Pari Noskin Taichert

The title of my post today is in French. I figure a little erudition might start the work week off right. Voltaire put the above famous words into the mouth of Pangloss, an extraordinary optimist, in his book CANDIDE. It’s the character’s stock response to all trials and tribulations: "You must cultivate your garden."

I’ve been thinking about how so much of marketing involves this Panglossian focus — especially when it comes to book signings. I read the debates on listservs and blogs about their merits and disadvantages and am disturbed. Frankly, signings have gotten a bad rap because we’ve got our heads screwed on at a lousy angle when it comes to this subject.

Ah, let me put on my therapist’s hat for a minute . . . (For those of you who don’t know me, I actually have a nice chapeau ["hat" in French] with a tassel from the University of Michigan School of Social Work where I trained to be a therapist in grad school.)

To put it plainly, I think most writers who dis signings — specifically at bookstores — are victims of their own inflated sense of self-worth.

Ouch! I can hear the slings of anger already. But think about it. We’re perfectly happy to let other people sell our books for us at stores. Aren’t we? So why do we get pissy if we have to do it ourselves?

I think it’s because we expect to be worshiped. On some level, we buy into the idea that we’re special, that people should be impressed — that our work should zip to the cash register simply because OH, MARVELOUS WE have written it and are deigning to make a divine visitation somewhere.

Come on. The world’s a big place and, face it, most of us are little sprouts.

Somehow, though, our egos are the size of redwoods.

The reality is, when we get to bookstores, the majority of people there don’t care. They haven’t heard of us (this often includes the staff) — even if the bookstore has sent out notices, newsletters — even if we’ve gotten local coverage on television, radio or in print.

It’s a slap to our egos. Hence the raging discussions on the internet. We hide behind complaints to salvage our self confidence: My feet hurt. The taxi is dirty. My time is worth more than this. I only sold three books. Wah.

If it’s a formal signing — one with a presentation — we get upset if only a handful of people show up.

If it’s the sit-at-the-front-of-the-store variety — we moan and groan about having to peddle our wares to strangers; it feels like we’re shysters or hucksters.

We’re never really satisfied. We often forget to be grateful.

"Why bother?" we whine.

Well, grasshoppers, Il Faut Cultiver Notre* Jardin. That’s why. And, no garden grows without work and a vision. Book signings are among the hardiest seeds we can plant — the marketing seeds — to further our careers.

1. They help us know — and be known by — booksellers who then hand-sell our work long after we leave.

2. They introduce us to those folks who don’t care about us . . . but might, if given a reason.

3. If we get media attention, book signings help increase our name recognition so that someone might want to buy our books in the future.

And then there’s the YNK (You Never Know) factor that fertilizes possibilities beyond our wildest imaginations. YNK is my favorite part of the book signing process. It’s the sure knowledge — based now on tangible experience — that someone with whom I speak at a signing might become a friend, a reader, or a person who’ll go out and champion my books better than I can.

Okay, okay . . . I have a bit of a disclaimer: not every author should do signings. Painfully shy people should avoid them and concentrate on internet efforts. Intrinsically nasty, mean writers should decline offers, too.

But, for most of us, they remain effective. It’s time to stop the unbecoming whining and the sniveling short-sighted debates. Let’s get past our egos and cultivate relationships with our audiences (booksellers, readers) in personal ways.

If this sounds dreamy — too optimistic — I can only say that my steady efforts continue to grow my readership. Signings are part of the package — they’re a long-term investment like preparing and planting cherry pits with the hope of growing good, solid trees.

I see the seedlings gain strength everyday.

Cheers,

Panglossian Pari

* FYI: "notre" means "our"– just in case you noticed the change in the phrase the second time I used it.

—————– Speaking of optimism: here’s an uplifting website to check every once in a while for good news in the world ———————–

Steps to Peace

Jeffrey Cohen

“You know, part of the problem might be your name.”

The advice came from someone–I won’t name who–in the publishing industry, a person whose opinion I greatly respect, and whose advice I seek out. It was a typical brainstorming session, one where a writer tries to determine how to take the ever-elusive “next step” toward increased success (or in my case, success). And now, my confidante was making a suggestion that might help.

I was a little shaken, I have to admit. “Are you suggesting I use a pseudonym?” I asked.

She said she was. And I took a moment to let that sink in. Apparently, sales of my mystery novels might be stronger if I was only, you know, someone else.

“It’s not your name,” my friend said. “It’s just that women buy the majority of books, and (the manuscript we were discussing) is aimed at women, it has a female protagonist, and sometimes women feel more comfortable if the book they’re reading wasn’t written by a man.”

So it wasn’t so much my name that should be changed as my gender. It was hard to know whether I should be relieved or more worried. I said I’d think about it.

I’ve long blathered on, whether prompted or not, about being mystified at the use of pseudonyms. My feeling always was that if an author took the time and trouble to sit down and write an entire book, s/he should be proud enough to affix his/her name to it. And an author writing “as” another personality was something I’ve never really understood at all. If you’re going to say on the cover that you’re one writer pretending to be someone else, what exactly was the point to begin with?

This reached its pinnacle for me a few years ago when Ed McBain and Evan Hunter “collaborated” on a mystery together. Seeing as how both McBain and Hunter were the same person (and his name was neither McBain nor Hunter), I thought that was quite the feat.

Don’t get me wrong–I’ve written under another name before. I’ve ghostwritten books for people who were clearly not me, and their names were printed on the front cover of the books, which was fine with me. My name was written on the checks, and I was happy to get them.

So it wasn’t just a question of ego that was the issue here. If I could become a more popular writer by putting another name on the cover, that was certainly something worth considering. But I had questions about the philosophy behind the proposed move.

For one thing, if a book has characters a woman can relate to, and she enjoys reading it, why should she care what the gender of the person writing it might be? Are women really so dedicated to reading only books written by other women that they would make that a criterion for their choice of reading material? It didn’t make sense to me. I thought most women were smarter than that.

Furthermore (and the fact that I used the word “furthermore” might give you an indication how strange this whole exerience was for me), what was this assumption based upon? After all, The Da Vinci Code had a man’s name on the cover (two men, if you count Da Vinci), and that didn’t seem to be hurting sales too much. If I could do that well on the charts, I’d be satisfied, I’m pretty sure.

Then, of course, came the inevitable question of what my “new” name would be. My wife suggested I use her name, but then withdrew the suggestion when she realized people would think she’d written my books. She’s read my books, and likes them, but needs to maintain her dignity. I understood completely.

So I started trying to create a name that might clue a reader of my previous works in on the fact that there was a familiar presence behind the new work. Heck, I haven’t spent the last five years building up a fan base that runs into the tens, only to discard it with a new, more estrogen-rich, persona. Maybe I could say the new book was written by Abigail Stein, the lead female character in my Aaron Tucker series. But no. Abby would probably need to maintain her dignity, too.

There’s the old “stripper name” trick, where you take the name of your first pet and the name of the street on which you grew up, but “Peabody Campfield” sounded like someone sitting in an overstuffed leather chair, pulling on his moustache and drinking a glass of port. That guy would really need his dignity, and besides, would be a man, thereby making the whole enterprise pointless.

Sorry to report, I never came up with a decent distaff name for myself, but I might return to the pursuit if I’m ever really convinced it’s necessary. Which is possible. There are days I’d pretend to be a remarkably articulate cocker spaniel if I thought it would help me make a living in this business.

I’m not being obtuse or naive–I understand that there are certain marketing realities in life, and I’m sure they’ve all been researched beyond question. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if publishers found my work more attractive with an androgynous or clearly feminine name as the author. And I might at some point try such a gambit if I were made to believe it would really help. I can be as pragmatic as the next fellow. Or girl, as the case may be.

But there’s something a little insulting to the suggestion. More to the reading public than to me. I really want to believe that women–and men–will read a book if it offers a compelling story line, likable (or at least interesting) characters and a point of view the reader might enjoy. I’ve never put my hand up to take a book off the shelf at a bookstore or library and then pulled back upon realizing the author wasn’t the same gender as I am. Why should it be assumed a good many people of either sex would?

Sometime in the future, it’s entirely possible that a book will appear in stores and libraries whose byline suggests it’s written by–I don’t know–Jeffronica Cohenstein, and maybe you’ll buy it, and maybe you won’t. I like to think the author’s name matters, but for different reasons. Like that you’ve enjoyed that author’s work before.

Of course, after Ms. Cohenstein’s book became an international best seller, launching a series that established “her” as a sly writer of enjoyable novels, I might be proven wrong. I’ve been wrong on more than one occasion in my life. Cohenstein could become a household name, a veritable synonym with “riotously funny mystery book.” Then, perhaps, one day I could collaborate with “her” on a new novel.

It’s been done before.

I witnessed the birth of my third child on Monday.  Working Stiffs weighed in at 10oz and 8 inches long from head to toe.  Not a bad size and weight all things considered.  Sadly, I wasn’t there for the arrival when the FedEx stork dropped off the package.  I was at the World Horror Convention and I had to hear the news from Julie.  She ripped off the packaging to tell me all was in good shape and that it looked wonderful.  When I got home, the first thing I did was reopen the package so that I could smell the baby-fresh scent of a brand new book.  For an author, I don’t think there’s a smell like it.  It’s a combination of fresh paper and glue that hasn’t had the chance to breathe in the air.

Although I joke, bringing a book into the world isn’t much different from bringing a child into the world, although I won’t have to send it to college or pay for its wedding.  There’s the conception—that first spark of passion when the idea for the book is born.  The excitement builds as the story grows from an idea into a story and the page count swells.  It’s not long before it actually possesses a shape resembling the embryo manuscript.  The editing process refines its shape and it starts to resemble the story I wanted to make.  Then before I know it, it’s reached the end of its first trimester. 

Then my baby enters a tricky stage as I search for a publisher and/or agent to assist with the birth.  This can be a long and treacherous route filled with disappointment and setbacks, but I always have faith regardless of the passage of time.  I know it has to happen.  It’s happened before.  And it does.  Someone shares my love for my book and offers a contract that carries my baby through to its final trimester.

This is the most nervous of times.  Everything looks sound enough, but I’ve experienced things going wrong.  Publishers can change their mind.  Circumstances can change.  And I have to keep a careful eye on developments.  But with Working Stiffs, there were no such troubles.  Compared to my first two children, this book went to term with few problems.  It arrived on the day they told me—a first. 

Now that Working Stiffs is born—and did I mention it’s a fine looking kid—I still have a lot of work to do.  Like any proud father, I have to show this baby off.  Anyone and everyone who stops for more than two seconds is going to hear about how wonderful my baby is.  I know it may bore some, but I can’t help it.  I really love this one.  This isn’t to say that I like this one any better than the others.  Well, that’s what I tell my first two books.

And what kind of father would I be if I didn’t break out the baby pictures?  So here’s a picture of baby Working Stiffs.

So it’s cigars all round and I hope you’ll enjoy Working Stiffs as much as I do.

Simon Wood

Deni Dietz

"Hi, I’m Deni and I’m addicted to American Idol."

"Hi, Deni."

"I think Randy Jackson needs a dictionary, Paula Abdul needs an intervention, and I love to hate Simon Cowell. In fact, as we speak, I’m creating a story character with Simon in mind."

What? You authors who read Murderati don’t have a famous [or infamous] person in mind when you write your books? My bulletin board is filled with magazine cut-outs of Famous/Infamous People, whom I use as book characters.

Anyway, Beatrice — who, as we speak. is attaching garters to her stockings a’la Betty Boop and begging me to remind you that her paranormal erotica JAMES DEAN AND THE MOONLIGHT MADNESS SALE is at Loose Id — thinks there should be a reality show called AUTHOR IDOL. Authors would stand in the spotlight, flames flickering on a screen behind them, and read an excerpt from one of their books. They’d be judged on stage presence, what they are wearing, how they styled their hair. . .and maybe even a wee bit on what they read. The numbers to call — to vote — would be superimposed underneath. After the reading judges would comment. . .

To those of you who don’t watch American Idol, I’ll bring you up to date. We’re down to what is known as the 3F (three finalists). The Chosen One (TCO) — the chrome-domed singer whom the judges have been "pimping" since the first week — was voted off by the viewers last week in what was referred to as a "shocker!" [Note the exclamation point; it’s been used in everything I’ve read about last week’s show.]

It wasn’t a shocker! to me. Maybe that’s because, as an author, I deal with something called motivation.

So, why did TCO get the boot? [you ask]. What was the shocking! motivation? Well, he gave a mediocre, also known as "meh" performance, but so did the gray-haired finalist who looks like a drunken lounge singer and/or constipated ballad singer. The "nice guy" finalist, who is 90% deaf in one ear, sounded a little bit like a goat, and the "pretty girl" singer forgot 4 seconds worth of lyrics in her first rendition of an Elvis song. [Whereupon, she was accused of "shaking her ass" to get votes because during the FOUR SECONDS of forgetfulness she turned around toward the band while she regained her composure].

When TCO "rocker" Chris was voted off, the judges were shocked!, I tell you, shocked!, but only a little less shocked! than Chris himself. Could his votes have mistakenly gone to another contestant? he wondered.

Immediately after the Wednesday night results show, women on the Internet Forums began to vilify the pretty girl, as if the Supreme Court had chosen her to advance to the next round, despite votes to the contrary.

[Yes, okay, I’m addicted to "American Idol forums" too, especially the forums on a site called televisionwithoutpity.com. I like to read the comments. It’s research. I have two teens in my mysteries and I need to know the latest slang – heh!]

Since the pretty girl, Katharine-with-an-a, is obviously not TCO [rumor has it the producers want a guy to win], the Idol judges have enjoyed a sadistic, almost orgasmic gratification in trashing her performances. They especially like to embarrass her. Paraphrasing the judges: Randy: "That just didn’t work for me, dawg. It was kinda pitchy." Paula: "Mumble, mumble. . .the moth finds the melon finds the corn flake. . .mumble." Simon:"With that performance, you’ll be going home."

As soon as Simon said Katharine would be going home, I knew she was safe. As soon as Paula stared lovingly at Chris and said, "See you in the finals," I knew he was toast.

Which brings us once again to motivation. What the Idol judges, especially Simon, don’t seem to understand is that Americans like to root for the underdog — on TV, in movies and in books. Millions of people dialed in for the pretty girl, not just because she’s pretty, but because they felt she was too harshly judged. Millions more voted for the nice guy, who has been the acknowledged underdog from the very beginning. I don’t know why millions of viewers voted for the lounge lizard — I’m still trying to figure that one out — but the fact that he’s the recent pick of a website called votefortheworst.com might have something to do with it. Or maybe it’s because viewers confuse frenetic giberish [he forgot the words in his first Elvis song, too] and spastic dancing with enthusiasm/exuberance.

I was going to talk about gender — do girls vote for the boy singers and vice versa? — and tie it into the age-old debate: Do men buy books written by woman and, for that matter, do women buy books written by women? Or can men really write from a woman’s POV [and vice versa]. But I’ll save that for next week’s Quibble.

Over and Out,
Deni

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Murderati is a little more than a month old now. It’s a perfect time to reflect on, well, just about anything.

Me? I’ve been thinking about blogs and why authors take time away from writing their novels to pen nonfiction on a regular basis.

Part of my recent interest stems from discussions on various listservs where reader-respondees avow that they’ve never read blogs, won’t consider looking at them, and never will. I’ve also encountered authors who are adamant in their disapproval of this new form of communication — as if it’s a cheap or stupid way to spend time.

There’s also the sheer number of web logs; it’s enough to make your jaw drop on the floor and slink out of the room. In his missive summing up blog activity for the 1st quarter of 2006, David Sifry, founder of Technorati, brings up several points. Here’s the one that caused my oral catastrophe: "On average, a new weblog is created every second of every day."

Sheesh. That’s just too many to think about.

In an entirely nonscientific way, I decided to ask around to see what authors might have to say on the subject. I posted on listservs and got responses from folks I know and some I don’t. My questions were:

1. What were your goals for starting/participating in a blog?

2. Has the blog met those goals?

I’ll admit — given my 20+ years working in pr/marketing — I thought I knew the answer to question #1. Obviously, people blog to sell their novels. This goal, I was certain, was misdirected. M.J.Rose has written extensively on the pitfalls of creating blogs solely for this purpose on her own blog. Still, I knew my cohorts in mystery marketing had it all wrong.

Picture me with raw egg inching its way down my face and plopping onto a nice new silk blouse . . .

" . . . Our books are listed in a side panel, so there is a little PR there for them, but he [Eric Mayer] feels a blog people visit to read for interest is better than one set up purely for advertising." Mary Reed

"Well, if someone like my agent, or my editor, or perhaps my mother asks why I spend time blogging, I would, of course, assume an air of virtuous industry and explain that it is a form of promotion . . . a way to connect with my readers between books . . . " Donna Andrews adds with a grin in her tongue-in-cheek comments.

"I started a blog because I imagined my readers wanted to get to know me as a person, at least a little bit . . ." Charlaine Harris

Samantha Ling notes the same goals. Sandra Ruttan, whose book won’t come out until this fall, is making all kinds of great contacts even as I type. She started a blog simply to begin to log her experiences trying to get published.

So, yeah, I think that connecting with readers — telling them what you’re up to, what you’re thinking — is, indeed, a form of promotion. It’s a good method to build community and loyalty. However, it’s pretty subtle; you’re not going to fill any off-shore bank accounts this way.

Authors gave additional reasons for blogging. Ami Reeves comments that blogging gives her ". . . an outlet to do some ‘fun writing’ (i.e. Who cares if it’s not perfect? I don’t have to sell it, there’s no pressure)." That’s also why author and publisher Dindy Robinson does it.

Like them, I like having to write nonfiction on a regular basis. It hones my skills and keeps me fresh. (Harley Jane Kozak also commented on this, but more about her in a sec.)

Blogging also creates community amongst authors (who, lest we forget, had better be readers, too). I know this is true of my experiences with Murderati. Both Harley Jane and Judy Clemens find this satisfying. Judy writes, " . . . It’s also a great way to link to other authors’ blogs and help other authors in that way. Another fun thing has been to have guest bloggers . . . hopefully it’s a nice little plug for the guest."

Marcia Talley brought up a practical reason for blogging. She posts about trips, her reactions to life and about family. "For this kind of stuff, the blog is perfect, because it allows me — through a blog link on my webpage — to keep my info. fresh and current without having to go through my web maven."

But, do you know the number one reason the authors blog? It’s why I blog too — even though some of my topics (this one, for example) take a hell of a lot of work.

FUN. Yep. That’s it. That’s what authors kept telling me. Blogging is fun.

"I started my blog four years ago this coming August," writes Bill Crider. "I did it for my own amusement . . . Doing the blog is fun for me, and that’s the only reason I do it."

Frankly, I hope that blogging increases the number of people who’ve heard of me — of all of us at Murderati — and everyone else who takes the time to post their thoughts/experiences/perspectives on a regular basis.

But even if it isn’t doing much of that, it’s still a blast.

———— Enough of the serious stuff.————-

I got blogtagged by Donna Andrews last week and since I can only respond on Mondays . . . here it is. Unfairly, I’m tagging my listmates — other than J.T. because she already did this on Friday.

4 movies you would watch over and over

    The Little Princess (The most recent version: I love the scene with the Indian servant and the little girl greeting the wonder of the snow.); The Princess Bride (Wit, period.); Fanny and Alexander (What a visually rich, emotionally layered movie.); Spirited Away (I can’t get enough of this marvelous animation.).

4 places you’ve lived:

Tours, France; Hong Kong; Ann Arbor, MI; Takoma Park, MD.

4 TV shows you love to watch:

Medium, Law & Order SVU, reruns of Roseanne, Without a Trace.

4 places you have been on vacation:

Carlsbad, NM; Morgantown, WV; Macau; Antibes, France.

4 of your favorite foods:

Japanese squid salad, green chile, dark chocolate, bulgoki with kim chee (damn, I’m getting hungry).

4 websites you visit daily:

Nope. I don’t have four. I use Google daily and visit Murderati as often as I can . . . everything else is much less consistent.

4 places you would rather be right now:

Actually, I adore New Mexico . . . but I won’t cop out on this. Antibes, France (eating fresh strawberries, overlooking the Med. Sea and hanging out at the Picasso Museum); Virgin Gorda (snorkeling); Washington, DC (at the Freer); Puerto Rico (swimming at night in Phosphorescent Bay)

4 people who you think will respond (sorry, guys)

Deni Dietz, Naomi Hirahara, Elaine Flinn, Jeff Cohen (he answered some in J.T.’s comments–but not all), and Simon Wood . . . Okay, that’s five . . . but they didn’t know I was gonna do this.

cheers,

Pari

Jeffrey Cohen

This past week, I did not win the Gumshoe Award for best mystery novel of 2005. This is not terribly unusual, as I did not win the Gumshoe Award the previous week, either, or any other week since, roughly, birth. So it didn’t strike me as a tremendous surprise that I didn’t win.

The difference was that this year, my book AS DOG IS MY WITNESS was actually nominated for a Gumshoe Award, and so the possibility actually existed that it could have won. That was a surprise. I was actually shocked to have been nominated, as my work isn’t what you generally think of in the same sentence as the word “award.” And yet, there it was, in pixel and white, on the Mystery Ink web site. In fact, there were only five people on the planet who were eligible to win said award this past week, and I was one of them.

That’s something in itself, don’t you think?

Don’t worry: this isn’t going to be a diatribe on how unfair it all is, and how I should have won the award, but it’s all politics. Because the fact is, I understand precisely why DOG didn’t win the award, and Laura Lippman’s TO THE POWER OF THREE did.

The main reason my book didn’t win was that it actually was not the best mystery of 2005. I don’t know if Laura’s book was–it’s entirely possible, but I honestly haven’t read every mystery published during the year, so I can’t say for sure–but I know it wasn’t mine.

This is NOT to say that AS DOG IS MY WITNESS isn’t a good book. I think it’s my best so far, and truly believe that it accomplishes exactly what it sets out to do: it sets up a tricky mystery, develops the characters in the Aaron Tucker series a little more, has a good number of laughs (which is always my objective) and gets in a little covert information about Asperger Syndrome, the high-functioning form of autism that Aaron’s son shares with my own. Not a bad few hours read. I’m proud of the book, so don’t think this is a pitch for the Smallest Ego in the Publishing Business Award, which I also would not win.

The thing is that DOG isn’t meant to be the Best Mystery of the Year. A few people who read it might think it is–as my daughter says, everymovie is someone’s favorite–and I’m certainly not going to argue with them. But it’s not designed to be a huge statement about the human condition (other than to touch lightly on people responding to differences in others), the most astonishing thriller since Alfred Hitchcock gave up the ghost and became one, or my answer to Dennis Lehane’s most recent question, whatever it might have been. No, DOG was always intended to be a light entertainment and little more. An award for FUNNIEST mystery of the year? Yes, I’m egotist enough to think it should have qualified for that. But BEST? What the heck is BEST, anyway?

Now, I can hear loyal readers of this Sunday blog (hi, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day!) ask, “hey wait a minute, Jeff: didn’t you go on like a maniac just a couple of weeks ago about how comic mystery should be on an equal plane with serious mystery, and how it’s unfair that nobody takes into account how hard it is to be good AND funny?” Yes, I said all those things, and I stand by every word (except “AND”: who told it to be in all caps?). But strictly as a mystery novel, stripped of its humor, would DOG be the best of the year? Probably not. It’s good, but it’s not groundbreaking. It doesn’t further the form. It is there to distract, to amuse.

Given the opportunity, would I have voted for AS DOG IS MY WITNESS? That’s a whole different question (which you can tell, based on the fact that it’s a separate sentence, and everything). Sure I would have; I’m no fool. That’s my book, and I worked on it for a long time, and I think it works pretty well and besides, “Gumshoe Award Winner” would have looked nice on my next cover. Do I think other people should have voted for it? Wow, this is getting complicated. What’s “best” is entirely too subjective. Can we have a list of rules please?

It gets back to the argument about comedy being on the same ballot as more “serious” pursuits. If you believe in competition at all–and let’s face it, awards are fun–you have to decide whether there should be separate categories for funny mysteries. I think there should be separate AWARDS for funny mysteries, just to acknowledge the best writers working at making us laugh. But when it comes to a straight discussion of “best,” I think the choice should be open to all genres and tones.

Is YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN a better movie than THE GODFATHER PART II? Probably not. It’s a MUCH funnier one. Should it have been nominated for Best Picture ahead of THE TOWERING INFERNO (yes, THE TOWERING INFERNO was nominated for Best Picture; you can look it up)? Now, there you have me–yes, Mel Brooks’ monster movie is better than Irwin Allen’s. It was probably better than LENNY (another nominee, along with CHINATOWN, which probably should have won), too, and Gene Wilder was miles funnier than Dustin Hoffman.

But this is a little off the point, which started out on this week’s award. I didn’t expect for a moment to win the Gumshoe, but I’m thrilled to pieces to have been nominated. All those cliches you hear are true: being considered among Laura, Reed Farrel Coleman (whose parents should have kept their original last name), Denise Hamilton and Duane Swierczynski is plenty of an honor. The fact that a goofy mystery like DOG was nominated is progress. When I write the Best Mystery of a year, I’ll be seriously ticked off when it doesn’t win. But as for now, I can’t tell you how nice it felt. I hope it feels just as good (or better) the next time I have a book published.

The next time they say “it’s an honor just to be nominated,” and you want to roll your eyes incredulously and comment on what a colossal fib THAT one is, think twice. It really is an honor, and I’m very grateful for it.

Meanwhile, since today is, indeed, Mother’s Day, let’s take a moment to consider and honor those who made the holiday possible. Naturally, I mean the flower and greeting card industries. Without them, we wouldn’t be able to ignore our mothers for 364 days and still feel like we’re good children. Hats off to you, flower and greeting card people!

My own mother (and you should know, if you’re a fan of Freudian slips, that while typing the phrase “own mother”, I almost wrote “owner,” which is creepy) made sure that her young son (that was me) was a fan of books, had plenty of them around the house and, as I recall, never dissuaded me from reading any of them. She has introduced me to some of my favorite authors (thanks for Irwin Shaw, Mom!) and never fails to praise my work beyond realistic limits.

I’m sure that when she reads this post, it will annoy her that I said AS DOG IS MY WITNESS wasn’t the best mystery of the year. For her, it was. And if there’s any greater praise for a mother than that, I don’t know what it is.