Don't Mess With Me (Please?)

I have a recommendation for all crime writers: Attend a Citizen's Police Academy.

I did, and it was a fantastic way to see what police departments really do (the only better way might be to enroll in the real police academy and become an honest-to-goodness cop).

Many local law enforcement jurisdictions hold their own Citizen Academies (or some version of one--make a few calls, you'll be surprised). Mine was put on by the Herndon (VA) Police Department , where everyone involved was absolutely great--friendly, informative, generous. We met every Wednesday night for 12 weeks, and the sessions encompassed a wide range of police activities.

Undercover narc cops spoke to us about the seamy underbelly of the drug world, regaling us with some amazing stories and showing us what different drugs looked like, up close and personal. Gang specialists told us about dealing with different gangs and how to determine gang affiliation by inspecting tattoos. We watched a K9 unit demonstrate "take-down" techniques, and we hit the streets to work the RADAR and LIDAR guns (sorry Mrs. Peterson, but I clocked you going 48 mph in a 35 mph zone).

We went to the evidence lab and learned how to expose fingerprints with superglue fumes, we observed the lie detector in use (excuse me, the polygraph), and we got to fire live weapons on the firing range. A word of warning: Don't mess with me--I put all five rounds in the inner circle, and it was the first time I'd ever even touched a real gun. Okay, I think it was from five yards away, but still...

Another highlight was our visit to the County Detention Center (aka, the jail). Talk about an eye-popping experience! We toured the whole thing--intake, processing, fingerprinting, breathalyzers, the holding cells, regular cells (pods, I think they were called), as well as the "special" cells. Fascinating, and mighty depressing.

While all those experiences were terrific, the topper was my ride-along with a police officer.

 

Come with me back to that Saturday night on the mean streets of Herndon...

We'd been cruising for about two hours or so, checking out the normal trouble spots, and we'd gotten the usual calls. Excessive noise at a sketchy apartment complex, some possible gang activity near the 7-Eleven, a D-and-D (that's drunk and disorderly, for all you, uh, rookies) at a local bar. Just your typical shift. Then the radio crackled to life again (notice how police radios always "crackle to life.").

There was a report of people--several people--running through the Community Center's parking lot with rifles. "Hold on," the officer beside me said. "This could get hairy." She flipped on the siren and we went roaring through town, cars parting to let us through. Screeching into the Community Center parking lot, we pulled up alongside a couple other cruisers, both empty, one with a door still flung open. Someone had left in a hurry.

The officer barked at me, "Stay here. Don't get out of the car."

I forced a nod, mouth too dry to talk. Of course, she didn't have to worry. I had no intention of following her into the night with a bunch of armed goons on the loose.

She grabbed her shotgun from the lockdown and raced off, leaving me all alone. 

My heart raced. What if the guys with guns doubled back and found me, by myself, a sitting duck in a patrol car? Would I become the unfortunate reason future ride-alongs had to be eliminated? I sank in my seat and peered out over the dashboard, hoping for reinforcements. Nope, just me and the empty police cars. I'd realized it before, but it hit home a lot harder in that moment. We don't pay law enforcement personnel nearly enough.

Luckily, the situation had a non-violent resolution. It turned out that the people running through the parking lot were teenagers wielding air rifles. No one got hurt. But, man, how easily could something have gone terribly, irrevocably wrong? In the dark, those air rifles were indistinguishable from real rifles. Some poor teenager's head easily could have been blown off.

I'll say it again; I heartily recommend attending a Citizen's Police Academy. Just make sure to wear two pairs of underwear on ride-along night.

 

Alan

Planned Obsolescence and The Idea of Product Quality

by Julia Buckley
The older I get, the more I’m willing to stand up for myself and demand what is owed me. This often requires the writing of an indignant letter or e-mail, some of which get results. I’m trying to pass this idea on to my children: that quality is something they should demand, because when people stop demanding the best, America will stop producing the best. (You can insert your own comment about the auto industry here).

For example, my sons saved their money a couple of years ago and bought a $380 X Box 360 Game System. I was horrified by the amount of money this cost, but I was more horrified by the fact that it stopped working a year and a half later. Worse yet, my sons were resigned to their fates. The oldest one shrugged. “My friend told me this happens all the time,” he said of the three flashing lights that, in Game World, kids call “the ring of death.” “Once you get the ring of death, the system is broken and you have to get a new X Box.”

I was indignant. “What? You spent almost 400 dollars and you’re not going to demand that they fix your product? Don’t you realize that for that money, they should be providing something that works forever?”

They shrugged again. “These games break down, Mom.”

So Mom went online, to the X Box site. Like all giant companies, X Box would prefer not to talk to you on the phone or via e-mail. They have lists of FAQs that you can consult to try to help you along the road to repair. If you MUST call them, they warn in their fine print, the repair will cost more. That’s right: they will charge you more if you call them on the phone.

I understand the notion of planned obsolescence, but what about customer service? Is that obsolete? Should someone sell a product in mass quantities if they can’t back up the quality of that product?

My sons and I did not call X Box, but we printed off a UPS label and went to our UPS Store. There, the woman who helped us nodded at our package. “Looks like an X Box return, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you get a lot of these?”

She shrugged. “Only two or three a day, now. But back when the new model came out and people were waiting in the parking lots of Best Buy and Target to get their hands on them, we were getting about thirty returns a day. They had to produce them so fast they couldn’t control the quality.”

Huh. Even the UPS lady knew that X Box did not, for all its expensiveness, provide a product that lasted.

I spent fourteen dollars on packing materials so that my sons could send back their faulty unit with its ring of death. I hope that this is the last we will have to spend on this product, but X Box warns on their website (do not call them) that it could be free, or it could be 99 dollars, depending on your warranty. Nothing in between.

I have no respect for a company that charges exorbitant prices for faulty products. I hope my sons learn a little lesson every time I refuse to accept defeat and demand my money’s worth. They live in a society that tells them they can dispose of everything, or buy a new one of everything, but they also have a mother who will not (and cannot) live that way.

My husband and I, with our ancient wisdom, tell them that we can recall a time when you bought a product–-a telephone, a washing machine, a television–-and it lasted a lifetime (that is, our parents still have working products that they bought forty years ago). We assure our children that this is how every product should be. They nod at us with their knowing expressions. With the eternal optimism of youth, they believe that money will never be a problem for them, so it won’t really matter how many times they have to buy something. They intend to have plenty of expendable cash.

I think I felt the same way as a young person, but it’s a dangerous attitude for children to adopt, especially in the current financial climate. Even the greatest salary won’t help them much if money suddenly loses its value.

X Box allows people to check the status of their repairs (of course) online. I’ll encourage my sons to keep on top of this in order to make them feel their ownership and to develop a corresponding demand for product quality. I hope it will make them look at their purchases differently in the future.

(Image link here)

Great Writing

by Tom Schreck, author of the Duffy Dombrowski Mysteries


As a semi-professional writer I often get asked about what constitutes great writing.
Hard to say but it's kind of like that Supreme Court judge said about porn, that is; "I know it when I see it." (I'm still trying to get him to send me the links to those specific sites.)

I recently came across a piece of what I think epitomizes super great writing. (not sure if "super great" fits into the great writing category or not.)

It wasn't Shakespeare, Faulkner, Hemingway or Maleeny. It was Lloyd Price.

Here it is, his version of the iconic rock and roll song, "Stagger Lee."






The night was clear, and the moon was yellow
And the leaves came tumblin' down. . .

I was standin' on the corner
When I heard my bull dog bark.
He was barkin' at the two men
Who were gamblin' in the dark.

It was Stagger Lee and Billy,
Two men who gambled late.
Stagger lee threw a seven,
Billy swore that he threw eight.

"Stagger Lee," said Billy,
"I can't let you go with that.
"You have won all my money,
"And my brand-new Stetson hat."

Stagger Lee went home
And he got his .44.
He said, "I'm goin' to the ballroom
"Just to pay that debt I owe."

(bridge)
Go, Stagger Lee

Stagger Lee went to the ballroom
And he strolled across the ballroom floor.
He said "You did me wrong, Billy."
And he pulled his .44.

"Stagger Lee," said Billy,
"Oh, please don't take my life!
"I've got three hungry children,
"And a very sickly wife."

Stagger Lee shot Billy
Oh, he shot that poor boy so hard
That a bullet went through Billy
And broke the bartender's bar.

Go, Stagger Lee, go, Stagger Lee!
Go, Stagger Lee, go, Stagger Lee!
(to fade)

Okay...now here's why I think it is great.

The night was clear, and the moon was yellow
And the leaves came tumblin' down. . .

(Perfect description of a setting in very few words. "The moon was yellow." -Can't you just see that? The moon isn't usually described as yellow--but it is, isn't it?)


I was standin' on the corner
When I heard my bull dog bark.

(He's got a bull dog--not a dog, not a hound dog, which would be the appropriate cliche considering it was the fifties. A bull dog is different and therefore it catches the reader's eye.)

He was barkin' at the two men
Who were gamblin' in the dark.

("Gamblin' in the dark." Isn't that all you really need to know? It sounds seedy and you know what's going on in three words.)

It was Stagger Lee and Billy,
Two men who gambled late.

("gambled late'--again tells you everything you need to know in two words.)

Stagger lee threw a seven,
Billy swore that he threw eight.

(Great craps reference. As a crap player myself I think what happened was Stagger Lee crapped out by throwing a seven but tried to screw Billy by claiming it was an eight. We're left to assume that Stagger had bet on eight.)

"Stagger Lee," said Billy,
"I can't let you go with that.
"You have won all my money,
"And my brand-new Stetson hat."

(Stagger Lee cheats and wins not only all the money but the poor brother's STETSON hat. A damned STETSON! You know that means trouble.)

Stagger Lee went home
And he got his .44.

(Not a gun, not a shotgun, not a pistol...a 44. Much more descriptive word.)

He said, "I'm goin' to the ballroom
"Just to pay that debt I owe."

(Short, tight dialogue. fantastic!)
(bridge)
Go, Stagger Lee

(Here's the verse that the sociologists examine. The background singers are CHEERING Stagger Lee who not only is a cheater but now wants to murder over being accused of cheating. From a writing standpoint it's great because it goes against cliche.)

Stagger Lee went to the ballroom
And he strolled across the ballroom floor.
He said "You did me wrong, Billy."
And he pulled his .44.

"Stagger Lee," said Billy,
"Oh, please don't take my life!
"I've got three hungry children,
"And a very sickly wife."

(More great dialogue tightly written.)

Stagger Lee shot Billy
Oh, he shot that poor boy so hard
That a bullet went through Billy
And broke the bartender's bar.

(Stagger Lee shoots the guy even though he gets begged not to. Man, this is a bad MFer! And how about the bullet going through Billy and smashing the bartender's glass. Hold it--the BARTENDER'S glass? He's not supposed to be drinking--now we know more about how seedy the place really is!)

Go, Stagger Lee, go, Stagger Lee!
Go, Stagger Lee, go, Stagger Lee!

(And the back up singers cheer Stagger on! Great Stuff!)

Rolling Stone writer Greil Marcus wrote that this song inspired the Black Panthers, influenced Sly Stone's swagger and was responsible for every image of a tough, street-smart Black man in every motion picture and literary depiction.

I don't know about all that. I do know that different versions of the song have been recorded by 400 different artists and that it is based on a Christmas Eve murder in St Louis in the 1800's.

i don't really care--I just now that it tells a story in very, very few but descriptive terms and that it ignores cliches and how stories are "supposed to be."

Which to me is the essence of great, great writing.

Go Stagger Lee!

@aplusk

G.M. Malliet

I joined Twitter some months ago, propelled by curiosity. Well, beaten down by the media hype, more like.

I enjoy technology, but to a point, and being the cautious type, I kept my Twitter updates locked as "private." This meant anyone who cared to read what I was up to, which was precious little, had to ask my permission. Then I spent three quarters of an hour choosing my color scheme, changing it from black to pink and back to black again, and uploading the image of my first book, then my second, then switching back to my first, which only seemed in retrospect like a total waste of time. Then I sort of sat back and waited for something momentous to happen, like my books immediately going into seventeen reprints. Of course, as so often happens, nothing did happen. The occasional request to follow me occasionally came in, but hardly was there what you'd call a groundswell of interest.

So I recently asked the experts at a Yahoo group called Murder Must Advertise (which is a must-join for writers, BTW) whether my privacy setting was negating the whole point of being on Twitter. (If there is a point to being on Twitter, that is, which is a whole other topic. If Bill Gates can decide FaceBook is a waste of his time, as he recently did, is there hope for any of these social networking groups?)

I was told that, yes, indeed, I had rendered the whole Twitter thing pointless. By this time only about 70 people could see the lovely color scheme I'd chosen, and they most likely did not care. And since I twitted or tweeted only rarely, my online participation was even more nonsensical than usual.

As an author, of course I want to take advantage of every opportunity to spread the word when I have a new novel coming out, when I'm doing a signing, etc. Twitter has the advantage of being 1) wildly popular, 2) easy to use, and 3) thus far, free. But I have to confess to some trepidation before following the advice from Murder Must Advertise to go public. How crazy would my life get if I took off the Privacy sign and let every scammer, every lost soul, every knife-wielding maniac, in?

That was a few days ago. I just took a look over at http://twitter.com/GMMalliet and now that I'm paying closer attention, I can see there was nothing to worry about. I was already following Eddie Izzard, who is almost guaranteed to be good for a laugh. Ditto The Onion. And Martha Stewart. (Not for a laugh, for homely domestic inspiration. Not too surprisingly, Martha tweets recipes in much the same way the rest of us breathe.)

But what mostly seems to have happened is that I'm hearing an awful lot about what Ashton Kutcher gets up to, practically on a minute-by-minute basis, which nicely answers the question of what Twitter is really all about. It's about Ashton, who you must know almost single-handedly started the Susan Boyle phenomenon by tweeting about her. Ashton, who has nearly 3 million followers.

Three million followers.

Mrs. Kutcher, AKA Demi Moore, has quite a following, too, but not as big as her husband's. You would think this would be a source of friction over there at Casa Kutcher, but no. The updates of these two are so downright homey, so cozy and mundane, even, it all reminds me of the feature in Us magazine (or something like that) that I read at the hairdressers: "Stars! They're just like us!" This editorial gem is illustrated by photos, no doubt taken by out-of-work art school students or passersby with a cell phone, of someone like Cameron Diaz, in full makeup, picking up her laundry; Tom Cruise changing a tire (just kidding); or some starlet shopping (what else?) on Rodeo Drive. Need I mention, if she were shopping at Target, well, then she'd be just like me?

Still, no doubt about it, Ashton knows how to work Twitter better than anyone alive, and I think we should be able to harness this to some better use than propelling a Scottish singer, however talented, to instant stardom (so she can be photographed picking up her laundry, just like us). Seriously, think about it. If the whole world starts following Ashton Kutcher, we will all, in some crazy way, be communicating. We may all find a common humanity, not to mention get the chance to swap recipes and share other important knowledge, like how to de-skunk a smelly dog, which was the latest crisis in the Kutcher household (answer might be tomato juice, but as Martha Stewart didn't tweet, she missed her chance to really make a contribution).

This could be the start of world peace, the end of war in our time, and all in less than 140 characters - plus the time it takes to decide on that all-important color scheme.

Gotta go now and pick up the laundry.

The Day was Bovine, Dahling

By Deborah Sharp

The audience at my reading was rapt. Only the occasional snort broke the spell. Maybe a moo or two. Welcome to the National Day of the American Cowboy, Okeechobee, Fla-style.

''MAMA'' Goes to the Rodeo.

The photo above, taken by my friend and fellow author Jan Day, proves the two of us were getting a bit punchy by day's end. It was so steamy hot, even in our shady location, sitting by a fan, that the giveaway Hershey's kisses I had left over from a signing the night before melted in their little bowl into a brown liquid goo. In fact, they looked a bit like the punctuation the cattle in the pen behind us squirted out at regular intervals. Still, what author wouldn't love a cowptive audience for a reading?

My funny Mace Bauer Mystery series is set in the cattle-ranching slice of Florida (bet you didn't know we had one, right? There's no ride at Disney.) And the latest, Mama Rides Shotgun, takes place on the Cracker Trail, an annual cross-state horseback ride that commemorates Florida's cattle traditions. Insanely, I rode the six-day, 120 mile ride in 2007 for research. My hindquarters haven't been the same since. So, the Agri-Civic Center and rodeo grounds in Okeechobee seemed like a pretty good spot for a signing. Besides, when you've set your book in a section of the state with more cows than people, any opportunity for a crowd is a good thing.

Okeechobee, center of the state, right on top of the namesake lake, shares nothing in common with the better-known, densely populated coastal regions. It's an hour-and-a-half's drive from the nearest ocean breeze. The accents are Southern. Churches out-number bars. Iced sweet tea is the beverage of choice, and there's not a Starbucks in sight. I love it. But there is a certain culture shock to being out there, especially when the signing I did the night before took place at Murder on the Beach bookstore, in swanky Delray Beach.

Country music sounded from the speakers. Spurs jingle-jangled. The Rodeo Queen wore a glittering tiara attached to her cowboy hat. The scent of swamp cabbage and smoky brisket filled the air. Right before the start of the Okeechobee Cattlemens Ranch Rodeo, heads bowed in prayer. ''Please keep us safe, and keep our horses safe,'' the announcer intoned. Amen.




Toto, we're not in Delray anymore.

I met some great folks, sold some books, experienced an incredible part of my native state that not too many people take the trouble to find. And I had an epiphany sitting there in the sweltering heat: A big part part of the writer's life is being able to roll with the contrasts (not to mention the odor of manure) while taking your show on the road. Reading to wine-sipping, oceanfront condo-dwellers one day, to rodeo livestock the next. It was a mooving moment, I can tell you that. Or maybe it was just a sugar high from all that sweet tea.

How about you, authors? What's the craziest contrast you've encountered? Reading at a rave one day; an old folks' home the next? Or, readers, from four-star hotel to pup tent during the space of one vacation? Do you roll with the contrasts?

InkSpot News - July 26, 2009

Tim Maleeny's Jump has shot up to #8 on this week's San Francisco Chronicle Bestseller List. (Click here.)

Inkspot News - July 25, 2009

Terri Thayer will be selling and signing books today at the Fabric Patch booth at the IQA quilt show in Long Beach, CA.

Also today join G.M. Malliet and women-of-mystery Donna Andrews, Susan Froetschel, and Marcia Talley as they discuss the writing life at the Frederick County Public Library. Time: 1-3 p.m. Address: 110 E. Patrick Street, Frederick, MD.

Puking is Okay

In about thirty days another child of mine will be brought into this world. Or rather, launched upon the reading community. But this time it’s not an Odelia Grey novel, but Ghost à la Mode, the first book in my new Ghost of Granny Apples mystery series.

It was just over two years ago when this little idea I had for a short story took root as a novel and blossomed into a full-fledged series. I remember Barbara Moore, my then editor, saying to me: “How soon can you get us a manuscript?”

“Huh?” Quickly, I calculated how much time I needed to write the Odelia Grey novels under contract, how many hours had to be spent at the law firm, evenings and weekends promoting the novels already out, and how much time I would need to eat, sleep, clean the house, and play with the cats. (Forget having any sort of normal relationship or social outings.) In the end, my time looked a lot like my check book – precariously teetering in the red.

“How about September 1st [2008],” I replied with a confidence that shook in its socks.

I'm pleased to say the early reviews for Ghost à la Mode have been very good and my publisher tells me the orders are strong. But we authors know that the real proof in the pudding is in the final sales. Orders mean nothing if the books don’t ultimately get sold to readers. My 2nd series still has to prove itself, just as the Odelia Grey series did.

Years ago when I set out to be an author, it never occurred to me to write two series. And no where on my radar was there a book or books about ghosts! I had envisioned writing the Odelia Grey series and the occasional stand alone novel. I knew other authors juggled two series, but with my full-time career as a paralegal, writing, and promotion, one book a year was enough. Or so I thought.

I won’t lie. Some days I regret saying yes to writing the second series. Those are the days when I’m mentally and physically cremated. When the brain screams for a little downtime and my fingers beg for some Bengay. Those are the days when being a hamster in a wheel looks like a nice vacation. But if I had to drop one series and keep the other, it would feel a little like Sophie's Choice. They are both my children, with individual personalities, up sides and down sides. Each series brings me unique joy and provides me with specific challenges.

To keep the two series separate in my brain, I write the Odelia Grey books in first person and the Ghost of Granny Apples books in 3rd person. The protagonists are also very different. Odelia is a lot like me - a short, fat, middle-aged, mouthy paralegal. Emma Whitecastle, the protagonist of the Granny Apples books, is tall, blonde, willowy, divorced, and rich, which is definitely NOT like me. It was fun to write outside my comfort zone. More importantly, it was a challenge to see if I could.

In about thirty days, not only will Ghost à la Mode be launched, but I will be turning in the manuscript for the 2nd book in The Ghost of Granny Apples series. Its working title is Hot ‘n Haunting. I will take two weeks off, then it’s on to Body Bingo, book six in the Odelia Grey mystery series, which is due just after the New Year. It's a lot like running back-to-back marathons.

When training recently for the Camp Pendleton Mud Run, my dear friend Ashley Ream drummed into my head the following code of athletes:

“You can puke, but you can’t quit.”

Wadda ya know – it applies to writing, too.