Murderati

Hero Worship

by J.T. Ellison

I've mentioned this story before, and I'm sure it won't be the last time I talk about it, but I had another one of those "MOMENTS" this week, and thought we could talk about what it means to have a hero.

My reemergence into the world of fiction was something of an accident, one that began with picking up a Labrador retriever and blowing out my back.

The subsequent year of post-surgery recovery meant long hours of sheer boredom, lots of hard work, and a new love affair with the written word. I've always been a reader. I tried my hand at writing in school and was discouraged, or lazy, or maybe a bit of both. Writing, you see, is actually hard work. I think I took the easy way out when I listened to my stupid professor. She was right in one way -- not that I'd never be published, but that I wasn't ready to be a professional writer. Not then. Going off to grad school in a different discipline gave me a wonderful perspective on the world, and a husband, for which I am eternally grateful.

But I always felt something was missing, that I wasn't in the right place. I had glamorous jobs, rubbing elbows with the people who were changing the world, and none of them were at all satisfying. Nothing fit. Granted, I was too much of an idealist to succeed in politics, but I was drifting. When we moved to Tennessee and I couldn't land a job right away, then my back blew, there was a sneaking sense of relief. I could start over. Reinvent, in a new town, with new friends, and exorcise all my old, lingering dissatisfactions with my world.

I can safely say that despite the pain and suffering (I couldn't bend at the waist for 6 months) I don't regret that surgery in the slightest (or the damn dog I picked up that caused the rupture), because if that hadn't happened, I wouldn't be on the path I am today. Surgery meant downtime, which meant reading. I'd always felt vaguely guilty before -- reading was my first love, but if I wasn't "doing" something . . . Now, I had no choice but to lay in the bed and read. Crime fiction was my go to, and I devoured everything I could get my hands on -- and what the library had to offer.

And I found John Sandford.

And with his books, I had a resurgence of my desire to write. And more than that, he gave me the courage to shoot for a completely new career in my early thirties.

I decided to try again. I had a character -- a female Lucas Davenport of sorts, and I gave it a whirl. It didn't work so well, so I sat down with MIND PREY and literally took it apart -- deconstructed the first six chapters or so and saw some light at the end of the tunnel. So not only did this man inspire me, he TAUGHT me too, and that's no small thing.

And I became a writer. It really was that simple, or that hard, however you'd like to look at it. Inspiration, hard work, add water and voila -- a career is born. I think it's seems easy in retrospect. This actually was my MO -- throw myself into something wholeheartedly, research and learn and try. But before, I always, always lost interest. With writing, I find myself a ridiculous workaholic, putting in stupid hours because I love what I do. It's huge, finding what you're meant to be. Some people find it through their children. Some find it through philanthropic ventures. And some of us find it in writing.

My MOMENT? I met John Sandford this week. And yes, the hallelujah chorus sang a verse.

Sandford was charming, and vulnerable, and such a consummate professional that I again felt that overwhelming "Why do I do anything on the computer but write?" feeling. To top off his talk, I actually met him, shook his hand, told him he was my inspiration, (and made a little joke -- I didn't know whether to thank him or not, considering I'm doing two books a year...)  and thankfully he'd actually been prepped and knew who I was. He even gave me a compliment, which made me float. I went home trembling. I don't get fired up like that very often, but I was literally vibrating with excitement at meeting him and finding him to be such an incredibly nice guy.

I've had two weeks of this nirvana. I was in New York for a bit of Edgar fun. I saw my dear Lee Child, met my new crush Arthur Phillips, had a lovely conversation with Michael Chabon, and spent good twenty minutes talking with Nelson Demille and his lovely wife. I mean, come on, already. This is ridiculous dream stuff, isn't it? I've now met all of my major literary heroes save one, and she (Karin Slaughter) is coming to Nashville in a few months. I've had the opportunity to talk with my favorite authors, interact, express my appreciation for their work, even meet their editors, the men and women behind the men and women. I've had the opportunity to see good friends again at these events, make new ones, and in general, reaffirm my path. Heady stuff, I tell you.

But I felt truly blessed to tell the man who is the reason I'm here today that he had a profound influence on me. It was one of the coolest moments I've had thus far, in a long line of exceptionally cool moments.

Here's the thing. You don't have to be a writer to meet your literary heroes. As readers, we can meet them. We can write to them (see Pari's excellent column on that here.) We can interact in a whole new way because of the websites and message boards. I know I'm not the only one who gets excited about meeting authors. I'd love to see more people participate in our community.

We've had a record week at Murderati, full of highs and lows, from Toni's wonderful post on Mother's Day to our sad news about Ken's departure, from Zoe's word play to Rob's poignant tribute to his dad.  You, the reader, have made this worthwhile for all of us.

So... today's question, which shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Who is your literary hero? And did you ever have a chance to meet him or her?

With a big hat tip to Dan Hale for today's column -- Dan and I were talking about meeting heroes, and he introduced me to one of mine in New York... so thanks, Dan!

Wine of the Week: 2006 Finca Vieja Tempranillio -- La Mancha, Spain. Plummy, easy-going and very young.

P.S. I'm leading a reading group discussion about ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS at Shelfari's Suspense and Thriller group. Please come by and join in the fun - these reader opinions fascinate me!

What’s My Name Again?

by Zoë Sharp

I’ve just written that title down and realised that actually it would be a good one to do about pseudonyms, which wasn’t actually my intention. After all, a writer’s name is vital. It is who we are. And speaking as one who often gets both parts of my name misspelt - an extraneous ‘e’ tacked onto the end of Sharp and pick where you like for people to put the dieresis. I’ve even had those who hover one dot over the ‘o’ and the other over the ‘e’, just to hedge their bets.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I going with this again? Ah, yes, I know - memory! That was it! I remember now ...

I’m the first to admit that I have a dreadful memory. Faces? No problem. I even recognised an old colleague from a local paper we briefly worked for in northern England twenty years ago, who I spotted sitting on a bench at a theme park in Florida, so not quite in context then. But names? Hopeless. I regularly go upstairs and forget what it is I went for. And shopping without a list is a nightmare.

So, I was intrigued to be recently reading Tricks of the Mind by Derren Brown and come across the section on dramatically improving your memory. Derren Brown, for those of you who are not aware of him, is part illusionist, part psychologist, and all showman. The Guardian newspaper described him as, "Clearly the best dinner-party guest in history - he’s either a balls-out con artist or the scariest man in Britain." His various TV series over here have dumbfounded and entertained in equal measure, and while the knowing style of his book has taken a bit of getting used to, the information contained in it is just fascinating.

And why is this relevant here? Because, if I understand him correctly and extrapolate accordingly, fiction writers should have the best memories ever. Elephants should be as fickle goldfish compared to us lot.

Why? Because we exercise our imaginations on a regular basis.

Ye-es, it foxed me to begin with, but stick with me on this one, OK? And do give this a whirl. I tried the example in the book and was amazed that it worked flawlessly.

You see, Brown claims that most people, given a list of twenty disparate, unconnected words, can recall about seven with any degree of accuracy. He gave such a list and suggested that you read it through, and then try and jot down as many as you can recall, in the same order. I took the liberty of substituting my own words. Or, rather, so I wasn’t subconsciously picking words that I might find easy to remember, I asked someone else to do provide the list for me. And here they are:

bicycle

cabriolet

fridge

rollercoaster

muckspreader

pincushion

blotter

hemlock

Shakespeare

thingamabob

nonagenarian

Rolex

Skyline

filter

cauliflower

grandfather

cuckoo

tortoise

carpet

blitzkrieg

So, having read through them, look away from the screen and try and write them down, in the same order they’re listed here. How did you do? If you got past seven, you’re Marvo the Memory Man and you don’t need to read any further. Put it aside for a bit, and then try again, without re-reading the list, but in reverse order this time. Ah, now that’s a stumper, isn’t it?

How it's done, according to Brown’s method, is create a link from one word to the next by producing an image that connects the words. A vivid image, with smells and emotions attached to it. If the image is of something that stinks, sniff it. If it’s funny, find it so.

The elements need to interact in some way, and each little scene needs to be odd enough to be memorable. Some people, apparently, don’t like visualisation and claim not to be very good at it, but we’re writers, for heaven’s sake. We spend our days making stuff up - that’s what we do.

So, here’s my own list of connections between the above words:

bicycle/cabriolet

A group of Edwardians in striped blazers and straw boater hats, riding along on their bicycles, very slow and stately, but in case of rain they all have cabriolet tops they can raise over their heads, with big curved hinges on the sides like an old-fashioned pram, and tassels along the front.

cabriolet/fridge

A nice little VW Cabriolet, gleaming in white, all colour-coded, and when you climb inside it’s still white like you’re sitting in your fridge, with wire racks and dairy products on the shelves and a light that comes on when you open the door. There’s a big bottle of milk strapped to the passenger seat. The air con keeps it frosty cold.

fridge/rollercoaster

You open the door of your fridge and a rollercoaster track unfurls out of the salad drawer, complete with screaming passengers, and goes careering round the kitchen, making it impossible to sneak down for a midnight snack without waking the entire street.

rollercoaster/muckspreader

The farmer next to the amusement park hates the people who ride the rollercoaster making all that racket, so he always drives his muckspreader along the hedge next to the bottom of the first drop, and sprays them all with cow manure as they hurtle past. Particularly nasty if you’ve got your mouth open as you go.

muckspreader/pincushion

Someone’s come up with a new way of recycling cow manure, which instead of being scattered is reformed inside the muckspreader into neat round pincushions, the size of pillows, which it deposits in a neat orderly row as the farmer drives his tractor through the local ladies’ sewing circle.

pincushion/blotter

The only trouble with the cowpat pincushions is when you stick a pin in them they let out a great cloud of stinking vapour and leak a nasty greeny fluid all over the place, which you have to soak up by putting a blotter under the pincushion wherever you go.

blotter/hemlock

An ingenious murderess decides to soak the blotter on her husband’s desk in hemlock, so he will be gradually poisoned as the hemlock leaches out and into his hands whenever he works late into the night.

hemlock/Shakespeare

The entire cast of a Shakespeare play toast each other with hemlock-laced glasses of wine, thus dying tragically at the end of the first act, not realising that the leading man is a method actor who has genuinely dosed them all with real poison.

Shakespeare/thingamabob

Will Shakespeare finds himself momentarily lost for words and invents a new one - thingamabob - which instantly becomes all the rage in Elizabethan England. Queen Elizabeth I instantly demands he produce one, by royal command, and he has to cobble something together or lose his head.

thingamabob/nonagenarian

Nonagenarian little old ladies can be easily identified by the fact that they’re each followed about by a thingamabob, which is a little bouncy squeaky thing, like a cross between a space hopper and a tribble, which won’t leave them alone. There they all are in the park, swatting at these troublesome thingamabobs with their umbrellas.

nonagenarian/Rolex

When anybody reaches the ripe old age of 90, their nonagenarian status is celebrated by awarding them a Rolex watch. The only trouble is, it’s a big garish one, plastered with diamonds, and the streets are filled with old folk dressed up in flashy watches and gold chains like gangster rappers.

Rolex/Skyline

All Nissan Skyline sports cars comes with a Rolex attached to the front of the bonnet so the driver can time themselves as they lap the Nürburgring in Germany. It’s also used as a means of handicapping the faster ones. The quicker you drive, the bigger watch you have to have, thus not only increasing drag, but also preventing the driver from seeing where they’re going, and slowing them down. At least they know exactly what time they crashed.

Skyline/filter

As a party trick, someone drives their Skyline around the inside of their filter coffee machine, like a fairground wall of death. Round and round they go, until they’re almost vertical up the sides, kicking up great rooster tails of coffee grounds and leaving tyre tracks in the paper filter.

filter/cauliflower

After heavy rain sluices cauliflowers into the drains, you have to insert big filters to stop them clogging everything up, otherwise they create the most awful stench of rotting vegetation.

cauliflower/grandfather

When your grandfather gets on a bit and loses his teeth, the only thing he can eat is mulched up very well-pureed cauliflower, which you have to cook for him in giant vats until it goes grey, and then put through a blender, at which point he packs it into his cheeks like a hamster. Grandfathers only have to be fed once a week using this method.

grandfather/cuckoo

Grandfathers are not acquired in the usual way, but introduced into the family nest like cuckoos, in the hopes that they’ll be cared for like the other family members. Of course, grandfathers can be bigger and more aggressive than other relatives, and often push them out of the nest using their Zimmer frames.

cuckoo/tortoise

Swiss cuckoo clocks are using tortoises instead of the more traditional birds to call the time. At the top of the hour the doors open and a tortoise emerges, very, very slowly, on the end of a spring. It can take these clocks several days to strike noon and midnight.

tortoise/carpet

To keep your tortoise warm in winter, you cover his shell in carpet, preferably shag pile, so there’s all these tortoises ambling about with multicoloured carpet stuck to their backs.

carpet/blitzkrieg

Brings a whole new meaning to carpet bombing. There’s the archetypal RAF squadron leader with handlebar moustache and flying helmet, piloting his plane through flak-ridden skies over war-torn Europe, waiting for his bombardier to give the word that he can release his load of Axminster and Wilton. Once away, these rolls of carpet plummet through the clouds in a lightning attack on the terrified populace.

I have to say that Derren Brown’s own list - and the explanation of the links between the words - was probably much better and far more amusing than my own. But you get the idea. If anyone can come up with sillier or more vivid connections, please feel free. But let me know how you get on. Because, it's rather nice to know that this fertile imagination we have can be put to other uses, isn’t it?

Oh, and before I forget, this week’s Word of the Week is eidolon, which is an image, a phantom or apparition, a confusing reflection.

Legacy

by Rob Gregory Browne

The last time I saw him, he looked as if he were sleeping.

But then I realized that there was an unnatural stillness there.  No gentle rise and fall of the chest, no sounds but the muffled cacophony of the hospital ICU unit just beyond the closed door.

What struck me was how small my father looked.  He was naked, except for a tiny modesty cloth draped over his midsection.  The tubes and wires that had been attached to him for the last few days had been removed, but he was still surrounded by machinery that dwarfed him.

I kept looking at his shoulders, thinking how long it had been since he had hoisted me onto them with an "Upsy-daisy," telling me to duck as we passed through the doorway into my room, where he'd deposit me onto the bed and tuck me in.  But the shoulders I was looking at weren't really my father's.  This wasn't really my father at all.  He was gone.  Had vacated the premises, leaving behind only this oddly childlike shell, a familiar but soulless vessel that would never again open its eyes and smile at me.

Now, here it is, over thirty years later and three days past Mother's Day, and as much as I love my mother, it's my father I'm thinking about.   Mostly because of what he's missed since the day he died.  What I've missed sharing with him.

My marriage.  My children.  My successes and failures.

Pretty much my entire life.

My father had a gift that I've always envied:  the ability to walk up to anyone, anytime, and start a conversation.  The ability to be instantly charming, never forced, always genuine, with a warmth and humor that made whoever was in his company feel accepted.  He was an unpretentious man, not a deep thinker but always interesting.  He spent the last years of his life -- his late fifties -- struggling with emphysema, unable to cross a room without huffing for breath. 

And thanks to a neglectful doctor, the disease finally took him.

When I was seventeen years old, I wrote my first television script.  I had long wanted to be a novelist, but had somehow gotten it into my head that I should write for TV.  Probably because the scripts were short and full of white space, and dialog came naturally to me.

When I was done with that script -- an episode of Harry-O -- my father read it, loved it and immediately started making phone calls. 

Anyone who has ever tried to break into Hollywood, especially the world of television, knows that it's nearly impossible to get someone to read your screenplay.  Yet two days later, my father had the name and address of one of Harry-O's producers, along with a promise to take a look at what I'd written. Within a few weeks, I got a letter back from the producer telling me that he thought my work had a lot of potential but that I had to be careful not to "overwrite."  Keep it lean.  Shorten the dialog.  Have your characters get to the point as quickly as possible.  And don't try to explain everything.

This was wonderful advice and encouragement that I never would have received if it hadn't been for my father.

A few months later, I finished my one and only attempt at writing an episode of The Rockford Files, and my father once again went to work.  This time, while at the local race track, he ran into one of the Rockford co-stars and convinced him to read it.  Nothing ever came of the gesture, but to this day I marvel at my father's salesmanship.

What I'll always carry with me, however, is how proud of me he was.  I can think of no greater gift a parent can give a child than the gift of pride.

Which is why it's so hard whenever I reach another milestone in my career.  He would have been so proud when I won the Nicholl.  Would have been bursting with it when I made my first deal with Showtime.  Would even have been excited to know I was writing episodes of Spider-Man for Fox Kids. 

And all these years later, working on my fourth book for St. Martin's, my father would be calling everyone he knows just to boast about me.

My father's pride is his legacy.  The part of him that most resonates with me whenever I think of him, even when I have a hard time picturing him beyond the small, still figure on that hospital bed.

I suppose I could have waited until Father's Day to say all of this.  Especially when we're still so close to the day we're supposed to be celebrating mothers.  But my mother is alive and well and has always shared in my successes --  and for that I'm grateful.

But this morning I'm compelled to talk about my dad.  Because, for me, every day is father's day.

And my only hope is that when I'm gone, my children will feel the same.

Funeral Music

By Louise Ure

“That’s it,” I told my husband last night. “That’s what I want you to play at my funeral.”

We were watching The Great Escape for the 161st time, and I finally realized how important that soundtrack was to me. It’s a tune of no consequence, in fact a bit too martial and full of rosy-cheeked optimism, but it makes me happy whenever I hear it. It’s the tune I whistle when I’m alone.

When my mother turned 75 (almost a quarter century ago) I mixed a tape of all the songs I remember her singing around the house –the songs that were the soundtrack to her life. “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” for her courtship with my father. “Blue Bayou” for finding her True Love late in life. “Summertime” because she’d never left the heat of Arizona. “Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother,” for some now inexplicable reason.

What other music would define my life?

I know I’d include the soundtrack to the Perry Mason TV series.

When I moved to France, my mother sent me a Care Package so that I wouldn’t feel so alone: a paperback mystery, a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and a loop audio tape of the Perry Mason theme song. It was my lullaby.

I’d have to include “Looking For Love In All the Wrong Places,” to commemorate my wild years.  And “Brown-Eyed Girl” for the relationship that song reminds me of.

And finally, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s haunting medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “What a Wonderful World.” An anthem to all things important and all things gone.

And now we have another important thing gone.

My Tuesday partner, Ken Bruen, has decided that he can’t be blogging on a regular basis anymore. In truth, I don’t know how he found the time to begin with, with all the writing and goings-on in his life.

I know I speak for all of us in saying how much we’ve looked forward to his posts. I treasure the time and love he’s given us, even though he often made us cry. We will miss him like a lost limb.

We have a wonderful new Tuesday regular in the wings (Pari will tell you more about that later), and a few guest bloggers in the meantime (like next Tuesday's LJ Sellers, author of The Sex Club), but today we say goodbye to a warm and wonderful Murderati friend. Maybe … if we ask very sweetly … he’ll come back from time to time with another tale of angels, or serendipity, or grace.

So, my Rati’ friends, what would your funeral music be?

And if you were to pick a farewell song for Ken, what would that be? I’ll put the whole list together on a CD and send it to him.

LU

Since this month I am a fan

by Pari

"Is it possible to gulp a book? That's what I did . . . "

So began an email to me the other day. It was from a woman in Germany and had arrived at my website amid a flurry of spam.

We writers spend a lot of time worrying about, and looking at, our reviews. The ones that stick with us the most -- at least from what I've observed -- are the negatives, the nasties and disgruntleds.

But what about "fan" mail? Are those notes, the ones that readers take the time to compose and send us, worth less? Sure, they're private. They're not printed in newspapers or posted on Amazon, but why don't we celebrate them more? 

When I get one of these lovelies, it's like a piece of candy that lasts and lasts. I even have a file where I put these gifts. On days when things are bad, when I wonder what the hell I'm doing trying to write, I go to that file and feel vastly better.

I also write fan mail. I've been sending notes since middle school. My first letter was to Leonard Bernstein. He didn't respond and I didn't care. I wanted to thank him for his musical Mass. In the ensuing 35+ years, I've thanked too many authors to count; a couple of movie stars; musicians; a talk show host or two (I sent a huge one to David Letterman for demonstrating such respect for writers during the WGA strike); and a few cartoonists. Some have responded -- Madeleine L'Engle, Lois McMaster Bujold, Lynn Johnston. Some haven't. Who knows if every one of my thank-yous even arrived on the targeted person's desk?

It doesn't matter to me. The important thing is to be grateful and to express that gratitude to the people who've evoked it. Call it increasing the quotient of good vibes in the world.

Back to the mail I've received: Every note, letter and email makes me feel wonderful. More than any positive printed review, these heartfelt and personal communications mean a tremendous amount to me. They're the reason I write for publication rather than keeping my manuscripts to myself.

So today, let's talk fan mail
1. Have you ever written a fan letter? To whom? Why?
2. Have you ever wanted to write one, but didn't know how or where to find the person? (I've wanted to write Alice Hoffman for years. Maybe contacting her publicists would work . . .)
3. Is there someone from history you'd like to thank?
4. Writers: what's the best fan letter you've ever received?

It's Monday. Most people complain of the blahs. Join this conversation today and let's see if we can generate enough great feelings to carry us all through the rest of the week. 

Dear God... (the stick turned blue)

by Toni

Dear God, Universe, or Elves (I am covering all bases, I cannot afford to be picky here):

The stick turned blue. I'm 19. And a half. The stick turned blue. I think my brains just leaked out of my ears because THE STICK TURNED BLUE. It cannot turn blue. I only had sex once. Okay, maybe twice. That's in base 200. Or something. (Shut up, I am an English major, we're not expected to know higher math.)

Is this like... trial-sies? Practice run? Just to see how good my adrenal system works because let me reassure you right now, IT WORKS JUST FINE, though I think my neighbors might need a hearing aid after all the shrieking died down.

Signed,
Seriously, you're kidding, right?

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

This is pregnant? This can't stand to move morning sickness bloated pasty can't fit into anything anymore look like a whale and where the fuck is my GLOWY feeling? What? Were you out of Deep Fried Crazy Hot for the highs this summer and thought you'd just go ahead and substitute Miserable Seventh Level Of Hell like I wouldn't notice?

Signed,

So very not happy with you right now.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

It's a boy. Two-and-a-half weeks overdue. GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT GET HIM OUT.

Signed,

Hate you and your shoes.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

HE CAN STAY IN, I swear, I will shut up, forever, please do not make me have to OHMYGODTHATHURT. If I die and there is a heaven, I am bringing a LEAD BASKETBALL and you'd better not bend over.

Signed,

Never having sex again, ever.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Wow. I just... wow. He's perfect. Unbelievably perfect. And just... wow. Who knew?

Signed,

Okay, you're forgiven.

Dear God, Universe, Or Elves:

Oh, shit. How am I supposed to know what to do? How am I not going to break him? I don't know enough. Maybe when I'm forty. Or fifty. Maybe. I am so going to screw this up.

Signed,

What the hell were you thinking, trusting me?

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Um, I hate to mention this, but there is one SERIOUS flaw in your design here. WHERE IS THE OFF SWITCH? I'd like to be able to shower, five minutes. Five. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Signed,

So bringing my stinky self to your doorstep in about three seconds if you don't FIX THIS.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

My husband came home and heard me arguing with our two-year-old and took me aside and said, "You're the adult. You have to outsmart him."

The sad thing is, I'M TRYING TO.

Signed,

Send brains. Quick.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Okay, I get the whole "have sex, can get pregnant" thing, you can't fool me. And okay, I'm not wholly surprised that I look like I ate an entire football stadium, but they just told me they expect this one to be over nine pounds. NINE. That's like giving birth to a TWO MONTH OLD. WITH TEETH. Why not just go ahead and shoehorn in a COLLEGE GRADUATE while you're at it. Maybe you've got a couple of missing OCEAN LINERS from the Bermuda triangle you don't know what to do with; you can just SHOVE THEM IN MY UTERUS, I DON'T MIND.

Signed,

I hope your hair falls out.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

That was really freaking EVIL of you, playing that "cutest kid on the planet" card, twice in a row. It gets easy after this, right?

Signed,

Delirious.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Look, I know you're really busy with all that famine and war and mythical alternate universe of Reaganomics and Wham!, but if you could just take a couple of seconds out of your busy schedule? Because my kids are infected with the HE'S TOUCHING ME HE'S LOOKING AT MY STUFF OH WOE!!!! disease. How much trouble will I be in if I duct tape them together?

Signed,

Duct Tape On Sale Now

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

He's never going to forgive me for wrapping him in multiple rolls of aluminum foil to turn him into the Tin Man for Halloween, is he? Or the eighteen blocks I made him walk (while re-wrapping him) because we were going to trick-or-treat and we were going to BY GOD HAVE FUN, DAMNIT. I'm still going to hear about this when he's twenty-five, aren't I?

Signed,

Seriously thought about tying the bathroom rug around him for "lion fur"--he doesn't know how lucky he is.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

They are sticking a needle in my four-year-old's back. A needle. They are holding him down in the other room, and he is screaming. They made me leave, because he was lunging for me and he's supposed to be absolutely still.

I just sat across from one of my childhood friends. She's our pediatrician now, and one of the smartest people on the planet. We made mud pies together when we were five and six years old. We even managed to sell them (well, she did, she is that smart).

I never dreamed I would be sitting across from her one day and that she would have to say, "meningitis." That the words "risks" and "death" and "possible brain damage" and "spinal tap" and "could paralyze him" would float, jumbled, over the space between us, that we'd ever talk about the fact that she had to stick a needle in my son's back. A pediatric emergency.

She is sending me to the ER. I'm carrying him (passed out), while my oldest son is clutching his brother's spinal fluids in some sort of glass flask, and I'm supposed to drive to the ER, because we do not have time for an ambulance.

She said to try not to stop for red lights. I CANNOT BREATHE right now, and there is no oxygen going to my brain and I CANNOT STOP FOR RED LIGHTS.

I don't care what it takes, do it to me, not him. I will give you anything. I will give you everything. Just do not do this.

Signed,

begging.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

Four days later, and his brother and he are making a slide out of the hospital bed's mattress.

It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Signed,

thank you.

(your hair grew back in nicely, by the way)

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

The oldest is fifteen, and in this state, he can legally drive. HAVE YOU FREAKING LOST CONTROL OF THE UNIVERSE, OR WHAT? How in the world am I supposed to let him drive? I can barely keep from hurling myself in his path to keep him safe while he's WALKING AROUND, BREATHING AIR, damnit. I have tried to remember that they are supposed to grow up to be independent, strong men. I have tried to remember to reinforce their decision-making skills. But this is just asking TOO DAMNED MUCH. It's too soon.

Signed,

Where is the time machine? Damn you.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

ANY PHONE CALL THAT STARTS WITH "Mom, I'm okay, DON'T WORRY," is NOT GOING TO BE GOOD, I don't care HOW earnest you make them sound.

Signed,

Like I am that easily fooled. Ha.

Dear God, Universe, or Elves:

I sat on the floor in the hallway today where I could see into the door of each of their rooms. They are empty, now, of boy stuff. One is an exercise room, and one a guest bedroom.

I did not break them. I screwed up. A lot, sometimes. I got self absorbed and busy and short tempered. I lost confidence and lost my way, but I did not break them. I remember the smiles, the laughter, the tooth fairy, the Christmas mornings, the late night talks. There were baseball games, wrestling tournaments, graduations and hysterically funny meals. I remember tears and heartache and not knowing if just loving them more than breathing was going to be enough. I remember too many close calls where it seemed like it might not be. But they are funny and smart and good hearted men. They have (mostly) outgrown the HE'S TOUCHING ME HE'S LOOKING AT MY STUFF OH WOE!!!! disease, and so get along pretty amazingly well. They make me laugh and surprise me and are fascinating people. They are kind. They treat people well, and they not only love deeply, but they are loved deeply in return. They are both the kind of men who, if I just met them somewhere, I'd like them tremendously. They have started families. Wonderful women I'm so lucky to have in our family. A granddaughter (the most beautiful, happy baby in the world).

You did not tell me when you gave me that blue stick that you were giving me my heart. You did not tell me that you were giving me everything that mattered.

Dear God, the stick turned blue.

THANK YOU.

Signed,

toni, a mom.

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or wish someone a happy mother's day (your mom, someone else's, doesn't matter) OR tell me what did you do to drive your mother batty?

Remember, it's CONTEST MONTH -- every commenter on today's post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE'S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores 'til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE'S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday's blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK -- Angelle! (wow, you ALL were SO FREAKING AMAZING) -- thank you for all of the comments. I put all of the names in a hat and my neighbor got conscripted to choose. So Angelle, email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your address and I'll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

Parents and the dreaded arts

by Alex

We all remember what weekend this is, right? I got a kick out of seeing the woman at the counter at my gym yesterday – slyly wishing all the men who stopped by a Happy Mother’s Day weekend and watching fully a third of them stop in their tracks with an “Oh shit!” look. That woman knows how to have her fun, let me tell you.

I am sort of thinking that Toni will have a great Mother’s Day post because she both has and is a mother, so I will sort of work around the topic in a different way, because this has come up for me lately.

I often find myself being confided in by young aspiring authors that their parents don’t approve of their aspirations. Well, we all know that feeling, don’t we? Certainly there are some parents who do encourage art as a living (and some of them are scary, see “stage mothers”). Nepotism is a fact of life in Hollywood, and successful film actors, producers, writers, directors, have no qualms about encouraging their offspring toward the family business.

But that’s pretty much the size of it – “the family business.” That’s one aspect of the arts as a profession that makes other, non-artistic parents quail at the idea of little Johnny or Janey trying to write, or act, or paint for a living. For centuries, millennia, children were taught the trade their parents were in, and that’s the way it was, and largely still is.

There’s much more resistance than that going on, usually. And I try to tell these young writers that they’re not alone – no parents in their right minds really want their kids to go into the arts, because it’s so hard, and unstable, and financially shaky. I think parents just know that on a genetic level, and because they love us, they gently or not so gently try to steer us away.

And then on another level, some parents might not approve because, well, we’re all gypsies, tramps and thieves, not to mention homosexuals.

And then maybe on another level, some parents might resist the idea because deep down, they always had some aspiration… but adults just don’t DO that kind of thing, so they didn’t, and neither should you.

So there’s all kinds of STUFF going on that might make parents not so very supportive of the young artist.

So what do you tell these young aspirants whose parents are less than supportive?

Well, I tell them what I did, with my parents. I just didn’t make a point of telling them what I was doing. I didn’t lie, exactly, but let’s just say I left out a lot. I didn’t declare my major until I was a senior in college and I didn’t let on how much theater I was doing.

I think those of us who are driven to do this THING that we do figure out how to work the angles pretty early on. And just as I get confided in by young, aspiring authors, I get confided in by people in mid-life who say that they always wanted to write, but their parents were not supportive (sometimes that’s to say the least), and they’re now in a morass of regret that they didn’t pursue the dream. For those people I write down this Bernard Malamud quote: “We have two lives – the one we learn with and the life we live after that.”

And then I tell them that a lot of authors I know didn’t write their first book until after they were 40.

But I keep their stories in mind when I talk to the younger ones and tell them – “You don’t want to end up regretting anything because you were afraid to try.”

I know there’s a lot of pain involved for artists who aren’t encouraged and supported in their passion by their parents – but it’s the evolutionary imperative not only to separate from our parents, but to transcend them. That IS evolution.

And there’s a lot of joy when your parents finally realize: My God, she really is making a living at this, we’re not going to have to support her for the rest of our lives.

And let’s face it - that’s a pretty legitimate fear – I don’t blame parents a bit for THAT one.

And you know what? As a writer I use lessons my parents taught me every single day of my life. They taught me to love work, and do the work I love (even though they weren’t exactly intending it be THIS work) – because, they said, work is what most of your life is. They took me and my sister and brother to about a million museums and concerts and plays and taught us to love art, and along with loving it, they taught us to analyze it. Mom will talk to ANYONE – I grew up seeing her start conversations on the street, in a restaurant, on a pier – with anyone and everyone, and you better believe I use that skill every day of my life as a writer. And they both just assumed that I could do anything a boy could, only better, and so despite all the messages girls get from the world about what they can and can’t or should and shouldn’t do, I had my parents’ faith that yes, I damn well could.

My point is, if you’re an artist, your parents are preparing you for a life and career as an artist, whether or not it looks that way on the surface. They give you gifts that will MAKE you the artist you are. It’s up to you to find those gifts, and use them.

Here’s my most treasured gift from my mother. Remember all those art museums I told you she dragged me to (yes, at the time, it was dragging…)? She told me very early on – “I want you to be able to see artistically – not just art, but the whole world around you. Because if you can see the world around you aesthetically, you will always find pleasure, wherever you are, whatever your circumstances.”

Now that – is beyond rubies.

This is the weekend to think about it, so what are some of the gifts you got from your parents? Were they supportive of your artistic aspirations? Did it matter? As a parent, how do you feel about the idea of your child going into this godforsaken business? ;)

And Happy Mother’s Day and THANK YOU to all the mothers.

Maximizing Shortcomings

by J.T. Ellison

Many of our topics revolve around the strength of our characters. We talk about the things that give characters the ability to persevere, to walk in the face of danger, to throw caution to the wind, to put other's lives and freedoms before their own. These are all wonderful, admirable traits, and we all want our characters to have that selflessness.

But what really gives us a window into our character's souls is what makes them weak.

One of my favorite "get to know you" questions I ask my characters when they're in development is "What is your greatest shame?" I think we all have a secret or two that we'd like to keep to ourselves. It doesn't mean it's necessarily bad or evil, just something that we don't want discussed at dinner. I want my characters to have those little secrets, the private motivations for their actions and the impetus for their personalities. Many times these background issues don't make it onto the page in any discernible way. They are, for me, for my motivation.

There are many, many ways to show a character's weakness. We fall back on the time honored ISSUE, addiction, all the time. Characters drink too much, drug too much, sleep around, smoke. These frailties sometimes border on cliché, and sometimes are done so seamlessly, so effectively that you notice only the character, not their weakness. For me though, it's much more fun to look for the motivation, search out the underlying weakness, than be told.

There is a difference between a weakness and something that makes you weak. I was watching an episode of CSI where the storyline revolved around the fact that the entire team had the flu. Everyone sneezed, coughed and successfully looked bedraggled and miserable, to the point where I was thinking, okay, already, we get it. They are sick. Grissom is too important to allowed to stay home when he has walking pneumonia. Move along...

I remember a particular conversion on DorothyL a few years back, where one reader/reviewer adamantly refused to review a book where a character was sick. I'd never thought about it being an issue. When he made a fuss about it, I stepped back and took a look at what I was doing.

When I first started writing, Taylor wasn't alive. She was strong, she was tough, she didn't have any weaknesses or issues, nothing could stop her. And she was B.O.R.I.N.G. I didn't want her to be an alcoholic, or have abuse in her past. She smoked, and that's a weakness, but it wasn't the right kind of weakness. I wanted her to be strong and unstoppable. I wanted her to be invincible. Goddesses of War don't get caught up in impulse behavior.

But she needed something to make her relatable. So I gave her a cold.

And then DorothyL made it abundantly clear that having your main character sick is a no-no.

I thought it was humanizing. They thought it was annoying as hell, having to hear the sniffles and coughs and see the dirty tissues. I quickly realized they were right. Despite the reality that is Nashville, where 90% of the populace wanders about with red noses and thick voices from April to September, it wasn't a good weakness to foist on my girl. She doesn't need a physical weakness to make her real. Though I still catch myself giving her headaches a lot -- which I take out in revisions. When Taylor is in a situation and starts rubbing her temples, I look closer at why she's reacting that way so I can have something more illuminating in its place. It's a shortcut, I've come to realize, to rely on an outside factor to show vulnerability.

So what to do?? How could I make her strong without being strident, fearless without being reckless, selfless without looking for congratulations, vulnerable without being weak? In other words, a living, breathing character?

Good question.

One I'm still working on. I trend toward showing Taylor's weaknesses by hurting the people around her, forcing her to react.  It wasn't until the third book that I hurt her directly, and by that time, she was primed and ready to fall apart. Did I allow her to? Well, I can't give that away. But it is fun, in a sick, twisted way, to manipulate the emotions and feelings of imaginary people. I was never one for tearing the legs and wings off insects, but I like exploring my character's darkness.

Physical and emotional weaknesses are tricky. Physical challenges -- wheelchairs, stature etc. are obvious and hard to pull off. A detective in a wheelchair can't exactly run down a suspect. A little person would be hard-pressed to tackle a six-foot three addict. But honestly, could a character with a cold do it either? As I write this, I've got a wicked, nasty SOMETHING. If someone were to break into my house right now and demand the goods, I'd just sneeze and wave them upstairs. There are definitely limitations when you have a sick character.

But emotionally sick characters are fascinating. Look at Dexter. We ALL love Dexter. And he's a crazy serial killer who technically justifies his actions by following a code of ethics. But he is still a serial killer, who gets pleasure out of killing other people. Yet we root for him. I root for him. I even find myself strangely attracted to the character, which must signal something is very wrong in my head, or the author has done an utterly brilliant job of evoking emotion from me, the reader.

So here's today's questions. Where should we draw the line with our character's weaknesses? When do you, the reader, throw up your hands at the overuse of addiction as a weakness? And who do you think pulls it off best?

Wine of the Week: 2004 Marchesi di Barolo Maraia Barbera Monferrato Soft and spectacular.

Information Overload

The greatest tool we as writers have in the early 21st Century for researching is the internet. By no means can it give us everything, but it certainly can get us going in the right direction. Before I go on a research trip, I spend several hours or even days looking up information on my destination so that when I arrive, I’m already ahead of the game and can concentrate on things that are more sense base (smell, touch, sound, taste).

I don’t know about you, but I have a ton of reliable bookmarks I use to help me in this research. So today I thought we’d do a little swap meet of sorts. Below are links to some of my favorite mainstream and offbeat web sources. Feel free to bookmark them for yourself if you don’t have them already. Then when you’re done add your own links in the comments that you think others would find useful.

So here we go!

BUSINESS/FINANCE
Yahoo Currency Converter

DICTIONARIES/WORD REFERNCE SITES
Webster’s Dicitonary and Thesaurus

Dictionary.com

Thesaurus.com

etymonline.com Online Etymology Dictionary.

Glossary of Architectural Terms

GENERAL
Wikipedia Always a great place to start any search. But make sure you get back up information, some of the entries are iffy at best.

BabelFish For your quick translation needs. Again, use a real native speaker for any actual translations you’ll put into your story!

AcronymFinder.com Unsure what that odd acronym means? No problem…just enter the letters and hit Find.

IMDB.com Need to know about the career of a particular movie star? Interesting in the credits to that movie you loved? This is the site used by the pros.

WebMD.com Look up that disease you want to give to your bad guy.

GEOGRAPHICAL/INTERNATIONAL
Airport Routing International Find out what airports are located where, their IATA codes, elevation, runway lengths, latitude and longitude.

International Telephone Country Codes

Weather.com

WHO – World Health Organization

The Lonely Planet Guides

GOVERNMENT RELATED
IntelligenceSearch.com Links to tons of international intelligence agencies.

FBI Guide for Writers

MEASUREMENTS

TimeAndDate.com - great source for everything time and…well…date related. World clocks, calendars for any year, moon calendars, daylight savings time dates, etc.

EH…MORBID?
FindAGrave.com Just like it says…looking for a grave? Find it here.

Obituary Central

MUSIC
KissThisGuy.com A catelog of misheard song lyrics. Fun stuff.

All Time Greatest Hits From 1944 up to the present day - just the facts, the top 20 lists.

NAMES
Fantasy Name Generator

Fake Name Generator

Company Name Generator

Your turn now. Share some of your favorites!

Guest Blogger Julia Spencer-Fleming (In Bed)

This morning, good friends and gentlepeople, it is my singular honor to have as Guest Blogger  the lovely, talented, and exceedingly cool Julia Spencer-Fleming. Y'all make her feel welcome.

I’m taking Marcus Sakey to bed tonight. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. “Julia, he’ll keep you up half the night. When Morning Edition switches on at 6am, you’ll feel like something the cat dragged through the bushes backwards.” It’s true. But I just can’t help it. He was so good the first two times, I can’t resist.

Besides, he was the one who sent me the ARC of Good People.

 

Usually, I try to avoid too much pulse-pounding action at bedtime. My most frequent evening companion is Will Shortz, whose undemanding intellectual rigor--An adult elver? Intact, as in a pharaoh’s tomb? Deco artist’s pseudonym?--lulls me into such a stupor that I frequently bash myself in the face with the falling 50 New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzles.

Sometimes when I settle down on my pillows and crack that spine, it’s a first encounter. If your editor asked me to blurb you, I may never have heard of you before taking you to bed. There’s an element of risk involved. If you don’t hold my interest, I’ll have to put you down and go find someone I know I can count on. I’m as good a sport as the next writer, but I prefer, when possible, to pick my nighttime companions for pleasure, rather than for business.

When stressed, I want a read I can rely on, and I’ll go back to old favorites I can lose myself in time and again;

                                                                                                                                                          

Lois McMaster Bujold, Suzanne Brockmann, Jennifer Crusie, Robert Heinlein. You’ll notice none of them are known as mystery writers. That’s because when the world begins to pile on, I want to lay back and be entertained, not compare my performance with someone who might very well be doing it better than me.

On book tour, I like to bring Lee Child along. Really, who wouldn’t? The O’Hare connection was late, the bookstore only stocked seven paperbacks, the library audience consisted of the Director’s mother and two maiden aunts; I know once I crawl up onto that Hilton Serenity Bed with its Serta Suite Dreams ® mattress and five down pillows,

                                                                    

Lee will make all the bad things disappear. One memorable night in Omaha, when I was rooming with Edgar finalist Denise Hamilton, I stayed up until 3am, locked in the bathroom with a brand-new Lee Child, a towel rolled against the bottom of the door to keep from waking Denise.

Once in a while, when I’m face-down in the latest manuscript, writing eight-nine-ten hours a day, I don’t want to leave the world of Millers Kill. I want to think about the characters, write about the characters, dream about the characters. On those occasions, I turn to myself. Yes, I’ll read my own books. What? It’s perfectly normal.

 

  One thing’s guaranteed--I know I’m going to like it.

What about you, dear Reader? Who do you enjoy taking to bed?

Julia Spencer-Fleming's Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne series has won the Dilys, Agatha, Anthony, Macavity, Barry, Nero Wolfe and Gumshoe Awards.
Her most recent accomplishment was having Putnam Editor-in-Chief Neil Nyren, writing for some blog, say he expected to see her on the New York Times Bestseller list. Her upcoming book, I SHALL NOT WANT, will be published in June by St. Martin’s Minotaur. you can find out more about her and her work at www.juliaspencerfleming.com