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

Hail and Farewell

Jeff Cohen

So that was it. We hope you liked it.

This is the 3464th post on HEY THERE'S A DEAD GUY IN THE LIVING ROOM, and unless someone else parachutes in and decides to add some thoughts, it is the last. We've had quite a good run here but it's time to shut off the lights and lock the doors before we stop saying anything anyone wants to hear.

For me DEAD GUY has been any number of things. It started when Deni Dietz and I defected from Murderati a long, long time ago and thought we'd start our own blog, but we didn't want to examine crime fiction strictly from an author's point of view. So we recruited editors, publishers, readers, librarians, reviewers, agents and booksellers, among others, to provide perspective we as writers couldn't offer. 

I'll continue to post blogs every now and again (look next Tuesday for sure) and hope you'll look for those moments, but as for DEAD GUY, this is the end of the line, and that's because we have all agreed it's better to go out while we're still wanted and not overstay our welcome.

But it wasn't all about publishing. The rule among us at DEAD GUY was that there were no rules. If you wanted to post about your section of the crime fiction world, great. If not, go for it. I have personally posted about digitizing my vinyl record collection, interviewed my daughter, had my dog write a guest post, talked about my health issues (ad nauseam), ranted about having to master barre chords, introduced a pseudonym, shamelessly promoted my work, bragged about blurbs, discussed the importance of making attractive letters when filling in a crossword puzzle, mentioned comedians I especially admire and occasionally made dives into such popular subjects as religion and politics. I recall once explaining how to deal with the atheist on your Christmas card list.

This blog has been more than a simple repository for my random thoughts. I've made good friends here. I've managed to blow off steam or express emotional truths when I had to. It served as a steam valve when I needed it. And a couple of times it served to let me write silly song lyrics. 

The most gratifying part of the weekly post was to connect with those who decided to visit us here. Hearing from readers and other writers, among many others, was a great comfort and sometimes an ego stroke when it was most needed. Writers write because we want to communicate something. Knowing that people were taking notice was a very large help at times.

For me the schedule forced me to write whether I had a great idea in mind or not. Some of my favorite posts were those that came when I was backed against a deadline wall. 

Everyone who has ever posted here will tell you that coming up with a post every week could be a trial. It's not easy to keep going and not repeat oneself. There have been nights that I've sat here looking at a blank screen for an hour wondering what would appear on the blog page at 12:00 a.m. that Monday. The closest I've ever come to believing in "Writer's Block" has been related to these posts. But I still don't believe.

The people with whom I've been part of DEAD GUY are amazing, smart, funny, warm and dedicated. I am grateful and honored to have been associated with each and all of them. I won't mention all the names here because I'm certain to forget some and that would bother me deeply even if it wouldn't rankle those I failed to cite. But assume if you've read a post here and it wasn't one of mine that it was written by someone I admire greatly, someone who inspires awe in me. I thank each of them. 

For those who have chosen to check in here every day or every week or once a year, we can't possibly thank you enough. It has been wonderful being part of your lives. Don't mourn the DEAD GUY. We stopped because we didn't want to disappoint you. You deserve our best. We hope we've given it to you. Thanks for everything.

 

 

Oh. And pitchers and catchers report in 44 days.

A Fond Farewell From DEAD GUY Alum Josh Getzler!

Josh Getzler

As I have four or five times in the past, I am writing this post from Florida, where I spend my winter break each year. In previous years, I’ve used my final post before New Year’s to look back at the year, and to project where I might be next year this time.

This post, however, is a bit different, and somewhat bittersweet, because this is the last time I’ll be writing for Hey, There’s A Dead Guy in the Living Room. I think the decision to end the blog was correct—it’s hard to find something new to discuss every week, particularly when trying to keep it at least vaguely within the box of crime fiction or publishing, and I know all of us have deviated at different times over the years.

But for today, I’d like to discuss not the past year, but rather the past eleven. And while Jeff tells me that 2,500 words is awfully long for a typical blog post, given that it’s the second-to-last entry of the whole thing, I hope you will indulge me. So sit down, y’all, as my 14 year old daughter says; it’s Story Time With Josh.

I re-entered publishing in January of 2007, and at that time I thought the industry had been revolutionized by technology since my first foray into the business of books a decade earlier. In 2007 submissions and edits had all become digital, and conversations among agents, editors and authors had become rapid-fire exchanges of emails. As an (aging) assistant, I was no longer spending days Xeroxing manuscripts and putting them into boxes, but organizing inboxes and learning to use electronic databases to monitor editor moves.

Then, as I thought I was getting the hang of the new paradigms, another innovation/disruption happened: Amazon decided to turn its gaze to publishing, and created the Kindle. The decisions Amazon made in entering this world have certainly had the most affect on the publishing industry in this past decade—far beyond any other single aspect of the business. From the pricing models, through its competition with Barnes and Noble and WalMart, through its Agency Model contracts and legal battles with publishers to its decision to enter the scrum as a non self-publishing publisher (and its systems of paying royalties), Amazon beats out Publisher Consolidation and the near-demise of browsing in brick-and-mortar bookstores as the Biggest Thing of the 2010’s.

From a personal standpoint, I started in 2007 as an assistant to two (outstanding) agents, having just leapt from a business where I’d been the boss, with three children 8 and under, where I woke up every morning at 5:00 to read queries, and where I spent four months line-editing a 700 page thriller (that never saw the light of day).

As 2017 ends, I’m a partner of the six-year-old agency I co-founded in 2011 with Carrie Hannigan and Jesseca Salky. We have all seen our books hit the NY Times (and many other) best seller lists, including Carrie’s client Vashti Harrison’s amazing middle grade book about black women who made history, Little Leaders, which was #3 last week. We are up to seven people in our agency, and have reached financial stability. I represent more than 60 authors, and hit my 100^th deal announced on Publishers Marketplace this past year. My oldest child (who’s contributed to Hey Dead Guy several times) just completed his first semester of college, while my toddler girls from 2007 are now both in high school. If I tried to wake up at 5 AM to read a manuscript, I’d be asleep by 8 that night, which isn’t practical.

When I started back at Writers House in 2007, my expectation was that I’d be The Mystery Guy. I’d edited mysteries in the 90s at Harcourt, read more of them than any other kind of book, and figured I’d find my lane in that world. And while I’ve done that (expanding into pretty much all aspects of crime fiction, from cat mysteries to horror to historical thriller to contemporary spy novels to near future dystopic police procedurals), I realized pretty quickly that I needed to expand my sights to…Anything That Will Sell. But nine years after starting to take on clients, I’ve been able to consolidate into a few different genres that make up most of my submissions. As a way to discuss the past decade in publishing, I’ll include commentary while discussing each part of my list.

• Crime fiction, as above. This takes up probably half of my energy—or more, at different points when I’m flush with projects. I’ve sold more crime fiction than anything else, and it remains dear to me. I’m also seeing the most extremes of highs and lows with it at the moment. The low points began a couple of years ago, when Berkley and St. Martin’s Press—two of the most significant mystery publishers in the business—contracted their lists by ¾ and ½, respectively. Now on one hand, that was probably necessary: The shelves at B&N were filled with donut shop mysteries and knitting mysteries and knitting mysteries set in donut shops (with cats, of course), and the market was so glutted that it was difficult for many new authors to find their audience and break through. Additionally, while we thought that ebooks were going to replace mass market paperbacks--where mysteries typically found their audience--on a one-to-one basis, that didn’t happen AND the lower price of ebooks didn’t make up for the lost revenue (and many publishers began to release their mysteries in hardcover and trade paperback, which caused its own pricing issues and lowered sales figures—but that’s a whole different discussion for another time.) So there needed to be a bit of a correction. We are just beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel now, though not without quite a bit of pain. Many well-published authors found themselves without homes after many books. Many well-seasoned editors found themselves out of work after many years at a home. This caused a great deal of backup in the ability of the fine publishers still (or newly) publishing crime fiction (like Midnight Ink or Crooked Lane or Severn House or Henery House) to take chances on new writers, as they were populating their lists with veterans.

The upside was that these publishers DID work very hard to take up the slack. Additionally, for the first time, we were able to see digital first or digital only imprints of the big publishers begin to get traction. Whether Witness (HarperCollins) or Alibi (Random House) or Thomas & Mercer (Amazon) or several others, we have started to see real sales come from these imprints. (Of course many of these imprints compete very strongly on price deals, which sacrifice revenue per sale for quantity of downloads adding up to a decent stream. 1,000 books downloaded at $1.99 with a 25% of Net Revenue rate don’t match up to 1,000 books sold at $7.99 with a royalty rate of 8% of list price. ($250 vs $640, after a number of assumptions.))

Also, we are beginning to see the re-emergence of the mass market paperback, which will come as a boon to mystery readers who don’t like to use e-readers. The market, I suspect, won’t have the same share as it used to, but there are clearly many readers and large number of terrific writers, and even an industry as difficult to shift as publishing will respond to those needs.

Finally, we are seeing an increase (as all content providers are) in unusual deals in mystery stories, particularly where production is concerned. The number of new outlets for video has allowed mystery and crime fiction stories to be optioned, produced, and even reverse-engineered in record numbers. Hallmark Mysteries and Movies has become the Berkley Prime Crime of television, and Acorn TV (or ITV3) its source for British cozies and procedurals.

OK, so that’s a bit of a digest on crime fiction. For me, that’s a significant amount of my energy. The others are:

• Middle Grade children’s books. When I started back in 2007, I had a kid just entering the middle grades, and two bosses who represented terrific middle grade novels. But it took a chance conversation with a film producer who knew a guy with a book described as Harry Potter with Pirates (which turned out to be more like The Princess Bride with 13 year olds) to start me on the road to a strong list of books for tweens. I’ve grown to love these books, with their spunky heroes and heroines who are not yet jaded (much) but still can Get It Done. I like the humor and the Feels, and the fact that there is a greater breadth of story permitted there than in almost any genre. Funny thing to me was that I thought that once I got the hang of middle grade books, I could also rep Young Adult, but I found out that I simply didn’t have the same eye. So I now rarely look at books for older teens, but am definitely actively continuing to work on the middle grade.

The frustration on this side is that it is INCREDIBLY difficult to market these books. The intended market does not buy its own books, but needs to have parent approval and participation. And the lack of brick-and-mortar bookstores is preventing the kind of browsing with kids that led to finding the book NEXT to the book one is looking for (whether as an adult or a kid). And the old way for authors to get to their audience directly—by visiting schools and libraries—has been discovered by everyone, and it’s now more difficult to get those gigs and be considered special.

• Historical Fiction. I realized a couple of years ago that I was at a place in my career where I could start to concentrate on the kinds of books I really love. And being married to a history teacher for 21 years has made me more and more interested in learning about times and places I don’t already know about. And so many historical novels either cross over into crime fiction or deal with either politics or Royal Courts or Ecclesiastical issues that so I’ve spent a considerable amount of time finding and working on books set in times and places as disparate as 12^th Century Ireland, 16^th Century England AND France, 19^th Century Italy, pre WWI Russia and pre WWII Vienna, as well as Israel, Mongolia, Japan, Pre-Revolutionary New York and…you get the idea.

The issues here are that historical fiction is either crowded with titles (Henry VIII) or “too strange for the market” (even if it’s in the same location 100 years later). There is also a tendency for publishers to get gun shy when they have taken a big risk on an historical novel that doesn’t pan out, when there is popular wisdom that only a certain number of these titles will hit in a given year, and if one flops then every other book seen by that publisher will be compared to that one. Additionally, I’ve found in the past year that the pacing of so many of the historical novels I rep make for somewhat long books—it’s necessary not only to set the place but the time and where it is in history, and often a different voice. And as a result, editors will need to spend a longer time reading than they might with shorter books in other genres (or proposals in nonfiction). As a result, there is often a longer than comfortable time between submission and response to these books, which can play havoc on the rhythm of a sale. I’ve had more long-wait submissions in historical fiction than in any other genre, and it’s become a source of terrible frustration to my authors. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it in the end, but it requires more patience and fortitude than in most kinds of books.

• Nonfiction: I got into nonfiction for two reasons: One old friend of mine came to me with her Work-Life Balance proposal, and because my authors tend to be both smart and in possession of day jobs they can write clearly and compelling about. These are the most straightforward books to work on, and their submissions tend to be of more reasonable length. If you had told me ten years ago that I would have a vigorous list of prescriptive books for (mostly) women about professional satisfaction, parenting, and small-I-inspiration, I would have been surprised. But not as surprised as if you’d told me that I would be pitching a proposal about the mission to Pluto—by the brilliant scientist who ran the mission—on the DAY his spacecraft flew by the Heart of Pluto and a photo of his mission would be above the fold on the front page of the New York Times.

So that is my list, with some relevant commentary on the market.

The past ten years have been fascinating. When I entered Writers House, after being in Baseball—with the Yankees (for God’s Sake), many people asked whether I was going to find publishing as exciting or interesting. And the truth is, while there were many great moments in baseball, the everyday life of my career in publishing has been more consistently happy and satisfying, even when I may be frustrated with a submission or displeased with an offer or wanting to tell off someone who may deserve it. The variety of books I’ve read, the fascinating people I’ve been able to interact with, the talent of the writers and editors and publicists and other agents. Man, it’s just so impressive.

And one of the places I was able to find a voice and meet people in has been Hey, There’s a Dead Guy in the Living Room. Even if there were times I had to throw together a quickie couple of paragraphs on Tuesday at 11:30 after a long day at work and a night out, I had a great time talking mysteries and writing and business (and occasionally Bruce Springsteen). I get queries that talk about my columns, and I use both my own archives and some from my fellow Dead Guys in my class on publishing at NYU. So to Lynn, and Jessy, and Terri, and the many others, and most of all to my friend (and client) Jeff Cohen (hey, I get to acknowledge YOU for a change!), thanks so much for letting me be part of this terrific experiment in multiple-contributor blogging. I can’t wait to see what the next ten years bring—maybe we’ll have to have a reunion run, like an 80s metal band, and see where we’ve all landed. We can call it Mostly Dead. Which, as we all know, is still, if you work on it, alive.

End of an era

I had it all planned out, at least in my head. All the goodbyes, all the thank-yous, all the don't-lose-touches. But now the moment has come, my mind is blank and my fingers are hovering over the keyboard without the smallest idea what I'm going to say. Nothing new there, then.

Let's begin at the beginning. It's a little over ten years since I was invited to join a team of bloggers who each contributed a weekly post to a blog called Hey, There's a Dead Guy in the Living Room. My role in the chain which linked the progress of crime fiction from idea to bookshelf was publisher, because at the time I was proprietor, managing editor, filing clerk, envelope stuffer and chief bottlewasher of a tiny publishing company specializing in crime fiction by new authors.

At the time, my little enterprise had recently spread its wings; a distributor in the USA had taken us on, and our books were set to reach a wider audience. I don't think it's entirely coincidental that shortly after I joined the Dead Guy team (as I began affectionately to call it) we scored our two biggest sellers in the US. It helped that they were great books, of course, but getting out there and waving our flag a little must have had something to do with it. So, thank you to anyone and everyone who made a contribution to that challenging, fulfilling and hugely enjoyable part of my life. It didn't make my fortune, but hey, who needs a fortune when you're having fun instead?

Life moved on, and things changed. My tiny company is now part of a much bigger one; the name lives on, and crime fiction is still the focus, but the new authors part had to go when I sold up, which saddened but didn't surprise me. I still edit a book or two a year for them – and I'm proud to say that the author I edit most is one I 'discovered' way back then. His name will be familiar; it's appeared over Thursday posts more often than mine during the past few weeks! A big thank-you to my good friend Chris Nickson, partly for being a great writer, and also for being ready and willing to pick up the pieces when the ball has slipped out of my hands.

So yes, movement and change – but crime fiction still plays a large part in my life. I haven't published it for seven years, but I still edit it and review it, and when I'm doing neither of those things I read it voraciously. But if you've paid more than a couple of visits to this blog, you'll know that. So there's another thank-you, to loyal blog-followers, some of who have taken the trouble to comment on my pearls of dubious wisdom.

And now for the biggest thank-you of all. There have been many Dead Guys over the years, and I've enjoyed and gained something from their posts without exception. I've even met a few face to face. Bouchercon 2009 was great fun thanks to a few now departed members, and Chatsworth 2013 was a lovely day; thank you, Marilyn. But most of all – Jeff Cohen, stand up and be counted. This man, ladies and gentlemen, is a prize beyond price. (OK, you can sit down now, and hide your red face.) Not only are his books guaranteed to make me smile; he also seems to have a handle on whatever cyber-glitch has caused me to tear my hair – and there have been a few!

I shall miss writing my Thursday blog posts; even on the weeks when I stared at a blank screen and couldn't think of a thing to say, something eventually appeared up there. I don't have an alternative blog to direct you to; my uneasy relationship with anything technological will not have passed unnoticed, and anyway, I no longer have anything I need to tell people about. So – goodbye, thank you, and to anyone who cares enough, don't lose touch. It's been a good ten years.

Pleiades Press will publish my book

(This post was supposed to go up Sunday, December 24th, but in the excitement of Xmas eve, also the eve of my 48th birthday, I neglected to upload it.)

Jessy Randall

Some happy news: Pleiades Press will publish a collection of my diagram poems, How to Tell If You Are Human, in late 2018. It will be the fourth book in their Visual Poetry Series.

This is my last post for H,TaDGitLR. It's been fun connecting with y'all here. Blog-wise, you can find me in the future at 

Library Shenanigans

Colorado College Special Collections

Colorado College Bookends (book reviews)

New Blog Address; Old Grandfather

Jeff Cohen

First of all, happy holidays to all who are observing anything. And no, I didn't just make a political statement. That's just silly.

This is the last full week of new DEAD GUY posts, so it's necessary to do two things: 1. First, let me tell you where to find me after we close up shop here. You might not know that my CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND E.J. Copperman has a blog called Sliced Bread (it's the greatest thing) and I'll be dropping in to post there on a regular basis. Let's say every two weeks, and we'll keep it on Mondays for you tradition junkies. So please do drop on by and check in. Comment when you're moved to do so. E.J. and I (is it necessary to keep up the appearance?) will be thrilled to see you there. 

2. The other thing I must do before we stop here is to tell you about my grandfather.

Benjamin Cohen (born Boris Cahen or something equivalent in Russia) was as important an influence on my life as anyone and more than most. Growing up, my grandparents on my father's side lived next door to our house so I spent a lot of time with them. My grandmother Rose was a wonderful person and I loved her dearly until she passed away only six months after my wedding, but my grandfather was the one who really had an impact on who I turned out to be.

He was not a tall man and not a loud one, but he had an effect on every room he entered. As good-natured as anyone I have ever met, he radiated warmth and understanding (not everything was passed along). Sure, he could get cranky--everybody does--but that wasn't his go-to emotion. I rarely recall him not smiling. Maybe it was just that he loved having grandchildren.

When the weather was warm I'd find him in the backyard when I woke up in the morning. He'd be sitting in a lawn chair at the top of the driveway, looking out. Sometimes he'd feed a squirrel he called Peter, who was any one of a dozen squirrels who lived in the area. Benny (as my grandmother always called him) had an ear for a good story and loved to tell them. So if he wanted to invent a pet squirrel for himself, we knew he'd make it interesting.

He'd be smoking an unfiltered Camel--my grandfather, not the squirrel--and observing whatever went on. I'd come out and look at him and, as I always did, worry about the smoking, which at that point he'd been doing for the better part of 60 years.

"Smoking again, Gramp?" I'd say. 

He knew there was a disapproving comment coming, so he'd deflect. "No. Not smoking again. Still smoking." And he'd take a puff on the Camel the way Groucho took a puff on his cigar after delivering a prime one-liner.

So the next morning I'd figure I had him. There he'd be in the lawn chair, Camel between his index and middle fingers. 

"Still smoking, Gramp?"

"No. Smoking again." And he'd take a puff.

And there are those who think there's nothing to genetics.

 

Pitchers and catchers report in 49 days.

A year in books - part two

It's the winter solstice today: one of many days of celebration which fall around this time of year. And don't we need something to lift the December gloom! I think that's kind of the point: something to look forward to and lift the spirits at a time when the weather seems determined to frustrate plans and good intentions and winter seems set to go on and on and on. Or if you prefer a more positive view, we could look on the days when it's gloomy at best, snowy or foggy at worst and hardly seems to get light at all as an excuse to curl up in a favourite chair with the latest in a series of good books. Let's go with the second option, with a nod to the celebratory aspect of the first. Christmas is my family's midwinter celebration of choice, and top of the gift list you'll find, yes, you guessed, more good books. Which segués neatly into the remainder of my top twelve picks of the year that's almost gone. Numbers eight through to one coming up, with the same rider as last week: the differences in quality and enjoyment factor are infinitesmal, and every one is a winner.

Coming in at number eight is A Life to Kill by Matthew Hall. Finding a new series character to follow always gives me a buzz, and since I usually make the discovery in mid-series it gives me plenty of backlist to catch up on. Jenny Cooper is a coroner, and my eyes were opened regarding what a coroner actually does. Maybe not all the time: I suspect that like most jobs it has its share of tedious routine. But Jenny gets plenty of excitement too, such as taking on the might of the military to get to the bottom of the death of a serving soldier in Afghanistan. She's a real find.

Number seven was an old friend. Harry Bingham's Fiona Griffiths series hooked me firmly four years ago, and thank goodness for the yearly top-up fix he's provided ever since. The Deepest Grave offers the usual great mystery and also digs a little further into Fiona's past – dig being the operative word this time around. Check it out; you won't regret it.

Number six... Did I mention there was a tiny cheat? This is it. It's two books. My lovely daughter handed me The London Eye Mystery by Siobhan Dowd during our burning hot holiday in August. It's technically a children's book, but then so is Harry Potter, and who cares when it's this brilliant? And that's all I'm saying, except this: Siobhan Dowd died, far too young, before she could write the follow-up, so the publishers asked Robin Stevens, author of the hilarious Murder Most Unladylike series (think Angela Brazil meets Agatha Christie) to write it instead. The result was The Guggenheim Mystery, and you absolutely cannot see the join; it's every bit as brilliant, and in style and tone indistinguishable from the original. That takes skill.

My old favourite Phil Rickman had to be in there somewhere, and Friends of the Dusk comes in at number five. What can I say? It's Merrily Watkins, and it's deliciously creepy. Please, Santa, there's a new one just out in paperback, and I've been a really good girl...

Money Tree by Gordon Ferris at number four is that rare commodity, a brilliant self-published novel – though the author has an enviable track record, so I was never in any doubt. The crime is around finance, both high and less so. Something completely different, and it had me engrossed.

And so we come to the top three. The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins is glorious eighteenth century romp from start to finish. You gotta love Thomas, and yes, Antonia Hodgson is a big wheel in publishing, but this would have made it anyway, or there's no justice. And there is justice: it happens in every crime novel I read...

Runner-up 2017 is Summary Justice by John Fairfax. The protagonist is a lawyer, and also a convicted murderer. Yeah, I didn't believe it either, but it could happen. It's the first of a series, and I can hardly wait to see what happens in book two.

And finally – fanfare, please – at number one is A Twist of the Knife by Becky Masterman. Brigid Quinn is a woman of a certain age, with an FBI past that keeps pulling at her; she's a character to root for, and I love her to bits. This is her third outing in five years, and they don't come around often enough.

That's it, folks: Lynne's top picks for 2017. Some old favourites, some new names, every one worth a look. I hope I've whetted an appetite or two.

Too Late! The Free Books Are Spoken For! (Sorry...)

Jeff Cohen

Last hair recovery shot

Next Monday, for those of you who don't actually own a calendar or haven't paid attention since July, will be Christmas Day. And the Monday after that, as it happens, will be New Year's Day. So it's possible that we'll have far fewer visitors for the last two posts I offer at DEAD GUY. That's how the Roman calendar works, although I doubt the Romans had visions of cutting back on a mystery fiction blog's readership when they decided to end the year like that. Just guessing.

So let me get a few things out here while you're still paying attention: First, I've always been fascinated with how art (the kind I like, anyway) is made. I watch documentaries on the creation of famous films or music; I read many books about comedians whose work I especially love. But since I started taking guitar lessons again I have learned there's another way to gain insight into how those people did what they did and that's by trying to do it yourself.

For the past three weeks I've been working on a Fleetwood Mac song, Never Going Back Again by Lindsey Buckingham. And having achieved approximately 200 times less proficiency on the song than Mr. Buckingham himself, I have nonetheless gotten some glimpses into how it was constructed, and I can tell you that man is insane. 

It's one thing to be able to play this song at the speed of light. It's another to have thought to do that to begin with. In order to play this piece the guitarist must tune one string down one full tone, another down TWO full tones, and then put a capo on the sixth fret to get the proper sound. I can do all that, but it would never occur to me to require it. And let's not discuss the picking patterns because my eyes might cross. Again, it's doable, but hard to imagine where the idea might have come from. It's amazing and awe-inspiring, but also just a little nuts.

Second: I'm at that stage (more than halfway through) in the current book where I've accumulated clues and twists and now have to figure out who did what and what it all means. (I literally stopped tonight with my character's hand reaching into a hole in the floor and I don't know what's in there yet.) This is undoubtedly the most difficult part of the process for me because my brain is much more interested in making a fun story than having it make sense.

It always strikes me that my readers (and I know each and every one of your names) pour over the stories I write and find the inconsistencies much more efficiently than I ever would. Thank goodness for editors. I would be completely incoherent without them. I appreciate the readers but I'd rather provide them with an enjoyable experience than one in which every leak is plugged but it's all about process. Pay attention to the characters and the dialogue and the jokes. If the plot is a little porous, well, I understand why that bothers you. Hopefully my editor has caught it before you had the chance.

Third: Tomorrow will make three weeks until the publication of THE HOSTESS WITH THE GHOSTESS, the ninth Haunted Guesthouse novel. For those who might want to catch up with the characters and their situations, you might want to read the most recent Guesthouse book, SPOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL. And everyone who celebrates have a lovely Christmas. If you don't, do what we Semites do: Go to a movie and get Chinese food for dinner.

 Sorry, but all the books are spoken for. Thanks to everyone who got in touch! I'll try this again the next time I have a surplus big enough!

Pitchers and catchers report in 57 days.

 

A year in books - part one

Round about this time of year for the past few years I've begun to look back over the books I've read in the past twelve months with a view to picking out my favourites. This year I thought I'd take a slightly different approach, possibly because it's a slightly different kind of year from previous ones. This time next year there will be no Dead Guy blog to share my favourites with. That makes me a little bit sad, as I'm sure any avid reader will understand; if there's a pleasure which matches reading a great book, it's recommending that book to fellow avid readers and seeing them enjoy it too.

And so to the different approach. Over the year, if my reading log is complete, I appear to have read seventy-four books. Not a bad tally, though possibly by my usual standards not as many as usual. It's been a tough year, well laced with domestic crises; there have been far too many entire days spent visiting one sick family member and half days spent in hospital clinics with another, and neither allows for much quality reading time. But seventy-four is still a not inconsiderable haul. So I plan to pick out my top twelve. It was going to be ten, but I couldn't pare down the list any further, and there's still a tiny cheat which I hope you'll forgive. Even then, there are a few which came hairsbreadth close but didn't quite make it over the line.

I expect some of the authors' names, and possibly their work, will be familiar to Dead Guy's faithful devotees from previous lists; I have my favourites and I make no apology for it. A few of the titles may also have popped up in previous posts. No apologies there, either; if a book's worth mentioning, it's worth mentioning more than once. But looking down that final shortlist, I think there may also be a new name or two.

In time-honoured manner, I'll announce the results in reverse order, four this week and six next. At this precise moment I have no idea who my top pick will be. Exciting, isn't it?

Before I start the countdown, let me say this: the final order is based on infinitesmal differences; every single one of these books is a winner. All opinions expressed are those of me and me alone; other opinions are available, and if you prefer theirs to mine, well, you have an opinion too. Likewise if you prefer other books. Fine by me; I'm always on the hunt for good books, so feel free to recommend.

Here goes with Lynne's top twelve picks of 2017, number twelve through to nine.

Coming in at number twelve is Inspector Specter by our very own E J Copperman. Please note what I said above, about infinitesmal differences and every book is a winner. E J's books, unaccountably, don't have a UK publisher, and I have strong ethical objections to A*+^*n, so this is the most recent of his books currently in my possession, though that may soon change since the festive season approaches. I took it on holiday; it passed round the entire party, raised plenty of smiles and generally brought sunshine into our lives – and the kind that didn't shrivel the skin from your body if you stepped outdoors.

Number eleven was The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon. Also a holiday read, also raised smiles. It was one of the UK's unexpected word-of-mouth successes this year: only kind-of crime fiction, but one hundred per cent great fiction.

An old favourite came in at number ten: Mark Billingham, with a standalone, Die of Shame. Mark's books are always a reliable Good Read, but every now and then the reliably good becomes way out of the ordinary. This is. There's even a brief guest appearance by our old friend Tom Thorne.

And finally, for this week at least: at number nine is The Abduction by Mark Gimenez. Ever since I discovered this author I've been on a mission to read his backlist. This is my favourite so far. He does so many things so well: kids, vulnerability, twisty plots, ambience, and above all great characters.

Next week: number eight right through to the top three. Watch this space!

Snow. Enemy of All That Is Good

From a much bigger snow

Jeff Cohen

I hate snow.

There was snow in my area this past weekend, and that is unacceptable. It wasn't even a lot of snow. In fact, this was as easy-to-ignore a snow "event" as I can imagine that would measure above a dusting. But it was only early December and we'd had 60-degree weather three days before, so that snow was unacceptable.

To be honest, any snow is unacceptable in my view. I don't see the appeal. It's cold, it's wet and it falls in places I can't use it, like everywhere, but specifically the pavement in front of and around my home. I have no argument with snow in the Arctic and Antarctic for a number of reasons: First of all, I'm fond of our planet and would not like to see humanity go extinct. Second, I don't live in either of those places and am not being asked to shovel them. Snow in Iceland? You knew what you were asking for when you decided to live in a place called "Iceland." (And yes, I know all about the theory of Greenland being the worse one because the Vikings had a well-documented impish sense of humor and I still invite anyone who believes that to go to Reykjavik in January and see how it goes.)

Oh, but snow is beautiful, I imagine the delusional Snow-ists say. Yeah. So are giraffes but I don't ask one into my house. They don't belong here. The same is true of snow. If I thought it was so lovely that I could just spend hours staring at it, I could buy a coffee table book about penguins and get snow as an add-on. 

It's been my experience that people who think snow is beautiful and that the aesthetics justify its existence are almost never the people who have to go outside and deal with it. They're either those sitting indoors with a lovely cup of cocoa watching someone else labor heavily in frigid temperatures or they're skiers, who through their very desire to go hurtling into freezing mountain winds through trees and other hazards at 20 miles an hour wearing no protection other than a woolen hat with a pompom on it prove themselves to be demented.

And yes, it has been suggested to me more than once that I move to a climate without snow. Strangely, real estate values in those areas are disproportionately high. Must be the school systems or something because snow is so beautiful surely everyone but me would want to live near it, no?

For a number of years now I have been posting the following message on social media whenever the first significant snowfall of the year is predicted in central New Jersey: Anyone who tells me how beautiful snow is will be required to show up at my house and shovel my driveway. It is not meant to be taken as a joke and I believe those who read it understand that. Oddly, my friends and relatives--some of whom are in the snow-deluded category--have perfect records of not discussing their views with me. Not one has appeared ready to back up their insane belief with some plowing. And here they thought the stuff was so gorgeous; you'd think they'd want to get as close to it as possible.

So do me a favor and don't try to convince me there's anything good about snow. There isn't. If this weekend's little squall was a harbinger of a rough winter in the Middle Atlantic region, don't expect me to be cheerful. (In fact, don't expect that either way--I'm a rather celebrated grump during the winter.) 

Snow should be illegal. At least where I live. 

 

Pitchers and catchers report in 64 days.

 

Angry Giraffe and Friends

Jessy Randall

The United States is making so many mistakes right now. I can't get used to it, and I don't think we should get used to it. I can't believe how stupid we are, despite all the proofs of our stupidity flying at my face every day.

I'm surprised at how much my political animals project is cheering me up. I know these cartoons don't really accomplish anything. Or anyway they don't accomplish anything big. But they make me feel like I'm doing something, even something tiny, and I encourage you all to send me animal drawings so you can maybe feel the same way. 300 dpi jpegs are ideal, but I can work with whatever you send. You do the drawing and I add the words. Email me at jessyrandall [ayat] yahoo [duh] com.

Examples (so far) are at Maudlin House, Cahoodaloodaling, and Ohio Edit.