I met Lee Kelley via email nearly five years ago. She'd read The Clovis Incident and loved it. Next thing I knew, my book had been reviewed in the Vroman's newsletter. For the uninitiated, Vroman's is Southern California's largest independent bookstore. It's a glorious place. 

Since then, I've had the pleasure of corresponding with Lee and even meeting her in person. She's one of the unsung heroes in our mystery community. An active supporter who works at a general bookstore, but isn't an employed book seller per se.

I asked her to write a little something about mysteries and herself because I suspect there are a lot of people like Lee (though none exactly like her of course!) who give to our community daily though we may never be fortunate enough to know their names.

Have a blessed Monday,

Pari

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Thank you, Pari, for inviting me to Murderati! As the current gatherer of mystery tales for The Scene of the Crime email newsletter for Vroman's bookstore in Pasadena, I can't think of a better place to be.

Actually I work in the accounting office, but because I'm such an avid reader, I've been happy to review books for the mystery newsletter for seven years. Recently, due to staff changes, I've assumed a much larger role in the production of this genre-specific publication which is separate from the store's more extensive newsletter.

Generally, I comment on and recommend books that are extremely current, time-wise, with the printing of the newsletter, but am considering a corner for books that I reviewed in the past that remain on our shelves today. I hope the store lets me do that because it's another way to push authors and their endeavors.

A little about me: I started reading at age two and never looked back. In grade school I devoured all the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew stories. I read my first "adult" mystery when I was around fifteen or so. It was The Moonstone by the English author Wilkie Collins and was published in 1868. Many people consider it to be the precursor to the "modern" detective story. I was entralled with it and pretty soon was reading every mystery I could get my hands on.

As I got older my tastes changed. Now I read everything from classics to westerns, from fantasy to mystery. Though my favorite genre is science fiction, I continue to supplement my craving for good literature with mysteries.

Naturally Pari is one of my favorite authors; I've lived in New Mexico and can see the places she writes about. I also am a major fan of Tony Hillerman and he will certainly be missed. Dick Francis is another favorite.

I particularly like psychological mysteries. The workings of the mind have always fascinated me. It's true that often in this kind of mystery you know who the perp is. As far as I'm concerned that doesn't take away from the pleasure of the book because then the fun of reading becomes following the protagonist and shouting, "No, you idiot! It's the other guy!"

In mysteries, modi operandi and motives frequently seem familiar, but it always amazes me how an author can make them seem fresh. I think what makes the difference is the characters. If the writer truly knows the characters and environment, then the scenarios become new. Sure, there may be murder and mayhem in every story, but because the characters are unique, so is the tale.

Reading mysteries satisfies the need-to-know gene in me. What really happened? Where did that come from? How was that done? And why, in the name of all that's obvious, can't that detective figure out what's going on?

Well, it's probably because he's not as smart as we are — we, the readers — who devour the book and sort the clues from the comfort of our chairs as we immerse ourselves in the world of the author.

Cowboys want to die with their books on.

I'd like to pass on with a book in my hands.

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Thank you, Lee.

HEY!!!!  If readers, writers, booksellers, agents, editors and publishers aren't enough to make you thankful this holiday season, I've got another bit to brighten your day:

Cornelia Read will be joining Murderati beginning Saturday, December 6. She and our marvelous Alex Sokoloff will alternate posts weekly. Join me in giving her a big 'Rati welcome!

Pari

Here’s a phrase that gives me hives, gets my panties in a wad:

I can’t suspend my disbelief.

Usually when I hear someone use this — or one of its many iterations — they’re referring to traditional mysteries featuring amateur sleuths. So, of course, I’m irritated. To me, people often lob those five words to intentionally render one of my chosen genres worthless. Why wouldn’t I be irked?

But I’m not interested in self-analysis today, in my own petty responses and visions of revenge. No.
I want to go deeper.

You see, I think all fiction requires — at its very foundation — a suspension of disbelief.

That’s precisely why I read it.

I happen to enjoy escape. Tony Hillerman referred to his works as entertainments. That’s one heck of a noble goal. Let me tell you, if a book can pull me away from thinking about the economy or brutal crime or global warming, well, I’m grateful.

We’ve all seen the rise of the thriller, of one man or woman taking on evildoers in a world filled with creepy conspiracies. These individuals routinely end up saving the planet. Do I believe that stuff? Nah. But it’s fun to read.

Are you going to tell me you’re certain there’s a wizarding school in England? That vampires exist? That werewolves make good detectives? That Dexter would be able to get away with his doings week after week and no one would notice?

Come on.

I can’t suspend my disbelief.

Sure you can. Everyone does it every single day. I was talking with my husband about this and he said, "Every person who has ever been married does it." Ha, ha. But he has a point: we willingly and constantly embrace personal and cultural myths.

And, guess what? They’re just that. Myths, fantasies, lies . . .

To me what matters is the internal coherence of a piece. I don’t really believe that Discworld exists, but it’s tremendously logical within its context. Sookie Stackhouse isn’t real, but I love her nonetheless. John Dortmunder and his crew wouldn’t be able to pull off those heists, but that doesn’t diminish my pleasure in reading about them.

If romance isn’t your cup of tea, admit it. If you can’t — or won’t — wrap your head around the idea that your sweet little next door neighbor is Super Sleuth. Fine. Don’t.

What gets my goose is that this phrase is often used as a universal condemnation. It’s as if by saying or writing it, the person is distancing his personal responsibility in the equation.

It’s Traditional Mystery’s fault that the speaker can’t suspend disbelief.
It’s Fantasy’s fault and Science Fiction’s fault.
It’s Fiction’s fault that the reader is incapable of enjoying the read.

That’s baloney.

Fess up to it. Be honest, please. It’s not the suspension of disbelief that’s getting you; it’s that you don’t like the basic concept. For whatever reason, you’re choosing to write off swaths of literature as being invalid because of your own biases.

That’s okay. We all have biases.

Just stop with the BS.

I think what gets me even more about
I can’t suspend my disbelief is that it’s as empty a phrase as a rejection from an editor that claims something isn’t compelling.

It’s just plain weasle-ly. And even though there’s nothing there, the words are like invisible viruses and carry power anyway.

I don’t know about you, but I resent the infection . . .

Okay, I’ll step off of my soapbox now.
      1. Is there a common, but utterly empty phrase that drives you berserk?
              2. Do you use I can’t suspend my disbelief and feel that it really does say something? (Convince me.)

by Pari

The last few months have been rough. I’ve lost long-time friends and acquaintances who felt like friends. Everywhere I turned there was death. Now the obits and eulogies have been written and spoken. The candles have been lit, the sungs sung.

What’s left?

The lessons of a life. That’s what.

Years ago when I was a mere pup of 28, I went to a funeral of a co-worker. Patty Kuswa died in a single car rollover between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. She was in her 40s. We were all stunned. She was at work one day, the next morning she was dead. Her funeral was astounding. The church was filled; people who couldn’t find seats inside waited in the rain to express their condolences to her parents, husband and young sons. Patty had touched hundreds of people in our community, in several completely different sectors.

Patty wasn’t famous; she was just a damn fine human being. That’s all.

Tony Hillerman was, too. He managed never to lose his humility or his humanity. For most of us, that would’ve been a challenge. But Tony soared in this most competitive field and still, somehow, seemed like a regular guy.

For a week, I’ve been reading accounts from published and unpublished writers, from readers, about how he encouraged them to keep going, how he made everyone feel like an equal. He had a wonderful we’re-all-in-this-together attitude and it was a balm for each person he met.

Someone — either an agent or an editor — dubbed Tony as a "blurb slut." It’s true. He was. Just about any author who asked got one because Tony was all about lifting writers up. He’d give out the name and contact info of his agent to anyone who asked, too. He’d talk about writing, the craft, the business — anything  — if you asked. And sometimes when you didn’t.

Frankly, Tony was the most generous writer I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine how many people wanted a piece of him, how many favors they asked of him. From what I saw, no matter how busy or sick he was, he said, "Yes."

Though I enjoyed his mysteries, I adored his nonfiction. Seldom Disappointed, his autobiograpy, is a joy. My favorite of all his books is The Great Taos Bank Robbery; it’s filled with marvelous humor and the kind of spare and perfect insight that marks the best of journalism.

In Judaism, when someone dies we say, "May his memory be a blessing."

Tony Hillerman gave — and his memory gives — an example of how to be the best. I mean that in every sense of the word.

I hope that as I grow up in this writing life that I can shine more brightly, give more . . . like Tony did, every day. 

by Pari

One of my favorite people, Tony Hillerman, died of pulmonary failure yesterday in an Albuquerque hospital. I’ll write about him next week. For now, I just wanted to mark his passing. While he lives forever in his books, it’s the man I’ll miss.

I know he’d want us to keep talking about candy and Halloween and writers’ foibles in the conversation below, so let’s do it.

I’m raising a Reese’s peanut cup to him right now . . .

by Pari

Halloween is a dangerous time at our house. Two or three weeks before the holiday begins, the bags of candy start rolling in — creamy MilkyWays, satisfying Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, crunchy Kit Kats — and get stowed, supposedly for safe keeping, on the shelves in my office closet.

I’m all right as long as the packages remain closed. But once my husband breaks into them, all bets are off. My willpower dissolves in the acid of desire. It’s ugly. If you could see me now, you’d cower at the glazed look in my eyes, the sugar-induced tremors coursing through my body, the stacks of empty Smarties’ wrappers on every surface of my desk . . .

Writing has the same pitfalls. I try to stay on the straight-and-narrow. I yearn to avoid excessive commas, errant ellipses, those alluring semicolons. Inevitably, something sets me off, some scene will remove the figurative finger from my dike of self-control and blow my abstinence to smithereens.

Yep. You guessed it.

I’m a metaphor slut, an anaolgy ho.

I don’t say this proudly. I’ve tried to mend my ways. I memorized the twelve steps at Flourishers’ Anonymous and, in a horrid moment of relapse, rewrote them all. Electric shock therapy just felt good. Tough love wasn’t tough enough.

Late at night when I can’t sleep, I lay the blame on my addiction to poetry. Damn you, Wallace Stevens! Curse you, William Carlos Williams. I’m thinking of sending my behavioral therapy bills to novelist Alice Hoffman. Believe me, every morning when the sun greets the crisp blue sky, I vow to unclutter my prose. By noon, I’m a simpering metaphorical mess.

As a reader, I’ve noticed other writers have particular weaknesses, too. I find solace in that.

For example: Most authors have favorite words. C.J. Cherryh, whose works I enjoy tremendously, loves the word "coolth."  I’m pretty sure she made it up and whenever I delve into one of her books, I look for it.

There are adverb junkies, sex-scene jonesers, multiple adjectival inserters, pedantic peacocks prone to alliteration, and experts who’ll spend more time writing about how a clock was made than plotting the entire story.

Authors have preferred actions too: standing, sitting, leaning a head against a shoulder, widening eyes, narrowing lips. Eyes twinkle, throats scratch.

We all do it. Every writer’s literary addictions come through.

So let’s roll around in the chocolate pleasure of conversation, the fondue of free speech.

What’s your writing temptation?
Have you noticed any author’s addictions? (Do you like them? Dislike?)
Or, simply . . . What’s your favorite candy this season?

Me? Since the Smarties are gone, I’m moving on to Paydays. I pick off all the peanuts first and then eat the gooey core . . . but that’s another post. 

by Pari

Decades ago when I lived in D.C., I read a cartoon in the Washington City Paper (if anyone can remember the artist, please let me know) that had a bunch of people at a typical cocktail party. This was soon after the release of the first Rambo movie. Everyone at this event — men and women alike –dressed in power suits and had one sleeve ripped from their clothing. Their exposed arms were muscle-bound (think Sylvester Stallone) and in their hand each one carried an uzi.

These D.C. insiders would approach an unsuspecting person and say, "Hi. Who are you? Whaddya do?" Depending on the answer, the interviewer would either shove the respondent in a pocket saying, "I can use you!" or throw that person over a shoulder with "I can’t use you!"

This, I think, sums up how many people regard networking.

Common wisdom holds that the more people you know and the more powerful they are, the further you go.

I’m not sure I buy that anymore.

In my public relations workshops for writers, I stress the importance of networking and I still believe, if done right, it’ll serve them well in their professional careers.

But something has changed in my perspective. I’ve become a quality rather than quantity kind of gal. And quality isn’t necessarily what you might think . . .

Before I earned my first book contract, I went to every writers conference with a specific game plan. My quarry: agents and editors. I didn’t bother with anyone else because I couldn’t use them — they wouldn’t get me published.

Something changed when I actually signed that first contract. I remember the exact moment. It was at Left Coast Crime in Pasadena (my book wouldn’t be in stores for another year). I was sitting in the bar with Suzanne Proulx, Sinclair Browning and Steve Brewer (who’d taken a naive fellow New Mexican under his wing). The three of them were talking about their experiences with agents and editors; they gave me a crash course in the realities of being a writer and the writing life.

I went back to my hotel room and realized I’d been a fool. I’d spent so much time trying to find the "players," that I’d ignored the true gems, the people who had the time and inclination to teach me the ropes. A few months later, I went to my first Bouchercon and realized there was another group I’d never considered: potential readers. Sheesh. How could I have been so myopic before?

Something else has changed during the last few years, too. I’ve stopped trying to meet everyone in the room. Now I just want to meet a few people, to connect in meaningful ways — to learn and share and not worry about trying to impress or persuade.

It doesn’t matter to me anymore if I meet the famous folks. Most of them are off at their parties, special dinners and power meetings at these conventions anyway. And you know what? I find myself enjoying the ride with the people right there.

This hasn’t been a business decision; it’s been a life one. My time is important. I don’t want to spend it pandering or figuring out ways to use others. I want to enjoy myself and to be sincere with those around me.

Don’t get me wrong; I hope to meet new folks at every venue. Quantity can still benefit my career; the more people who read, buy and talk about my books, the more I’ll succeed.

And even though I no longer try to cozy up to the biggies, I end up meeting a great cross-section of people anyway.

At Wrangling with Writing, I had the wonderful opportunity to share time with many aspiring writers, the con’s incredible organizers and volunteers, and people like: Corey Blake and David Cohen of Writers of the RoundTable, agents Cherry Weiner and Loretta Barrett, and Victoria Lucas. None of these meetings were planned. All of the connections were real.

At Bouchercon, I got to pal around with the international guest of honor John Harvey and others such as J. Kingston Pierce, Linda Richards, Ann Cleeves, Martin Edwards, Ali Karim, Thalia Proctor (it was a very international con for me this year) and so many more.

What wonderful experiences. And I had absolutely NO agenda at either one.

People can sense that.

They can feel that I’m not calculating what they can "do" for me — whether I want them to give me a blurb or a bigger book deal, if they’ll turn my work into a movie or decide to promote me in their magazines. They understand that I’m more concerned with having a good time, being real, engaging in the true conversations that bring new perspectives and enrich life.

If, along the way, some of these relationships fruit benefically for my career — all the better.

If not — at least the journey was damn fun.

What about you?
What’s your attitude about networking? Has it changed over the years?
Do you go to conventions or conferences with a list of must-meets?

by Pari

You’ve shown your manuscript to your mother; she adored it. You’ve sent it to your brother; he says it’s brilliant. All your friends are poised to buy hundreds of copies once the book is published.

Only problem is, no one else cares. Agents aren’t calling or answering queries. Editors run shrieking into the bathroom when they see you at conferences.

The truth? I’m sorry to tell you, pal, but you’ve fallen into the trap of thinking your writing is God’s gift . . . when it isn’t.

Go ahead, take a minute to lick the wounds to your ego. I’ll wait for you; I’ve been there myself . . .

After you’ve gone through the various stages of grief incluing denial, anger, bargaining, self doubt and general pissiness, you’ll be ready to get back to work.

And at that point, you’ll have some choices to make. Should you edit and revise on your own? Do you want to talk with your agent (if you’ve got one) and ask for help? Would it be a good idea to hire a freelance editor or bookdoctor? Or do you want to start/create a critique group?

I’ve done all four. Each one has its merits. However, I like critique groups because when they gel, they’re incredibly helpful and supportive.

When they don’t, they’re hell. Here are some of the pitfalls I’ve seen first hand:
*  Ego and personality clashes
*  Members ganging up on others
*  Smarmy, half reads — sugary critiques that aren’t worth anyone’s time
*  Stealing ideas

Whew. I’m glad that’s over with.

Now for the good stuff:
If you’re fortunante enough to land in the right critique group, the experience is tremendously affirming and instructive. It’ll stretch you as a writer and a reader.

What makes a good critique group? Here’s my take:
1. Rules
This isn’t a social hour, it’s a work session. The group I belong to follows the basic guidelines set up by Clarion. You can read two good articles on this here (how to workshop) and here (insights into how to react when being critiqued).
2. Trust
Participants need to feel that everyone in the group has the same goal when they’re reading and critiquing: to help each other write and tell the best stories possible. That’s it.
Do I need to mention NO STEALING? I sure hope not.
3.  Commitment
Participants have to be willing to read the good and the bad, and to treat each submission — and each member — with utter respect. No showing up without having read the submissions, no comments without considered rationale.
4.  Confidentiality
Only gab or complain about participants in the group IN the group — and rarely do that, if ever. Keep mum about other people’s works-in-progress.
5.  Similar levels of writing experience
It’s uncomfortable and inappropriate to have writers with vastly different levels of experience in the same group. If you do, some participants become "experts" while others are peons. How can you possibly nourish the useful kind of democracy that promotes honest communication in that case? I don’t think it can happen.

The group I belong to in Albuquerque has five members and that’s all we want. Every one of us has been published by a traditional press and has years of writing experience under our belts. The other participants are: Pati Nagle, D. Lynn Smith, Sally Gwylan and Gerald Weinberg. We meet every two weeks and read approx. 50 pages of each other’s WIPs. We all have very different perspectives and personalities and write in different genres. We’re not best friends, but have vast amounts of respect for each other. And we’ve become a wonderful little community, a support group of writers who yearn to improve and grow in our craft.

Writers: What works for you? Have you ever participated in a critique group? What happened? (Horror stories are as welcome as happy ones.)

Non-writers: Have you ever been part of anything similar to a critique group in your professional life? Tell us about it. 

by Pari

I’m a sucker for a good metaphor.

When prose rises to lyricism, my heart dances.

My love affair with the odd juxtaposition began when I was seven and wrote my first four-stanza piece. Here’s the "chorus":

Oh sea, oh sea
the great red sea,
my love, my dove,
the great red sea . . .

Pretty funny for a kid who lived in New Mexico. I have no idea what it meant, but it sure sounded good.

In middle and high school, I remember long hours sitting with a friend in the library and reading e e cummings to each other. In college, I graduated to Wallace Stevens, Theodore Roethke, Marianne Moore, Robert Frost and William Carlos Williams.

Here’s something most people don’t know about me: I’ve always wanted to go to the National Poetry Slam. I’d love to compete — if only I wrote true poetry and could be cool enough to pull it off in performance. (Where did I put that beret?)

Last weekend, I had a marvelous time at the Wrangling with Writing conference in Tucson, AZ. I hope to write about it in a future post. But for right now, I wanted to introduce Murderati readers to Taylor Mali. He was the keynote speaker at the con and it was one of the high points of a great, great experience. I’m including two of his poems here.

The first is called The The Impotence of Proofreading. It’s a brilliant take-off on a subject close to every writer’s heart. Warning: there’s a fair amount of "adult language" herein — so don’t listen to it at high volume at work. (BTW: The man sitting on stage with him is Billy Collins, a former poet laureate of the U.S.)

This next one is What Teachers Make (which should be an anthem for all teachers everywhere . . . including those of us who like to teach aspects of writing or the writer’s life)

Well, if that doesn’t inspire you, I don’t know what will.

For today’s discussion, tell us about the poets you love — include readings  or excerpts if you can find them.
Tell us about mystery writers whose works bring the kind of satifaction we can find in good poetry.

I can’t wait to see your responses  . . .

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I’ll be at Bouchercon briefly this year — from Friday afternoon until the middle of the luncheon on Sunday when I have to scoot off to the airport. My panel is Sunday at 10 am:

"A TOWN CALLED MALICE (The Jam)
with Ann Cleeves (m), Martin Edwards, Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett, Carolyn Wall . . . and yours truly.

I hope to see some of you there.

by Pari

Way back when I was writing my very first manuscript — one that never sold — I wanted to know about money laundering and got an appointment to speak with a special agent from the FBI. The interview was a bust. I kept asking questions and he kept avoiding the details that would make my work believable. Both of us became increasingly frustrated until, finally, he said, "You’re a novelist, right? This is fiction. Why don’t you just make it up?"

(If you read CLOVIS, you’ll see the FBI agent isn’t very likeable. We writers get our revenge . . . but that’s another post.)

I’ve never written a manuscript without doing research. Some of it is the obvious stuff. For my New Mexico series, I always go to the town I’m writing about and spend time driving around, staying in the hotels, eating at local restaurants, visiting touristy places. When I write anything with a gun, I ask experts. When there’s actual police procedure, I ask experts. In my new series, I’m reading every book I can find on animal behavior and communication, animal mind and consciousness (or lack thereof).

But in each of my three published books, there’s been a mistake that I didn’t know was a mistake until a reader told me. For example, in SOCORRO, I have Sasha drink from a raku pottery cup. Now I grew up with a mother who collected art. We had several pieces of raku around the house; that’s how I came up with that detail in the first place. Wouldn’t you know?  A woman who was an expert in pottery wrote to tell me that raku is decorative — never utilitarian.

Great. Wonderful. Screwed up again.

Or there was the time I got the wrong kind of freezer in someone’s house. The wrong brand.

Frankly, most of us don’t know how much we don’t know.

But how much should an author second-guess herself? How much should she stop the process when she DOES think she knows? These little mistakes can throw a reader right out, but for others, they’re nothing  — just blips.

There’s probably a fact, something that can be checked, at least on every single page of every manuscript I write. I try to be as accurate as possible without becoming pedantic or boring. But I make assumptions all the time AND I’m NOT EVEN AWARE that they’re assumptions (that’s what happened with the raku and the freezer).

If I stop to check absolutely everything, I’d never finish a manuscript. My hope is that with all the eyes reading my work — my critique group, my agent, an editor, a copyeditor  — that we’ll catch the egregious problems and quite a few small ones along the way.

But . . .

Authors:
How much do you fact check/research?
How do you know what you know AND don’t know?

Readers:
What’s your take on this?
Are you the kind of reader who screams and slams a book to the floor if a restaurant you know is on the wrong side of the street?

Everyone:
I’ll be on the road today but will try to check in. If I don’t make it, I’ll respond to every single comment tomorrow. This is a subject that really interests me and I hope the conversation is a good one!

Thanks.

By Pari

Face it, we’re in an iffy business. There are too many factors out of our control. Even if we write the best mystery or thriller, one with brilliant plotting, spectacular pacing and outstanding prose – it still might never get published. Even if it does, it might tank. Critics might pan it. Or, it might never earn back the advance.

I don’t know about any of you, but sometimes I yearn for a good way to predict the future. I want to know, for a fact, that all of these late nights, worries, missed walks on gorgeous fall days, sacrificed cups of coffee with friends, the guilt . . . I want to know that they’re worth it.

Yeah, it’s impossible. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

A long time ago, I used to go to psychics to see if my life had some greater destiny, if I’d be famous or wealthy or happy or married or if I’d save the world. After spending far too much of my meager waitressing earnings on these visits, I realized that most of what these seers told me sounded like utter bullsh*t. The final straw was the well-known psychic who told me that my soul had originated on Venus.

Sure. Right.

I’ve always been interested in astrology and as the years have passed, I’ve moved away from looking at it as predictive to a more psychological approach. Authors such as Liz Greene and Stephen Arroyo have given me many hours of excellent insights into people in general and myself in particular.

But I still want those glimpses into the future, the yes-no answers.

Will I make it in my chosen profession? Will all the sacrifices I and my family have made end with a good result?

I used to try to use Tarot like that (I love the Mythic Deck), but as I’ve grown as a person, so has my approach to that divinatory method. Liz Greene has influenced me there too – as has the wonderful Juliet Sharman-Burke.

Yet, an urge to know the unknown lingers . . .

The other day, I stumbled on a virtual magic eight ball. There’s no way I could go down my usual philosophical road with that, was there? So, I decided to give it a shot.

My very first question: “Will I become a well known and successful writer during my lifetime?”

The answer?
“Definitely.”

Cool. Just what I wanted to hear. It must be true.

So, today, I invite you to share what you do to feel better about an unknown future OR go to the eight ball, ask a question, and let me know what it answered.

Question:

“Will this blog inspire an interesting discussion?”

Answer: (Really, this was the answer. Hah!)

“Signs point to yes.”