I am amazed and honored to report that TOXICITY was among the books cited by the Chicago Tribune in their list of favorite 2011 Chicago authors’ books!
Several other OUTFIT authors were also listed, including Laura Caldwell, Dave Heinzmann, Jamie Freveletti, and of course, rising TV star, Marcus Sakey. And Luis Alberto Urrea, Keir Graff, Michael Harvey, and Melanie Benjamin, also some fine authors and friends, were on the list as well.
Here's the link so you can read it yourself.
Chicago, the Second City? Bah, humbug!
Showing posts with label Chicago Tribune. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago Tribune. Show all posts
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Monday, November 23, 2009
The plot thickens...
By David Heinzmann
I forget which one of my fellow bloggers told me a while back that when you have a book coming out—as I do next month--it’s acceptable to shamelessly self-promote for at least a couple months worth of posts here on the Outfit. But interesting Chicago crime stuff keeps happening that I think people might want to read about. This week is no different.
Last Monday morning, a little after 6 a.m., I was rudely awakened by an email on my phone that said: Michael Scott is dead. His body found under a bridge in River North.
I jumped out of bed and made a call to a source, and learned something new and chilling. Scott had a bullet in his head.
The last time I had talked to Michael Scott, a longtime close ally of Mayor Daley, he accused me of being out to get him. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it.
Over the summer, my coworker Todd Lighty and I wrote several stories about Scott’s real estate dealings, and their troubling connections to his role as president of the Chicago school board, as well as his position on Daley’s Olympic committee. We had two significant stories, first that Scott was angling to take control of city-owned vacant lots next to the West Side park where the Olympic cycling tracks would be built. The land was currently almost worthless, but if the $30 million Olympic complex was built, the condos and stores he planned to build could have been worth a fortune. Read the whole thing here http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chicagoolympics/chi-090807scott-2016-4,0,2216786.story… And we followed it a few weeks later with this story about Scott’s ties to an even bigger development, herehttp://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chi-olympic-real-estate-25-sep25,0,2667598.story
After our first story, Daley backed Scott, and Olympic officials initially said it was OK. But when I pressed them with questions about their conflict-of-interest policy, they eventually said it wasn’t OK, and made Scott sever his ties to the development.
It was an embarrassing summer for Scott, and it wasn’t getting any easier. Over the last couple of weeks, Lighty and I were planning to report another story—that Scott had billed the public schools for his $3,000 trip to Copenhagen to be with the Olympic team when the 2016 host city was chosen last month. An internal investigation over Scott’s use of his expense account had been percolating at the schools headquarters since Lighty filed a demand for documents eary this month.
But none of these problems seemed like something an experienced politico would kill himself over. While we dug for reasons last week, the murmurs from Scott’s friends grew louder that it couldn’t have been suicide. Somebody must have killed Scott.
The questions bubbled over toward the end of the week, after the Cook County Medical Examiner ruled the case was a suicide, and Chicago Police Supt. Jody Weis balked, saying the police investigation wasn’t ready to rule either way. Then some raving woman ran up to the Tribune Tower and heaved a brick through the plate glass of WGN's streetside studio. She was ranting that we were covering up Scott's murder.
Every cop I’ve talked to about the case, including some who were at the scene, has said this was definitely a suicide. Scott’s own gun. Gunshot residue on his hand. Little details, like the fact that he was left-handed and was shot in the left side of his head.
So why did he do it? I think we’ll be digging on that question for a while. It’s one Chicago’s more compelling mysteries at the moment. And that’s saying something.
I think all of the novelists on this blog would agree, sometimes it’s difficult to come up with plot lines that are stranger than the truth of what goes on in this town. I mean, Patti Blagojevich on reality TV in the jungle would have seemed like it was stretching things a bit if Christopher Buckley had made it up.
But then again, this can give us all a liberating measure of license. Who says it couldn’t happen? This is Chicago.
Oh, and by the way, the next time I blog will be three days shy of my Dec. 9 publication date. I promise (to myself) to shamelessly self-promote A Word to the Wise (AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER NOW!!!) then.
I forget which one of my fellow bloggers told me a while back that when you have a book coming out—as I do next month--it’s acceptable to shamelessly self-promote for at least a couple months worth of posts here on the Outfit. But interesting Chicago crime stuff keeps happening that I think people might want to read about. This week is no different.
Last Monday morning, a little after 6 a.m., I was rudely awakened by an email on my phone that said: Michael Scott is dead. His body found under a bridge in River North.
I jumped out of bed and made a call to a source, and learned something new and chilling. Scott had a bullet in his head.
The last time I had talked to Michael Scott, a longtime close ally of Mayor Daley, he accused me of being out to get him. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it.
Over the summer, my coworker Todd Lighty and I wrote several stories about Scott’s real estate dealings, and their troubling connections to his role as president of the Chicago school board, as well as his position on Daley’s Olympic committee. We had two significant stories, first that Scott was angling to take control of city-owned vacant lots next to the West Side park where the Olympic cycling tracks would be built. The land was currently almost worthless, but if the $30 million Olympic complex was built, the condos and stores he planned to build could have been worth a fortune. Read the whole thing here http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chicagoolympics/chi-090807scott-2016-4,0,2216786.story… And we followed it a few weeks later with this story about Scott’s ties to an even bigger development, herehttp://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chi-olympic-real-estate-25-sep25,0,2667598.story
After our first story, Daley backed Scott, and Olympic officials initially said it was OK. But when I pressed them with questions about their conflict-of-interest policy, they eventually said it wasn’t OK, and made Scott sever his ties to the development.
It was an embarrassing summer for Scott, and it wasn’t getting any easier. Over the last couple of weeks, Lighty and I were planning to report another story—that Scott had billed the public schools for his $3,000 trip to Copenhagen to be with the Olympic team when the 2016 host city was chosen last month. An internal investigation over Scott’s use of his expense account had been percolating at the schools headquarters since Lighty filed a demand for documents eary this month.
But none of these problems seemed like something an experienced politico would kill himself over. While we dug for reasons last week, the murmurs from Scott’s friends grew louder that it couldn’t have been suicide. Somebody must have killed Scott.
The questions bubbled over toward the end of the week, after the Cook County Medical Examiner ruled the case was a suicide, and Chicago Police Supt. Jody Weis balked, saying the police investigation wasn’t ready to rule either way. Then some raving woman ran up to the Tribune Tower and heaved a brick through the plate glass of WGN's streetside studio. She was ranting that we were covering up Scott's murder.
Every cop I’ve talked to about the case, including some who were at the scene, has said this was definitely a suicide. Scott’s own gun. Gunshot residue on his hand. Little details, like the fact that he was left-handed and was shot in the left side of his head.
So why did he do it? I think we’ll be digging on that question for a while. It’s one Chicago’s more compelling mysteries at the moment. And that’s saying something.
I think all of the novelists on this blog would agree, sometimes it’s difficult to come up with plot lines that are stranger than the truth of what goes on in this town. I mean, Patti Blagojevich on reality TV in the jungle would have seemed like it was stretching things a bit if Christopher Buckley had made it up.
But then again, this can give us all a liberating measure of license. Who says it couldn’t happen? This is Chicago.
Oh, and by the way, the next time I blog will be three days shy of my Dec. 9 publication date. I promise (to myself) to shamelessly self-promote A Word to the Wise (AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER NOW!!!) then.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
The Other Hat
by Libby Hellmann
I loved Sara’s post on Friday. Eloquent as usual, she talked about the need for quiet… a sustained quiet in order to dig down and pull out the words and ideas and feelings that are burbling beneath our psyches. I long for those periods, too, and wish they came more frequently. Like her, I face many distractions, some of my own making, some not. But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.
The Printers Row Lit Fest was held this weekend, and for many authors, Printers Row represents the other hat we wear these days… the promotional one. Many of us appeared at booths, including Mystery Writers of America and the Society of Midland Authors, and Big Sleep Books, hoping to sell our books, because, after all, that’s what you do at a book fair.
I don’t mind doing promotion. But I’m certifiably schizophrenic. Promotion -- especially at a book festival -- is completely antithetical to writing. There I am at a booth, books stacked in front of me, watching hundreds of strangers pass by on their way to ... somewhere. I’m aware that a host of additional authors at other booths sit with their books stacked up in front of them, also eagerly hoping to sell. And that doesn’t include the dozens of author panels, which have their own signings.
This year was especially challenging. It was cold and rainy on Saturday, warm and rainy on Sunday. Last year, if you remember, it was so hot we were shvitzing all day. On top of the elements, someone was either singing or playing French ballads over and over. Very loud, very minor key, very depressing. Note to organizers: no more French songs or I may have to ask my friend Vinny to handle things. Vinny is the type of guy you do not want to meet in a dark alley.
In fact, Printers Row can be overwhelming to an author who is not an extrovert, which is most of us. We have to be enthusiastic, cheerful,and eager to talk, but we can’t be too pushy. We have to smile, knowing most of the people couldn’t care less about us and our books. As opposed to the sensitivity with which we pride ourselves in our books, at book fairs we have to have a thick skin. We have to toss off the dismissive waves of the hands, the “don’t-bother-me” glares when you ask passers by whether they read mysteries. We have to recognize that most people don’t read crime fiction and still think the only books worth buying are “literature.” And that more than half of the others don’t read at all and are just looking for posters, blank journals (someone asked me if I had any for sale) or gifts.
We have to be pleasant, even when they hold your book in their hands (marketing people say it’s a good sign if they pick up the product and actually examine it) but then put it back down. We have to realize that most of the flyers we printed up so carefully and expensively will end up in the trash. We have to understand that we’re competing, not just with other mystery authors, but every author who’s ever written a book. And while we may want to turn up our nose because none of them could possibly write as well as us, most fair-goers don’t know that. And we can’t say anything.
Given all those obstacles, it’s a wonder any author would willingly put themselves in this position. But I do, year after year, because of one reason: when I do sell a book, it’s magic. I am acutely aware that someone has parted with their hard-earned money because they think I might offer them something of value. Usually, it’s someone I don’t even know. Someone with whom I’ve chatted for only 30 seconds.
It’s amazing to me. Absolutely frigging amazing that a stranger is willing to take a gamble on an intangible idea that happens to be my story. I feel humbled, grateful, and slightly awed. It’s why I write in the first place. And if I feel that way, imagine how the hundreds of other authors feel who sell one of their books to strangers. It really is magic.
So thanks, Printers Row and the Tribune, for making the magic happen. I’ll be back again next year... assuming the French music is gone.
For now, though, I’m happy to take off the other hat for a while and along with Sara, hope for a golden day.
What do you think?
I loved Sara’s post on Friday. Eloquent as usual, she talked about the need for quiet… a sustained quiet in order to dig down and pull out the words and ideas and feelings that are burbling beneath our psyches. I long for those periods, too, and wish they came more frequently. Like her, I face many distractions, some of my own making, some not. But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.
The Printers Row Lit Fest was held this weekend, and for many authors, Printers Row represents the other hat we wear these days… the promotional one. Many of us appeared at booths, including Mystery Writers of America and the Society of Midland Authors, and Big Sleep Books, hoping to sell our books, because, after all, that’s what you do at a book fair. I don’t mind doing promotion. But I’m certifiably schizophrenic. Promotion -- especially at a book festival -- is completely antithetical to writing. There I am at a booth, books stacked in front of me, watching hundreds of strangers pass by on their way to ... somewhere. I’m aware that a host of additional authors at other booths sit with their books stacked up in front of them, also eagerly hoping to sell. And that doesn’t include the dozens of author panels, which have their own signings.
This year was especially challenging. It was cold and rainy on Saturday, warm and rainy on Sunday. Last year, if you remember, it was so hot we were shvitzing all day. On top of the elements, someone was either singing or playing French ballads over and over. Very loud, very minor key, very depressing. Note to organizers: no more French songs or I may have to ask my friend Vinny to handle things. Vinny is the type of guy you do not want to meet in a dark alley.
In fact, Printers Row can be overwhelming to an author who is not an extrovert, which is most of us. We have to be enthusiastic, cheerful,and eager to talk, but we can’t be too pushy. We have to smile, knowing most of the people couldn’t care less about us and our books. As opposed to the sensitivity with which we pride ourselves in our books, at book fairs we have to have a thick skin. We have to toss off the dismissive waves of the hands, the “don’t-bother-me” glares when you ask passers by whether they read mysteries. We have to recognize that most people don’t read crime fiction and still think the only books worth buying are “literature.” And that more than half of the others don’t read at all and are just looking for posters, blank journals (someone asked me if I had any for sale) or gifts.
We have to be pleasant, even when they hold your book in their hands (marketing people say it’s a good sign if they pick up the product and actually examine it) but then put it back down. We have to realize that most of the flyers we printed up so carefully and expensively will end up in the trash. We have to understand that we’re competing, not just with other mystery authors, but every author who’s ever written a book. And while we may want to turn up our nose because none of them could possibly write as well as us, most fair-goers don’t know that. And we can’t say anything.
Given all those obstacles, it’s a wonder any author would willingly put themselves in this position. But I do, year after year, because of one reason: when I do sell a book, it’s magic. I am acutely aware that someone has parted with their hard-earned money because they think I might offer them something of value. Usually, it’s someone I don’t even know. Someone with whom I’ve chatted for only 30 seconds.
It’s amazing to me. Absolutely frigging amazing that a stranger is willing to take a gamble on an intangible idea that happens to be my story. I feel humbled, grateful, and slightly awed. It’s why I write in the first place. And if I feel that way, imagine how the hundreds of other authors feel who sell one of their books to strangers. It really is magic.
So thanks, Printers Row and the Tribune, for making the magic happen. I’ll be back again next year... assuming the French music is gone.
For now, though, I’m happy to take off the other hat for a while and along with Sara, hope for a golden day.
What do you think?
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