to rent a billboard on Sunset Boulevard?

That thought occurred on a golden-hued day in September, 1992. Colorado in the fall. There’s nothing on earth like it. Aspen leaves were shimmering, John Elway was leading the Broncos to early-season victories, the mountaintops outside my window looked like the whipped cream on a Dairy Queen sundae, and my first published novel, THROW DARTS AT A CHEESECAKE, was due to come out in a few short weeks. I was on my knees but I wasn’t praying — in retrospect, maybe I should have been.

Instead, I was cutting out the paper bookmarks I’d had printed at Kinkos, 10 to a page, 100 pages. The bookmarks showed a picture of my cover [in black and white; I couldn’t afford color], a one paragraph synopsis, an author quote from Diane Mott Davidson, my book’s ISBN (at the time I wasn’t even sure what an ISBN was!), and the name of the restaurant where I waited tables (I kid you not). My tongue cleaved the corner of my mouth. If the scissors slipped, I’d lose a precious bookmark. I had spent all the money in my promo fund and I couldn’t afford more bookmarks…

Flash forward to September 30, 2006. I sat behind a long wooden table, thinking that the name of my panel, THE EVER-CHANGING MARKETPLACE: WITH A HUGE AND GROWING NUMBER OF NEW BOOKS EVERY YEAR, HOW DO YOU GET YOUR WORK NOTICED?, was almost as long as some of my book titles 🙂

Sipping from an opaque plastic cup filled with ice water, I wished it was filled with one of Joe Konrath’s Bloody Marys. I stared at the expectant faces of Bouchercon attendees. Outside Madison’s Concourse Hotel, a Farmers Market was in full swing. On almost every block, up and down State Street, motionless, decorative cows uttered silent moos.

The mic was only inches away and I was tempted to sing "Old McDonald had a farm…with a moo-moo here and a moo-moo there…"

Or, as a University of Wisconsin grad, class of mumble-mumble, I could sing:

On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin!
Plunge right through that line!
Run the ball clear down the field,
A touchdown sure this time. [U-rah-rah]
On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin!
Fight on for her fame
Fight! Fellows! – fight, fight, fight!
We’ll win this game.

On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin!
Stand up, Badgers, sing…

Funny how I can remember the U of Wisconsin fight song when I can’t remember what happened two months ago. If a cop ever said, "And where were you at 7 pm on the night of August 25th, Ms. Dietz?", unlike most TV show scripts, I wouldn’t respond: "That was two months ago, right? I believe I was eating steamed clams at Boondocks."

I’d probably say, "I dunno," but if I had the nerve, I’d say, "Bloody oath, Officer, do YOU remember where you were at 7 p.m. on the night of August 25th?"

Returning to the subject at hand…I sat on that Bouchercon "Promotion Panel" and felt time accelerate faster than the hands of a black and white clock in a film noir movie. And although the audience was SRO, no one left the room. My fellow panelists – J A Konrath (Joe), Rob Walker, KJA Wishnia (Ken), and Dirk Wyle – had a lot to say.

I had planted a friend in the audience – Rick Mofina – so he could ask a specific question during the Q & A [it was his idea, I swear]. Unfortunately, time ran out before Rick could say, "I heard you wrote a poem for this panel, Deni. Would you recite it for us?"

So I’ll "recite" it for you now:

I was walking along a beach one day,
And thinking thoughts of woe,
When I tripped on a tarnished oil lamp
And stubbed my damnfool toe.

I rubbed the lamp with the heel of my palm,
And chuffed like Stephen Booth.
I waited but nothing happened,
And I scowled at my lack of couth.

Then all of a sudden a genie appeared,
And I couldn’t believe my luck.
He asked why I looked so awfully sad,
And I said my career was…stalled.

He said I had three wishes,
But he added a caveat.
I couldn’t wish for wealth, or eternal youth,
Or the murder of a cat.

Career-related my wishes must be,
He said with an evil grin.
World peace and a clean environment
Was up to political whim.

I’d like billboards on every highway, I said,
Like the good ol’ Brill Cream days,
‘A little dab of Dietz will do ya’
Might make a catchy phrase.

And I’d like to sing on Idol,
With my latest book to flog,
I really don’t care what the judges say,
As long as they mention my blog.

Third, I’d like to guest on Oprah,
I’d say something to make the news.
But I wouldn’t play monkey or kangaroo,
Like that idiot, Tom Cruise.

"Granted!" the genial genie said,
As he pruned his lips in a smirk.
I wondered if I had done the right thing,
But — like chicken soup for the dead person – I figured it couldn’t hurt.

The genie lit a cigarette,
And sang a few lines of Bob Dylan’s,
Then he vanished in a puff of smoke,
Looking just like Robin Williams.

I thought I’d accomplished much that day:
Billboards, Oprah, a song.
The only thing is, when the billboards appeared…
The artist had spelled my name wrong.

Just like my Bouchercon panel, my blog time has run out, or maybe my internal clock has run down, but I’ll be writing a "Further Adventures of Promotion" blog in November. By then I hope to have some [more] Bouchercon photos.

Here I’m giving a signed, first-edition EYE OF NEWT to audience participant Lee Green, immediately following my Bouchercon Promotion Panel. My lovely, talented moderator, M. Diane Vogt, announced at the very beginning — 9:01 a.m. — that panelists would give books and/or other goodies to members of the audience who participated in the Q&A. Most Q&As occur toward the end of a panel, and ours was no exception.

As I said before, no one left the room.

A free book for a question? How cool is that?

As you wish,
Deni

Why I Love New Mexico in the Fall

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Pardon my enthusiasm, but . . .

I’ve experienced fall in the gorgeous Midwest, drank just-pressed cider, and admired the red-gold leaves. I’ve played in the snow of the East Coast and admired the trees in DC. But my heart and love for the season find full blossom in New Mexico.

I’m sharing these pictures with you today because they make me happy. I’m hoping that they’ll remind you to breathe this week, to take time to witness beauty in your own corner of the world.

For years, I’ve fought being called a "regional" writer. My response to that moniker is beginning to chance. How many other people in the world are fortunate enough to be born somewhere as glorious as my home state?

So, I’ll write about NM and share it with the world. Eventually, enough readers will come to see it as I do . . .

This summer has seen more rain than we’ve had in decades. This is my front patio. Basil has taken over. This crop came up from two small potted plants from last year.

I didn’t even realize they’d germinated.

When I was a child, I used to go to the park near our home and spread out under a tree and look at the sky. It always seemed bluer through the leaves. A few days ago, I was writing and decided to take a break. I went into our front yard and looked up. The sky’s color took my breath away for a moment and I remembered that childhood joy. Then and there I swore I’d look up more often.

Isn’t this tall grass cool? In NM, many people are now opting to get rid of their water-sucking bluegrass and replace it with xeriscape plants. Though some may claim that this new landscaping should be named "zeroscaping," when done right, it’s stunning.

The roses have been quite lovely this year. I learned about pruning them because of our Labrador puppy. He ate them all down to nubbins a few years ago — and they thrived. Now, I chop them down to size each spring and revel in their color all season long.

This purple aster, and the photos that follow for the rest of this post, are from a recent walk our family took in the mountains near our house. In Albuquerque, if you drive east, you end up in the mountains. From our house, which is in the city proper, it takes about ten minutes to get to the foothills. When we went a week ago, we were astounded at how lush our mountains had become. Wild grasses, flowers — even the cacti — looked healthy and abundant. Animals will have a good winter this year — with enough food to survive.

The mountains you’ll see in these photos are really the foothills to the Sandias. Notice the sky and the quality of the light on a late Sunday afternoon.

Notice the cacti in the photo on the left.

On the right, a little to the left of center, is a healthy yucca. That’s the state plant/flower. People around here can’t pick it or destroy it. However, the Indians can use its roots for shampoo and food.

The following photos are wild grasses. My family and I couldn’t believe how many varieties had grown this summer. We’d never seen some of them before.

My daughters and I dubbed the grass on the left, "Fairy Grass."

The grass on the right is so wacko and curlycue-y. It makes me feel good just to look at it.

There’s something about walking these foothills that consoles me. I think the fact that nature is so much bigger than we are, well, it gives me hope.

Thanks so much for indulging my little celebration of a New Mexico fall. Even though I didn’t include pictures of yellow-leaved aspens, I think you can understand why this landscape speaks so profoundly to my heart.

cheers,

Pari

You Don’t Mess Around With Jim

Jeffrey Cohen

People ask writers what music they’re listening to while writing. To me, it’s kind of a silly question, equivalent to asking Picasso what he had for lunch before painting Guernica, but it seems to be a popular question. Personally, I prefer the Sound of Silence, and I don’t mean the Simon and Garfunkel song. I don’t play music while writing, most of the time. I find it distracting, much as my dog finds a shoe distracting.

I think the more interesting question is: What music do you think you are while you’re writing?

Some authors aspire to be Beethoven or Mozart; their every note is calculated and perfect. Some writers are more aiming for the Sex Pistols or The Ramones–they try to upend the conventions by which writers have been plying their trade for decades (or in some cases, centuries, even millennia). But that’s not what I mean when I ask the question, What music do you think you are? I’d love to be the Beatles, but I’m not the Beatles. I don’t push the envelope of the form; I don’t innovate so much as I take what came before and put my own personal spin on it.

What music do you think you are? That requires a sober, unsentimental vision of your place in the literary pantheon, a clear-eyed view of your own strengths and weaknesses and where they fall in with the rest of the authors out there. I’m not talking about the artist, or the artist’s life; writers who think they’re Jimi Hendrix need not string themselves out on heroin or learn to write left-handed; Dylan Schaeffer is a devotee of Barry Manilow (I don’t know if he thinks his writing is Manilow-esque), but he doesn’t have to get a hip replaced after winning an Emmy Award.

No, it’s more a question of style, attitude and perceived status (not real status, which is not easily quantified while you’re alive; perceived status, which is best manifested in the fact that everyone agrees the Rolling Stones are a bigger deal than The Who, even though both are highly respected). When you’re writing–or more to the point, when you’ve written–have you been Rachmaninoff or Dr. John? Carlos Santana (incomparable technique, needs others to do the singing) or Eric Clapton (can do both)? Phoebe Snow (amazing talent that never really found a wide audience) or Paris Hilton (no discernible talent, very large audience)?

Me? I’ve given this minutes of thought, and I have to say, when I’m writing, I think I’m Jim Croce.

Croce, who unfortunately is best known for having been killed in a 1973 plane crash at the age of 30, was an entertainer with a little edge. He wrote short songs, often with a strong sense of humor, that told stories (“Rapid Roy the Stock Car Boy,” “Roller Derby Queen,” “Five Short Minutes”), and did not aspire to be Important, so therefore was not terribly well respected until after he died.

He was a master of the three-minute pop song, having absorbed folk music, blues, rock and umpteen musical genres over an eventful but short life. He had worked with emotionally disturbed children, driven a truck, worked construction, been in the Army National Guard and toured the Middle East and Africa at the behest of the State Department. He could play over a thousand songs, from sex-obsessed ballads with lyrics by Robert Burns to “Okie From Muskogee.”

In the year that he finally became well known, he recorded and released three albums, and included some gems on each. The two major Croce hits were more or less variations on a theme: “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim” and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” followed after his death by “I Got A Name,” a song he did not write. But on those albums are such treasures as “Operator,” “These Dreams,” “Photographs and Memories,” “I’ll Have to Say I Love You In a Song” and “Time in a Bottle.”

Do I think I’m that accomplished? Of course not. Jim Croce should have long ago been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (a major injustice), and I’ve written three nice little books (four, if you count the one on its way next year). But his attitude and his mission are things I can emulate. I write things meant to entertain people. They don’t try to unlock the Secret of Life, nor to complain about how terrible life is, particularly when compared with its alternative. I’m here to give you a smile and a ride, and then move on to the next thing.

I’ve had some difficulty–not a lot, but some–writing more than 70,000 words in a novel. Croce once said in an interview that he wrote three-minute songs because “that’s all I have to say.” Which wasn’t entirely true; by one account, “Don’t Mess Around With Jim” once had upwards of 30 verses, but he knew how to make his point and wasn’t interested in embellishment.

I tend to write in a quick style–I write short chapters, a good deal of dialogue, and almost no description when I can get away with it. Croce knew how to encapsulate a person into a quick phrase: “ooh, that girl looked nice,” “a dancin’, prancin’, hard-romancin’ divorcee” or, in one case, “a refrigerator with a head.” That’s something I try to do. I have the advantage of not needing to make my descriptions rhyme.

Croce had a very strong sense of humor, writing about the people he met along the way. In describing the “Roller Derby Queen,” Croce wrote, “She might be nasty; she might be fat. But I never met a person who would tell her that.” And Rapid Roy, who drove stock cars on the weekend, could “do 130 miles an hour, smilin’ at the camera with a toothpick in his mouth.” In my own writing, I tend to think humor is the point, and don’t expect to be considered a Major Novelist, even by myself.

I have already outlived Jim Croce by 19 years, and hope to continue to do so for a good number more. But I admire his work greatly, and even though I don’t think about it when I’m writing, I think we have a good deal in common.

When I said before that I don’t listen to music while writing, I was being technically accurate. But sometimes, when I’m stuck on a phrase or a plot point, I’ll clear my mind by picking up the 12-string Yamaha I’ve had for upwards of 30 years now and I will, quite often, play a Jim Croce song not terribly well. So maybe I do think I’m Jim Croce, or at least, someone who continues in spirit what he did in song.

So… who do you think YOU are?

ON THE BUBBLE WITH THE EDITOR FROM HELL

I won’t be offering a glowing intro today for my guest – because I simply don’t know who the hell he or she is. Sounds like a mystery plot, huh? There’s a killer somewhere, but who can it be? Well, all I can tell you is my guest today is ‘The Editor From Hell’. And guess what – he/she invited himself/herself. I mean, since I don’t know this personage – it stands to reason I sure as hell couldn’t invite same personage, right? Right.

So, what to do? Decline with diplomacy? Offer an excuse that an interview would be difficult since he/she isn’t known to me – therefore how can I pose dumb questions to a stranger? Not this kid. For all I know – he/she could be looking at my standalone at this very moment. A fool, I’m not. Well, mostly not. Okay-so what to ask? Hmm. I pondered. Mix it up, I thought. Maybe slip in a sneaky question that might provide a clue to his/her identity. Yeah, that might work. So help me out here, okay? Maybe one of you can figure it out. Let me know if you do, okay?

So – come meet The Editor From Hell.

EE: Let’s start out easy – maybe this question will help us to know a bit about you. What was your childhood ambition?

EFH: To have been able to spend a week with Ernest Hemingway, to hear his tales – the real tales – to drink him under the table and do some carousing. Sadly, he was dead before I could make that ambition a reality.

EE: You must have been some kid! I mean, that’s a rather mature goal. Would I be correct in assuming you are a man?

EFH: I was, and am a unique person. My ambitions are not mundane. As to my gender, I’ll just say that some women carouse as much as men. And some women drink rather well. I would expect Evil E to know that.

I have to admit – I can bend a few with the best of them, but that was in my younger days. So, okay-you get one brownie point.

EE: As an editor – what is your biggest challenge?

EFH: You can’t be serious. Okay, I’ll bite. I’d have to say it would be dealing with ego-driven whining writers and editors/publicists fresh out of college who think they know what the market desires, but are too young to have had enough life experiences to know what they’re talking about. They want to set the world afire with matches that don’t strike anywhere. It matters little that they work long hours – what matters is they fail to see the big picture and what it takes to get there. They don’t understand nurturing. Slash and burn is their motto.

Amen and Hallelujah! An editor of the old school lives!

EE: As an editor – what inspires you?

EFH: Besides brilliant writing that is marketable in this ‘dumb down’ society? Besides a unique voice? Simplicity (such as Hemingway) inspires me. Lean prose. Memorable characters who will linger after the last page is read. I line out twenty-dollar words and and metaphors that do little except to show the reader how clever one is. They are, in most hands, a trick conjured for literary pretense. James Lee Burke is an exception. Diane Setterfield, in her wonderful book, The Thirteen Tale, is another exception. Yes, I read Dorothly L too.

You read Dorothy L?? Aha – you’re one of those lurkers, huh?

EE: Which historical literary figure do you most enjoy reading?

EFH: For my personal pleasure I find I revisit many writers. Not all are ‘historical’. In particular – Charles Dickens, James T. Farrell, Raymond Chandler, Robertson Davies and James M. Cain – and last, but not least, Sidney Sheldon. These were master story tellers. We see few of this ilk today. Quantity pushes today’s market, not quality.

James T. Farrell and the Studs Lonigan trilogy! Wonderful! Hey, I’m getting to like you. You may be okay.

EE: What questions do you habitually ask your writers?

EFH: Why did you do this? What were you thinking when you wrote this? Why do you continue to ignore my suggestions? What makes you think this will work? Why didn’t you research this properly?

Oh. Sorry I asked.

EE: What do you most admire in a man and a woman?

EFH: It’s a good thing you didn’t ask what I deplore. You’d be treading on dangerous ground, Ms. Evil. And your readers might not like my answers. In men and women, I appreciate the same attributes: strength of character, honesty, compassion, a healthy sense of humor and a genuine lack of hubris. Too lofty, I fear. But one can hope.

So you think my readers won’t be able to take the truth, huh? Watch me.

EE: Let’s tread on that dangerous ground. What do you deplore in a men and women?

EFH: You just had to go there, didn’t you! You have earned your moniker. Then be warned. In men – in addition to the opposite of what I admire – I deplore swaggering and the constant insertion of a famous four-letter word in every utterance. It’s the mark of a stunted vocabulary (particularly for a writer) and an overt attempt to prove one’s masculinity. It’s not that I’m adverse to the word, I use it myself-but only when it fits a need. In the female species – I’m mostly dismayed by the trend to dress like a hooker – and then be aghast when ‘hit upon’. I find tattoos on women to be obnoxious and reminiscent of time when only low-class women were so adorned. Oh, yes – women seem to adore agendas which stem from little logic and are born of adolescent emotions. Should you now conclude that I am a male, let me say that many women share these sentiments.

Uh, you’re certainly not shy, are you! Note to readers: Don’t email me with your rants. If you want to vent – do it here and get it off your chest. 🙂

EE: I shudder to ask what your pet peeves are.

EFH: I have many. I think you’ve already discovered a few, but I can add two more. First, my impatience with writers who ignore editorial suggestions, who can’t seem to adhere to deadlines, who demand a paid tour, who fall apart when their book does not land on the best seller list, and who can’t handle negative reviews. Second, as a member of the mystery community, I find it discourteous of male writers attending awards banquets sans a tie – particularly at the Edgar’s, where I feel it denigrates the dignity and importance of the event. I view this as an immature act of insolence and less an impression of appearing to be ‘cool’. I also consider it a lack of breeding.

Who can argue with that?

EE: On a lighter note – what brought you to Murderati?

EFH: I see you’re looking for compliments. Murderati was recommended by another editor. And I read about it on Dorothy L.

EE: Of course I’m looking for compliments! What? You haven’t it in you to offer one?

EFH: I’m here. Isn’t that enough?

EE: Not really. I mean, you volunteered to be interviewed. Why then?

EFH: Let’s just say I find your interviews refreshing, light hearted and a nice break after a hectic week. I decided it would be fun to – as you often say – ‘play’.

Yeah? Well, you seem to have a funny idea of what ‘playing’ means.

EE: Okay, what book do you consider your greatest acquisition?

EFH: If I told you, then you’d know who I am.

So what’s the big mystery? We won’t tell. Honest.

EE: You know what? You’re no damn fun. Of course we want to know who you are! What is this? Another Ms. Snark trip?

EFH: Hardly. I’m the real thing.

Oh oh. I can see the flack coming. Everyone duck.

EE: How about this one? What book are you sorry you didn’t buy?

EFH: Yours.

EE: Ha! Too late. You had your chance earlier. Come on now – get serious.

EFH: You just scolded me for not playing – I’m trying to be light hearted.

Yeah? Well, that was TOO light hearted, pal. I have feelings.

EE: You just lost your credibility with me – so now we’re back to regular questions. Who would be your ideal panel mates at a con?

EFH: You’re a hard woman to please. To your question then. J.K. Rowling, Val McDermid and John le Carre. Oh, James Sallis, of course.

Hard to please? Yes, I’ve been told that before. And you’re failing.

EE: You appear to lean towards U.K. writers. Why?

EFH: They are better educated and they have a finer grasp of the language.

Oh, great! I just lost my audience.

EE: Now that we’re alone here – you might as well let it all all. Earlier, you praised ‘simplicity’. While your choices are favorites of mine as well – I wouldn’t call Rowling’s writing ‘simple’.

EFH: Ah, but it is. For all her complexity and detail, she doesn’t waste words. None of my choices do. This is where having a greater grasp of the language shows.

Okay. I see your point. Maybe I should dig out my Harry Potter books and take another look.

EE: Which writer would you love to have all to yourself in a cozy corner of the bar at the next con? (If anyone dared sit with you, that is.)

EFH: You, of course. You fascinate me. That’s why I’m here. Your ability to ask inane questions is original and amusing. I enjoy the way you offer your readers a more human side of their favorite authors. I suspect your guests (aside from the exposure they experience here) welcome this opportunity to display their sense of humor and fun. What a rare joy it must be to let one’s hair down. Your On The Bubble reminds me of the ‘roasts’ comedians once had. Not quite the same format, but the same spirit. I must add – your alumni are impressive. And now, I have joined the ranks.

Oh. Well, uh…I am of course flattered. But it sure as hell took you long enough to say something nice. Too bad the readers are gone now. I’d love to have shown off. In any case, you’re forgiven. Thank you.

EE: Where do you see the world of mystery (and genres) going? It has been said in some quarters that it’s losing readers and on the way out.

EFH: Don’t be daft! Aside from too many mediocre books on the shelves from writers more interested in ‘being a writer’ instead of writing, mystery, etc – will never see a demise and will continue to flourish. What I see disappearing – is ‘chick-lit mystery’. The majority are poorly plotted, characterizations are thin and vaporous, and in my opinion, a waste of readers money. Those writers would do well to return to romance. I refuse to accept them from agents. I liken them to ‘See Spot Run’ books.

I hear a shuffling of chairs out there and a low roar. I thought for sure everyone was gone. Hold it, okay? I’m just asking the questions. Save the bricks for after I leave. I don’t run as fast as I once did.

EE: I’m almost afraid to ask the next question. Here goes. What are your thoughts about the onslaught of self-published book in the marketplace?

EFH: Generally writers who self-publish can’t make the grade. That’s not startling news. Happily, they are not a part of the ‘onslaught’ in the book stores. What IS crowding the shelves, is a new popular ploy to create a personal imprint by writers who are unable to attract a legitimate publisher. They come up with an indistinct name, take out a business license (usually a friend or relative will do this-so as to not leave a paper trail), create letterhead and business cards, and then have their tome published by a local printer. They offer generous discounts and a return policy to book store owners (mainly independents) and then – Voila! – they have a publisher. Said publisher will then place ads in industry publications, convention programs and sometimes place a small ad in a local market. The telling clue here is that said publisher rarely, if ever, publishes any other writer – and you can’t contact them to offer a submission. This is the ‘onslaught’ that is eroding the market. This is the reason the pie, so to speak, can no longer be cut in enough pieces to feed the legitimate family of writers in the mystery (etc) community. This is why writers are being dropped, why good solid series and standalones are no longer meeting their sell-throughs. Publishing is no different from any other business. We’re all slaves to the numbers game. There are simply too many writers competing for the same dollar.

Not great news, by any stretch – but I’m glad I asked.

EE: Okay, last question. I’ve figured out who you are. Otto Penzler, right?

EFH: Who? Sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell. I’m kidding. But seriously, If I were, would I tell you?

Damn! Foiled again! Well, to those of you still with us – my thanks for sticking around. And, of course – my thanks to my guest – whoever he or she may be. I hope he/she will visit again. (?) I’m kidding too. It was a pleasure…

When The Character Runs The Show

JT Ellison

Last week I wrote about Michael Connelly, and a question I asked him that garnered a stern look and made me feel silly for asking it. I asked if Harry Bosch ever did or said anything that surprised him, and his answer was a definite no. I told this story to another writing friend, one whose judgment I truly respect, and her first words were, good question.

It got me thinking. How well do I really know my protagonist?

Taylor Jackson is the homicide lieutenant for Nashville Metro. She is young, tall, blonde, sharp and witty, tough as nails, and the kind of girl a gentlemen would love to sit down and have a beer with. I’ve planned her that way, want her to not be me, per se, but an extension of me. I want Taylor to have the best of everything, the funniest lines, the deepest courage, the strength of character that ensures her success.

So how is it this creature of my imagination can do or say things that surprise me?

Like I said, I’ve been thinking. And I realized that she doesn’t. I’ve been selling myself short in this department, assuming that more experienced writers are better equipped to explain their motivations, their process, their insights. Realizing that I’m just as connected with my protagonist was a relief, as well as a revelation. And a reminder to quit underestimating myself already.

I’m working on my third book with Taylor. I struggled with her character in the first book. I really didn’t like her very much. I think she was too strong, she was so damn capable and brilliant she was nearly a caricature of herself. Taylor was my imagination’s perception of what a successful female cop would be like, but I’d never had any contact with real women cops. I have a lot of male contacts, and I know Taylor appeals to them, but I was worried that she wouldn’t be realistic because I had nothing to base her on. I actually had planned to kill her off in a dramatic ending. All because I’d built this wisp of an idea into a person, and she kept doing things I didn’t plan for.

By book 2, ATPG, Taylor had mellowed a bit. She’s in love, practically against her will because there’s a whisper of neediness that goes along with being devoted to someone. She’s grown as a character, has fleshed out. I don’t hate her any more. I’ve embraced her, flaws and all. I’ve finally realized that she does and says the things she does because that’s who she is. Who I’ve made her into. An extension of some part of my psyche that respects women who are so capable, so strong that they don’t need.

Once I realized this, I finally figured out what Connelly meant. Bosch doesn’t surprise him because he created the character, with deliberate strokes of the pen. He is in control, not the book.

So this is where he and I differ. I’m in control of Taylor now, know what she’s going to say in a particular situation, know how she’s going to feel, how she’s going to whip her hair out of its ponytail and put it back up when she’s frustrated, know just the moment she’d say something to diffuse a situation. It’s the story that surprises me.

Remember that friend from earlier? We talked about this too – the process of creating the story. She does research, copious amounts of research, then writes, knowing full well where things are headed.

I, on the other hand, get a concept, try to write down an outline, get too enthusiastic to plan and start writing, do the first ten or fifteen chapters and realize nope, there needs to be something else, something different. For each book I’ve written, those openings end up being the scenes which bridge to the climax. It’s strange, and I can’t exactly explain it, but that’s what happens.

This is why I don’t like to outline, because the story doesn’t always go how I want it to. Which means I’m doing quite a bit of subconscious work on the manuscript in addition to writing it. That’s not all that bad, in my mind.

Maybe when I have 12 books under my belt, I’ll be able to feel like I’m in complete and utter control. I’m envious of writers who say they have the next eight books planned out, know exactly what’s going to happen in their series. For now though, I’m going to go with it, see where the story takes me, see what Taylor is going to do next.

Wine of the Week — a little bit of Spanish goodness
Carrizal Roija Riserva
and
Marques de Riscal Sauvignon Blanc

The Reader I Fear

I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want millions and millions of loyal readers—and dare I say it—fans. I don’t think any scribbler can expect that. Luck and timing are too big a factor. If it happens, great, and if it doesn’t, that’s great too. However, while I hope to garner as many readers as McDonald’s sells burgers, there is one person I hope doesn’t read my stuff—and that’s my dear old mum.

The problem is that I don’t want my mum to think less of me. The rest of you out there, I really don’t mind what you think of me. You don’t know me like my mum knows me. You’ll take the book at face value because you don’t know any better, but mum, well, she’s going to be judging everything based on her parenting skills. My stories are exposing parts of myself to my mum that she doesn’t normally get to see.

It would be different if I were writing kids books or something, but I write about nasty crimes or dangerous dilemmas, so “could contain adult themes” applies. I don’t want my mum thinking that I know about “adult themes” well enough to write about them. I’m her little boy. I still believe in Santa and the Easter bunny.

This takes me back to when I was teenager and the family would sit in front of the telly and a low and behold, a nudey scene would crop up. My reflex was to shout out, “Nice! Boobies on TV.” But I couldn’t say that or mum would say, “And what do you know about boobies, Simon?” So instead there’d be a deafening silence until I said, “Tut, boobies on TV. How crass. Shame on you BBC.”

I’m not like this with my sister or my dad. The difference being that my sister is my comrade in the trenches. We’ve grown up together. She has to walk the same minefield as I do when it comes to mum. My sister will read something of mine and say, “Has mum read page 167?” I’m more relaxed around my dad because he surprised me. He was blown away that I wrote something that got published. After he read my first book, I don’t think he put it down for a month. I’m sure he wandered the streets stopping everyone he saw, saying, “My lad wrote this. It’s really good. Stunning for someone who fell on his head as much as him. I didn’t think he’d ever learn to tie his shoes without assistance.” He took the book to the local radio station, newspaper, library and anybody else who couldn’t outrun him.

I suppose I should back up. I’m a little self-conscious about my writing, mainly due to esteem issues tracking back to my dyslexia. I have this I-can’t-read-so-what-makes-me-think-I-can-write mentality. Because of this, I procrastinated on telling my family about my writing. Julie helped with this. One day she just called my mum and dad, got them on the line, told them, “Simon’s got a book coming out next month,” and threw me the phone to explain. Julie likes to solve problems through extreme measures.

I’m sort of making my mum out to be a bit of a monster, but she’s not. A lot of my self-consciousness is self-inflicted. I’m fearing ghosts that don’t really exist. My mum has been supportive. She does read my stuff, but I don’t go looking for a critique from her. But mum, being a mum, isn’t scared of tossing in a few choice remarks. Things like:

“I liked that one. I thought it was the better than the others in the magazine.”

But I’ve also gotten ones like:

“That was twisted. Why can’t you write something like that Michael Connelly or Harlan Coben?”

“I do. I’m in the same league.”

She laughs. “Of course you are, dear.”

Oh, mum.

Mum can say all the nice things in the world, but I know she’s thinking, “Where does dream up this stuff from? I didn’t bring him up like that.” Essentially, I don’t want to disappoint her. She’s my mum and she deserves the best, number one son she can have. So that means I have to write better. I won’t duck a subject in a story—I’ll write the heck out of it. I might be a demented little idiot, but the best endorsement my mum can give is—he’s best little demented idiot a mum could have.

Of course, admitting this is going to get me into trouble with mummy. As long as she doesn’t read this, I’m fine. She won’t have time to read this. She’s busy. Hmm, sounds like the phone is ringing. It’s an international call. She’s gotten to page 167. I know she’s going to want to talk about that…

Simon Wood

Let’s Do Lunch. Really.

NAOMI HIRAHARA

As a native Angeleno, I swore at different times of my life that I would never fulfill certain stereotypes:

1) Get a mobile phone. (I made this vow in the early 1990s, when the cell phones were the size of a small man’s dress shoe–remember the "Get Smart" schtick? My news staff then proceeded to get me a mobile phone in the early 1990s. I guess they wanted to keep tabs on me.)

2) Join one of those obnoxious glass-walled gyms where passing drivers can see your butt while you exercise. (I joined one in the 1990s. I guess the 1990s was my downfall decade.)

3) Say to someone, "Let’s do lunch." (Did this repeatedly while I worked in Hollywood for a p.r. company for three years.)

4) Get cable and a big-screen TV. (This dirty deed was done this January–but no HBO or Showtime. Yet.)

5) Attempt to write some sort of screenplay.

I’m currently treading dangerously into this last stereotype. I’m not working on a real, real screenplay, it’s actually a media piece for a museum’s upcoming exhibition in the summer of 2007 on Japanese American gardens and gardeners. The thing is, they are not requesting a standard documentary film that usually accompanies their exhibitions. This time, they are trying something different. I’m writing a short mystery script that’s about 15 minutes (or pages) in length.

I’m having great fun in writing an original script. A friend who is a member of the Screen Actors Guild had lent me a few Oscar-nominated adapted screenplays and the good ones are a joy to read. I read Charlie Kaufman’s "Adaptation," which made me laugh at loud a number of times. I’m employing the dreaded "voice-over" technique, and Kaufman does it so well. (Somehow reading the script was even more enjoyable than viewing the film the first time, so I’d like to see the movie again.) I’m reading the screenplay adaptation of MYSTIC RIVER, and I wonder how the screenwriter knows how all the scene cuts will make sense to the viewers. "The Hours" is beautiful, but with such a slow beginning, how were the producers able to pitch it to financiers? (I guess having Nicole Kidman and Merryl Streep attached to the project probably helped.) I find it interesting how the narrative descriptions in these screenplays are so muscular and powerful. I thought movies are all about dialogue, but the scenes without dialogue are important as well.

I’ve also watched a number of helpful films, including Wayne Wang’s debut, "Chan Is Missing." Shot in grainy black-and-white film, it took place entirely in San Francisco’s Chinatown. The movie is as much about the real and imagined Chinatown as it is about the search for the mysterious Chan.

On November 3-5, the national Sisters in Crime will be holding a special conference about "Selling Your Book to Hollywood." (Registration is still opened until the end of October, so if you’re traditionally published and a SinC member, you might want to sign up. The Author’s Coalition will reimburse everyone the $100 registration fee.) I was looking forward to the conference mostly to see mystery writers from different parts of the country, but now I’ve become more curious in script, movie and TV show development. On Saturday, November 4, the pilot and episode of Showtime’s "Dexter," which is based on the books by Jeff Lindsay, will be shown at the Writers Guild Theatre, followed by a discussion with one of the show’s writers and producers.

As I mentioned in my above list, we don’t get Showtime but a couple of weeks ago the cable channel gave us a free preview, ostensibly to hook us into the programming and have us sign up. My husband wanted to check out "Dexter" and we saw the Crocodile episode. First of all, just the titles of "Dexter" are worth checking out for sure. (Don’t watch while you’re eating unless you have Hannibal Lechter tendencies.)

Dexter is played by Michael C. Hall, the actor who played the gay Christian brother in "Six Feet Under"–my favorite character in that series, hands down. Here his hair is longer and more disheveled, but he still has the edge in playing a forensic scientist, specifically a blood splatter analyst, who does his own serial killing on the side.

"Dexter" is beautifully filmed and captures the flavor of Florida a whole lot better than CSI Miami, in my opinion. But like many mystery shows, there are multiple plot lines and my husband, who was watching the program while reading the sports page, was plenty confused. With flashbacks as well, you do have to pay close attention.

That’s the challenge of mysteries in television and movies, isn’t it? How do you unfold the puzzle and make it both surprising and understandable for the viewer. That was the beauty of "Sixth Sense." It was so well constructed–taut, suspenseful, surprising yet totally clear at the end.

I completed my first draft of my script, tentatively titled "Three Riddles: Mystery of an L.A. Gardener’s Life." It was critiqued at a meeting yesterday and have now the task to determine the motivation of two "spirits" in the piece. The script takes a paranormal turn and the spiritual world needs its own logic and rules. And since I’ve used voice-over in places, I need to figure out who my main character is talking to–himself, a relative, etc.? Since the purpose for this project is not only entertainment but education, I’m treading a fine line here. I’ll be also assisting in casting (hey, any actors in L.A.?) and location hunting, so this will be fun to watch as it develops.

Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ll ever try to write a real screenplay or teleplay, but my respect for those who can write a good one has certainly elevated, for sure.

Now back to my NOT TO DO list–what personal rule can I break next? Plastic surgery and botox are definitely out and I’m unwavering in that. And we were smart enough to stay away from SUVs when gas was less than two bucks. But sitting in a Starbucks with a Mac notebook? Hideous image, I know. Does writing in a Peet’s or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf count?

ALL IN THE FAMILY: I’m a proud older sister, so I have to make mention of what my brother Jimmy has been secretly working on this past year. I don’t totally get it, but I know enough that it’s a big deal. From movie special effects to high-tech production design, pretty darn impressive! Gardener’s kid done good. Again.

WEDNESDAY’S WORD: kattenahito (SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI, page 153)

I know this word looks scary, but just cut it up. First of all, we have katte, which means selfishness, and the na turns it into adjective which in turn modifies the noun, hito, or person. Selfish person.

A PINCH OF THIS & A BIT OF THAT

Deni Dietz

QUIBBLES & BITS

Today I’m focusing on BITS rather than Quibbles.

BIT ONE:

Thanksgiving is celebrated in Canada on the second Monday in October, while in the US, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November.

Why the difference?

Having researched the Pilgrims for the historical portions of my mystery, EYE OF NEWT, I know that the Pilgrims didn’t view their first harvest, held in 1621, as a thanksgiving act or feast. That custom began two years later as a religious observance of thanks, rather than a feast. The Pilgrims, as most everybody knows, were a group led by separatists from the Church of England, who arrived at Massachusetts rather than their intended destination: Virginia.

In truth, they sound like me, navigating a drive from one state [or province] to another. While traveling, you don’t want me reading a map. Trust me on that.

Anyway . . . While the Pilgrims were shucking corn, starching their white caps and aprons, hanging witches, and making those cute turkey place cards, a wee bit further north, settlers were already giving thanks. In 1578 explorer Martin Frobisher held a formal ceremony that followed the traditions of European harvest festivals, in what is now known as the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. Frobisher was thankful for surviving a daring voyage, risking his life and crew in a fruitless search for a gateway to the Orient.

Thus, Canadian Thanksgiving.

Sometimes, when I think too much about the book biz, I feel like Martin Frobisher. While I haven’t risked my life, or – god forbid – the life of others, I’ve survived a daring voyage to publication. I am, however, still searching for a gateway to bestsellerdom.

SECOND BIT:

Genetic Savings and Clone of California shut down it’s pet-cloning operation because few humans were willing to pay $50,000 to have cats cloned.

While I deplore that rather unsympathetic attitude [are you listening DorothyL?], I have to admit that there are enough strays in the world already.

Speaking of strays, if you haven’t read Gordon Aalborg’s novel CAT TRACKS — a Story of Survival — you’re missing out on a gem of a book that addresses the issue of "dumping" cats into the Australian wild. The feral protagonist of CAT TRACKS is called "Cat," and he’s the narrator as well.

THIRD BIT:

British inventor Simon Rhymes invented a device that "boils" an egg with lightbulbs and then cuts the top off.

I know I’ll be first in line to buy it [she said sarcastically].

Have you ever invented, or had an idea for an invention, in real life? Or written about one in a book?

FOURTH BIT [hey, I’m finding this fun, in a weird sort of way]:

Following Bouchercon, I spent a heavenly week in Granger, Indiana, with my daughter, Sandi, my grandchicklet, Marley, 5, and my grandkidlet, Will, 2 1/2. Yes, I know, I look too young to be a Granny — if you don’t say it, at least think it 🙂

Sandi is in the process of "potty training" Will, so we visited B&N and bought two Children’s books with that theme [Sandi had one book left over from Marley, but the illustrations showed a girl rather than a boy].

Since my daughter works part-time as a bartender at a sports bar/restaurant called "Between the Buns," I was, er, stuck reading the books to the kids before they went to sleep. The euphemisms were . . . interesting.

One book used the words pee-pee and poo-poo, but didn’t mention a penis [or vagina]. One book, specifically for boys, called the penis a "pee-pee" and — so it wouldn’t get too confusing, I guess — used wee wee and poo poo.

I tried to remember back to my youth, but all I could come up with was Number 1 and Number 2. In fact, my third grade teacher insisted we raise our hands with one finger or two . . . how embarrassing! This was the same teacher who gave me a failing grade on my short story – THE PENCIL WHO GREW UP TO BE A STUB – because I screwed up the assignment and broke the "rules" by writing 4 pages rather than one and using a pencil [the first-person narrator] rather than an "ink pen" . . . but I digress.

[Except I really must add that the above teacher looked exactly like Miss Grundy in the Archie comics!]

Until the day she died – in her 80s – my lovely, intelligent mother-in-law used the euphemism "tinkle." She’d think nothing of sitting amidst a dozen party guests and announcing, "Excuse me, I have to tinkle."

I used that for one of my characters in EYE OF NEWT.

Marley, Will and I also watched the DVD Curious George. Twice. To my mind, that was a terrific transition from book to screen, but I couldn’t help thinking about the last scene in Forest Gump.

And the feather. [Sniff.]

As you wish,
Deni, who has decided that, rather than spending 50k to clone a cat, she’ll re-read Stephen King’s Pet Semetery. And congrats to Mr. King, recipient of MWA’s Grand Master Award.

A Short Meditation on Respect

by Pari Noskin Taichert

One morning last week, I was treated like a peon.

I’d tracked down a corporate spokesperson for Wal-Mart to give me a couple of quotes for an article I was writing. Rather than respond to my questions verbally, the woman sent me an email that parroted what I could have easily picked up from the website. To me, that’s not an interview . . . that’s an insult.

Later that same day I had a wonderful book signing.

The two experiences, so closely timed, provided a poignant life-lesson about human interaction. They reminded me how often self-importance can trump respect.

At my first Left Coast Crime convention, I met the kind, wise and generous author Deborah Donnelly. She took me under her wing then and has since become a friend. One thing she told me that weekend was that books sell one at a time.

I’ve thought often about that comment.

In devising marketing strategies, public relations campaigns and making budget decisions, I’ve intuitively emphasized meeting readers and booksellers face-to-face. This approach has cost a tremendous amount of time, energy and dollars. Still, I remain convinced that one-on-one conversations, and connections, influence my career far more than television appearances, book reviews, or articles in the paper.

Obviously, I don’t ignore all of those other ways to get my name out. If I did, I wouldn’t be writing this blog.

It just seems to me that, as our world speeds up, the personal becomes increasingly important and meaningful. It’s just more, well, respectful.

If I do my job right, my books will always get better. Readers and booksellers will care about helping my career. They’ll want me to succeed, to keep writing and selling books. They’ll tell others about my work.

However, there’s a danger in this way of thinking. It’s easy to lose perspective, to view readers and booksellers as people there to do something for us . . . or that we can use in one way or another. Authors I’ve met who fall into this trap appear jaded or manipulative — whether they mean to or not.

It’s also easy for authors to fall in love with their own marketing myths and to become full of self-admiration.

Arrogance only goes so far. It can certainly attract for a few breaths, but during the marathon of most of our careers, it acts like a sick lung.

Respect, to me, means viewing others as our equals and treating them with the same courtesy we expect them to demonstrate toward us. Whether it’s a reader at a tiny book signing or a reviewer for a major newspaper, respect involves sincerity, effort and, usually, a dash of kindness. It involves listening as well as talking.

I’m glad I had both of those experiences last week. The Wal-Mart "interview" reminded me to be more aware of how I come across to others. The book signing buoyed my ego and gave me many chances to thank and be thankful for the people who spend time reading and selling my works.

Thank you for stopping by Murderati.com today.

cheers,

Pari