Jeffrey Cohen

If you spend enough time reading online listservs about mystery books (yes, DorothyL, but others, as well), you can get the impression that authors spend most of their time attending mystery conventions. Conversation generally begins with “how will we know each other at B’Con (Bouchercon, to the uninformed)?” and moves on to “did you go to Mayhem in the Midlands?” with such stops along the way as “just got back from Left Coast Crime (LCC to the really hip) or “was that Lee Child I spotted at Deadly Ink?” (Can you tell I just learned how to link?)

That’s the tiniest tip of the iceberg. There are mystery conventions, it would seem, every 20 minutes, in every corner of the globe. Yesterday, I attended the Backspace Conference in New York City (not limited to mystery, but about writing generally), and it was lovely–not to mention less than an hour from my house. Each and every one of these conferences seems to attract some of the most respected and famous names in the mystery biz (the aforementioned Mr. Child was in attendance, for example). As a fledgling mid-list author, I have some questions:

1. Where do these people get the money to travel all over the place so frequently?

I have been a mystery author (of sorts) for about six years, and my first book was published just a hair short of four years ago. In that time, I have traveled to exactly one mystery convention by air: Bouchercon 2004, in Toronto, CA. Other than that, I’ve attended three Malice Domestic conferences (“Malices” to the in crowd) in Arlington, VA, because I can drive there in about four hours, two Deadly Inks in Parsippany, NJ, my home state (sorry I couldn’t make it this year–ironically, because I was flying into Newark Airport that day–but I promise I’ll be back in 2007) and have considered, and abandoned, plans to go to Left Coast Crime twice, through no fault of the convention organizers.

According to a quick search on Expedia, a flight from Newark, NJ (near where I live) to Madison, WI (home of this year’s Bouchercon) on the dates necessary (a day before the convention begins, returning on the day the convention ends) would cost at least $276. Now, that doesn’t sound too bad. Then, add the hotel–and while it’s an extravagance, I always (always! Four times so far in my life!) try to stay at the convention hotel, just to give me a place to recharge my batteries during the day–which in this case would be about $115 per night for three nights, or $345. Again, not enough to break the bank.

Convention registration for this year’s Bouchercon is $185. So add the expenses together, and the bill is $806. Okay, it’s a bit of a bite, but not outrageous. Except I haven’t eaten yet. Nor paid for parking at the airport. Nor gotten myself from the Madison airport to the hotel (rent-a-car? airport shuttle?). Nor bought drinks for friends at the bar, which is where one must see and be seen at such events. So, let’s say $1200, going on the cheap all the way around, for a convention that’s not terribly far from my home.

Now, multiply that by, again conservatively (a word which doesn’t flow freely from my keypad), six times a year. That’s $7,200. And they’re not all going to be close to home. In 2006, Left Coast Crime was held in Bristol, England. In 2007, Bouchercon will take place in Anchorage, Alaska. Those airfares are considerably higher.

Where are these authors getting this money? Sure, the bestselling authors can afford it, and good for them, but the rest of us aren’t exactly putting extra wings on our homes with book advances. How can someone afford to be an author these days?

2. Where do they find the time to write?

Seems like a lot of authors are at every single mystery convention. I realize this is physically impossible, but every time you look up, they’re there. Since this is a time-consuming process, I can’t figure out when they have the time to write books.

Here’s my theory: Lee Child is actually a fat, short, slavish man who sits in a cramped garret in a less-than-fashionable area of Manhattan and crafts his novels 365 days a year. He rarely leaves the house, has food sent in and has no friends. But he writes really well, and takes time out to watch the occasional Yankees game, his only source of joy (until this week, but that’s another whole blog).

In order to keep the myth alive, he has hired a tall, handsome Englishman to wear nice suits, drive a flashy car and attend mystery conventions, film premieres and perhaps awards ceremonies. This guy probably can’t write a word (other than to autograph books with Child’s name), and for all I know can’t read, but he’s personable as all get-out and can speak very eloquently on writing and Lee Child’s books.

Other authors are probably into this impersonation gambit, as well. Robert B. Parker has three (!) series going at once, and writes the occasional standalone while waiting on line at the movies. He doesn’t have time to, you know, live. You know that guy who shows up at Kate’s in Cambridge MA every once in a while is an impersonator. Parker’s at home trying to figure out how Spenser and Hawk can still beat everyone up despite being over 70.

3. How do they know which convention they’re at?

Now, I’m not saying all mystery conventions are the same. First, as I’ve noted, I haven’t been to enough to say so intelligently. Also, each one definitely has its own personality. But if you go to enough of any type of event in a short period of time, you start to lose perspective. Hotels tend to look alike, hotel bars definitely look alike, and if you keep running into the same authors (and sometimes the same fans) in hotels and hotel bars, I don’t care how well-run the convention is, you’re going to forget where you are.

Bestselling authors have assistants (or escorts) who guide them on book tours and, assumedly, to conventions. The rest of us have the airport shuttle, and that’s not a big help. So, how do authors know where they are?

My guess: they have crib sheets written on their cuffs, like in school. Or on their arms. Or, for all I know, on the insides of their eyelids, which they see by closing their eyes are tilting their heads toward bright lights. But there’s some trick to it, for sure.

Next year, when my first book from a large publisher is released, I’m going to make an effort to attend a few more conventions. I’m starting to save up now. But if you see me at one, and I seem disoriented, like I don’t recognize you or can’t remember your name, please don’t take it personally.

I’m like that at home, too.

The part I love most about writing is the first draft.  It all pours out in a blur of activity.  My office crackles with the sound of a clicking keyboard.  The greatest moment is when I type “The End” and hit print.   There’s no sound finer than the buzz of my HP spewing out the pages.  Somehow, the moment that story, that book, is birthed into the material world, it’s legitimate and I’m a proud father every time.  I have no shame or tact.  I shove the thing under my wife’s nose for her opinion, irrespective of what she’s doing, whether it be watching TV or digging a tunnel to freedom.  I don’t care because I know I’ve nailed it.  That first draft is perfect—okay, some passages need trimming, others fleshing out, but one good read through and it’s done—right?

How I wish that were true.

The first part is true.  I do love creating the first draft.  Getting down those ideas and thoughts is the best.  The heartbreak comes after my wife has given it the once over and the red pen comes out and I get back something resembling a used bandage instead of my tale.

The problem is that unlike most writers, I’m dyslexic.  I must be a masochist.  I have to be.  I’ve chosen the one career 99.9% of dyslexics would choose to avoid.

Even though I know and understand my problem, I’m literally blind to it.  I don’t see the mistakes—the incorrect words, the impossible sentences, bizarre language structure and the plain incomprehensible.  My early drafts are laced with missing words penned in for me, passages circled with a question mark and comments where I might have gone wrong.  At times, my wife must feel like she’s working with a Codetalker.

So first draft bliss dissolves into editing hell.  It’s a chore and I hate it.  I wish Microsoft had some gadget that would rewrite my work at the click of a button. 

I’m blessed, though.  My wife, Julie, has the right temperament to cut through my jumble.  She’s my seeing-eye dog (she’s going to love that analogy), to guide me through the literary minefield I’ve created.  Without her input, not one of my stories or novels would have been printed.  I will forever be in her debt.

Besides Julie, my spelling and grammar checker is my other guide.  I know a lot of writers turn them off, but I keep mine on.  I may not take its advice, but I know it’s telling me there’s some dyslexic goof lurking there somewhere.  It forces me to really focus.

Reading my work aloud has also been effective.  It helps me uncover where my dyslexia has masked what I really wanted to say or to discover that I’ve written something I didn’t want to say.  When Julie reads, the issue presents itself in gory detail and sounds like fingernails drawn down a blackboard.  When I read, Julie stops me after a sentence or two to point out that what I’ve read and what I’ve written are totally different.  Whatever misfire is floating around in my brain, we do overcome it.

Some might say it’s very nice to have a proofreader every step of the way and it is, but it’s equally as frustrating.  It’s tough relying on someone else to tell you where you’ve gone wrong.  It’s like being fluent in a foreign language, but only on a verbal level, and being ignorant of the written language.  I want to be able to correct the obvious.  So at times, I’m not considerate or patient.  It goes without saying that it creates a strain on both Julie and me.  But the writing credits I’ve built up over the last six years have been the reward.

We’ve come a long way from when I announced one Halloween night that I was going to give writing a shot.  Writing has helped my dyslexia by reducing the errors my befuddled brain produces.  Dyslexia has always been my shame and I’m glad I’ve put it in its place—right next to my expanding row of books.

Simon Wood

Deni Dietz

A couple of weeks ago Sarah Weinman talked about blogging. Her whole post was interesting (Sarah is always interesting), but then she said: "Think of it this way: if the entire population of my native Canada – roughly thirty-three million people – each had a blog, that’s still less than the total number actually out there…"

Sarah started me thinking. First I thought about the population of [my adopted country] Canada. Only 33 million? What’s the population of California? Anybody Know?

And then I thought about "when I was a kid."

When I was a kid I hated writing essays, so I didn’t. There would oft be essay contests with subjects like: "What Memorial Day Means To Me" (it meant riding in a parade, in my dad’s Impala convertible, along with my fellow Girl Scouts, my beauty-pageant-banner badges gleaming in the winter sun, and — the best part — being rewarded for being a "good scout" afterward with bubble gum and an ice cream soda, not necessary in that order). Or the essay would be called: "Why your Teacher [policeman, Lifeguard, Best Friend] is your Best Friend."

The winners would be published in the Bayside Times.

Friends, especially adults, would come unto me and say, "Deni, you write so good, why don’t you enter the essay contest?"

And I would respondeth, "Jeeze, I hate writing essays.’"

It has now suddenly occurred to me that I write an essay every week.

So…why am I doing this? Certainly not because I "write good." Hey, maybe there’s a dim hope in the back of what’s left of my mind that people will like my "voice." And maybe if they like my voice, they will check out the excerpts on my website, then call their libraries and request one of my books and try it on for size.

Maybe.

This week my Quibbles & Bits designation is: DO BLOGS SELL BOOKS?

That very question was asked on one of my email loops by, I presume, an author who was thinking of starting up a blog [well, duh!] and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Do they? Sell books, I mean?

Or do the people who read my weekly Quibbles & Bits already own my books? Or borrow them from libraries, which is great — as you may have noticed, I pitch libraries as often as I can.

Blogs are hard work — at least writing mine is. I try to be somewhat amusing week after week (which, in truth, keeps me from being politically hostile), so I keep setting the bar higher and higher. In the olden days, it would take me 24 hours to write and edit a letter to my mom, and unless I’m pissed off — whereupon I almost always open mouth, insert foot — I "draft" every email I write. Which is to say that I start writing my Tuesday Murderati blog on Wednesday. So…

Do blogs sell books?

Or do they have the opposite effect and over-hype an author?

I’ll be honest. I usually read blogs by authors whose books I already own [and adore]. Case in point: Paul Levine. If I ran into an author I adored in a public place (oh, say, the ladies room – well, I probably wouldn’t run into Paul there, so let’s add an elevator), I’d either be tongue-tied or gush. I shared an elevator with Walter Mosely, just the two of us, and I was tongue-tied; I ran into Susan Isaacs in a restroom and gushed (poor Susan).

But reading a blog by one of my favorite authors is different. I’m rarely tongue-tied because I write my comments rather than talk out loud, and gushing is limited to how many words I can fit into the "comments square" before my fingers tire or my brain fries.

So, let’s do an informal poll. How many people have bought — or borrowed — books because they like an author’s blog?

And/or how many people have been tongue-tied [or gushed] if/when they’ve met a favorite author?

And what the hell IS the population of California?

Next Tuesday, just for fun, I think I’ll blog an essay about a real live actress — my sister Eileen — who played The Demon and many of the possession scenes [for Linda Blair] in The Exorcist. And I’ll include photos. And a movie poster for Eileen’s latest film.

Maybe the Bayside Times will print it.

Over and Out,
Deni

by Pari Noskin Taichert

(Hi all. I bet you thought I’d be posting about the marvelous Con Misterio. Well, I will . . . eventually. I’ve got to go through the pictures, find the links for the authors’ mugs — I like to give them the additional plug — and see if I can decrease the red eyes so that they don’t all look like vampires. Since I’m typing this late on Sunday night after just getting off the plane . . . I’ll save my report until next Monday.)

I originally wrote this article for my Bad Girls Press website. It’s targeted to a general audience — but the lessons are important and I hope you all will benefit from them.

How to Pitch to a Reporter

When you’re cooking dinner, nudging the dog from the kitchen with one foot and chasing the cat out of the garbage can with the other, the last thing you want is a salesman with a long-winded patter, even if you’d normally be interested in his product.

Think of your phone call to the news media in the same way. Any reporter, news director, or assignments editor with whom you speak is busy, very busy.

Put your ego aside. Don your mental running shoes and entice that person with a juicy pitch — one she can’t resist. To be successful, you have to frame your information so that it focuses entirely on her wants and needs rather than your own.

Don’t get it? Here’s an example of common mistakes people make when approaching a reporter on the phone.

Wrong:
Reporter:  Thompson.

SS: Hello, Ms. Thompson. My name is Sally Swagger and I’m the executive director of the Save the Pennies Foundation. Our purpose is to ensure that pennies remain in circulation — both for historical and practical reasons. Did you see that report on XYZ news last week about the government phasing out pennies? Well, we were simply aghast! Frankly, we feel the poor penny has been so long neglected and ignored that —

Reporter: Excuse me, I’m working on deadline.

SS: Well, this will only take a minute. As I was saying — aren’t pennies just lovely? We think more items should be bought with these beautiful copper Lincolns rather than using other coins. People waste so much by hoarding their pennies and that’s why . . .

******Do you think the reporter is still listening to Sally? Don’t bet on it. Chances are, if a reporter isn’t responding or asking questions — and you’ve been able to take more than two breaths in your pitch — you’ve already lost her.

What’s the lesson here?
Rather than blather, cut to the chase. Be prepared to quickly point out the something special that makes your event (or book) worth covering. For radio, you need to be sure it’s got a good audio component. For television, you want to make sure the pitch contains a strong visual potential rather than BOPSA (bunches of people sitting around).

Let’s say Sally’s lengthy intro is leading up to a description of a special Paying with Pennies Day where all the Foundation members plan to use pennies to buy everything for 24 hours.

Let’s replay the conversation.

Right:
Reporter:  Thompson.

SS: Hi, I’m Sally Swagger with Save the Pennies Foundation. Do you know what $1000 worth of pennies weighs?

Reporter (caught off guard): What?

SS: About 150 pounds. Our first Paying with Pennies Day is this Saturday. One of our members will buy his new car with nothing but pennies.

Reporter:  You’re kidding, right?

SS: Nope. He’s been saving for twelve years. We know he’ll need several wheelbarrows — and a couple of pickup trucks — to haul them into Bill ‘s Buick over on 12th Street. And another one of our participants plans to go to the Ritz for a champagne brunch. I wonder how many pennies that’ll take?

Reporter:  Hold on. (The reporter is now opening a computer file, or writing notes, or motioning her assignments editor over to her desk. Her eyes are twinkling. She’s got visions of her story hitting television stations across the country.) What was your name again?

See the difference?
Sally got right to the point. But even more important, she was ready with an attention-grabbing angle. She didn’t bother to talk about her organization’s purpose in the phone call; that can be covered in a short information sheet when the reporter or cameraman arrives to film one of the events. Since Sally wanted television coverage, she spotlighted the visual aspect early. She also was smart to present choices — that’s like offering two kinds of dessert.

Coverage in a scary world:
Right now, most news outlets are focusing on the war in Iraq, avian flu and other crises. Garnering publicity for your product/event/book may seem even more difficult. And you might be right. There simply isn’t as much radio, television or print space dedicated to non-tragedy related news. But don’t let that stop you.

Of the many people trying to get media attention, you’ve got an edge. You know what to do:
Be smart — work your pitch to meet reporters’ needs.
Be brief — don’t waste his or her precious time or attention.
Be prepared.

You’ll have a much better chance of attaining your publicity goals.

******* If any of you can give an example of a quick pitch you made to a reporter/reviewer etc. I’d love to read it in the comments. This would be an opportunity for us to help each other crack an increasingly tough nut.

cheers,

Pari

Jeffrey Cohen

A couple of weeks ago, I passed my 21st anniversary as a freelance writer, or as I like to think of it, I began my 22nd year of unemployment. It’s a strange life we freelancers lead, as we’re not quite self-employed (many companies must hire us for us to make a living), we’re not quite employed in the traditional sense (we don’t list an employer on our tax records, and we don’t report to an office every day) and then again, we are still working. Whenever possible.

The anniversary made me think about the writer’s life, which is a curious one. We do something that isn’t really like anything else: it’s not the kind of art that people can see, really. Oh, they read the words on the page, but if we’re doing our job right, they seem to be natural and inevitable, which means they don’t draw attention to the person putting them there. Freelance reporters are even more anonymous: nobody reads the byline; they just assume our work is generated by some monolithic entity. “Did you see what the Gazette said today?”

Writers would be missed if we all vanished, but then, so would dog groomers, since it would be a truly bizarre occurance if an entire class of people vanished based solely on profession. But I digress.

Writers, particularly those who traffic in fiction, have a remarkably strange place in society. Those who connect with the largest numbers of people are well-known, extremely well-compensated, and their names (if not their faces) are recognized the word over. Stephen King has practically become a genre. John Grisham is a brand name. J.K. Rowling actually owns Venezuela.

The rest of us are more anonymous, and that’s fine. When someone asks me if I want my novels to make me rich and famous, I usually remark that “famous” is entirely optional. I have no desire to be a household name, although my name is so common it appears in more households than I care to think about. I’m perfectly happy if people buy my books, read them and enjoy them, and remember my name only well enough to buy the next book when it comes out. That’s plenty for me; I don’t need the best table at Wolfgang Puck’s latest restaurant. Although the occasional free dessert would not be refused.

What constantly strikes me, though, is that people I know, people I’ve met (and I’m talking almost exclusively about people outside the publishing and mystery worlds), when confronted with the fact that I make my living rearranging words, seem to find this astonishing, as if I invented freelancing–and writing, for that matter–all by myself.

It happens in social situations, when friends and acquaintances gather at someone’s home or a restaurant and chat. I arrive, disguised as a normal person, doing my best to maintain the illusion that there’s nothing especially noteworthy about me. I have myself convinced, anyway, but there’s obviously something wrong with my disguise, because someone invariably sees through it and approaches. Quite often–more often than I care to think about, frankly–I am asked a question for which I have never been able to devise an adequate answer. You’d think that after countless repetitions I’d have come up with a stock line that would defuse the question, or put it to rest, but there’s something about it that really puzzles me. It startles me every time I hear it:

“So. You still writing?”

Is there any other profession on this earth that elicits that question? Are bank tellers constantly having to reassure casual acquaintances that they haven’t decided, against all odds, to become skydiving instructors? Is there an unreported rash of freelance writers suddenly giving up the ink-stained life to go into upholstery? Or is this a subtle dig at me in particular, perhaps? A way that the questioner is asking whether I’ve finally come to my senses and decided to get a real job?

I’ve been married for 19 years to an attorney who works for the state of New Jersey. I’ve seen her in any number of different social situations, ranging from small dinner parties to enormous gatherings of people in both professional and personal contexts. I have never, not once, heard anyone ask my wife if she’s still a lawyer. They don’t assume that just because they haven’t seen her in six months or so they need to check if she’s decided: “you know, the heck with the education, the law degree, the bar exam and the decades of experience. I’m going to clown college.”

So, why me?

I think it’s because people think writing is a hobby. They think it’s something one does to kill some time after coming home from work, to unwind. It’s a cute little avocation, not something intended to create income. It’s certainly not an identity, like being a college professor, an accountant or a steampipe fitter. It’s something done in those magical “extra” hours that I’ve never been able to identify. It’s something one does to boost one’s ego (hah!), to dispense with the odd creative impulse that might have otherwise interrupted a perfectly good day of work.

Defensive? Moi? Well, maybe. My father owned and operated a store that sold paint and wallpaper for 40 years. Well, to be totally accurate, my father was the one who sold the paint and wallpaper. The store did remarkably little beyond housing the paint and wallpaper. I’ll have to ask my mother, but I’m reasonably sure nobody every walked up to him at a bar mitzvah and asked him, “so, you still selling paint? Didn’t decide to become an airline pilot in the past week, did you?”

Anyone who reads this blog or dozens other, who follows publishing (and mystery publishing in particular) knows that this is no business for wimps. It’s not for people who are going to change their minds and go into some other line of work when the first hint of adversity shows itself. And it’s certainly not something one does on a whim.

So when someone asks me if I’m still a writer, I’ve had a number of canned responses I’ve tried. I used to say, “that’s what I do,” but that seemed a little bland. I toyed with, “no, haven’t you heard? I’m prime minister of Lichstenstein now!” But that just got me odd looks, and I get enough of those already. These days, I’m going with “yes I am. Would you like to buy one of my books?”

What the hell. A sale’s a sale.