by Pari Noskin Taichert

The other day, I decided to clean out my inbox. There were hundreds of emails from friends and fans. I’d let some of them stack up since late January.

This does not make me proud.

As I plowed through each one — writing a response, filing it in a folder for future reference, or deleting it — I began to think about this new communications world in which we live.

Suddenly, just about everyone I want to reach is accessible, instantaneously. So am I.

When I was in grad school, I fell in love with Madeleine L’Engle’s storytelling. One long weekend, I read every single book of hers I could find at the University of Michigan Library. At three in the morning, I closed the final page of the last book and wrote her a thank-you note. It took a few days to find her publisher’s address, to buy the stamp, address the envelope (yes, I procrastinated then, too) and to mail my fan gushing. She replied nine months later. Her letter was a treasured possession for years until it finally disintegrated from so many enraptured readings.

Flash forward to today. We have blogs, emails, voicemails, instant text messaging, websites — so many ways to communicate. I wonder about the effect of all this extraordinary access.

Has easy communication cheapened our interactions? Does it affect sales? Does it affect attendance at booksignings? Has it raised expectations while lowering value?

Somehow, I think the speed with which we can communicate now does, indeed, lessen the value of our interactions.

I’m saying this as a person who adores, and is grateful, for all the people she’s met via the Internet. I relish the fan mail I receive and know it would be much less if it were only snailmailed on paper.

But there’s something important about expending effort, too. Fans take the time to write and I’m honored that they’ve done so. But, how valuable is my response back? What if I take nine months to send the note? Will a reader fold and unfold a letter from me she’s printed herself and that is topped with all the gobbledeegook from my ISP?

I don’t have answers here, only observations and a sneaking feeling that we’re losing an element of true, personal interaction with this split-second, electronic back-and-forth.

Oh, hell, I don’t know. I feel so torn, so oddly ungrateful, even thinking about it.

Without the Internet, far fewer readers would have ever heard of me. Without my responses to readers, albeit tardy, I wouldn’t have half the number of incredible and dedicated "fans." I wouldn’t  stay in touch with out-of-state family either.

Today, hundreds of Bouchercon attendees are home or are winding their way in that direction. How will they keep up with old friends and new contacts?

I’ll admit that now my communication is almost entirely through email, this blog and the phone. A handwritten letter is precious because it takes so much more time and effort (heck, I don’t write with pen and ink nearly as quickly as I can type).

Each communication outward brings another bevy of communications back. Each of those requires a response. Again, I’m not complaining — just marveling and trying to gain perspective.

Part of my problem is that I can’t send a canned note. So, I get backed up in my responses. For me, without the personal touch, the letter or email or blog or website isn’t worth the tap-tapping on keyboard or cell phone.

I think that’s why I hate spam, computer-recorded phone calls and printed marketing materials so much. They require my time to analyze relevance and to strip of personal info before trashing. They clog my inbox, phone machine and mailbox without having a spot to do with me.

I suspect most of you feel the same way.

And, so, today, I’m going through the last 156 emails in my inbox. The people who wrote them deserve a sincere response.

There will be more tomorrow.

I feel guilty that I can’t stay "on top" of my communications, but — here’s the kicker — still yearn for more.

Odd that.

If no one responds to this post, I’ll feel sad, neglected . . .

And I think that’s awfully odd, too.

Jeffrey Cohen

(MADISON, WISCONSIN)–I’m not in Madison, Wisconsin.

In my most recent book, AS DOG IS MY WITNESS, Aaron Tucker goes on at length about how it feels to be a non-Christian in America during the Christmas season. And he says (I’m paraphrasing, because I don’t know enough about myself to quote me) something on the order of, “it’s like the rest of the world is throwing the best party ever, and you’re not invited.”

That’s more or less the way it can feel for a mystery author who doesn’t attend Bouchercon.

For weeks before, listservs and blogs alike are abuzz with the anticipation of the event: “are you going to B’con?” “When are the Anthony awards given out?” “Where will we meet at B’con?” “Does anyone want to share a room at B’con?”

You get the idea.

For an author who has occasionally attended conferences (I have, in fact, been to four or five, including one Bouchercon), there are the emails from friends, fans (there are still a couple out there) and other attendees who assume you’ll be there. After all, the whole WORLD of mystery books will converge on (in this case) Madison, WI.

Just not me. Not this time, anyway. Circumstances–financial, practical and scheduling–make it impossible. And while it is something of a downer not to see one’s pals, not to be treated like an author for a few days (as opposed to the way one is normally treated at home, which is another blog all by itself), not to meet new people and discuss the craft, the business and the mental illness that is mystery publishing, it’s not really all that bad.

Going to a large convention of mystery readers, authors, agents, publicists, editors, publishers and reporters on the field is a remarkable adventure, which is evidenced by the fact that I’m remarking on it even now. For an author, it can be a heady experience. People want to talk to you about your books–imagine! Many of them have already read them, too. You get to see other authors, who also are having a few days off from the “day-job,” or acting as the chauffeur for the minors in the family.

It is an experience determined to remind you that there is something just a little bit different about this job. It’s not like a convention of computer programmers, ice cream retailers (although that one would be worth attending, don’t you think?) or attorneys, which my wife occasionally attends. In this case, people are there because they share an appreciation for the form and the work that goes into it. We get together at the panels (and if we’re lucky, participate in one or two), possibly at the banquet and without question at the bar later on. We talk about mystery books, who’s doing what, what the rumors might be, and we get the occasional pat on the back. In this business, that’s huge.

Not going is more like getting a letter from a distant relative about a family reunion. “Sorry you couldn’t make it,” it might go. “Aunt Frances asked for you, but we didn’t give you to her. Cousin Bob threw up on Uncle Harry, the twins were running around asking if anyone could tell them which was which–no one could–and Mom got irritated because I was wearing open-toed sandals. Nobody told me it was going to be black-tie.”

See what I mean? It’s still fun, but not the same as being there.

But it’s not like I’ve been sitting at the computer all weekend, waiting for dispatches from the front. I’m not pining away, wishing I could be elsewhere. Here is pretty good, especially since I had a birthday this week, so my family still occasionally remembers to treat me well. Remind me to tell you about the extraordinary gift they conspired to present to me this year. It’s really something.

So, don’t cry for me, Madison, Wisconsin. But keep in mind that I’ll have a brand-spanking-new book (and a new series) all set at just about this time next year. So I’ll have a much stronger motivation to see you in…

Anchorage, Alaska?

Oy.

(When I asked the wonderful publicist at the University of New Mexico Press to write a piece for Murderati.com, I thought it would be a standard — and fairly boring — how-to piece. Instead, she came up with this satirical marvel. Any author — and any reader — will enjoy it. My only request is that you be honest when you take the survey.

Cheers, Pari)

by Amanda Sutton

An author has an intimate rapport with his publicist. From newlywed-like love, to the committed relationship doldrums, to the inevitable dissatisfaction of a long marriage, the relationship between author and publicist transforms through fluctuating levels of emotional attachment.

The author, though he does not always verbally recognize the situation, witnesses the publicist in any number of roles as she performs a variety of tasks for his benefit. The publicist takes on many archetypes under the general condition of multitasking.

Publicist as Spokeswoman promotes the author’s book to everyone, from the mullet-headed stranger in the long concert line to the muckracker on the phone inquiring whether your outlandish book is indeed a memoir. Then there’s Publicist as Coach: choosing outfits for author photos, consulting on hairstyles, planning strategies for media saturation. Another typology is Publicist as Biggest Fan, where the publicist, after a ten-hour workday, is the only person who shows up for the author’s reading. You might also see Publicist as Secretary, Publicist as Minion, Publicist as Fall-Guy, and, in a lesser manifestation, Publicist as Chauffeur.

But have you considered Publicist as Psychotherapist? Publicist as Psychotherapist listens to grievances, reassures the insecure author that snarky reviewers don’t hate him, and soothingly calms a nervous novice. When in the quiet corners of her home study the Publicist as Psychotherapist considers the common emotional and behavioral tendencies of her authors (also know as "patients"), a diagnosis becomes apparent:

Authors have issues. Acute mental disorders.

Not all of them do, but the prevalence is high.

The first step for an author experiencing an unstable mental state is to overcome denial. In developing your diagnosis, the Publicist as Psychotherapist will ask for more information about your, ahem, tendencies.

A survey like the one below might be used for clinical diagnostics. Each scenario asks for the author’s most likely response, and the sum of the responses determine the degree of his respective lunacy (or, hopefully, well-adjustedness) and steer the course of treatment. Treatment methods must also consider the preservation of the publicist’s own mental health.

Take the Author Personality Disorder Test below by writing your answers on a seperate sheet . . . or the one you’re wearing as a straight jacket.

Author Personality Disorder Test*
* Results are from a longitudinal study of 300 authors, from 2001-2006.

1. Your publicist is building a media list to send review copies of your new mystery. She asks you for your suggestions, and you

    A.  list a few media people you know, then scrap it because you know most people hate you now that you’re published. You decide on one recipient: Oprah.
    B.  send a list of contacts and a sweet thank you. Then two days later you leave a voicemail demanding to know why she hasn’t consulted you.
    C. tell her you don’t want just any commoner reviewing your book. The mainstream doesn’t deserve, nor will it understand, your creative genius.
    D.  reply, "Oh, my God!! You’re sending out my book to reviewers?!? What will they say? Will my mother see the reviews?!?! My heart is a-flutter!!!"
    E.  don’t bother sending her a list because you have more important things to do. You don’t need reviews to feel good about yourself anyway.
    F.  flounder because you have no idea what to do and think your publicist can come up with a list much better than yours could ever be.
    G.  mail her a list of two hundred reporters, sixteen mystery bookstores you’d like to visit, every writer’s conference from the web, and the names of all of your mother’s friends from church. Then you send the same information as both an attachment and in the body of the email. Finally, you call to make sure she received your email and ask her to confirm arrival of your package when it comes in the mail.
    H.  email her a list of mainstream mystery magazines, some web-bloggers who review books, and the name of your local newspaper’s book review editor.

2.  Murder Most Cozy, the largest bookstore in L.A., has invited you to speak on a panel during their annual mystery writers’ fair. On their website, you see that the biggest names of mystery are attending. You

    A.  figure they’ve invited you so they can pick on you.
    B.  tell your publicist to book it, then call her back to decline.
    C.  wouldn’t be caught dead on a panel with anyone.
    D.  are elated! You call your hairdresser to schedule an appointment for a new ‘do and then rush to buy yourself a sequined evening gown.
    E.  accept the invitation, thinking, "Of course they want me. No panel would be complete without my words of wisdom."
    F.  ask your publicist if she’ll fly to L.A. to sit next to you on the panel.
    G. respond affirmatively to your publicist, call the bookstore to accept, post your event to every mystery blog on the internet, let all your friends and family know, then create and post fliers all over town.
    H.  say, "yes," and begin working on a witty presentation for your part of the panel.

3. You receive a letter from your publicist. It’s the first review of your book, in Publishers Weekly. The review is, at best, milquetoast, offering a plot synopsis and concluding with "A solid debut." You

    A.  prepare for ensuing reviews paning your book.
    B.  are first pleasantly surprised by the initial response of the book trade, then become angry at their snubbing you.
    C.  don’t read any reviews of your book. Reviewers are a bunch of dilettantes.
    D.  scream so loudly your neighbors come over to see if you’ve been stabbed.
    E.  say to yourself, "They love me. They really love me."
    F.  call your publicist to see what this means for your career. It was such a short, inconsequential review.
    G. trim the ripped edges of the envelope. It has to be perfect to go into the acid-free pages of your scrapbook.
    H.  are pleased your book has been reviewed in Publishers Weekly. This "hit" will contribute to the cumulative effect of your entire publicity campaign.

4. You leave your publicist a voicemail on Monday, wondering if she’s followed-up with the New York Times Book Review about your new crime novel. By Friday when you haven’t heard from her, you assume your publicist

    A.  hates your guts.
    B.  loves you but has been busy. No, she despises you and wants you to die.
    C.  is a bitch. Why would you want to talk to her anyway?
    D.  is angry at you, so you leave several more voicemails begging her to call.
    E.  is not as organized and professional as you are.
    F.  thinks she’s better than you.
    G. didn’t understand the importance of your message. You email her the history of the NYTBR you wrote this morning while you were thinking about her not calling you back.
    H.  will check in with them soon and let you know if a review is planned.

5. It’s time to submit your book for awards. You

    A.  know you’re an Agatha contender but assume no one will vote for you.
    B.  ask your publicist to submit your book for the Edgar, since it might get your book into important hands. At 11PM that night, you write to tell her that book awards are frivolous and not to bother.
    C.  don’t want to give away a copy of your book to any committee member for any award. They’re just popularity contests.   
    D.  are so excited about the possibility of winning an award you begin to imagine yourself at a spot-lit podium with a gold medal around your neck.
    E.  only want her to submit for the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, and the Nobel Prize. Why bother with the little guys?
    F.  let her decide. You’re not sure your book’s good enough for consideration.
    G. send your publicist a long list of awards: the Best First Novel from a Southwestern Writer Under Sixty Who Worked for the Government During the Gulf War Years Award and the First Evangelical Church’s Most Noteworthy Congregationalist Honor are among your eclectic entries.
    H.  know which awards your work is eligible for and send a courteous note to your publicist asking her to submit your book.

That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now let’s analyze your results, dear patient.

If you answered mostly As, you are Paranoid Author. You assume the worst and flip every response to your book toward a negative end. You refuse autographs because you imagine fans are psycho celebrity murderers. You think your publicist is your worst critic. Successful treatment for Paranoid Author Disorder includes positive visualization of publicity tours in sunny places. Further recommendations: Don’t share every delusion with your publicist.

If you chose mostly Bs, you should investigate your family history of schizophrenia. Your Polly personality is your publicist’s favorite client; your Damien alter ego is her most dreaded. There is no pattern to your demonic possessions, which makes treatment complicated. Your Publicist as Psychotherapist recommends consulting an experienced mental health professional or a priest trained in exorcism. Do not consider publication of a book until you’re on major medication.

Mostly Cs indicates Antisocial tendencies, which are manifest in mumbling into mics and generally hating every aspect of publicity that involves people and talking to them. The outcome is bleak for Antisocial Author unless the name is Brown, Steinbeck, or Dickinson. Writing is the way Antisocial Author communicates effectively, but due to his habitual disregard for the Publicist as Psychotherapist’s suggestions, he will only show positive growth if Michiko Kakutani reviews his book. The Publicist as Psychotherapist discourages interviews and prescribes long hermitages to faraway places for salvage of patient’s public image.

D is for "Drama Queen." You are Histrionic Author. Your pageantry makes you eligible for a Tony: utter despair, sheer elation, public displays of affection for your publicist. If your writing is more ingestible than your theatrical personality, you will likely become popular. You’re an adept entertainer, a shameless promoter, and your publicist’s hardest-working author. Histrionic Authors also frequently exhibit narcissistic tendencies. Your Publicist as Psychotherapist takes notes on your charisma and powers of persuasion, but you make her very, very tired. Treatment recommendations: take up performing your writing onstage.

Egoism is the verdict for mostly Es. You are Narcissistic Author — an unswerving egomaniac and the highest-maintenance patient. Narcissistic Author might already be famous but can also be a beginning success. Regardless, he is fabulous. Treatment is difficult due to long bragging sessions that simultaneously make the patient feel better and make the Publicist as Psychotherapist physically ill. Caregiver secretly hopes you become rich enough to pay for a personal publicist and psychotherapist who will have time to devote solely to your treatment.

If you answered mostly Fs, you need to get a backbone. You have just published a book; there’s no reason to be a Dependent Author. People who meet you like your humble demeanor; they just wonder who the anonymous woman standing next to you is. Treatment is easy: Lose the Publicist Security Blanket and venture out. Initial treatment calls for regular visits where patient discusses ways to contribute to the PR plan, followed by short phone calls to track progress. Conquering of Dependent Author Personality Disorder is most effective in the care of an encouraging but firm Publicist as Psychotherapist.

The tendencies exhibited in G answers are among the most prevalent in authors. The high number of Obsessive-Compulsive Authors seems directly related to the act of writing itself, which requires complete consumption in an irrational act. Treatment is best in short durations. The Publicist as Psychotherapist must filter the patient’s excessive explanations to recognize information pertinent to the case. Publicist should perform yoga to maintain a sense of calm and objectivity before seeing this type of patient. Author is instructed to take deep breaths. In severe cases, prescribe Valium.

If you chose mostly Hs, you are Dream Author. As a Dream Author, you are a joy to your publicist and reminder to her why she loves the work that she does. Helpful but not pushy, ambitious but realistic, and, most importantly, psychologically well-adjusted, you are excited about your book, and it is contagious! You have your publicist behind you, and also your friends, family and fans — new and old. You extend your gratitude to reviewers and event venues that host you with hand-written thank-you notes. You call your publicist to check-in and update her on your travel schedule and promotions so that she can coordinate additional opportunities. Your publicist’s efforts on your behalf show her affinity for you.

It is possible that not just one Author Personality Disorder fits each patient. Truly, some authors suffer symptoms of a combination of tendencies that make their treatment not only frustrating but nearly impossible. The Publicist as Psychotherapist, though not always trained in pure psychology, is a caring professional who does her best to alleviate patients’ general anxieties, co-dependence, excessive egoism, histrionic outbursts, sociopathic inclinations, split personality interactions, and delusional paranoia. However, great care should be taken that the projection of these problematic tendencies does not affect the publicist, or she herself might require counseling, shock therapy, or, in the worst cases, a memory erasing and change of vocation. Indications for curing sufferers of one of more of the Author Personality Disorders are promising with early recognition, appropriate treatments, and regular visits to reality.

For further information on these findings, please email the reporting publicist at amandaasutton@hotmail.com.  For more information on mental illness, write to

National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH)
6001 Executive Boulevard
Bethesda, MD  20892-9663

Thanks to Murderati.com for publishing this survey.

No, no, Amanda. Thank you!

Like most people, I’ve only seen San Quentin from afar, so I jumped at the chance to see the inside. Before going in, I had preconceptions—I’ve seen OZ and Cool Hand Luke—these didn’t last long, though. The prison is located at 1 Main Street, San Quentin, CA—I found it amusing that the prison had an address, but taking the freeway exit, I discovered its part of the village of San Quentin—next to the Post Office, if you’re wondering. There are about sixty homes or so, overlooking the bay. Homes go for around $600k.

I was further knocked off balance by the prisoners’ hobby shop at the main gates with a prisoner (on the outside) running the store. I suggest you don’t haggle over prices. The hobby store was very nice, selling various leather products (no, don’t go there) and woodcrafts and paintings. I was disturbed by the nick-knacks featuring the guard’s main tower, a small pile of rocks, sledgehammer, and a ball and chain. This seemed very cruel and unusual punishment to me.

I’ll admit I was nervous about going inside the prison.  The place is full of people who don’t want to be there and surely don’t want a bunch of tourists taking a look like it’s a carnival sideshow. So my nerves weren’t settled when the guard on the gate asked us to stand back because the paramedics were coming.

Before we could enter the prison itself, there were a number of check-in procedures. There is a strict dress code, anything remotely inmate-looking is a no go. So everyone gets to look like they are from a photo shoot for the GAP. We presented ID and signed in at the main gate, before a short walk to an airport-style metal detector.  There we signed in again, presented ID again and our hands were ink stamped with an UV dye at the entrance to the prison itself. We entered a cage, which worked like an airlock where one door had to be shut before the other could be opened, before we were on the side of the inmates.

The entrance reminded me that San Quentin is quite old, only few years younger that the state itself. Over its one hundred and fifty year history, it’s grown and developed during different periods, making it an eclectic place to say the least. There’s plenty of stuff to make you go hmm. The entrance to the prison itself is quite medieval courtesy of a castle façade and its original portcullis-style iron gate. A satellite dish is overshadowed by the 19th century hospital. Death row overlooks a touching memorial to guards who died in the line of duty. Painted by one prisoner, a beautiful mural stretching hundreds of feet adorns the dining room, charting California’s history.

Unlike Alcatraz, San Quentin is a fully operational prison, so wherever we went, we were mixing with the inmates. I was very self-conscious of this fact. I felt very guilty about being a tourist to someone’s downfall, regardless of whether that downfall was deserved or not.

About a third of the prison guards were women, which surprised me. I wondered whether the introduction of women guards helped with inmate stability, knowing they would get to see a female every day. I know it saw the end of nudey pinups. The best an inmate can get away with on his cell wall is Maxim.

San Quentin is home to 6,000 souls, but it’s not all maximum-security prisoners–that’s what Pelican Bay is for. No, San Q. runs the whole gambit. Most inmates are serving sentences up to ten years, but there are some lifers there from San Quentin’s old days and of course it does conduct executions, so it has a death row, but it’s also a Reception Center (RC) for incoming prisoners. This basically means it’s a processing center. The prison has 60 days to log you into the system, acclimatize you and send you to your designated prison, which may be San Q. or somewhere else. The new guys, or RCs as they’re called, wear orange jumpsuits and everyone is very weary of these people, because they could be drunk drivers or mass murderers. You wouldn’t know.

The cells are incredibly small—around 5’x8′. To make matter even more claustrophobic, each cell is home to two guys and their toilet. Suddenly a five-year sentence seemed a lot longer. I can see why the inmates take advantage of the various education programs and jobs available to them—I know I would.

There are calls for the prison to be removed, which is understandable when you consider San Quentin is built into the Marin headlands. For those who don’t know Marin, it is the San Francisco Bay Area’s equivalent of Beverly Hills (George Lucas lives there) and the land the prison occupies is worth hundreds of millions. However, the substantial foundations the prison is built on make it infeasible to demolish, so don’t expect the prison to go any time soon.

I found the guards pretty upbeat—quite jovial in fact.  None of them seemed ground down by their job. This extended to the inmates too. I won’t say they were happy to be there, but the inmates who spoke to us were polite.  Inmates and guards exhibited respect for each other. The atmosphere was quite relaxed, although both sides seemed prepared for that to change. I could well imagine that when it gets rough, it isn’t a pretty sight—I only had to glance at the prison officer’s memorial for that.

Watching how the inmates and guards interacted with each other, I did feel a sense of society and I suppose one has to exist if anyone is to survive their time there.  Everybody seemed to be aware of the rules and their place in the prison.

I found my visit quite sobering. Even though the people there were seeing out their time in livable conditions, it’s about the last place on earth I ever hope to stay.

Yours on the outside,
Simon Wood

PS: If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m at Bouchercon.  I’ll be back next week.

PPS: My story, Traffic School, received an honorable mention in Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, 19th Edition. I’ve yet to have a story selected to appear in the showcase anthology, but there is always next year. But I said that last year.  🙁

Deni Dietz

QUIBBLES & BITS

I like reality shows. One of the reasons I like them is because watching them gives me a chance to catch up on my reading. If I’m watching a convoluted drama, I have to focus, pay attention.

Another reason I like reality shows is because 15 years ago I wrote a story called THE LAST GREAT AMERICAN BEAUTY PAGEANT and it was about a TV reality show [cue Twilight Zone music].

There are many (many) reality shows. I can’t watch them all, nor would I want to. And to be honest, "reality show" is a misnomer since most are taped. You could say Jeopardy is a reality show.

I watch than one.

I watch American Idol, too. I’m not sure why. American Idol isn’t about singing. It’s about the cheesy, guilty pleasure one gets from watching bad singing. The show starts out every year encouraging viewers to laugh at all of the really bad singers who audition.

A website called VotefortheWorst.com encourages viewers to have fun with — and embrace — American Idol’s suckiness by voting for the less talented contestants. Who did they choose last year? A grey-haired guy named…what was his name again? Oh, yeah. Taylor Hicks.

I like to watch So You Think You Can Dance, which I find mesmerizing. But I don’t watch Dancing With The Stars, which I find boring (and sometimes kind of embarrassing a’la Jerry Springer).

This summer I watched "Rock Star with the band formerly known as Super Nova."

Last year it was "Rock Star: INXS." Last year it was innovative, fun, and they invoked a real sense of suspense.

This year’s winner was a Marlon Brando look-alike (albeit shorter) kid with skunk hair — a Canadian named Lucas Rossi. No suspense. He was destined to win from Week One. Still, the show was worth watching because of the House Band and because of the "losers," Magni and Storm. [And, to be honest, I enjoyed watching Lucas’s eyebrows form twin peaks above his sunglasses.]

They’ve announced that there will be a Rock Star III, but I don’t think they’ve picked a group yet [rumours say it’s Van Halen], so here’s my Fifty Cents:

Rock Star: The Mamas and the Papas

Rock Star: The Supremes [it would be fun watching a guy try to win that one]

And, based on this season, ROCK STAR: Willy Vanilly

If you watch reality shows, which ones do you like? Jeopardy counts. Recently, Lou Byard, author of the mystery novel Pale Blue Eyes, appeared on Jeopardy. As Meredith Vieira would say, "He did great."

Speaking of reality… here’s my Quote of the Week:

President Bush said: "Freedom, by its nature, cannot be imposed. It must be chosen."

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Any public forum — be it in print, on the internet, on the air, or in person — is an opportunity to convey the message you want to convey.

Why waste it?

And, yet, I see my professional cohorts ramble.

Perhaps they equate speaking off-the-cuff with charming spontaneity or beguiling creativity. Hell, I don’t know.

To me, it looks and sounds like blathering.

So, a big part of media training and coaching on public speaking consists of a little thing called a talking point.

What’s a talking point?
It’s a concept. Simple as that.

If you can focus on a few main ideas when you speak, ideas that further your goals, you’re on the road to being effective and memorable . . . for the right reasons.

Talking points can be a word or two that cue you. They can be sound bites. You can write full sentences if you want. The trick is to single out three to five concepts that you really want listeners (and readers) to understand.

How do you develop talking points?
First, figure out what messages you feel are the most important for you.

A person who does this quite effectively is Jan Burke. One of her main points when she talks to the media, posts on listservs, and speaks in public is that crime labs are dreadfully under-funded and under-equipped. She’s determined to inform people about the realities of this situation through the Crime Lab Project.

Jan’s on point all the time, yet never sounds rehearsed, and her passionate concern elevates public awareness. She also is raising her own visibility while doing something tremendously admirable.

We have other excellent examples in our literary community. Whether you agree with them or not, notice how well they’ve honed their points.

Carl Hiaasen is angry about land mismanagement and environmental abuse in Florida.
Tony Hillerman believes that the Navajo culture is important for all of us to know.
Janet Evanovich wants people to laugh.
Otto Penzler never misses a chance to dis cozies.

These people know what they want to say about a cause, their writing, or a pet peeve . . . and they say it with remarkable consistency. Do you think this is simply by chance?

Why Wait?
Right now, think of three points that mean something to you, that you’d like people to know if you’re interviewed or if you speak publicly. Focus on ideas that you want an audience to remember. These points can be profound or light, serious or humorous. It doesn’t matter to me. They should matter to you.

Go on. Write them down.

See? That wasn’t too difficult, was it?

But, I can’t just come up with three.
Yeah, I know. It’s not easy to limit yourself. But the beauty of talking points is that you can tailor them for any situation.

What I recommend to clients is to identify ten or more major concepts, then focus on three to five points in any talk or interview depending on context and time.

The reason to restrict the number you actively use is that most audiences have Teflon (r) minds. If you mention more than a few concepts, they won’t remember any of them.

Do I have to stick to my talking points?
It depends. Politicians cling to their talking points so closely that they can sound like automatons. So, learn from their mistaken rigidity.

Talking points enable you to
     1.  Keep focused so that you don’t run too far astray of what you want to say. (They’ll prevent you from getting too distracted, going off on irrelevant tangents, and wasting your public communications opportunities.)
     2.  Spring into other related topics, when appropriate.
     3.  Control the interview so that you answer the questions you want to answer rather than submitting to someone else’s agenda. (This is especially helpful when you’re being interviewed by someone who hasn’t read your work or who dislikes it.)
     4.  Sound like you’re prepared without appearing stilted or nervous.

Believe me, the majority of public relations is common sense. Talking points, a.k.a. preparation, are the bedrock of successful public communication.

You’d be a fool not to take the time to develop and use them.

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Next Saturday, Sept. 30, Evil Elaine won’t be able to post her normal ON THE BUBBLE. In her place, I’ve asked Amanda Sutton, the superb publicist at the University of New Mexico Press, to write about what she wishes authors knew. It should be fascinating.

cheers,

Pari