I think of myself as an organized person, not compulsively so but near the top of the methodical scale. My shoes are arranged by color on the shelves in my closet—toes out for easy dusting.
My clothes are separated by color, as well, and by function—blouses, jackets, dresses, and jeans. And don’t even get me started on the Tupperware in my kitchen cabinets. I actually had a consultant come to the house to calculate the size and number of cartons needed to store all of the lentils, pinto beans, breadcrumbs, baking soda, and Gold Metal flour in my cupboard. As a result, my plastic fits together like the stone walls at Machu Picchu.
I apply this same organization when I start a novel. I do it because (1) I having Virgo rising in my astrological chart, which skews toward perfectionism; (2) I have a masters degree in business with an emphasis in strategic planning (see #1), and (3) over time I’ve learned that if you let the little stuff slide, it will eventually become the big stuff.
My books take place in Los Angeles where driving to the neighborhood Vons market may take half an hour. To keep track of time and to avoid squeezing too much activity into a day, I buy one of those pre-computer appointment calendars that dentists used to schedule hygienist appointments. Each page has four columns listed in fifteen-minute increments. The first column is Tucker’s schedule. The second monitors the killer’s movements. The other two columns are for characters whose actions affect the plot.
Sometimes it’s difficult to be organized, especially when I’m away from my computer and brilliant ideas pop into my head, at least they seem brilliant at the time. I know I won’t remember them, so I make notes on anything I can find. This includes the notebook in my purse, the note pad at my bedside, Post-it notes, that paper napkin I spoke about in my chainsaw juggler post, or on a page of the morning newspaper. Sometimes there are too many brilliant ideas in too many obscure places and one slips away.
As of last Tuesday I have the manuscript for my fourth book organized in a three-ring binder. (Which do you think came first? The three-ring binder or the three-hole punch? Just curious.) Ordinarily I wouldn’t do this but I’m sailing to Avalon on Santa Catalina Island this weekend and I don’t want the pages to blow away.
I plan to read the manuscript there, hoping it’s not as bad as I fear it is. Catalina is a good place to think, because I'm away from ringing telephones, the siren call of email, and my least favorite thing—routine.
I finished my first novel in longhand on a lined spiral notebook in Catalina at a place called Cherry Cove. As I recall, the penmanship was messy but the words were on the page. And that's what we're all trying to do—get words on the page so little things don't become big things.
On another note
I’m the Vice President and Program Chair for Mystery Writers of America, Southern California Chapter. Last Sunday afternoon MWA So Cal partnered with the Library Foundation to host an event at the Mark Taper Auditorium in the Central Library in downtown Los Angeles. “T. Jefferson Parker in conversation with Christopher Rice.” Our very own NakedReader Groupie was there, along with the lovely Sue, which made the conversation even more intelligent and amusing. Here’s a photo I took of Jeff and Chris with several of the MWA board members.
From left to right: Christopher Rice, Theresa Schwegel, T. Jefferson Parker, Dianne Emley, and Linda Johnston.
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I’ve heard it said that writers are observant people, that we see connections where others just see ... whatever. I’m not sure I’d put it like that, though for my part I know that I can see something seemingly run of the mill and ponder it all day, then that same thing – the way a man on the train might lift his chin as he runs a finger around his collar, feeling the stricture of the tie that he hasn’t worn all weekend, or the way a child will ask the same question ten times over, and a parent who suddenly snaps, “I don’t know!” because he or she is at her wit’s end already – might be the focus for a paragraph in a book, or an essay. I heard a mother snap at her child on a train recently. The little boy wanted to know everything about everything he saw from the window, his little mind racing ahead with curiosity, then his mother told him – in a very loud voice - to shut up and sit down. My heart ached for him. I wanted to sit down next to him, look out of the window and have him tell me what he could see, because children can even see fairies if we let them.
I was a bit like that, when I was a kid, always had a lot of questions. Every two weeks I’d have to go to the out-patient department of the hospital, which was a two-hour bus ride away (and I am sure I’ve told this story before). The doctors were trying to see whether my lazy eyes - yes, both of them - could be corrected with exercise rather than surgery, and if not, then the exercises prepared the eye for a swifter recovery following that surgery. I was always very tired on the way home, but would never give in to my fatigue until after we’d passed a certain house. You could see a lot from the top of a double-decker bus, and what fascinated me was a certain room in an Edwardian villa close to the bus-stop in the village of Pembury. The room had a big bay window with a desk positioned so that the person who used the desk could look out into the garden. On the desk was a black typewriter, which always had a sheet of paper on the platen, and there were always mounds of books and papers on the desk. The room was book-lined, and had a fireplace at one end. And it always looked as if someone had just left that room. I had lots of questions about that room, and I remember one day asking, “Who do you think lives in that house?” to which my mother replied, “I think it must be a writer.” I coveted that room, wanted a book-lined room, a black typewriter and a desk filled with paper. I wanted to sit beside that fire and curl up with my books. “Then I’m going to be a writer,” I announced. And after that, my mother began buying me a sixpenny notebook every Saturday when we went into the local town to do the week’s shopping, and every week I would fill it with my “whatevers.” Now I buy boxes of laser paper at Office Depot. Heaven knows what I would be doing if my mother had said, “Oh, just sit down and shut up.”
Being a bit of a magazine-aholic, one thing I noticed recently, is the number of “green issues” on the magazine stands. Vanity Fair had a green issue (with Leonardo DiCaprio on the cover), Outside had a green issue, and so did Town and Country. You know things are getting serious when Town and Country goes for green. The interesting thing is that all of these green issues were half-filled with ads (no other way to publish a magazine these days, without that revenue), and were published on high-gloss paper that did not look as if it had been anywhere near a recycling machine. Perhaps the likes of Hermes, or those expensive mountain-bike makers, or the debutantes of Greenwich, Connecticut could not bear to see their wares on paper that has already been around the block, but I do think that if you are going to talk, you have to walk the path that your words just laid out for you – it’s not all about where your diamonds come from. I love Vanity Fair (the investigative journalism, the exposes, not the fluff), but before I even try to read it, I go through and pull out all the big ads, because otherwise I will throw the thing across the room trying to find the next page in the article I’m reading. Now, is that waste, or what? I’m glad the environmental issues that face our world are front and center stage at the moment, but there has to be more than rhetoric, there has to be action, and lots of it.
Another thing I’ve noticed lately, is the number of articles, essays and books out there written by doctors, of the medical variety. There’s Jerome Groopman, Atul Gawande (that’s him in the photo below), and Lisa (whatever her surname is, who writes in the New York Times magazine), all telling their stories of medical cliffhangers, of life and death, and of what it means to have those two things in your hands. Years ago, the only doctors who published were in the problem pages of women’s magazines, then came the vet craze started by James Herriot. The “I can cure your ills” books were around even before Dean Ornish, but now the surgical memoir seems to be the thing of the moment. I recently read Atul Gawande’s new book, “Better,” and thought it an amazing book. I was riveted, not only by accounts of his own “doctoring’ but by his reflections and research. I wondered why these books are drawing an audience – that they are good reading is undeniable – and I have come to believe that it is because of the hope and faith that are contained within. There is so much in our world that seems hopeless, so much death, hatred and such a lack of understanding, that to read about those who struggle to save life, whether that life is in a battlefield hospital in Iraq, a medical center in New York, or a dusty village clinic in India, is inspiring. Gawande, like Groopman and “Lisa,” tell us stories about what it means to get blood on your hands to support life, not to extinguish it. I could read a whole lot more along those lines.
And finally, to end my week’s musings, April marks the anniversary of the Gallipoli campaign in the Great War. It was also known as the Dardanelles campaign. It was one of the most tragic of all the battles of the Great War, taking the lives of thousands of men from Australia, New Zealand, Britain and France. And because of the “Empires” those troops also came from places such as Senegal, from Nepal. And there were also the soldiers from Turkey and Germany. Great losses were suffered in particular by the ANZAC troops, and Marianne, one of Naked Authors most faithful fans, has written about the campaign in her blog: http://musedujour.blogspot.com. Go there, lest we forget.
You could also rent one of the most powerful anti-war films ever made: Peter Weir’s Gallipoli. Keep the Kleenex handy.
See you all next week – and have a wonderful weekend.
I think you all know by now what to do with the envelope icon below ....
I was right. Is there any sweeter phrase in the English language? I was right and by extension someone else was wrong. In this case the three people that were the most wrong were acclaimed writers Jeff Shelby, Bob Morris and Christine Kling. That’s right these three, educated, respected, intelligent people can kiss my ass. They made fun of me and they were mistaken in their ridicule.
These three know a little quirk I have. They’ve made fun of this quirk. Now I’m the one that has to pay the price. You see I’m a little bit of a germ-a-phobe. Nothing serious. Nothing clinical. I just don’t like germs. I’m occasionally, these three might claim, overzealous in my efforts to avoid certain surfaces that could be a harbor for other people’s germs. Places like, bathroom doors, toilet seats, public handrails, inside of taxis, the outside of taxis, buses, elevators, public phones, public pools where the temperature is not over 100 Fahrenheit (or hot tubs under 100 Fahrenheit. Either way).
How do I prove my actions you ask? I got sick. This weekend, while on a trip to Alabama, I let up a little. Just to see what it was like. I didn’t sleep as much as I normally do, no Airborne. I washed my hands fewer times. I went wild. And now I have a cold. I bad one. Every cough, every sneeze is my way of saying “I’m right,” to those critics of my behavior.
Why these three? How did they figure out the Da Vinci code of my hygiene? I travel with them. Not all the time but enough that they picked up on it. The lovely Christine Kling lives near me and it’s convenient for several of us to fly together to Bouchercon or other common events. She’s fun. She laughs at my jokes. Or was she laughing at me? Regardless, she thought my cleanliness was a little more than average. Now who’s laughing?
Shelby spent the night with me in a hotel during my tour. No, not like you’d think. I was tired. Any way, he caught on pretty quick too. I had just started the Airborne addiction our own Jacqueline Winspear had suggested. I’m used to his ridicule but now who’s laughing?
Bob Morris? I just chalked up his distain for soap to being a graduate of the University of Florida. Maybe that is the beginning and end of it.
Any way, I’ve had this cold of vindication since Sunday night and at least emotionally I feel better. I had training on Tuesday where we shot a combat course that involved moving and shooting a shotgun as well as our duty handguns. Then we had a ground fighting class where we were waaaaay too close to each other for most of the afternoon. It only aggravated my cold. But now that I’m back to frequent hand washing and decent night’s sleep, I hope to return to my insulated world of soap, airborne and antiseptic hand wash very soon.
Today’s the day.
Actually tonight. I will be saying a special prayer for our own Cornelia Read and Paul Levine. Is it right to ask God that they crush the competition and emerge victorious? Well, I think it’s great the Edgar committee recognized them and I do hope they win.
We’ll know by this time tomorrow.
I had planned to attend the ceremony as well as other events scheduled this week but I had a nice distraction. Tonight I'm going to my son's student government banquet where he, as president of the student council, will deliver a speech. I don't know what the content is or if he'll speak clearly but I'm proud of him and whatever he says.
As our historian and resident sane person Patty Smiley noted yesterday, the Naked Authors are one year old. Hurrah! To put that in perspective, Monday was William Shakespeare's 443rd birthday. He's still in print...which is more than can be said for my Jake Lassiter novels of the early 1990's.
So, let's talk about writing.
I have a good friend who's an accomplished journalist and screenwriter. He's written a syndicated newspaper column, award-winning magazine articles, and worked as a writer-producer of half-a-dozen television shows. Now, he's penned his first novel, a smoothly crafted modern-day noir. He's also landed a big-time New York literary agent...and a box full of rejections. Letters and e-mails and calls praising the writing, the story, the dialogue, but saying the book wasn't right for their list, or didn't seem that commercial. You know...the kind of rejection that both gladdens and stings.
Fearless Paul's Advice: KEEP ON WRITING!
Start your second novel, and let the agent keep hustling the first one. If the first one sells, the second one will, too. If it doesn't sell, the second one might...and that may sell the first one. (That is exactly what happened to me. "To Speak for the Dead," my first novel, had multiple offers in less than a week in 1990). But it wasn't my first novel. That one had several dozen rejections and sold only after I was already published.
We all can take heart in Andre Bernard's book, "Rotten Rejections: The Letters that Publishers Wish They'd Never Sent."
Here are excerpts from real rejection letters:
"We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell." --Carrie, by Stephen King
"...overwhelmingly nauseating...the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy." -- Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov
"I haven't really the foggiest idea about what the man is trying to say. Apparently the author intends it to be funny - possibly even satire - but it is really not funny on any intellectual level." -- Catch 22, by Joseph Heller
I could go on, but you get the idea. Don't give up. Glue your butt to the chair, and KEEP ON WRITING.
Norman Mailer's "The Naked and the Dead" was rejected by publishers a dozen times. Pearl Buck's "The Good Earth" landed back on her desk fourteen times. Mary Higgins Clark, who has more than 30 million books in print, could paper her walls with more than three dozen rejection slips before being published. It's said that Louis L'Amour received 200 rejections before he sold his first novel. (There were obviously more publishers then).
So...KEEP ON WRITING. Something good will happen. ********************************************************* HUMOROUS INSPIRATION
A reader e-mailed the other day, saying she really enjoyed the humor in the Solomon & Lord series and asking who I looked to for comedic inspiration. Maybe she expected me to say Perelman or Twain, Thurber or Benchley, or even my former next-door neighbor, Dave Barry.
Well, sure. They're all wonderful. Unique voices. Instantly recognizable. But I've always loved the snap, crackle, and pop of Bert Kalmar, Harry Ruby, Arthur Sheekman, and Nat Perrin.
WHO?
Oh, they're the screenwriters who collaborated on the 1933 film, "Duck Soup," starring the Marx Brothers. The writing was no doubt aided by the flawless rhythm and pitter-patter delivery of Groucho Marx as Rufus T. Firefly and his incomparable foil, Margaret Dumont, as Mrs. Teasdale.
Rufus T. Firefly: "Not that I care, but where is your husband?"
Mrs. Teasdale: "Why, he's dead."
Rufus T. Firefly: "I bet he's just using that as an excuse."
Mrs. Teasdale: "I was with him to the very end."
Rufus T. Firefly: "No wonder he passed away."
Mrs. Teasdale: "I held him in my arms and kissed him."
Rufus T. Firefly: "Oh, I see, then it was murder. Will you marry me? Did he leave you any money? Answer the second question first."
Not that Groucho needed ghostwriters for his humor. He once sent this note to S.J. Perelman: "From the moment I picked up your book until I put it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Some day I intend reading it."
(If you would like to send these words of dubious wisdom to a friend, just click on the envelope icon below).
I can hardly believe it’s been a year since I began blogging with my wacky and wonderful fellow NakedAuthors. It is truly a privilege to be associated with Paul Levine, Cornelia Read, James O. Born, Jacqueline Winspear, and James Grippando. Many heartfelt thanks to all of our fellow writers who have stopped by in the past year to say hello and to our faithful readers who support us with your insights and kind words. We love that all of you are part of our community. Just for fun here is my introductory post from a year ago explaining our name and our mission:
Why NakedAuthors? I’m glad you asked. When Paul Levine first agreed to join me in the blogosphere, I asked him if he had a suggestion for a name. He shot back with “NakedAuthors.com with a team photo, of course.” I laughed because Paul is a very funny guy. You’ll see when you read his books. Then I became reflective. Not only did the name pop, it followed sterling literary precedent set by The Naked and the Dead, Naked Lunch, and that great literary masterpiece Naked Came the Manatee. The name stuck with us. We hope you’ll stick with us, too, as each day one of us posts words that are funny or profound or downright exasperating. We’re going to talk about the naked truth of literature and life, and we invite you to join the conversation.
And since we're starting another year together, I offer you a reintroduction of sorts...
Paul Levine (the wisecracking lawyer) has worked as a newspaper reporter, a trial lawyer, a TV writer and a novelist. Obviously, he cannot hold a job. He is the author of a series of thrillers featuring Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord, squabbling Miami lawyers who, even though they aren’t married, argue every day starting with “Good Morning.” SOLOMON VS. LORD was nominated for the Macavity Award and the Thurber Prize for American humor. THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI is currently nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe mystery award and a Thriller Award. TRIAL & ERROR will be published in June 2007. Levine describes his own work as “funnier than Dostoevsky.”
Jacqueline Winspear’s (the Brit) first novel MAISIE DOBBS, was published in 2003, and subsequently became a New York Times Notable Book 2003, a Booksense Top Ten Pick, was listed as a Top Ten mystery by Publishers Weekly and received seven award nominations, including an Edgar nomination for Best Novel. MAISIE DOBBS won Agatha, Macavity and Alex Awards. BIRDS OF A FEATHER won the Agatha Award for Best Novel. Jacqueline’s third novel, PARDONABLE LIES won the Sue Feder Award for Historical Fiction and her fourth novel MESSENGER OF TRUTH has been nominated for the Agatha Award for Best Novel. Each of the books featuring Maisie Dobbs, an ex-WWI nurse turned investigator has been a national bestseller. One of the books features a nun, another a debutante, but there are no characters from Florida.
James Grippando (the guy with good hair) has never won any awards. He did win a sled in a holiday raffle when he was nine, but that was only because he lost his original losing ticket and a nun felt sorry for him and gave him another one. With thirteen novels in as many years, his closest thing to an award is a spot in the New York Times crossword puzzle: "A James Grippando novel" was the clue for #38 across. His wife says he is no longer "clueless." James' next novel, LYING WITH STRANGERS, will be released by HarperCollins in May and has already pre-sold over 230,000 copies as a main selection of Book of the Month Club, Literary Guild, and Doubleday Book Club. WHEN DARKNESS FALLS (HarperCollins, Jan. 2007) is the newest release in the acclaimed series featuring Miami lawyer Jack Swyteck, to be followed by JAZZMAN in 2008. James is also the author of LEAPHOLES for young adults. His novels are enjoyed worldwide in 23 languages.
Cornelia Read’s (the Deb) debut novel A FIELD OF DARKNESS features tough-talking, shotgun toting ex-debutante Madeline Dare, whose “money is so old there’s none left.” FIELD has been nominated for an Edgar Award, an RT Bookclub Reviewer’s Choice Award, an Audie Award, and a Gumshoe Award for best first novel. Lee Child called the book “wry, knowing, hip, intelligent, exciting.” Read just calls it WASP Noir. She has never won a sled. Nuns do feel sorry for her, though.
James O. Born (the cop) is the first recipient of the Florida Book Award for best novel in popular fiction. Born has used his career in law enforcement to write four novels based on his experience. Critics have praised his darkly humorous novels for the diversity of characters as well as the detail and thrills of police work. G.P. Putnam's Sons have published all four novels. If Irish and Canadian are considered separate tongues, his novels are enjoyed worldwide in three languages.
Patricia Smiley (the B-school grad) earned a BA in Sociology from the University of Washington in Seattle. She also holds an MBA with honors from Pepperdine University in Malibu, California. Her debut novel FALSE PROFITS about a Porsche-driving Los Angeles management consultant was praised by Elizabeth George, “Patricia Smiley and her heroine Tucker Sinclair are two of the brightest starts to light up detective fiction in a long time.” Both FALSE PROFITS and Smiley’s follow-up novel COVER YOUR ASSETS were Los Angeles Times Bestsellers. SHORT CHANGE, the third in the series, is set for release July 3, 2007. Smiley has won many awards, sadly none for her writing. She continues to resist admonitions from everyone, including well-meaning nuns, that she shouldn’t have quit her day job as CEO of the Acme Sled Company.
To Sandra Ruttan, M.G. Tarquini, Tania, Rae, J.T. Ellison, EvilE, Tribe, Louise Ure, Janine, Mark Farley, Nichelle Tramble, Andi, Martha O'Connor, Stephen Blackmore, edgy mama, Angie, H, Paige, Karen Olson, Brett Battles, Daisy, J.D. Rhoades, Susan McBride, Marianne, Kathleen, TerriMo, AZ Cooke, Anonymous, Comment Deleted, Miss Snark, Lee Child, Laura Lippman, Mark Terry, Bob Morris, Paul Guyot, Dustin, Julia Buckley, Paula Benson, Joshilyn, Naomi Hirahara, DJ, Deidra Ann(e), Steve Allan, Jan, Otis, Sharon J, George, Ellen, Robin Burcell, Elaine Flinn, Karen Murphy, David Thayer, Heidi Vornbrock Roosa, Coolshoes, Barbara, James Lincoln Warren, martig, Tom T.O., Groupie, Jeff, Mims, Barb, April, Lori Armstrong, Jeff Shelby, The Deborahs, Gillian, David Terrenoire, Patrick Shawn Bagley, Kathy Fennone, Tom, John Ritter, Jess, Alice, PJ Parrish, Linda L. Richards, Deni Dietz, Counsel, Quiet Writer, Bob, Circuit Mouse, Yvette, Liz Lytle, Sue Hammond, Lesa, fotofinish, Autumn, Rita Larkin, Katherine Howell, Cara, Jake, Billie Bloebaum, Karen Murphy, Bob "Zillabob" Eggleton, stepmomma, Leann, Nancy Martin, Evie Sears, Regina Harvey, Shaz, Robert Barnes, Pam, Jon, Carol, Susan Crosby, Chuck Z, mjoy, and everybody else I didn't mention because my fingers froze on the keys. Thank you for joining our conversation!!!
I love Carol's recent comment explaining why she reads NakedAuthors so much I wanted to repeat it as a birthday present to us.
Paul's wit and politics Cornelia's unique voice Jacqueline's poetry Patty's humor and heart Jim's inspirational put-your-hands-on-the-computer-and-start-writing-or-you're-under- arrest posts (not to mention he looks hot in that uniform) P.S. Starting each morning looking at a photo of Grippando's hair is better than a jolt of coffee.
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I’m goofing off this week, and not a bad week to be running away from everything. I’ve had enough of the news, and I won’t say anything more than that, because so much has been said already about this tumultuous week. Actually, I may yet say something – my posts are a sometimes a bit stream-of-consciousness, so you never know, words may not fail me. But back to my truancy from everyday life - I am in Las Vegas. Now, before you think I have lost my last marble, I am here because months ago I treated myself to tickets to the only event that would get me back to Las Vegas – the World Cup Dressage Championships. It’s where people like me who work so hard at our riding and look a bit like this:
gain inspiration from watching people like this:
And when you watch dressage at this level, you are watching something so graceful and perfect, and yet something that takes more time than you can imagine, a huge commitment and just about sweating blood to achieve – and they make it look so easy. Hmmmm, bit like writing. A bit like when you read one of those books by a favorite author, those wonderful inspiring writers you love, and you think, “This must be like cutting butter with a hot knife for him/her.” But deep inside, you know it isn’t like that, because later, somewhere, you’ll hear that same writer speak at an event, or you’ll read an interview, and you’ll discover that they almost weep in front of the blank page each day, or they’ll go over that one paragraph (word, sentence or chapter) one hundred times before they let it go. And you know that, even though you have always wanted to be a writer, always wanted to do this, at the same time you have to go to the wire for it, if you want to do it well, if you want to hit that bar you’ve just raised on yourself.
Last week I started a class at UCLA with my favorite instructor, Barbara Abercrombie (again). It’s a class on Advanced Non-fiction writing, and it just so happens that I know most of the students in the class, because we’ve all attended Barbara’s classes before and we’re like a gang. Monica Holloway, who’s just published her book, “Driving With Dead People,” calls us the Barbara groupies. As we were going round the class on the first day, doing the introductions, it came to my turn, and Barbara said, “This class is Jackie’s writing gym – she comes here to work out.” Of course, we all laughed, but she hit the nail on the head, the class is where I try out things that I don’t get the chance, or don’t even think to try, in the course of my novel-writing. I flex my muscles in Barbara’s classes, and it hurts.
During yesterday’s class, before I had to zoom off to catch my flight to Las Vegas, I listened to three of my classmates read their work, and I felt a bit like I did while watching those amazing riders go through their paces today – in awe at the elegance, skill and control. This is a great group of writers, and I am just thrilled to be in a class with them for six weeks. The level of writing is striking, measured and honest – and up goes that bar again, out of my reach until I work hard enough to stretch that far.
So, here I am talking about my riding and writing in the same breath again, thinking about the ways in which they mirror each other. At one point today, I was watching a competitor and her horse execute a perfect piaffe – that’s a rhythmic trotting on the spot, a bit like ballet for horses – and I thought, “Oh, I want to be able to do that.” And I know it means hours upon hours upon hours of work, and maybe in a year, or a couple of years my horse and I will be there. Maybe. But it’s something to aspire to, and as the saying goes, “If you’re not going forward, you’re going backwards.”
Anne Lamott, in a class she was once taught, was asked what a writer had to do to be successful (or something of that nature, I can’t remember the exact question), and she simply lifted her arm and mimed opening a vein in her wrist. That struck a chord, because no matter how lightly we might come to our writing, even on the good days, we have to give a bit of blood (yeah, and as mystery writers, we give a bit more, eh?).
I cannot imagine not making that effort. I cannot imagine finishing a piece of work and thinking, “This is it, I’ve gone as far as I can.” I can’t imagine not pushing a bit harder, and thinking with resolve, “I can do better than this.” And then sweating buckets reaching out for something more.
Despite the fact that I am on a mini-vacation in a place where New York and Paris share street-space with Egypt, I can’t stop thinking about the real world out there. This is only my opinion, and as my opinion, I know it belongs to me, but this is my post, so I will say it anyway: This was a crucial week for America. This was a week when we were hit by the two-by-four. Have you ever heard that saying? That when you don’t listen to that little voice inside, God (the universe, the higher power, whatever you’re comfortable with) hits you with the two-by-four? I’m not an American, so part of me thinks that maybe I should keep my nose out of the Amendment that allowes the people of this country to bear arms – arms that were supposed to keep out my Redcoat-wearing ancestors – but I sent in my tax return this week, so I think I’ll go there anyway, as they say.
Every country has its share of angry people, they have their dispossessed, their lonely, their desperate and aggressive souls. And they have their criminally insane, and their desperadoes, their resentful people, and let’s face it, we’ve all had a chip on our shoulder at some point. But not every country allows any person without training or an arms-bearing appropriate job, to buy a machine gun or semi-automatic weapon with just a clean credit history and no previous convictions. I can understand Our Jim needing to bear arms – but I trust that he’s trained and I trust that he is solid and calm under pressure (now then, Paul, I can hear a quip coming). Members of our military bear arms, and I trust they are trained, and sane, even if they are being sent into hell. If you’re a hunter, I know that you don’t need an AK 47, unless you have a real downer on mallards, and, as much as I don't personally like what you do, I hope you learned from your Dad and I hope he learned from his, how to use and not abuse a gun. But there is no reason for anyone else out there to have a gun – unless they are so very scared of every other person out there with a gun, and if they are, then that is admitting right there that this country has a serious problem with itself. Thirty-thousand people killed every year by guns – that is a disaster, a tragedy of unbelievable proportions – especially as most gun-related deaths take place in a domestic environment. If another country killed that many of our people, we would be bombing the you-know-what out of them by now. And instead we’re scared to change things, because a bunch of well-meaning men wrote an Amendment that essentially gave the new Americans the right to tote a musket. If the present-day American bearers of arms had to fill a musket each time they wanted to kill someone, you wouldn’t have over thirty people killed in the time it takes to cook dinner. I paid my taxes, I have a right to say all of that and more. If we don’t take action, if we do not look deeply into the core of what it means to be a decent – and free – citizenry, if there is not heated debate about what happened in Virginia this week, then we must await the real two-by-four. Until we do that soul-searching, until our self-destructive gun laws are changed or adapted, whatever it takes, the people of America will never be free.
Now a different kind of story about weaponry, just to show how strange the world can be. My friend’s son is in the British armed forces, and has been deployed in short order to Bosnia, Africa, the Falkland Islands, and Afghanistan. He’s currently training new recruits, but expects to be sent to Iraq in a year or so. During a recent deployment, he and his men were required to take a commercial flight to their destination, and as soldiers in transit have a dispensation to take their rifles onto the aircraft – after all, they are all trained, and their mothers have said they are nice boys. Before boarding the aircraft, they were asked by security to relinquish their knives. Needless to say, passengers were treated to the sight of a platoon of soldiers in uniform doubled over laughing. They all handed over their knives and boarded the airplane with their guns. As my Uncle Jim, who went ashore in Normandy in 1944 and saw his best friend killed right in front of him, would say, “What’s it all about, eh?”
Now I’m escaping again, back to Las Vegas.
IMPORTANT MESSAGE: For those of you who live in the Los Angeles area: The Southern California Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and the Library Foundation would like to invite you to attend "An Afternoon with T. Jefferson Parker and Christopher Rice." It's FREE but we ask that you RSVP. Just call (213) 228-7500 and tell them you're with the mystery group. THIS SUNDAY, APRIL 22, 2007, 2:00 P.M. Richard J. Riordan Central Library Mark Taper Auditorium 630 West Fifth Street Downtown Los Angeles
Parking will be provided at the 524 S. Flower Street Garage. $1 with a library card or $8 flat fee.
T. Jefferson Parker is the author of 14 novels including the New York Times bestseller The Fallen and the Edgar Award-winning novels California Girl and Silent Joe.
To send this post to a friend, click on the envelope icon below. And may you have a lovely weekend.
Tomorrow I’m off to the Alabama Book Festival in Montgomery, Alabama. I’m really looking forward to it even though my only personal memory of Montgomery was someone backing into a car I was riding in and then fleeing the scene. That was in 1984 while I was in graduate school at the University of Southern Mississippi and a group of us were on our way to a conference in North Carolina. I hope the guy who hit us has forgiven himself. I forgive him.
I’m happy for the invitation to Alabama but at the same time I’m very sorry I’ll miss the Florida Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America’s annual Sleuthfest being held in Miami Beach this year. Sleuthfest is a great conference on writing and all things crime fiction. Paul Levine attended last year and seemed to enjoy himself while winning over a legion of new fans. On a side note I might add that my daughter, Emily, is currently reading Solomon Vs Lord and likes it very much. She’s a tough audience too. She’s on a new kick of reading books from my library. She’s actually not allowed to read several of mine because of the violence and some language issues.
One of the perennial instructors at Sleuthfest is Elaine Viets. As many of you have heard, Elaine suffered a stroke last week and is currently recovering. We all wish her the speediest of recoveries. Her teaching ability will be missed this year at the event.
Sleuthfest was the first event I ever attended, back in the spring of 2004, just before the release of Walking Money. I learned a lot, but more importantly I met many new friends, as I have every year since. As I write this one of those friends, Joe Konrath, called me from the airport in Miami. He had just arrived and wanted to get together for dinner. Like many people from the north he just assumed everyone lives within eleven miles of Miami. Regardless, he made me even more sad that I won’t be down there this year.
The event has attracted some great speakers over the years. Last year, my editor at Putnam, Neil Nyren, was a guest and bowled them over with his insights into the publishing industry and charm. Yes that’s right, he’s still my boss.
Linda Fairstein is the guest of honor this year. She is a very nice person and always takes time to chat and encourage. Jonathon King, the biggest of the Florida writers, and I mean that literally, will be in attendance. I like the panels on writing and plotting that he’s on more than the marketing. I know that promotion is important but you have to respect a guy like Jon who eschews promotion and relies almost solely on the quality of his writing.
Sleuthfest is also where I developed my speaking program on weapons and tactics that writers should include or avoid when writing crime novels. After reprising it at Thrillerfest last year I was invited to make a commercial DVD of the program. I filmed it in Los Angeles earlier in the year and hope to see the final product by Christmas.
Sleuthfest is a great event and I hope many people will attend, not only this year, but in the future.
Another Florida mystery event is titled simply Mystery Florida. It’s held on Lido Key near Sarasota the first weekend in June and is a smaller, more intimate event. It is also one of my favorites. This will be my third year in attendance and I hope they keep asking. In a hotel right on the beach, the event features outstanding writers such as Randy White, Jonathon King, Claire Matturo, P.J. Parrish (Chris Montee) and a host of others who are all first rate.
I’ll miss Sleuthfest this year but feel certain I’ll make new friends in Alabama.
Some years ago, in celebration of an online friend's birthday, I was asked to write up an author who has greatly influenced me. As I am finishing my copy edits today, I'd like to share my thoughts on that author with all of you.
At the time of the invitation to write this, thoughts of Ian Fleming, Hunter S. Thompson, and Maya Angelou enjoyed my fleeting consideration. Ditto Eldredge Cleaver, Nora Ephron, P.J. O'Rourke, and Winston Churchill, but in the end it was no contest: George MacDonald Fraser was hands down the author I wanted to be when I grow up--or rather I want to be Flashman, his most beloved and enduring creation.
Let me explain the profound manner in which I have been inspired by Fraser's most well known fictional creation: Harry Paget Flashman, Brigadier-General, VC, KCB, KCIE, Chevalier, Legion d'Honneur; US Medal of Honor; San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth, 4th Class, who has been referred to by no less than the Boston Review as "the most outrageous poltroon, liar, bully, blackguard, womanizer, and cad of his or any other age."
You can keep your James Bond, your Scarlet Pimpernel, your Musketeers, your Reilly, Ace of Spies... Flashy leaves 'em all in the dust. Of course, it's because he's running at full tilt away from any hint of danger that he manages to do so, but that's really the point.
Originally penned by Thomas Hughes in Tom Brown's School Days, Hughes' 1857 celebration of the English public school, Flashman was a notorious bully who, Tom Brown himself claimed, "never speaks to one without a kick or an oath."
Hughes went on to call Flashman "a formidable enemy for small boys. [He] left no slander unspoken, and no deed undone, which could in any way hurt his victims." But his sadism is matched only by his cowardice in the face of anyone bigger or stronger than himself, and ultimately he's expelled for getting "beastly drunk" and disappears, so far as Hughes is concerned, from the face of the earth.
But for the tender ministrations of Fraser, the great Flashy might thence have perished unheralded. Thank God it wasn't so, because the readers of the world have been blessed with splendidly ribald and cynical retellings of everything from the Charge of the Light Brigade to the manner in which Queen Victoria acquired the Koh-i-Noor diamond. As a raconteur, Flashman is matched only by Roald Dahl's "Uncle Oswald," and even he is a pale contender for the title.
Of his time at school Flashman says:
I was a miserable fag at Rugby, toadying my way up the school and trying to keep a whole skin in that infernal jungle -- you took your choice of emerging a physical wreck or a moral one, and I'm glad to say I never hesitated, which is why I'm the man I am today, what's left of me. I snivelled and bought my way to safety when I was a small boy, and bullied and tyrannised when I was a big one; how the devil I'm not in the House of Lords by now, I can't think.
Fraser "discovered" the Flashman Papers in a Leiscestershire saleroom in 1966. Acting as "editor," Fraser released the first packet of these papers as the novel Flashman in 1969. Published by Herbert Jenkins, which numbers among its authors P.G. Wodehouse, the series has spawned devoted fans worldwide. Nine more Flashman books were to follow.
There is a touch of Little Big Man to all of this: somehow Flashman, the most amoral coward who ever lived, was up close and personal for every major military engagement of the English-speaking peoples between the Khyber Pass in 1842 and Rorke's Drift in 1879.
The incredible career of Harry Flashman was neatly summarized by Andrew Klavan in his article "Flashman and The Tragic Sensibility":
He rode, farting with terror, in the charge of the Light Brigade, was the only white man to survive Custer's Last Stand... and fought on both sides of the American Civil War. Along the way, he also managed, through lies, luck, betrayal, and a deceptively manly aspect, not only to cover himself in glory, but also to roger every half-willing piece of tail he met, whether monarch or bint, with the (possible) exception of good queen Vic herself.
The man is my hero.
This is also the blackguard who, in Flashman at the Charge, throws a recent amorous conquest from his sled to gain speed while he is being pursued by wolves across Russia, commenting "For an instant even I was appalled -- but only for an instant."
He handles all crises in this same inimitable style: "Blustering hadn't helped me, and a look at Rudi's mocking face told me that whining wouldn't either. Robbed of the two cards that I normally play in a crisis, I was momentarily lost," he reports in Royal Flash. While in Flashman's Lady he complains "if there's one thing I detest more than any other it's these hearty, selfish, muscular Christians who are forever making light of your troubles when all you want to do is lie whimpering."
But Flashman is also an astute and incisive historian who manages to shed light on such characters as Lord Cardigan and General Elphinstone:
Only he could have permitted the First Afghan War and let it develop to such a ruinous defeat. It was not easy: he started with a good army, a secure position, some excellent officers, a disorganised enemy, and repeated opportunities to save the situation. But Elphy, with a touch of true genius, swept aside these obstacles with unerring precision, and out of order wrought complete chaos. We shall not, with luck, look upon his like again.
Coming, as I do, from a long line of military men, I have found in Flashman great reassurance. This because he is the embodiment of my own conviction that I would fold up like a wet house of cheap cards if gunfire were ever to come in my direction. Before making Sir Harry's acquaintance, this was a source of some embarassment to me, but now I take heart in his personal creed:
"That's what you young chaps have got to remember--" he advises, "when you run, run, full speed, with never a thought for anything else; don't look or listen or dither even for an instant; let terror have his way, for he's the best friend you've got."
I received an e-mail yesterday asking me to join the campaign to secure a posthumous pardon for Jim Morrison of The Doors.
What do I have to do with Morrison's 1970 conviction for lewd conduct during a concert in Miami? Well, in those days, I was a wet-behind-the-ears criminal court reporter for The Miami Herald, a once-great newspaper. And the last case I covered before entering law school was the trial of The Doors' lead singer. JIM MORRISON LEAVING COURTROOM OF JUDGE MURRAY GOODMAN DURING MIAMI TRIAL
The e-mail came from Dave Diamond, a cable TV producer in Dayton, Ohio who at 34 years old, wasn't yet born when Jim Morrison either did or didn't drop his pants and expose himself during the Miami concert. There's more about the pardon effort in The Doors Collector Magazine.
Little Known Fact Number One. The reason our very own Jim Born attended Florida State was to follow in the footsteps of his idol, fellow Seminole, Jim Morrison.
Little Known Fact Number Two. Our Jim tried to start a band made up of fellow cops. He wanted to call it "The Sex Pistols," and was disappointed to learn that someone else was already using the name.
Little Known Fact Number Three. Jim Born formed a band anyway, but simply called it, "The Sex Shotguns." The Miami Herald a/k/a "The Incredible Shrinking Newspaper" reported on Diamond's efforts last week:
[Florida Gov. Charlie] Crist can't pardon someone by himself. He needs two of the three other members of the Florida Cabinet, which acts as the clemency board. Plus there are no procedures to request a posthumous pardon.
Morrison was charged days after a chaotic concert at Dinner Key Auditorium in Coconut Grove in March 1969. The singer gave rambling monologues, cursed and exhorted concertgoers to have sex with each another. Morrison was also alleged to have pulled down his pants and feigned masturbation, which he denied doing. The trial featured contradictory accounts. He was eventually acquitted of a felony charge of lewd and lascivious behavior, but was convicted of indecent exposure and profanity. [Naked Authors are shitfaced with embarrassment to note that "profanity" was a crime back then, Florida coming late to the notion of the First Amendment.]
In his letter to Crist, Diamond noted that former New York Gov. George Pataki pardoned the late comedian Lenny Bruce on an obscenity conviction.
''It's not about Jim Morrison's image as the Lizard King or The Doors music,'' said Diamond. ``It's about a citizen of Florida who was convicted in a case where the law was not applied.''
My fading recollection is that the trial was a travesty, and that the evidence was conflicting and confused as to what Morrison did. The singer died of heart failure in a Paris bathtub before his appeal could be heard. I wonder if he would even want the pardon request pursued.
AUTHOR APPEARANCES DROPPED FROM PRINT OF EDITION OF L.A. TIMES We got our first taste of the "new" Los Angeles Times Book Section Sunday...which is to say...the disappearing book section. It's being folded into the "Opinion" Section. First to be jettisoned, the "Book Calendar." So, if you want to know where Naomi Hirahara, Diana Wagman, and Denise Hamilton are discussing "Los Angeles Noir" tonight, you have to go to the Times' on-line book pages. (It's the Barnes & Noble on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica).
On the plus side, the website is being beefed up. Critic Sarah Weinman, who blogs at "Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind" is writing a monthly crime fiction column. (I wish it were weekly). On Sunday, she probed the phenomenon of ghostwriters in the mystery field. Also promised by Times Books Editor David Ulin are future columns by Ed Park (Science Fiction) and Sonja Bolle (children's books).
AND WHATEVER HAPPENED TO DISCOS?
I am so out of it, so un-hip, so retro, that I never knew the term “Yo Cos” until reading yesterday’s Washington Post (“In the Dating Scene, the Attraction is a Beautiful Mind.”) The gist of the story is that single “Young Cosmopolitans” are now hooking up at library events, lectures, and museums.
As you all know, shopping a greeting card can be a tricky business. What kind should you buy? Mushy? Funny? Somewhere in between?
I know I can’t give my mother a funny card for Mother’s Day. It has to have cursive script and sappy poetry that makes you burst into tears just reading it in the card shop. When I told her I was writing about greeting cards for my post today, she told me to mention a really funny one she was sending to her son-in-law. I was surprised because my mother doesn’t do funny. Here’s what it said:
Son-in-law—We can’t take credit for your great personality. Good Looks. Intelligence. Or Thoughtfulness…but we’d still like to brag about you if that’s okay.
Oh yeah, that’s a knee-slapper all right.
Sometimes I buy cards for no reason and sometimes I like the cards I buy so much I can’t give them away. I looked through a few in my file the other day. There were several picturing Westies. Gotta keep those. Some cards were yellowed with age. Some seemed funny when I bought them but not so funny now. For example, here’s one I bought for an old boyfriend. Can’t remember which one. It only cost sixty cents so it's eligible for carbon dating by now. Lucy is pictured on the front, mooning over Schroeder.
Love me or leave me!
You open the card and see Schroeder walking away in a huff. Lucy is chasing after him.
Let me rephrase that.
Hmmm. Wonder what was going on in my life back then?
I once read that puns are the lowest form of humor. So sue me. I love them. Here’s a card from a while back. It shows a bunch of yellow bananas next to one green one. It reads:
If loving you is wrong, I don’t wanna be ripe.
Here’s another favorite of mine. Obviously a novice has typed the message on an old typewriter. There are cross outs and letters that are unevenly inked.
DeaR Animal-CracKer PeOple:
I did nOt receive my full complement of zooloGiocal shapes in my most recent purchase of your crackers. NotaBly missing aRe: tHe Deer, the Beaver, aNd tHe Dingo (fOr which I only received tHe head).
PleaSe advise.
Inside, the card reads:
PS: Also nOtably missing: you.
It seems funny on the surface, but there’s an underlying loneliness in the words that makes me picture Eleanor Rigby in a third floor walk-up, pining away for those missing animals. I think I’ll send this card to Our Jacqueline Winspear. Maybe she can ask Maise Dobbs to sort out the psychology and lead the investigation.
Here’s a card that’s a take-off on the old “Badge 714” TV show. I might send it to Jim Born and ask him to consult ATF agent Alex Duarte. Duarte might even have to make an arrest because I believe exposing your small furry creature is illegal—even in Florida. The card reads:
This is the city. 1:37 a.m. The city sleeps. A million weary people lie in bed or sit staring out the window, trying to make sense of it all. Sometimes one of them gets the urge to pet a small, furry animal; that’s when I go to work. My name’s Friday—I carry a badger.
Inside the card is a picture of a man with his trench coat open, exposing this little guy.
Here’s one I’m going to send to Cornelia Read's Madeline Dare. Madeline and Ellis can riff about those "shoulds" and make me laugh—in a noirish sort of way.
Every woman should know how to use a stick shift; a plunger, understand the difference between Don’t tell a soul and Don’t tell a soul I mean it; know her mind; change it; use special china; and special underwear; for no special reason; over commit; come through; refuse to do it again; do it again; be able to discuss first and ten; have better things to do; dance crazy all alone; stare at a phone… I don’t think I bought this next card for anyone in particular. It just made me laugh and laughter is always a good thing. I've decided to send it to Paul Levine and ask him to pass it along to Victoria Lord. Her relationship with Steve Solomon is getting a little too hot to handle and I want to warn her of the consequences. The front of the card is all flowery and sweet looking. Here’s what it says:
If you love something, set it free. If it returns, you haven’t lost it. If it disappears and never comes back, Then it wasn’t truly yours to begin with.
and if it just SITS there watching television unaware that it’s been set free, you probably already married it.
Happy Monday!
P.S. Here's a link to a very cool article from the Los Angeles Times featuring friends of NakedAuthors Denise Hamilton, Naomi Hirahara, and Gary Phillips. It profiles the new "Los Angeles Noir" short story anthology. Click here.
Whenever people ask me about “things to do in London,” they’re often surprised when the first place I suggest is the Imperial War Museum. It’s an amazing place, a museum of social history and phenomenal archive where the experiences of ordinary people in times of war are recorded for future generations. It’s housed in what was once part of the Bethlem Royal Hosptial – you may have heard about it by it’s more common name, which in the local dialect was “Bedlam.” The lunatic asylum. I think it is an entirely appropriate place in which to house a museum of war.
There’s much I could tell you about the museum – I’ve been going there for years now. I could tell you about some of the major exhibitions that have moved me to tears: The Trench, about the experience of soldiers in the Great War; From Corsets to Camouflage, an international exhibit on women and war; The Children’s War – been twice, always weep, mainly for my mother who was one of the thousands of children scarred by the experience of evacuation in the Second World War. I’ve used the archive on numerous occasions now, taking my place in the library housed in the dome, which was once the hospital’s chapel, and where the Ten Commandments are still enscribed on the walls (Thou Shall Not Kill ...). I’ve opened old letters written on fine onion-skin paper in faint but clear penmanship, and I’ve held my breath reading letters that might only have been opened once before, when the recipient first slipped a knife into the envelope.
While I was in London, I made a point of visiting one of the exhibitions currently in progress: The Animals War.
There’s no Geneva Convention for animals, yet millions have given their lives for our man-made wars. If animals had never been used in war, I could not even think of the greater number of human lives lost along the way, so here are a some veterans to think about:
Rob, the SAS (UK special forces) dog who made over twenty parachute drops during the Second World War; Roselle, the labrador who led her owner to safety from the 78th floor of the World Trade Center after it was attacked on 11 September 2001; Rin Tin Tin, who was found as a puppy on the Western Front and went on to become a Hollywood legend; Voytek, the bear mascot of the 22nd Transport Company of the Polish Army Service Corps who remained with his masters during action at Monte Cassino in 1944; and Simon of HMS Amethyst, the only cat to have been awarded the ‘animals’ Victoria Cross,’ the Dickin Medal. And then there’s Rats, the corgi-ish terrier mix who took it upon himself to befriend soldiers serving in Belfast in the Troubles. As one soldier said, “He was like an oasis of friendship in a desert of sadness.”
There are two animals, however, who have always touched my heart: Winnie, the bear cub adopted by Canadian soldiers on their way to war in 1914, and Sefton, the stunning bay cavalry horse who was almost killed by an IRA nailbomb in 1982.
Lt. Harry Colebourn, a veterinarian with the Canadian cavalry, was on his way from Winnipeg to the east coast of Canada, and from there to the battlefields of WW1, when he saw a young bear cub for sale - her mother had been killed by a hunter. He bought the bear, naming her “Winnie” after his hometown, and then smuggled her into England where she became the regiment’s unofficial mascot. A favorite with the troops, she was quite tame, however, when it came time for them to go to the front, Colebourn took her to Regent’s Park Zoo to be cared for while the regiment was in France. In the midst of war, Winnie became a star, not only because she could be safely taken on walks around the zoo and was calm and kind with children, but because her carers were serving in the war. Visitors flocked to see Winnie, including A.A. Milne, who brought his son, Christopher Robin, and who was inspired to create stories about a bear called Winnie.
Then there’s Sefton, who for a time became the beacon of hope for a nation. I was working in London at the time, and though we’d heard that a bomb had detonated in Hyde Park, we just all sort of got on with our work because that’s what you did. At lunchtime I decided to wander over to Regents’ Park – it was always lovely to sit by the old bandstand and listen to the band on a summer’s day. I was almost at the entrance to the gate when I heard the bomb, a sound that is nothing like you think it might be from films and TV. And then there’s that split-second of silence that lingers before all hell breaks loose. We were allowed to leave work early that day, and I walked miles with my friend back to her house, where I would stay the night. It was only when we watched the news on TV that we realized the enormity of what had happened that day. After that first bomb, in Hyde Park, men and horses lay dying of their wounds. One horse in particular, with twenty-eight wounds to his body including blood gushing from a hole in his neck, stood still, to attention, until help came. Following eight hours of surgery as vets struggled to save Sefton, the whole country waited to see if he would make it, as if hope itself would be sustained by his survival. And though not a young horse at nineteen, he lived for another eleven years, becoming a household name.
There’s a painting at the close of the exhibition, a bombsite scene that depicts the contribution of animals in times of conflict. By Steve Hutton, it’s called, “Animals: The Hidden Victims of War.” The tank in the picture bears the symbol of a fierce animal, as do many military vehicles. An elephant is dressed for the Roman war, but wears a WW2 gas mask. There’s a dolphin with her snout tied to prevent her from foraging while working, and there are the sea lions used for detecting underwater dangers. The dogs are there, shown in their roles as messengers, sentinels and in rescue operations, and the cat and rabbit signify domestic animals affected by war. The lizard is a symbol for wildlife lost, and there’s a broken tree to remind us of habitats destroyed. Pigs are there too – they’re used for weapons testing and battlefield surgery training, and the rats are not forgotten – researchers implant electrodes into their brains to remotely control them for land mine detection. Primates and other animals are used for testing of biological and chemical weapons. And finally, above the animals finely drawn, the dove of peace surveys the tableau.
In 1982, a children’s book, The War Horse by Michael Morpurgo, was published to critical acclaim. Set in WW1, in one scene a German soldier is talking to the cavalry horse. “That’s what this war is all about, my friend. It’s about which of us is the madder.”
Bedlam. The word eventually came to mean, “a house of confusion.” A perfect place to record the lunacy of war.
It’s also interesting to know that a two-day conference begins at IWM today, on peace-building.
To send this to a friend, please click on the envelope icon below. To check out the Imperial War Museum website, go to www.iwm.org.uk
To me, this is one of the most elemental questions of humanity. It raises a host of similar questions such as, Why are we here? Does God have a plan for us? Is there such a thing as destiny? All valid questions once one gets past, How do I survive? Nothing stifles philosophic investigation like an empty stomach. But those of us writing and reading a blog like this are probably not concerned about taking in enough calories to make it through just one more day.
So what does that leave us? Back to square one. Is this all there is? This question has plagued me since my first year after college. It may be that up until then I was too involved in the race to get out of the Florida public school system. I know many of you might mock the notion that a public school education leading to a bachelor’s from Florida State was really enough to occupy someone’s mind to the point of ignoring something like questioning your existence, but apparently it worked. Just like every other goal I set and started running toward in an effort to evade the most important issue I might face. It led me to graduate school and a devotion to long-term sports like running and karate. Each with goals built into them that could focus the mind. In my case it was more like distracting my mind from the really troubling question: Is this it?
I believe part of the answer is as simple as raising kids. The desire to have happy kids that go on to have happy productive lives is as much instinct as it is love. How would the species survive if one generation didn’t want the next to do better? Does a father in China have less hope for his son than a writer from Florida? Does the sense that you have succeeded finally quench the thirst to know if this is all there is? I have no answers. I’m looking for common ground. Is this a condition many suffer?
I have always been a happy person, not prone to depression or pessimism. I do wonder, however, if depressed people are focused on this question? Unlike Tom Cruise, I realize that much of depression is chemically based and can be treated with prescription drugs. But how much of it is existentially based? How many people simply can’t grapple with the question of why they are here? How many successful people are simply driven by goals to keep their intellect from probing these kinds of questions?
It’s no secret that I’m a fan of science fiction. I’ve read more SF books and seen more SF movies than I can recall. Now I realize that my attraction to the genre could be due to the theme in many of these stories. Is this all there is? From Star Trek: The Motion Picture, where Spock realizes the emerging life-form is merely asking “Is this all there is?” To one of the Dune books opening a chapter with the ancient proverb “God help the man who has achieved all his goals.” This basic question is a universal phenomenon, which stretches across geography, religion and culture.
I’m happy I love something like writing. I’m thrilled my novels are published. But this is not the legacy I hope I’m remembered for. I don’t know exactly what I want to be remembered for specifically, but I hope I can do better than some published books. My children raising happy families of their own would be one thing I would hope to leave behind. And in many years, I would like to think that one of these grandchildren would look to the heavens and ask, “Is this all there is?”
Louise Ure's post at Murderati last week has stuck with me ever since. She started out with E.B. White's essay "Irtnog," a satirical history of digest publications:
Someone conceived the idea of digesting the digests. He brought out a little publication called Pith, no bigger than your thumb. It was a digest of Reader’s Digest, Time, Concise Spicy Tales, and the daily News Summary of the New York Herald Tribune. Everything was so extremely condensed that a reader could absorb everything that was being published in the world in about forty-five minutes.
Then challenged readers to come up with a "three-words-or-less summary of any book you want," starting the game with:
Example: A Tale of Two Cities "Off with têtes."
Among my favorite entries, Sharon Wheeler offered, "Any Dick Francis: Horsy chap suffers"
Juggling chainsaws is a dead-on metaphor for the sleight-of-hand and sorcery we either pull off or bloody ourselves trying. All of which raises the classic question for writers. What gives you pleasure? Juggling? Or having juggled?
I am reminded of the thematic scene in "A League of Their Own." Star player Dottie Hinson (Geena Davis) wants to quit the team. Her manager Jimmy Dugan (Tom Hanks) argues with her.
Jimmy: Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that.
Dottie: It just got too hard.
Jimmy: It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.
Doesn't that also apply to writing?
Not that my scribbling compañeros and compañeras are looking for sympathy. Or that we'll get it.
About 15 years ago, while living in Miami, I wanted to buy a house. My real estate broker found something in Coconut Grove that looked interesting. The seller's broker asked when I could come see the house, and my broker replied: "Oh, Paul can come anytime. He doesn't work. He's a writer."
Right. Just how hard can it be?
"Writing is easy," said Red Smith, the legendary sports writer. "All you do is sit at the typewriter until drops of blood appear on your forehead."
“A work in progress quickly becomes feral. It reverts to a wild state overnight. It is barely domesticated, a mustang on which you one day fastened a halter, but which now you cannot catch. It is a lion you cage in your study. As the work grows, it gets harder to control; it is a lion growing in strength. You must visit it every day and reassert your mastery over it. If you skip a day, you are, quite rightly afraid to open the door to its room.”—Annie Dillard (1945-), U.S. author
I used to take out-of-town guests to the Venice Beach boardwalk on Sunday afternoons to see the guy who juggled chainsaws.
My guests would watch in amusement, sometimes horror as the juggler pulled the cords and threw the chainsaws into the air. I knew what they were thinking. What will happen if his timing is off? I’m sure they went back to their homes in Minnesota or Milan thinking the juggler was mad to court this high-risk fling.
I often feel like that juggler, especially now that I’m writing my fourth novel. I’m past the stage in which I have thrown the chainsaws into the air. Now I must bring each one down with the skill of a master juggler. I have done this stunt three times before, but with this fourth book I feel certain I cannot do it again.
“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author
I work out with a Pilates trainer every week, not because it’s good for my body, though it is. It’s because of Brigitta, she of the contagious laughter and wisdom beyond her years.
She is more therapist than trainer. She is always willing to listen while I whine about writing books, how hard it is, and how much I give up to sit in front of a computer screen in a room that is silent except for the whirring of a dozen chainsaw blades. Whining feels good. It’s worth the price of admission. I tell her I will never finish this book. How can I? I am a writer of little talent whose career is destined for the remainder bin. “You said the same thing when you were writing the last book,” she says. Sometimes the price of admission comes with a dose of reality.
“But the words aren’t good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes I fly like an eagle But with the wings of a wren.” —Anne Sexton (1928-1974), U.S. poet
I am in a place in the book where I have so many chainsaws in the air I can’t remember where they are. I worry that one of them might fall from the sky and cut off my arm. I should be able to remember these details but I can’t. I wonder if it’s the beginning of Alzheimer’s. The upside is I will have an excuse for not finishing this book. My editor will be sad. Better yet, she will not make me return my advance. A darker thought intrudes. What if my memory loss is due to entrenched resistance? If so, I must regain control. The solution is clear. I make a flowchart.
I write, “Eugene is ther— My computer thinks I mean to write Theresa Schwegel, a name it has found in my address book. Without asking, it finishes my sentence. “Eugene is Theresa Schwegel.” No. No! Eugene is not Theresa Schwegel. That is not at all what I intended to write. I delete the sentence and try again. Three tries later I have, “Eugene is there when Tucker arrives.” I look at the sentence again. I tell myself the words don’t have to fly with wings of eagles. This is only a flowchart. But “Eugene is Theresa Schwegel” promises a twisty new plot idea. It’s fresh. Intriguing. It is also galling to admit that a computer with a robotic memory for addresses is more creative than I am.
“Even in the midst of love-making, writers are working on the description.” —Mason Cooley (1927-) U.S. aphorist
Writing is a dangerous obsession. When I am in the throes of creating a novel the work controls everything. One Friday night I have tickets to the theatre. Before the play I go to dinner at Patina on the plaza of the Music Center. This is not negotiable. Dinner at Patina is more important than Twelve Angry Men. Why? Because Patina is where Tucker meets a man who will change her life and because of that I must know if the tablecloths are linen or paper, if a quiet conversation can be heard above the noise of traffic, if the umbrellas are in the up or down position, and if there are lights twinkling in the trees that look like monster broccoli. At dinner I try to be witty and attentive, but all the while I am jotting notes on the paper napkin in my lap.
“For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.” —T.S. Eliot (1877-1965), U.S. born-British poet, critic
I wish I could take these sentiments to heart, but the truth is I juggle chainsaws for a living. For me, it is that hard and the rest is my business and I worry about it all the time.
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It’s my favorite time of year on this side of the pond, and pretty much anywhere I’ve ever been, to tell you the truth. It’s springtime, with new lambs gamboling across the patchwork-quilt fields that surround my parents’ house, and the woodlands are carpeted with primroses, bluebells and delicate white wood-anemones – and the weather is perfect, with bright sunshine and just a hint of a nip in the air, which makes for great hikes across the countryside. You see, I’m a country kid at heart, despite the buzz I get from being in New York, or the fact that I could wander the streets of London for hours, and that I love San Francisco with a passion. This is where I began, and Easter happens to be the holiday closest to my heart. And it’s not just because Britain is chocolate-Easter-egg-central. It’s special, you see, because it’s the time of new life, and the land is just about bursting with it.
There’s one particular Easter that sticks in my mind from childhood. It was close to the end of term, coming up on the Easter of my ninth year, when Mrs. Boulding, our class teacher, asked us all to bring an egg or two to school because we would be “blowing eggs.” This amounted to almost organized anarchy. We pierced the egg at each end with a pin, then blew the yolk and white out of one end to be left with an empty shell. Then we had to varnish the eggs to strengthen the shell before decorating them. I still remember it – what a lark! There were kids covered in egg contents everywhere. But the thing I remember most was our local vicar, coming into the classroom for a special lesson afterwards.
Being a parish school (most local schools in England were, historically, founded by the church), there were still links with the local church, so the Reverend Bradshaw came in once a term to talk to each class. Most of us gazed out of the windows across the fields, or passed notes back and forth, or you’d suddenly feet the whack of a marble on the back of your head and you scowled at the culprit before sending a note back that you would get him later. And all the while the poor old reverend was oblivious to what was going on in the classroom.
But on this day, about half-way through his soliloquy he had our undivided attention. He began speaking about the meaning of Easter, about new life, and what it truly meant, and as he did so he picked up one of the eggs. But it wasn’t an empty egg, its contents already blown into the glass bowl. No, this was an egg ready to crack and splatter the man with yuk if he grasped it any harder, and not one child moved, watching that egg as he waved it around while he talked of Easter and the miracle of life. We were all a bit disappointed when he made a clean getaway after the lesson.
We broke up for the holiday that afternoon – my decorated egg was in bits by the time I’d walked home. The following day – Good Friday – after a breakfast of Hot Crossed Buns (traditional Good Friday treat, a bit like a current bread roll with a pastry cross on the top, if you haven’t had them – and they’re best hot or toasted, hence the name), my brother and I went down to the farm with our mother and the other women who worked on the land.
When I was a child, there weren’t many jobs around in rural areas for women who needed to work, but wanted a bit of flexibility because they had children. Farm work was pretty much the only option where we lived, so not only did my mother work on the farm, but from the age of about six, that’s where I earned my pocket money too.
It was freezing cold with snow on the ground, and the job in hand was that of gathering spent hop bines into big mounds and then burning them – and already the bright green shoots of new hops were bursting through. All the kids were working because everyone wanted to get home, and it was nasty work as hop bines can scratch your hands and arms to shreds, especially old ones that had been sitting around throughout the winter. The fact that it was bitter outside didn’t help, so it was a tired group of women and children who made their way slowly up the lane late that afternoon, with the light fading and snow falling around us.
Our silence was broken when my mother shouted at us to stop, because in the field right next to the lane, a ewe was in the midst of giving birth. At first the women were worried that she was in trouble, but then the lamb began to be born, and we all drew nearer to watch. I’ll never forget that Good Friday, that last snow of the year as it fell around us, a motley group watching a lamb coming out into the world, the mother licking her newborn onto unsteady legs, then both of them taking cover under the hedge. I was told to run back to fetch the farmer, because more hay would be needed before the night was out, and at least one new lamb had to be brought in from the cold.
Though I can hardly claim to have had great philosophical thoughts as a nine-year-old, I remember thinking, in the darkness of my room that night as the snow pattered against the windowpanes, about the Reverend Bradshaw and what he said about new life, and what it all meant. I thought about that tiny lamb coming to its feet, and what a wonder it was to see it born.
I thought about it again today, as I was driving along the country lanes, looking out to the fields, seeing the newborn lambs on unsteady legs.
So, I wish you a lovely Easter time, and here’s to new life, and everything that means, no matter how old you are, or what time of year it is in your part of the world.
To send this email to a friend, please click on the envelope icon below. And here’s a chocolate Easter egg:
Writing takes effort, time and passion. The rewards can be few. Most writers toil, unpublished for their entire lives. Those that are published rarely see enough money to change their lives in any way. But there are days when it all seems to be worthwhile. That comment from a reader, an acknowledgment from an editor or the complimentary mention on someone’s website or blog. It’s rare, but those moments come along. Let me just share a few recent ones so you can get an idea of how little it actually takes to make a writer happy.
Last week I traveled to Tallahassee to accept an award. I’ve gotten a few awards in the past. Some sports related or martial arts based. A few related to my police career. But this one was for the Florida Book awards. I received the Gold Medal for best novel in popular fiction. I haven’t blogged about it or written any articles about the award because I felt a little funny about it. I’ve joked with my friends and taken jokes from others but it still made me feel vaguely uncomfortable for some reason. But I’m here now ready to say: I liked it.
This is me with Gov. Charlie Crist on my right and Sec. of State Curt Browning at the ceremony. I'm wearing the gold medal and stupid grin. Thanks to Eric Tournay for the photo.
The ceremony was great. The people associated with the prize were nice. I’m getting a ton of requests from libraries to speak. There is no aspect of the award with which I’m disappointed. So that was my biggest reward related to writing the last few weeks.
But I had a few other, smaller ones that you may want to consider the next time you see a friend with a new book out who looks a little glum. I’ve gotten a number of e-mails and a few phone calls, the best from my former partner who is now retired. The gist of all of them was the same: They had stayed up far too later because they couldn’t put down Field of Fire. Sure, I smile and nod or send back a nice return e-mail, but let me tell you there is no funk a comment like that can’t bring you out of.
Now the final story and I’ll move away from the self-congratulatory bull.
I was at church sitting at the end of the pew where we normally sit. My son was part of the procession as an acolyte (The Episcopal equivalent of an altar boy). For many years now he and I have had a secret joke where if he sees me while he is walking in the procession he starts to laugh. I don’t know what started it back when he was eight or ten the first time he walked down the aisle with a cross or banner, but he as never made it past me without laughing. Not once. Ever. Now, at seventeen, some people have caught on and think it’s funny or cute.
Well this time, the Sunday before last, he walks past me and laughs quietly and continues on as he has hundreds of times before. Our priest, a fine man of reasonable temperament and unending patience, is walking at the end of the procession. As he gets to me he stops and leans in. My stomach tightens as I fear I am finally about to be rebuked for making my son laugh so many times. The jig is up and I’m busted in a big way. Father Marty leans toward me and says, “Hey, that Field of Fire is one good book.” Then goes on about his way.
Wow, I thought, that’ll make a great book signing story.
As I sit on my outdoor porch about eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, the temperate breeze coming off the water and giving me the slightest chill, I realize I have a pretty good gig here. I had spent the afternoon windsurfing from my backyard. The photos pretty much say it all.
I also realized in the past three weeks that I’m not comfortable in the evening watching TV or reading unless I’ve written a minimum of a thousand words. Usually a little more. What I’ve learned is that they don’t have to be on a novel.
Originally, when Paul Levine approached me about writing a blog a week with Naked Authors I hesitated for several reasons. First, it seemed like a lot of work. Second, I didn’t want to be distracted from working on novels and third, it was an established blog with established writers. I didn’t want to feel like an outsider. I was wrong about each of those assumptions. Well except for the work part.
It is a lot of work but not that much work writing the blogs. It is mainly getting the photos uploaded and the dang thing formatted. I always repost them on my Amazon blog so I feel like I’m getting more use out of them. But I have found I like writing about something I care about. Like chatting with friends only ones spread out all over the country. I never realized people really paid attention to my Amazon blog until one day someone whom I had not met before asked me if my son was excited about going to Florida State next year. I thought I had met a psychic. I was stunned until I realized how they knew the information. It pleased me and freaked me out a little at the same time. But I do enjoy sharing some of my limited writing experience with the blog readers.
I have also found that it doesn’t distract me from writing novels. When I’m working a novel I tend to shut out other things. But when I get tired or lose that focus, I stop working on the novel for that day. Sometimes I like the change of switching to a “written conversation” for the blog. Like today’s blog. It’s more personal and light but I mean it. So far the blog has not taken away from the novels at al.
And finally the other bloggers have done nothing but make me feel like I’m part of the club. On the web, in e-mail and in person I couldn’t enjoy more support.
So I am happy to have found a home here. I don’t know if anyone saw the photo of Patty, Paul and me in Publisher’s Weekly a few weeks ago. It was just from my stop at the L.A. Mystery Book store and we all posed for a simple shot. I have no idea how PW got the photo but it was nice to see it. There was not story other than the caption that mentioned I was on tour with Field of Fire. I doubt they would have noticed it if I were not a part of such a well-respected blog.
Hope you guys are as easily thrilled as I am with simple comments, funny blogs and photographs.
Yesterday I got sent a jpeg of the proposed cover for my next book, which I think is wonderfully spooky and PRETTY, in a dark angsty kind of way.
It got me thinking about what I like and don't like in book covers. Two of my favorites ever were designed for novels by Darcey Steinke, which is cool because I like Darcey so much (we were on junior year abroad programs in Ireland together in 1983--me in Dublin, Darcey in Cork).
Here's the cover of her first novel, Suicide Blonde:
And here is the one for Milk:
And here is Darcey herself, equally great looking:
Here are some covers I found at a fantastic website dedicated to the art thereof:
Roz Chast and Stella Gibbons, two great tastes that taste great together....
Designer: Roz Chast title: Cold Comfort Farm author: Stella Gibbons publisher: Penguin Classics, 2006 available at Amazon.com
This one I think plays wonderfully on traditional illustration connected to the subject matter, plus which the red is just so sumptuously perfect:
Designer: Mark Melnick title: Chance author: Amir D. Aczel publisher: Four Walls Eight Windows, 2004 available at Amazon.com
And speaking of sumptuous, this is one of the most slyly erotic covers I think I've ever run across:
Designer: Roberto de Vicq de Cumptich title: Eat Me author: Linda Jaivin publisher: Broadway, 1998 available at Amazon.com
Though this is a close second, and perfect for the subject matter:
Designer: Jasmine Lee title: History Lesson for Girls author: Aurelie Sheehan publisher: Viking Adult, 2006 available at Amazon.com
This one is a great update, don't you think?:
Designer: Gregg Kulick Illustrator: Gregg Kulick title: Brave New World author: Aldous Huxley publisher: Harper Perennial, 2006 available at Amazon.com
This one is just plain beautiful, to me:
Designer: Charlotte Strick title: The Noodle Maker: A Novel author: Ma Jian publisher: Picador, 2006 available at Amazon.com
Here's one I love not so much, especially since the short film on which it's based is so iconic:
Designer: Brian Barth title: Bambi vs. Godzilla: On the Nature, Purpose, and Practice of the Movie Business author: David Mamet publisher: Pantheon, 2007 available at Amazon.com
The film in question:
Couldn't they at least have added this:
plus this?:
Some of the most memorable covers ever are from children's books I've known and loved:
N.C. Wyeth's paintings for Scribner's are particularly gorgeous.
And there are many other Scribner's dust jackets I think were beautifully and thoughtfully designed:
This one was published in 1934.
This one was published in 1960, and is probably the worst design I've ever seen for a book. Can you imagine anything LESS evocative of The Great Gatsby?:
I looks like something out of an SRA reader nightmare. What were they thinking in 1960? Makes me kind of happy someone discovered LSD.
And then sometimes it's not the dust jacket which is the most beautiful thing about a book, but the cover beneath. I love the blue of this, the gold, the design of the type itself:
It reminds me of my very favorite kitschy painting:
Maxfield Parrish, "Stars," 1926
Just remember, though, as Bo Diddley said, you can't judge a book by looking at the...
What are your favorite covers? Which ones do you remember best from your childhood?
My compliments to the accomplished raconteur Eric Felten for his stinging essay in The Wall Street Journal, "They're Not Martinis."
Felten laments the use of vodka and the profusion of colorful, sweetened flavorings:
For the purists, it's bad enough that a drink of vodka and vermouth is referred to as a Martini. But one doesn't have to be a stickler to bemoan the candy-colored cocktails with labels like "Raspberry Martini" or "Apple-tini" that fill out the "Martini List" at innumerable bars and restaurants. A drink of vodka, sweet liqueur and fruit juice is not a Martini...
Though hardly the purest of the purists, I am firmly of the belief that a Martini is a drink of dry gin and dry vermouth. No other drink has what songwriter Frank Loesser called the "slam, bang, tang" of the original..
Cheers and Amen. Felten nailed it, and I don't mean a Rusty Nail of Scotch and Drambuie.
The word "martini" has lost its meaning. I address this grievous threat to Western civilization in "Solomon vs. Lord" when old Herbert Solomon (a disgraced judge but honorable drinker) has this exchange with a female bartender at a tiki hut bar in Islamorada, FL.
Herbert waved at the bartender, who was working on a tray of colorful drinks. "Ginger, what the hell’s that disgusting thing that looks like toilet bowl cleaner?"
"Apple martini, Herb." She dropped a slice of a Granny Smith into the green drink.
"Apple martini, now there’s an oxymoron. Gin plus vermouth equals martini. An olive’s okay. Onion’s okay. Fruit is not okay. A martini should taste like liquid steel."
Herbert gestured toward her tray. "And what’s that red one?"
"Sea Breeze. Vodka, cranberry and grapefruit juice." She pointed to the other drinks. "This one’s a Sex on the Beach, and the tall one, that’s a Long Island Iced Tea. Vodka, gin, rum, tequila, Cointreau and Coke."
Herbert made a face. "That’s not a drink, it’s a frat party. When the carnival's over, make me a real martini."
If Bob ("Dark & Stormy") Morris is reading this today, I'd love to hear his comments.
************************************************************* "TRIAL & ERROR" BOOKED FOR BREAKFAST
But enough about the old drinks and old books.
My newest Solomon and Lord novel, TRIAL & ERROR, hits the stores May 29. And you can read part of it NOW for free.
Here's what to do. Sign up at Bantam's "Booked for Breakfast.I was supposed to have told you about this last week but I was distracted by the Iraq War, Alberto Gonzalez, and manic depression. Had I informed my loyal readers, you could have already signed up, and you would have received the first chapter yesterday, the second chapter today, etc. But as long as you log on in the next several days, there's a button to hit that lets you read the installments you've missed.
It's an excellent promotional tool for writers and a great sneak peak at books for readers. Each month, four soon-to-be-published books are serialized in e-mail installments. Other "Books for Breakfast" this month are Rick Riordan's "Mission Road," Harlan Coben's "Deal Breaker," and Brian M. Wiprud's "Sleep with the Fishes."
If you don't feel like signing up for the daily e-mails, I've posted the first two chapters of TRIAL & ERROR on my website.
Then, of course, there's always the possibility of just waiting a few weeks and buying the book for cash. ************************************************************* RENÉE & ROGER: A LOVE MATCH?
(You may have previously read on this blog that Fellow Naked Author James Grippando is one of Dr. Laura Schlessinger's favorite writers. I am now counting on Jim to use this fact to get Dr. Laura, the tough-as-nails advice guru, to help me in this pressing personal situtation.)
Dear Dr. Laura:
My wife, Renee, an otherwise sensible woman and very accomplished tennis player, sunk into a deep depression after Roger Federer, her favorite player, lost in two consecutive touranments to Wily Canas. Naturally, being a contrarian and royal pain in the ass, I was rooting loudly and obnoxiously for Wily (Coyote) Canas as we watched these matches. Now, peeved at me, Renee has replaced my photograph with that of a shirtless Roger as her screensaver. Personally, other than his youth, physique, talent, looks, backhand, and money, I don't see what Roger has that I don't. But Dr. Laura...should I be worried about this development???? ****************************************************************** GAINESVILLE SCHOLARS DEFEAT COLUMBUS SCHOLARS
In case you missed it, the Florida Gators beat the Ohio State Buckeyes 84-75 to win the NCAA basketball championship last night. Greg Oden, the 7-0 freshman center, was sturdy in defeat, scoring 25 points and pulling down 12 rebounds. As has been widely reported, young Mr. Oden is taking one of Ohio State's challenging academic courses, "History of Rock and Roll." Buckeye fans hope his favorite song is the Beach Boys' "Be True To Your School" so that he'll return for his sophomore year. However, with the shoe companies dangling tens of millions of dollars in endorsement money (to say nothing of his expected NBA salary), most people suspect he's been humming Sam Cooke's "Don't Know Much." The song, while ruling out knowledge of history, biology, science, French, and geography...doesn't say anything about accounting. ********************************************************************* E-MAIL NAKED AUTHORS YOUR FRIENDS, FOES, AND CREDITORS
You may use the "envelope" button below to e-mail this post to anyone you wish to distract from useful work. The 10,000th person to do so receives all of Jim Born's royalties from "Field of Fire." Offer void in the Virgin Islands
Saturday night I went to a screening of “The Hoax,” directed by Lasse Hallström and starring Richard Gere and Alfred Molina as Clifford Irving and his writer friend and co-conspirator Richard Suskind.
Somehow I had forgotten about the controversy surrounding Irving's book The Autobiography of Howard Hughes. I’d like to tell you I was too young to read when the news broke, but that would be as big a whopper as Irving told his publisher McGraw-Hill.
Here’s the set-up. Clifford Irving was a moderately successful author faced with a dilemma. McGraw Hill had turned down his last book, and he needed to get their attention with something big, something flashy. He needed a breakout book with a breakout advance. (Hey—don’t we all.) Then the cartoon light bulb went on over Irving's head. He told his editor he was writing the autobiography of eccentric Howard Hughes based on extensive in-person interviews with the reclusive billionaire. This was as big as it got in those days. Hughes hadn’t been seen in public for years. Now he was willing to tell his story, but only through Irving.
The folks at McGraw-Hill were skeptical and rightly so. Clifford Irving had a few books under his belt but he wasn’t exactly William Shakespeare. To convince them that he was on the up-and-up, Irving presented handwritten letters purportedly written by Hughes, extolling Irving’s virtues as a conduit. The letters were authenticated by a handwriting expert, after which McGraw-Hill authorized a large advance, $100,000 of which was paid to Irving. The manuscript was completed. The book published. The media blitz went into high gear. The problem? The whole thing was a fake, a hoax, a scam, a trick, a ruse—a fraud of monumental proportions. On his Web site, Irving disavows any connection to the film and claims many of the facts in it are wrong. If you don’t remember what happened in the end, including the unintentional political firestorm, I won't spoil it for you. See the movie or read Irving's memoir about the episode. You may be able to piece together the truth of the story from one of those sources. Or not.
Seeing "The Hoax" gave me an idea. I’m going to write a sensational new book called The Official Autobiography of Our Pauly Levine.It’s based on extensive interviews with the notoriously reclusive Edgar and Thriller nominated TV-writing lawyer who recently guest-starred in a new reality show called “The Jury Is In.” I’m asking for...um...a million dollar advance...a million, yeah that’s the ticket ($100,000 adjusted for inflation). I know I can count on Jim, Cornelia, and Our J to co-conspire, but you can help, too. Please send me any made-up stories you have about Levine's life or career. The picture below might stimulate some thought. (Seriously, did anyone ever see Howard Hughes and Levine together on the same aircraft carrier?)
If the above picture doesn't inspire you to make up stuff about Pauly, try this one.
NakedAuthor sighting…
Last Sunday I invited our own Jacqueline Winspear to regale the members of the Southern California Chapter of Mystery Writers of America with the Naked Truth About Literature and Life. As usual she was elegant and inspiring. Here are a couple of pictures taken at the event.
Are we two hot babes or what?
Our J was interviewed by fellow writer and immediate past president of MWA SoCal, the debonair James Lincoln Warren. Here she is with James (right) and current president Les Klinger (left), an internationally recognized expert on Sherlock Holmes and an Edgar winner for his non fiction tome The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes.
The Birdie on the Rain Trough...
Last year a couple of house finches (Carpodicus Mexicanus) built a nest under a rain trough on my house just outside the room where I write. I watched the couple all through the spring, flying to the tree for a twig, flying back to place it on the nest. Seemed like a lot of work to me. Sort of like writing novels.
The male bird dive-bombed me if I came too close to the nest, so if there were any eggs in there I never saw them. Eventually the birds left town for parts unknown. Last winter I finally took the nest down to get ready for the Southern California winter rains. Now the birds are back and building in the same spot. If there are any House Finch whisperers out there, here’s what I want to know.
Are they the same birds that camped out with me last year? And
Without a Blackberry, how did they remember my address?
*************************************************************** Please email this post to any publisher who may be willing to offer Patty a million dollars for her fake autobiography of Paul Levine. All you have to do is click on the envelope icon below and follow the instructions. You may also send this post to friends, foes, or forest rangers but nobody else. Thank you for your cooperation. —NakedAuthors Administrator
We are an eclectic group of crime novelists whose work includes traditional mysteries, noir, and thrillers. Our observations will be as varied as our writing, and we hope you enjoy reading what we have to say.
universal phenomenon, which stretches across geography, religion and culture.
The ceremony was great. The people associated with the prize were nice. I’m getting a ton of requests from libraries to speak. There is no aspect of the award with which I’m disappointed. So that was my biggest reward related to writing the last few weeks.
Alex Sokoloff did Rosemary's Baby: Happy Birthday, Satan.
Rob Gregory Brown did one in TWO words-- Children of the Corn: Kids Stalk
I got completely carried away and listed a few, which I've been adding to all week, starting with"
Anna Karenina: Slut vs. train.
The Great Gatsby: Nouveau laid low.
The Fountainhead: Mammon-gram
Atlas Shrugged: Dude, WTF Galt?
All Creatures Great and Small: Bully for ewe.
The Year of Magical Thinking: Dunne's one undone.
The Crucible: Hicks nix tricks.