by Pari

We writers can learn from everyone. Observation sluts all, we scavenge and steal from the world around us. For the few years, I’ve been watching other ink-stained wretches and trying to study what seems to work and what doesn’t.

For most, it all comes down to commitment.
It’s the strength to strap our butts in chairs even when we want to skip out into mudlucious spring days. It’s the understanding that for professionals, writing is more than putting words on paper; it’s a way of life.

I’ve decided to actively nourish and reinforce these truths.

Which brings me to today.

While you read this blog, I’ll be on my way back from the Novelists, Inc. conference in New York. Novelists, Inc is a small organization of writers who’ve published at least two novels; many members have published far more. I joined a little more than a year ago when I was feeling the need for mentors but didn’t know where to find them.

You see, once you’re no longer a beginner, you’re adrift in the same ocean as every other writer . . . except the superstars. It’s difficult to find people who even believe you need to be taken under their wing. It also becomes more challenging to know what questions to ask because eveyone is mouthing variations on a theme  . . .

Answers abound, but there’s no generic prescription that yields the same results for everyone.

The more you learn, the less you know.

Yep.

I feel like I’m more of a babe in the woods than I was upon first publication for years ago. There’s so more to learn, to explore.

Novelists, Inc is a place to do it — for me. While most members are romance writers, the experience they offer is a kind of informal school for those of us novelists who’ve gotten well onto the ladder but can’t yet see the next level.

I’ve got to tell you, I’m excited. For three full days and late nights, I’ll hang out with these people. I’ll listen and watch. There’s an astounding list (this one is partial) of editors and agents coming to this thing and I bet they’ll have plenty to say as well.

This is the first time in more than five years that I’m attending an event that has to do with writing where I’m NOT in promotion mode (though I am working on the elevator pitch just in case someone asks). This time, I’m focused on craft and on the life of a working writer.

My question for today is this:

What conference, workshop or class can you recommend that:
* took you to a glorious new level in your work (non writers, please comment here, too)
* inspired you
* kicked you in the butt
* gave you the courage to continue, change, explore, expand?

If you want to include urls, that’d be great too.  I’ll try to respond on the road or when I get home.

by Pari

I have a friend, D’Lynn Smith, who will have a horror story published soon that’s written from a hammer’s point of view. Ever since she told our critique group about it, I’ve been intrigued. I keep toying with the idea of how a hammer would see the world, what it would think about, what it would sense.

This is also a timely topic because of the new series I’m writing. The protagonist is a misanthropic psychic who communicates with insects, animals and plants. In doing research for the first book, I’ve gotten lost in thick tomes — with tiny fonts — about how animals see and "think," about whether insects sense pain. Much of the information is highly technical and theoretical. Some of it makes for an excellent soporfic.

But readers don’t need that. They don’t want to be banged over the head with science lessons. Sure, flies taste with their feet. But what’s really important is the description of what they’re tasting and why it matters. My protag needs to explain these things naturally. She needs to convey in language what isn’t initially in words . . .

"Well," I says to myself, says I . . . "Why not use the collective creativity right here at the ‘Rati to expand my perceptions, to see how others might tackle a similar challenge?"

Why not, indeed?

So . . .

I’m inviting everyone — writers, wannabe writers and readers — to give it a shot.

1. Pick a tool, any tool.
2. Make sure it’s inanimate.
3. Write a small vignette (Less than 10 lines, please) from that tool’s POV.

Genre doesn’t matter today. Just have fun with it.

Here’s my first try:
Keyboard
I wanted her fingers on my keys, her moods to pierce my world.  Sure and smooth . . . her happiness flowed into me. Hesitant and hard, she sorrowed. Oh, but when her fingers moved so quickly I could barely keep up — my u sticking, my w pausing for breath — the holy joy of it filled me with electric bliss.

Okay. Now it’s your turn.

Come on.

Let’s play.

by Pari

Cough.

Last week’s Left Coast Crime was ab-fab, save for the fact that I generated enough contagions to personally infect most of the Mile High City myself.

Achoo! Cough, hack.

My tale of woe began in glorious San Francisco at the end of February. There, my chest and throat tightened with an enthusiasm only known to teenyboppers at their first boy-toy concert. Things got worse each day, but I refused to consider the fact that the discomfort could be because of sickness. No. It was cigarette smoke, humidity, the moon in Cancer . . .

I don’t remember the plane ride home. That was on a Monday. Two nights later, hours before hopping on the plane to go to Denver, I had the shivers. At the same time, my face felt so hot and swollen I thought it might crack and bleed in a dozen different places.  But, in the wee hours, the fever broke ( I thought) and I felt substantially better. So, on the plane I went.

In the airport in Denver, waiting for the shuttle, I realized I’d been overly optimistic. Whatever crud had invaded my chest had set up permanent residence. The shivers started again, the hots, the queasy feeling in my tum.

Believe me, I fought. I took Airborne, swabbed Zicam, sucked on Cold-Eeze lozenges and felt like a walking pharmaceutical catalog. I drank only small amounts of scotch medicinally (damnit) to murder the germs holding their own convention in my throat. Bed rest. Bed rest. No fun.

With a deft hand at makeup and sheer determination, I functioned — almost coherently — for most of the con. It was great to spend time visiting bookstores with Alex — and infecting booksellers. I loved seeing friends and making new ones — and infecting them all.

But I missed far more people than I would have liked. Rob, did you really attend? Toni, were you there?

Cough . . . Where’s that tissue?

Was it worth it? Was it wise to push so hard, to force an unwilling body and muddy mind in the name of marketing?

Bottom line: I don’t recommend it.

Which brings me to today’s questions:
What would make you cancel an appearance?
When would you know that it was better to stay home than go?

Gack . . . hack.

Here are just a few of the people I coughed on . . .

(l to r) Tim Maleeny, Steven Torres, Steve Hockensmith and Steve Brewer

(l to r)  Donna Andrews, Bill Fitzhugh, Christine Goff

Our own Simon Wood (sorry ’bout that, Simon)

(l to r)  John Billheimer, Sam Reaves, Kate Derie, Michael Allen Dymmoch

by Pari

A friend of mine is going to turn 60 in April. I asked her how she felt about that and she said, "Pari, I’ve survived ovarian cancer for seven years now. I’m just glad I’ve made it this far."

But I’m feeling like David Byrne right now. You know the song, Once in a lifetime, with its famous question (it’s the title of this post).

And then there’s the cartoon on p. 52 of The New Yorker today. The one with the mayfly looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, despair writ large on his little face. He says, "I’ve got a wife, kids, a career — Jesus! I’m twelve hours old! How did this happen to me?"

Boy, can I relate. For the last few months, I’ve been staring mortality in the face. She’s got too many wrinkles, a hairy wart on her left cheek, and a wicked grin.

Yeah, sure, we never really know when we’re gong to die (unless we take it into our own hands). Still most of us avoid looking into that mirror unless we’re forced.

Enter birthdays that end in 0 . . .

When I turned 40, I could double the number of years I’d lived and imagine that an equal number awaited me. Or more! (Even though genetics aren’t in my favor in that regard . . . )

This week, in spite of the power of positive thinking, the math doesn’t work as nicely. When I face my age head-on, I get this lowdown, nasty, cramp-the-gut feeling. Damnit! I’m not gonna be here forever.

Enter distractions . . .

The day after tomorrow, I start a two-week period where I’ll be on the road 80% of the time. San Francisco, here I come! Denver, you’re looking mighty fine!

But a person can’t run forever; this birthday feels critical.

I want to take advantage of it, to live more intentionally.

What’s important? What isn’t?

I’m becoming lighter somehow, more willing to shed those activities, thoughts, goals, definitions and people that don’t deserve the mental/emotional real estate they’ve occupied in the past.

I’m redefining "success." Not "settling for less," but looking at the real value — at least for me, in my life. Fan letters suddenly mean more than reviews; there’s incredible satisfaction in knowing I’ve created a satisfying read.

I’m not as desperate to go traipsing around the country for every potential promotional opportunity; real relationships are the goal now. The old quality vs quantity question is a no-brainer.

I’m writing more than I ever have before, taking risks . . .

Who knows where any of our lives are heading? With this birthday, I’m finally old enough to realize that I don’t.

And, because of that, I’m paying more attention to today, to every day.

_____________________________________________________________________

Next Monday, Steve Brewer will be guest blogging here at Murderati. He’s got a great post and I hope all y’all will make him feel welcome. 

by Pari

The subject of conventions has come up more than once on the ‘Rati, but some are so special they deserve a post of their own.

Enter Murder in the Magic City.

Each year, in early February, Margaret Fenton and the Southern Sisters in Birmingham, Alabama host this one-day event at the Homewood Library. It consists of four sequential panels, a lunch, and a talk by the Guest of Honor.  Sounds simple, huh?

The next day, authors caravan to Wetumpka, Alabama for Murder on the Menu. This luncheon fundraiser for the local library is the brainchild of indie bookstore owner Tammy Lynn. 

A person could argue that the success of these two events rests on the fact that they’re only on one day, or that they’re small and manageable. However, I think those comments diminish the real magic here.

From the moment authors accept the personal invitation to come to Alabama, they’re treated with warmth and respect. Margaret and Tammy make a point of communicating frequently with useful information; you know they’ve got their act together. What other convention picks up ALL of its writer panelists at the airport, gives them great food and drink? What other convention strives so hard to make people — audience and author — feel appreciated? The same is true for the Murder on the Menu. There are gift bags for the authors and happy fans who can’t wait to discover new fiction.

Every single detail has been thought through and improved upon.

This year, for the first time, organizers were faced with many last-minute changes — authors got sick, the weather didn’t cooperate — and yet, I doubt anyone in the audience noticed. Every panel was excellent, each participant talking about craft and life with intelligence and humor. The audience was delighted. I loved being able to listen to all of my fellow authors at both events, to learn more about them as writers and people.

And, the audiences at both MitMC and MotM come to buy. It’s a beautiful thing to see that many people, their arms laden with books, waiting in line.

Some of the most memorable moments for me this year were:

Meeting Gena Ellis, a talented screenwriter, with whom I’ve corresponded since she posted on DL. I spent time with Julia Pomeroy, Deb Baker, Donna Andrews and Toni Kelner. Talk about quality fun! What pleasure to meet Linda Berry, Kathleen Delaney, and the K-Y man Darden North; to hear Radine Trees Nehring and Lonnie Cruse speak so eloquently about their work, to watch Gayle Wigglesworth on a panel. Betty Webb did a bang-up job as a moderator; Jane Cleland danced and sang; Donna told us about penguin sex; Rosemary Harris glowed with that wonderful newness of an author being on a panel at a convention for the first time; and J.T.‘s happiness was palpable when she explained the pleasure in returning to MitMC as an author after having been in the audience just two short years before.

One of my absolute favorite moments was after the delicious barbecue dinner on Saturday night. Most people had gone off to bed, but a few of us stayed around a table, unwilling for the night to end. Don Bruns took out his guitar and began to sing ballads so lovely they brought tears. And, in the way that these things go, others began to sing. Deb Baker wanted to hear Piano Man and Bob Morris — bless him — whipped out an IPhone (or whatever that little computer dillybob was) and looked up the words. We sang and sang until the hotel staff turned off the lights.

I’d urge EVERYONE — fan and author alike — to put one or both of these events on your to-do list. The hotel isn’t expensive. Restaurants are nearby. And, I can guarantee you’ll have a magical time.

Below are some pictures from Murder in the Magic City. I’m including them so you can see some of your friends or favorite authors. I wish I’d been together enough to have better quality, snapped more . . .

Above: Gena Ellis and husband in the bookroom.          J.T. holding her debut novel.
Below: Radine Trees Nehring and her husband, John, at breakfast. Gayle Wigglesworth and Betty Webb at their signing.

Below: Julia Pomeroy, Don Bruns and Deb Baker.
And, next to that . . . well, it’s the giant statue of Vulcan that overlooks Birmingham. And, um, I liked this particular angle.

LATE BREAKING PHOTO  — from Margaret Fenton this afternoon. How many of these authors can you identify??

by Pari

I’m on an airplane today, winding my way back from Birmingham, Alabama and one of the best little ol’ mystery conventions around: Murder in the Magic City.

Since the day will be filled with plasticine food, overhead announcements and no computer — for me at least — I thought it’d be fun to open up the discussion. Usually, I stimulate the repartee with a strong lead-in, but today, I’m hoping that the two-part query below will really be enough . . .

If you could talk with any mystery writer — alive or dead — and ask a single question, what would it be? (and why?)

Come on . . . don’t be shy. Let’s get a cool conversation going here. I’ll try to check in before I check out of the hotel. 

by Pari

Hey, baby, wanna come to my place?
Are you new in town?
What’s your sign?

My mind is in the gutter today, a rare locale for a soccer mom. If I close my eyes and go with the imagery, I land in an animated world with overdrawn characters wearing push-up bras, puce dresses and hot pink stiletto heels. A Toontown for writers. Wordsville? Remember Jessica Rabbit? It’s her sultry voice (Kathleen Turner’s) that I hear.

Only this time she’s saying, "I’m not bad . . . I’m just written that way."

I’m thinking about the differences between innocent flirting and one-night-stand flirting, between love-making and purchased sex.

I’m fixating on the why of book-looking and buying.

What makes readers pick up our work? What’s the click, the magic ah-ha, that inspires them to buy?

Is it a glossy cover?
Reviews
Word of mouth?
Placement in a store?
Television appearances, newspaper features, radio interviews?
Is it presence, participation and mentions on listservs and blogs?
Is it the first line? The first paragraph?

What promises are made in those initial encounters? What promises are kept?

Have you bought books that looked luscious on the surface and turned out to taste like bargain-brand dog bones?
On an impulse, have you paid for tomes with the outward appeal of pimply nerds, only to find that they’re tigers in bed?

Here’s the honest truth:
I have no idea what makes me pick up a book. I have even less of an idea about what makes me buy it. The longer I’m an author, the longer I do this dance of writing and promotion, the less I’m sure of anything.

Some of my cohorts astound me with their energy and creativity when it comes to marketing. They’re at every single convention. They comment on every blog and listserv. They answer their emails at warp speed and send out newsletters consistently.

Wow.

I used to be one of them and . . .

I can tell you this:
I don’t think it did me much good; it might even have harmed my credibility as a serious writer.

I do know that hearing or seeing an author’s name everywhere ISN’T ever the factor that makes me buy his or her book. Never. As a matter of fact, it often works to the contrary . . . because I’m contrary. I tend to run away from that person in the bar who seems too desperate for a relationship — or sex.

Do the most successful writers flog their stuff everywhere? You might tell me that they’ve earned the right not to. But I doubt they ever did the Full-Monty marketing in the first place. Certainly the love-me-please edge is absent from their interactions with their publics.

I’m not quite sure what I’m trying to say with this blog. I think I have two themes here, but they feel related in a fundamental way.

All I know is that more and more, I just want to write. I want my words and stories to be the impetuses that tempt and, ultimately, convince readers to buy. I want other people to talk about my works instead of me beating my own chest all the time.

Back in Wordsville, I’m watching two women. One sits at the counter and orders another a pink sloe gin fizz. Her eyes scope out every man in the place. She’s got a buy-me vibe and a body to match. The other woman is at a table in the corner. She’s alone too. In her hand is a smoky scotch on the rocks. In the other rests a fine cuban cigarillo. Her mouth curls in a quiet smile as she observes this crazy world.

You know which one I’d like to be . . .

Gotta match?

by Pari

Pardon me. I know I should be above this. I’m a multi-published novelist, after all. You’d think I’d be past the pre-book-launch jitters, past the butterflies in the stomach worries that no one will show, beyond the sheer joy of that first big event in a book’s entry into the world.

Well, sorry, folks . . . I’m not.

Last Saturday, Jan. 26, will survive in my memory until it’s wiped out by dementia or death.

I knew the Borders store where I planned to have the launch was going to go the extra mile to make it special; there were going to be the gift-card drawings, the book giveaways, the grand prize. But I had no idea just how much farther the store had decided to go. Still, I spent sleepless nights worrying that only a handful of friends might show up. After all, this is book #3, not the first. I’m no longer a "novelty,’ no longer fresh in the way that J.T. is this year.

On top of that, the publicist at UNM Press had her baby earlier this month. In years past, she’d worked tirelessly to make sure the media was absolutely on top of my launches. The woman who is filling her shoes is very good, but doesn’t have the same super buy-in. And then there was the super-long, super-ambivalent review in the local paper. Most of my readers thought it was just fine. I sure didn’t.

So, I approached the signing with some trepidation. Would Borders be disappointed? Would their–and my — pr work be for naught?

I arrived at the store, carrying a tub of Atomic Fireball candies (WARNING: these things are HOT!), thirty minutes before show time. The first thing I saw when I approached the information desk was   

Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?

Then I was whisked back into an office — away from hubbub — to sample this

Yes, that’s right. The Borders had invented a drink, "The Socorro Blast," for the event. It was a mocha delight with — as you can see — a huge pile of canned whipped cream, drizzled chocolate AND "red hots." It tasted great.

I chatted with the store’s GM for a few minutes while the Sales Manager went out to finalize arrangements. She came back and said, "Pari, it’s packed out there. And, I’ve got to tell you . . . the energy is just wonderful. It’s so positive, joyful."

I felt my shoulders relax a little. This wasn’t going to be a disappointment for the store or for me. Thank goodness.

Then it was time to be escorted out. When we entered the rotunda area, the audience burst into applause. There were people there from every single aspect of my life — from family-friends who knew my mom before I was born to supporters from the Do Jang, from my children’s former teachers to fans who’d driven more than an hour to get to ABQ — and the love in that room almost made me cry. (I love this picture of a small part of the group because everyone is smiling. Imagine 25 solid minutes of that kind of warmth.)

I told the audience that book launches, and signings where the authors speak, are special. They’re like live concerts. What’s said is unique, once-in-a-lifetime. For that reason, I decided to tell them WHY I wrote this particular book, why I focused on intolerance and used humor to make some of my points, how I hoped the book would have a good and strong life.

The long line after the event, the wonderful sales, the hugs and joyous wishes — all are kind of a blur right now. But I’m happy. I think my newest book has had a beautiful entry into the world.

And, you know what? In spite of those uncomfortable nights, in spite of the anxiety, I pray I never lose the excitement and wonder of it all . . .

So, everyone . . . Tell me about your favorite, most moving book event.

___________________________________________________________________________

Tomorrow is the paperback launch of Patry Francis’s THE LIAR’S DIARY. Francis has a particularly aggressive form of cancer and won’t be able to do the kind of promotion I mention in today’s blog. Please, buy her book. Tell your friends. Let’s support ALL the writers we can — whether they’re able to have public appearances or not.

by Pari

The other night, I told one of my daughters, "It doesn’t matter what you look like. It’s what’s inside that counts."

The next day I went to get my hair cut and eyebrows waxed.
Yeah, I know.

I’ve been in a dither about gray splicing my once-brown mane. I weigh too much. My clothes don’t fit right.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Welcome to the pre-booktour jitters. Those who know me, know these superficial concerns are waayy out of character. But, then it hit me, in public, I play a character. It’s the together writer. (Hah!) Gone is the soccer mom in sweats, the occasional misanthrope, the woman who worries about whether the shephard’s pie she made will be loved by her family. In her place is a well-coiffed, cleaned up gal who is witty and fun.

Playing this character made me think about the ones I write (thanks to Brett for his great post last Thurs.). And, in the weird way my mind works, I turned to superficialities. How important are looks to those we create in our novels/short stories?

Of course we need to be able to visualize our characters. Readers need that, too. Bulbous or cheerleader noses, breasts the size of champagne glasses (thanks, Arthur Koestler) or crenshaw melons, eyes the color of wet sand or pristine sky — all of these give us clues about the person. 

And, well, clothes are important — up to a point. If a woman picks horsehair over silk for her slacks, that tells us something.

But it’s about two steps beyond those necessary descriptions where I get hung up. There’s this vapidity about fashion that I just don’t understand. Brands become code words for entire character traits. Vera Wang, Calvin Klein, Kanye West. Paris Hilton? Paula Abdul? Huh?

The problem is, I haven’t got any idea what the code means. I also don’t feel compelled to get the education.  Is this writing that deserves our effort or is it simply lazy?

From my POV: If a woman carries a purse, I could care less whether it’s a Coach or Andrino. What I want to know, what really matters, is if it’s big enough to conceal the murder weapon.

So, my questions today center on fluff and frippery as they are translated into crime fiction.

When do clothes matter? (Do you have an example?)
When do brands matter? (Do you have an example?)
Have you read any great books or passages where these kinds of fashion concerns are done just right?

by Pari

You’d think a traditional mystery writer would know how to keep her nose clean. And yet every book I write contains elements that someone, somewhere, finds objectionable.

Usually, I can anticipate the problem spots. In CLOVIS, I figured it would be the UFO theme, and, yes, the talking cat. "Is this a mystery or science fiction?" people wanted to know. "Is this another cutesy kitty book? " "Do you believe in UFOs?"

In BELEN, I knew I’d catch some flack about the religiosity vs spirituality theme. And guess what? The worst review I got for that book came from the Salt Lake City Tribune. Coincidence? I’m just sayin’ . . .

With THE SOCORRO BLAST, I thought people would object to the idea that our current national paranoia squirts out, in unbecoming ways, even in small towns. 

But . . .

An early ARC reader identified another potential problem. She wrote, "You realize, of course, the trouble you’re going to get into with the bulk of the organized Jewish community over this novel!"

Um, no, I hadn’t.

She went on with: "This is the first that I’ve seen a Jewish character telling it like it is, and ‘they’ are going to have a big fit! . . . expect the usual comments: anti-Israel, anti-Semitic, self-hating Jew, etc. etc. . . ."

I was stunned.

Sure, Sasha has major issues with her cultural and religious identity. She’s absolutely merciless in her reaction to one of her nieces, so much so that the woman can seem like a caricature. And, it’s true that Sasha and her mother have a very difficult time respecting that her sister has embraced a much more conservative form of Judaism.

That’s the point of the book!
EVERYONE has prejudices and intolerances.
It’s also a fact that we’re often hardest on those nearest to us, those we’ve known the longest. All this emotional baggage we carry becomes magnified during family crises.

On the surface, SOCORRO is a traditional, amateur sleuth mystery.
It’s a fun and interesting read.
Many people will leave it just at that.

But the truth is, I want it to be more . . .
I want it to make readers think about our personal and societal biases/fears in this post-9/11 era. I hope SOCORRO has more depth, more potential for discussion, than my first two. So, I asked UNM Press to include reader questions at the back of the novel.

I’ve even gone one step further. My sister (who holds a PhD in education) and I developed a webquest project for college students and book clubs to explore these issues in depth. While the project is in its infancy, I planned it as a supplement to the book from the get-go.

You can probably imagine my first reaction to the warning from that kind mystery reader.
It was sorrow.
I’d missed the mark, gone too far.

Then I thought about what it means to be a writer. I thought about WHY I wrote THIS particular book. I looked at the letter from New Mexico’s First Lady, Barbara Richardson, that she sent along with her blurb. In it, she wrote: "I thought the manner in which you brought in the discussion of such issues as discrimination and racism was very thought-provoking. You make the reader aware of feelings that possibly lie very close to the surface of one’s own emotions."

Wow. Mission accomplished.

Now, I’m clear. I was true to Sasha’s character and her development. I was true to her story.

My questions today are:
1. Why do some fiction writers bother taking risks with subject matter in their works?
2. Do all writers do this on some level?
3. Why not play it safe, try to make everyone happy?
4. Can you think of any examples of writers who’ve taken risks, who’ve spotlighted something a particular group of people would rather not face?

This should be an interesting discussion . . .

P.S.
THE SOCORRO BLAST goes on sale this Wednesday. I can’t tell you how excited I am!