Toni here… I’m finishing up page proofs, so please welcome fantastic writer and guest blogger today, Shane Gericke!

Ideas

By Shane Gericke

 

Ever wonder how us writers come up with ideas?

It’s simple. We don’t sleep.

Well, I don’t, anyway. At least I didn’t Friday.

So grab your coffee, sit back, and relax as I spin this tale
of woe-becomes-redemption. If you yawn a bit, that’s fine. Believe me, I
understand.

I wrote book chapters till one a.m., then went to bed.

Couldn’t sleep.

Two a.m.

Couldn’t sleep.

Three a.m. Four a.m.

Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep.

“^%&%#$$#,” I mumbled. With a “*%^%” for good measure.

Not wanting to stare at the ceiling any more, I swung my
legs over the side of the bed, knees crackling like bacon in an iron skillet.

“What are you doing?” my wife said, stirring.

“I can’t sleep. I think I’ll go to the gym.”

“Now?” She, of
course, works out after work, when the sun is out. “What time is it?”

I peered at the alarm clock, which was not my friend this
night. “Uh, four thirty.”

She touched my arm. “It’s too early. Come back to bed, hon.”

“Can’t.”

“Please?”

“Darling, I wish I could. But I’m wide awake and don’t want
to lay here any more.”

“Maybe if you just lay down and close your eyes …”

Note to singles: when you’re married thirty years, this
counts as hot monkey love.

Separate note to you Murderati Power Readers who are chortling
at me, because you’ve been up since four with work commitments, family, exercise,
and life in general, and you do it every day, and you’ve done that as long as
you can remember: Be gentle with me. The only pitch-black skies I ever see in
the morning are from thunderstorms.

“Nah,” I decided. “I’m gonna go to the gym.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” she pointed out. “Are you
sure it’s open?

“Twenty four hours a day,” I said, with pride of ownership
that certainly wasn’t earned. In all the years I’ve hit the gym—well, in
actuality, a suburban health club with a mauve and black motif and
whiny-white-guy music videos in the locker rooms and signs that say, “No
Grunting” in the same mauve and black– I’d never arrived before dawn. I was
looking forward to it. This was going to be Shaney’s Big Adventure.

OK, so it’s not cave exploration in Borneo or saving
children in Africa. Sue me.

The first thing I noticed when I walked onto my driveway was
the quiet. I live in Naperville, a Chicago suburb of 150,000.
It’s a real city, and when I normally rise and shine, nine-ish, things have
been hopping for hours. But this was … different. No horns. No whooshing cars.
No garbage trucks. Nothing but breeze and streetlamps.

Nice.

I drove as quietly as I could to the health club—er, gym. It’s
twenty degrees out, but I rolled the window down, to better drink in the quiet.
My favorite breakfast haunt wasn’t open. Most of the places I go weren’t open.
The car dealers weren’t out grabbing shoulders and yakkin’ it up. I got to the
gym in record time. No traffic.

Forty souls were inside the well-lit barn, burning shoe
rubber on the treadmills and starting at the overhead TVs as if hypnotized. I
took a look. One showed dead soldiers in Iraq. The one right next to it proclaimed:
“Hepatitis horror!” Then, in smaller type right underneath: “Celebrities at
risk!”

My God, celebrities at risk. I couldn’t stomach that. So I
headed for the weights, smiling at all the treadmill people as I departed. They
didn’t smile back.

Too early for that, too, I guess.

I did my entire weight circuit, then did it again just ’cause
I could. Amazing how much you can get done in those four extra hours. I didn’t even
set off the siren—which they so graciously call the “Lunk Alarm,” as in only a
lunk would grunt and sweat and swear when the weight defeats them. That made me
happy. If I didn’t scare the natives, maybe they’d smile at me next time. I finished
the workout, hit the locker room, headed for the car.

Stopped dead in the still-perfect quiet.

I was in the middle of a big asphalt parking lot. The lot
was scraped clean of the recent heavy snow and ice. It seemed to go on forever,
a sea of blackness and little white stripes. The sodium vapor lights—think
“maximum security prison”—lit the asphalt into a million tiny diamonds.

No, wait, not diamonds. Something smaller. Finer. More
majestic.

Fairy dust.

I was mesmerized. I had no idea asphalt glittered like a
treasure chest, not from what was on top of it, but what was in it. Did you? It was like Tinkerbell backed
up the endloader and spread the fairy dust by the ton. It reminded me of the
stars in the sky, but reversed, like a photo negative, in the days when there
were photo negatives.

I finally got too cold and started the car.

On the way home, my favorite restaurant was open. Traffic
was getting heavy. The honking had started. The trucks were hissing. The noise
was back.

I came home, kissed my wife, went back to sleep.

Well, almost. This is where the “how writers get their ideas”
part comes in.

I’d just about hit dreamland when my eyes sprung open. The “aha”
moment had arrived, and I needed to write it before it disappeared. I rolled
out of bed, knees cracking like strings of little firecrackers, and hustled to
the keyboard. Started pounding the keys, the idea mushrooming with each heavy
hit.

I’m writing the third book in my Emily Thompson crime
thriller series. Emily is a police detective here in Naperville. She’s smart, pretty, tenacious,
passionate, and adores her friends. She fights crooks with gusto, has fended
off not one but two serial killers, has fallen deeply in love with the first
man to attract her since her husband was murdered, and at age forty three, is
rediscovering how much joy there in life.

For the past couple days, I’ve needed to get Emily from A to
B: from her house to the home of her best friend, Annie Bates, a Naperville
Police commander. The visit kicks off a fireball of excitement and drams, but I
just couldn’t think of how to get Emily there in the first place. She drives a
maroon Accord. I suppose I could have her drive there. Maybe take a squad car,
jazz things up a bit. But cars are, ultimately, boring. This is a thriller, and
thus supposed to thrill. What to do, what to do? How do I make mere transportation
a song about the characters? It was
driving me nuts.

Till now.

The sparkly asphalt.

Emily would walk. Miles and miles, alone with her thoughts.
Passing house after darkened house at four thirty in the morning, wondering
about the people inside. Did they have children? Were they happy? Are they
criminals or honest johns? Did their house burn to the ground like hers did, at
the hands of a madman? She shortcuts through a car dealership, looking at models
here and there, free of the hassle of salespeople. She strolls across an
oak-filled park, crunching grass. And when she’s halfway across the supermarket
parking lot that separates Annie’s subdivision from the rest of Naperville…

She stops in her tracks, astonished at the millions of twinkly
winks from the inky sea. She’d never noticed them before, because when you’re a
cop, midnight patrol is just as busy as daytime. But because she couldn’t
sleep, because she got herself out of bed, because she went for that long, long
walk with just her and her thoughts, she discovers a wondrous something that
she’ll never forget.

A wondrous something that later saves her life.

Remind me to thank Mr. Sandman for not coming around last
night. I know Emily will.

So tell us… where’d one of your unusual ideas come from? What sparked that creative moment for you?

 

– – –

 

 

National
bestselling author Shane Gericke spent 25 years as a journalist, most
prominently at the Chicago Sun-Times, before plunging into crime thrillers.
His first, BLOWN AWAY, appears in five languages and was named Romantic Times magazine’s debut mystery of
the year. His current, CUT TO THE BONE, also from Kensington Books, continues
the escapades of hard-charging police detective Emily Thompson, and he’s
hard at work on Number Three. Shane also writes for a variety of national
magazines, is a founding member of International Thriller Writers Inc., and is chairman of AgentFest and the charity auctions at ThrillerFest 2008 in New York City. Visit him at www.shanegericke.com

 

“Shane Gericke is the
real deal, and Cut to the Bone is an
A-grade thriller.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

 

“A frightening thrill ride, with beautifully drawn characters, sharply
observed detail, and exceptional writing. This is a damn fine book.”
—New York Times bestselling author
Douglas Preston

 

“Cut to the Bone is one of those scary rides through criminality
that can melt away a fifteen-hour flight. The scenarios (trust me on this) will
haunt you for weeks.” John J. Nance—New York Times bestselling author  John J Nance

“Shane Gericke writes with the clear eye
of hard-nosed reporter and the sweet
soul of an artist. His power is visceral and unforgettable.”
—New York Times bestselling author
Gayle Lynds

Shane Gericke“Cross James Patterson with Joseph
Wambaugh, and you get Shane Gericke.”

—Roy Huntington, American Cop
magazine

 

 

 

 

Hi, Murderati readers,

Many of the ‘Rati crew are on the road today.

Please check back tomorrow — Sunday — for a new post.

Thanks,

Pari

Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash is one of my all-time favorite books.  Published during the infancy of the Internet, this cyber-punk epic follows the adventures of Hiro Protagonist, a pizza delivery guy for the Cosa Nostra who also happens to be the greatest sword fighter on earth.  When a deadly computer virus threatens the virtual reality world known as the metaverse, Hiro is called to duty.  The result is a sci-fi thriller full of action, mystery, and razor sharp satire.  Snow Crash is hip, funny, and a whole lot of fun.  It’s also about 440 pages long. 

Stephenson’s most recent offering, The System of the World: the Baroque Cycle, Vol. 3 is 928 pages.  I will NEVER read The System of the World. 

And I doubt I’ll read Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, which sits on my shelf taunting me.  It’s 1168 pages long.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not Stephenson who I’m avoiding–he’s an incredibly bright guy and a fine storyteller.  It’s all those damn pages.

My resistance to bulky books was once a source of secret shame.  I felt people would judge me for it, telling me that I had a short attention span, calling me a victim of MTV.  After all, thick books are signs of intelligence, right?  They say to the public, "I’d rather be reading than anything else in the world."

Since that time, I’ve come to my senses, weighed my options, and did the math.  Sure I could read Cryptonomicon (1168 pages remember).  But instead, in that same amount of time, I could also read…

James Sallis’ Drive (only 158 pages)

Duane Swierczynski’s The Blonde (226 pages)

Ken Bruen’s Magdalen Martyrs (a quick 274 pages)

Victor Gischler’s Gun Monkeys (284 pages)

Max Phillips’ Fade to Blonde (220 pages)

I know what you’re thinking.  And you’re right, it is a damn analytical way to look at the joy of reading.  After all, books shouldn’t be about numbers.  Books should be about the experience, about losing yourself in the pages, not about math.  But as a writer, how do I trade the chance to hear five distinct voices, to delve into five unique styles, for only one? 

Of course, in the end it’s a matter of personal preference.  And I admit that some stories simply call for thick books.  In his last post, Mr. Guyot mentioned Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove (960 pages).  I’ve not read L.D. (that’s what the kids call it today, much like the O.C.), but I did read the shorter Streets of Laredo, which was a hefty 560 pages but read like it was 300.  It was a big story with tons of characters, and it warranted a big book.  So McMurty gets a pass.  That’s right; MacLean is giving a pass to one of America’s greatest writers.  I’m sure he’ll sleep easy now.

But I wonder if many of the big books out there deserve the same weight.  How many of these six, seven, eight hundred page bibles could’ve run a bit leaner, and been better for it?  And why is it some blockbuster novelists start out lean early in their careers and get thicker and thicker as they make bigger names for themselves?  Do they have more editorial control and push editors off to the side? 

But wait, there’s more….

Do readers feel they get more for their money when they purchase a thick book?  If that’s the case, do publishers push for more pages from their novelists?

Inquiring newbies want to know.

Personally, I’ve never read a book over 400 pages and said, "I wish it was just ten chapters longer."  My favorite novels were the ones I didn’t want to end, the ones that satisfied me but didn’t leave me bloated.

by Rob Gregory Browne

As I write this, the Killer Year anthology has just come out.

What started in the summer of 2006, just a few months after I got my first publishing deal, has now blossomed into something I’m truly proud of — and I know my fellow Murderati/Killer Year bloggers, Brett, JT and Toni are just as proud as I am. (And let’s not forget that Ken’s in there, too.)

And since I’m less than a week away from my deadline for book three and sweating bullets over it, I’m going to take the lazy route today and offer up my final post from the Killer Year blog. 

It went something like this:

What can I say about Killer Year that
hasn’t already been said? Not much, I suppose. This past year has gone
by in a blur of emails and conferences and late nights getting drunk
and reveling in the knowledge that we all finally made it, finally
fulfilled the dream we’d been nurturing for years.

I don’t really remember how I became
involved with Killer Year. I think one of the founders sent me an
email, asking if I was interested in joining them in a little
experiment in promotion — and I said “yes” without hesitation.

Despite that yes, however, I was a
little skeptical about what our little group could accomplish. After
all, who really gave a damn about a bunch of first-time authors?

But then I met JT and Brett and Jason
and Toni and Marcus and god knows who else at Thrillerfest in Arizona
and I knew I was in good company. Knew that these were high caliber,
enthusiastic people who were determined to make the world notice us.

JT brought customized Killer Year
t-shirts — one I still wear to this day (I’m wearing it right now, as a
matter of fact) — and Brett brought hats. Or maybe it was the other way
around.

Whatever the case, the next thing you
know, Barry Eisler and Joe Konrath were wearing them and helping spread
the word about us, and a short time later I was sitting with the crew
and MJ Rose, being told that ITW was interested in giving us a helping
hand.

From that point on, Killer Year became something of a phenomenon.

I knew we had arrived when I was down in
San Diego teaching a writing workshop, and one of the participants came
up to me out of the blue and said, “You’re one of those Killer Year
people, right?”

When the idea that we pitch an anthology
was raised, I have to admit I didn’t think we had much chance of
getting one published. But one thing I’ve learned about JT Ellison is
that she’s not only a great talent, but a very determined woman, and
she worked tirelessly in prepping the proposal. I sent her a story that
was added to the packet and when the email came saying we’d made a deal
with St. Martin’s, I was pretty much flabbergasted.

The final result is getting spectacular
reviews. And as I hold it in my hand, I can’t help but think that it’s
truly a representation of what we are as a group. The variety of
writing styles. The diversity of subject matter. The authors who
supported us and helped turn Killer Year into that phenomenon. It’s all
there in one package. A testament to what a handful of people can
accomplish if they try hard enough.

But what it represents to me most of all
is friendship. This last year has created a bond between us that I
don’t think will ever be broken. The kind of bond that few writers ever
have the chance to experience.

Because writing is, after all, a lonely profession.   An old cliche, yes, but an accurate one for the most part.

And Killer Year has managed to shatter that cliche. Many times over.

 

——–

For those of you in the Los Angeles area, Brett Battles, Marc Lecard and I will be signing copies of KILLER YEAR:  Stories to Die For at 5:30 pm this Saturday, January 26th, at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood.

Hope to see you there.

——-

Me, again.  If you made it this far down on the post, I’d be curious to know if you’ve had any of those frantic a-week-away-from-deadline-and-still-a-hundred-pages-to-go moments like I’m having right now.   How close have YOU come to missing your deadline?

rgb

MAJOR CONGRATULATIONS to our very own Ken Bruen for his Edgar Nomination!!!!

PRIEST was shortlisted for Best Novel. HUZZAH!!!!!

We’re pulling for you, Ken!!! Good luck May 1st!!!!!

XO,
Murderati

by Pari Noskin Taichert

It’s happened.

I’m in marketing mode.

My ARCs arrived at the publisher late last week. They’re gorgeous.

While I love the University of New Mexico Press, and consider it "exclusive" rather than "small," the reality is that my publisher doesn’t have the reach that some of its NYC counterparts do. As a result, I’ve had to do some things on my own; I’ve had to be inventive. I don’t mind at all. A lot of the work is downright fun.

I know many writers who like to keep their marketing ideas close to their chests and I can understand why. Though we work to help each other at times, it’s easy to believe we’re competitors when it comes to readers.

I don’t buy that. I think the more we share ideas, the more we’ll encourage reading and nourish crime fiction as a whole.

(I’ll step off of my soapbox now.)

Here are two tips I’ve found particularly useful:

Tip #1
Buy more ARCs than your publisher allots for media contacts.

My personal stash goes to bookstores and online reviewers, to fans and people who might be able to get the word out about my books.

Tip #2
Participate in the American Booksellers Association’s Book Sense Advance Access Program

For $100, an author sends a 50-word (or so) book description to the ABA. The Association, in turn, sends out an email to its 1200+ participating members across the country. Booksellers then contact the author directly for ARCs.

There’s a formula for the description, but you have some latitude. The first line is standard. It’s the descriptive part that is both challenging and entertaining to try to put together.

For an example, here’s what I put in for the mailing last week:

THE SOCORRO BLAST by Pari Noskin Taichert (University of New Mexico Press 978-0-8263-4384-0 HC $24.95 January 2008) Two-time Agatha Award finalist, Book Sense76 pick (2/2004), Book Sense Notable Mystery (10/2005), " . . . she’s a first class writer . . . " Tony Hillerman  ". . . New Mexico is conveyed with a poetic eye that is truly evocative. The dynamic or dysfunction of families is captured brilliantly." Ken Bruen

That’s it. I got more than 20 requests. The last two times I did this, my books were well received and short descriptions ended up in newsletter print mailings to the ABA membership. Those newsletters were for customers.

Pretty cool, huh?

CONTEST:
Put your best marketing tip in the comments section before midnight tomorrow. I’ll read them all and select the top 10. I’ll put those names in a hat and will draw for at least one ARC of THE SOCORRO BLAST.

The tips can be from authors, booksellers or people who just plain know about sales. My hope is that we’ll all learn from each other.

Let the games begin . . .

by Robert Gregory Browne

I don’t have any ghost stories.

Not the traditional kind, at least.  There are no spirits lurking in the dark corners of my house, no monsters in the closet or under the bed.  I lead what can generously be called a pretty humdrum life, a slave to the routines and rituals I’ve practiced for many years.

But I do have ghosts.  Not the supernatural kind, mind you, but those all too real ghosts that haunt most of us from time to time.  I’m often plagued by memories of people and incidents in my past, those sometimes tragic, sometimes embarrassing moments that I just can’t seem to let go of.

One of the memories that haunts me is my own insensitivity as a fifth grader, when I callously ripped up another student’s artwork after deeming it not good enough to be used in the school play.  I’m not sure who that little bastard was, but it’s hard to believe he was me — and he certainly haunts me all these years later.

Another is the fumbling teenager who, in an equally insensitive moment, called up an ex-girlfriend (whose heart I had just broken) to ask her if her best friend had ever expressed any interest in me.  The term asshole applies quite nicely to that particular memory.

These are the kinds of human failures that, while seemingly insignificant in the scheme of things, grab hold of us and never let go.  That remind us of what we’re capable of.

Then there are the tragedies.  Seeing my father lying naked in the ICU at his local hospital, machinery beeping around him as he struggled to stay alive.   Running down to the parking lot to move the car, only to return and find him dead, looking like a wax doll, unmoving, unseeing, his body nothing more than an empty shell.  Kissing him on the forehead and saying goodbye.

Or the young man who, at nineteen years old, had a promising life ahead of him, only to succumb to jaw cancer less than two years later.  Seeing him on the last night of his life, looking very much like an old, old man, barely able to get comfortable in the Lazy Boy his parents had set up for him in front of the TV in their den.  And later, watching his body carried away on a stretcher by two very somber paramedics.

These are just some of the ghosts that haunt me.  Define me.  The ones that, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to shake.

And maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe I need these reminders from time to time to keep me grounded, to help me to remember to be kind to my fellow inhabitants of this planet, to cherish family and friends, to appreciate what I have while I still have it.

Yes, I know this is a pretty depressing post on what should be a fun day, but these damn ghosts just don’t want to leave me alone.

So I have to ask:  what memories haunt you?

by Pari Noskin Taichert

There’s an envelope in my bedroom with a gift certificate to a local day spa. It sits on a table, semi obscured by unfolded laundry and skittery mounds of mismatched books, waiting. Dust films its creamy beige exterior.

When my husband bought it for me last Feburary, I thought I’d use it right away. Instead, I kept it, wanting to accord it even more value than the glorious realization that he’d finally gifted me with a true indulgence (this, after 14 years of hiking boots for Valentine’s Day and bags of flour when I complained that he never bought me flowers. Yeah, he’s a real joker . . . ).

This week, I’m going to call that spa and make an appointment.
I’m going to drink a shot or two from that bottle of O’ban in the cabinet.
I’m going to buy a dark chocolate bar — one of those 70%ers — to nibble along with it.

You see, I want to celebrate. I’ve now written well past page 200 in the draft of the first book in my new series. And, Friday, I handed in the final page proofs for THE SOCORRO BLAST. After two years, that book is out of my hair and on its way to publication. The next time I’ll see it is when it’s in ARC form. A couple months after that, it’ll be in hardcover. Hallelujah!

There’s even better news. Whatever stasis seemed to be gripping my life has begun to recede. The Muse and I have been hanging out, lifting weights at the gym, going for Vietnamese food at the little restaurant near my house. I’m feeling happy, like I’m accomplishing things again.

I’m ready to play.

Marking victories, small and big, is tremendously important in a life. The mere act of stopping to say, "Yes. I did this!" keeps things in perspective and grants a different experience of the day-in, day-out frenzy of existence. Taking the time to pat our successes on the back keeps the demons at bay.

Along with this active pausing, sometime in my late 30s, I began to practice gratitude and joy. These two emotions take work; they weren’t found in abundance in my childhood home. So, I started looking for minor blessings and tiny beauties.

Just the simple acknowledgment, every day, that my life is damn good . . . makes it even better.

So my question is:
How do you reward yourself for goals met, for kindnesses extended, for stretching yourself into a better person?

by Robert Gregory Browne