THREE DEGREES OF SEPARATION: Sentimental Journey to Watsonville

Note: Today begins a monthly special feature, "Three Degrees of Separation," a column I wrote for the Pacific Citizen, a publication of the Japanese American Citizens League, five years ago. In honor of a family reunion that took place in this town of Watsonville earlier this summer, I begin with this one. Watsonville, located east of Monterey, California, is also the home of award-winning author Laurie King.

NAOMI HIRAHARA

Many city folks romanticize the country, and I’m no exception. Practically every summer my father would load us up in either our hard-top Chevy Impala, Oldsmobile Cutlas, or later Ford van, and drive up the coast of California to his hometown, Watsonville.

It was a home he knew very briefly. Watsonville, nestled in the Pajaro Valley, close to Monterey, was where he was born, but he had been taken to Japan as a mere toddler. He finally returned to Watsonville, living with relatives before coming to Los Angeles and making it on his own.

I don’t remember the drive, but I remember waking up, bleary-eyed, to a world of expansive lettuce fields. It smelled different; I could breathe in deep, and my chest didn’t ache like those days smog alerts were regularly issued during hot summers in L.A. This world even felt different. As I got out of the car, everything seemed to rest at a calm pitch. Nothing bad would happen today.

In the middle of one lettuce field stood a huge weathered Victorian house, the home of my father’s aunt. For me, it was a magical house. Wood bannisters and staircases, rooms with curved windows, doorknobs that were made out of glass. My father’s aunt, tender-faced and bespectacled, would usually be in the center room, her poodle at her side.

In suburban L.A., we hardly had any relatives, but here in Watsonville we were surrounded by kinfolk. Best of all were the girl second-cousins who shyly took me around, showing me a mountain of comic books purchased for all the grandchildren, and now also me. Later in the day, we went into a shack beside the house which was stocked with cans of strawberry preserves and a huge freezer. Inside the freezer were containers of frozen strawberries, as sweet and delicious as any dessert could be.

It was in Watsonville where one relative would show me grafted trees, bandaged in gauze, in his backyard, and I would wonder if the branches were healing from some injury. No, my father explained, it was to produce new fruit. A new combination. My father could explain a lot about the crops in the fields. For even with the few years my father had lived in Watsonville, he understood it.

I, on the other hand, could only absorb it as an outsider. The couple days a year in the country served as an escape, a promise that life could be simpler and kinder, filled with comic books and the sweet taste of strawberries. I was naive, not realizing the discipline, hard work, and innovations that go into the daily work of farming. I did not know the complexities of country life.

I recently returned to Watsonville. Not with my family, but on my own with a colleague for a research trip. This time I was very much awake for the ride, winding down Pajaro Pass, through hills, trees, and dry brush. And then, there it was–even more picturesque than ever.

As we conducted interviews and read documents, I met a very different Watsonville. The world’s center of strawberry production, it’s also the site of simmering tension between farmers and the United Farm Workers. The downtown area is still recovering from a devastating earthquake. Although the town is racially diverse, it is also socially segregated. There’s a lot underneath the stillness.

Yet, with its rolling hills and ocean breeze, Watsonville, I maintain, is one of the prettiest spots in California. Removed from the main highway, it is protected, at least for now, from the sanitized developments that characterize Silicon Valley. Like lines on the palm of a hand, Japanese Americans have criss-crossed over the landscape of Pajaro Valley. There is a rich legacy of those who had begun as sharecroppers and migrant farm workers in Watsonville. Some of them now operate their own farms, multi-million-dollar businesses.

I tell myself if I ever made enough money, I would love to buy a second home in Watsonville where I could write and rest. But then who knows. I’m just a romantic city slicker.

WEDNESDAY’S WORD: inaka (SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI, page 136)

Country. I guess in kabuki there’s often an inaka girl and a machi, or city, girl. So in your heart of hearts, are you inaka or machi?

“IT’S NOT DOGGY ENOUGH” – PART I

For the millions…okay, thousands…okay, hundreds…okay, dozen or so people who have asked me what Hitchcock the Dog looks like, here’s a photo.

QUIBBLES & BITS

Once upon a long time ago, I was waiting tables at Eastside Mario’s, a Canadian restaurant chain that has franchises in the US. "My" restaurant was located on Academy Blvd. in Colorado Springs.

On a night very much like tonight, maybe not as many stars, I served two very nice women who worked for Canine Companions, an organization that trains dogs to help the handicapped. The two women had two very well-behaved dogs with them. After I told them [the women, not the dogs] that I was a mystery author, they wanted to know why so many mysteries boasted—hell, practically lionized—cats. Why not dogs?

I told the nice ladies [and nice dogs] that I’d try and write a mystery with a dog it it.

Upon arriving home, I recapped the evening for my husband-at-the-time. He yawned and went to bed. As soon as he left the room, my 3 dogs clustered around my feet: Cherokee, a Great Dane-Setter-Lab, and Sydney, an Australian Shepherd, and Pandora, a mostly-Norwegian Elkhound. Pandora, not quite a year old, was just learning human-speak.

Cherokee, the spokesdog, said, "Your diet club mysteries, Throw Darts at a Cheesecake and Beat Up a Cookie, have a cat, Jackie Robinson, and your short story, Spilt Milk, has a cat, Sinead O’Connor. What are we, chopped liver?"

Cherokee and the other two dogs had obviously heard my tale about the Canine Companion ladies, so I said, "I’ve been thinking about writing a dog mystery all evening, but I want to name the dog ‘Hitchcock.’ Any takers?"

Sydney didn’t mind if I put her in a book, but she preferred that I use her real name, not a pseudonym, thank you very much.

Pandora thought a book might be fun to chew.

Cherokee said I could use him for Hitchcock, if I promised to donate a portion of my profits to Canine Companions. "Deal," I said.

All I had to do was expand my [unsold] short story, Spilt Milk — which didn’t have a dog in it — by, oh, say 70,000 words, and call it FOOTPRINTS IN THE BUTTER: An Ingrid Beaumont Mystery co-starring Hitchcock the Dog.

My friend Lynn Whitacre, who at the time was reading Beat Up a Cookie, said, "I think I know who the M*A*S*Her is, Deni. But he would be too obvious. But then it would be just like you to make the killer too obvious."

So I decided I’d make my "Footprints" killer too obvious.

End of Part One.

Next Tuesday I’ll talk about the trials and tribulations of finding a publisher for a novel that wasn’t "doggy enough." Stay tuned…

Quote of the week:

"When I was first starting and sent Lethal Practice blind to Penguin, the editor who reviewed the manuscript gave me her ‘one piece of advice.’ And that was: ‘Never work for an agent, an editor or a publisher who doesn’t totally believe in your work or it will break your heart.’" Peter Clement, bestselling author of Mortal Remains.

EYE OF NEWT’s Sydney St. Charles offers you this week’s spell: LOVE OIL

On a Friday evening when the moon is waxing, gather a little ground orris root, an earthen bowl, and a quantity of pure olive oil. If you are a woman, also have a vial of essential Jasmine oil; patchouly will do for men. Lay a pink cloth on the altar. Light pink candles. Pour the orris root into the earthen bowl, then add half a cup of olive oil. Stir with the forefinger of your strong hand 7 times clockwise. Add the essential oil: no less than 3 drops, no more than 7. Place the bowl on the altar. Gaze into it. Enchant it by saying, "Love, love, love, love, love, love, love." Pour the oil into a jar and cork it tightly. Leave it in a dark space, surrounded by the pink altar cloth, for 7 days. Upon the next Friday night, uncork the bottle, strain and store in the same bottle until needed. Love Oil should only be worn by its creator.

Over and Out,
Deni

How to interview an author

by Pari Noskin Taichert

A few months ago, radio interviewer Pam Atherton was heading to Book Expo to give a presentation on how to work with authors. She asked some of her past interviewees for what we’d recommend. The tongue-in-cheek piece below — written directly to interviewers in radio and television — is the result, though I’ve updated some of the anecdotes.

While the original audience was very specific, it still shows some of the more amusing gaffs that happen when authors meet media folks.

HOW TO INTERVIEW AN AUTHOR

1. Read the book.
I’m serious here. Sure, you’ve got a lot to do. Who has time to read every book by every author you interview? Well, at least give the text enough of a glance that the author thinks you’ve read the work.

Anecdote: In Boise recently, I had a 5:30 a.m. interview on television. The chisel-chinned male interviewer had no idea why I was there, or why I had a can of whipped cream (Sasha Solomon, my heroine in series #1, eats whipped cream straight from the can).

When I picked up the container to make a point, the man’s eyes widened and jaw tensed as if he thought I might spray the goop all over him.

Later, when I commented about being called a "witty" writer and how that always make me want to break into the song from West Side Story about being "Pretty, witty, and gaaaaaaaaay," I thought the guy was going to have a heart attack.

There I was — looking fun, relaxed and witty. There he was — looking as if I were Beezlebub himself. I’d love to use the tape for future television pitches, but don’t dare because it’s funny for all the wrong reasons.

2. Ask questions.
Yep. I’m serious again.

It’s often an odd enough experience to be in a radio studio. You sit there talking to a big microphone, and, sometimes, barely able to see the interviewer. This can stifle — or intimidate — even the most creative soul.

Anecdote: Once I was in a studio with a "radio personality" who hadn’t even bothered to greet me before the show — no handshake, no how-do-you-do. (That, in itself, made me fee a bit unworthy.)

The way the room was set up, it was impossible to see the man whilst the interview took place. This was an hour-long show, btw. The guy started by introducing me. Next, he read a few sentences from my book. Then there was silence.

I peered around my giant microphone — and the other obstacles — and saw him, eyes expectant, waiting for me to respond. But, he hadn’t asked a question. The entire interview was like that . . . well, until I hijacked it and spoke about whatever I wanted. It would have been better for me — and for the listeners — if the man had expended a bit of energy to provide direction.

Now, that particular interviewing technique might have resulted in his fame — and it worked with me once I understood it — but think of all the dead air if the interviewee wasn’t a ham.

3. Be interested. (a.k.a. Be flexible.)
If you have to, fake it.

Some of the best interviews I’ve had have turned into conversations. I know the interviewer has all kinds of questions prepared, but if a certain subject is worth exploring, these fine pros go with it. That, to me, is one of the biggest highs of being interviewed; it makes for exciting listening too.

Anecdote: There’s a popular interviewer on a public radio station in Santa Fe, NM. She’s got a morning show with a devoted audience (she does the show live from a bakery/coffee house). I had my time with her during the station’s annual fund drive. (If you’re like me, you hate these pushy drives where people blather on and on about how you should give them money.)

Because of Mary-Charlotte Domandi’s stellar preparation, her avid interest, and her great ability to foster conversation, the hour flew by . . . and listeners responded. It was a thing of beauty.

4. Give the interviewee a clue about what to expect.
An author who prepares for a 30-minute spot will look mighty bad if she only gets 2 minutes. An author who has prepared three soundbites can crash and burn in a 5-minute interview. I know this sounds obvious — but you’d be surprised how many media folk forget this basic. courtesy.

5. If you bring whipped cream for the interviewee to consume during the spot — please, check the expiration date.

***********

What about you? As a listener, have you heard or seen an interview that worked — or didn’t? As an author, do you have an anecdote to share? As an interviewer, do you have advice for your peers?

I am curious . . . yellow. (No, I never saw the movie.)

cheers.

Going Hollywood

It is my honor to welcome a phenomenal writer, friend, and all around great guy to guest blog today. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…

Paul Guyot!!

I
can’t write.

I
want to write, but I can’t. I woke up, showered, dressed, went straight to the
office, fired up the Mac, and then nothing.

Everything’s
in place, everything’s in order, all systems go.

But
the words won’t come.

Mind
you, this is not writer’s block. First, I don’t believe in writer’s block, but
secondly, that thing people call writer’s block is when you’re actively inside
your story, trying to come up with the next scene, or next line of dialogue, or
the denouement, and you’re stuck.

Writer’s
block is NOT sitting in front of your keyboard and doing nothing.

I
haven’t even opened my screenwriting program.

Oh,
yeah. By the way, I’m a screenwriter. Television. I’m supposed to be writing a
pilot (for a new one-hour drama series) for Sony Pictures Television.

But
I’m not. Because I can’t write.

Can’t.
Is that accurate? No. More like – I am not writing. I mean, it’s not like I’ve
lost feeling in my fingers, nor have I gouged my eyes out upon seeing Joe
Konrath and a canine from Berlin. No. I’m just not doing it.

I
am not writing.

My
wife thinks I’m writing. Or I should say working. Because I have made it very
clear to her that I’m working even when it appears I’m not.

I
will take Burton Rascoe’s quote to my grave. I’m paraphrasing, but it’s
basically, “What no spouse of a writer will ever understand is that when the
writer is sitting, staring out the window, he or she is actually working.”

But
I’m not working. I’m not staring out the window. I’m staring at this very nice
fifteen inch screen.

I
am not writing.

What
is it that causes this? Why do some writers not write? I’m sure there’s dozens,
if not hundreds of theories. No, probably just dozens. But most of them are
excuses created by non-writing writers to feel better about themselves.

I
am not writing for one reason. I am not disciplined.

Discipline.
The single greatest asset a writer can own. Better than talent, better than
imagination, better than anything.

If
you have discipline, you are light-years ahead of anyone trying to write
without discipline. It is no coincidence that the best writers I know – both
prose and screen – are also some of the most disciplined.

And
it’s no coincidence that the majority of people I know who have yet to taste
any real success as a writer lack discipline. And most of them don’t even know
it.

Discipline.
Stephen J. Cannell, of TV and multiple novels, is disciplined. Up at 4:30am
EVERY day, works out for an hour to an hour, showers, eats and WRITES. Every
day.

Sheldon
Turner, one of the “hottest” screenwriters working in Hollywood, is up at
3:57am every day. Yes, 3:57. Like the gun. He writes for ninety minutes, then
works out for an hour, then back to the keyboard. Every day.

Ridley
Pearson, Nora Roberts, Michael Connelly, John Grisham. Disciplined. I was going
to write “extremely disciplined,” but realized that is wrong. There are no
levels of discipline. You are or you aren’t. It is black and white, despite
what your ego may be telling you.

And
it’s not simply sitting in front of the keyboard every day. I do that and I
have the discipline of a six-week-old Irish Setter. It’s getting up at the same
time every day, and doing the same thing every day. A job. Sometimes I’m at my
keyboard at seven, sometimes eighty-thirty (like today), or sometimes nine or
even ten. If I did that at a regular job, I’d be fired.

I
should fire myself.

If
I were disciplined, I would have already finished that novel I’ve been
blathering about for three years. Three years. How embarrassing. If I were disciplined,
I would have finished the two film scripts I’ve “started.”

But
I’m not.

What
I am is lucky. Very lucky. To have made a reasonable success of myself without
discipline. Sure it can be done, but it will always bite you in that writer’s
ass you’re sitting on.

My
ass is being bitten right now. And not in a good way. My lack of discipline is
not only keeping me from writing today, but its domino effect on my entire
process is awful. Because my deadline doesn’t care. It continues toward me.
Like a freight train. And losing one day of writing means that when I do turn
in my pilot, it will not be as good as it could be. Because I lost roughly six
or seven hours that could have, most likely would have, been spent making the
thing better.

And
this isn’t the first day I have not written. Because I lack discipline, this is
one of many, many days in my writing career that have been spent not writing.
Not staring out the window working, those days count as writing days. I mean
simply not doing anything.

I
hurt myself. I hurt my family. By not being disciplined. So, I’m trying to fix
it. Right now. This very second.

See,
I’m writing this because, one, I love JT and would do anything for her. But
also because I’m trying to jumpstart myself. Get my bitten ass in gear. Because
writing something, anything, is better than not writing.

I
urge any of you reading this, pros or amateurs, to get disciplined. Force
yourself to learn discipline. Do whatever it takes. I’m trying. Believe it or
not, I am much more disciplined now than I have ever been.

I’m
writing more now than ever. This year I’ve written four short stories. Not just
bullshit stuff – they’ll all be published – two online, two in anthologies. I
also wrote the first draft of this pilot, and five drafts of the outline.

Five.
Freaking. Drafts. Of an outline.
Those of you that deal only with editors and publishers – trust me, when you
hit your knees tonight, thank your God that you don’t have to endure the seed
of Satan known as the studio executive. But that’s for another post, another
non-writing day.

So,
for six and half months, that ain’t bad body of work. For me, that is. For
Connelly or Cannell, it’s about a week’s work.

Forgive
the stream-of-consciousness of this post. But as stated, I’m trying to work
through some heavy shit, people.

You
– right this very second – are getting a look inside the mind of a professional
writer. Not necessarily a very good one, but someone who gets paid lots of
dough for putting words to paper. And it’s a mess, isn’t it? If I knew you were
coming, I would have picked up a little.

But
yes, right now, you are in my mind, as I try and write my way out of this pit.
I literally have no idea what the next sentence will be – I’m just writing, so
as to keep from not writing. Because if you’re not writing what you should be,
then write something. Don’t check email, don’t read blogs, don’t download
Filipino bird porn. . . write. Anything.

I
have no idea how long this post will be. JT may find it so boring that she
edits sixty percent of it, and you may not even be reading this sentence right
now. But a writer is like a shark – if we stop moving, we drown.

Always.
Be. Writing.

I
must keep typing. It’s all muscle memory, like working out or anything else.
If, IF, you get disciplined enough where you write, not just every day, but AT
THE SAME TIME EVERY DAY, then it comes much easier. A disciplined writer does
not encounter days like I’m having. If you think you’re disciplined, but still
have days where you don’t write – guess what? You ain’t disciplined.

Want
to be a good, successful writer? Do this:

1.
Learn how to write. Meaning, learn all the rules of writing – so you will be
able to intelligently break them later.

2.
Get disciplined. I have no idea if this can be learned or not. I’m inching my
way there, year by year. If I do learn discipline, I will let you know it can
be done.

Now,
unfortunately, I know there are some of you out there who only care about the
“successful” part, and not the “good” part. Well, you’re in luck. As the
shelves at Barnes & Noble can attest, you don’t have to be good to be
successful.

But
you do have to be disciplined. So, for you folks, skip the learning how to
write part, and just get disciplined.

Oh.

I
almost had it. There was a pause of maybe thirty seconds or so between that
last sentence and “Oh.” I was almost out of it, almost ready to open my
screenwriting program.

But
it didn’t happen.

I’m
still here. You better put a pot of coffee on, grab your fuzzy slippers, and
order some kung pao, cuz we may be here a while. Let’s check back in with my
mind.

Right
now I’m actively trying to think about my pilot. Even as I type this. I’m
thinking about my characters and where I left them. Thinking about what comes
next for them. If I can get my head inside their heads, I’ll be good to go.

Some
of you who know me may be wondering where my music is in all this. Why not
crank the pilot’s playlist on your iPod and go? Yeah, well, I haven’t. Not one
note so far today. Why? Because I’m not disciplined. If I were, I would sat
down, opened up iTunes, and started writing.

But
I didn’t. I couldn’t do anything associated with writing this morning. Or, I
should say, I chose not to do anything. Like turn my music on.

Okay,
I’m going to try it. After this sentence I will go and open my iTunes.

Okay,
there. Bad Company by Bad Company is
playing now. The working title for my pilot is BAD COMPANY. Let me know what
you think of that title – because the studio execs hate it. Are they correct?
I’m too close to tell.

All
right, I’m just about where I need to be. Take heart – this is almost over. I
can feel it. If you’re thinking I should have put the music on hours ago, well,
like I said, lack of discipline.

Bad Company,
and I can’t deny. . . Bad Company, till
the day I die. . . till the day I die.

Thanks
for hanging with me through this. Thanks to JT and all at Murderati.

Be
disciplined, people. It will make your lives much easier. Trust me.

Write
well.

May I Quote You?

Jeffrey Cohen

I’m looking for sweet inspiration every morning, noon and night/
But these days, it just keeps on passing me by.
–Gerry Rafferty, “A Dangerous Age”

I come from a journalistic background (I know, previously I’ve said I come from a screenwriting background, but you’re just going to have to take my word for it–I was a reporter before I ever tried to write screenplays, just to prove I couldn’t make a living in many disciplines at once), and there isn’t anything a reporter likes better than a good juicy quote.

In spite of the cost of living, it’s still popular.
–Kathleen Norris

A quote is nutrition to a journalist: not only is it something that bolsters your article, but someone else already wrote it for you! There are now that many fewer words you have to come up with on your own. And sometimes, even though we don’t like to admit it, other people articulate a point better than we do. It’s a home run (I’m watching the Yankees/Red Sox series this weekend, so be prepared for inadvertent baseball cliches).

Being with a woman all night never hurt no professional baseball player. It’s staying up all night looking for a woman that does him in.
–Casey Stengel

For a novelist, a quote is something else entirely. We use them as epigrams: they start a book, a chapter, or a section to illustrate some point we’re too lazy or untalented to express on our own. They work like crazy, and we have a good time showing off how erudite and/or hip we are by quoting people who are cool.

I hadn’t used them up until now, but in the upcoming Some Like It Hot Buttered, which begins the Comedy Tonight series, I did sneak in a few epigrams, from people like Woody Allen, Mel Brooks and other authorities on comedy. I didn’t do it to bolster my word count–although it doesn’t hurt–but to set up things that are going to happen in the coming section of the book. Hopefully, readers will get the connection, and if they don’t, I chose the wrong quotes.

I quote others only the better to express myself.
-Michel de Montaigne

The point is: I definitely believe choosing those quotes was the most enjoyable part of the whole writing enterprise.

I probably spent more time looking for the right thing to set up a section than I did writing the section itself, and that’s saying something. It’s not that I couldn’t find a proper quotation to illustrate my point–it’s more that I had to narrow down the field. And even though I knew I’d probably use the first one that popped into my head before I touched my keyboard, I made sure to look through every possible source on comedy (and I have a few) I could get my grubby little hands on.

It was just too damn much fun to stop.

Let me tell you the secret that has led me to my goal. My strength lies solely in my tenacity.
–Louis Pasteur

In the end, I hope these were the proper quotations, and as I’m staring Book #2 in the series dead in the face, I have that to keep me going. Yeah, I have to come up with 80,000 words on my own, but in the midst of it, I’ll be able to thumb through every resource and comb my own mind for pithy quotes that might make the next part of the book come through a little better. It’ll be a long, tedious, time-consuming process that will undoubtedly tax my troubled brain for hours on end.

Too much of a good thing can be wonderful.
–Mae West

I can’t wait.

Changes in Latitude…

JT Ellison

I’m away from home this week, visiting family in Colorado. I’m trying to work. I’m sitting on the deck, trying desperately to hit that magic 1,000 word a day vacation goal. I’m pecking away at the keyboard of my laptop, and I can’t concentrate.

It is just so beautiful here.

This is my home, where I spent my formative years. All of my firsts happened in this area. I learned to golf, and swim, and play tennis, and ski here. I learned to drive, had my first kiss, lost a close friend to suicide. I spent all of my time out of doors, leaving the house first thing in the morning and not returning until the gloaming. There were three of us in kindergarten, and it wasn’t until second grade that they decided to bus in some kids from neighboring areas, so we weren’t alone.

I learned to drive, to dream, to work. I fell in and out of love with my brother’s friends. I snuck off into the red rocks with a couple of friends to smoke cigarettes; we discovered dinosaur tracks in the rocks. I was isolated by geography, yet lived the fullest possible life that a child could lead.

These are often melancholy memories, for I left this area under extreme duress when I was a teenager. My parents moved us to Washington, D.C., someplace I had absolutely no interest in going to. I cried for a year. I left every part of me behind. For many unfortunate years, I believed I left the best parts of me behind.

This area is so fraught with emotion, with memories, that I can’t seem to work on the new book. From an objective sense, the beauty of the area overwhelms me. But what’s really happening is everywhere I look, I see the ghost of a smaller me, sniffing the bark of the pine trees trying to decide if the scent is chocolate, strawberry or vanilla. (Don’t believe me? Try it.)

I am so inextricably linked to these woods, these rocks, the greens, blues, blacks and browns, the deer and bear, that I can’t seem to keep Nashville and Taylor Jackson, my protagonist, foremost in my mind.

I’ve settled for writing some short stories. The tenor is completely different from some of my earlier work. It’s moody, and atmospheric, and I’m finding new expressions to illustrate my surroundings. I think once I’m back home, in my office, staring at the river birch outside my window, I’ll be able to refocus on Nashville, and killers, and homicide lieutenants.

This does not bode well for the lifelong dream – the house in Tuscany half the year to write, write, write.

In the meantime, I want to watch the black storm clouds lurk over the jade and stone mountains. I want to smell the sparkling air, tinged with the scent of wet asphalt, moldy leaves and the barest hint of skunk. I want to laugh at the antics of the towhees, scratching for dinner in the scrub oak.

I want to watch the golfers stream in off the course, shouting admirations to one another as they come in to the 19^th hole for a post-round drink.

I want to watch the deer wander through the backyard, stopping at the birdbath for a quenching draught of water. They all seem to have had twins this year, so Bambi keeps interrupting my thoughts. (As does Jetta the Wonderdog.) They’re all adorable.

Each time I return, I realize that I didn’t leave the best parts of me behind, but stamped my imprint on the area in such a palpable yet subtle way that I will always feel like I’ve come home.

It’s okay that I can’t work on the book. There are other avenues to explore, other stories to put on paper. I hope to take it home with me, this texture and depth. For today though, this setting is just one spark that I will use to write something… different.

Wine of the Week — L de Lyeth Merlot

That’s Me, Right?

A common question I get asked is, “that’s me, right?” and the person asking points to a character in one of my stories. The answer is usually no.

While I’ve encountered a bunch of interesting people (interesting in both senses of the word, interesting fun and interesting weird), it’s hard to incorporate them into a story. The fictional situations I create don’t lend themselves to incorporating real people. I’d be shoehorning someone’s personality into a situation that doesn’t fit. What makes someone funny, scary, threatening or endearing in real life rarely translates well to the written page. Well, in my case, anyway.

I heard Lee Child tell how he incorporated all the people who fired him into his Jack Reacher books, by turning them into bad guys that Reacher kills off. I think that’s why businesses now have exit interviews…

Another reason I don’t lift people’s characters and put them into stories is because people might not like it. Although a lot of people want to be immortalized in print, there are those that don’t because the subject matter isn’t complimentary or pleasant.

I wrote a horror story about a woman’s compulsion with losing weight. It’s a dark and uncomfortable piece and has been published a number of times. A lady I worked with read it and kept challenging me about the story. Was the protagonist based on her? It wasn’t. The story was written three years before I met her. This is the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to take someone’s personal life and make fiction of it, because I wouldn’t like it if it were me used in the story. So I do have a strong reason for not putting people in my stories.

The only thing I do steal is names. I hate coming up with character names. They always come off fake sounding, so I like real life names. I steal interesting names from my friends and acquaintances and put them into the story. And I use only their name. I don’t use their physical description or anything. It’s the name I’m interested in. Some names look good on the page. Others conjure an image in my head. So beware. If you have a neat name, I’m gonna steal it.

So, if people I’ve encountered in my life aren’t the characters in my stories, then who are? The truth is—me! I’m the basis for all the characters you read on the page.. I’m the protagonist, the antagonist, the sidekick, the femme fatal, the thug, the hero. The whole motley crew. I get to thinking about my characters, their situations, background, etc. and I take on their personas. I’ll sit there and I wonder to myself…if was a complete bastard, what would I do, how would I do it, how dangerous would I be? I apply the same process to the good guy and all the other characters. I must admit I get quite carried away (and I will get carried away if I don’t shake the character out of me at the end of the writing day). If I’m writing a scene from a particular character’s point of view, I do have to take a five-minute break when I switch to another character’s scene to enable me to swap mindsets.

The results can be quite startling. For Working Stiffs, I wrote a particularly nasty intimidation scene. I was quite shocked at the result on the page. From the story’s point of view, it was great. From a personal point of view, I’d created a nasty person and all based on—if I were him, what would I do? I chose not to break for the following scene. It was a remorse scene and I wrote exactly how I felt after the intimidation scene. It was very personal and satisfying. These things can only come from within and not from watching others.

So if ever you wonder if the character you’re reading in one of my books is you, the answer’s no. It’s me. They’re all me. Now isn’t that a scary thought?

Sleep tight,
Simon Wood

L.A. Mix Profile: Media Escort Ken Wilson

Here’s Ken Wilson in his favorite place–a fishing boat on a lake. He has fly-fished with mystery’s finest–T. Jefferson Parker, C.J. Box, and Brian Wiprud. This particular photo was taken by Parker.

NAOMI HIRAHARA

So what the heck is a media escort? It sounds slightly nefarious yet glamorous at the same time. Media escorts take authors around to bookstores, either for events or book signings. And you can imagine, for traffic-challenged L.A., these escorts are high in demand.

Think that you need to be a bestselling author to command an escort? After my debut trade paperback original mystery was published in spring of 2004, I hired an escort for a day for a couple hundred of dollars plus gas. There are many excellent escorts to choose from (and I hope to profile more in future posts). But based upon a recommendation from a writer friend, I chose Ken Wilson and was not disappointed.

His mission was to chauffeur me, not to events, but to unscheduled drive-by signings. In a single day, we hit more than a dozen bookstores, from Sherman Oaks to Northridge to Westwood to LAX to Torrance to Studio City. I thought I was familiar with a good many shortcuts through L.A., but Ken knew all the backroads, even at the height of rush-hour traffic.

Of course, I could have driven myself to all these bookstores in perhaps two or three days. But Ken had the connections. He reacquainted me with Lita Weissman, the queen of Borders special events, and introduced me to a score of other chain booksellers, which eventually led to some great in-store events. I can sell the pants off of a product created by friends, but my own work? I get a little tongue-tied, I admit. There are definitely naturally gifted and charming ones, like this author who is tearing up the country in his Suzuki Sidekick.

My friend Carolyn Sanwo of Heritage Source says I’m better at selling myself than most Japanese Americans who are more restrained and have a dignified sense of chanto, propriety (see below). Even so, it is nice to have an advocate to sing your praises alongside of you. Ken is one of the best.

It’s about time to hear it from the man himself, Ken Wilson.

How did you get into the media escort business?

I started in 1981. I had worked at Brentano’s Bookstore in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel for two years in the mid-seventies while I was a freelance newspaper and magazine writer. One of my fellow employees went on to become the Warner Books sales rep. In the late seventies, the publishers would send celebrity authors to various cities and put them into the hands of the local sales rep. The publicity department at the publisher would book them onto the local morning TV show and the sales rep would escort them to the TV studio and then spend the rest of the day taking them to local (at that time mostly independent) bookstores to meet and greet the booksellers and sign stock. The practice got to be popular–so much so that my sales rep friend couldn’t do it and still do her job selling books. She recommended an actor friend of ours as a substitute, and after a short time, he decided it wasn’t for him. I then got the call and the rest is history.

I remember that you mentioned that you had written a book on things to do with with children in L.A. What did you learn about book promotion from that experience? (BTW, is that book still in print?)

The book of which you speak, KIDS ON BOARD, published (ironically) by Warner Books was reasearched and written in 1987 and ’88 and published in ’89. It was a real eye opener for me as the book was published on the same date as the Time-Life Warner merger. One of the casualties of the merger was Warner Books’ entire Travellers Bookshelf imprint which was discontinued. Luckily, the book was printed and distributed, but that was all. The publicity department was forced to cancel a big 10-city promotional tour. I was disappointed, of course, but decided to try my hand at booking media on my own. Again, luckily, TV and radio producers seemed intrigued by the fact that an author would do his own pitching and I got booked on most of the programs I approached. It afforded me an opportunity for on-the-job publicist training that I use to this day. Oh, the book went out of print in 1992.

Ken, I find you very unique in your field because you’re not merely driving authors around, but you participate in the promotion, whether it’s talking them up to CRMs (community relations managers) or calling bookstores ahead of time. Is that your typical M.O.?

Yes. As media in large markets like Los Angeles gets harder and harder to book (there’s pretty much no way to get an author onto most morning TV programs unless he or she is a celebrity), I realized it was essential to provide the publicity department at the publisher with a valuable alternative to media.

If you embrace the notion that books are hand sold, one at a time, and that book store employees are in the best position to recommend and hand sell, it seemed obvious to me that, in the down times between interviews, authors would be best served by meeting as many booksellers as possible. We go into the stores, press the flesh with the employees and get the author to sign the store stock. In many stores, that signed stock (now marked prominently with autograph stickers) goes to the front of the store and is placed in a prominent position.

Since I’ve come to know most sales staffs in nearly all of the stores (chains and independents) in Southern California, I’ve learned who best to introduce my authors to, depending on the subject matter of a book.

In the past couple of years, with fewer and fewer authors being toured by their publishers, in-store marketing has become an essential alternative in getting the word out about a book. Authors themselves, often at the recommendation of their publishers, hire me to do this grass roots marketing.

Do you find that there’s a lot of change in CRM/owner/manager bookstore personnel in Southern Cal? How do you keep abreast with such changes?

There is always turnover. However, managerial positions are somewhat static, and since I’m in most of these stores on at least a weekly basis, I keep up with the changes.

In terms of drop-in signings and events, some authors focus solely on independent bookstores, while others concentrate on the chains. Is it a one-size fits all situation or do you think the formula changes with each author? Please explain.

It’s essential to visit both independents and chain stores. I vary somewhat on my approach to each type. I almost always call indies before a drop in as they tend to get embarrassed if they don’t have my author’s books. If I can, I give them a ten day heads up so that, if they want to, they can order books. With the chains, I call a few locations just to see if generally there are books in the stores. Both Borders and Barnes and Noble have the computer capability to see if other stores in the area carry the book in question.

But with small press, sometimes there will be no stores that carry the book. Undeterred, we still press forward with our visits. In many cases, when an author takes the time and trouble to come to a store, we can usually get that store to order copies once we explain what the book is all about.

When an author does a drop-in signing, what materials should she bring with her? Should she call in advance or just go direct to the bookstore? What days are best for drop-in signings?

My favorite thing to bring is a free copy of the book. Talking to store personnel, we determine who would be most likely to read the book in question and get the author to sign and personalize it to that person. It’s amazing how much traction you can get by giving away an autographed copy.

A copy of a favorable review is also a good thing to bring with you. A few years ago a lot of authors began having postcards made that were adorned with the book cover on the front and some laudatory review quotes on the back. So many, in fact, that stores started getting flooded with postcards and no place to put them. I suggest that, instead of postcards, authors should consider book marks. You can still have a facsimile of the cover and couple of positive quotes, but stores will be more likely to accept them because they take up less counter space. And, as most stores will tell you, everybody needs a bookmark.

I call the indies ahead of time, but that’s because I can usually get them to order books based on our relationship. But, if an author calls him or herself and the store says they don’t have the book and wouldn’t be inclined to order it, the author has lost out on the possibility of stating his or her case in person. I can’t emphasize enough how important personal contact is.

The best days to visit stores (at least in Los Angeles) are Monday through Thursday (Friday traffic is terrible and we can’t get to as many stores as on those other days). When you are adding genre stores (like mystery or sci-fi stores) you need to determine the days they are open. In greater L.A., there are some mystery stores that are closed on certain weekdays.

What other services do you offer?

I do publicist work, specializing in Southern California.

Thank you, Ken!

Whether or not you decide to hire your own media escort, Ken has shared some great advice on drive-by signings. His suggestion that writers bring copies of their books as giveaways (a practice that Joe Konrath has embraced in his marathon book tour) is excellent. Ken recommended that I, as a unknown mystery writer, mail about 100 autographed copies of my debut trade PBO to independent bookstores across the nation. I didn’t do it–I didn’t want to spend the extra money and figured that ARCs would take care of that, anyway. But I regret it now because booksellers do love and appreciate signed books. It would have been a great way to launch a series.

Ken is gaining notoriety nationally as he was recently interviewed for a Pages Magazine article on in-store marketing. Look for it in December.

And the most important thing, his contact e-mail: KWMedia@earthlink.net. You can contact him directly if you have any questions about his current rates, etc.

Ken will most likely be on the road today, but go ahead and post any questions and comments for him and hopefully he can get to them at the end of the day.

L.A. Mix Profile is an occasional Wednesday feature of Murderati. Who will be next? Stay tuned.

WEDNESDAY’S WORD: chanto (SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI, page 127)

Proper, appropriate, just right. Japanese American parents usually impress this principle upon their children. Years ago, I wrote a column, "The Importance of Being Chanto," for my former newspaper, The Rafu Shimpo. It was later excerpted in the Los Angeles Times and reprinted in a book for Japanese American youth, NIKKEI DONBURI, and then reappeared in my column, “Three Degrees of Separation,” for the Pacific Citizen. It related how "unchanto" I was, much to the chagrin of my mother. I’ll be posting it next month as part of a regular monthly “Three Degrees of Separation” feature, which begin next week.

MIDDLE-AGED NAOMI GETS OUT: Was that me wandering the streets of Hollywood Boulevard on Friday night? Thanks to the guidance and company of thirtysomething brother and his twentysomething girlfriend, I was actually going to a concert that STARTED at 10:30 PM! That’s the time I start dozing off in the middle of Law & Order. We were at the Knitting Factory Hollywood to meet for the first time and support a second-cousin. The music of Bjorkestra was quite excellent; I would encourage New Yorkers to check out the band and more importantly the pianist cousin at their performance at the Tonic in NYC this Friday. And Hollywood Boulevard at 12:45 AM? It’s a madhouse, definitely Blade Runnerish. I would recommend all to have this quintessential Hollywood experience, but it helps if you have L.A. Generation X-er and Y-ers as your entertainment escorts.

Kee Yah!!

by Pari Noskin Taichert

A little more than a week ago, I earned my red belt in Tae Kwon Do. For someone who started this demanding martial art late in life, getting this far — only three more levels until the test for black belt — the switch from blue to red feels like an incredible accomplishment.

When you’re 48 and trying to do a flying side kick and only getting a few inches off the floor — and the young bucks have one-minute hang times — it can be discouraging. Still, I persevere.

I was going to use this post to compare the trials and tribulations of being an author with doing Tae Kwon Do — but the comparisons were too predictable, too pat.

Instead, I thought I’d let you into my Tae Kwon Do world this bright Monday in August.

WARNING: These pictures are unflattering (not the photog’s fault, btw). Don’t hold that against me when we meet. I’ve been told for at least a year that I have a very intense, fierce face when I do TKD. Well, I didn’t believe it until I saw these . . .

Before we do anything, we stretch. I’m the only person with her legs straight in front of her. My expression is already beginning to change.

Behind me, on the wall are photos of past championships won by members of our Do Jang. If you look closely, you can see a man standing in the very back on the left — he’s Master Kim, our teacher.

Every testing is different. This time, we broke out into male/female groups and did the first six of our forms (in karate, they’d be called "kata")together. I’m in the back, to the left near the mounted staffs (bo).

You never know with testings . . . I expected to do several forms by myself. However, I only had the opportunity to do one — and it was with the other lady testing for a red belt. This form is called Toi Gye (pronounced "ta-gay"). The following two pix are also this form — and I’m looking mighty fierce.

Many people hate Toi Gye because it has six stomps. These make you look like you did in second grade when you pretended to be a tree. To make the stomp, you have to twist your body and land hard. I still am not very good at it — but you can see I bring real energy to the motion. The woman behind me is more than 10 years younger than I am and quite an accomplished athlete. I want to hate her . . . .

I’ve just leapt and landed in that position. It’s a very satisfying move.

The next few photos are of kicks — we do them to keep limber at testing and, later, in preparation for our board-breaking. I’m including several so that you can see the focus in preparing for the kick and then the execution. The woman who is in front of me in line is 55 — and every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I just look at her and stop it.

I think I’ve just landed a kick here and am yelling that loud Kee Yah! that can wake up the dead. Believe me, my kee yah is frightening. I should use it on publishers and misbehaving children . . .

I’m preparing to do two roundhouse kicks here.

Bam!

I had no idea I got my leg that high. Not bad for someone looking at 50.

Here is a challenging balancing exercise. You kick that little red pad front to back — with power — as many times as you can without setting your foot down. I managed to get at least seven sets — the most in the line that time through — and it was such a good feeling to do something really well.

Again, the men and women were separated for — what I think of as — running the gauntlet. We have four large pads, spaced moderately evenly and we have to run and kick with opposite legs as fast and hard as we can.

Ka-bam!

Usually when I spar, I wear a helmet, mouthpiece, sparring gloves, kicking pads (and sometimes even shin guards) — but at testing we have no equipment. Still, I love sparring — though I get socked, punched and kicked a lot. I’m in the middle of the picture here, leaning back — my hands are raised to protect and attack. I’m also laughing.

I’m still center screen here, my butt to the camera (with the blue belt). I’m trying to land a kick on my opponent — but he has the same idea. This happens often in sparring and can hurt like the dickens when knees or shins meet. Why am I still enjoying it so much? Insanity, I tell you.

This is one of my many attempts to break a 1-inch board with a shuffle front kick. Here, I have to skip, launch myself up and forward and break the board with the ball of my front foot.

Of the many breaks we can do, this one has always scared me because I have horrid and very painful bunions that hurt all the time. Merely getting my foot in position to do the kick hurts like hell. But, I DID IT.

Though I’ve broken more boards with other kicks and hits, my fear of this break was very important to overcome.

I wish I had a photo of me smiling and showing you my new red belt . . . but none of them turned out very well, alas. . .

Thanks for letting me relive my glory day.

And, thanks to Master Brian Kast for taking these photos.

QUESTION:

What challenge, besides writing (if you’re a writer), have you pursued in spite of frustration — so that now, it brings you more pleasure than not? Please share it with the rest of us in the comments.

Titled Gentry

Jeffrey Cohen

There has been much talk this week, at least on DorothyL about titles. Not like “Lord” or “Duke” or my particular favorite, “Viscount” (doesn’t that sound like it should cost less than the other titles?), but titles of books. In particular, mystery books.

Now, whatever meager reputation I have in the world of mystery publishing (a great term, implying the publisher will be surprised by what comes out) is based at least partially on the fact that people remember my titles.

Or, they think they do, but we’ll get back to that.

I’m not one to brag–unless I’m awake–but I’ve had other mystery authors approach me and ask how I write my titles. There have been times I’ve considered hiring myself out to write titles, and then I remember that other authors probably can’t afford me any more than I can. The point is, my titles have gotten some attention, of the positive kind, and that leads to a consideration of what makes a title work, or not work.

The four titles I’ve written so far for mystery novels have been meant to convey a sense of humor, that the books would be fun. But they were also designed to impart information.

For Whom The Minivan Rolls: Because it was the first book in the Aaron Tucker series, this title had to convey a lot of information to readers who had never heard of me, or Aaron, before (this, by the way, still applies to more than 99.9 percent of the population, but I’m working on it). I wanted the idea that this was a mystery novel to be communicated, and the fact that the title is, even in a silly way, ominous (and the subsequent fact that the subtitle was “An Aaron Tucker Mystery“, duh!) got that factoid across. But I also wanted it known that this was a comical mystery, and since I think “minivan” is a funny word–otherwise the proper title would be For Whom the SUV Rolls, which is a lot less mellifluous–that was accomplished, too. And since the humor was derived from a suburban point of view, “minivan” once again helped. The fact that the first scene in the book portrays a woman being threatened by a minivan was a complete coincidence.

{By the way, this is the title that people most often misquote to me: “I just loved your book, Where The Minivan Rolls!” “Today on ‘BookTalk,’ Jeff Cohen, author of For Whom the Minivan Tolls.” “Great Big Generic Bookseller is proud to present Jeff Cohen, author of The Minivan Rolls For Thee.” So, maybe I’m not as good at titles as I thought I was.}

A Farewell to Legs: The second Hemingway parody, entirely unintentional. I had never set out to do Hemingway titles. But once the victim in the sequel to whatever that last book was called became “Crazy Legs Gibson” (and no, Mel was not the intended victim in that book; the name’s a coincidence), the title was set. It’s still the one I have trouble saying with a straight face.

As Dog Is My Witness: Well, the fact is, there’s a dog in this book. And she is, indeed, present when the victim is shot. And despite the fact that she doesn’t actually talk, she does–in a very doggy fashion–help solve the crime. And besides, one of the subplots has Aaron dealing with the difference between celebrations of Christmas and Chanukah, so religion, in some sick, twisted way, had a small part in this book. So the pun is appropriate.

Some Like It Hot Buttered: There’s still some confusion as to whether there should be a hyphen between “hot” and “buttered.” I think it’s going without, but don’t hold me to it. Well, the new Comedy Tonight series takes place in a small movie theatre, and the victim in this one is poisoned while eating popcorn. Do the math.

But now, I have to write the second book in the Comedy Tonight series, and I’ve once again established unintentional precedents. I want the new one to be a play on a classic comedy film title, but also to have some relevance to the plot, which involves feuding ex-comedy partners, now quite elderly (think The Sunshine Boys, where Walter Matthau kills George Burns–but funny).

Got any ideas?