We all get fan mail. These days it's mostly e-mail and fairly predictable. Fragrant bouquets of praise as the writer has touched something in the reader. Why else go to the trouble to pen a note when you could be watching pay-per-view Ultimate Fighting?
Authors never get tired of the compliments. My favorite mail, however, is the offbeat and the unusual. Give me the whiny complainer or the galoot swinging the brickbat, and you've made my day.
Herewith, some actual excerpts, pro and con, from recent e-mail, along with my replies.
I believe the books are getting thinner? What’s up with that? --Katrina
Publishers stopped paying by the word. **********************************
I'm now an ex-fan of your books. I liked your Jake Lassiter series, but don't know why you see the need to turn to vulgarity, poor language, bad spelling, and ridiculous dialogue. No woman can stand a man whose every phrase tries to be a joke, like your Mr. Solomon does.
No wonder Renee gives me grief. Wait! There's more.
Keep on laughing all the way to the bank, Mr. Levine, and on your way there, stop at the post office and mail me the $9.00 that I threw away on your “Deep Blue Alibi” trash, that I put in the garbage pail after the first pages I suffered. --Aida
It was only $6.99, but I’ll send you a check if you give me your address. This offer not valid in Alaska. *************************************************
Enjoyed “The Deep Blue Alibi” so much and will look for others you have written. BUT...I do have one question about something that really caught my attention! Where in Florida can we find a coral snake that is as "thick as her wrist"? --Mona
In back of my old house, on a canal, Tagus Avenue, Coral Gables, FL. ****************************************************
I've read all four of the "Solomon vs. Lord" novels and now you've resurrected my long ago Bar Mitzvah association with Hebrew and Yiddish expressions. Your use of ethnic humor, sayings, have brought your characters to life for me. --Stuart (Marietta, GA)
A sheynem dank, Stuart. ****************************************************** My husband is recovering from some serious brain injury, due in part to your books. He reads every night, and I love to hear him laugh out loud (uncharacteristically) as he enjoys the characters and their misadventures.
Janet (Angel Fire, NM)
I see a lawsuit brewing here. ***********************************************
Re: "Trial & Error." I wonder why you thought it appropriate to insult a portion of your customers by calling people that buy Rush Limbaugh's book a derogatory name? It seemed so out of place since no where else do you take a shot at anyone else's political beliefs. Do you hate Rush so much that you're willing to insult a portion of your customers just for the satisfaction of taking a shot at him? --Don (Virginia Beach, VA)
I started “Solomon vs. Lord” on a flight to Paris Tuesday evening. Finished it Thursday. --Jeff (Bethesda, MD)
That’s how you spent Wednesday in Paris? **********************************************
How come Solomon and Lord don't have a TV series? --Eric (Los Angeles)
I will forward your question to Les Moonves and ask for a speedy reply. ********************************************* Will there be any more Jake Lassiter novels? --Liz (Houston, TX)
I'm not sure, but if I had a nickel for every person who asked this question, I’d have...oh...maybe sixty-five cents. ********************************************* Is it because I am a woman who loves men with balls and character that I so miss Jake Lassiter's stories? Or is it because I love writers who are tremendously creative, brilliant and have an amazing sense of humour, that again I do miss Jake Lassiter? “Solomon vs Lord” brings disappointment in me. Too much "copy and paste" of Moonlighting. Reading “Kill All the Lawyers” took me few hours and when I put the book aside, the lady was still on her appetite. --Danielle (Montreal)
Okay, make that seventy cents. Daniele, I have several single male friends with balls, but alas no character, who are dying to meet you. **************************************************
"Solomon vs. Lord" is the funniest South Florida novel since Carl Hiaasen's “Tourist Season.” --Andrew (Dallas, TX)
So...you're saying there's a funnier Central Florida novel? *************************************************
I enjoyed “Kill All the Lawyers.” However, in the final scene on the boat, I couldn't understand how Steve Solomon could swing a gaff with his hands tied behind his back. --Adam
Because....uh....well...he....sort of...when we weren’t looking...got one hand out...and.... Oh shit!!!! ************************************************
Thanks, folks. Keep those cards and letters and e-mail coming. Feel free to send along a box of pretzels or chocolates, too. **************************************************** PROVOCATIVE STATEMENT: AGREE OR DISAGREE
The sassy and classy bestselling thriller writer Gayle Lynds ("The Last Spymaster") had this to say at last weekend's meeting of the Mystery Writers of America, Southern California chapter. "I can't imagine a good writer having had a happy childhood."
Currently, I’m reading through the copy editor’s notes on my 4th novel, trying to decide if whoever should really be changed to whomever or if my instincts were correct all along. When I’m finished with that, I’ll be in the enviable position of having no pressing deadlines, and it feels so good. Of course, I need to sort through papers in my in-basket and organize the pile of TBR books now cluttering the floor of my office/den/guest room. I’ll probably work in the garden and shred the pages of my manuscript, at least drafts 1 through 250. After that, I’m not sure what I’ll do. It’s been so long since I’ve had any free time, I don’t know how to spend it.
When I was young, I used to worry that I’d die before I had a chance to try everything. As a result, I’ve squeezed a lot of living into my adult years. I’ve worked at a variety of jobs, from an Easter bunny at a children’s party to a group supervisor in juvenile detention. I’ve tried snow skiing, water skiing, sailing, scuba diving, parasailing, bicycling, and all sorts of dancing, including tap and everything Latin. I’ve traveled a lot, but there are still some countries I’d like to visit. A few years ago, I trained for the L.A. Marathon and had worked up to 13.5 miles when my father died, forcing me to hang up my running shoes for a while.
All that reflection was sucking up my free time. I needed a plan, so I did what I always do when I’m under pressure. I made a list. And at the top of it was:
(1) Film a trailer for my 4th book.
If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, here’s an example: Echo Park, a Harry Bosch novel by Michael Connelly.
After watching that, I didn’t want to film just ANY trailer. It had to have actors and Foley artists and best boys and a producer and a director who’d be MEEEEE! I’d buy a camera and cast my fellow NakedAuthors. We’d go on location. Someplace with sand, a lagoon, and a beach bar that served Dark and Stormies and Marianne’s fruitcake. And we’d take our NakedReaders along, too. Are you guys on board or what? I already have a composer lined up who’ll write an original song for the intro. I’m slated to attend a tech workshop in January to learn how to put the whole thing together.
So that’s what I’m doing with my free time. If you had any, how would you spend it?
Happy Monday!
p.s. Congratulations to Laura Lippman who was presented with the Quill Book Award for Mystery/Suspense on National TV Saturday night. Yay!!!!
I’ve always been interested in synchronicity, that bringing together of people, events and thoughts that make us wonder if we’ve been zapped by some sort of divine intervention. In the last few weeks I’ve been reminded – not least by the fires that have gone through southern California like the Furies – of the way in which we can experience so much that we hold dear being taken away from us, only to see the miracle – and it is a miracle – of regeneration. If we give it time.
Three weeks ago I was in France, walking the Somme Valley. During the First World War the towns and villages of the region were flattened. Much-loved woodland was decimated. There was nothing but rubble, trenches and shell-holes – and I mean really, really big shell-holes. Yet there I was, standing on a hill looking out at abundant cornfields and, in the distance, villages built in the years following the war. And not only were those villages rebuilt, but using remaining foundations, local memory and old photographs, they were constructed in the image of that which was lost.
Something about that regrowth, that regeneration, points to the resilience of the human spirit and the hope that nature demonstrates, simply by showing up again, year after year.
Twenty years ago, on the night of October 15th 1987, I was woken up by the sound of the wind screeching outside and around the house. Now, living in Britain, you get pretty used to “weather” – but this was something different. With winds up to 100 knots and devastation throughout the southern part of the island in particular, it became known as The Great Storm of 1987. Nineteen people died and fifteen million trees were blown down, wiping out ancient forests. Houses were flattened. In a way it was a blessing that it began at night, otherwise there might have been more fatalities. At the time I was having a conservatory built at the back of the house, and the builders had left the many panes of glass leaning against the fence. All I could hear all night was glass crashing across the garden. My friend’s chimney came down through her roof and the next day you couldn’t get anywhere for the trees across the road. Boats moored in a marina ended up three miles or so inland. I remember driving down to see my parents as soon as I could after the hurricane – yes, that’s what it was, a hurricane in little old England – and the sense of grief that enveloped me as I passed the forest where I had played as a child. There was nothing left.
But people and nature got to work ...
And time marches on ....
That's Chartwell, Winston Churchill's home in Kent. After the storm, and now.
Just eight years later, in 1995, I rode my horse up onto a hill in Marin County to look at the Point Reyes “Vision” Fire in the distance. Acres and acres of trees burning – and we were all wondering which way the wind would turn the fire, and counted ourselves lucky when it pushed it towards the coast, and not inland. Six months later I went hiking in the area and could see, already, small green shoots at the base of charcoal-blackened tree stumps. Strong old bird, Mother Nature.
And here we are again, Fire, Fire Fire – as so eloquently described by Our Paul on Tuesday. But we are part of nature, so amid the grief of loss, and the shattering of confidence, we know that life goes on. It has to. And even if we are with the naysayers who have their heads in the sand and would prefer not to give an ounce of time to the issue of global warming, it might behoove us to do all that we can to help nature out now – unless you’ve really got your heart set on that ocean-front property in Greenland. Even though fire in California is a naturally occurring phenomenon - there are seeds that will only germinate under the intense heat caused by fire - if you add the recent unusual weather activity and “natural” disasters around the world, I don’t think nature could be yelling much louder for our help.
And before I go, here’s a poem by Carl Sandburg. Even though it is about war, it could be about any disaster. It seems to speak to the work that nature does to cover our most dreadful errors:
Grass
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo, Shovel them under and let me work-- I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now?
I am the grass. Let me work
And from me – here’s wishing you a happy and safe weekend.
Last Thursday, while you were enjoying my blog of new books, I attended a book signing. Not an ordinary signing by a single author but a mass signing by a group of Palm Beach County students who had taken part in a special class sponsored by a company named Oce.. The class, which too place in June, was devoted to the art of writing. Oce calls it the Future Authors Project and is one of the great examples of what corporate sponsorship can do in partnership with public schools. Several authors including me, Jonathon King, and Barbara Parker, took turns speaking to the students on all aspects of writing for a living. They were the most attentive of audiences and I enjoyed the experience to no end.
They worked together to produce a book of short stories and poetry, which was produced by Oce for sale. The launch was at the Barnes & Nobles in Boca Raton and attended by a great crowd and several media outlets.
This was one of the most enjoyable events I have ever attended. Not only was there a group of kids who are smart and enthusiastic about the art of writing, a huge support system was there as well. One of the Palm Beach County School Board members, Mark Hansen, was present throughout the entire event. Teachers, administrators and Oce representatives turned out to show these young people that writing is still relevant and important no matter what the surveys show about readers and book sales.
I like to teach classes on writing, talk about writing, read about writing and write. It may have taken me much of my adult life to identify what was important to me but now that I’ve settled on writing, I deeply enjoy pursuing it. You can imagine how gratifying it is to see young people so interested in the same thing. The title of the book met with my approval. No Such Thing as Writer’s Block. This a recurring theme among many of the authors in the area and Jon King and I mentioned it in the class. King hit the subject hard and it looks like it made an impact. I’ve heard everyone from Carl Hiaasen to Stuart Kaminsky scoff at the idea of writer’s block. Hiaasen told a crowd at the Miami Book Fair a few years ago that no professional writer suffers from the alleged ailment because writer’s block equals paycheck block. That comment has stuck with me.
During the class the young writers showed interest in understanding the underpinnings of fiction. We talked about conflict and character development using not only novels but popular TV shows as examples of good characters and elements of suspense. One thing I noticed that was very different form the weekend workshops I’ve taught is that the focus was on writing and not on finding an agent or which publisher is taking on new writers. I know how vital those things are but too often authors try to “put the cart before the horse” and lose sight of why they started writing in the first place. As I settle in for another round of editing on a novel I thought I finished eight months ago I have to give a nod of thanks to these kids who have given me so much hope for the future of writing.
When I was a elementary student at Carmel River School in the early Seventies, one of things I most looked forward in every grade was the day Ric Masten drove in from Big Sur to perform his annual concert in our cafeteria.
In preparation, our lunch tables and benches (covered in pink formica with beige and raspberry boomerangs)
were folded neatly flat into the walls like Murphy beds, clearing the floor for several hundred of us to sit on the linoleum "Indian style."
Ric would take a seat on our tiny stage, settle his twelve-string guitar on his lap, and launch into our favorites from his repertoire--"Palomino," "Pico Blanco," "Evy Ivy Over."
The highlight each year was his "Dirty Word Song," which he'd always preface with a brief lead-in about what makes words seem good or bad. Each verse ended with Ric hesitating before he blurted out a different much-anticipated expletive, all of us at long last shrieking "potty!" or what-have-you right along with him before collapsing against each other in helpless giggles.
What we loved best, however, was his urging us to join him in singing the final chorus, which ended with "the only dirty words are hate and war."
Given my enduring love of profanity, I guess I took his philosophy to heart at that tender age.
Granted, my road to becoming fully adept in the art of gutter language was not always a smooth one. There was the time, for instance, when I referred to fellow-fourth-grader Chris Ashmont as "a homo" in earshot of my mother.
Mom asked me if I knew what that utterance meant, whereupon I patiently explained to her that it was "short for homo sapien," which I mistakenly pictured at the time as a sort of furry and stooped pre-historic-type person one might once have found living in caves.
By high school, however, I had achieved such a breadth and depth of forbidden vocabulary that I rarely made it through hockey practice
without having Miss Marlor yell, "I heard that, Read! Drop and give me twenty," across the field.
Mom still says that the only things she knows her daughters learned in boarding school were how to smoke cigarettes and swear.
Turning profanity into a paying gig took a lot longer. During my brief stint as editor-in-chief "Bunny de Plume" at the now thankfully defunct Bodice.com, I became perhaps the first writer in history ever to lose money writing pornography.
I think this might have something to do with the fact that there's not a whole lot of what the Dixie Chicks refer to as "mattress dancing" described overtly in my novels.
It hasn't stoppered my protagonist's potty mouth, however. Kirkus even referred to my "liberal use of the F-word" in a recent pre-pub review of The Crazy School (in a good way).
Several weeks ago, however, I finally got the chance to talk about bad words non-fictionally for money (woo hoo!) when Bay Area writer Ellen Sussman asked if I'd be interested in contributing to the anthology she's currently editing.
She sent us all the cover art this morning:
Due out in June, 2008
If you'd like to hazard a guess as to which word I chose for my subject, here are some hints: it's pink, starts with "e," and is wedged between "jobs" and "dirty" in the jpeg above. The phrase "nature's applause meter" appears during the course of the essay, if you need another hint.
What's your favorite dirty word? Did you ever use one wrong when you were were a kid?
As for me, I still agree with Ric Masten.
The only dirty words are hate and war.
And I hope the fires in SoCal are brought under control soon--stay safe, you guys!
"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge. " --Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind"
Actually, this week's Santa Anas are a lot worse than that. A HOME BURNS TO THE GROUND IN GREEN VALLEY LAKE
It’s 90 degrees outside with a desert-like 3 per cent humidity. The Santa Anas are blowing 50 m.p.h. with gusts to 70.
Fires are popping up all over Southern California. A quarter of a million people have been forced out of their homes. Those of us who live in the hills or in wooded canyons are alert for the smell of smoke and the sound of sirens. (Note: In California, the term “wooded canyon” is a synonym for “kindling.”) Below, our street: Brave firefighters, seen here in protective gear, are doing everything they can in horrific conditions. The wind is supposed to die down tomorrow, but what we really need is a monsoon, and there’s no rain on the horizon. **********************************************
VIVA LAUGHLIN? NOPE. LAUGHLIN, R.I.P. Last week, Alessandra Stanley in The New York Times began her review of the new CBS drama/musical with this appraisal.
"Viva Laughlin on CBS may well be the worst new show of the season, but is it the worst show in the history of television? It certainly comes close ..."
Yesterday, after a mere two airings watched by approximately 127 people nationwide (okay, maybe not that many), CBS pulled the plug, cancelling the series. **********************************
HERE’S MY TV LIST. WHERE’S YOURS?
I TIVO these programs every week.
1. DEXTER
(Based on Jeff Lindsay’s “Darkly Dreaming Dexter,” the show features a witty and savvy serial killer to die for.)
2. MAD MEN
(Set in 1960, when everyone smoked, guzzled martinis at lunch, and men chased their secretaries around the desk).JON HAMM, AD MAN WITH A TANGLED PAST, ON "MAD MEN"
3. CALIFORNICATION
(Don’t be put off by the sophomoric title or the gratuitous sex, which Jim Born assures me is the best kind. With the sharpest writing around, "Californication" has my Emmy vote).
4. CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM
(Larry David’s neuroses don’t seem as funny this season. He remains true to his theme, however. No good deed goes unpunished).
5. JOE PATERNO’S WEEKLY PRESS CONFERENCE
(Granted, Joe has been saying the same things since 1966, but then, so have I).
What’s on your list?
**************************************
AMC FLUNKS THE BAR EXAM
American Movie Classics has an on-line poll to choose the greatest “courtroom drama" of all time. You can vote for any of the following ten films.
Twelve Angry Men
A Few Good Men
The Rainmaker
Erin Brockovich
My Cousin Vinny
The Firm
To Kill a Mockingbird
Inherit the Wind
Philadelphia
Amistad
Whoever came up with the list must have flunked the bar exam. “My Cousin Vinny” is a terrific courtroom comedy, and the two films adapted from John Grisham books, “The Rainmaker” and “The Firm,” are pleasant potboilers, at best
So where are “The Verdict” and “Witness for the Prosecution” and "Anatomy of a Murder?" Nowhere to be found.
What's your favorite courtroom film?
**************************************
DON’T SIT NEXT TO ME UNLESS YOU GET YOUR FLU SHOT
“I lost 11 great-uncles on one day in the First World War, and yet more people died from the influenza pandemic of 1918 than in that entire war."
-- Peter Hudson, Willaman professor of biology, Penn State University.
I just got back from the Surrey International Writers Conference in Surrey, British Columbia.
There were 800 people in attendance and our indefatigable leader and organizer, kc dyer, did a superb job of keeping all of us entertained and on time for our events.
Saturday, the room was packed for my workshop presentation on Creating an Amateur Sleuth. That afternoon I met with several new writers in “blue pencil” sessions to discuss and critique three pages of their works-in-progress. Sunday morning I presented a workshop on Crime in Fiction: How to keep it real when the police enter the picture. I’ve gathered a lot of information about police investigations over the years from my association with the LAPD, but I also got some good tips from our very own James O. (Jim, you should have seen everybody in the audience trying to shoot that knife out of my hand!)
The best part about these conferences is making new friends. Over the weekend, I got to hang out with new BFFs Don McQuinn, Joan Johnston, Wendy Roberts, and Nancy Warren and to spend time with fellow SoCal writer, Jan Burke.
As you know, whenever writers get together we tend to over indulge. As a result, by Sunday morning my voice had dropped an octave or two. Here's some actual footage of me in the bar after my workshop.
Okay, that's not me. It's Lauren Bacall. But my voice sounded just like that. I swear.
Voice change or not, if you’re new at this game and looking for a well run and welcoming conference that offers maximum opportunities to pitch your work to authors, agents, editors, and publishers, check out Surrey. It's one of the best-run writer’s conferences I’ve ever attended for all the above reasons and one more: they make every presenting author seem equally important. That counts for a lot in my book.
Do you have any good/bad conference experiences to share?
Who was it, commenting on our blog recently, who said something about staring at the blank page until you sweat blood from your brow? It just came to mind as I thought about my post tomorrow. Usually, I write at the last minute, composing my post while looking at the clock on my laptop, wondering if I’ll get it finished before Patty or Jim (I know they’re usually early birds) check the blog. Lord knows where the words come from, but usually they do, mainly because I am a person who seems to be incensed fairly easily, and for fodder, one peek at the New York Times or Britain’s Independent newspaper will get me going on some issue or another. But today is Thursday and I know if I don’t write something now, ready to post tomorrow, then it won’t happen because I have to take my horse to the dentist. Yes, that’s right.. Horse to the dentist.
That isn’t my horse. Sara is better looking.
So, because I don’t know what to write about, I am going to noodle around here on the page and see if I can string some words together to explain what it means to me to be a writer, to be able to say, “I am a writer.” Ah, you see, that’s the first thing you have to do, if you are serious about this business – you have to lay claim to your work. I don’t care if the only writing you’ve done today happens to be composition of a Costco shopping list (and will someone tell me why I go to that forsaken place to buy toilet tissue and come out $200 lighter? Perhaps it’s because of all the c**p you can buy there), if you think that being a writer is your destiny, then you’d better sit and write and lay claim: I am a writer.
(that’s the room where Margaret Drabble sweats blood)
I learned this from my cousin, Stephanie – and I might have mentioned this before, but heck, it’s my post, so I’ll mention it again. My cousin Stephanie passed away at the age of 41. Towards the end of her life, when she was on so many meds she couldn’t sleep at night, she’d call me because, being in another time zone, I was awake. At the time Stephanie was involved in her own writing project, a journal for her then twenty-year-old daughter. It was an interesting blend of thoughts on life, reflections on the past and how blessed she considered herself to be to have such a lovely daughter, along with instructions on subjects such as, “How to pay the mortgage,” “Dealing with the bank,” and “What to do when the car doesn’t start.” One evening when we were talking, I told Stephanie that what I really wanted to do with my life was to be a writer. “Well then,” she said, “that’s what you have to call yourself. You’ve got to say, ‘I am a writer.’ In fact, I’m going to start telling everyone I know that my cousin Jackie is a writer.” That was to be our last conversation. Stephanie passed away a month later.
I was already scribbling away and publishing some articles and essays, and though I didn’t really know quite what I should do to take the leap to the next level, I started referring to myself as a writer. Then I joined a memoir class and wrote a memoir of my childhood. OK, so that memoir is still languishing somewhere in the nether regions of my computer, but I learned something about myself – that I could write a lot of pages, which meant I could write a book. I didn’t know what I would write, but I knew that if I kept calling myself a writer and taking any opportunity to write that came along, it would be like drops of water on stone – I’d eventually make a dent somewhere!
So, what does it mean to me to be a writer? It means I am very, very lucky. It means that not a day goes by that I do not thank the gods and goddesses of creative endeavor for my good fortune, to be able to do something that I love and have people actually enjoy what I do. I remember someone at one of my bookstore appearances saying to me, as I signed their book, “Oh, you write all the letters of your name.” I was a bit surprised by the comment, and replied, “Anyone who chooses to spend some of their discretionary income on one of my books gets every letter of my name and a big thank-you to go with it.”
(this is Seamus Heaney’s hangout)
I work a lot of hours in a week, but I can be as much of a dreamer as I want to be and know that it’s part of the job, as is reading and calling it research. Everything I see about me is another thread for the web I weave, which is wonderful as my curiosity has been known to slip over into being nosey – but that’s OK because I am a writer.
Being a writer has brought community. If I had known twenty-five years ago that writing a novel in the mystery genre would bring me into a cadre of writers who are extraordinarily supportive, who are great fun and who care about the work of others in the field, I would have said those words a lot sooner: “I am a writer.”
(Ian Rankin’s place of work)
When I think of the terrific people I’ve met since I published my first novel – and that includes booksellers, librarians, readers, workshop organizers (the list goes on) – I just hope that I don’t wake up soon and find that I didn’t do it after all, that it was all a dream and that no one ever said, “My cousin Jackie’s a writer.’
So, whether you are one of the published greats or someone we all look forward to reading one day, look in the mirror and say, “I AM a writer.” Good, isn’t it, even with the beads of blood and sweat and the blank white page?
And if you think I’m adding a photo of the huge mess that is my working space – not a chance!
Have a great weekend. By the time you read this, I will probably be looking at the business end of a set of very large teeth.
The beauty of a kick-ass blog like Naked Authors is that there are no rules. I can write about just about anything. Sex, violence, politics, religion, false teeth – nothing is off-limits.
So today I’m going to talk about books. Not just any books but books that have either been recently released or soon to be released by authors whom I happen to know. Now that’s cool; Knowing people who write books that I like and being in a position to mention them on a blog. I’m obviously in a good mood today and I have to admit I have no idea why and no special reason to be happy other than having an abundance of good books to read.
This weekend I was at the Southern Festival of Books and saw the lovely J.T. Ellison who’s debut novel, All the Pretty Girls, has just come out. I am particularly fond of this thriller about a Nashville homicide detective named Taylor Jackson and her pursuit of a serial killer. If you were to check the inside cover you’d see a blurb by an author named James O. Born. That should be all you need to know about this fine novel. Oh yeah some guy named Lee Child liked it too. I’m not even sure he’s an American.
Next on my list of new novels is Shallow Grave by Lori Armstrong. This is the third novel in a series about a South Dakota P.I. named Julie Collins. Aside from the best titles in the business with the first two novels named Blood Ties and Hallowed Ground, Lori has an interesting character who must deal with issues alien to most Americans: Tribal issues and politics.
Lori has been nominated for the Shamus Award and Shallow Grave is her best novel yet.
Now those of you who follow details and look at photos closely might think I’m only blogging about tall, blond, beautiful authors today but I assure you that is not entirely true. The third book in my round up is by California author Tim Maleeny. Although tall and arguably beautiful, wait a minute, I guess he is sort've blond too. My mistake, that must be the criteria this week. Sue me, I'm not a professional critic.
His newest novel, Beating the Babushka, is the second in his series featuring P.I. Cape Weathers. In this outing he investigates an apparent suicide in the film industry and must navigate a wild array of quirky characters from all walks of life.
I met Tim at this year’s Thrillerfest in New York and he impressed me as a funny guy. Sometimes that’s all I need to start reading someone’s books and in this case I was glad I did.
Now this is just a short list of the recent new books but what better criteria to use than personally liking the authors? Unlike many TV commentators I try to be completely upfront about my prejudice but in this case I’m pretty confident you’ll like these authors if you give them a shot. What about you? Read any good books lately? I’m always interested in finding new authors.
So I hope you'll bear with me while I rehash the whole Genre vs. Literary thing for the bazillionth time, here. It's for a good cause, that being celebration of Doris Lessing's having won the Nobel prize for Literature--the announcement of which put the hugest smile on my face for days:
While it seemed to have made certain Literary Purity-Of-Essence Fascisti feel more like this:
I have long been a fan of her writing, thanks to my great-friend-and-book-guru Ariel Zeitlin Cooke's having lent me her own dogeared paperback of Lessing's gobsmackingly fine The Golden Notebook back in college:
Had Lessing limited herself to writing only in that vein, it's hard to imagine one would have heard so much as a lone sniff of disdain exhaled upon the stale-Freud-and-cabbage miasma cloistered behind the ivory ramparts of the canon's haute criterati.
But alas, Lessing has defiled herself by frolicking in the forbidden waters of genre. As such, the outcry against her anointment as Nobel laureate was as swift as it was knee-jerk.
"This is pure political correctness," whined Harold Bloom to The Associated Press. "Although Ms. Lessing at the beginning of her writing career had a few admirable qualities, I find her work for the past 15 years quite unreadable ... fourth-rate science fiction."
Coming, as it does, so hard on the heels of Ruth Franklin's recent obtusely neener-neener chastisement of Michael Chabon in Slate for having "spent considerable energy trying to drag the decaying corpse of genre fiction out of the shallow grave where writers of serious literature abandoned it"
with the publication of his latest novel, The Yiddish Policeman's Union, Bloom and his ilk's freakout du jour over the burgeoning legitimacy of genre seems to be reaching a new fever pitch--perhaps at long last disapparating into that upper register which only dogs are forced to hear.
I mean, God forbid we should find ourselves at the mercy of what Franklin dismissed as "a democratic reading experience... a culture in which fiction, in whatever form, could permeate the national conversation and be essential to people's daily lives."
At Bouchercon, I got to hear S.J. Rozan read aloud the cream of Ursula Leguin's stinging bitch-slap response to Franklin's puling:
There, again — the slow, squelching, sucking steps, and the foul smell was stronger. Something was climbing her stairs, coming closer to her door. As she heard the click of heel bones that had broken through rotting flesh, she knew what it was. But it was dead, dead!
God damn that Chabon, dragging it out of the grave where she and the other serious writers had buried it to save serious literature from its polluting touch, the horror of its blank, pustular face, the lifeless, meaningless glare of its decaying eyes!
What did the fool think he was doing? Had he paid no attention at all to the endless rituals of the serious writers and their serious critics — the formal expulsion ceremonies, the repeated anathemata, the stakes driven over and over through the heart, the vitriolic sneers, the endless, solemn dances on the grave? Did he not want to preserve the virginity of Yaddo?
Certainly, however, Bloom and Franklin are not the first to raise the alarm about the invasion of the potboiler...
... or even about the specific incursions of Michael Chabon against the supposed intellectual divide between the shining raiment of "true" literature and shabby low-rent hijab of mere genre.
Way back in 2004, Lev Grossman launched his own counter-attack in the pages of Time, following the publication of Chabon's The Final Solution, which he saw as "highbrow fiction being assaulted by lowbrow genre."
Grossman then wondered why
an esteemed, respectable literary novelist like Chabon want to sully his fancy-pants reputation with a mystery novel?...Pulitzer prizewinning Michael Chabon?... Byronic hair Michael Chabon?
Without getting into yet another debate about how the best fiction is simply that, whether it's rooted in the conventions of literary novels or the convention of genre novels... it seemed to me rather odd that Grossman neglected to mention anywhere that he was the author of one such "hybrid highbrow-lowbrow tale," CODEX. I mean, if a "literary thriller" about a mysterious manuscript doesn't count as the very thing that puzzles Grossman in his essay, what would?
Which I loved, as I adored Laura Lippman's response in the Confessions backblog later that same day:
Who benefits from the debate, that's what I want to know? Not genre writers. Not readers. So it must be the literary writers who keep beating this dead horse. Such pieces always make me feel as if I'm an ill-behaved dog running amok in the great marble temple of literature...
..."Stop her! She's peeing on the floor! She's drinking out of the toilet! She won't play by the rules -- except those tired genre conventions that mark her work as second-rate. Ohmigod -- she's humping Nadine Gordimer's leg. Get her out!"
In honor of Doris Lessing, I'd like to reiterate the response I was moved to write that day:
I think they're all just pissed off because they've turned "literature" into the kind of Filboid-Studge Latin whose precise declensions can only be enforced with Joycean pandy-bats viciously applied to the reader's tender palms and footsoles,
and meanwhile we're all having so much goddamn fun over here in Vibrant Street-Italian Vernacular Land it should be illegal.I still applaud Walter Mosley's comment at LCC this year, when he was asked whether he worried about Harold "Thigh-Man" Bloom, that "that would be like a Great Dane worrying about a Chihuahua."
And I wouldn't hump Nadine Gordimer's leg for a fat seven-figure deal in Lee Child Dollars, though peeing on marble floors remains a constant temptation.
If you want to see how tired Lessing herself seems of the whole debate, check out her response to the news that she'd won the Nobel:
No, this is not a shameless attempt to snag people googling "giant penis." (The word "naked" brings us enough voyeurs, usually from Arab countries). This is the stuff of pure literature. Or, at least, pure book promotion.
My pal, the sly and witty Bill Bryan, recently flogged "Keep It Real," his socko Hollywood satire at the legendary "Book Soup" in West Hollywood. And who showed up? A giant penis, that's who. Click below for the Full Monty and a lesson in how to enliven your next book event. *********************************************
"DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT HISTORY..."
Catherine the Great, a fun gal, relaxes after ordering the assassination of Ivan VI.
For a friend’s birthday, I recently bought a “time to remember” card from a company called CD Card. The friend's birth year is 1960, and the card contains a CD with hit songs such as Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely” and Elvis Presley's "It's Now or Never."
There are also a series of headlines, depicting news events of the year. Some are pretty innocuous and obviously correct. “The Olympics are held in Rome.”
But take a look at these, as well as my footnotes:
1. “Cuba moves thousands of poor people to modern homes.”
Footnote: Ahem, the homes belonged to other people!
2. “J.F.K., at 43, is the youngest ever President of the U.S.”
Footnote: Elected in 1960, JFK became president in 1961.
3. “Ceylon’s Bandaranaike becomes the world’s first woman leader.”
Footnote: This may come as quite as shock to Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mary, Catherine the Great and a host of other royalty, not to mention Queen Latifah.
QUEEN ELIZABETH I, HOLLYWOOD STYLE
There really are far too many women rulers to name. But here are two more, and I'm not making them up. Queen Titi of Egypt. And Queen Su-bad of Mesopotamia. ********************************************************* HOW TO SELL NEWSPAPERS: MAKE IT UP!
In Sunday's Washington Post, certified funny person Gene Weingarten proposes a way to save newspapers. Read it here.
Last Wednesday I was trading spit with a bunch of writer friends when the topic turned to the subject of reviewing other people’s manuscripts. We agreed that too many writers ask for a critique but they really want to hear that the book is brilliant and the cabal of agents who’ve turned it down are part of a wide conspiracy to suppress the “next big thing.”
Here’s the reality. Criticism sucks. If you don’t know that by now, you’ll grasp the concept when your book is published. Once the book is out, the criticism doesn’t stop. It just gets louder.
I’ve been in a critique group for eleven years and I’m beginning to understand criticism. Criticism can mean merely to evaluate without necessarily finding fault, but the purpose of a writer’s group is to expose flaws before agents, editors, and the reading public can. Criticism is not all good but it’s not all personal either. It’s about the work. The rules of etiquette in my writing group are: (1) Don’t interrupt the critique; (2) Don’t try to explain what you really meant or trash the critique as inaccurate; (3) In fact, don’t say anything except a polite “thank you” at the end. As tough as it is to hear that my writing lacks perfection, I need the feedback. Sometimes I'm too close to the work to see what’s wrong with it.
Except for my writing group, I no longer read manuscripts from the works-in-progress of hopeful writers for four reasons. One, I now have higher priorities and more pressing deadlines. Two, somebody might accuse me of stealing his/her ideas. Three, negative criticism pisses people off. Who needs more enemies? Four, it’s a thankless job.
Case in point: A while back I agreed to read the manuscript of a friend who told me he was ready to send his novel out to agents. The first thing I noticed was an unwelcome batch of typos, misspelled words, and punctuation errors. I started correcting them but realized by page ten that I’d likely run out of ink before I ran out of misused commas.
The book’s message was appealing but there were some issues he needed to address. I devoted hours to an editorial letter before mailing it and the manuscript back to him. Weeks of silence passed. No “thanks for your time.” Nothing. When I finally asked him if he'd received my letter, he said, “Yes, but I didn’t read it. I decided the book was fine as is.” Really? He never found an agent or a publisher.
Criticism sucks. Some people will never "get" your writing, but if they've taken the time to read your bloody manuscript, at least express your appreciation even if you don’t agree with the feedback. And if you set aside your ego, maybe—just maybe—you'll find something useful in the comments.
I'm off on Thursday to teach a couple of workshops at the Surrey International Writers Conference in Surrey, British Columbia. I hope to come back with photographs. Until then, Happy Monday!
Just back from across the pond – again! This time, though, I spent almost half the time in northern France, visiting the battlefields of The Somme. As you probably know, I’ve been once before, a visit to both Ypres and The Somme. This time I wanted to concentrate on just one area for the next book I write in my series featuring Maisie Dobbs, the ex-WW1 nurse who later becomes a private inquiry agent.
It’s a funny thing, this “research” business. If you are a writer of fiction and you want to breathe life into the world you’re creating, then you’ll probably find yourself doing a bit of research – perhaps ambling around an agricultural show, or racing a Porsche at break-neck speed. You might actually get your hands on a gun, just to get the feel of it, or you'll walk along a street your protagonist will walk, and you'll be people-watching, window-shopping, standing, looking, lingering there. And for your research, you'll probably read a book or two or three, or a pile of books. And what are you looking for? You’re waiting for a nugget, a peg to hang a scene upon, a gem with which to start a conversation, to shape a character or to twist the plot. Sometimes you know it when you see it, sometimes, it comes back to you when you are in the doldrums, facing that blank screen and wondering how long it will take you to pay back the advance if you put in your application at Macys today. And sometimes it’s just there, immediately, you know what will happen, because you saw it in your mind’s eye as you walked the walk of research.
So, because the root of each of my novels thus far has been the legacy and impact of The Great War, I go back to look at where it happened. I won’t write a long account of my visit in my post today (you can read about my last pilgrimage to the battlefields by going to the following link: http://jacquelinewinspear.com/essays_604.htm).
But here are some photos from this visit – and Marianne, there's one just for you, so look out for it (there were more, but could not upload them for some reason, so will send them to you) But first, Newfoundland Park:
One of the most poignant places to visit is Newfoundland Park, in Beaumont Hamel. On the first morning of the Battle of the Somme in 1916, the men of (mainly) the Newfoundland regiments went over the top only to be mown down by enemy machine guns. The first line, second line and communication trenches were filled with the dead and dying within minutes. After the war, Newfoundland bought the land, threw a fence around it and left it to nature, although they brought in plants native to the island, so that their men and boys could rest in a place with reminders of home. The first picture shows the giant caribou sculpture, the second is taken from just under the statue, across the land – you can still see the scars of the trenches. Where you see the battlefield cemetery in the distance – that’s just in front of the German front line. We were there first thing in the morning, just as it might have been in the minutes before the whistle blew for the men to go "over the top." Soon that mist would rise to reveal the true terror of the day.
And here are some more:
One of the wreaths left at the top of the famous Lochnagar Crater:
And a memory to a fallen soldier:
Most of the British and Allied cemeteries of the Great War are true battlefield cemeteries, smaller enclosed places of rest dotted along what was once no-man’s land along the Somme Valley. Sir Edwin Lutyens, who designed the layout of the actual cemeteries, said that he wanted to bring to mind a battalion of soldiers marching in an English field. The soldiers were initially buried where they fell, and reburied with non-secular markers after the war. This one sits in no-man's land in the place where the Accrington Pals were slaughtered on July 1st, 1916. In the distance you can see the tip of another Cross of Sacrifice (all the cemeteries have a Cross of Sacrifice). You can stand there and see the crosses in the distance marking more cemeteries:
I stood on this hill in exactly the spot where Siegfried Sassoon stood to watch the opening of the Battle of the Somme, where he saw men like small armies of ants rushing straight into hell.
Just a few more to go now .... This is a memorial to the men of the Devonshire Regiment, memorialized close to a small cemetery where they are laid to rest. At the top of the marker it says, "The Devonshires held this trench. The Devonshires hold it still."
Old shells from a battle long ago. You can still put your hand in the ground and pull up live ammunition.
The Delville Wood memorial to the missing of the South African regiments who fought there is a magnificent structure dedicated to the missing, many of whom lay undiscovered deep in the soil of the wood. Of course, the wood was decimated in the war, but has been allowed to grow into a quiet, peaceful place, much as it was before the war. I caught this ray of light beaming down through the trees, to the place where soldiers fought, died and remain to this day.
I don’t know, yet, what nuggets I will use, how I will pull thoughts, feelings, impressions from this visit to inform and give weight to the novel I will start writing on November 1st. Perhaps they need a bit of time to simmer, now that I’m home. I may use a lot of what I’ve learned in my visits to this region, I may use just a snippet. But the thing you come to know, as a writer, is that with this process called “research” you are always doing it, and you always use what you’ve learned – it might not be the next book, but it will inform your writing. Trust that process.
I’m sitting here in front of my computer without a clue of what I’m going to blog about. I have several ideas but none of them feel right for today.
When in doubt I like to drop back to my favorite topic: Writing.
Not technique or rules. Not advice or encouragement but perspective. Writing is an odd profession in almost every respect. You can enter it late in life, as a prodigy, or by design after schooling. No matter your success in the industry everyone, and I mean everyon
If only Jimmy Hoffa
had understood the principles of
had learned the basics of
had consulted
had packed
If only Jimmy Hoffa
had understood the principles of
had learned the basics of
had consulted
had packed
