Nice problem to have

Since becoming a published author, I have a new category of complaints in my life. They all come under the heading of Nice Problem to Have.

It goes like this. I whine, “I’ve got two books due in the next couple of months.” You: “Nice problem to have.”

Me, “I’m spending all my time answering fan emails.” You: “Nice problem to have.”

I say, “I’m running out of ways to murder people.” You: “Nice problem to have. And please shut up.”

So let me say it first. This post is about a – all together now - “Nice problem to have.”

The Launch party for Wild Goose Chase was held this week. I signed books for two hours straight. This was not a hardship. I loved every minute of it. My fans are sweet and wildly supportive. Proud of me, even. I basked in their smiles and generosity.

But signing books is not the relaxing pastime I’d envisioned when I was daydreaming at the coffee shop, while avoiding writing the middle third of my book. Something happens. A phenomenon that no author, not a fellow Inkspotter or a Sista in Crime or MWA member, warned me about.

Writing on-demand. Dedications. Readers expect you to personalize their book. Be warm, witty. Meaningful, even. At a moment’s notice. With a line of people behind them!

I’d worked out a relevant tagline that would work for 90% of my readers. I’d pre-tested pens. I’d practiced writing my name so it was legible, flowing and distinctive. And then, someone handed me a book, and said, “Write something good. Really good.”

Dedication anxiety set in. My palms began to sweat. My limbic nervous system shut down. The request freezes my brain faster than a Pomegranate Paradise Jamba Juice. My hand moved across the page as if writing, but the tip of the pen hovered six inches above the book as I trolled my now-inaccessible memory. I can’t think of anything interesting to write, and indeed, can’t recall where I know this person from. Oh, we shared a womb? Now I remember you.

And to make matters worse, D.A. (I expect to see an entry in the Dsm any time now) is especially present when you’re writing a dedication to the people who mean a lot in your life. I’d love to write something marvelous. I really would. I want to be sure the person knows how grateful I am for their support, and how much it means to me that they purchased the book. We smile at each other. The book is slid under my hand. Go! I have ten seconds to come with something unique, catchy and funny. Flight or fight response kicks in, and I resist the urge to throw up.

Please forgive me if I signed your book with a dedication that was less than you expected. I meant to say so much more. But it’s hard, people. I’m a writer. That translates to rewriter. I put down words, erase them, start over, find a better way to say that. My critique partners chime in with clarifying language. I get plenty of do-overs. We call them drafts.

Sadly, there’s no delete button on my pen. What I write on a dedication is there for all to see. Forever.

I know, I know. Nice Problem to Have.

The Art of the Cover

One thing Midnight Inker's know is that we have the best cover art in the industry. A famous author once told me that the purpose of a cover is to make a potential reader cross a bookstore to get a closer look--to make said p.r. pick up and touch our books. And after that, with the aid of good back cover copy, to send our baby home with our p.r., so they can read, read, read.
And, if you take a second and scan down the beautiful and diverse cover art displayed at the side of this blog, you'll see that our covers do that with a zing and a pop and a, "Pssst, c'mon over here.!"
A lot goes into that zing and pop, though. A committee decides on the concept. The concept is designed (my newest, shown here, was done by Midnight Ink's talented Kevin Brown). Then the design's flawless execution is carried out by an illustrator (Kim Johnson of Lindgren & Smith paints the illustrations for my Kate London Mysteries).

I want to show you what a difference a cover makes. Below you will see the cover art for the first book in the series. BrigaDOOM. To the right is the Concept that Never Happened.

Now, that cover might be great for some books, but Midnight Ink saw that it just wouldn't work for a mystery series dubbed sexy, sassy, and funny.

Like I said, we have the best covers in the industry--

for a reason

Here's to our covers!

--Susan Goodwill

Saturday at the Boxing Gym

Tom Schreck
Author of “On the Ropes, A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery”

I got into boxing because I tried it after I got a black belt in karate--something I thought certified me as a badass--then one day I got in a boxing ring with a guy who got discharged from Coxackie Correctional that week. I wound up in a pile. It didn't go a whole round and my stomach hurt.

I bagged the karate and in my late twenties started to box. I got reasonably competent and at my best I could hang with pretty good amateurs and maybe poor pros. Really good amateurs and average or slightly-less-than-average pros, would kick my ass.

Saturday I was at the gym for about an hour and half and there was a lot going on. There’s always a lot going on in a boxing gym. None of it, or at least very little of it, was spoken.

Here it is in no particular order:

1. I get to the gym and wrap my hands. A quick look around and I see the gym’s new pro fighter, a former champ is working out. There's also the hotshot new kid who got signed by Golden Boy Promotions--DeLaHoya's outfit. Everyone gives both of the pros a wide birth, even the people who don’t know who they are. They’re somebody, you can tell, by the way they move and the way act. Others working out don’t look them in the eye.

2. The big heavyweight with the tattoos is in wearing an "Irish Drinking Team" tee shirt. I sparred an easy round with him a couple of months back. He went easy and I almost threw up I was so tired. He went easy, for him.

3. I'm thinking about doing some sparring today but I'm looking for an excuse not to. I won't use that excuse unless it looks like I'm doing somebody else a favor.

4. I work as a pro fight judge and there's a big fight in the Garden tonight. Everyone's asking me why I'm not working it. I say I didn't get the call.

5. The non-sparring part of the workout starts. It has both fighters and boxercisers and it’s a boxing station-to-station class. Without a word being said everyone knows who the competitive fighters are, who the gym fighters are, who the wannabes are and who's there just for a workout.

6. By luck, I get in the group with the ex-champ and the up and comer, which means I have to try to keep up while making jokes about my age. I'm careful never to claim I could hang with them even in my supposed prime. In the ring with the coach doing pad work, the other two guys' punches snap into the pads with loud cracks while mine seem to thud like I'm wearing sofa cushions and not bag gloves.

7. A guy who was a good pro kick fighter comes in. He's the dad of the hot new boxer. Ten or fifteen years ago we sparred and I knocked him down. He brings it up every time he sees me and in the gym world it's the one thing that defines me. He brings it up to everyone in the gym again today and laughs that he wants to come out of retirement to even the score--I say something about landing a lucky punch and everyone laughs. When we're both 70 I think the interactions will be the same.

8. There's a couple of old ex-football payers doing the workout and looking really uncoordinated. I'm not sure why but that makes me feel good.

9. Word is out that the local pro heavyweight from the gym across town is coming in to spar with the ranked MMA guy from downstate later this afternoon.

10. A guy who I used to work out with 15 years ago comes in with a kid he's training and says to me; "Hey, how about you and I get a rematch?" I think I remember sparring a couple of rounds with him in ’94.

11. The class part ends and the fighters start putting their gear on. I'm farting around hoping to not have to spar. I have to ask someone to take a photo of me in a boxing pose because Crimespree Magazine is going to put me on their cover. So there I am in a gym with a former a champ, an up and coming star, a trainer who was once on the national team, and a bunch of other fighters—and I’m getting my picture taken because I am a writer.

I feel like a total asshole and get it over with as fast as possible.

12. Alex, my usual sparring partner, tells me he forgot his mouthpiece but he still might be willing to spar. No one who fights ever says “I don’t feel like it today” because there’s a part of you that never feels like it. There’s also a part of you that knows how good it feels after its done. Like you’ve done something 99.9% of the world’s population isn’t willing to do. Of course, a lot of people don’t go over Niagara Falls in a barrel and that doesn’t make that important.

I'm relieved that it’s sort of Alex’s fault that we can’t spar today and leave to take my 85 year-old mom out for Japanese food-- a detail I leave out as I leave the gym.

I’m writing this on Sunday at Graney’s Bar with my headphones on. My shoulders are so sore I’m nauseous and the beer isn’t helping. Just the same, I feel a little sharper and a little more aware because I did something important yesterday.

It would’ve been a lot more important if I got to fight but, as you know now, that wasn’t my fault.

It just wouldn’t be right to spar a guy who forgot his mouthpiece.

And the winner is...

by G.M. Malliet

Photo grabbed from the Daily Mail

Helen Mirren. Last night, she won the Oscar for best dress, best makeup, and best-looking actress over the age of 25. I was surprised to learn she lives in California. I think to all of us, she will forever be Jane Tennyson, charging around the mean streets of London, and looking decidedly more haggard than she did last night.

On another awards front, yesterday the Telegraph came out with a list of the top 50 mystery writers of all time, and I'm sure they're still regretting it. Because...there were some serious omissions to this list, apart from the fact no Midnight Ink authors made the list. The most glaring omission was P.D. James (I have met Ms. James and she, like Helen Mirren, scores off the chart in the charm category), but there were others. See for yourself.

The book was better.....

I read an article the other day in the LA Times about the recent success of turning novels into movies and it got me thinking - always a dangerous thing - about some of my favorite translations. Don’t we all know that Hollywood isn’t always successful turning our favorite works of prose into celluloid winners. But sometimes they get it right. Here are few books turned movie that stand out for me.

No Country for Old Men
I’m a big Cormac McCarthy fan and I think the Coen brothers captured the nihilistic, life-is-one-big-coin-flip theme just right.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep?/Blade Runner
If I’m being honest, I’ve never read the book. But BR is one of my favorite movies and I think possibly Harrison Ford’s best work. “It's not an easy thing to meet your maker.”

A Simple Plan
Gee, finding a bundle of money in the woods shouldn’t cause so much trouble – but it does. Proves the power of a simple idea told powerfully.

These aren't in any kind of order - they are just ones that came readily to mind. I could go on but I’ll let you all throw in some of your favorites. And we can be equal opportunity critics here – throw out a few clunkers if you like. Lord knows Hollywood has butchered many a fine novel in their day.

Newborn

Done! Finis! The baby is in the mail! Yes, as Joe reported, THE 731 LEGACY is finished, and I don’t want to see it again for quite a while. I am so close now I wouldn’t know if a character we killed in chapter 3 miraculously showed up in chapter 23. And right now, I just don’t give a flying . . . well, you know. I love my baby, but I’m an exhausted mother of a newborn. No sleep. Round the clock feedings. The spouse wants to help, but can’t breastfeed. I’ve been so busy, so totally consumed by the nurturing that I’ve neglected my friends and now am out of the social loop. Especially out of the loop that involves my friends who have never had children. They just don’t understand what a job being a parent is. Got the baby blues and reacquired my baby fat as I have sat and rocked, and fed, and consoled, and comforted, and fed, THE BABY.
But alas, Grandparents, (the publisher) have taken the sweet, precious child for a few weeks. I worry that the Grandparents don’t know the baby like I do. Don’t know the idiosyncrasies like me. And God knows, they might screw up the formula or the schedule I so patiently and laboriously have established. And NOBODY loves the baby like its mother. But I need the rest and welcome another set of hands and eyes to tend to the baby. I trust that they love it enough to take care of it. Who else could I entrust my baby too?
But the baby will be back soon enough. And I will have had enough of a reprieve to again nurture it with all the vigor it deserves. Hopefully one day it might grow into a respectful adult and be regarded with admiration. Of course my hopes (outrageous, delusional dreams) are that the baby will mature, and when I grow old will pay for my diapers and care. But then who knows how your kids turn out—how they are received and perceived by the rest of the world? You can only give them all you know and then let them fly on their own.
So off the baby went last Friday. I miss it, but am enjoying the rest. The only thing is, I’m not adjusting well. I wander from room to room wondering what I am supposed to be doing. I think I could get used to that in a couple of weeks. But by then, the baby will be back, and I suppose I will also be knocked up again with another. Wonder what the new one will be like.

EAT, BEG, LOVE - More Musings from the House of the Divine Canine

By Felicia Donovan

A dear friend of mine recently sent me a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert’s EAT, PRAY, LOVE, which I am devouring for its beautiful and reflective prose. I confess to a twinge of jealousy over the author’s ability to travel on this wonderfully spiritual journey, for I too, have been doing a great deal of self-reflection about my own spirituality of late.

I do not have the ability to travel to the Ashrams of India to study under the loving wisdom of a Guru. I cannot abandon my family for three months to discover the delicacies of Italian pasta, nor would work excuse me to go to Indonesia for four months.

What I have, then, is the House of the Divine Canine – a dwelling that is filled with the spirit of animals who offer me daily glimpses of a holier, more reflective life through their closeness to a more natural world. I share with you some of the spiritual insights I've gained through my observations of this canine world.

The Bow: It begins with the bow, long recognized as a form of supplication and submission to something greater. I watch my dogs bow to each other as an invitation to play; or as a welcoming gesture. It is the human equivalent to the handshake or tip of the hat, simple gestures we have long forgotten to show respect to another person.

The Meal: Unfortunately, our Nation has forgotten how to consume. We remain one of the most obese societies because we forget that food is first and foremost, meant for survival. Look at dogs roaming in the wild and you will rarely ever see an obese dog. Why? Because they eat to survive. They find their food sources and within their own hierarchical structure of alpha, beta, etc; they eat what they can to survive. Is it any wonder that at the same time we are faced with a crisis of obesity amongst humans, we now have the same crisis amongst our domesticated animals?

The Alpha: Dogs understand that there will always be a “top dog” and that this cannot be circumvented. "Alpha" is a title has to be earned. As long as the others respect that title, all is well. When a less dominant dog gets pushy, the alpha pushes right back to reassert itself and all is orderly once again. In the spiritual world, there is almost always a “top dog.” Is it any coincidence that “dog” and “God” are reflections of each other?

The Howl – Is there anything more eerie than the howl of an animal as it reaches deep into its soul and cries out? It is this ability to let go and go deep that we humans have forgotten how to do. I'm not suggesting everyone arch their neck and let out a deep cry, but animals are not shy about their need to cry out and call to others - for help, to make them aware of something, to invite them to gather. It is a part of their social nature. Animals, nor humans, were meant to be solitary creatures.

Finally, I believe my dogs - all animals, in fact, – embody a spirit that transcends what we, as humans, can ever experience and that the animal spirit, in whatever form of divinity it manifests itself as, is ever present. How else can you explain why things are immediately better at the site of a wagging tail or a good lick of the face?

You think I'll ever make it onto Oprah with this dogma?

D-Day

By Joe Moore

No, I don't mean the day the Allies invaded Normandy. I'm talking about deadline day. Today happens to be the deadline for my co-author Lynn Sholes and I to turn in the finished manuscript for THE 731 LEGACY, our latest installment in the Cotten Stone series.

It's a strange feeling to click on the email send button and watch your "baby" upload into cyberspace. Sort of like watching your son or daughter drive off to college. You take a deep breath as mixed emotions flood your heart. You're glad to be finished but at the same time, there's a feeling of sadness at the thought of ending another long journey.

After all, we've been writing about, talking about, plotting, and scheming about Cotten Stone through 4 books and six years.  So far, we've traveled across most of the continents with her, explored the Secret Archives of the Vatican, dark tunnels below the Kremlin, a lost city among the cloud-shrouded Peruvian Andes, the crumbling Anasazi ruins of New Mexico, Dracula's Castle in Eastern Europe, and the heart of the darkest place on earth: North Korea. Along the way, we also explored the science of quantum mechanics, human cloning, and biological and cyber terrorism.

We've watched Cotten grow from a young rookie news reporter fresh out of college into a world class investigative correspondent for the Satellite News Network. Jim Rollins called her a "female Indiana Jones with a press pass", and Doug Preston said she's "a heroine for the ages."

We've seen her face unspeakable physical, mental, and most of all, spiritual darkness--and survive. Cotten Stone has become as much a part of my life, and I'm sure Lynn's, as any of my family or friends are. I miss her already.

For me, it's a mixture of relief and emptiness to return to my computer and get ready to start the next journey. So how about you. As a writer, how do you feel the day you send your "baby" off to the publisher?