Hey, There's A Dead Guy in the Living Room

Everybody Calm Down

Ever since Houghton Mifflin announced that it was placing a freeze on acquisitions, people have been tolling the death knell of publishing.  Books are dying, nobody has any money, yada yada yada.  OK, it's true that this is not a great season, and numbers are down all over...but I think books will stick around a while longer.

Houghton Mifflin's announcement was unusual, but what they're doing isn't actually so earth-shattering.  When times get tight, sales decline, and everyone looks at her submission pile with a gimlet eye.  Houghton hastily amended its initial statement to explain that it would still pursue truly special projects.  So essentially, their editors will still acquire manuscripts that are really good...which is what we all strive to do anyway.  I doubt that any houses are buying so-so books just to fill slots these days--we're all holding out for the best of the best, because it's so tough to make any book work in the marketplace.

Same with bookstores; despite closures and reductions in stock, many people still buy books.  And hey, maybe the current economic slump will give a boost to paperbacks, since they're cheaper.  Maybe the Kindle will get people to try more titles, since it's so easy to download on the go--I know I buy more music now that I use iTunes.  But all in all, I think it's too early to be bringing down the curtain on book publishing as we know it.  Sure, this Christmas may be a little thin, but I bet there'll still be books under the tree.

Too many would-be writers are looking at recent events as some sort of indication that they missed their chance to be a published author.  Trust me, you haven't.  Because there isn't just one chance, and you only control part of it--by writing a terrific book.  If you do your part, the "chance" will be there when you're ready for it, tumbling stock market or no.  So take a deep breath, get back to the computer, and finish your book.  I'm pretty sure we'll still be here to read it when it's ready. 

A New Venture

Robin Agnew

I know this portion of the blog is by me, about me, but usually it's more about my business, something that in a way I can hold at a comfortable remove.  It's about the store or about books I really like, not about me per se.  But I have something coming up this week I need to write about, as it's an exciting opportunity and at the very least a memorable weekend for me, my mother and sister.

I have always been a painter, just as many people have always been writers, published or not.  Many years ago I sold my watercolors at art fairs around the state, but then I had a second baby and we opened the store and painting fell by the wayside.  I never actually stopped painting, though for a few years I switched to colored pencil on the advice of a fellow artist who told me that's what he did when his children were small.

Over the years I was able to keep my hand in a bit - a friend for awhile owned her own ad agency in Mississippi, and we did some really fun projects together, notably for a lovely (now closed) heirloom sewing store called The Corner Stitch.  Jim Huang has been nice enough to allow me to do a few book covers for him, which has also been fun.  I also just kept on painting, sending out samples to greeting card companies and print companies and getting some nice responses - even a phone call once - but no offers.

So, this fall, turning 50 felt like time to maybe give this up.  I was going to visit my mother for the weekend and a friend of hers wanted some paintings to give as gifts - I was at the point where I was ready to give them away to someone who would enjoy them.  I took my portfolio up north with me, and my mother intercepted it.  She said she loved them and wanted to show them to a friend of hers.  To tell the truth, I forgot about it, as my expectations had become fairly low.

Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call a few weeks later and found that her friend was married to a gallery owner in New York - and he liked them so much he wanted to put them in a show!  So, next Thursday, December 4, my watercolors will be on display at Michael Steinberg Fine Arts in New York.  It's a show of contemporary women artists who work on paper - I'm filling the representational slot.  The show is called "Back to the Drawing Board".  I'm not sure how my paintings of rabbits wearing shoes are going to fit, but along with my mother and sister, I'm looking forward to finding out.  If you're in New York the month of December, doing a little gallery hopping, check it out yourself - and wish me luck!

A Saturday job that sucked

Sharon Wheeler

I'm feeling whiny and sorry for myself, as I've been laid up for nearly a fortnight with a very grotty violence that has left me feeling like a woolly mammoth is sitting on my head and digging its tusks in . . .

And any smart-alec who says "oh, you must have caught up on soooo much reading" will need to side-step a jab in the ribs. I must be ill – I haven't wanted to read at all.

So I've been keeping in contact with the outside world via online and Teletext. And I spotted this story that made me very faintly nostalgic – if only for the memory of their pick and mix, which we always had as kids when we went to the cinema.

My first Saturday job when I was at school was in Woolworth's. I did my stint on the tills, including a ghastly Christmas Eve when the whole of town seemed to want to do their festive shopping at 5pm, but the cold meat and cheese counter and the staff canteen were the placements from hell. The former undoubtedly helped along my becoming a vegetarian, and I soon discovered with the latter that Woolies' staff were far more obnoxious that any of the customers. I never went as far as spitting in the food, but I kept schtum when I grated part of my fingernail into the cheese for the lunchtime salad . . .

The positively Victorian hierarchy between the mainly male management and mostly female shop floor staff was immensely depressing, so you couldn't see me for dust when I was offered a Saturday job in the town library.

I acquired so many useful skills through that library job. I now know where to look for information. I can break up fights (and that was just between two eccentric members of staff, although getting between battling OAPs and the new Catherine Cookson book should have involved danger money). I can prick the pomposity of any celebrity (we had one particular 1970s TV personality who wasn't in fact the avuncular old cove he seemed on the small screen and had a tendency to use the "don't you know who I am?" line to which the response was "no, and your book's overdue, so that'll be 25p please.") And I can arrange books just so on a shelf so that they come raining down on people's heads when they remove one.

The biggest perk of all, of course, was being able to take out as many books as we wanted. And we could convince ourselves that we were doing the librarian a favour, as the place was so over-crowded that you couldn't fit all the books onto the shelves. Mind you, I'll never forget the look on her face when half a dozen of the Saturday girls all returned about 30 books each the weekend after our A Level exams had ended. Sadly she got her revenge when we had to shelve them all …

And so it begins

Lynne Patrick

Credit crunch, recession, call it what you will: I don’t suppose any of us will emerge unscathed. But, with fingers firmly crossed and all propitiating gestures in place, I think maybe we won’t fare as badly as some, largely because we don’t borrow scary sums of money from banks which no longer have it to lend; and also because we don’t deal in big numbers, and may be able to duck under the darkest of the clouds. I realise I’m tempting fate just by thinking this, but, well, I try to be positive.

 

But other bits of the book trade aren’t in quite such good shape, and we have to consider how their problems will affect us.

 

I’m not a great follower of the financial markets – I’m a words person, and numbers don’t come easy to me. But even I can see when share prices go down, and down, and even further down. We don’t have share prices of our own, not in that way, but it’s interesting to see how other publishers are faring. Mostly it looks as if the bigger they are, the bigger the fall. We’re small. So a point in our favour, I think.

 

Bookshops, at the sharp end of retailing, should be catching the worst of it. But my local Waterstone’s had a long queue at the till when I called in the other day; and though their parent company, HMV, are showing a fall in share prices they seem to be doing OK. My theory about people buying themselves small treats (a bar of chocolate or a book) instead of a large one (a new dress or a weekend break) seems to be holding.

 

Maybe the biggest black cloud so far is that one of the UK’s two big book wholesalers is catching the backlash as its parent company, Woolworths, struggles for air. Ironically, the wholesaler is probably the healthiest part of the vast organisation it belongs to, but when there’s trouble at root level it can’t help but filter into the branches, even the smaller ones which are still producing fruit.

 

The problem is that they are main suppliers to a lot of bookshops, including the chains. They’re not the only source of supply, of course; the shops have at least two other options. But shops, especially chains,have procedures laid down. If a situation arises which means a bookseller can’t simply make one phone call to order a book, it’s possible that this close to Christmas they won’t take the trouble to look elsewhere.

 

Fortunately we don’t rely on big Christmas sales the way many of our larger competitors do, so if we do lose a few sales, it will only be a few. Another point in our favour. And looking further ahead: if that wholesaler really is the healthiest part of an ailing conglomerate, it will survive in one form or another.

 

OK, so I’m an incurable optimist. But maybe I have cause. Unlike the big financial institutions whose strange attitude to the issue of debt has to be at the root of all the problems (I’m at a loss to understand how you can lend more than you actually have); and unlike a whole lot of ordinary people for whom spending to the limit of a dozen credit cards is a way of life, I’ve always tried to live within my means – to earn a pound and spend ninety-nine pence, in a paraphrase of the Micawber principle. And I’m really not being smug or sanctimonious.

 

It’s just that living any other way is so unutterably scary that I wouldn’t dare.

Thanksgiving

Janet Reid

There will be a lot of blog posts about what to give thanks for this week.

I'm thankful for the election of the new president.  Not just who won (but yes, I am thankful for that as well), but that once again, we transferred power peacefully.  Even in the shadow of war and a crashing economy, there were no tanks or riot police in the streets.  Neither Barack Obama, nor John McCain, had to seize power. We lent it. Willingly.

Despite the intense differences and harsh rhetoric on both sides, when the votes were counted, we all agreed that was how it was going to be. There's a lot to be thankful for in that.

I'm thankful for the blog posts by Dick Cavett that run on the New York Times webpage.  I'd love to be even half as smart, half as witty, half as influential as Dick Cavett.  

I'm thankful for Sarah McLachhlan, whose performance at the American Music Awards was televised last night. I watched in the local laundromat my usual  Sunday night location.  Her lovely voice reminded me that art elevates us all.  It was interesting everyone else in the laundromat turned to watch and listen to her too.  

I am thankful for Tara Dononvan whose exhibit at the Institute for Contemporary Art in Boston reminded me artists can find beauty and innovation in the most common everyday objects.  Their art then transforms how we see things.  

I am thankful for the wisdom of Father Santo, my parish priest, whose homily on Sunday was drawn from the Gospel of Mathew: what you did to the least of these my brethren, you did to Me. Just when we are all worried about the economy and what will happen to our jobs, and our finances, Father Santo reminded us that what we give when it is hardest is the measure of our humanity. Facing the worst economic crisis in eighty years is frightening. Father Santo reminded us all that fear is the opposite of love.

I'm thankful for Jeff Cohen who invited me to be a part of this blog and gave me the opportunity to talk about things that mean a lot to me, and the book publishing industry which I love beyond reason.  

And I'm thankful for those of you who read it and comment in return.

Happy Thanksgiving indeed.

Blocked

Jeff Cohen

I sat in front of this screen for hours--literally--without an idea of what to write. And that was what to write.

See, I don't believe in Writer's Block. I think it's an invention of writers who want you to believe that what we do is a mystical, magical practice touched by the gods and available only to the Chosen Few. 

What a load of crap. 

I don't think writing--and by that I mean writing ANYTHING, not just mystery novels--is a sacred calling. I think it's something that I have a talent for, and that by studying and practicing (mostly practicing), I have learned to do better than most, and not as well as some.

Mostly, I think of it as my job. Some people are gifted technicians; they can take something apart and put it back together, often with unnecessary parts left out, at the age of six. Some people are talented attorneys. They understand the intention and the workings of the legal system better than the rest of us could if we studied for centuries.

Some people are gifted politicians. Pity them.

The point is, everyone has a talent for something, even if that thing is not often thought of as "an art." Dairy farmers can understand how to increase milk output from a cow who has been sluggish, and they an do it without drugs. Marketing consultants are able to take one look at you, or your product, and tell you how to make more people want to spend money on that. Photographers look through the lens of a camera and see things right in front of us that we don't notice.

That's not a mystical power--that's a talent. And no matter what your job might be, you have one. It might not be for the thing you do to make your living, and that would be a shame. But you have one.

I'm lucky. I get to make my living--such as it is--doing something that, genetically or by luck, I was pre-wired to do. That doesn't mean that a creature called a Muse sits on my shoulder while I'm working, or that a light from On High has shone upon me when I'm really working well. It means that I had a predisposition to do something well, and I have practiced that skill to the point that I can harness it pretty much whenever I want to do so.

Inside that "pretty much" lies the concept that some people call Writer's Block.

Some days, even the best electrician isn't going to feel like wiring that new service. There will be times that the planet's most whiz-bang dentist will want to do anything other than look inside another mouth. I'm guessing there are even moments when Barack Obama sits back and wonders if he really should have run for President. Well, maybe not yet. But they'll come.

And so it follows that some days, I won't feel like writing. And I'll do anything other than write. I'll try to fix the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, which has been flushing itself about every ten minutes for a while now. I'll decide for the umpteeth time to try to learn "Hazy Shade of Winter" on my acoustic 12-string, even though I know I can't do it up to speed. I'll spend hours on "research" for a project I'm sure my agent will talk me out of in roughly three minutes.

Why? Because writing is hard, and sometimes, people want the comfort of doing only easy things.

But if I have a Star-Ledger assignment that has to be submitted by Wednesday (as I do) and I wake up Wednesday morning and don't feel like writing, that I'm unable to come up with a snappy lead paragraph, will I call my editor and tell her, with all sincerity, that I have Writer's Block?

Um, no. I'll sit my butt down in the chair and I'll write that article, because one of the things about being able to do this for a living is that you really enjoy getting paid. And if you try using the "Writer's Block Defense" on a newspaper editor, you will not only NOT get paid, you'll be remarkably lucky ever to get another assignment from that publication.

Do plumbers get "Plumber's Block?" Do restaurant servers get "Waiter's Block?" Clearly, there IS such a thing as "Stock Broker's Block," or I wouldn't be watching my meager retirement fund evaporate before my eyes. 

Writer's Block. Seriously. Why do non-writers buy in on such a blatant flim-flam?

Because it's a mystical, magical calling from the heavens. Right. I forgot.

P.S.: That symbol in the "Links" section (go ahead, scroll down... a little farther... yes, that one!) means that TypePad has chosen DEAD GUY as a Featured Blog. Click on the symbol and you'll find our little feature. We're very grateful to the folks at TypePad!

What I'm (Not Yet) Reading These Days

Abby Zidle

The holidays are almost upon us, and although my initial reaction is guilty panic ("Eek! How is it almost December?" "Gah! I've done no Christmas shopping." "Frink! I still have four books to edit before the end of the year."), I do look forward to a few days' vacation unsullied by editorial guilt.  Sometimes I even get to read books that already have the covers attached.

I have a big "To Be Read" stack at home, as does everyone I know.  Here are a few of the books I'm still hoping to get to...one of these days.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
I'm probably the only person who hasn't read this yet, even though a friend gave it to me...yikes, a year ago?  It seems to engender extreme reactions in everyone who has read it--either they love it or they hate it--so I look forward to discovering into which camp I fall.

The Fire by Katherine Neville
Katherine Neville wrote one of my favorite books ever, The Eight.  It's probably 20 years old by now, a wonderful thriller with puzzles about music and mathematics with chase scenes and a chess set that belonged to Charlemagne.  So when I saw that she'd written a new book, I immediately commenced the groveling process with a friend of mine, and procured a galley.  Have I had time to read it yet? No.  I suck.

The Sugar Queen by Sarah Addison Allen
I read Allen's debut novel, Garden Spells, on a long car trip--it was compelling enough to distract me from my husband's terrifying driving, which is saying something.  So I jumped on her next book...but I managed to read three pages and then had to set it down.  It's still on the list to be picked back up.

I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley
OK, I at least got through part of this one--but considering it's a collection of comic essays, that's not saying much.  And they're good!  I laughed!  I identified!  But...I didn't finish yet.

This is just a little of what I'm not keeping up with.  I could also have done posts on What Clothes I'm Not Laundering, What Rooms I'm Not Vacuuming, or What Calories I'm Not Burning at the Gym.  (Heck, I think I might have found my next blog...)

That's Determination

Robin Agnew

 

Lots of times I see determination in the relentless, and optimistic, marketing efforts of authors.  (Last week we got a wooden box with the book cover on it, inside, a scarf, sunglasses, a postcard and temporary tattoos).  As I look around the store I see many of the cool posters made from book covers that we have been sent over the years. My favorite at the moment is the one for Megan Abbot’s THE SONG IS YOU.   I see determination in the store owners around me, who are determined (as are we) to outlast this dreadful downturn.  And last weekend, I saw determination in another place.

 

As I think I’ve mentioned in the past on this blog, I am a giant figure skating fan.  Since ABC dropped figure skating coverage it was picked up by NBC – who are only broadcasting three events out of a long season.  (That’s like watching the Super Bowl without all the games leading up to it).  If you want to see some skating, you have to go online.  It has some advantages – it’s live, and if you don’t want to watch the 3 a.m. broadcast from China or Moscow you can watch on demand at your convenience.

 

Sometimes I pick & choose and don’t watch EVERY discipline, depending on which athletes are there, and I had skipped the pairs competition in Paris until I saw a blog article about the “bravery” of Canadian pair Meaghan Duhamel and Craig Buntin.  I was curious so I went on over to icenetwork.com and peeked at their program.

 

It started beautifully – and then (and I’m surprised this doesn’t happen more often) Buntin cut his hand on Duhamel’s skate blade as they were doing a fairly routine side by side spin.  Blood dripping from his fingers, they skated to the judge’s table, where they were given two minutes to get it fixed up and complete their program. 

 

A competent woman came out and bandaged Buntin up and, shaking his hand (this is the hand he uses to throw his partner and lift her over his head) they took a minute to pick up their music where they’d left off and finished their program, mistake free.  Meaghan’s dress had blood all over it but they ended up in second place for their free skate, only behind the defending world champions.  That’s determination. 

 

It’s also been my inspiration for the week.  And hopefully Meaghan will be able to clean the blood out of her dress!

Quotes

PJ Nunn

Since I've been moving these last couple weeks and still have boxes piled high, not to mention the phone man working here today, drilling and making other obnoxious noises, I thought I'd pull from my list of favorite quotes that seem to apply to this biz we're in and share them with you.

“Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest.”

Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

 

“Just because something doesn't do what you planned it to do doesn't mean it's useless.”

Thomas A. Edison (1847 - 1931)

 

"Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right, or doing it better."
-John Updike

"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a little better; whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is the meaning of success."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

"The problem is not that there are problems. The problem is expecting otherwise and thinking that having problems is a problem."
-Theodore Rubin

 

"The best way to escape from a problem is to solve it."
-Alan Saporta

 

“Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”

-Kurt Vonnegut

 

"You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions."
-Mahfouz Naguib

 

"Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody expects of you. Never excuse yourself."
-Henry Ward Beecher

 

"The majority of men meet with failure because of their lack of persistence in creating new plans to take the place of those which fail."
- Napoleon Hill

 

"The indispensable first step to getting the things you want out of life is this: decide what you want."

–       Ben Stein

 

Maybe you have one you'd like to share?

 

Till next week,

ADVICE FROM THE BOTTOM DRAWER

Gordon Aalborg ... filling in for Sharon Wheeler.

Advice, 'tis often said, usually is worth about what you pay for it.

Which means I am not charging enough. Or explains why nobody ever listens to Gordo.

New and aspiring authors, it is a known fact, thrive on advice. They seek it here, they seek it there, they seek the shortcuts everywhere. They collect advice, swap it around like baseball cards, analyze it, dissect it, translate it, bend and form it to suit - and usually, in the end, ignore it.

Because, I often think, following genuinely *good* advice is just too easy. It is simple, and our minds trick us into believing that if it sounds that simple, it cannot be true, cannot be real.

I give you, just an example, my oft-quoted *Advice From the Bottom Drawer* - which I dispense often, and for FREE, to those {surprisingly many} knowledge-seekers who have finished their first book and now want to know what to do with it. 

1    MAKE SURE IT IS SPELL-CHECKED, PROOFED, AND PERFECT IN YOUR EYES. AS GOOD AS IT CAN BE!

2    PUT IT AWAY IN A BOTTOM DRAWER SOMEPLACE AND LEAVE IT THERE WHILE YOU WRITE YOUR *NEXT* BOOK, AND...

3    ONLY WHEN THE SECOND BOOK IS FINISHED AND PERFECT IN YOUR EYES IS IT TIME TO TAKE THAT FIRST BOOK OUT OF THE DRAWER, RE-READ IT, AND -- IF YOU HAVE ANY SENSE AT ALL -- REWRITE IT IN THE MANNER WHICH IT DEMANDS OF YOU. AS IT WILL, OR AT LEAST SHOULD.

4    THEN, AND ONLY THEN, SEND IT TO ME {WITH MONEY} AND I WILL TELL YOU WHY YOU NEED GLASSES, OR NEW GLASSES, OR A NEW EDITOR.

5    MEANWHILE, PLEASE LAUNCH INTO THE WRITING OF YOUR THIRD BOOK, BECAUSE YOUR SECOND BOOK MUST MATURE JUST LIKE THE FIRST ONE DID, AND THAT TAKES TIME!

I had occasion recently to evaluate a second novel from one of *my* authors, and was suitably impressed except for one aspect of the tale. So I sent her an email, asking that she give the ms a quick read-through -- "and when you're done, tell me please, briefly, how YOU feel about X as a person. Gut reaction, please, just your *feelings* - do you like her, feel sorry for her, hate her, commisserate with her, think she's a bit of a whinger, do you trust her, ...etc."

I made this request *knowing* she hadn't read this ms in quite a long time, and hoping she would see in her own work what I had seen, which was a less than sympathetic major character whom the reader was supposed to *like* - not loathe and despise and want murdered on the next page if not sooner.

As my author, not surprisingly, did - at least in part: "Especially in the first chapters, she makes such a big deal out of little things. I wanted to tell her to grow up and deal with life. I got impatient with her little nit-picking ways." And: "I felt like I was reading about a little teenage girl and not a grown woman." 

The result, for my author, was a fair amount of work: "I wrote a new first chapter and drastically re-vamped the next three. X is infinitely more heroic, compassionate and courageous and far less of a whining pansy."

And a far better book, in the end! As it would have been, without my help, if my hapless author had only followed - in the first place - my advice from the bottom drawer.

What a splendid result! What splendid advice, come to think of it. And before you ask, Matilda, the answer is, "No. I do not follow my own advice. I don't have time and because, at that price, how good could it be?"

The John Sergeant factor

Lynne Patrick

 

There’s an interesting phenomenon in the world of British reality TV at the moment. Not that I watch reality TV. Not much, anyway. But I think Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing With the Stars in the US) scrapes in there, and to that I confess I’m addicted.

 

The phenomenon I have in mind relates to pleasing the audience instead of the pundits; doing it entertainingly rather than skilfully; enjoyment over high cultural value.

 

(Do I hear a chorus of what the heck’s she talking about? from across the Atlantic? Hang in there; all is about to be revealed.)

 

A small, twinkly, tubby man with the proverbial two left feet, no sense of rhythm and immense charm has survived to week ten of the current series of Strictly Come Dancing by virtue of one simple fact: the viewers love him.

 

The judges are so rude about him that a lesser man would be reduced to floods of tears. Fortunately John Sergeant is not a lesser man; he has more guts, chutzpah and layers of skin than Len, Bruno, Arlene and Craig put together; as the BBC’s former political editor he probably needed them all, and he didn’t shed them when he retired.

 

Public opinion views him quite differently.

 

Every Saturday evening John and his amazingly talented dancing partner Kristina Rihanoff garner a measly handful of points from the four ‘experts’ – and every week the viewers’ votes snatch them firmly away from the dreaded dance-off. The lower the score and the more vitriolic the comments, the more votes they get. Last week the four judges seemed to get the message; the comments were milder, the scores less abysmal – but the viewers were wise to them, and saved the unlikely couple anyway. This week I have an awful feeling they’ll be doing the jive. John and the jive were never meant to exist on the same planet. But I'm willing to bet it will be business as usual.

 

All of this begs the question, what price 'expert' opinion? And who are the real experts anyway?

 

How often does a West End or Broadway show turn out to be the hit of the season –  after the critics have poured loathing on it?

 

And perhaps more relevant to my own audience, how many critically acclaimed, even award winning books make it to the top of the bestsellers? I can think of half a dozen names of people the pundits load with praise. But when I look at the top ten sellers in the weekend papers, it’s Danielle Steele, James Patterson, Jeffrey Archer, or some other shining star who is loved by the public but despised by the posh media.

 

Sometimes we need, with great regret, to let an author go, for the simple reason that his or her books haven’t sold well enough. Quality, whatever that means, has nothing at all to do with it; it’s all about capturing the public imagination.

 

John Sergeant has certainly done that.

If he could distil and bottle whatever he uses to achieve it, I’d buy a case a week.

Whew! That's done!

Today is the first of a year of Tuesdays  I'm not going anywhere. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it.  I've been gone 20 of the last 60 days with travel and attendance at writing conferences and Bouchercon.

It's been fun for sure, but whew! 

As I look back on more than twenty conferences in two years I've learned a couple things about what I will and won't do anymore.

1.  I won't go to a conference that isn't located in the same city as the airport. No more three hour drives to the conference center.

2. I'm not keen on going to a conference if I have to change planes to get there. Schedule changes and delays on a direct flight are hell. It's hell to the second degree when you've got another city involved.

3.  I'm not going to a conference that doesn't vet the attending agents. I've been mortified to find myself on panels with self described agents who mostly swan around to conferences talking about writing techniques and demonstrate a puzzling lack of knowledge about how selling books actually works.

I certainly don't expect conferences to ask me whom to invite.  Some conference coordinators, like writers, can't tell if an agent falls into the swan category.  My only defense is just not to go.  I'm planning to be much more proactive about asking for the roster before I say yes.

4. I'm not going to attend conferences that focus on pitch sessions.  Pitch sessions are the least effective way to get my attention. It works sometimes, but I need  writing.  I'm going to say yes to conferences that make an effort to organize it so pages can be sent ahead of time. I'm also going to focus on those that let me meet with people for ten minutes and who are allowed to bring pages to the conference.

5. And I'm going to continue to say yes to CrimeBake in Deadham Dedham (thanks Abby!) MA sponsored by New England MWA and Sisters in Crime.  It's one of the very best conferences I've ever attended.  And I can get there on the train.

CrimeBake is organized by a troupe of writers and other volunteers who've made it their mission to produce an event that people like so much they come year after year. It's not uncommon to see "4th" "5th" and "6th" Crimebake on nametags.  

It's also got the very best conference bar. It's not dark, there's no live music, and only one television. There are several comfy benches, and lots of tables. The service is so slow it keeps us all there way too long and that's half the fun.

CrimeBake totally rocks.

If you want to hit a great conference in 2009, that's the one to hit.

They may actually pry me out of conference retirement...maybe!

Notes From the Overweight

Jeff Cohen

It's all about diet and exercise. I've decided I need to lose a minimum of 30 pounds, and it's not like I don't know how to do that--it's like Craig Ferguson says: "eat less; move around more!"

The whole thing is a mental process, like writing. Unfortunately, unlike writing, it doesn't come to me naturally. I don't have the diet-and-exercise gene in me--it has to be a conscious process, and a constant one. There's no point at which it will kick in and become second nature. It requires careful planning, flawless execution and perfect mental discipline.

So if somebody could let me know where to get those cheap and easy, I'd greatly appreciate it.

Every year when I visit my doctor for a check-up, my doctor (who, it should be noted, was a contestant on the second season of "The Biggest Loser," and no, I'm NOT making that up) will advise me that I need to lose weight. Like I don't know that. "Wow, Doc, thanks for the info! I thought I was tall and lanky!" (I've always wanted to be "lanky," and let's face it, I could lose 100 pounds and not be "lanky." It leads me to the conclusion that like so many things in my life, this is all about being short--I'm the perfect weight; just the wrong height. Now, how do I go about fixing that?)

Then he'll go on to suggest that I write down everything I eat for two weeks, and bring the "food diary" back for him to peruse. And I nod, tell him I think that's a great plan, leave the office, and immediately don't do that.

He's operating (you should pardon the expression) under the mistaken impression that I don't know what I should be doing. I know precisely what I should be doing. Doing it is another thing entirely.

Here's what I should be doing: I should immediately cut down seriously, if not completely, on the simple carbohydrates I take in, virtually all the time. Breads, pasta, sugary cereals, bagels, rolls... did I mention pasta? That's first. And they should be replaced with complex carbohydrates, apparently consisting mostly of beans, because the Diet Gods don't think I have gas enough yet.

Next, I should increase intake of fruits and vegetables. This, too, makes tons of sense, and there's little chance I'll do it other than to eat an apple every day and have some salad with dinner. When you get up in the middle of the afternoon, writing away at a novel, an article about residential real estate trends (they're all bad, by the way--welcome, President Obama, could you rush that Jan. 20 date a bit?) or a book proposal, and head for the kitchen, is the first thing on YOUR mind, "oh boy, celery sticks?"

I didn't think so.

That brings us to exercise. I hate exercise. I don't mean: Oh, it's a drag to have to do exercise, but I know it's good for me, so here I go. I mean, I HATE exercise. I hate the way I have to catch my breath. I hate the stress on my legs and my back. I detest every second of it, and think the entire time of when I'll be finished. And I hate the fact that, no matter how much I stretch afterward, various muscles will hurt later. 

I'm told there's such a thing as an "endorphin rush." I'm still waiting to see what that feels like. The only rush I get is when I'm finished and don't have to do THAT again today. I hate exercising; I love having exercised.

On the other hand, there's the experience of what a heart attack must feel like, and that I'm not too crazy about getting first-hand. So I have to do SOMETHING. Any suggestions will be gratefully accepted.

Keep in mind, I'm a guy who couldn't sustain exercising via Wii Fit for more than a couple of weeks at a time. I've worked with a personal trainer and found ways to avoid doing anything on a regular basis. And I have feet that absolutely, positively will not tolerate running, so don't even think about it. (In the interest of full disclosure, I'm writing this as my wife is out running. The show-off.)

I'm not giving up, mind you. This IS, in some ways, like writing. You can't ever just stop. You can't ever decide this isn't your life. You can't just say, "well, if the heart attack comes, it comes." No. I have a strict policy of not dying that I absolutely will not violate on penalty of death. So I'm still trying to force myself to do what I should, if I actually value, you know, breathing.

It's the "how" that's the problem.

In Which I am Cordially Invited

Abby Zidle

OK, people, seriously now.  Just when I think blogs like this have finally eradicated the aspiring writer's urge to get "creative" with correspondence...something shows up in the mailbox to prove me wrong.  This time, it was an invitation--to a funeral.

My assistant brought in my mail the other day, and handed me an envelope with elaborate calligraphy on it, and a kiss stamp on the flap (as opposed to a KISS stamp, which I suppose would actually be a tongue).  It looked like a wedding invitation, but I think I'm finally out of friends who have yet to get married, so I couldn't imagine who it was from.  Opening the envelope, I saw that inside was, indeed, a formal invitation, complete with engraving, RSVP card, even the little piece of tissue paper that comes with such things.  This was nicer than my wedding invitations!

The invitation read as follows: " [Author's name redacted to protect the regrettable] invites you to attend the funeral for her failed novel [Title likewise]" and was followed by a date/time/place, and a website for more information.  Reading the title, I realized that I knew this book...I had seen this book, and indeed, rejected it.  But as I recalled, it hadn't come from the author, it had come from an agent, and I'd passed accordingly.  So what was this?  Was the author asking me to reconsider? Was there really a party?  Did their agent come up with this idea?

I was perplexed and annoyed--why was I having to expend all this mental energy on something I'd already dealt with through traditional channels?  What was the joke?  So I caved--I clicked on the website.  This author had designed an entire site (nicely done, I must admit) as a companion to her upcoming "funeral."  It included information about the book, the author, and the party.  It also pointed out that it had been rejected by sixteen different editors (rejections quoted on the site), and that the author did not intend to write another book--her vision of being a published author was declared dead, and we were invited (yes, she invited all the editors who rejected her) to celebrate.

I get that the author was trying to turn lemons into lemonade, and maybe to create a media event--perhaps if she built up some buzz, her book could get another shot.  But oh my best beloveds, listen well.  This author failed to understand her audience, and is paying the price for it.  She thought, in sending these invitations to editors who'd already rejected her, that she was presenting herself as Tireless Self-Promoter, and thus might cause us to reconsider.  But she came off to me as Loose Cannon--not someone I want to work with.  And not only was she damaging her own reputation, but she risked tarnishing her agent's, as well.  (As it happens, I called the agent and asked, "Um, did you know about this?" Turns out they'd parted company, surprise surprise.)

Look, if you want to take a depressing stack of rejections and have a bonfire party, that's great.  Invite your friends, your family, a host of oiled men with palm fronds, whatever you want.  But such a party is a personal, emotional event, and should be kept separate from business.  To me, it's not cute, it's not funny--it's passive-aggressive.  And it ensures that not only won't I reconsider this project, but I'll know better than to work with you in future.  But hey, do whatever you want--it's your funeral.

November

Robin Agnew

For me, November is the blah month of bookselling, usually until after Thanksgiving.  The weather takes a turn for the worse - the days are grey and it gets dark early - and this year, the economy is so stinky not too many people are shopping.  If they are they tend to ask how much they can get for the book they are buying when they bring it back for store credit.  This November is no different.

Because I'm not anticipating big Christmas sales this year (is anybody?) I did things on Thursday like respond to an e-mail from a publisher asking what the heck we were doing to stay afloat.  This e-mail wasn't addressed just to me, but to the slew of bookstores our particular rep for that particular publisher covers.

I also talked to a guy who wanted to rent 100 square feet of our space for $500 a month.  It sounded somewhat attractive though we're a bit squeezed for space as it is, but then I found out he had tried the same thing with another store and then backed out of it.  In this present economy, though, the Dr. Zhivago scenario of splitting up everyone's space, living and business wise, doesn't seem so far fetched.

I also took some of those old books I talked about last week that have sensational covers (I don't think cover art is as great as it used to be, and definitely not as deliciously colorful) but were falling apart and made greeting cards out of them.  Using a color xerox machine I'll have an endless supply and so far people seem to like them.  They are simple & fairly cheap to make.

Today it's raining, there's a football game (would YOU want to sit out in the rain for 3 hours?  Not me), and I don't have high hopes.  I do think our used books will carry us through this present economic downturn, as will being proactive in every way possible.   The thing that keeps me going are the terrific books I get to read.  It's a grey rainy day, as I mentioned - perfect for reading a good book!

The Vampire Wore Sunscreen

Deni Dietz

My mystery novel EYE OF NEWT stars a "reluctant witch." The book goes back and forth between the present and 1692 Salem: "Practical Magic meets The Crucible." I then decided to write a crime fiction story starring a vampire. Having never met one face-to-face, I knew I had some intense research to do, and somehow I didn't think Google would fly. So I looked up Vampires in the Yellow Pages. It took 3 phone calls, after midnight, but I finally found one who was willing to talk to me.

Deni: Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me, Mr...what do I call you?

Vampire: Rice. My name is Rice.

Deni: Like, Anne Rice?

Vampire: Never heard of her. My name is Rex Rice, but most people just call me Rice.

Deni: Okay, um, Rice. Thanks again. I really do appreciate it.

Vampire: You're velcome. I'm glad you're a redhead. I love the color red.

Deni: Yes, well (looking down at notes), where are you from?

Vamp: California. But I'm always looking for new locales. I visited Salem's Lot once. Didn't like it.

Deni: Whoa. Wait. You're not from Transylvania?

Vamp: Never heard of the place.

Deni: I've read about vampires, of course, and seen movies. But I had no idea they ... you ... looked so ... well, normal. You could be the bachelor on one of those bachelor TV shows, especially with that chest. Do you wax it?

Vamp: I do.

Deni: And your dimples are to die for. I mean, live for.

Vamp: Thank you. Out of curiosity, vhat do you write?

Deni: Historical romances as Mary Ellen Dennis and crime fiction as Denise Dietz. I was thinking about creating a vampire detective. Why are you shaking your head?

Vamp: It wouldn't vork, unless he vorked the night shift. Or if he only vorked on cloudy days. Maybe if he lived in a Lincoln Continental. With tinted windows.

Deni: How about a vampire cop?

Vamp: Same problem.

Deni: I see your point. No offense. I mean, your fangs and all.

Vamp: Freudian slip. Happens all the time.

Deni: How about sunscreen? Maybe I could concoct a special, secret, government sunscreen, a la Dean Koontz.

Vamp: Sunscreen might vork, or maybe Mime makeup. If a Mime fell in the forest, would anyone know? (laughs) Do you have a title for your story?

Deni: I was thinking of calling it 'The Vampire Wore Prada,' but now I'm thinking 'The Lincoln Vampire' might fly.

Vamp: Yes.

Deni: Yes, vhat? I mean, what?

Vamp: I thought you were asking if I could fly. The answer is yes.

Deni: That's good to know. It could be an important plot element. Do you change into a bat, first?

Vamp: You've been vatching too much TV. Or too many Bela Lugosi movies. Vy vould I vant to be a bat? All that guano. Ick.

Deni: Sorry. I don't usually stereotype. So, no detective protagonist and no cop. What, exactly would you like to be?

Vamp: Your perp.

Deni: Perp? How do you know that word?

Vamp: Vhat? You think vampires can't read? Some of my best friends are librarians.

Deni: If you were my perp, who ... whom would you kill?

Vampire: Stephen King.

Anyone in the market for a story called THE VAMPIRE WORE SUNSCREEN?

It’s a game of two halves, Brian

Sharon Wheeler

I’ve been a sports writer – I know all about clichés, thank you. It’s a game of two halves, Brian, but at the end of the day the lads gave 110 per cent but I’m sick as a parrot that we didn’t sneak it early doors.

And now I’m peeved that I didn’t come up first with the idea for a book of irritating phrases! Researchers at Oxford University have put together the wonderfully-named Damp Squid, the result of monitoring books, papers, magazines, broadcast and the internet.

Apparently the top ten stinkers are as follows:

1. At the end of the day
2. Fairly unique
3. I personally
4. At this moment in time
5. With all due respect
6. Absolutely
7. It's a nightmare
8. Shouldn't of
9. 24/7
10. It's not rocket science

Yep, can’t disagree with most of those. Although I admit to using number six (usually with bloody in the middle of it for added emphasis) and I just stopped myself from using the last one in a lecture on Monday.

Numbers two and eight bring out my big grammar stick, and with number five I usually have to resist the temptation to jab the speaker on the nose, as you just know that the dreaded phrase presages something rude or snotty . . .

Incidentally, I found out not so long ago what rocket science is. Apparently where there’s a push, there’s got to be a pull. So maybe it’s not so complicated after all! Given the difficulties I’m having at the moment persuading some of my students to read theoretical textbooks (if any of them are reading this, You Know Who You Are!), maybe the phrase should become ‘it’s not print journalism.’

Speaking of which, I’m going to blame broadcasting for most of these horrors, rather than newspapers, magazines and the internet. You hear these phrases being trotted out, and they stick in people’s minds. And it’s a mix of the sound-bite generation, wanting to sum things up in a phrase, and people being interviewed wanting to sound important in front of the cameras (why else would you keep parroting something like “I personally, at this moment in time …”) If you’re ever interviewed for any part of the media, then remember the old KISS theory – keep it simple, stupid!

I assume this research from Oxford University is continuing, and no doubt in a couple of years’ time there will be some text message and email clichés to annoy us. I’d like to insist that the very wonderful OMGWTFBBQ is exempt from any list. Thanks to Live Journal, this is now my new expression of surprise. And at the end of the day, you’ve got to admit it’s fairly unique.

Important - or just urgent?

Lynne Patrick

 

A long time ago someone introduced me to the Pending Tray Theory. It goes like this:

 

Every project and task that lands on your desk goes straight into the pending tray. The ones that really matter float to the top; people hassle you for them, a deadline approaches (or passes), or somehow they demand attention and you deal with them. Everything else sinks to the bottom, and either wasn’t that important in the first place or isn’t missed if it doesn’t get done.

 

Well, it’s a point of view. I suspect it’s the way a lot of people work. If I’m honest, I do a lot of it myself.

 

The flaw in the system, two flaws in fact, is that urgent stuff gets priority, and everything is urgent when it first comes up; and urgent isn’t always the same as important.

 

So sometimes you need something to focus on, to translate important  into urgent.

 

One thing people learn about me very quickly is that I have no patience with business meetings: the kind of occasion at which various people from various bits of an organisation gather in a room and throw ideas around for a couple of hours. I’ve done it often enough to know that the useful decisions mostly get made elsewhere, and the idea-throwing and associated chatter invariably goes on far longer than the subject matter merits because everyone wants their say.

 

So when I was invited to a sales meeting by our distributors, I wasn’t exactly filled with joy.

 

The meeting was an opportunity to tell their sales reps about Criminal Tendencies, our charity anthology, which doesn’t come out till next April, but hey, I didn’t invent the system…

 

It meant five hours’ travelling for less than an hour for less than an hour with the sales team: effectively a whole day away from base. And it’s a busy time (not that’s there’s really any other kind) and plenty of stuff was demanding attention here in the office.

 

Though since they get a whole lot of information anyway, maybe the point was to get the sales team as fired up about it as I am myself.

 

So how was I going to do that? They spend a couple of days a month listening to publishers getting excited about their new titles; why would mine stand out?

 

They listened politely as I told them about the book, and what I’m planning to do by way of promotion; there were a few comments, a couple of suggestions. No one got excited or fired up. So on the face of it, nothing happened to change my opinion of the value of meetings.

 

But…

 

Going to the meeting at all gave me a focus. It me push some small and apparently urgent jobs to one side (so far no one has given me any flak about them so they can’t have been so very urgent) in order to apply my mind to how we’re going to promote the anthology, so that I could present an organised and reasonably detailed marketing plan to those reps. So it served a useful purpose after all.

 

Since books only sell if they’re visible, and it’s frighteningly easy for us little guys to get buried under a mountain of surefire bestsellers, promotion is arguably the most important job I have to do. But dreaming up innovative and eye-catching ideas doesn’t have a deadline, and no one comes looking for me to ask where they are; so it’s a job that’s rarely at the top of the pending tray.

 

And it’s far too easy to fill the working day with ‘urgent’ jobs.

I've Gone Over to the Dark Side

Janet Reid

I walked by the book rack at Duane Reade on 34th Street a couple days ago, clutching a vat of face spackle and a bag of cotton balls.  I'm in Duane Reade almost every day buying one sort of something or another. Among the few things I haven't bought there are books. (Duane Reade is the NYC drugstore chain for those who live outside the area.)

I used to buy books at places like Duane Reade.  In fact much of my early book buying was at the grocery store: that was the store I was in most often.  I'd pore over the book rack and find an author I liked or a book that sounded good. I discovered Dick Francis at the grocery store, also Catherine Aird, Emma Lathen and Sue Grafton.

 

I chose books there the same way I chose them at the library: I'd look at the selection and pick several, then winnow them down to one or two; choices based most likely on cover price at the store or how many I could stuff in my bag at the library.

 

When I was buying books at the grocery store, or checking them out from the library I had to look at what was on the shelf to get an idea of what to select. Reviews didn't suggest choices or books to look for: mysteries didn't get review space in any paper or magazine I read. No one I knew read mysteries or if they did, we didn't talk about them.

But I've never bought a book at Duane Reade because how I select books has changed. It's changed from the years I actually set foot in grocery stores, to now, when I don't.

It's changed because twenty six blogs and three dozen websites cough up info about new or great or overlooked mysteries to my GoogleReader every single day. (If you don't know about GoogleReader go here.  It's great.)

I don't need to look at the selection on the shelves to get an idea of what's available or to know what I want to buy. More often now I'm buying online from Amazon because when I see something that looks good (from that myriad of sources) it's a whole lot easier to click once at Amazon and presto, magic have it delivered.

This does not bode well for my friends and boon companions who are running retail book operations.  

When Amazon first reared its head up in Seattle and started gnawing at the corners of the retail book market I was pretty sure it would get a belly ache and die of indigestion within a couple years.

Boy was I wrong.

I've never had much love for Amazon. Certainly not anywhere close to the warm feeling I have for my treasured bookstore friends: Twenty Third Avenue Books in Portland, Annie Blooms in Portland, Murder by the Book in Portland, and my general preference for pretty much any indie store in all the world instead of the faceless hulk that is T-Rex Amazonicus.

So, why do I buy from Amazon? Because when I know what I want, it's the easiest, fastest way to get it.  I'd buy from the indies if it was fast and easy too but it's not.

Then today, I went over to the Dark Side and actually became part of Amazon.  They snagged me the way all pushers do. They gave me something I needed, and they gave it to me for free.

If you look at my website, at the bottom of each page, you'll see what it is.

 

At the bottom of each page is a scrolling gallery of book covers.

We have a much more elegant version of this on our FinePrint website.

We also paid a website designer to create it and one of the godsends is tasked with updating it frequently. 

I wasn't willing to spend much time or any money to have a gallery like that.

But, I needed book covers on my website. I'd been trying to figure out how to post them as individual pictures for a while.  I had limited success largely because I'm witless about even the simplest template-based websites (such as mine), and because the book covers pictures I had all came in different sizes and some of them looked weird.

It was a half baked and unsatisfactory solution.

 

Today I was over at Bill Cameron's blog.

I noticed his scroll.  I was poised to email "Bill, how did you do that" cause I know he's very very smart about these things. Then I noticed "get widget." And I clicked.

 

Amazon has made it as simple as click and paste for me to have something I want. I want book covers on my site. I'm ok with linking to a retailer cause I want people buying my client's books.

I'd prefer they linked to indie stores but they don't.

I'll take what I can get. 

Indie book retailers have a big challenge facing them.  Indie bookstores have long touted themselves as the thinking person's place to buy books; that hand selling, offering information and suggestions was their strength.  When I look at my own book buying pattern and my own interactions with retailers, I think handselling is a smaller and smaller niche because there are so many other places to hear about great books (my website for example!). And now, even though I love indie bookstores, everyone who clicks on my website gets directed to Amazon.

Indie bookstores are right to not like this. I don't much like it either.  But we all need to recognize that what I want ISN"T to send people to Amazon. What I want is the cool widget that shows my client's books on my website.

If I could get it another way I would.

Let me say that again: If I could get it another way, as easily and for free, I would.

And if I could buy books as easily from indies as I can from Amazon, I would. I want to support indies, I do. But no retailer gets rich for political reasons. Retailers thrive when they give customers what they want. 

 

I'm not sure what the answer is. I just wish I was part of the solution instead of part of the problem.

 

You say it's your birthday...

Jeff Cohen

Among the topics I considered posting about today:

* President-elect Obama: Yeah it's been said before, but--wow.

* My favorite typos in history (Marty Pythar and the Holy Grail??)

* Veterans, and why it's good they have their own day.

* Bill Cosby, and how he paved the way for the past week's election (already covered by the New York Times, those spoilsports).

* The World Series. How'd the Panamanians do this year?

* Insulating and heating a 100-year-old house.

* Why I could practice ten hours a day for the rest of my life and still not be as good as anyone who plays guitar professionally.

* Whether or not the New York Times actually once referred to Meat Loaf as "Mr. Loaf."

* Pseudonyms, and why it's okay for me to be a hypocrite.

* Why Halloween candy should be outlawed... from my house.

But instead, I've decided to discuss a remarkably significant person who was born on this date. Insightful, intelligent, warm-hearted, empathetic, and kind, she personifies all that people start out being, but often drop by the wayside as they grow older and more cynical. With a sweet nature, a strong will and the ability to see both sides of a question, she manages to have strong opinions that aren't dogmatic. Talented and enthusiastic, she is torn in many directions at once, and manages to do everything she takes on well.

Best of all, I've watched her grow up from the moment she was born to this day.

Happy birthday, Eve. Welcome to being 16. You're the best daughter any father ever had.

Sold Too Many?

Abby Zidle

I was talking to a friend of mine who's a sales rep for a publishing house, and we were talking about how the recent downturn in the economy will affect our business.  Now, I confess I'm not as knowledgeable about the sales side of publishing as I should be--which is why I think I should be able to expense these lunches with my friend!

Anyway, this week she enlightened me about an element of sales figures that I hadn't really considered.  She mentioned that her accounts had taken more of a particular book than she thought they could sell.  I said, "Great, so you got more out than you thought, what's the problem?"  She reminded me that most of those books would be coming back to the publisher, which would depress the author's (and the rep's) sell-through (i.e., the number of books actually sold to retail customers)...and lead to lower orders next time.  It hadn't occurred to me that sometimes a rep's job might be to discourage unwarranted optimism on the part of buyers.

Authors themselves have no control over their print runs, other than encouraging people to buy their books--but they frequently express disappointment over conservative print runs, or don't understand why the house couldn't push more copies out into the marketplace, say to hit a bestseller list.  But overshipping a title can cause an author long-term problems--if extensive returns come back, the author's reputation can be damaged with buyers.  When Book 2 comes around, the buyers will look up their results for Book 1 and see that 80% of them came back.  So that monster order from the first book? Becomes a modest order (if any) for the new title, and another black mark against the author.

So, just as monster advances aren't always the sign of an author's ultimate success, neither are monster print runs.  We'll take healthy, growing percentages any day.

Acquiring old books

Robin Agnew

A few weeks ago, an antiques dealer we know in town (his shop is around the corner from ours) called my husband and told him he was going through someone's house and she'd had a few books.  This was an understatment.  This woman had saved and kept things of all kinds - the TV show "Clean House" was made for her.  She had so much stuff crammed into her tiny house that I'm not sure how she was able to walk around, and I saw it after our dealer friend had been at it for a week or so.  My husband saw it about five days after, and it was worse.  At least when I saw it, I could move around the basement.

My husband told me that when he tipped back the books to see what they were (they were on shelves above his head) dust fell all over him.  But she was obviously an omnivorous mystery reader - she had all kinds of Rex Stout, Agatha Christie, Leslie Charteris, Erle Stanley Gardner, Ellery Queen, Mary Roberts RInehart, Dorothy Sayers, etc. from the 30's and 40's.  She also had a run of Ellery Queen Magazines from the 40's to the 80's.

I am still sorting through the boxes and pricing the books, which is kind of like going on a treasure hunt.  Some of them are beyond help, but so far about half are turning out to be saleable and the other half are somewhat more valuable.  Our dealer friend told us he is making it worth his while through all the stamps and coins she had squirreled away.

When my husband came out, lugging boxes and covered with dust, he told me the neighbors all sidled up to him to ask what it was like inside - they had all een sure it was a fire hazard for years (they were definitely right).  He agreed it was, loaded up the boxes, and came home to take a shower.  At the moment our library/computer room looks like a cyclone hit it, but it's worth the journey!

Failing the friendship test

Sharon Wheeler

Can't remember how I found the site now, but the Bechdel Test made me nod vigorously – and then wonder if it applied to books.

It's named after the brilliant lesbian cartoonist Alison Bechdel, who created the Dykes To Watch Out For strip and also an outstanding autobiographical graphic novel, Fun Home.

In a nutshell, a film or a TV show must fulfil the following criteria: It includes at least two women … who have at least one conversation with each other … about something other than a man. 

As regular visitors know, I'm no expert on films, but I can't think off-hand of a TV drama which passes the rule. And come to think of it, a worryingly high number of crime fiction books wouldn’t either.

And that's odd in a genre where there's a high proportion of women writers. It reminded me of a writing course I went on about 15 years ago. The tutors were two British crime writers, Sarah Dunant and John Harvey. On the first day they set us an exercise where they gave us a detective’s surname and asked us to form a story around it. Almost all the people on the course were women; all of us made that character male. Sarah Dunant commented how depressing that was – and she was right.

Even now, when female detectives take a leading role, a book won’t pass the test. That’s because there’s often conflict between two main female characters (if, indeed, there’s a second one anyway). And you can almost guarantee that if they do talk, it’ll be about how much they love DI X or hate DS Y.

The PI and amateur markets aren’t exempt either. Don’t female reporters have women colleagues? They all seem to be loners or in need of a male figure to protect them. And I can’t think of a book where a female PI has a proper conversation with another woman where men aren’t mentioned. Even Marcia Muller, one of my absolute favourite writers, has Sharon and Rae talking too damn much about their blokes.

Surely there must be cosy writers who have women characters talking about other subjects, even if it is cats or quilting! Or are they all too busy burbling about the handsome cop who won’t them interfere in his murder case?

OK, so we get a load of strong female characters in crime fiction. But we don’t see often enough those realistic friendships with other women. I spend hours on the phone or online to girlfriends. We go out for an Indian, go shopping, tell each other smutty jokes, whinge about work, the universe and everything. And you know, I’d like more of that and less of the solitary woman who doesn’t seem to have a single female friend.

Making history. And books.

Wouldn’t you just know it’s a Brit’s turn to post on the most important day in American history this century.

 

Then again, all you Americans are busy today, sleeping off your celebratory/sorrow-drowning (delete as appropriate) hangovers so I could just look on it as taking up the slack. How well-organised is that?

 

I could simply spend 500 words and half an hour punching the air shouting, “Go, Barack!”, or weeping into my coffee for the end of an era; but either would be partisan and self-revelatory, not to mention none of my damn business except in a globally-aware sense, and I’d run the risk of alienating a lot of people as well. So I’m going to change the subject to something else entirely.

 

OK, let’s talk about… deadlines.

 

I know. I know. It’s about as scintillating a topic as, well, counting votes. But someone told me when I joined the Dead Guys that I should write about whatever’s occupying my mind that week, and this week it’s deadlines.

 

The deadline for submission of short stories for our charity anthology was last Friday. Unpublished writers entering the competition had till midnight; published authors who had generously offered to donate a story were asked very politely if they could possibly get it to me by that date.

 

Mostly they have.

 

A couple of authors with novels scheduled for next year also have, or had, deadlines round about now. Mostly they’ve delivered.

 

Mostly.

 

So why does it matter? Why am I nibbling nervously at my fingernails and staring at the production schedule, working out the implications of moving this title to that month? Why is it so important? Our next title doesn’t come out till April, and April and May are already pretty much in the can anyway; surely that allows plenty of time and slack in the system to move the other four around, or even substitute something else for one of them?

 

Um, no, actually. A lot has to happen to a manuscript between delivery and publication, and I don’t just mean printing. In less than a month from now I’ll need to submit details, and preferably covers complete with blurbs, to our distributors of everything we’re publishing right up to next September.

 

And then the work really begins.

 

Let me tell you a story.

 

Long, long ago in a universe far, away… OK, a few years ago, right here in a room a few yards from this office… two people set up a publishing company. They lined up a dozen or so authors, with the intention of getting maybe half of them into print within a year. Some of the dozen (or so) had already completed their novels. Others were still working on them, and one of the others already had a track record, though not in crime fiction. He thought, and if I’m honest the two novice publishers thought too, that he was a shoo-in: a professional, with a firm grasp on the nitty gritty of the business.

 

We (yes, you guessed, one of those publishers was me) gave him a final deadline for delivery of a complete, edited, ready-for-the-typesetter manuscript, assuming in our innocence (oh happy days of innocence) that, being a professional, with a firm etc etc, he would submit exactly that, allowing us to get our first list off to a rattling good start.

 

Over the months there were regular, lengthy phone calls. He kept us up to date with everything he was doing alongside the novel: several non-fiction projects, a lot of research, quite a few trips abroad and discussions with big TV producer. A lot on his plate, but heck, he was a professional.

 

Two days after the deadline his manuscript arrived. So far so good; two days late we can live with. Except…

 

It was 30,000 words longer than the budget we’d given everyone – which meant almost half as long again. It was plain from the first chapter that the storyline was completely different from the one we’d accepted in the first place. He had ignored two aspects of house style which we’d asked authors to abide by.

 

And there were five errors in the first paragraph, one of them a repeated punctuation mistake which suggested his grasp of how to use the apostrophe was on the fuzzy side.

 

Fortunately we weren’t as innocent as all that, and we’d kept our options open. That book never made it into print – but it did teach me some valuable lessons, the most important of which was never take anything for granted.

 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why deadlines are important.

 

(OK, now I’ll start punching the air…)

Why I Love Danielle Steel

Janet Reid

It's very fashionable in some literary circles to disdain Danielle Steel. I've been guilty of it myself a time or ten.  I've used her work as examples of commercial drek every time I've needed an example of commercial drek.  In my defense I can only say "yes I am my own idiot."

 

What brought me to full realization of my idiocy started with the news this week that Danielle Steel now has a blog.  Cue the brass band of Sardonica: they chimed right in with "Danielle Steel is the last person who needs a blog."  Well, that very well may be true but I was interested enough to click on the link in the news story.

 

And I was utterly charmed.

 

Her blog is all about her kids, her life, why she loves fashion and the foundations she set up to honor the memory of her son who died by his own hand in the throes of mental illness.

 

She doesn't waste a single minute defending herself against people jeering at her or her books.

 

I kind of like that.  It's very in-your-face only in a zen-like way. 

 

As I surfed around the site I came on the list of her published books.  And it's a lot. Not a lot like most of us think of a lot (20+) but more like a lot like Ripley's Believe It of Not thinks of a lot (100+)

 

And then I realized I really really love Danielle Steel.  Maybe not her writing, but certainly the entire library of her work.  It dawned on me that her enormous success is probably funding a couple smaller, less profitable writers.  She's keeping the heat and lights on over at Delacorte; probably a lot more than that as well.  My guys probably keep the office supply cabinet stocked up on binder clips.  In other words Danielle Steel and her 100+ books are carrying much more than her share of the fixed costs of the publisher, and that helps my guys who aren't selling at her  stratospheric level and, let's be honest here,  probably never will.

 

It's very very hard not to love that when you're an agent, even if the author isn't your own.

 

So, forgive me Danielle Steel.  I'll never badmouth you again. And I've learned my lesson, I promise.  What you write may not float my boat, but the result of your rainmaking raises the water level for us all.

 

 

 

Get Out and Vote!

Jeff Cohen

There's an election today--had you heard?--and I have to admit, to a certain extent, I've been feeling a little left out.

New Jersey, the Garden State which is my home, is by absolutely no stretch of the imagination a battleground state. We're so blue that the only reason we voted for Ronald Reagan in 1984 was that the butterfly ballots made us think we were voting for Michael Dukakis. And he wasn't even running that year.

New York, which is the media hub for my half of NJ, is also not exactly in question. So the local media have had to get by on car ads, anything related to football (we understand there were baseball playoffs this year, but we ignored them to watch the numbers on the stock market, which were far more turbulent), and comforting "we can help you get rid of your credit card debt" commercials. 

We have, therefore, not been bombarded with negative ads. And it's been a drag.

No claims that someone is a Socialist (which, frankly, isn't looking all that bad these days) or that he has more houses than he can count. No shots at the candidates' respective spiritual advisors. Not one robocall. No claims, someone help me, that a candidate is "godless," a shot that hasn't been fired in an election since "Saracens Vs. Huns." GODLESS?????

We're having a Senatorial election in New Jersey, and the candidate who is so old he makes John McCain seem like a college freshman is leading by about 98 percentage points. There's no drama.

New Jerseyans have been feeling like the black sheep of the family--we haven't been visited by a candidate since Hillary Clinton came by to stump--for herself!

Hey, we have 15 electoral votes, and nobody seems to want them. It's a little disconcerting. But then, stuck between New York City and Philadelphia, New Jersey is used to getting something less than the full glare of the spotlight. If they started respecting us, we'd know the end of the country was at hand. 

So we're coping. We'll be at the polling places tomorrow.

Seriously: if you live in America and you are a registered voter, get the heck out there and vote tomorrow. There are places in the world (including some we have recently invaded) where you can't do so without risking your life. We, on the other hand, might have to stand in some lines and get back to work a little late. We have no excuse. We need to get out and vote.

Personally, I voted for Barack Obama, which I'm sure comes as no surprise to anyone. I think he'll do the best job. You should vote for whomever you think will do the best job. But vote. Seriously. 

What Are Friends For?

Abby Zidle

Ten years ago when I moved to New York, I didn't know anyone who wasn't in publishing. A decade later, most of my friends still work in the field.  This leads to lots of shop talk during social gatherings--insert praise for mercifully patient spouses here--but also means that I have contacts at most of the major houses in town.

This business runs on a powerful mix of lunch, cocktails and gossip. When I want to find out when a particular book is coming out, who signed a hot author, or how a buzz-grabbing title actually sold, I can pick up the phone and hit up one of my friends for the scoop. We're not going to sell out our companies, of course, but generally everyone understands that a little quid pro quo helps us all.

But sometimes the editor with the hot project or the sales figures is my friend...and ironically, that's where it gets sticky. It's one thing to ask a pal when a competing book is coming out so that you can position yours better--but it doesn't feel sporting when your goal is to beat your friend to market.  I might ask a friend over drinks (maybe a couple of drinks), "C'mon, how much did you guys really pay for that new author? Did you actually get a P&L to work at that level?"  But I would hesitate to request sales figures for a friend's author, if my intention was to try to poach that author.

I don't know how many editors feel the same way--this is an unwritten code, after all.  But I like to think there's still some honor among thieves.

The Michigan Murders

Robin Agnew

I just finished re-reading The Michigan Murders by Edward Keyes, a book published in 1976, about murders that took place between 1967-1969.  The last time I read it was 1982 and I was living in yet another college town, Columbus, Ohio, and I remember being absolutley terrified.  So scared in fact that when my husband was at work late at night I could only read the book in the kitchen with all the lights on.  At the time, of course, I was more or less the age of the victims in the story.  Re-reading it now, as instead the age of the parents who lose their children, it ended up being more sad than scary.  I don't remember crying the first time I read it.

Fast forwarding to the present it's almost ironinc that we now own a crime bookstore and that one of our bestselling titles is indeed The Michigan Murders, no doubt because the murders took place here, in Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor.  Through the years we've had plenty of customers who claimed to have been at a party with the amazingly normal looking killer, John Norman Collins, or to have known or have been in a class with, one of the victims.  We stockpile copies as the book is out of print so usually have one on hand for the deperate.

There are other changes that come to mind when reading this book.  One interesting part was reading an account of the student unrest that was especially present in Ann Arbor in 1968.  It's kind of a back drop to the whole story, as are the use of words like "rap" and the casualness of hitchhiking to get around, something that John Norman Collins eventually put a stop to - his method was to pick up girls on his motorcycle.  He looked so normal the girls agreed.

Also unusual and something that wouldn't happen in a book written today is the fact that Keyes changed the names of all the victims and of Collins himself.  In his day of instant and constant news, that would never fly, but it's almost charming when re-reading the book, though I wonder how confusing it was for Keyes as he was writing it.

Another different aspect of this book is the fact that Keyes structures it like a whodunnit - as a first time reader, you won't know who the killer is before the police do.  It makes the book very hard to put down.  Because Collins was actually the nephew of a State Trooper he was questioned early on and the police moved on - he looked so clean cut.  My husband is of the opinion that every girl going off to college should read this book as a cautionary tale, and he wants our own daughter to read it before she leaves next year.

The last bit of difference is DNA.  The police found blood and hair clippings in the basement of Collins' uncle's house - rather than the blood, it was the hair clippings that convicted him. Since the murders also involved rape, the DNA alone would have nailed him today.  The last striking bit to me was Collins' resemblance to Ted Bundy, a "normal" looking guy who frequented college campuses and who once, just as Collins did, washed out the interior of his car (or crime scene) under the frustrated eyes of the police.  If you ever come across a copy, I of course recommend giving this one a look.  Even the second time around I couldn't put it down.