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

Writing Rights

Gordon Aalborg

Authors are very strange folk indeed. I can say that because I am one.

But some are stranger -- by far -- than most, and therein lies a tale.

An author [who shall remain nameless] of my acquaintance had a book published with a publisher [who shall remain nameless] of my acquaintance in JULY. [Note the date, please; it is relevant] Not the author's first book, by any means, but the first with this particular publisher.

And the ink was barely dry when this author, for reasons I cannot begin to comprehend, not only stuck up an $8.99 version of the book on Kindle, but then went on to put -- and promote the hell out of -- a FREE version of the book on the author's website. The author did this--it had nothing to do with the publisher.

Which leaves us, gentle reader, with an author giving away a free version of his/her own book to compete with an $8.99 Kindle version, to compete with the $20+ hardcover version that the author's *new* publisher is trying to sell!

Let it be clear: the author hadn't sold the ebook rights, much less the *give it away for free* rights, so the author broke no laws except perhaps the law of simple common sense. But still ...

It sounds to me like a lesson plan for "HOW TO SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE FOOT - FOR DUMMIES," or "HOW TO ALIENATE YOUR NEW PUBLISHER IN ONE EASY LESSON."

But another element of the woeful tale is that it illustrates how pervasive/persuasive modern technology hath become, and how much more complicated the *business* of writing has become. 

All sorts of authors are busy putting up their backlists on Kindle, for example ... or trying to ... and running into all manner of complications with regards to the various rights which may or may not have been tied up in their original contracts, and it gets even more tricky for books existing in print under contracts that never involved ebook rights at all.

And then there is the COVER issue, because it seems many, many authors who scream blue murder about *their* rights seem only too happy to ignore the fact that COVER ARTISTS have rights too! Not only that, but many cover artists KNOW their rights, and have farmed them out in myriads of complicated contracts that ultimately affect the authors who think [often erroneously] that the author owns the rights to the author's book cover. Often -- VERY OFTEN -- the author does not!

Which gets tricky indeed if an author plans to put up a book on Kindle or some other ebook medium using a cover paid for by the publisher, under contract with the cover artist, and for which specific rights for the cover illustration might be involved. Sometimes, indeed, authors are rightly expected to pay for covers they think they already own!

April Fool - if a bit late

At  first I thought it was an April Fool’s Day joke.

 

April 1 and there it was, big as life, right there on my computer—an offer on eBay to sell the ARC (advance reading copy) of my forthcoming DINING WITH DEVILS—a Tasmanian Thriller. Starting bid: $5.98 U.S.

 

A Tasmanian thriller, I hasten to point out, not due for release until April 15!

 

Whereupon I realized to my horror that the only fool involved in this scenario isn’t April, unless of course April is an author. The fool is ME.

 

WE AUTHORS ARE IN THE WRONG BUSINESS! We should be reviewers, which is what I believe the person peddling my ARC to be, although of course I cannot prove it because this person hasn’t revealed his/her true identity. Not surprising, that.

 

Talk about *lurks’n’perks*, as we’d call them in Oz ... this is a helluva rort. Think about it, folks—you get to read somebody else’s (hopefully excellent) book for nothing, write (or don’t bother to write) a brief (hopefully good and fair to the author and the story—or not) review and then you sell his/her—clearly marked NOT FOR SALE—ARC for twice as much as the author would get if somebody bought the real book. And you can do it again and again and again—just as long as publishers and/or authors will keep sending you free books to read. Consider the thousands of ARCs a reviewer sees in a given year—and can then sell at $5+ each. Maybe more than that. Maybe lots more! According to the person trying to sell my ARC, “They can also be highly Collectible”

 

And if you believe that one, have I got a bridge that might interest you. J

 

It’s money for jam! You don’t have to do the work of actually writing the book, you don’t have to dream up characters and plots or smell red herrings or do any of the real work—and you make twice as much from the NOT FOR SALE ARC as the author does from the book itself. How cool is that? And legal, too.

 

Except that if I were doing it, because I am an author and I respect authors and I respect writing and especially good writing, I would have the common decency to wait until the real book was actually on the market and had some chance to garner the benefits of my (hopefully useful, perhaps even complimentary) review. Fair is fair, after all.

 

I have no argument with reviewers selling ARCs on eBay or anywhere else once the review is written and published/posted and the book is out there in the marketplace. Let us be fair—what else should they do with them? I suppose one could use selected passages (truly great openings, for instance, like the one in DINING WITH DEVILS J) to wallpaper the loo, or something like that. But realistically the options for disposing of ARCs after review—even and/or especially ARCs clearly labeled NOT FOR SALE—are rather limited.

 

I also have no argument with you, me, or anyone else buying an ARC on eBay or anywhere else. Why shouldn’t we? It is legal, certainly. And all of us can’t afford to “buy new.”

 

What I do object to is selling and/or buying the ARCs before the *real* books themselves are even available. And to the seller using deceptive wording to try and pass him/herself off as a good guy instead of admitting up front that he/she is a reviewer selling off books ... books that he/she might actually have never even bothered to review ... as happens all too often.

 

Consider this: The ad for my ARC comes with the disclaimer: “I bought this book at a library book sale, it is an advance reading copy, soft cover. It looks like it has only been read once by a reviewer, who no doubt wrote a glowing review of the book. No spine creases.”

 

Yeah, right. Except that this particular seller has sold 355 items on eBay since 2001 and lists several dozen other ARC’s … all with the identical disclaimer. Including some that I know have the same release date as my own book because I know the author/publisher involved. And the NOT FOR SALE label on each offering’s cover photo has been doctored with white-out.

No mention that the seller has read the book and agrees or even disagrees with this theoretical reviewer. No mention that the seller has read any of the ARCs offered for sale. No suggestion that the seller can even read.

There’s also the disclaimer that goes: “An ARC (Advance Reader's Copy) is an early release of a book to a book reviewer for their opinion of the book. Although sometimes marked Uncorrected Proof or Not for Sale

they usually contain all of the text of the final publication and they can legally be sold once given out by the publisher. They sometimes have a plain cover and they are almost always paperback. They can also be highly Collectible.”

I will therefore bet, even if I cannot prove it, that the seller is not some good-hearted soul who goes around buying from “Friends-of-the-Library” sales to help libraries—and is now sharing that largess with decent, legitimate readers. Not bloody likely! This person is a benefactor to nobody but himself/herself.

 

I also would bet good money (if I had any) that the seller is a reviewer who’s found a good lurk and is cashing in—without having the common decency to admit to being a reviewer who is padding the piggy bank, or even admitting to being nothing more than a common, garden-variety peddler, with dollar signs for eye-balls and no genuine reader’s soul at all. Clearly this person has no honest respect for readers, authors, publishers—and is therefore (in my humble opinion) a person who doesn’t deserve to be a reviewer. If he/she/it is a reviewer.

Not to put too fine a point on it, if the eBay seller really is what I suspect, then he/she/it is nothing but a parasite, a charlatan and a liar. But he/she/it isn’t alone. Peddlers with no genuine respect for authors, books—or readers—are busily flogging all over the internet.

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?"

Co-dependency

Gordon Aalborg: substituting for Lynne

Co-dependency. Wrap your word-processing package around that one!

Weird word—it’s a psychobabble term usually used to describe problem marriages, love-hate relationships, “can’t live with them; can’t live without them” sort of thing.

It can also be applied, with moderate accuracy, to the relationship between tourists and the business people in tourist towns who depend on those tourists and usually, secretly, quietly, hate them because of that dependence.

I’ve got a co-dependent relationship and it’ll be the death of me, in the end. Not with Deni, my esteemed wife and fellow writer/editor, you understand—but with my computer, whose name is Matilda (at least on her best-behaved days) and who *is* the bane of my existence.

And I suspect I’m not alone. I suspect most writers today have the identical problem. Our lives are ruled by a machine we can’t control half the time, can’t understand the other half of the time, and can’t do without any of the time.

We both love and hate each other, Matilda and I. She’s a tramp and a hoyden and a flibbertigibbet, often unfaithful, totally fickle and over-sexed, to boot. From her perspective, I fear I’m little more than a pimp. She depends on me to keep her plugged in and turned on and able to have regular intercourse via the internet. And to provide all too regular little junkets—car rides to those nice service techies who, I suspect, hand out bikkies and/or other treats. Electronic chocolate?

And I hate it when she decides to be all temperamental and wants to corrupt files and chew emails up and spit them out. What is she—preggers or just contrary? Does she want pickles and ice cream? One thing is sure, she will not tell me!

It was different when I was younger. When I started in journalism, I was assigned a typewriter that was twice my age, and when I was eventually forced into the wonderful (?) world of word-processors, I made the transition from a manual typewriter that was older than I am now.

And, although I hate to admit it, better preserved. It worked. Hard. Always. You changed the ribbon on occasion and the platen on rarer occasions and that was pretty much it. Damn-fine-splendid piece of equipment. It didn’t argue with me, didn’t demand to be updated and/or upgraded every week, didn’t try to give me stupid grammar suggestions, didn’t try to teach me to spell. It did what it was told!

Okay, there was the small issue of using carbons, and retyping entire pages for really fancy work, where it wasn’t considered appropriate to just xxx out mistakes. But it worked! And what went wrong, you could usually fix it without too much trouble—none of these “wait until 10 a.m. . . . these computer gurus don’t like to get up early” situations.

Today’s writers, unless they’re pushing pension age pretty hard, probably don’t even know what I’ve been talking about. Or care. I know my computer doesn’t care. Matilda is a believer in co-dependency, and knows damned well who the dependent one is, too. Me. The thrice-damned creature owns me!

I can write, rewrite, edit, re-edit, swap files back and forth all over creation, submit anything . . . anywhere . . . electronically at the click of a mouse. I edit for authors halfway round the world and think nothing of it. The flexibility is marvelous. It’s wonderful . . . I think.

But the thrice-damned creature owns me. Goodness—did I already say that? No problem, I’ll just cursor back there and change that. Piece of cake—no carbons to change, only a mouse-click, no problem at all. Stupid thing to say anyway. How can a computer own anyone. Still, easy fixed. No problem.

Amend that. Seems there’s a problem after all. Words are appearing on my screen and they did not fly from my nimble fingers. Thin, wavery words, but words. There’s a Y and an O and a U, and a space . . . and then, is that a W? It is, and now there’s an I and a pair of Ls (or should that be LLs?)

And another space. And . . . .it must be an O, and then a B and then and E, and . . .

Yes, Matilda darling. Whatever you say, darling. Erase this slur upon your sterling character? Of course I will . . . how could I do else, you delightful creature you? If you’d just allow me to reach this *SEND* key . . .

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD, OR NEARLY OLD MEN

Gordon Aalborg: standing in for Robin.

I have days when I think I should retire from editing. Most such days involve dealing with authors whose attitudes toward professionalism drive me bonkers!

An author who submits a manuscript that is riddled with obvious errors and clearly has not been re-read, spell-checked or put into any semblance of a rational format -- especially when it is an author who has *been* published and really should know better -- literally screams at me, and what that scream *says* is this:

1. The author doesn't value his/her own work very much.

2.  The author doesn't respect his/her own talent/gift/call-it-what-you-like enough to do the work that talent may well deserve.

3.  The author doesn't respect editors, and appears to think it is an editor's job to run around picking up after authors as if they were recalcitrant, sloppy teenagers with messy rooms. Not a great attitude, that!

4.  The author doesn't respect his/her readers very much either.

So why should *I* respect that author? Why indeed?

My job as an editor is, I believe, to help an author make a good book better. More than better -- as close to perfect as it *can* be made, given the raw material. It is not an easy job to do when my *professional amateur* author informs me the work isn't worthy of his/her *own* respect, that I, as an editor, won't be given any respect, and the readers are irrelevant anyway. It gets no easier when said author is moving ahead more because of his/her self-promotion skills than any genuine talent.

All of which brings me to a book I recently read -- Cormac McCarthy's "No Country For Old Men." It is a book with which I have a genuine love/hate relationship. It speaks to me. It is a helluva book! But it worries me in the principles it raises, too.

Academy Awards for the movie notwithstanding, McCarthy's approach to writing has me genuinely curious. He writes without quotation marks or apostrophes (a form which is surprisingly readable, if occasionally puzzling) but I don't know *why* he does this. And frankly, I'm insufficiently curious to bother finding out. The book is good, but not that good.

And yet ... I do wonder about McCarthy's *respect* for his readers, since he obviously expects them to adapt to his unusual style or just go away. So "No Country For Old Men" only adds to my confusion. Here's why:

The *hero* of the piece, Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, is a man having difficulty adjusting to the world which has changed around him. His personal standards no longer seem to fit in his world, and the standards of modern society make questionable sense to him. I can relate to that, not least because this book is splendidly, wonderfully character driven. McCarthy, who is older even than I am, obviously relates very well indeed to his main character's issues, as he does to the issues of all the other characters in this book.

But Sheriff Ed Tom has one character trait that McCarthy either lacks or ignores (I'm not sure which) -- Sheriff Ed Tom RESPECTS everyone, even the bad guys he has to deal with. It is a part of his ethos, his rural Texas upbringing. It is part of what he *is.*

And I am fairly sure that Sheriff Ed Tom, if he were to write his memoirs himself, wouldn't dis-respect his potential readers to the point where he would abandon "standard" punctuation just to make it more difficult for those readers to figure out what he was on about.

And since we're on the subject of "No Country For Old Men" - let me segue to the movie version, because awards aside it did NOT - to me - even come close to the complexities and excellence of the book. All the nuances, all the superb characterization, all the subtleties which enriched the book for me got lost in the blood'n'guts of the film, which I have yet to sit through in its entirety.

I think this is always a risk when you see the film of a book you've been impressed by, and it has to do with that simple difference between the mediums. When you read a book, it is *your* imagination that paints the pictures, creates the images, and sets the level of violence or passion or lust. I genuinely believe each of our imaginations comes with a built-in governor that protects us from overload - if it can.

When you see a film, it is somebody else's imagination doing the work, and somebody else's *governor* making the decisions. Not always comfortable for Sheriff Ed Tom, or for me, as old age and change make us question our standards more and more.

WHAT YOU EXPECT TO SEE

Gordon Aalborg: filling in for Robin Agnew

Quite often, in this forum and others, the subject arises about how risky it is to try and be your own *final* editor.

The biggest reason for the risk is, of course, that you are too familiar with the work and the context of the various scenes therein, and you will see what you *expect* to see. The result: you will *not* see errors you might have made during the writing.

I recently had a real-time adventure that illustrates this principle so well I thought it worth sharing.

On a recent Saturday, with my sister expected for dinner in a few hours, I had occasion to walk down to the neighborhood Safeway for last-minute foodstuffs demanded by my esteemed wife. Directly outside the entrance to the supermarket, I ran into two old friends I hadn't seen in several months, and we paused - right there on the sidewalk in front of the store - to chat.

At one point during our admittedly lengthy conversation, a van pulled up, a woman emerged, and the van sat there while she went inside, did her shopping, then returned. Obviously, we decided, some twit was too damned lazy to search out a parking space. We continued nattering on like a trio of magpies.

Then a snazzy little blue compact pulled up, and the woman driver leaned over across the passenger seat and waved at us - the clear inference being that somebody behind us was trying to reach her, or that she needed to see past us into the doorway for some reason. We were no more than three feet from her car and yes, we were squarely between it and the entrance.

Ever polite (and suddenly, belatedly, realizing we might actually be blocking the doorway) we moved aside and continued our conversation. Another vehicle pulled up behind the blue compact and bleeped at it, and the woman drove away.

We finished our conversation, I did my shopping and walked home to find, parked in front of my house, my sister's brand-new, snazzy little blue Mazda, which I had seen only once or twice before. I paused to admire it, then entered my house, whereupon...

I think you can guess the rest, and some of the language doth not bear repeating here or elsewhere.

But my point is this: In the context of my situation outside the Safeway store, I did *not* expect to see my sister (whom I've known for 50+ years, and who hadn't suddenly grown a moustache or changed her hairdo or anything else significant) so I didn't *see* her. I saw what was logical to me - in that context - somebody waving me to the side for some reason or another. I saw what I expected to see.

And that's my story and I'm sticking to it, edited or not! (And it probably should be edited)

Well ... okay, I did try to suggest that if she'd bought a Canadian car it might have had side windows that didn't distort so much. You can imagine how well that went over, eh?

STANDING IN FOR THE STAND-IN

Gordon Aalborg, standing in for Janet Reid.

Which Deni Dietz should be doing, but --  like Janet -- Deni is an event person, and is busy just now *recovering* from the humongous ordeal of lolling about in Denver at Left Coast Crime. I have no idea where Janet is -- likely out somewhere exploring the possibility that Lee Child might have yet another brother? :-)

So you get me. And I haven't much to say. Blame Deni -- I *told* her that if she went walkabout she would be needed to stand in for someone and she wouldn't be here and I'd have to do it. Her response: Consider our (former) cleaning lady who decided she didn't *do* bathrooms. A warning, perchance?

Or maybe it was just a hint about the five-mile *to-do* list she left me.

Either way, it provided way, way too much *thinking* time, and Deni should know better than that. A thinking Gordo is a disaster in the making.

What I got to thinking about was the oft-raised issue of what some readers say happens when some authors get so full of themselves that they *appear* to be no longer getting properly edited. Which, of course, can happen and I suppose it does.

I know one author, who is quickly achieving fame and assumedly fortune but shall remain nameless, whose last "series" book I read put him one book away from losing one reader - me. The entire premise of the book hinged on events from a previous book in the series, and it was not -- in my humble opinion as both a reader and an editor -- at all well done. Because I had read the previous books in the series, I had some vague idea what the pivotal plot point was all about, but if I hadn't read the earlier book ... not a chance in hell. One more like that and the second-hand book store gets a visit.

And this sort of trap is damned easy for an author to fall into. You *know* your characters so well and you know the background (often included in previous books) so well that it is easy to assume you're writing with total clarity when you're not. Speaking as an editor, that is why you *have* an editor.

Creative Writing 101 says that any book in any series MUST stand alone. You simply cannot assume your reader has read those earlier books. Probably the only thing worse than putting too much from previous books into *this* book is not putting in enough to give the character context in the reader's mind. The *new* reader, this is, the one you hope to seduce into searching for your entire backlist while keeping an eye out for your next books, because you have caught that reader's interest.

And, speaking here as an editor, it doesn't get any easier as a series grows and expands. I've just been editing  a really good book by a really good author who also hasn't quite mastered the art of moving through a series with continuity that actually *works*. And in this case, never having read the author's previous books is a hell of an advantage, because these lapses practically leap off the page at me. A character is introduced, a reference is made that has no context in the book I'm editing, and I am left -- as both editor and reader -- with questions that shouldn't be there.

And it isn't as if the author doesn't care. This particular author, I know, has a panel of *readers* who are not only competent, but who take their jobs seriously and are genuinely trying to help. But I'll bet the farm they've ALL read ALL the previous books in the series -- so they're just as handicapped as the author.

Which is why a *new* editor can sometimes be a huge advantage. Fresh eyes, the mentality of a *new* reader. Because the editor, too, can come to know the characters too well, know the backstory too well, can get just too damned comfortable with characters and storylines the editor hopefully enjoys and loves as much as does the author.

But loving an author should be, must be (in my opinion) TOUGH LOVE. It is an editor's job, an editor's responsibility, an editor's sacred trust, damn it, to play Devil's advocate, to challenge the author, to make the author THINK. And sometimes they get fair-dinkum cranky with you for doing it, especially those rare (LOL) writers whose egos bruise easily.

Not changing the subject, one of *my* authors, B.R. Robb (a pseudonym) has just earned a *starred* Kirkus review for his debut novel RIVER GHOSTS, a Five Star Mystery coming out in May. I reckon somehow he's a little less cranky about that then he was, occasionally, during the editing process.  I, of course, am not even surprised. LOL

Speaking personally, I don't really *care* if my authors agree with my myriads of suggestions about their hard-won manuscripts. I don't even *expect* them to agree with me all the time and they damned well shouldn't agree all the time.

All I want them to do is grant me the respect that I make my suggestions for a reason, which is to ask the author to THINK ABOUT IT, DAMN IT! If you don't agree, then do it your way. Your book. Your name on it. Not mine. But think about it -- and if you do that one small thing, then I have done my job and I'm happy.

And I am done *this* job, which is perhaps just as well. Now comes the vacuuming and the dusting and the washing of the kitchen floors. I tried to tell Deni once that I don't *do* windows but it didn't work. The cunning little vixen framed me into it.

The Mind Boggles

Gordon Aalborg - standing in for Sharon Wheeler:

I had occasion, recently, to have *meaningful dialog* with another editor. At least I think it was meaningful - even if it accomplished SFA. See what you think.

I had submitted to this (relatively obscure) publisher, who for reasons that make little sense to me operates on the "First send us a synopsis" basis. Which I did, and in due course was asked to submit the first three chapters of my epic. Which I did, although not without wondering, since this was all being done by email/attachment, why it wouldn't be just as efficient to send the entire ms while I was at it. That way whomever was evaluating could just keep going, if sufficiently entranced by the first three chapter, as of course they would be ... :-) But okay, if that's the way they want it done...

Anyway, in due course I was contacted by this editor, who said she quite liked the synopsis and concept, made a few suggestions about possible rewrites, some extremely detailed examples (I thought) for somebody who'd only read three chapters) gave me a "Creative Writing 101" lecture about adverbs and the use thereof, and another about some elements of what she'd read being too passive for her taste. And she asked how I felt about rewriting.

I responded that I'm usually cool with constructive criticism, and from there, somehow, we segued into what *I* thought was a general discussion ... the kind of thing  two editors might do if meeting over a beer ... author/editor horror stories ... that sort of thing. She, too, is an author.

She had yet to ask for the *full* ms, which I rather expected her to do at some stage or another, but she kept going back to this rewrite business, which confused me slightly. She had not, after all, seen the rest of the book, but was *talking* as if we'd gone to contract and had a done deal. On the basis of three chapters and a synopsis from an author *new* to her pub house? This seemed rather strange to me, but I assumed she might still be sounding me out to see if I could be worked with or if I was a prima donna type. Me? Surely you jest?

Then things became sufficiently confusing (or I, in my peculiar, geriatric way, became so confused) that I did suggest that I wasn't about to get all excited about doing rewrites on spec when she'd never even *seen* the entire book. I've had a fair bit of experience over the years with editors saying, "I like the book and I'll buy the book if you'll rework this bit and tidy up that bit," etc., but I, as an editor, would no more fly to the moon than contract a book without even reading the entire ms, so I quite naturally assumed she *wanted* to see it all.

Not! Most emphatically not! She tells me that while she was quite taken with the concept, etc., etc., I had not expressed myself sufficiently willing to submit to her rewrite demands.

I had said, "As for your comments, there is nothing I blatantly disagree with, although your suggestions based on the partial are ... iffy, as I hope you'll see from the total ms. But assuming you want to pay for the privilege, be assured that I am amenable to suggestions and reasonable editing." - and went on to send her the entire ms, so we'd be talking about the same material if things got that far.

She said, and I quote: Yes, I considered a contract, even on the basis of three chapters. Contrary to the way you do it as an editor, I feel like I can 'see' a good storyteller in just three chapters--sometimes even in one. I gave an evaluation of three chapters expecting a certain reaction from you, and didn't receive it--that being, "yes, if you think it's what I should do, I'll be happy to work on the manuscript."

I was dumbstruck, frankly. I don't think I know of an editor who hasn't had a book come apart in a screaming fit -- sometimes as late as the final chapter -- no matter how good the first three might be! And she was (had been) prepared to go to contract had I proved sufficiently submissive? Could this very nice lady really be *that* naive?

Until I had time to think it all over. What she was *really* expecting (my take on it) was for me to agree -- without having gone to contract and without her even having read the entire book -- that I would rewrite what she wanted, as she wanted it rewritten. And - unsaid - be damned glad of the opportunity! Can you smell power trip in here somewhere? You vill obey!  I could hear the whip crack all the way across North America!

Or (Deni's take on it) she was totally intimidated by me. How on earth one can intimidate smeone merely by treating them as an equal, I do not know, but Deni is wiser than I in many ways, so she might well be correct. Either way, the entire dialog ceased to be terribly meaningful from that point on. It all fell apart like a house of cards in a windstorm -- failure to communicate, as was said in a very good movie a very long time ago.

Which matters not a whit, really. Good books find homes eventually, and when the dust settles I'll revisit her lengthy assessment (nearly as long as the three chapters involved LOL) and see if she mightn't be right, damn it. She *might* be. I'm far from perfect and the first to admit that. But what really bums me out is that I quite *liked* this girl, and now I'm forced to wonder...

Could her attitude maybe also have something to do with the ravening hordes of wannabes out there, the ones who'd sell their unborn/newborn/firstborn child just for the chance to get published? The hundreds, thousands, millions of aspiring authors whose sheer desperation and willingness to roll over and beg might lead a relatively inexperienced editor into thinking the editor's role is to dominate?

Or maybe a hidden agenda, like a yet-to-be-presented sales pitch for Creative Writing 101, or ye editor's handy-dandy book doctoring service? Or...

The more I read this lady's correspondence, the more I see indications that she liked the premise and what little of my story she read, but - at the very least - would have wanted me to rewrite *my* book *her* way, possibly in *her* style and using *her* words, in *her* voice. Sans adverbs, for starters. :-)

Which isn't editing as I understand it, but I've only written and sold a couple dozen books over about that many years, and edited considerably more than that.

I am, and I admit it, a fairly brutal editor, but fair, I think, and always attempting to be constructive. That's how I see my role - a team member (leader?) working to make a good book better. By *suggesting* that the author *might* consider this or that, and by honestly telling the author what works (or does not) for me, and why, and sometimes even how to fix what I suggest needs fixing. By the author! Editors suggest. Authors write.

The best editor I've ever had was NOT a writer, never had been, didn't want to be, and firmly believed authors shouldn't *be* editors unless they were strong-willed enough to resist the temptation to rewrite because it's easier (sometimes) than trying to explain to the author how you'd like the author to rewrite. I think of her often. Fondly.

Never have I found myself needing to say or suggest that it's my way or the highway. Not my name on the book, after all. If I didn't like the book, I wouldn't have recommended it in the first place, which means any book I do recommend requires (or should) little more than tinkering and tweaking anyway.

This is my final "designated blogger" post, by the way. Unless I'm called upon to fill in for Deni when she, for some reason, can't manage the task. Which makes me "assistant designated blogger," I guess. Sheesh - demoted from second-string to third-string -- maybe my girl editor has a point! :-)

Adieu - and HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Absence makes the heart grow

Gordon Aalborg, standing in for Deni, who is somewhere between home and Indiana, where she has been basking in the adulation of her younger fans (grand-children) and courting older ones at Magna cum Murder.

Or at least that's her story. Mine is far less celubrious, if perhaps more specificially correct.

When the cat's away, the mouse will ... paint the entire bathroom - with oil paint! Stupid mouse. Latex is faster, easier, cleans up quicker, doesn't smell as bad, but isn't what the guy at the local paint store recommended. He'll pay - I need a victim in my next thriller, and it won't be a pretty or easy demise.

Also painted the staircase going upstairs to my office. Used latex paint for that small task because that's what I had and it cost nothing. Deni did not approve the color. Was not, in fact, even consulted. Welcome home, darling... :-)

And painting the stairs, which needed it, made the adjacent walls look extremely very grungy, so I painted them, too. Deni will be pleased, but she still won't like the color.

And then I found some more *free* paint - a different color this time ... one she didn't even know I had ... so I decided to paint the kitchen cabinets, while I was in an artistic mood. Deni will hate the color, I suspect, but would flee back to Indiana (or even Texas) to avoid having to paint the cabinets herself, so I should be safe enough.

The railing on the back deck (and the back door itself) might be a different story. I seem to remember she jacked up something fierce the last time I wanted to paint them green, and I doubt her opinion has changed. Too late, my sweet. That'll teach you to leave me in charge. And just by the way, when you step out for a smoke I would suggest you *not* lean on the railing, at least not for a week or two. It's been pretty cool at night here in the frigid wilds of Canada, and Latex paint does NOT dry well or quickly in cool, 100% hsumidity type weather. Ah well.

And between these picayune chores - designed to keep me out of mischief, you understand - I went three falls in a wrestling with the waterbed, lost the first one, but triumped in the end. It is drained, like the proverbial swamp, though I suspect some alligators remain. Maybe a few pirahnas, too.

Ever try to dispose of an allegedly dead waterbed? They never *fully* drain, is the problem. In the case of this one, I had to wrestle TWO flabby, floundering, but nonetheless dangerous bladders, each of which outweighed me - and one almost got me before I finally subdued the beast.

It seriously outweighed me. That was part of the problem. The other part was trying to get it down a flight of steep, narrow stairs. Not a good plan to lead the way under such circumstances, I can tell you. The only way to maneuver the damned thing was to gradually flip it over upon itself, like a malevolent "Slinky" toy. And a heavy one, as I found when the devilish thing caught me unprepared and slithered down the staircase to pin me against the bottom railing in a fearsome death grip.

It took ten minutes for me to work free of the dying but still dangerous beast, and ten more to crawl out of the house and across the alley to where I could beg for help from my ex-Marine neighbor, a splendid chap about half my age and twice my strength. Well, okay, maybe three times my strength. :-) Suffice it to say that he put his military expertise to good and efficient use, and had the evil waterbed slugs properly subdued and out of my house quicker that I'd been able to break free of the staircase assault.

Damned tough job even for a military man, although I suspect it was made more difficult by him trying (vainly) to subdue his laughter at MY pitifully weak attempts to deal with the critters.

Unfortunately, I am less certain of his ability to save me from Deni's wrath when she arrives home later today to find herself with a new, *proper* mattress, one with more memory than either of us or even both of us together, if the literature is to be believed. Memory foam! That's the ticket. Modern ... in line with the astronauts. Up-to-date for a change. About time, Deni!!!

I've already lost track of the number of people whose response to my tales of woe have blithely ignored my perils, the risks to my very person. "You've got a waterbed?" they ask, in the same tones usually reserved for mention of things like vinyl records, or eight-track cassette players, or white-wall tires.

Once she reads how wonderful this new memory-foam mattress is, once she succumbs to the inevitable jet lag and *has* to try it for herself, Deni will positively swoon with joy at the wondrous charms of memory foam. She will, with typical feminine fickleness, forget the waterbed literally overnight.

I hope.

What to say?

Gordon Aalborg -- standing in, sitting in, or otherwise allegedly substituting for Lynne Patrick, who probably won't be amused or impressed.

Pity the poor blogger designate...

Little to say; and a little too late...

Had plenty of warning, but here it is morning, and he's not even sure of the date, mate.

But I am sure of one thing. I was even less impressed with last night's season opener of "House" than with my clumsy attempts at poor poetry.

SPOILER ALERT!!! "HOUSE" SPOILERS BELOW!!!!

Had it been a mystery novel, especially one I'd paid good money for, I would have been extremely very cranky indeed, perhaps even to the point of throwing the damned thing against the wall.

The janitor I could accept. Even the cutsey games between House and Wilson and Cutty (I DO like Cutty; perhaps even lust after Cutty) -- but the pivotal element of the plot last night bordered on nonsense.

Suspension of disbelief is one thing, but expecting the viewers to accept that a young woman's lover and fiance could spend days (that seemed like weeks) by her side in hospital without twigging to the fact of who she really was ... or wasn't...?

NO! I don't buy it, didn't buy it, and won't. I don't care how bashed about she was -- if he *really* loved her (and he did) he'd have known.

Bad enough the writers depend so often on the ploy of having "family" there on the spot, getting in the way, asking stupid questions so that House can provide equally stupid and/or enigmatic answers. Bad enough they expect us to believe hospitals actually allow such nonsense.

But at least the viewers should be able to expect a plot that is credible! This is, after all, "House" -- not the "Boston Legal" I was forced to miss because my esteemed wife has this fixation on Hugh Laurie. And "House" is supposed to be high drama -- not high comedy.

Isn't it?

Personally, I think the star of the show does, as last night's episode nagged on, and on, and on about, need a *team* -- two teams, in fact. One to help him brainstorm his miracles and a new one to write the show in the first place. With more credibility!

Well ... hell! My esteemed wife, who can surf the web more quickly and astutely than I can type, much less attempt to think, has just told me the opening "House" episode was based upon a "true" story, which of course justifies (in her mind) the entire episode.

Sorry, my love. True as the real story might have been, it had to have involved recognition issues the "House" episode did not. At least to me.

Sheeesh! I think I need to get a life. Getting cranky about the reality or otherwise of a television program is surely a sign of bigger issues in the geriatric mind. What next - I should start expecting "real" journalism on CNN?

Do not hold your splendid breath on that one!

**********

Editing = Tough Love

Gordon Aalborg ... standing in for Lynne Patrick

Editing is no job for the faint of heart. It can be a proper bitch of a job, often made more difficult by the perceived need to protect and defend some author's fragile ego while you're ripping his/her work to shreds. Politely, of course. God forbid that an editor should appear sarcastic or dare to laugh when a supposedly professional author does something totally unprofessional in a manuscript.

Which we ALL do, occasionally, and I would be the first to admit it. That's why we ALL *need* editors in the first place. Left to our own devices, we tend to see what we expect to see in a manuscript, are blind to many of our mistakes and - worse - bad habits. And -- all too often -- won't even admit this unarguable fact ... not to anyone, even ourselves.

Which may or may not be why -- it seems to me -- more and more top-rated, even famous authors are putting out books that seem to have slipped past the editing process entirely. One wonders occasionally if there even *was* an editing process, or whether the author in question has become so hugely successful that editing is no longer necessary.

My view: Editing is *always* necessary.

My own writing/editing career was forged long ago and far away in the hectic structure of big city journalism. So long ago, indeed, that proof readers hadn't yet gone extinct and political correctness had yet to be invented. Nobody worried about politeness, per se ... there wasn't time, usually. And the writer's ego was the writer's problem. Deadline's in five minutes--get the damned story done! You can worry about your ego over a beer, later.

It's somewhat different with books, of course, but the editor's role isn't, or shouldn't have, changed that much. The editor should be the author's friend, but not so friendly as to be ineffective.

I want *my* editor to be mean as a snake, if that's what it takes to get my attention so that I actually think about the error of my ways. I *want* my editor to feel free to laugh when I screw up--far better my editor laughing than five million (I should be so lucky!) readers.

I don't want my editor to feel constrained by political correctness. Leave it for the politicians -- what I want is good, constructive, thorough, no-nonsense editing. Call a spade a spade on Sunday if you must, but the rest of the week, if it's a ****ing shovel, then call it that.

I don't need my ego stroked. I have a wife for that. Besides, my ego is bigger than yours, so Naaaah! And more fragile, which is a pity but can't be helped. Want to be sarcastic? Be my guest. So long as my editor is consistently constructive about criticism, I am generally happy.

The vast majority of editors are competent, thorough and helpful cogs in the publishing machinery, despite too often being paid peanuts and being treated like monkeys. I've had editors both good and less so, and learned from both -- often learning more from the bad ones than from the best.

I had an editor once who rejected a book for (mostly) perfectly good reasons, most of her criticisms perfectly valid, her logic perfectly logical. Except that her very first objection was to my heroine professing a liking for steaks so rare they bellowed and stomped upon their plates. The editor felt that with vast herds of readers (allegedly) giving up red meat in favor of tofu or some such nonsense, perhaps this might make them unable to connect with my heroine. And besides, the chairman's wife was a staunch Vegan, etc., etc.

Translation: the book was deader on the plate than the heroine's steaks ... slaughtered (magically without a drop of blood) on page one.  All the other criticisms were mere window dresssing, but excellent editor that she was, this person couldn't just condemn me because I'd run afoul of the current "party line" -- she had to provide me some legitimate editing, and she did, and I remain suitably grateful to this day. But I am not about to change my heroine's taste in steaks; now it has become a point of principle. :-)

My chequered past has led me to try and be the sort of editor I, myself, desire. The good old "Golden Rule" at its best. Or worst. It's cost me a few authors in the process and garnered no small helpings of criticism from some ... usually with more ego than talent. But those I think of as *my* authors keep coming back for more, which either means they're masochists or maybe I'm actually doing something right. Or is that write?

Gather ye History While ye May

Gordon Aalborg … filling in for Robin Agnew

The mysterious power of the internet never ceases to amaze me.

I’ve just spent a few days delving into the intricacies of genealogy, courtesy of an innocent question asked by a distant relative I didn’t even know existed until recently.

Her name is Trine, and her great-grandfather’s brother was married to my grandfather’s sister. In Norway—long ago and far away. She’s coming to Canada this summer for the first time ever, to meet some of her husband’s relations in Alberta. And while she’s at it, she reckoned, she might try to find some of her own distant relatives.

She knew that two daughters of her great-father’s brother, had—way back in the 1930s, before either of us was even born—stayed with an uncle of theirs named Aalborg, on a farm, somewhere in Alberta. And that one of them had eventually married in that district. So she went online looking for any Canadian Aalborg that might know more—and the only one she could find in all of Canada was me, who knew nothing. I didn’t even know my grandfather had a sister!

It was something of a surprise to get the email from Trine. And a huge surprise when my geriatric mind eventually kicked in and I recalled—and then actually found—an old family photo which, miracle of miracles. showed Trine’s relatives—my grandfather’s nieces indeed!—with my father and grandparents. The biggest surprise of all was that I’d actually kept the damned picture at all. I’ve been carting it around for years without knowing why. Now I know.

But I believe Trine got an even bigger surprise when I was able to send her the photo and tell her that I spent several summers as a child on the farm with one of those sisters (our mutual relatives) and the man she married. Good memories clouded by a lot of time.

Which should have been the end of it, except…

About a week later, I registered with www.facebook.com so I could look into this online thriller that fellow Canadian Dr. Brad Kelln is doing. And a few days later I was invited to join an Aalborg group on facebook.

More relatives I didn’t know existed. A lot of them. All in Norway, which is no surprise. And in Norway, apparently, everyone with the Aalborg surname can be traced to one of two families and communities … or is a ring-in from Denmark and doesn’t count.

The name isn’t that rare in the U.S., although most are of Danish heritage, I think. But the only Aalborgs in all of Canada, it seems, are my youngest daughter, my sister and me. At least we’re the only ones with publicly listed phones—there could be hundreds, for all I know, using unlisted and/or cell phones to avoid the pestilence of telemarketers (may they all be cursed to perpetual impotence and have their most intimate bits rot and putrefy and drop off, along with their tongues!)

But by this time, dear reader, my curiosity bump is itching like crazy. I mean—who are these relatives half the world away? And how are we related? And under what circumstances? And what’s the back story to my own lineage? So it becomes my turn to prowl the internet looking for relatives. In a foreign country, with records in a language I can’t read.

Thank goodness for those relatives who’d already found me!  Trine’s second cousin (I think that’s how it works) is something of a genealogist—and a good one, too.

With his help, I now know my grandfather was one of eight children. And I know when he left Norway, how he got to Canada, and my paternal lineage back to the 1600s and the Aalborg farm in Tynset, Hedmark, Norway (somewhere I may never see in person, more’s the pity).

And I’ve been able to trace the family line further back yet to the Viking King Godred Olavsson of the Isle of Man in the twelfth century. Royal blood!—is that cool, or what?

Okay … cool, but sort of irrelevant, really. What’s the point of it all? Well there isn’t one, really. Except to assuage my writer’s curiosity. And to make me feel sort of sheepish to realize that the answers to most of my questions today were there, readily available to me, when I was young and my parents and grandparents were still alive and would have answered them had I but asked. Which of course I didn’t. I was only a teenager, then, so I thought I already knew everything worth knowing.

But I should have paid attention and I rather wish I had. Far, far better to get your family’s history first-hand, if possible. While your relatives are still walking around, able to tell you first-hand who’s related to whom and why and where and how.

The internet is, indeed, powerful and mysterious. But it’s no substitute for the real thing—history straight from the hearts and minds of those who made it. That is the point.

For my part, being distantly related to a twelfth-century king of the Isle of Man is vaguely interesting, but not half as interesting as being found on the internet—in this century by the great-grand-daughter of the brother of my grandfather’s sister’s husband … a lady the age of my youngest daughter and a lady I never expected to meet in person.

So you can imagine my surprise when the phone rang the other day and a voice with a decidedly Norwegian accent announced that Trine, her husband, and twin daughters were in Vancouver, with a view to taking the ferry over to Vancouver Island—just to visit me.

Which they did, and it was a splendid visit, too. The highlight of my summer, I think.

Mind you, we’re still trying to figure out exactly what her relationship to me actually is… The term fourth cousin, thrice removed, comes to mind, but I’m sure it isn’t accurate. J

Woe, oh woe...

(Gordon Aalborg … standing in for Sharon Wheeler, waterlogged over there across the pond.)

My muse hath abandoned me. Alas, alack and woe is me.

‘Tis true. I fear the fickle creature has buggered off back to Tasmania. Or maybe never left. I’m actually beginning to wonder if I’ve been here in Canadathese last few years, bereft of her talents and unaware of my loss. Perchance she is seeking my soul, which I’m more than half certain is still there in Tassie, wandering in the wilderness like a wayward wombat.

This time I think I know the reason said muse has got her knickers in a twist, and I must admit that it makes me fair-dinkum cranky too. An acquisitions editor for a leading Australian publisher passed on a submission because (paraphrasing, here) Australian reviewers prefer books by Australian authors who are convenient to contact for interviews, photo ops, etc.

Nothing about the good/bad/indifferent qualities of the book, a blithe ignoring of the fact that I am an Australian author, nothing about the fact the book is set in Australia. Simply the issue that I am in Canada and—by implication—Australian reviewers are too lazy or too ignorant of things like email and telephones to be able to conduct an interview with me even should they have actually liked my book, had it been published in the first place and sent out for review in the second place.

Interesting concept of priorities, though it makes sense. Why publish a book if the reviewers can’t be bothered with it because interviewing the author might be a problem? Where I live, mind you, the “local” paper has plenty of reviews cribbed from the larger papers in the chain—papers in places where “name” authors do visit.

Then, just to rub salt in the wounds, the “book editor” of my local paper did a piece recently in which she said she saw her responsibility as providing reviews of books which—in her opinion, obviously—the largest number of her readers would be interested. Translation: the most popular authors, which bodes little good for the up-and-coming ones. The ones who probably need reviews the most!

{And reviews are important. Deni has a starred review coming up in “Booklist” for her (as Mary Ellen Dennis) THE LANDLORD’S BLACK-EYED DAUGHTER, and I haven’t seen her so excited since I proposed.}

In my own case… well, I guess it could have been worse. I’m actually surprised the perceived problem wasn’t the Tasmanian setting and the possibility this editor was unsure if Tassie is actually part of Australia. I wondered about that myself occasionally when I lived there. J 

I realize also—just by the way—that I shouldn’t be whingeing about this in the first place. I know this because Roberta Islieb says so in her recent guest-blog on www.writersplot.typepad.com Roberta calls it whining because she is (I assume) an American and doesn’t therefore recognize that whingeing is a much … nicer … word for the phenomenon and sounds better in the bargain. Indeed, one can “have a whinge” without actually whining. Unless one is a Pom, whereupon the words become identical. Anyway, Roberta suggests that by any designation it’s wasted effort and we should concentrate on those things we can control. Which (despite the fact that you’re right, of course) isn’t a helluva lot, darling girl!

An author’s bloody lucky if he/she can control anything at all, up to and including—and especially—his/her imagination. We don’t, after all, concern ourselves with facts and reality and all that bottom-line stuff. We just tell stories, deal in fiction, fantasy, dreams, the very fabric of souls. Stuff that’s really important. Small wonder we are oft misunderstood and even more often rejected.

And we get pissed upon from great heights—a lot! Which is why some of us drink and some of us get depressed when we are not amused with our muses.

Which brings me back to Chris Roerdon’s DON’T MURDER YOUR MYSTERY, just as I promised on an earlier occasion when I was press-ganged into this designated blogger role. We have issues, Chris and I, about transitions and about ellipses, but neither issue is egregious enough to argue about, so we shan’t. My real issue with the (otherwise excellent and I’ve said so before and say so again) book is Chris’ choice to begin with the sad, bad news that most people charged with evaluating our books for publication are really, truly, assiduously, looking for any damned excuse they can find to REJECT us.

Which is true, of course. And Chris has chosen to begin her opus with that fact and then reveal in vivid, coherent detail the hows and whys and wherefores of beating the bastards at their own game. She does it well and makes many and diverse excellent points and suggestions and recommendations. Truly.

But to start with the bad news? To tell us we’re near-as-dammit doomed before we’re even weaned? Fair go, Chris! I cannot fault that choice as it applies to readers who are aspiring authors, or even those in the wondrousness of a fledgling career, but for an old stager like me it was just too depressing for words! Those of us who’ve survived our battles—won or lost—in the “business” of being published authors KNOW the bad news—we didn’t need reminding right from the start that writers are mere “produce providers” on our best days ever.

I was so depressed by the time I got through Part 1 that I had to take the rest of the book in small doses like cough syrup, or cauliflower or Brussels sprouts. And even when I’d finished, and picked up a lot of doubtless important things I’d forgotten and some I never knew, there was still a disturbing after-taste of depression.

Probably just me; I’m prone to depression sometimes. I have to believe Chris because of course she is right. I’ve heard the exact same comments about those who “evaluate” film scripts. They, too, are said to search for any reason to reject, to avoid making a decision they might one day have to defend, champion, actually believe in. And (horror of horrors) perhaps be wrong about. And I believe those comments, too.

I believe them in my head, but not in my soul. I cannot—dare not—believe them in my soul. Which means that I believe them but I don’t Believe them. Because if I did, my muse really would abandon me and my soul would shrivel and my dreams would die and I would too.

Deni (my esteemed mystery author wife Denise Dietz) genuinely believes and often states that if you drop a dream, it shatters. I believe that if you abandon your dream, it dies horribly, and slowly, of starvation and neglect and loneliness. And so do you.

I’m too young to die.

Too Many Books?

Gordon Aalborg {Standing in for Sharon Wheeler}

ARE there too many books being published these days?

Not an easy question for somebody like me, who genuinely believes there is no such thing as too many books. Too few bookcases, yes, not enough readers and/or book buyers, for sure. But never, under any circumstances, too many books. And yet…

On DorothyL, recently, various posts commented about the volume of free books in conference book bags, some comments suggesting these books all too often went to waste. It was suggested that libraries didn’t want them, second-hand book dealers didn’t want them, they only ended up being “sold” on ebay or Amazon {which sort of negates the first two comments, but that’s not my issue} and too many books meant too much weight for airlines, too many problems for conference-goers headed home. And a lot of other stuff in a similar vein.

Most authors, of course, are certain that their latest book can’t possibly be in the “too many” category (if such creature truly doth exist). Well, we have to think that, don’t we? The alternative is unthinkable. And yet…

I venture to my regularly updated list of books and authors for whom an eye must be kept out for when visiting libraries, thrift shops, book stores of all varieties, and anywhere else one might need to know what books one has or has not, and by whom. Not least when one is too old even to be a baby-boomer, and the memory is … fickle. J

It isn’t a long list, and most of it involves mystery/thriller writers, and most of the books on it I already have. Sallie Bissell, C.J. Box, James Lee Burke, Jeffrey Deaver (only Lincoln Rhyme, thanks) Tess Gerritsen’s more recent stuff, James W. Hall, Steve Hamilton, Sharyn McCrumb (only the “ballad” series) David Morrell, Carol O”Connell, Thomas Perry (in case he resurrects Jane Whitefield—as he damned well should!) John Sandford and Sarah Shankman (for some of her very early work). And a list of my “meds” and my truck license number in case it runs away and gets lost and my home phone number in case I run away and get lost.

The list used to be longer, but people kept dying, or stopped writing for other reasons. Louis L’Amour, John D. MacDonald, Peter O’Donnell, Robert E. Howard, Geoffrey Jenkins, J.K. Mayo, Brian Garfield, Frank Parrish. And yes, Matilda, I do have books—many, many, many books—by other authors. Besides, you’ve missed my point—look at the list, dammit!

There are only three authors on it that could be termed “new” by any stretch of the imagination—Sallie Bissell, C.J. Box and Steve Hamilton. And even they are all better established by far than, say, I am, at least in the mystery field. And relatively younger, too. I’ve been reading Marshall Karp, who may yet make my list, and Earl Merkel, likewise. Both relatively “new.” And two sci-fi authors whom I’ve edited, Daniel Arenson and Sylvia Kelso, have joined Charles deLint on it. I’m undecided about Lee Child, but only because he’s got so many books out already that just starting to collect him makes my wallet squeal. Same with Peter Richardson, a Canadian writer and Steven Booth, from across the pond. And others. Many, many others. I edited Kelli Stanley, whose historical mystery I like very much. She’s so new her first book isn’t even out yet. Of course I get to read Denise Dietz (my esteemed wife) in manuscript, so even though she’s at the top of my list, she isn’t actually on it, exactly. J

But what about the rest of you? The ones I’ve never heard of—yet, hopefully, rather than never will—and those I’ve read, or thought about reading, or…? Too many books (almost)—too little time and space. I can barely keep up with my old favorites and the few who’ve caught my fancy and gone on to earn their place in my reading affections.

And for you, of course, I am one of “the rest”. And like you, I have to chance my luck to get your attention in the first place, and then earn your grace and favor with writing that takes you by the throat and shakes you and won’t let go until you beg for mercy and put me on your list. Lotsa luck, Gordo. You’ll be lucky if you live long enough to see your next book in print, never mind getting on any lists that aren’t black.

There are a lot of books out there vying for that fickle reader attention. Which is maybe as it should be, but still…

Are there really too many? My soul says no, but whenever I walk into a decent-sized book store, I go into “too many choices” shock and—of course—drag out my list, which is at least manageable. And somebody else “new” loses their chance in the process. Not fair, is it?

Having made a living as a writer for more than 40 years, I’m not sure I’d want to be out there today, just starting out. Bad enough trying to reinvent myself as a mystery writer—worse, maybe, because I know too much about what to expect, too much to expect hardly anything at all.

Well actually, Matilda, just starting out is exactly where I’d like to be today. Think about it!—fire in the belly, stars in the eyes, dreams in the soul. That’s what it’s all about, and when you can’t believe that much anymore, you might as well believe there are too many books.

There for all to see

Gordon Aalborg

{Standing in for Deni}

I’ve been thinking maybe I should throw in the towel. As in quit.

Not quit writing, of course. Writers don’t quit writing until they’ve stopped breathing. Not really. Even if they only write in their heads, or when nobody’s watching.

But I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t stop trying to be a writer. I’m edging up to something like geriatricism, dammit, and being a writer is just so much work! The actual writing part is wonderful, of course … not geriatric at all, but alive with creativity and imagination and story-telling. It’s sort of like being in love for the first time. Again. And again. And … But the rest … the being a writer part…?

I’m not a marketer. If I was, you’d be hearing from me on the phone during dinner, trying to sell you somebody else’s something-or-other; although certainly not my own books. I’m not worth a damn at promoting, or I’d be rich from flogging bogus stocks or snake-oil. Certainly not my own books! If I were convinced I couldn’t write, I’d be out teaching creative writing someplace, like far too many others who can’t write and shouldn’t teach it, either. But I can write, and on my better days, I do it well, too. I was a crash-hot romance writer in my day, and I’ll be a better mystery/thriller author, if I live long enough and learn enough. So there!

Assuming, of course, that I can hang onto my publisher, and don’t get “orphaned” as—sadly—have so many of my peers and betters. Or maybe even get a different publisher, a mass-market contract, better distribution, more readers… But…

I loathe and detest trying to craft perfect little query letters, and I can’t/won’t jump through the hoops demanded by most agents, even more publishers and far too many editors who are less easy going than I try to be. I’m a story-teller, dammit. That’s what I do, is tell stories. I don’t want my book rejected by some publisher’s elf just because I’m a poor synopsis writer—the point of being a story-teller is to TELL THE STORY, not the synopsis I was forced to cobble together just because the bloody publisher/editor/alleged marketing expert insisted on it and which means nothing anyway. Not least because I had to write it before I finished the book, which assumed that I’d know where the book was going, in which case I’d have to know how it was going to come out and if I knew that, there’d be no sense writing the book in the first place, would there? Well, okay—maybe some sense, but it sure would take all the fun out of it. J

So to hell with the publishing end of it all, I often think. Not seriously, you understand. But … sort of seriously.

I half-considered changing my will. Not a lot, just enough to allow for any of my unpublished work to be stuck up on my website so anybody who’s interested could read it while I’m stoking the fires down below. Assuming anybody was interested, or could find my website in the first place.

Indeed, I half-considered just putting everything on my website when I’d finished writing it, and not bothering even to look for a publisher. There seems to be a lot of that going on these days—the world-wide web is chock-a-block with such goings-on. Some are called blogs. There are as many reasons for the writings on The Web as there are writings. Addiction is one of the more common ones—addiction to writing. Sound familiar?

A Canadian author named Brad Kelln is writing a free, original, on-line thriller. Brad has two published mysteries to his credit, is a doctor … a forensic psychiatrist in fact, who does consulting for the Halifax Regional Police Hostage Negotiation Team. Here’s his response when I asked about his current project and why he’s begun it:

Because I am addicted to writing. AND I love feedback. Many of us
write for ourselves but also because we like to see/hear the reaction
of others. That helps motivate and drive us. It's great to get
immediate feedback on a chapter.

BUT WAIT... there's more. There is some very obvious method to the
plan.

I'm twice published (Insomniac Press) with suspense / thrillers
( www.bradkelln.com ). I have another book coming out in 2008 (ECW
Press). I've seen different ways and venues to market oneself as an
author. But essentially, if you want a potential audience to care
you have to give them something. Why would anyone return to a blog
over and over just to read bits and pieces of someone's thoughts or
daily activities. That's not much of a hook. Plus, we don't really
want to hook people interested in being authors (and thus living
vicariously through the blog) as much as we want people who just want
to read a good book.

SO.. here is a free book. I'm writing it. If you like it, you'll
return to the group over and over to keep reading the chapters (I'm
putting a minimum of two chapters out a week). If you like it,
you'll tell your friends. If you like it, you'll be interested when
a real book comes out next year (you'll also have an idea about what
kind of story I tell and so have more confidence to put out money to
buy). PLUS, you'll feel like Dr. Kelln already gave me a free book
so why not pay a few bucks for his book (bit of psychology on
reciprocity there).

Price to me: a little bit of time to do something I love to do anyway
Potential payoff: get a bigger audience

Check out (and join) the group here:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2390280357

The prologue can be found here: > http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?uid=2390280357&topic=2485

Well, I’ve joined Brad’s happy little band of enthusiasts, at least for now. I have to say (and this is not criticism—merely fact, because it is obvious and should be obvious) that his work is (in my opinion) first-draft stuff. Pretty much has to be, given the pace he admits to.

My interest is less in the work itself than in where he’s going to take it, how much enthusiasm he can generate and will it be worth the effort (to him) in the long run. He says he has no plans to publish his on-line effort “conventionally,” but might consider that for a sequel, assuming there is one. He’s happy enough with the way it’s all going, thus far. Time will, of course, allow for judgment by all and sundry, especially sundry.

I found it interesting that another “on-line” author, addictive writer and sci-fi enthusiast David Wellington (in an interview with Mike MacLean on www.murderati.com recently) admitted to significant changes between his work as published on his blog and the published version he sold in a three-book contact as a result. In fact, he parlayed his original on-line epic onto two three-book contacts, as I understand it. Is that cool, or what?

The best of both worlds, maybe. Worthy of congratulations, certainly. I can only echo Mike’s advice: If you're interested in David’s novels, you can check them out for free at http://www.brokentype.com/davidwellington/.

Which, of course, brings us full-circle, and here we are back at the coal-face—$$$ I can’t remember who it was who said that writing was like sex … first you do it for love, then for a few friends, and eventually for money, but it is one of those inescapable truisms.

And that’s the problem; money is the currency by which we tend to value everything from instant coffee to the nectar from someone’s very soul—their writing. And it isn’t going to change, nor perhaps should it. The only ones who can value somebody else’s writing are those who read it, and it’s also a truism, right or wrong, that we value things more if we’ve paid for them than if we haven’t.

Which means, I guess, that writing will continue to mean being a writer. But that may change, in time, if slowly. Maybe it already has.

Speaking only for myself, the process of putting a book up on-line “as you go” simply wouldn’t work. I’m a dinosaur in my thinking, perhaps, but I’d sooner slit my wrists than let anybody cast eyes upon my first-draft efforts. Not even Deni. Bad enough the problems and issues and flat-out, undeniable errors she can find in what I think is my final-draft work, without going out begging for criticism. Besides, a first draft is exactly that—in my lexicon it isn’t intended to be anything but a starting place. I’m not at all averse to feedback and constructive criticism, but I think the writer’s job is to attempt personal best before asking for such input.

So there you go—not only am I old, but I’m old-fashioned with it.

Computers ... et al

Gordon

Aalborg

{Standing in for Lynne Patrick}

I believe that power tools exist solely to help me make bigger mistakes more quickly. That’s the reason I do most of my “serious” carving by hand—I still make mistakes, but they are smaller, more manageable, less serious. And more easily fixed. Usually. J

But as a carver, I’m not forced to use power tools. I have a choice.

As a writer, I have a computer (power tool) and no choice that matters. None! Computers are as far removed from choice as they are from logic. We NEED them, and they (at least so far … I think and hope and truly pray) need us, if only to turn them on. But mechanized courtesans, is what they really are … fickle, contrary, infuriating, faithless, soulless creatures, put upon this earth by a genuinely vengeful God. Once turned on, they have the power and well they know it! Marriage between any human person and a computer would give “co-dependency” new meanings that would send the most hardened marriage counselor running terrified into the night—my story and I’m sticking to it.

And there is no sense trying to deny how much we need our computers, and all the wonders of the internet, and laser printers, and all and sundry ancillary goodies. They are essential tools-of-the-trade for today’s writer, and for many readers as well. You wouldn’t be reading this without them, would you?

Having begun my career on a 75-year-old (at the time!) manual typewriter, and worked my way laboriously through the learning curve that included electric typewriters, dedicated word processors and snail-slow early-model computers, I know and freely admit I wouldn’t go back—not one damned step! But…

Am I any better a writer because of all this technology? I wonder. Faster, certainly. More flexible, more capable of correcting errors, trying out ideas to be accepted, rejected or set aside for later at the flick of a mouse-tail … definitely. But actually BETTER as a writer, as a wordsmith, a craftsman with words? Hmmmmmm?

Because I’m not seeing evidence of any improvement from other writers. Not from far, far too many of those I’m obliged (and occasionally paid a paltry pittance) to edit. Not the ones who submit manuscripts that absolutely glow with the little red squiggles that scream out their accusations about the author being too lazy to do a proper spell-check. Or the manuscripts that reveal the shocking truth that you need to KNOW how to spell, in order to use the spell-checker effectively. Not the ones who clearly, obviously, undeniably, idiotically assume some editor is going to fix up their careless mistakes. Not the ones who think every publisher’s guidelines are there for somebody else, who refuse to even try and learn the simplest elements of using their computer as a writer’s tool.

Not that I should be the one to criticize. Confession #1: I learned to drive, at age 15, on my father’s rebuilt army Jeep, but I was looking back at age 40 before I twigged to the simple fact that a 4WD vehicle works best if you put it in 4WD before you bog it to the axles in the swamp. Hey … some of us are slow learners.

But getting back to my point, I think computers, for all their wondrous advantages, have the downside of having made too many of us sloppy in our work habits, too quick to hit the “send” key, too prone to writing faster than we should and less carefully than we could. And for some, too easily lured into self-indulgence.

Confession #2: I have been reading (and having nightmares as a result of) Chris Roerden’s Don’t Murder Your Mystery—an excellent reference book for all writers. How could I not?—my esteemed wife is quoted three times in this splendid work, which is often touted for its value to aspiring writers, but which—in my view—has even more valuable, if occasionally frightening reality checks about which seasoned veterans need to be reminded ... regularly!

One quote comes from Fred Chappell, Poet Laureate of North Carolina 1997-2002, and his words bear repeating to writers of all proficiency levels:

“One of the first things you learn about writing is that if you come across a passage that you’ve written and you’re struck by how wonderful it is, you cut it, leave it on the cutting-room floor because (writing) is not self-indulgence.”

Well, thanks a lot for providing me with that quote, Chris. Like I really needed to know that? It was not, just so you know, one of the first things I learned about writing, more’s the pity. Merely one of many things I now wish I’d learned first … and better, and more thoroughly, and … well, you get my point. I hope.

Confession #3 — I DO need to know it. Or at least to be reminded of it. Today. Often! And so, probably, do you. Especially if you Blog, or read blogs, or pass them around like bikkies at a dog’s breakfast. Blogging, and I’ve said this before, is self-indulgence carried to extremes. Blogging, indeed, may one day even become an art form. But for now … It is where self-indulgence as a writer should stay.

I intend to come back to Chris Roerden’s splendid book, perhaps during my next splurge of self-indulgence. It was an Agatha Award finalist this year for best non-fiction book, and deserved the accolades, too.

Next time…

The Mysterious Pilcrow

Gordon Aalborg {filling in for Robin}

The Case of the Mysterious ¶

or

Things your creative writing instructor never told you.

Once upon a time, long ago and far away, I taught creative writing despite believing then (and now) that creative writing cannot be taught. So I’m a hypocrite. And since we’re being honest here, (aren’t we?) I’ll admit it was a course in writing the romantic novel, something I’d done a lot of in those days. I needed the money, or at least the strokes, so I taught the course. And occasionally I got lucky. J

This was back in the early days of PCs, long before the evolution of e-books and POD and websites and blogs, and what I’m leading up to here with such bodice-ripping, breath-quickening suspense is that if I were to do it today, I would do it differently. And this is why:

First, because creative writing cannot be taught. It’s possible to teach grammar and it’s possible to teach structure, but creative writing—in my semantics—is storytelling and storytelling isn’t something you learn; it’s an ability one has. It’s a gift, albeit a gift that comes from exposure to stories and exposure to the love of stories and storytelling. I do not know of a storyteller who wasn’t thus exposed at a young and tender age, either by a parent or grandparent or teacher who also loved stories. I could quote Alfred Noyes’ “The Highwayman” chapter and verse before I could walk, because it was read to me in my cradle. But I digress.

The other—and more important—reason I’d change the course is that storytelling itself has changed so much, thanks (and sometimes no thanks) to technology. Not the form … but the function. Today’s aspiring writer is better off taking a course in computer sciences, or MS WORD for Beginners than a course on creative writing.

Today, as all too many of us know (sometimes to our horror and loathing) just writing the story isn’t enough. To be a storyteller in the 21^st century, you must also be a marketing expert, a promotions expert, and a publicist. Being young and good-looking doesn’t hurt, either. But—and this is the worst part—you may need to be a computer expert and a specialist in formatting manuscripts.

Because everybody in charge of determining whether the world actually reads your story seems to want things formatted differently. Truth! In far too many cases these days, a ms that isn’t formatted properly according to the publisher’s own unique, esoteric style guide risks rejection for that sin alone. And most of the time they won’t tell you ahead of the game what they do want!

Doesn’t matter how great the story. Doesn’t matter how vivid the writing, how compelling the characters. Wrong line spacing—Phfttt! Wrong font or font size—Phfttt! One space between sentences when they want two, or two spaces when they want one—Phfttt!

Bloody oath! I used to think things were tough when all the romance editors were twenty-six-year-old virgins hoping to learn something from the slush pile (a situation that hasn’t changed much, either. J).

And the problem for us as storytellers is that too many of us know as little about our computers as the aforesaid romance editors know about sex.

Which leads us to the elusive, mysterious ¶.

It’s called a Pilcrow Sign, and you should have one somewhere on your computer’s toolbar. What it does is turn on/off your ability to see on your screen the word spacing and letter spacing and indenting and paragraphing you use.

Here’s how you find it: Click on Tools … Options … Formatting marks and make sure “all” is ticked.

Confession: I am being situation specific here. MS WORD has this facility; I do not know if other word-processing systems do, but if they don’t, they should.

And yes, Matilda, I know there are those of you who use WordPerfect and all manner of other esoteric word-processing packages, but the industry standard (if such animal exists) is MS WORD, just as the defacto font is Times New Roman 12-point with one-inch margins all-round and when you submit electronically things (usually) go best if your submission is in rich text format. Right or wrong, that’s the way things are and we have to accept them or go mad more quickly than we already are.

So: Consider your computer’s tool bar for a moment. More than a moment, actually—take some time to learn how the damned thing works. Because I know of at least one publisher who is demanding that authors (after acquisition, which usually means after the meager advance has already been spent!) format their manuscripts to specific settings, and if one publisher embarks on such a nonsense course and survives, others will be doing it before the waves of author outrage strike the already-rocky beach. Count on it. And weep.

You’re a survivor of the typewriter era and still have the habit of drumming your thumbs on the space bar? Don’t worry about dating yourself, just STOP IT BEFORE YOU GO BLIND. Failing that, check your ms before submission and the ¶ Pilcrow Sign will show you where you’ve stuck in spaces that shouldn’t be there. The first time my own transgressions were revealed to me by this handy gizmo, I nearly swooned from the shame, but we needn’t discuss that. So, moving on…

You want a half-inch indent but you don’t want “tabs” (because most electronic publishing types don’t want tabs, as such, in manuscripts)? Easiest is to set up your ms in the first place by clicking Format … Paragraph … Indentation … First line … by .5” or whatever amount you want the automatic indentation to be.

It’s a bit trickier if you’re trying to change a ms that’s been tabbed through all 677 pages, but it can be done. First use “Find/Replace to get rid of the tabs, (see “More” and “Special” within that facility) and then reformat.

There are all manner of interesting features that can be accessed via your tool bar—CHECK THEM OUT. Pick a manuscript that doesn’t matter, or make a copy and play with that.

Hint: Under the vast majority of circumstances, the use of weird’n’wonderful fonts, font sizes and the like in your ms is folly. Might as well brand AMATEUR on your forehead and stamp it on your letterhead. Stick to a single font and size and whether you choose to double-space between sentences or not, at least be consistent!

So when you set up to begin your next epic—check out your tool bar. See how you can format your ms properly from the start. Find out how your computer works. Don’t be afraid of the damned thing … take control! Your computer is just a tool like that of any other tradesman and it is good for a tradesman to know his tools, understand them, even (dare I suggest this?) love them.

A writer in love with his computer … now there’s a tale...

Gordon Aalborg { www.gordonaalborg.com }is a lapsed romance writer who took up suspense/thriller writing

(in self-defense, he says) after he married fellow mystery author Deni Dietz { www.denisedietz.com }. J 

Both are also free-lance editors.

He does NOT love his computer, but he does love storytelling.

On Language

Gordon Aalborg

The point of this discussion [and I almost forgot it] stems from my second favorite/favourite Christmas present last year. Deni, darling girl that she is, found me the final Peter O'Donnell "Modesty Blaise" book, "Cobra Trap."

Which I began reading immediately, and enjoying as expected, until I hit the bit where my heroine *baled* out of an airplane. I flinched at the spelling, but carried on bravely because to me, story is usually more important than minor spelling issues. But some time later, she did it again, and this time my hackles rose and I started scrambling around looking for dictionaries while I pondered how one of my favourite/favorite authors could *do* such a thing! The word is *bailed* if you're in North America, and the alternative spelling had yanked me out of the story and made me cranky in the bargain.

Later, of course, having wasted an hour sorting it out, I realised/realized that the book I was reading was published in Britian, thankyouverymuch, and in British English, both spellings are quite acceptable. Which I should have known, or at least more quickly realized/realised. The editor in this particular case had simply used the alternative least acceptable to my eye.

I LOVE words. I love the sound of them, the taste of them, the cadence of them, almost everything about them -- so long as they're used either properly, effectively, or both.

I'll bet you didn't know I'm multilingual, but I am -- fluent in several languages, including:

British English, which is written by the folks that actually invented it so everyone else in the "English"-speaking world would have something to corrupt ... Canadian English, which is much the same when it isn't different ... Australian English, which is also much the same, believe it or not ... New Zealand English, which is usually the same as the Australian variety unless you're hearing it ... and of course American English, which is about as close to the real thing as Canadian French is to Parisian French - a distance often measured in miles, if not light years. American spelling, especially to one not [allegedly] educated there, is simply atroshuss.

Yes, Matilda-Jo, I'm sure there is every good reason for the things Americans do to "real" English, but I'd bet my pay cheque/check none of them make any more sense than American politics (or any other form of politics, for that matter.)

Admission: Having been born, raised and allegedly educated in Canada, touted (falsely) world-wide as a success story in bilingualism, I speak little if any French. But hey -- when I came back here in 2000, we had a Prime Minister who spoke little if any English, and look at the heights he achieved! And we were both educated in the same principles of multilingualism, too. That's the scary part.

One of the nicest things I found about Australia, especially in my early years there, was not having to turn every packet in every shop around so I could actually "read" the details of what I might or might not wish to purchase. It is some sort of unwritten law here in Canada that ALL packets in ALL stores MUST be placed French-side out, especially in those parts of the country (most) where almost nobody speaks or reads French in the first place. The shop clerks in English-speaking regions usually can't read these labels, you understand, but they can recognise/recognize the French side sufficiently to obey the law nobody will admit exists. This still drives my esteemed American wife batty sometimes, as does the fact she cannot even buy certain products because (she is convinced, and is probably right) their manufacturers can't be bothered selling the products here because they'd have to repackage in bilingual packages and the cost isn't worth it.

Of course I don't actually *speak* all of these languages in which I'm "fluent" ... or at least only with a Canadian accent, albeit with a definite Australian cadence. Hardly surprising considering I learned to speak in Canada and then spent half my life down under. Some of my Canadian friends think I have an Australian accent, which is ridiculous, of course. No Australian would come at that one, and would likely fall apart laughing just at the idea. But my cadence often slips into the Antipodes and my word usage is ... well ... let us just say it exists. But I can read, write and even edit in those languages, if I'm careful, and with the help of the handy-dandy worldwide web and a lot of dictionaries.

There are all sorts of benefits to being multilingual in English and the spinoffs thereof.

• I can read wonderful books without having to post to DorothyL or some other list-serv to find out what "loo" or "fair-dinkum" or "rum'n" means.
• I can read wonderful books (and even newspaper articles) without ... to find out what "blue-dog Democrat" or "blue norther" or "pineapple express" means.
• I can actually recognise/recognize what "language" a ms might be written in when - in editor's hat - I open it to find the script drowning in red underlines. One of the outfits I do occasional editing for accepts ms electronically, which of course means they can come from pretty much anywhere, and I am constantly amazed to find authors submitting to an American publisher without bothering to spell check their ms into American English first. Sometimes these ms come to me anonymously, and trying to guess by the language what version of English they began in is occasionally quite humorous/humourous.

There is an educational value in having to try and figure out such things. I recently reworked a piece of my own for submission to Australia, which meant changing it to spell Australian. And did I get a lesson or two in spelling! Complacency thy name is Gordo. It's surprising/surprizing how often your eye catches errors that just happen to be close to the word you're spell-checking. And embarrassing. And humiliating.

That said, there are few things that annoy me more than the audacity of some American editors who seem to believe it necessary to "Americanise/Americanize" British fiction - GOOD books by GOOD writers - because I cannot comprehend the purpose. Spelling...okay, although I think it's still unnecessary. Most North Americans, after all, can't spell in the first place, so what possible difference can it make? And yes, it can apply the other way round. I can remember buying what turned out to be John Sandford's "Winter Prey"  while in Australia [thus the British edition] and thinking "Oooh...a new Sandford. How wonderful!" And then feeling cheated because some Pommy peckerwick had not only changed the spellings, but changed the title, as well. Too ignorant, apparently, to comprehend the "Prey" element of Sandford's series, they'd changed the title to "The Iceman." IDIOTS!!!

The people who make such decisions really ought to be selling shoes for WalMart, I think. Do they think their readers are as stupid as themselves? Apparently so.

Jeff Cohen recently blogged on about the fascinating aspects of foreign translation, wondering how his carefully drawn lead character would translate. He suggested, quite correctly, that he wondered how Aaron would be understood in Alabama, let alone in France and in French. Astute, Jeff. America actually is, when all is said and done, as much a country of differences as it is united. Canada's the same, England certainly is, and even in Australia there are terms used in Queensland that nobody in Tasmania has ever heard. And in Canberra, Ottawa, London and Washington DC, words that nobody in the entire country can understand because one usually has to sell one's soul to the devil to become fluent in poli-speak.

But overall, language defines us. And for a writer, the geography of language is a splendid thing. Read James Lee Burke, Sharyn McCrumb's "Appalachian" series, or James W. Hall, and the language seems to define both setting and characters, enriching the reading experience immeasurably.

Deni, as I've mentioned, is an American. But she has a good ear for language and through singing and acting is also something of a mimic, so she gets about quite well here in Canada without too many people even realising/realizing she's American. My Australianisms probably draw more fire, not least because Australian can be a rather colorful/colourful language on occasion. And because I occasionally use it ... carelessly, let us say.

But I am learning. I've decided, for instance, that "the four-letter friend-getter" should be changed, and I have just the replacement. From now on, telemarketers shall politely be told to "Blog off."

Which I shall do too, now. See you on the rebound.

Gordon Aalborg is posting today in place of our resident publicist PJ Nunn. Watch for PJ again next Friday!

Why Writers Are NOT Not Nice People

gordon aalborg

Writers are NOT nice people because THEY USE PEOPLE.

ALL writers ... NO exceptions. They USE their husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, grandparents, other relatives, people they've only just met and occasionally people they've never met and never will. Oh, and their dogs, cats, canaries and gerbils, too. We writers are a no-waste society, in that regard. We use EVERYTHING.

And we do it blatantly, openly, clandestinely, secretively and even, perhaps, unwittingly, although I'm inclined to disbelieve that one. We KNOW we're doing it, even when we won't/don't/can't admit it. And we bloody well don't apologize for it, either! NEVER!

I had a wife, once (I've had a few) who once screamed at me, in a fit of totally undeserved pique and at a dinner party, no less: "We can't even have a ****ing argument without it turning up in one of your ****ing books!"

Well... I was flabbergasted. Gob-smacked. Hurt. Wounded to the quick. She was right, of course, but to say it publicly... NOT FAIR! I'm an addict, a wordaholic, a word-smith, a WRITER, dammit. It is NOT my fault! I can't help myself. And neither can any other writer. And okay, maybe she didn't exactly *scream* and maybe it wasn't quite *undeserved* pique, either. Maybe, in fact, she casually threw the comment over her left shoulder like some superstitious people do with a pinch of salt if the salt's been spilled. That isn't the point. She, being an intensely private person, felt USED! And she was. You all are. AND YOU WILL BE. ALWAYS!

YOU, in case you missed my point, are mere FODDER. It isn't ALL you're good for, of course, but every time you open your mouth, show a bit of attitude, reveal the slightest inkling of the "real" you, any writer worth his or her salt NOTICES. And someday, somehow, someplace - will use it in a story, a book, a poem, a blog. It isn't personal, it isn't deliberate [well, maybe personal on occasion] and it isn't intended to hurt you or ridicule you. It is simply what we writers DO!

An example: When I first went to Australia in '73, I had previously worked with dozens of Australians and New Zealanders, and never once had the slightest difficulty understanding any of them. Certainly it never occurred to me that Australian was a foreign language! Therefore I wasn't expecting any problems when, having slept off the jet lag, I wandered into the pub that became my "local," put money on the bar, asked for beer, got the beer, and went and sat down at an empty table. A few minutes later this gigantic cane-cutter bloke came over, said something that sounded to me like "Owyagonematearite" and then just stood there, six-foot-six in his work books, gaiters, shorts and skivvy, clearly awaiting some response. I eventually managed to stammer out something [very politely - he was a foot taller than me and twice as fit] like, "I'm sorry. Could you say that again." Which he did, and it made even less sense than the first time. I might as well have been in Swaziland for all the sense this bloke made. To me.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, he sat down and we spent an amazing hour or so trying to understand each other. Or I tried to understand him; he didn't seem to be having much trouble, probably because he realized I was a foreigner and therefore could be expected to talk funny. The words jumbled and the beer flowed and the words jumbled some more, but when it was done we had agreed that yes, the weather was okay, and yes, we were in Bundaberg, Qld., and yes, the beer was good so let's have another "'cause it's your shout, mate."

My problem, with the benefit of hindsight, was that the Australians I had previously known were talking "Canadian" with Australian accents. This bloke was talking fair drinkum, dinky-di country Queensland "bush" Australian in the appropriate country Qld. manner [They don't move their lips - the flies, y'know?] and it was NOT THE SAME AT ALL.

The next day, we did it again, with marginally improved success. And the next day. And the next. And on the seventh day - fair dinkum! - it was like somebody flicked a switch in my head and he suddenly made sense. It was that slow and then that quick. Gobbledygook one minute; totally comprehensible the next. Magic, courtesy of XXXX draught and a little patience.

I've long ago forgotten his name, but I'll die remembering the experience, however humbling and however enlightening. And I've used it, and likely will again. Writers do that. I've used his physical appearance, his dress, his attitude, his posture, his accent, his opinions ... used them all at one time or another, in one form or another. FODDER.

In my books, over the years, I have quite consciously USED every wife, girlfriend and interesting contact of the feminine gender in some book or another, along with almost all my friends, many of the dogs in my life, a cat or two or three, my postman, my barber, my solicitor and others I have known, far too many politicians [who should be shot - not immortalized] my mother, my grandmother and countless others. And I am totally UNASHAMED by this because YOU ARE ALL ONLY FODDER, grist for the mill of my imagination.

Please note, gentle reader, that I am NOT talking here about simply stealing your name [or having been given it, perhaps even *begged* to use it, in some charity auction] - that's merely identity theft, a mere misdemeanor. I'm talking here about using YOU. Probably under a different name, perhaps even a different sex and probably at a different age.

Meet me and I will USE you. Meet any writer and you must EXPECT to be USED.

AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT, EITHER!

Postscript: Almost inevitably, you might *think* some writer has used you in a book, blog, poem, etc. You will think you recognize yourself. And almost inevitably you will be WRONG - because YOU don't see yourself like WE do. The fictional character *you* think is based on *you* is probably somebody else entirely. Or maybe it *was* you - before we changed you, twisted you, altered you. Because the other reason writers aren't nice people is that WE LIE! A LOT!

Blogged to Death

Gordon Aalborg

Well, here I am again. On my birthday, no less! Well, it was yesterday, actually, so today I am officially "old," not that it does me any good. Once again filling in for "somebody" who could do their own Blog, probably should do their own Blog, but who finds it easier to profess fatigue, exhaustion, indeed utter exhaustion after having spent the past weekend being wined, dined and shined at Left Coast Crime in Seattle, road rage capital of The Americas.

Half her bloody luck, say I. It wouldn't be so bad if she'd go off to these damned conferences leaving me free to indulge in pub meals, hot'n'cold-running blondes and the like, but no -- I am relegated to eating left-overs, baby-sitting That Damned Dog, house-cleaning, keeping the home fires burning, checking her emails three times a day to clean out the S***, sparing her the effort of doing it herself (once recovered from the utter exhaustion, you realize) and -- assuming time remains -- actually doing some of my own work!

And now she hath added this "new" task to my list of marital burdens. Blogging! Thank you, Deni. As if I actually needed such an excuse to lurch into what old friends fondly (I hope) used to term Gordo's "eyes closed--arms waving" mode. And actually, now that I'm no longer the serious drinker I once was, I "do* need an excuse. Well...okay...sort of. And now I have it, the problem is what to do with it. [Answer nearer the end of this epistle]

I doubt I'm the first to admit this, but my conscience doth not allow me to continue this Blogging thing without such an admission. I AM ADDICTED. ALREADY! I AM ON THE EDGE OF BEING A BLOGAHOLIC. I am in LOVE. With BLOGGING...with myself...with the sound of my own voice, my own words, my own...

Blogging is self-indulgence carried to extremes. Dangerous extremes. Frightening extremes! It is worse than being a streaker at the SuperBowl, where at least one's idiocy is only momentary. It's the closest thing to public wankery I can imagine, short of a web-cam in the loo or an indecency charge on a street corner

And no, Matilda-Jo, PLEASE do not ask me to define "wankery." Look it up in the dictionary -- there are some excellent ones online. Go ask an Australian; we understand it well. Or a Pom; they're world class practitioners of the exercise. But if "you" decide to try it, just remember to stop while you merely need glasses. 'Nuff said?

Anyway, returning to the point of this dissertation, which is about self-indulgence...Blogging! Are we not all guilty? Those who are "writers" certainly are -- how else to describe the act of writing down our thoughts in words in the desire and expectation that someone else will not only read them, but actually enjoy the process? That's worse than wankery -- it's egotistical wankery. But such fun!

Rewarding, too. After all, the whole point of *being* a writer is to be read! Better, obviously, if they pay you for the privilege, but that part is less easy to arrange. With Blogging, you have ego with an outlet! Readers who will actually come looking for you -- that's the theory, anyway.

And these assumed readers can actually respond, interact -- and will! How cool is that? It makes us all sort of accomplices in the wankery -- I write a bunch of unmittigated, self-indulgent rubbish and then you [hopefully] respond with your comments and then somebody else adds their comments to your comments about my comments and it goes round and round and up and down like a whore's petticoat. It's a sort of verbal group grope, a cluster-f*** of grammarians, a sort of contest to see who can attract the most outrageous comments.

But that small trifle aside, blogging actually may be an ANSWER. It may, indeed, be THE answer to many of the world's problems. Because it is an outlet, a means to rout the rage, vent the spleen, cleanse the soul and the palate at the same time. Let it all hang out and let the chips fall where they may, too. Blogging is cleansing! Healthy! The Eno's Fruit Salts of the computer age.

Unhappy? Blog it. Your dog died? Blog it. Your wife ran off with a whiskey peddler or - worse - your barmaid or - much worse - your girlfriend? Blog it. Got your first rejection letter? Blog it. Your first acceptance letter? Blog it. SOMEBODY will respond, you will no longer be alone in your misery and at least you'll have got some of the crap out of your system.

Got something to say? Blog it. Got nothing to say? Find the blog of somebody who "did" say something, however ridiculous and self-indulgent it may have been, and ... Blog it! Commenting upon somebody else's Blog means you don't hardly have to think at all, much less have to pay great attention to what *they* said -- the point is, after all, to search out openings to let *you* have *your* say. Blog it.

That's the point of it all -- having YOUR say, getting YOUR gleaming, glowing gems of wisdom or idiocy or poignant, purple prose out there for others to comment upon so they can have THEIR say. Round and round it goes and where it stops...? Your guess is as good as mine, but I suspect a lot of people are in danger of going blind. :-)

But there ARE dangers in blogging, not the least of them remembering that once you've put it in writing, there is no going back and no way to control who might read your words and turn them back upon you. Violently, perhaps. There may be truth to the theory that elephants never forget, but anyone who thinks the concept unusual amongst humans has obviously never been married.

You need only consider the repercussions did I *dare* to follow up the beginnings of this blog with the following:

Spent almost a whole week in Seattle drooling over Barry Eisner and/or Lee Child and/or [pick your fave author] eh? Tired from the exertion? Exhausted? Seassick from the ferry ride? Don't tell *me* about it. I'm busy; your dog has to be walked, remember? I have to go and buy takeaway because you're too tired to cook, you said. And you expect me to miss half the SuperBowl because your Blog is due and you expect *me* to write the damned thing for you because you're too tired? Well think again, sweetheart. *My* blogging energies are reserved for *my* ego, not yours! Write your own damned Blog ... Denver isn't in the SuperBowl, so *you* won't care who wins anyway. *I* want to watch the game.

What? Did you just tell me to go and get blogged? Such language, Deni. But no, you cannot blame it on the Mal de Mer. And next week, darling girl of indefinite years, you can do your own damned blog. So there!

And that, my good and faithful readers, is how blogging can put a dead guy in the living room.

                                                              ...

"...Aalborg? Didn't he used to be some sort of author? Wasn't he married to that good-looking American mystery author? Did she do him in?"

"They'll never convict her ... it'll be the old Blog Defence. Fair enough - it was the Blog that got him in the end, really. It usually does."

"Didn't anybody suggest B [loggers'] A [nonymous]? Those 12-step programs are supposed to be pretty good, or so I've heard."

"Only in theory. They had so many comments they had to keep expanding the number of steps. Up in the hundreds of thousands, now, and still climbing. We should be able to walk to the moon by next week."

"Not me. I've got a Blog to write."

FAMOUS LAST WORDS

Gordon Aalborg

How it begins:

Gordo: What do you mean it's my turn? I thought I was only supposed to do this when you were indisposed. You're not indisposed--you're right here. And put that damned bullwhip down, please.

Deni: Do it.

Gordo: But I'm only supposed to be emergency relief, like TUMS, or Ex-Lax.

Deni: You probably will be. Most likely the latter. That's what worries me. Do it!

Sound of cracking bullwhip.

Gordo: Yes, my love.

Which - married readers take note - is the first example of famous last words. But good ones ... useful ones.

But there are others. Many others, some of them far less useful.

“The Editor will catch it.” is an example close to my heart, because it is one I hear (or imagine) far, far too often when first inspecting a ms submitted electronically by someone who—in my view—ought to bloody well know better!

Sheesh! Why not just brand I AM AN AMATEUR on your forehead and take up tiddly winks, or macramé?

Note, please, my use of the word AMATEUR, here. All in caps, and deliberately so. Because there are amateurs (which all of us have been, probably still are in some field or another) and then there are what I think of as “professional” amateurs = AMATEURS!

In my occasionally perverted lexicon, a “professional” amateur is somebody who wants to come out and play with the pros, but retain the right to use their amateur status as an excuse when the game gets rough. And I cannot abide them.

So here, for all of you reading this but especially for the professional amateurs amongst you—a reality check:

The editor will NOT catch it. Many, many editors in my acquaintance have a fixed rule—five errors in five pages and that’s it, baby—you are done. Rejected. Finished. It doesn’t matter if you’re the next Grisham or the next (choose your favorite) and it doesn’t matter how good your cherished, every word is golden, ms “might” be. Because this time around, nobody is going to know. Or find out. Or care.

Okay, sometimes the criteria are ten errors in ten pages, or there is a measure of tolerance—maybe the errors must involve egregiousness of some sort. But all of us faced with evaluating manuscripts for publication have our personal prejudices and almost always they include a phobia against sloppy, unprofessional work.

Is this overly harsh? Maybe. Read almost any of the “writing” listserves and almost every week you’ll see some poor, hard-done-by author complaining that editors these days don’t take the time to actually look at submissions, don’t give the authors a chance. What crap!

Consider this example:

I receive a ms. Almost the first thing I do, even before attempting to read the author’s work, is to “Google” the author (now is that a transfixing concept, or what? J) so that I can see who I’m possibly going to be dealing with. Or with whom I possibly am going to be dealing, if you want to be persnickety about it.

And lo and behold, up pops the information that X is a multi-published author with six previous books to his/her credit. “Cool,” says my optimistic mind. “Careful,” says my subconscious.

So I open the file, turn on my ¶ to reveal spacing, tabs and other irregularities, and begin reading … always hopeful, always prepared to be pleasantly surprised, perhaps even delighted by the work of an author who is new to me.

The title is in some obscure font, 23 point. First red flag.

The header contains the author’s name, address, phone number, email address, word count, book title and what appears to be the author’s taste in pizza. Second red flag.

The ms is in some strange, obscure font that magically changes size from paragraph to paragraph, most of which have spaces either before them, after them, or both. Third red flag.

The second page of the ms is devoted to: (paraphrasing) “All the characters and situations in this work of fiction are imaginary, made-up, and have no basis whatsoever in actual fact, reality or real life.” And this despite the fact the third page reveals that the book is set in New York and the first paragraph involves Donald Trump walking down Broadway in it, with “Broadway” set off by yet another vivid change in font.

Confusion reigns … or at least mists. Scotch mist. Glasgowsunshine. Seldom if ever do you see this sort of thing from a multi-published author.

And then the real fun begins:

Within the first five pages I find three words that have little red squiggles under them, suggesting (this is the point of those red squiggles, folks!) that spellings should be checked. No real problem if the words are made-up words that I wouldn’t expect to find in the spell-checker, but no … these are “real” words that are in my spell-checker, so I can at least assume they were in the author’s as well. ?th red flag … I’m starting to lose count.

Third page, and I find a paragraph that is mysteriously double-indented. Is there a reason for this? Not that I can find, unless you take into account the fact that someone appears to have hit their “tab” key twice. Probably the same someone who spelled “Caribbean” correctly on page two, then got it wrong on the next page. And didn’t fix it because they didn’t spell-check their ms? Another red flag.

Then comes the paragraph that ends with no period, followed by a paragraph that begins with an em-dash—and ends with another, followed by a backward close quotation mark—“

And a few lines later, the main character (as yet un-named, for reasons unbeknownst to me) slips on a banana peal and bangs his head on a bell, which peels. And we have not, you might have noticed, passed the five page mark yet!

Confusion pours. No self-respecting, multi-published author would submit a mish-mash like this … would they?

Back to Google.

Eureka! Aha! Gadzooks!. Had I bothered to check further the first time, I would have found that the aforementioned six books were all published by what I shall generously term, a “vanity” press. Whereby much is explained and not much of that is impressive.

And then, because by this time the author’s name has begun to seem familiar to me, I set aside the ms and start rereading various old posts on the Short Mystery loop and the For Mystery Addicts loop and DorothyL.

Aaaaaah!

“…isn’t fair that editors these days won’t take the time…” says my almost but not quite and probably never author.

Reality check #2: If you can’t be bothered to present a ms that is as perfect as you can possibly make it, do not complain if some editor somewhere, overworked, underpaid or merely cranky like me, can’t be bothered to waste time on it.

Going, now. Just realized I forgot to spell-check the ms of my own latest epic, which was supposed to be delivered yesterday (or was it that day last week?) and which I suddenly fear might have some problems. For some weird reason I always get confused about the spelling of wierd, and it’s a word I use a lot.

But that's okay -- Deni will be back next week.