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

We Interrupt This New Year's Eve...

... this post has been interrupted by an urgent message from E.J. Copperman.

Sorry to bother you. I realize this is December 31 (possibly New Year's Eve in your region), and you're expecting some grandiose statement from the blowhard who usually posts here on Mondays, about the passage of time and the meaning of life, blah, blah, blah. 

I'll bet you're really sorry you didn't get that.

But see, I have a problem. My latest effort is a special ebook novella, A WILD GHOST CHASE, which takes place in the Haunted Guesthouse universe and is told from the point of view of Paul Harrison, the resident ghost gumshoe who died in the house before the series began. And he's got quite the corker of a problem about to face him, too.

I know. New Year's Eve. Time stops (sort of). People are out buying Champagne and in dressing up to go out for a night on the town. Some sorry souls might even be planning to fill Times Square for what appears to be a night of standing around in the freezing cold but is apparently a ton of fun. The point is, everybody has plans for this date, usually for some time in advance.

And I'm asking you to stay in and read. Or at least, to stay in and upload A WILD GHOST CHASE so you can read it later. It's much like asking a nation of Caligulas about to hit the local orgy whether they wouldn't really prefer to stay in and have a nice cup of cocoa.

So let me make my plea and then you can go on your way. I don't want to stand in the way of your revelrie. 

A WILD GHOST CHASE takes Paul and many of the other Haunted Guesthouse characters on, well, a certain kind of pursuit. A young ghost, only nine years old, appears in the guesthouse at 123 Seafront Avenue in Harbor Haven, NJ--and perhaps this is the place to note that the story was written and takes place before Hurricane Sandy--and asks Paul, Maxie and Melissa to find his mother. The boy, who calls himself Eagle of the Sun, says he is a member of the Lenni Lenape nation, and both he and his mother have been dead, separately, for over 200 years. 

A stumper, for sure. But that's just the beginning.

This story, an eSpecial from Berkley Prime Crime, is fun and fast, and available only for ereaders, including Kindle, Nook and whatever else you might use to download books. If you don't have an ereader, there are programs that will allow you to read A WILD GHOST CHASE on your Mac or PC--and the programs are free.

The story will set you back $2.99.

I won't take up much more of your time, just to note that 2013 will begin literally any moment, and you might want something to read in the early days when the cold winds are blowing (they are blowing like the Dickens as I write this). Hey, what's three bucks compared to all the money you just spend on gifts, and are the holidays over now? They are!

Besides, A WILD GHOST CHASE, in addition to being a fun mystery in the Haunted Guesthouse series, also offers a sneak peek (that is, the first chapter) of CHANCE OF A GHOST, the next full Haunted Guesthouse novel--available on ebook AND paper, and everything!--which will be on its way in only five weeks, on February 5! 

So let's sum up. Yeah, you can go out and drink your way into a stupor tonight, but before you do, you might want to give some thought--and only about 30 seconds--toward A WILD GHOST CHASE, which is available today! You'll get a new perspective, a fun mystery, and a preview of CHANCE OF A GHOST five weeks in advance.

Win/win/win!

In the meantime, if you are going out tonight, please be careful and have a great time. The regulars here at DEAD GUY look forward to seeing you all through 2013!

Enough with the Sweyn-doesn't-like-tomatoes boilerplate

Jessy Randall

I've just been reading, and enjoying, Janet Evanovich's latest Stephanie Plum novel, Notorious Nineteen. It's entertaining and funny and a good read. But do we really need to be told that Lula used to be a "ho" in every one of these books? When we're re-introduced to Granny Mazur, do we need to be told she loves to attend funerals? We already know these characters very, very well. There has to be a less clunky way to remind us that Stephanie lives in the Burg, and what the Burg is like. Or maybe Evanovich doesn't even need to remind us at all!

J.K. Rowling didn't re-explain Hogwarts with each new volume in her series. Of course, the Harry Potter books have to be read in a certain order, and the Stephanie Plum books don't. But still -- the boilerplate is jarring, it knocks us out of our reading bliss.

I'm reminded of the sameness of the first chapters of all John D. Fitzgerald's Great Brain books. Once you'd read one of the books, you could almost skip the first chapters of the others. All the boys have the middle name Dennis. Sweyn doesn't like tomatoes. The father often brings home unexpected guests for Sunday dinner. And so on. I know editors must think this stuff is necessary for the first-time reader, but maybe it really isn't. The reader is going to figure it out.

Happy New Year!

Marilyn Thiele

I wish all of our readers a Safe and Happy New Year, and a peaceful, prosperous and productive 2013,

Full of Wonderful Books!

2012: Five Moments

by Erin Mitchell

2013 will be here in a jiffy, which has me thinking about the almost 12 months just gone. A Year in Review if you will…albeit somewhat random.

Apparently every reader except me read GONE GIRL this year, and I have yet to hear anyone say anything bad about it. I read SHARP OBJECTS, which has been in my TBR pile for years, and I met Gillian Flynn, who was lovely. It was great. Yes, I’ll read GONE GIRL…eventually. And when I do, I’m sure I’ll love it as much as Everyone Else has.

One of the best times I had this year was an event for Danish author Sara Blaedel at Book Expo America. Why so much fun? Book bloggers. They are, as a rule, brilliant, dedicated, passionate, funny people. If you have the opportunity to spend time with them in the company of authors especially, do.

I’m no cameraperson, but this video—of John Connolly talking about his favorite James Lee Burke books—is one I will always treasure.

  

2012 was many things, not all of them easy. Between the American presidential election and Sandy and the horrific events in Newtown, I’m more grateful than ever for the sanctuary I find in stories.

My favorite book-related quote of the year is from Mark Billingham, who—when talking about e-books and paper books at Bouchercon in Cleveland—said, “Escalators and stairs coexist.” As someone who will never stop flipping pages and has also been clicking buttons for some years now, I could only cheer (and Tweet the quote, of course).

Wishing you all a safe and joyous New Year. If you drink, give someone who doesn’t your keys. Thank you.

See you in 2013!

Yes, it's one of those end-of-year lists

Lynne Patrick

About this time last year my former blogmate Dale Spindel (hi, Dale; hope you had a great Christmas, if that’s what you celebrate) declared December Read a New Book Month.

I read at least one new book every month, which made December a normal month for me, at least in that particular respect. But it gave me an idea. So I made a New Year resolution. And whaddya know, I’ve kept it!

At the end of January I made a note of my book of the month: the stand-out title out of everything I’d read that month, with a couple of lines to remind me why. In February I did the same, and March, and... you get the picture.

So since not a lot else happens at this time of year to interest blog-followers, here are my first six books of the month 2012. The rest will follow next week, when even less will have happened, since the UK shuts down between Christmas and New Year.

January

The Woodcutter Reginald Hill
The brilliant and totally delightful Mr Hill died in 2012, to the enormous sadness of a huge number of people. Rumour hath he’d delivered a new Dalziel and Pascoe, which we’ve been promised in 2013, so this stupendous standalone wasn’t quite the great man’s swan song. But it’s a soaring triumph of a novel nonetheless. I’d go as far as to say it’s the best of the best; I’ve read about seventy percent of his output, and I’ve never read a better. He’ll be sorely missed.

February

My Dear, I Wanted to Tell You Louisa Young
This isn’t a crime novel; I do read other stuff. I’d planned to give it to my mother, but a quick flick through it got me hooked, and anyway I concluded it’s not really her kind of thing. It was nominated for awards, which I normally find a turn-off, but I’m very glad indeed that I read it anyway. I enjoy books about the 1914-18 war, and this was a new twist on a familiar subject, with characters I wept for and didn’t want to leave behind.

March

The Shadows in the Streets Susan Hill
This series goes on getting better. Her minor characters live and breathe, and the leads feel like old friends; what woman with normal instincts could fail to fall a little in love with Simon Serrailler? It had an ending that made me hold my breath in horror.

April

New York to Dallas J D Robb
Every new Eve Dallas is a treat; this stood on the shoulders of the others. Sometimes the familiar rises to new heights.

May

One Was a Soldier Julia Spencer-Fleming
This too. Julia reached a new level with this one. She’s not afraid to show all the warts of her lead characters, and we like them the more for it.

June

Old Haunts E J Copperman
This was a fun read, just when I needed one. Back from a fortnight’s holiday, unexpectedly jetlagged, the ironing pile looking mountainous – and I could escape to the Jersey Shore. It was like being back on holiday, give or take a murder or two. Thanks, E J.

More next week.

And to all a good night

Thanks, DEAD GUY readers. You make what we do possible.

 

T'was the day they call Christmas

And all 'round the blog

There was crime fiction content

The usual smog.

But this day more than most 

We all had a grin

"Cause somebody had taken

The time to look in.

Rest assured, we'll be ready

When holiday's passed

To continue providing

Our info and sass.

But for now we'll say thank you

And urge you to try

Enjoying the day

From us all at DEAD GUY!

 

My Ebook and The APA's Stupidity

Jeff Cohen

I am beside myself with anger.

The changes that I described here have been enacted by the American Psychiatric Association and the words "Asperger's Syndrome" will not appear in the upcoming DSM-V. It's an outrage. I'll say no more. Read the previous post.

Instead, let's examine one of the most vicious recent traditions in the holiday season. That's right, it's time for the Monday DEAD GUY holiday letter, personalized specifically for you by being as general as possible. Shall we begin?

Dear (Insert Name):

Well, 2012 has just about reached its end, and my goodness, the time seems to fly past a little faster with each passing year. Here I just got used to writing "2012" on the four checks I actually sent someone this year (isn't online banking wonderful?), and it's practically time to handicap the Oscars.

This year has been a very busy one for us. This is a subtle yet unmistakable hint that the person sending the letter has been doing way better than you have, a theme which will recur frequently throughout. See if you can spot all the insults! The books have been rolling out regularly and seem to be meeting lots of new people every day!

Obviously, Old Haunts was our adorable little debut in February, joining older siblings Night of the Living Deed and An Uninvited Ghost in the Haunted Guesthouse family. The next installment, Chance of a Ghost, is expected February 5, and we're all incredibly excited to see the new addition to our clan!

But before then, we get a visit from a very close relative: A Wild Ghost Chase, the first-ever Haunted Guesthouse eSpecial from Berkley, will be here at the end of this month (and the end of this year--December 31, or a week from today, depending on how you set your watch)! Exclamation points are overused in holiday letters to drive home the excitment the sender has in his/her life each and every minute, and you don't. 

That little rascal, A Wild Ghost Chase, is a novella, sold only as an ebook (and only $2.99), and is told from the perspective of the best dead detective in Harbor Haven, New Jersey, Paul Harrison. When Paul and his ghostly companion Maxie find a nine-year-old ghost of Native American heritage living in the haunted guesthouse, he makes a rash promise to help find the boy's mother. They've both been dead over 200 years, so that's not going to be easy.

(Just as an aside to Haunted Guesthouse fans, A Wild Ghost Chase will also include a sneak preview of Chance of a Ghost, to whet your appetite for February 5!)

Meanwhile, the year saw the Aaron Tucker series recorded as audiobooks, and they are now available on Audible as well as from Books In Motion! It's so sweet when the little ones start talking, don't you think? And then you can't ever get them to stop!

Meanwhile, Chance of a Ghost, because we're so looking forward to February 5, is certainly on our minds. It deals with the suspicious (to him) death of a very over-the-top amateur actor, Lawrence Laurentz, who comes to Alison Kerby's mother Loretta begging for a chance to find out about the circumstances of his demise. The medical examiner says Lawrence died of heart issues, but Lawrence insists he was murdered--with an electric toaster thrown into his bath.

Alison doesn't want to take the case, but Lawrence says he can offer a special fee--he can connect her with her deceased father, whom Loretta says is "missing."

But we don't want to get too far ahead of ourselves. After all, we need something to write about in next year's holiday letter!

Love, peace and a happy new year to all!

 

Boring conclusion to the Indiana Jones package mystery

Last week I got all excited about an Indiana Jones mystery at the University of Chicago, but it turns out it was just an Ebay mixup.

Darn.

Jessy Randall

 

 

The Other Side of Holiday Shopping

Marilyn Thiele

Lines at the cash register. Shoppers two or three deep at the shelves. Not enough staff to help all the people needing advice about their selections. For many, this is holiday shopping hell. For those of us with retail stores, it’s a heavenly time of year. For booksellers, it’s the time when the paper book reigns supreme as a gift to readers. Why give a piece of plastic that will allow the recipient to download a book when you can give a hefty tome that feels (and is) real? Why not show your thoughtfulness by choosing a book that suits the reader, instead of saying, “Get whatever you want”? Why not give yourself the pleasure of watching a friend or family member open your gift, exclaiming “I’ve been wanting to read this”?

The 2011 holiday season was pretty stressful in my store; the nearby Borders had recently closed, and I had no idea how to plan. I expected increased volume, but how much? And what books would be the most desired? Every locale in the country has different preferences, so nationwide best seller lists or reviews can only be a guide. A bookseller has to know her patrons and order to suit their tastes. I knew my regular customers, even those who appear infrequently, and what they would likely be looking for. But what about those just discovering that there was another bookstore in town, and used to shopping in a huge chain store offering almost unlimited options? Would they be disappointed and not return? Would they be willing to wait a few days while a book was ordered?

December 2011 was a month of almost daily book ordering. There were frequently requested books I had overlooked, and special requests for more unusual titles. The biggest problem, not a bad one to have, was running out of the most popular titles and having to restock. Experience is a wonderful teacher, and this year I was a much better “guesser”; ordering has been twice weekly, mostly for special requests and normal restocking.

This year’s holiday season has been even busier than last year, but I have had more time to enjoy the bustle and relish my favorite part of the job, helping people choosing books. For most of the year, customers are choosing books for themselves; at this time, they are most often buying for others, and the process of helping is different. (We will revert to the buyer and reader being the same person next month, when all of those gift certificates are redeemed!) When the shopper has a list of requested books or has determined on their own what the recipient would like, helping is just a matter if locating the books or placing an order. Other shoppers spend a great deal of time scanning the shelves and reading book jackets or even the first few paragraphs, determining on their own what choice is best, and often buying more than they intended as they discover a wealth of good reading. No complaints there, but one wonders what would (will?) happen when physical bookstores are gone and this “browsing” is no longer possible.

The more difficult customers are those who are not readers themselves, but are looking for gifts for their peculiar friends or family members who entertain themselves by sitting in silence with no visual stimulation other than letters on a piece of paper. They tend to wander through the aisles as if lost in a strange country. They sincerely want to make an appropriate choice, but they make it very clear (almost bragging) that they don’t read and thus have no familiarity with what might appeal. Fortunately, they often know more than they think they do about the recipient’s tastes and interests, and several well-chosen questions by the bookseller will yield enough information to make a selection. The gratitude from this stranger in a strange land is one of the benefits of the season.

The non-readers seriously shopping for books are only part of the broad spectrum of the consuming public that finds its way into book shops at this season. I often comment that I love having a book shop not only because I love books, but because the customers are the best; they respect the merchandise and the staff and are shopping for what they love. During the holiday rush, the book shop becomes more like any other shop. Shelves always require a certain amount of straightening, but now those who carefully replace books after scanning them are supplemented by those who put (toss?) them in the nearest empty spot, on top of others or on the floor. One hears from across the shop complaints that there is “nothing I want here,” although the speaker has walked through in two minutes and refused help. There is a disgusted sneer in response to, “I’m sorry, we don’t carry DVDs or CDs”; it is, after all, a book shop. Magazines are sold at the newsstand around the corner, and I don’t try to compete with their business.  Often these shoppers are those just going from store to store looking for gift ideas; their criticism or lack of patience is more with themselves than the shop, but it can be irritating. Amazingly, these same people often come back in the following months, less stressed by the need to complete their shopping, and willing to explore a shop they hurried through in December.

The longer hours a shop of any kind requires at the holidays means limited time for one’s own shopping. This year, I really “shopped local”; everyone is getting books.  At least, thanks to more experience in ordering, I will not have to commit the sin I did last year. Having run out of the Steve Jobs biography, and with my supplier out of stock, and really wanting to give it to my nephew – I (blush) bought it for him at Wal-Mart.

The holiday season from the other side of the counter really is a joy, and not just because it accounts for a big portion of the yearly business. Despite the long hours and minor irritations, the spirit of the season is all around, from the decorations to the music to the happy shoppers who are pleased that you had just what they wanted. If you didn’t do it this year, I recommend that you bypass some of that on-line ordering next year and get out with the crowds, in the local shops, and enjoy the hustle and bustle. For this year, I wish everyone Happy Holidays.

 

Crime-Filled Wonderland

Last year, I had a bunch of fun rewriting the lyrics to The Night before Christmas. So much fun, in fact, that I decided this should be a tradition. And since you're reading this, chances are good the world has yet to end (hooray!) so here goes...

This year, crime fiction takes to Winter Wonderland, which was first published in 1934, composed by Felix Bernard with lyrics by Richard B. Smith. I hope they would forgive me for borrowing their song.

The characters and books you’ll see referenced below are some of my favorites I’ve read this year. Some are making repeat appearances from last year and others are new…regardless, I am immensely grateful to the authors for their stories. The links below lead to their websites; I hope you’ll check them out, especially if you don’t recognize the references.

Whatever you celebrate this season, may it be joyous, peaceful, merry, and bright.

Sirens blare, are you listening
In the alley, blood is glistening 
A troublesome sight
We're frightened tonight
Walking in a crime filled wonderland

Gone away is the hunter guiding 
Here to stay are spirits hiding 
Sam hunts for a soul 
Down in a hole 
Walking in a crime filled wonderland.

In Vesterbro we can build a snowman 
And pretend that she’s Amanda Wagner 
She'll say: Have you solved it?
We'll say: No ma’am, 
But we hope Tom Thorne 
Will help when he's in town

Later on, we'll conspire, 
As Clete sits in the cross fire 
Joe knows we’re afraid 
Despite plans that we've made,
Walking in a crime filled wonderland

On Heart Island we can build a snowman 
And pretend that he's football coach 
We'll have lots of fun with mister coach, man 
Until the other criminals knock him down

When we read, ain't it thrilling
As we learn about a killing
We’ll follow the case, the detective way
Walking in a crime filled wonderland.

The End of the World and What Comes Next

BENJAMIN LEROY

We aren’t all gonna die tomorrow.

Yes, I’m sure.

Now that I’ve calmed you down, I want to borrow your ear for a second. Because you’ve been given an extraordinary opportunity George Bailey, and I want to make sure you understand it.

The first time I was convinced the world was about to end was a Sunday in 1984. I was eight, on the living room floor, and thumbing through my older brothers’ record collection. Because, seemingly since birth, I’ve been fascinated by darker things in the world, I stopped on the album “Holy Diver” by the band Dio. To give you an idea of what caught the attention of my eight year old brain, here is the cover as I saw it that morning.

Spooky, right? A demon whipping a priest with a length of chain, the priest probably panicking about drowning in the rough water.

I’m not going to pretend to be a child psychologist and tell you that most kids would have slid the record back between the Journey and Christopher Cross albums, but I will tell you that recently I found a collection of short stories and poetry produced by my elementary school in 1984, and my contribution—as a second grader—was about me running through a cemetery, falling into an open grave, and suffocating while dirt rained down on me, so I think I have some license to say that I was earnestly skewing towards whatever I became.

I remember being a little scared when I put the record on the turntable. For one, I wasn’t supposed to touch my brother’s records. For two, there was a DEMON ON THE COVER WHIPPING A PRIEST WITH A CHAIN.

Anyway, I dropped the needle, and in those opening seconds of keyboards and water noises, I was absolutely convinced that I’d opened a portal to Hell and that we were all going to die that Sunday morning. And when I say “we,” I mean you, too. This wasn’t a small-time operation.

In the end, we didn’t die, my parents woke up and we had breakfast, and now 28 years have passed and I’m an old man and other people are worried about all of us dying tomorrow.

But we aren’t.

I’ve been paying attention to the whole December 21st, 2012 thing for the better part of this century. (Yes, I’m being a hipster about the end of the world). Eight years ago I was dating a girl with a late December birthday. My business partner at the time also has a late December birthday. We all joked around that we’d have to throw a really big party on December 21st, 2012 because it was going to be the last. For everybody. For all time.

At that point, I’d been told, “Hey, the Mayan calendar runs out and we’re all going to die.”

Later I’d hear a more nuanced version that says something more like, “It’s the end of an era and December 21st, 2012 will usher in a new period of humanity.”

In the intervening years I’ve also heard a million expert analyses, “expert” analyses, really high people at parties, skeptics, street corner prophets, scientists, hucksters, new ageists, and others giving their takes. Sometimes it’s a debunking. Sometimes it’s dubious embellishments.

At this point, none of that shit—none of it—means anything to me.

It doesn’t matter, George Bailey.

All I know is that we’re living in a crippled version of Pottersville right now.  Not to sound like some moralizing asshole on a soapbox, but we aren’t doing the best we could be doing. There’s a lot of noise in the world. Tension is high. Without recapping the recent spate of horrifying violence, I’d just like to say—we are adrift.

Will tomorrow bring a shift to a new period?

It can.

It doesn’t need to be because an ancient civilization foretold it. It doesn’t have to be the work of larger fates. It can be a matter of choice.

We have the power to silence the static. To choose love over fear. To live up to our potential as creators and builders, as poets and artists, as compassionate lives interconnected by our simultaneous existence on this planet.

It’s easy to get caught up in the negativity. Nobody can blame you for being bummed by the state of affairs in Pottersville. But there’s a goddamned miracle afoot if you’re reading this. You’re alive. And even if you wrestle against the truth of it – that’s a pretty extraordinary gift and opportunity.

Let’s make the most of it.

Tomorrow.

And every day after it.

Love,

b.

 

Aaaaaaargh!

Lynne Patrick

It began last Wednesday evening. I’d covered a mediocre ice show for the local newspaper, written and filed the review, drunk a cup of cherry cinnamon tea (try it – it’s delicious) and was in the bedroom climbing into my PJs when the gentle sound of cussing floated up the stairs. Husband was down there, performing the nightly ritual of garbage-carrying and door-locking. Except one of them wouldn’t. Lock. The door, I mean.

The next half-hour was filled with language inappropriate for most ears, so we’ll gloss over it. But you may like to know that if your door won’t lock, a stool set against it and piled with heavy books to a level which prevents the handle from moving is a useful makeshift way of discouraging opportunistic burglars. Not that we heard any, but I’m sure it would have worked.

A call to the house insurance company next morning brought a locksmith hotfooting before midday; apparently our household emergency cover includes not being able to lock the door, on the grounds of keeping the house secure. He replaced not only that lock but also the one on the other door, which had been temperamental for a few weeks and would apparently have played the same trick on us very soon, possibly next week, which would have been far more of a pain.

All’s well that... except...

Cut to Sunday.

Mid-afternoon was when we noticed it, sitting with the weekend newspaper mountain and post-lunch coffee. Not very warm in here, is it, said husband. He’s thin-blooded and feels the cold, so I thought little of it. But a little while later he decided to tour the house – and found that every single radiator was stone cold, and the green light which tells us the central heating boiler is working was on a no-glow.

The temperature dropped quite fast after that. Cue childhood memories of ice on the inside of the windows, and crossed legs because visits to the arctic bathroom were as infrequent as possible.

Our friendly local plumber was with us next morning, within an hour of the desperate pre-breakfast phone call. I love that man. Showering in the now-arctic bathroom was delayed till he’d found the problem, got the system running again and given it half an hour to take the chill off.

All was well again.

Husband, never the most optimistic of souls, began to wonder what would be the third breakdown. I tried to tell myself, and him, that two was enough, and there was nothing else to go wrong, but I don’t think I was really kidding either of us. These things always go in threes.

And sure enough...

One of our least favourite domestic chores used to be defrosting the deep-freeze. So a couple of years ago we invested in a deep-freeze which is supposed to defrost itself. Mostly it does, but occasionally, like most technology, it stamps its little feet and demands attention. We went to the supermarket this morning, tried to pile some stuff into the deep-freeze, and—

Ice builds up behind the back panel, the panel bulges outward and the door won’t close. Needless to say, the panel is fixed and can’t be removed. The only solution is to defrost the damned thing. And it’s the holiday season, so it’s full to bursting.

He emptied it while I sought out every duvet, sleeping bag and other insulating item I could lay hands to cover the contents, then I was banished to the computer, since there’s only room for one person to aim hot air at that back panel. Last time it happened the built-up ice was still melting six hours later.

What is it John Lennon said? Life’s what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. (Which reminds me – I need to make my list of those last-minute tasks that make Christmas happen in this house.) I suppose we got off fairly lightly; at least none of the above happened during the Great Seasonal Shutdown. I still want to scream, though.

And finally, an apology for my ignorance, as evidenced in last week’s post, and for which Jeff C soundly and justifiably berated me. I always thought you spelled it Hanukah! It’s not a word which crosses my path too often, especially not written down, and when I’ve heard it spoken that’s how it’s always been pronounced. And when my daughter’s primary school class were given the task of researching the winter festivals of different faiths, she got Diwali. I can spell that.

Hey! There’s An Interjection in my Subject Line

Josh Getzler

My wife Amanda is a high school history teacher, as I may have mentioned a time or two on this blog. Each year, her ninth and tenth grade students are assigned a research project, which takes them the better part of the school year to put together because it is a complex, multi-step process that Amanda and her colleagues use to teach their teenagers how to write a rigorous, research-oriented term paper in general. There are outlines, many-labelled index cards, draft after draft, and then finally a paper about, say, whether the princes in the tower were really killed by Richard III.

It’s a terrific, if painstaking exercise, and by the end those kids—if they pay attention—really know how to write a paper.

This week, one of the interim assignments was due, and for the first time Amanda asked her students to email her the finished documents, and she would return them with corrections in Track Changes. The submissions came flooding in on Saturday night and Sunday, and as I watched her open the emails, I was struck by how many of them started “Hey!” and “heres my work” and “i couldnt finish.”

This is not to slag on these students in particular. I could just as easily have been looking at my own inbox or, really, most people’s. It’s ironic, isn’t it? After decades of being a verbal society upon the innovation and dominance of the phone, we are once again a text-based world. Between emails, chats and text messages (as well as blog commentaries, tweets et al), we spend a huge amount of time typing. Now this isn’t a tut-tutting over new spelling and emoticons ruining our lives (although I’d love to tut-tut about the loss of capitalization and apostrophes…but not now.). Rather, it’s about the way to start a letter, and when it is appropriate to be formal. It’s about context.

Ultimately, what I see is an assumption that because a document is instantly delivered and digital, it somehow isn’t formal. Sometimes that’s correct, particularly when per-character charges are incurred—no need to say “Dear Josh” on a text message. (And that’s true even if you have an unlimited plan—at this point the texting rules are pretty clear.)

However, in emails, context really does matter. If I’m having a long email chat with my assistant (which I often do even though we sit at desks facing each other for eight hours a day), there’s no need to say “Dear Maddie” each time (or really at all). But I almost never begin an email to an editor, or start a chain of emails with a client, without “Hi Jason” or “Dear Sally.” It’s simply not professional. It’s not polite.

I also rarely use as my subject line “Hey” or “hi.” For one thing, again, I tend to find it more informal than really appropriate, and I like to give the person receiving the email the opportunity to prepare him or herself for the content—hence, subject. Also, given that I get and send a couple of hundred emails a day, it would make it almost impossible to organize and file my emails with any kind of hope of retrieving one efficiently if they all said “hi” in their subject.

So given all this bemoaning (and I’m really sorry if I sound like the old fart my kids claim I am), it makes sense that I was shaking my head at Amanda’s students’ email subjects. And it doesn’t matter that many of them had written pretty terrific papers or drafts or notecards (although one had in fact said “so u see…” in the actual text). It’s just not polite to address your teacher as “Hey.”

Unless you’re the Fonz, I suppose, but then it would be “Heeeeeyyyyy.”

 

How Do You Do It?

Jeff Cohen

With an ebook on its way in two weeks, normally I'd be promoting with a vengeance in this space. I will not do that today. Expect it next week.

A crime fiction writer is, in case you hadn't noticed, a weird animal. We spend our time thinking up odd ways to kill people, justifying them with motives that sometimes border on the bizarre, and call it "entertainment." We concoct puzzles in the shape of killings, and those of us who do so with a veneer of humor often see our word referred to as, among other things, "a romp."

A romp.

Most of the time, we are concerned with the mechanics of plot. We create characters, yes, but after they are established and their voices are well embedded in our heads, we can stop worrying about getting them exactly right, because they'll tell us what is and is not in their bag of tricks. We think about dialogue, but only when it's not going well,because when it is going well, it's a conversation taking place that we simply transcribe. It's plot we concern ourselves with most of the time. How did the crime take place, who perpetrated it, what made it so difficult to solve? And most of all, why?

Then comes a day like last Friday.

An unimaginable crime like the one that blackened that day is beyond description; it is a horror and an atrocity and an act so terrible it can physically hurt to think about it. We may never know exactly what happened, although even the most cursory of accounts would be unbearable. We might be satisfied that we know who brought this awful thing to our world once the evidence is clear. We might understand the mechanics of the plan and its execution. But we're not ever going to know why. There is no why. Nothing can explain this.

And if you think that it's too soon to be talking about something that can control the easy access to firearms in this country, you have missed the point entirely. It is not too soon. It is, tragically, much too late.

Often, when crime fiction writers hear of some real life act, there might be a moment--and we're not proud of it--that we'll wonder if there's something there we might eventually be able to us in a story. There's a reason we got into this business to begin with, after all. And a professional interest can take odd forms.

Not this time. 

How do you do it--how do you go on after something like this hideous moment, and go back to writing about crime in a lighthearted fashion? How can one absorb something this unconscionable and then return to plotting murders as a form of amusement? 

People have often asked me how a writer makes murder funny, and I always answer that, at least, I don't ever try to do that. I think murder is the worst thing a person can do, and I don't think ending a life is ever funny. It's the reaction of the survivors, I'll say, that can be seen as comedic.

I think it's going to take some time to get back to that place in my own head. How will I do it? Right now, I don't know, but I'm sure I will. 

It's not going to be easy. I'll tell you that.

Indiana Jones mystery at the University of Chicago!

In December of 2012, the University of Chicago received a mysterious package addressed to -- well -- to Indiana Jones, it turns out. As of this writing, nobody has taken credit for it. The university seems to think it's an unusual (and brilliant?!) attempt at catching the attention of the Admissions Office. I'm wondering, could it be some sort of book-promotion shenanigan? If so, well, WOW.

Or, it turns out, it might be something quite dull, like an EBay mixup.

Shoot.

Indy, the torches are going out.

 UPDATE: NO, IT'S NOT THE EBAY THING! Still a mystery, then.

Jessy Randall

What a Difference a Day Makes

Marilyn Thiele

For once, this week, I had my post pretty much done by yesterday, knowing today’s schedule would be even busier than most Saturdays; I had given my faithful helper at the store the day off to go to New York with friends, and an early evening social event meant rushing from work to home to the event.  But my lovely description of life in a bookstore during the holiday rush will have to wait until next week. Today was busy, but not a typical pre-holiday Saturday; everyone wanted to talk about the horrible events in Newtown, Connecticut, and the mood was somber. This is a shared tragedy, and I have written before about the way people seem to open up about their feelings in a bookstore.

 I was already heavy-hearted as a parent and a human being, trying to wrap my mind around how such a heartbreaking crime could happen to such innocent young children in such a peaceful town. I have some familiarity with Newtown, as a close college friend of my son’s is from there; we stopped several times to drop-off or pick-up on the journey from New Jersey to Boston and back. The town is the epitome of quiet New England charm. Its peaceful aura is now shattered.

The evening’s social event was a quiet and the conversation kept turning to the awful events of yesterday. The holiday season has had a pall cast over it. The shared shock and grief has brought us all a bit closer to each other. It is not a time for lighthearted commentary on the quirks of Christmas shoppers. Instead, it is a time to be kind to those we love, to hug them whenever possible, remembering that in this random universe, the only guaranteed moment we have is right now.

A Time to Stop

I was just about to post this week’s witty, somewhat tongue-in-cheek piece today when I heard the news from Connecticut.

Now, I have just one thing to say:

If you’re reading this as anyone who promotes anything, chances are good you schedule email blasts, posts, status updates, and tweets. When you created the schedule, you didn’t know what would be happening now.

But unless you live under a rock—and perhaps even if you do—you know now. And now is not the time to promote anything. Please, hit “pause.” If you could schedule something, you can delay it. If you’re working hard on your next promotional/publicity activity, it can wait. It should wait. It must wait.

Now is simply not the time.

Use that energy to go find someone you love and hug them instead.

Thank you.

Dear Santa...

Lynne Patrick

The sun is sparkling on the frost outside my window, and my calendar keeps reminding me it’s that time of year again. Less than a fortnight to go to the Big Day for those of us whose winter festival begins with C.

So it’s time for my annual letter to the white-bearded spherically challenged guy in the red suit.

Dear Santa

First of all, thank you for an OK year. Nobody died, no one among my nearest and dearest was whisked into Accident and Emergency, the floods and hurricanes and general meteorological mayhem passed by some distance away. We enjoyed a couple of good holidays (sorry, vacations) with only the odd mishap; I saw some great shows, read some great books, made contact with some friends I haven’t seen for a while. And we chased the developers off our beautiful field.

What I’d really like to ask for is more of the same. I’ve come to the conclusion that excitement can be overrated, and usually has to be paid for in some way. Of course, if you could arrange for a publisher to take off the gloom-coloured glasses and realize that my novel is a stunningly-written masterpiece with a gripping storyline and the potential to outsell Fifty Shades... , that would be wonderful. But first I have to check it comes within a million miles of that description. And raise the courage to send it out again.

And while we’re being unrealistic, here are a few more things you might dig around in your sack for.

Peace in the Middle East. There’s been a dire need for that for a few years now.
Decades, even.

A little common sense in the places Britain, Europe and America seem to feel a need to pass judgement on and send troops. Don’t get me started on that.

A little more common sense among bankers, politicians, anyone who is in a position to exert influence on the way the world turns.

Enough food, medicine and rain in Africa. Please.

OK, let’s be sensible. All I really want, apart from world peace and an end to hunger, is a happy life for the people I love. And bestsellers for all my writer friends.

And for booksellers and librarians all over the world – a better year than the past two or three. I can see a certain benefit in eReaders, but there are few pleasures greater than wandering between aisles of real books, touching the spines, reading the blurbs and first pages, feeling a little overwhelmed because there’s so much good stuff to choose from. And a strong base of people who buy books will help with the bestsellers request.

For everyone still picking up the pieces over in New York and New Jersey, it would be good if you could manage a positive attitude, swift action on insurance claims and plenty of good weather to expedite the repairs.

On the family front, a little, no, a lot less stress for my beleaguered sister, who has not had a good year. For my husband, anything he wishes for himself. For my brilliant daughter, the same thing I always ask for: health, happiness, a job which stimulates and rewards her as she deserves, and enough spare time and energy to allow her to get down to writing that bestseller. And lots of calorie-free chocolate.

And if you could find some stronger glue for my dentist, that would be good. He keeps repairing my teeth (too many sweeties from my grandpa's shop when I was a kid – let that be a warning to you, children!) and the repairs keep falling out despite his best efforts.

Oh dear – this all sounds awfully serious, doesn’t it? Let’s add plenty to smile about to the list. For everyone, not just me.

I think I’ll leave it there. Don’t want to be greedy. Would you prefer chocolate chip cookies to mince pies this year, Santa? You only have to ask.

Query Analysis

Josh Getzler

Last week I said I would do a version of Sara Megibow’s popular “10 Queries in 10 Tweets” Twitter series, where she looks through the first 10 queries in her inbox and gives 140-character opinions as to whether they are good, bad, worthy of asking for more, or hopeless. I decided, as I went through my inbox, that instead of simply cribbing the idea for a blog post, I’d take the first 20 queries and do an analysis of them—how many are adult vs kid books; how many are fiction vs nonfiction; and crime fiction vs other kinds of stories. I have a couple of caveats: First, this analysis only includes unsolicited queries—the famous slush pile. It’s not recommendations from editors or clients. Also, I went straight down the list. It happens that of the first 20, only three were children’s books. That is highly unusual for me—I’m now at almost 50/50 kids/adults, so when I went through I assumed I was just having a slow week. Then I looked down a little and discovered that 7 of my next 9 were children’s books. So it’s just luck of the draw. Anyhow, here we go:

 

Of the first 20 queries in my inbox (which takes me only through the beginning of this week, I have

1)      Eight adult crime fiction queries.  Of this, three are mysteries, five, thrillers. Two are historical, and one of those is an impossible 200,000 words. (It’s an interesting idea, too, and I will read some of it. But 200k is pretty much disqualifyingly long.) Three are foreign based.

2)      Four adult fiction, popular or literary. One seems to be a male 50 Shades, and another about aging.

3)      Four adult nonfiction. One’s about a dog’s impact on a family after a tragedy, one’s about elder abuse and the sex slave industry (which pretty much disqualifies it for me).

4)      One straight-ahead YA fiction that seems very interesting—badass girl, rock-n-roll, pretty strong background.

5)      One book that describes itself as a MG/YA crossover, then makes THE cardinal sin of MG/YA queries: The author compares it to Rick Riordan, JK Rowling, AND Christopher Paolini. First of all, what these three series have in common are that they have boys, are for children, and have sold boatloads of books. They are tonally different, though, set in different times and places, and in fact have completely different philosophies (other than that the epic hero ought to win). The author, with that one sentence, ensured that I would not read further. If you are writing a query to an agent, you should—must, really—look beyond archetypes to really comparable titles. OK, rant over.

6)       Two straight middle grade books, one of which takes place during the Civil War. It’s funny—while I love historical fiction that takes place in Europe or during the American Revolution, I’ve never really fallen for Civil War literature. It’s the same way with books about the Westward Expansion in the US—I have one Western on my list, and no Civil War books. I can’t say precisely why, but that’s the case.

So of these 20, I’d guess that I will read further on in maybe five, but really only have truly high hopes for one, maybe two, depending on the quality of writing. A couple of the authors have pedigrees—either higher degrees or previous publications with legitimate publishers—so they’ll get a look, even if their subjects aren’t particularly compelling at first blush.

 

I’ll do another set of 20 next week, in the hope that I have a bit more variety, or a novel that screams “Take Me!” that I can explain exactly why.

 

By the way, I’m on the ITW blog again this week, this time talking about writers conferences with my friend Paige Wheeler. Here’s the link: http://www.thebigthrill.org/2012/12/coming-dec-10-16-why-do-agents-attend-writers-conferences/

From the Church of Mel

Jeff Cohen

"Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it."--E.B. White

"Tragedy is if I cut my finger. Comedy is if you fall into an open sewer and die."--Mel Brooks

I was listening to the radio in the car this past week mostly because I didn't have any new music to listen to, and I'm going to have to do something about that. I wanted to listen to news coming from baseball's winter meetings, but there wasn't any, so it was NPR, that bastion of laugh-a-minute programming for me. I am a walking (or in this case, driving) cliche of a suburban liberal.

That's all beside the point. This particular segment included a scientist--I think he was a scientist, but if not, he was good at pretending to be one--who was asked to explain why we laugh.

If I'd had a lick of sense, I would have turned the radio off and listened to some of my old music right there. But no, I'm a masochist, I have to hear everything everyone has to say about humor, and so I went ahead and stuck with the segment.

There are few things duller than listening to--or reading--someone explain humor. Now, this particular guy wasn't telling the audience what was funny or how to dissect a joke so that all the joy is sucked out of it; he was interested in the physics of laughter. And by the time he got to telling us how it had something to do with our relationship to chimps, luckily I was in my driveway.

Laughter is the humor equivalent of sneezing; it is an involuntary process that requires as much explanation as breathing. As long as you can do it, you don't need to know anything else.

Which brings me to Mel Brooks.

Mr. Brooks, perhaps the last standing face of pre-Apatow comedy in America, is hitting the publicity trail again, at the age of 86. He's promoting a boxed set of bits and pieces of himself on television, including a British show called An Audience With Mel Brooks and an interview he did with Dick Cavett for HBO relatively recently. I have no doubt seen almost all of the six-disc set. I've probably memorized a good section of them. I can likely watch most of them just by closing my eyes.

And yet I've gotta have that set.

This is not a plea; I swear (I just realized gift-giving season is upon us). It's an explanation. Mel Brooks is as attuned to my ear for comedy as anyone I've ever seen. He was making his best films when I was a teenager and a young man (In 1979, I tried to get Rutgers University to award him an honorary doctorate so he would give the commencement address at my graduation--they did not, but I've recently forgiven them). I have followed him from Get Smart and The Producers (Zero Mostel, Gene Wilder) to Mad About You and The Producers (Nathan Lane, Matthew Broderick). Completely irreverent but respectful, if such a thing is possible, Brooks lampooned things others had lampooned but did it with love, and that always makes the difference. Nobody who didn't like the James Whale and Universal Frankenstein films could have made his shining masterpiece Young Frankenstein (1974). 

He has won Emmy awards, Academy Awards, Tony Awards and Grammy Awards. He has written, produced and directed at least three of the best comedies of all time. He has held his own as a writer in a room that included Neil Simon, Woody Allen, Carl Reiner and Larry Gelbart, among other geniuses. All that, and he has been the 2000-Year-Old Man, one of the greatest comedy recording creations ever, for 52 years.

Being a comedy fan isn't always easy. People for some reason understand blind devotion to musicians or sports teams. They harbor devotion to certain actors without anyone finding that odd. Science fiction geeks are practically revered in today's society for their attention to detail and encylopedic memories. Tell someone you can recite Blazing Saddles without referring to notes and they will look at you funny. And those are the polite ones. The impolite ones might call the police.

In the 1970s, Mel Brooks approached rock star status. Early in this century, he won more Tony Awards than anybody else had ever won all at the same time. In between, he went from "that guy with bad taste" to "comedy legend." Tonight HBO runs a show looking over his career. Next May PBS's "American Masters" will feature him. The following month, the American Film Institute is going to bestow upon him its lifetime achievement award, long overdue (He still does not have a Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, a true crime against comedy). Mel Brooks is not a comedy legend. He is a comedy fact.

If I were given the choice of meeting anyone currently alive on the planet, I'd pass up the talk with President Obama, Gloria Steinem, Dame Judi Dench or Stephen Hawking. I wouldn't ask to have lunch with Paul McCartney, Nelson Mandela or Secretary of State Clinton. Derek Jeter would be on the B list, probably for the first time in his life since 1996.

I'd go straight to Mel Brooks. Because you can't dissect comedy, but you can talk about it. And there isn't anybody on the planet who can tell you more and make you laugh as much as Mel Brooks.

Those people who can make us laugh are precious. They are more deserving of our admiration and our gratitude than those who aspire to office to "do the work of the people" and then steer us toward a cliff, fiscal or otherwise. They perform a task more difficult than making us cry; they do not merely tell stories. Comedy, when done right, does everything drama does, and makes us laugh in addition. Try doing that sometime.

If it goes back to our connections to chimps, so be it. In that moment, when we are caught off guard and we react involuntarily, we are at our most human. People like Mel Brooks bring that out in us. 

Could there be a higher calling?

mysterious mystery books

This image has been making the rounds on Facebook. Like many images on the open web, its original source is unknown; it has appeared on multiple sites, sometimes with the lolcats-style statements such as "touche, Barnes and Nobles" or "Ohh, My Favorite Series" or "Now It's a Real Mystery."

In other words, the image itself is a mystery. Pretty great, though -- clever and funny. The signage certainly suggests the, uh, incident occurred at a Barnes and Noble somewhere. Who did it? We'll probably never know. Maybe others will be inspired to reenact this shenanigan elsewhere. Maybe some day someone will take credit with being the first, but it will be difficult to prove.

Jessy Randall

 

 

What's Best?

Marilyn Thiele

This morning, first cup of delightfully aromatic coffee at my side, I opened my e-mail. First up was a message from the Sony Reader Store: “Top 10 Electronic Books of 2012!” I haven’t kept a count over the last few weeks, but this must be at least the 100^th list of “top books” I have been exposed to in newspapers, magazines, and on-line. Don’t get me wrong, I love lists; I have expounded on that personality quirk of mine in this forum in the past.  This year seems to have a superabundance of “Best” lists, and even I am starting to feel that there are too many lists. It may be that there were just as many in past years, but my own on-line behavior, joining Facebook, “liking” pages related to books and bookselling, and linking from one place to another in those fugue states (I call it “lost in cyberspace”) that cause us all to wonder where the last two hours went, has caused me to be more aware of them this year. Whatever the reason, I am feeling a bit “list-exhausted.”

Some of these lists, of course, are pure marketing efforts, as is the one I encountered this morning; there is nothing there that hasn’t been on best seller lists for weeks or months and hasn’t appeared on 99 of the other 100 lists. It’s just an effort to sell more copies to those who lived in caves until December 1 and were unaware of these titles.

It’s the other lists, those by the editors of respected publications, by bookstore staff, by well-known reviewers, and by well-read individuals, that cause more angst.  I am reminded of all the outstanding work I have not yet read, and my own “to-read” list grows. I see books I was unaware of, and wonder how I missed them.  I rethink my book ordering plans, knowing that many of these books will shortly be reissued in paperback editions. And I wonder if 2013 is the year I will make good on my threat to lock the doors of my shop and just read until I am sated.

Seeing books by authors I know personally and whose work I admire on these lists, especially “national-level” compilations, is a true joy. I love writing “congrats” e-mails! Finding books I enjoyed and have recommended to others on the lists is also a pleasure; we all love to have our good taste confirmed.  It’s when I see a book listed and wonder how in heaven’s name THAT was considered “best” that I remember that all of these lists are assembled by one or more humans, and everyone has different tastes. As I often tell customers who are apologetic about not liking crime fiction, or a certain author, or something else they think they should like: It would be a very dull world if we all like the same things.

And so I begin to cull the enormous number of lists to make my own reading and ordering more manageable. I remember that those compiled by bookstore staff will often have books by regional authors in their area among the top picks. It’s not a bias per se, but the simple fact that their customers have more interest in those authors; every region produces excellent crime fiction, and it often gets national attention. But readers like familiar territory. Janet Evanovich and Harlan Coben have both been wildly successful nationally and internationally, yet I have met customers visiting from other parts of the United States who have never heard of them. New Jersey readers lap up every word; they are familiar with Stephanie Plum’s Trenton and Harlan Coben’s New Jersey suburbs. I would guess that Dennis Lehane, whose books sell well in my store, sells even better in Boston. I sell a lot of books by lesser known writers with the magic words “New Jersey author.”

I realize also that there are many “notable” books selected by the best known book review that hold no interest for me or most of my customers; I wish I could read everything, but I can’t, so I can eliminate several more. I remember that some reviewers seem always to favor books that are to my taste, while others tout many works I find “iffy.” I don’t have to read or stock everything that every reviewer puts on their “best” list. And finally, I think about one of my best sources of information: the readers who tell me every day about the books they love and why.

Lynne Patrick touched on the subject of these “best” lists in her post earlier this week. She asked if seeing a book on one of the lists would motivate someone to read it, or discourage interest. For me, seeing a book I am unfamiliar with or have not paid much attention to on a list I consider credible motivates me to investigate a little more. I will read reviews of it and try to learn why it was considered a top pick, keeping in mind that list compilers and reviewers may or may not like what I or my customers like.  Thus being on a “best list” brings it to my, and others’, attention, giving it at least another chance with someone who may have overlooked it earlier in the year.

The year is drawing to a close, and the Best Books of 2012 lists will be archived as we move on to the new offerings of a new year. There will be respite until at least late January; then it’s time for Edgar nominees, the beginning of the awards nominees lists. For those of us with listmania, there’s always something.

Ramblings from a Surly Old Bastard – the early Holidays edition

BENJAMIN LEROY

I had a bit of an allergic reaction yesterday.

It wasn’t a bee sting or a spider bite. It did not require an EpiPen. But the response was sudden and inflamed, and, well, I’m only now in a position to talk about it. Thank God.

What was this terrible thing?

A fair question, reader. I thank you for asking (if even only half-heartedly because you’re trying to kill ten minutes before lunch by surfing on the internet, and you’ve already checked your email ten times in the last fifteen minutes), your concern is noted.

I don’t know if you’re going to believe this or not—but somebody said something on the internet, and I don’t think it’s true. I know, I know, “if it’s on the internet, it must be true,” we all know that. But, go with me for a second, what if, just possibly, that was not true? What if—and I’m not saying this is a fact or anything—but what if it turned out that there was no screening process and somebody snuck onto the internet and started spouting opinions as facts?

Terrible, right?

Back to yesterday.

I read something to the effect that authors, both aspiring and published, should not give negative reviews of other books anywhere on the internet, because...you might make the editor/agent mad and then those editors/agents won’t want to work with the author who wrote a negative review.

I find this position flawed on multiple levels. Here is a partial list.

(1) A reader owes nothing to anybody. He or she is not only free to enjoy or not enjoy a book, but is likewise free to express an opinion about the book. For the sake of this argument, I’m EXCLUDING reviews by people with personal axes to grind. There are, scientifically speaking, a million reasons to not like a book including not connecting with the story, bad editing, against personal sensibilities, etc. As long as those points are articulated—rage on, reviewer! Rage on.

(2) Publishing should never be mistaken for the Self Esteem Railroad to Confidenceville. It does not exist to make an author or a publisher or an agent feel better about him/herself. If an agent or editor decides not to work with an author because the author found legitimate things not to like about one of the agent’s or editor’s other projects, that’s...sad? Juvenille? 

I hate to play into narratives that are not absolutes, but in the last few years there’s been an explosion of people accusing publishers and agents of being power hungry jerks. Many of those charges come from writers who, frankly, are not writing at a publishable level. I might venture out on a solid limb to assert all of the first reads from family and friends garnered universal praise and now the author is pissed because the “brilliance” isn’t appreciated by strangers with business interests.

But, my interactions with some agents and publishers at conferences or on the internetting have, in fact, provided evidence of a literary sociopathy—with agents and editors filling the shoes of the monsters they’ve been accused of being. Even publishers and agents that nobody has heard of and who haven’t had any appreciable success in the business like lording over other human beings.

My message to them?

This is not high school. You are no longer the cheerleader. Or, if that wasn’t your reality, now is not your time to take out your frustration on the star quarterback for the wrongdoings of youth. Readers (whether they are writers or not) are not present on your earth to kiss your ass and tell you how great you are. Sorry. They just aren’t. If that’s why you’re in the business, you’re part of the problem.

(3) I am one of those pretentious dudes who thinks that you can’t produce great art without struggle. Your toolbox as a human being needs to be full of experiences, many of which are probably unpleasant when living through them. Extraordinary people rise above the challenges put in front of them. They may fail a bunch, but they get back on the horse. (Christ, just how many clichés can I fit into this?) So you know what won’t help you be a better writer/agent/publisher? Indiscriminate clapping at your every breath. If your echo chamber only gives you the good news, you’re never going to see places for improvement. If you want your author to be the best he/she can be by protecting them from criticism, you should enroll them in a t-ball league where everybody wins a medal for trying. The publishing business isn’t safe for them.

And just so we’re clear—I’ve received bad reviews as a publisher. For whatever reason, some books that I really love and published, weren’t given gold stickers by everybody who read them. I take what I can from those reviews, and then move on. I have no Excel spreadsheet with the reviewers’ names. No Voodoo dolls with pins through the eyes. You could serve all of those bad reviews to me in a cocktail and I wouldn’t get the slightest bit tipsy. It’s part of the territory and I’ve got tolerance.

Anywho, back to the allergic reaction. I’ve figured out that I have at least two options. I can avoid the threat altogether by staying off the internet. Or I can take a little of the poison every now and again, and fight the fight. So here we are.

And here I go.

b.

 

For more about life, America, writing, and other stuff, visit my website over at www.benjaminleroy.com

 

 

Wearing another hat

Lynne Patrick

When I joined the Dead Guy team a few years ago, one of the links in the idea-to-bookshelf chain was a reviewer. (Hi, Sharon; I’m guessing you still check in from time to time, even if it’s a while since we heard from you. Give me a call sometime.)

That role hasn’t been filled recently, so this week I thought I’d take the opportunity to plug the gap, if you’ll pardon the expression. I recently started reviewing a book a month for a website, and they’ve used everything I’ve submitted so far, so I think I’d qualify even if I wasn’t a voracious and reasonably discerning reader as well.

So far I’ve reviewed three books, sent one back because I couldn’t connect with it at all and am reading another at the moment. Of the three, one was in danger of becoming a well-kept secret: a beautifully written heart-tugger which explored the nature of grief as it moved through the puzzle which caused the grief. I would never have found it if it hadn’t been on the list available for review, but I’m very glad indeed that I did. It wasn’t an intellectually demanding read, but it made me wipe away a tear or two.

One was a kind of adventure-romp: lots of galloping around the world, a couple of feisty female characters and a sexy hero, one of the world’s enduring mysteries to solve and a rising body count along the way. It was fun, decently done tosh, and I read it in a couple of sittings.

I described the third as dense, chewy and ultimately satisfying, which is probably about right. It was historical, which isn’t always good news for me, and the author had done a lot of research, which can be very tricky to blend into a storyline without getting bogged down. But his characters drew me in and I think he pulled it off.

The one I couldn’t connect with was so badly written I simply couldn’t get past the first page. I have a feeling it was self-published. And it’s reappeared twice on the list available for review. Go figure.

The one I’m currently reading is... interesting. It’s set in the 1960s, and judging by the little stabs of nostalgia it’s giving me, not all of them entirely comfortable, the author has either done his homework or he’s been there, done that.

OK. Now for today’s question. Does any of the above affect in any way at all your desire to read any of these books? The brief of the website I’m reviewing for is to support crime and mystery fiction, which means reviewers are required to say what’s good about the books and not harp on about what doesn’t work. I think my three-line summaries above are a little more realistic; so far the only real turkey I’ve chosen is the one I didn’t even attempt to review, but nothing’s perfect.

I’m interested to know to what extent my single, untutored opinion is likely to make people buy or not buy the books I’m allowed to pontificate about. And not just me; do reviews actually count for anything?

And how about those best of... lists that proliferate at this time of year? I have a vested interest here, kind of: my good friend Chris Nickson was recently delighted and flabbergasted in equal measure to find the audio version of his first Richard Nottingham novel, The Broken Token (which was the one I spotted, folks; big buzz for me too), on a very short list of best audiobooks of 2012 alongside J K Rowling and Ian Fleming in one of the UK’s leading national newspapers! Does that make you want to read it? Or does it put you right off?

I ask because I’m interested. If I’d known the secret ingredient that makes people buy one book and not another when I was still in publishing, I might just possibly not have given it up. But I’m still interested.

Double-Dipping

Josh Getzler

 

This week, I participated in a cool Agent round table on the International Thriller Writers blog. Debbie Carter, Jenny Bent, Victoria Skurnick and I all talk about our attitudes toward queries. I'm going to link to it now, and then next week will steal an idea from the fabulously talented Sara Megibow (among others) and go through the first several queries as they appear in my inbox, regardless of genre or topic. In the meantime, enjoy The Big Thrill!

http://www.thebigthrill.org/2012/12/the-all-important-query-letter/

So Your Thoughts Are Your Own, Are They?

Jeff Cohen

Inspiration is a funny thing. It is a drug, a trick, a lie, a story you tell yourself. That doesn't mean you shouldn't act on your inspiration. It means you should have no illusions about it.

Consider the concept of the Original Idea. It doesn't exist.

You want proof? I'll give you proof.

In 1989, I was a (very) struggling aspiring screenwriter. I'd written a number of screenplays, gotten a little bit of encouragement--and when I say a little bit, I mean a LITTLE bit--and was plugging away, something I'd do for another 10 years before stumbling into the mystery book writing biz, but that's another story.

I had just finished putting the finishing touches on my latest opus, a broad farce and spy spoof called CAR TROUBLE, in which a Russian translator for the State Department is unlucky enough to find a murdered person in the trunk of her car, and I'm not telling you any more. Hey, if you're that interested, the rights are (strikingly) still available.

Suffice it to say this was not a script especially grounded in gritty dark reality. And at one point, a character is thrust into that hoariest of old thriller cliches--he is being pursued by the bad guys and the police, and ends up mistaken for the guest of honor at a public function, forced in front of an audience and expected to perform.

The twist at the time was that my character had bumbled his way onto the stage of a rap concert, assumed to be the star attraction. And he knows nothing about rap music other than the basics. So he stands there speechless for a while, the band gets nervous, the DJ is staring, and eventually, SOMETHING has to happen, so it does.

He raps the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies.

Now, at the time I thought that was the very definition of an original idea. I thought I'd hit the joke right on the nose, and if nothing else worked in that script, that joke was sure to kill. I thought it was certainly proof that I could do this comedy writing thing professionally.

Perhaps it was, but not in the way I anticipated.

I gave the script to my wife, as is my habit, and she read through it and told me the usual--"it's good." That doesn't tell a writer much. But she made a point of singling out the Beverly Hillbillies rap as the best thing in the script.

And then--I swear to you--less than a week after I finished my script, and maybe a day after I'd mailed it (man, those were the old days!) to my agent, who was based in the entertainment capital of the world, Pittsburgh PA (is there any wonder I didn't become Aaron Sorkin before Aaron Sorkin did?), this was broadcast on the ABC television network.(No copyright infringement intended.)

Jessica and I looked at each other and our jaws dropped open to the point that I, at least, resembled a snake about to snack on a baby elephant. 

I have learned, since then, not to worry if someone else has an idea that might be considered similar to mine. Writing is about personality. Each writer brings his/her/its perspective to the work. That's the difference we offer. If it's strictly the plot material or the situation, trust me. It's been done before.

And if you don't think so, I will be happy to ask John Goodman to prove it to you. Oh, wait. He already has.

things found in library books (from the dirty to the sublime)

Jessy Randall

This week I'm going to report on mysteries in books in libraries. But not the usual kind.

Below are links to two five-minute radio/web shows on mysterious physical things, bookmarks and bookmarkish things that Colorado College library staff have found in library books over the past decade. Thanks, Noel Black,for inviting me to be part of A Big Something!