The Dire Need For Approval

Tom Schreck
author of the Duffy Dombrowski Mysteries
On the Ropes, TKO









Okay class, your assignment is to watch the video and answer these discussion questions:

1. What does the hound represent in the publishing world?

2. What fuels the screenwriters' denial?

3. What archetypal symbolism is embedded in the ham?

4. What is the secretary's name?

5. What does the hounds command to round up every small rabbit tell us about him?

6. Before you got an agent or got published would you have signed with this agent? If you are unsigned now would you like his address?

Night and Day

by G.M. Malliet

Photo: bbc.co.uk

Can we really have reached the Spring equinox already? Looking at my small garden, I notice plants pushing through the earth, and flowers dotting the trees, long before they make their usual appearances. (I am reminded of a bumper sticker I saw the other day that read, “Is the planet getting warmer, or is it just me?”)

It took me awhile to notice that the planet was getting warmer. I think this is because we moved around so much when I was a kid—we were in the circus. Just kidding. We were a military family. So I had no benchmark for what was normal for spring, summer, fall, or winter. It just depended on where we were that year. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I settled in one place long enough to start taking stock of my surroundings.

So when it comes to descriptions of the natural world, I’ve had to train myself to observe and take notes and research, probably more than most, and there is still a danger I’ll get it wrong. I tend to notice people and their behaviors more than I notice what kind of tree they’re standing in front of. This may be another legacy of military life: Being injected into different surroundings every few years, you have to learn to pick up on the mores as quickly as possible.

I’ve noticed other writers deal with the “natural world” dilemma by having a character say something like, “There was a vase of some kind of spiky blue flower on the table.” Sometimes that’s enough to know. Long descriptions of trees and plants, listed by their Latin names, can be pretty boring anyway. And that phrasing tells you a bit about the character: This guy is no gardener.

What about you? What descriptions come easiest for you: animal, vegetable, or mineral?

No Need To Make It Up

I'm late to the party, as usual – sorry. (Big thanks to Keith for reminding me what day it is.)

This is a brief post to say thanks to all the politicians out there for making our job as writers so damn easy. In my next book I have a passing reference to a lieutenant governor who borrows funds from the state treasury to pay for underage prostitutes, a highly illicit activity for an elected official but nothing compared to what's happening in the real world. Just this past week we had a governor of New York snared in a prostitution ring, a former governor of New Jersey who had already resigned over one sex scandal confessing to having threesomes with his wife (before he decided he was gay), and the newly appointed Governor of New York raising his hand to confess to multiple affairs before the press could dig them up.

What a great country to be a writer.

Sure, the sex-obsessed press in our Puritanical society sometimes overlooks real corruption involving bogus campaign financing, influence peddling and gerrymandering, but those require more elaborate plotting from a writer's standpoint. For a quick cheap thrill, look no further than city hall and your local newspaper for your ideas.

Señor Baño and other adventures in research

I was at Sleuthfest the other weekend, serving on a panel with moderator Christine Kling (makes a mighty fine grog by the way) and we were chatting about all things water. Well the conversation came around to research and how us panel members go about it. My answer was I live it. And most of the time it goes pretty well. But not always.

See, I write about a fellow that lives in the Caribbean so on the surface it would seem like an idyllic situation for research. Well, it would be - if we weren't talking about me. It so happens that I tend to get into tight situations when I travel. Oh, don't worry. Nothing really life threatening or anything like that. Just "uncomfortable" situations really. Like having my passport stolen in Venezuela and trying to get to Caracas to replace said passport after the military had taken control of all transportation and had set up roadblocks every 10 kilometers.
Or when I was in Mexico and had my rental car towed from a "no parking zone" that just happened to be a hotel parking lot. But then Mexicans have a creative flair for language and it's application. But I got the car back without having to fork over my retirement funds - thanks to the quick intervention of a blonde with large breasts. Yes, it seems Mexican men prefer blonds too.

But my favorite among many is when a friend of mine was chased through the town of Valladoid Mexico by an angry father after catching him with his 14 year old daughter. Now wait, it's not what you think. Let me explain.

We were having dinner at a small "Loncheria" or makeshift cafe in the barios of Vallodoid. At the time we didn't have much money and we like to eat as local as we can anyway. But we also like to drink beer. And as the saying goes, you only rent beer. And nature always wants it rent. So my innocent friend asks the young girl working the counter if they had a bathroom - "baño" in Spanish. Well, public toilets are few and far between in this neighborhood so the helpful young lady takes my friend by the hand and leads him behind a neighboring building. Apparently, this is how it's done in Vallodoid Mexico. My friend, shy bladder and all, is able to pay his rent and walks out from behind the building, just minutes after the young lady emerges. He's still closing up, and as he looks up, there stands papa.

With death in his eyes.

Why is my friend coming out of the shadows, zipping up his fly, mere minutes after is daughter? Well our gringo Spanish didn't seem to satisfy him and he became increasingly mad and I will say, his Spanish cursing is much better than mine. But we had 20 years on him and even though we were full of black beans and rice we were able to out run the chivalrous father. From this day forward, my friend is known as "Señor Baño."

So you see, research can be an adventure - especially if you live it.

Yesterday, Joe and I had a gig at the Coral Springs Festival of the Arts. We gave a little one hour writing workshop on fine tuning your writing. We actually had a pretty good audience, and they seemed to be taking copious notes. That was a high for us. And I really needed that.
The day before the event, I spent several hours in the Barnes & Noble where the event was going to take place. Not because I was scoping out the joint, but because I was scanning beginnings of new best sellers, examining the premises of the new books, picking out some author craft that I could use the following day in the workshop. About thirty minutes into my adventure I was overwhelmed with what Joe and I and most of us are really up against. There are thousands of, hardcover, mass market, trade, and coffee table books all poised to attract the browsing reader. What’s going to make somebody in Nebraska (we live in Florida) pick my book up and take it to the register? What’s going to make the consumer go look for Sholes & Moore? Lee Child, Jeffrey Archer, Jodi Picoult, Danielle Steele and the like are calling out to the customers from the end caps, dumps, and Just Arrived shelves. How do we go up against that kind of competition?
I suppose the best analogy I can come up with is this. How many kids dream of becoming a pro athlete, movie or rock star? For me, my dream was becoming a writer—a best-selling author. For the kid who wants to be an athlete, he might be the best damn quarterback in his whole county, maybe even an all-star in college, but then he has to come up against the big boys. Suddenly, he’s a small fish in a very big pond. It’s the same for writers. You might be a great writer in high school and college, earning all kinds of accolades. You might be the best in your critique group. But in the end, you have to go up against the big boys. As my husband says in his most eloquent way, if you want to run with the big dogs, you have to piss in the tall grass. Like the aspiring athlete or actor/actress, you pray to be discovered. But looking around Barnes & Noble yesterday pounded the fact home that the writing playing field, like all others, is dominated by a few.
All we can do is write the best book we can, hone our skills, do our homework, and pray for the break-out book. I can’t let the enormity of it all sink me. If I do, I’ll never write another book—and I’m sure we are all alike—we are compelled to write. It’s a compulsion. It’s hard and tedious and laborious and exhausting, but we have to do it, live to do it. Even if I won the lottery, I’d still write. Writers have a true love/hate relationship with composing. It’s our therapy and our demon. So, before leaving Barnes & Noble, I sat quietly and decided to practice a little metaphysics. I read THE SECRET. I believe in it. Our second book, THE LAST SECRET, was based on that theory. So, I took some cleansing breaths and then concentrated, envisioning a Sholes & Moore book on that best-seller shelf.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. But I’ll bet you’ve done the same thing. I’m giving my writing the best I’ve got, there’s nothing else I can do on that front. What harm can there be in a little new age nudge?

Lost Dog named a Spotted Owl Runner Up

Lost Dog is a runner up for the 2008 Spotted Owl Award and named a great read for 2007 by Friends of Mystery. Congratulations to Kate Wilhelm, winner of the 2008 Spotted Owl for A Wrongful Death!

Really, I'm a Writer

by Felicia Donovan

When I think of the number of times that I have been challenged about writing not being a "real" job by people who are clueless about the effort it takes not only to write, but then to get published and finally to market the hell out of a book, I am eternally grateful for this:

 

 

because it is my living proof that in fact, I am a REAL writer, a published one, in fact.

 

 

I whip THE BLACK WIDOW AGENCY bookmark out of my purse at the speed of lightning and flap it like a hundred dollar bill in the person's face. "See, I even have a bookmark. It's official."

Despite my best efforts, I don't think they have a clue as to what an enormous task this involves. Heck, before I got published, I didn't either and I keep reminding myself of that. Still, I don't know what it takes to design and build a high-rise building, but I respect that it must be pretty involved and time-consuming.

I figure right now I'm easily averaging 30 - 40 hours a week marketing THE BLACK WIDOW AGENCY; editing the proofs on SPUN TALES - the next in the Black Widow Agency series; rewriting FRAGILE WEBS - the third book in the series; and working on yet another project. And yes, that's in addition to the full-time "day" job which keeps me on call 24x7.

So why is it that writing falls short of being recognized as a "real" job? Is it because writing is a somewhat reclusive endeavor so there's no one to actually witness the effort it takes? Perhaps it's because everyone from the meter reader to the guy in the Easter Bunny costume figures they have a novel in their head and it can't be all that hard? I'll put a positive spin on it and suggest that maybe it's just because people see our enthusiasm and dedication and figure if we love it that much, it can't really be "work." What do you think?

Off To Jail

This past Tuesday was a big day for me. Why was it special? Because I had a date at our county jail.

Where I grew up, the county jail was a small affair and even though I’d never been inside the building, it didn’t seem threatening. Now I live in Richmond, Virginia. It’s not a small town and it has several large and imposing jail facilities. Again, I’ve never been inside one of these structures. I’ve gotten my share of speeding tickets, but I plead guilty (because I always am guilty!), write my check, and hand the whole thing off to the mailman.

But I’m halfway through my current manuscript (tentatively titled Path of the Wicked) and my amateur sleuth needs to visit the incarcerated son of one of the victims. The problem: With the exception of what I’ve seen on TV, I have no idea what a visitation area looks like. I also had a list of procedural questions for any sheriff’s deputy willing to talk to me, so I made an appointment to get a tour of the jail.

I have to admit—I was a bit scared come Tuesday morning. I wondered what to wear. (Look professional, but not too attractive. I imagined that the inmates might be more vocal in their catcalls than a group of construction workers. This was stereotyping at its worst on my part, as the only inmates that actually talked to me were extremely polite).

Bearing two boxes of bagels to show my gratitude (even though my friends dared me to bring donuts. I refused!) I waited on the check-in line in the lobby until Major Talley sought me out.

I’m not going to repeat the entire experience, as much of it will appear in my book, but I was amazed at how many facts I would have gotten wrong had I not made that visit. I didn’t realize that prisoner’s scrub colors indicate how much freedom they have to move around the jail. I also didn’t know that those in white were often within thirty days of being released. Their faces certainly looked more cheerful than the inmates in beige (the color assigned to the general population).

The sight that effected me the most was of the cells. Now, a cell is not a cage with two cots a dirty toilet, and rows of iron bars as often portrayed on TV, but a large, brightly lit room meant to house four men. It held thirty-five instead! And man, was it noisy!

“Why are you so overcrowded?” I asked my guide.

“Because the state penitentiary can refuse an inmate if they don’t have a free bed. We can’t, so these men sleep on the floor. We’ve got 190 men that should be at state.”

“Why don’t they build another prison?” I inquired naively.

“They’re building one,” my patient Major answered. “But the problem is that as soon as they finish, it’ll fill up. Build another one. It fills up. That’s the real issue.”

Boy, those words and the sights and sounds from that morning are still echoing in my mind. I can’t shake the image of the mother trying to convince a deputy to bring her son his reading glasses or the wife of an inmate holding their infant son up to the glass so that her husband could see his baby or the string of angry curses a girlfriend heaped onto her hostile-looking boyfriend on the other side of the glass wall. When he slammed down his telephone headset, I thought a gun had been fired. How often I have written about criminals, but they had never been so human until I spent some time around them!

I wonder if you’d share a time when you stepped out of your comfort zone. Did you ever serve a meal at a homeless shelter? Visit an elderly person you didn’t know? Go to court? Be the guest speaker at a school? What did you take away from that experience?