By now many have read about the most recent plagiarism scandal involving Assassin of Secrets, a spy novel that received high praise and launched a couple of weeks ago. Since the launch, it's been discovered that the author lifted entire passages from over thirteen spy novels, including those written by such famous authors as Robert Ludlum and Bond author Raymond Benson, (a lovely and multi-talented man who lives here in the Chicago area). When asked why he did it, the author mentions (I'm paraphrasing here) that after he sold the book to Little Brown he received extensive edits from his publisher that amounted to a nearly entire rewrite of the manuscript. Upon receiving the edits he realized that: 1. that he had to create these edits in record time and 2. began to have serious doubts about whether he could create something compelling enough to satisfy the house.
Welcome to the world of thriller writing.
In fact, welcome to the world of writing in general. If you're a writer and reading this then you know just how difficult it is to create a scene that holds together and drives the story forward. In thriller writing that scene may also include action sequences, which I love to write but have their own rhythm and can fall flat if not done just right.
If you're a reader then you know, too, because a thriller requires a certain type of pacing and detail that is the mark of an interesting read. Readers know what a thriller feels like and they aren't confused about the work that goes into creating such a novel. I know this, because before I became a writer I was-and am- an avid reader. I'd read a book by one of my favorites and think about how tough it must have been to write over three hundred pages that kept me so enthralled. I never took books or authors for granted.
Writing is a struggle enough when not under deadline, but when under deadline or when asked to rewrite passages a writer can freeze. I remember the joy of writing my first before I sold it. It was just me and the story late at night when the city was quiet and I allowed my imagination to fly. After Running from the Devil was sold I, too, like every other author, received a list of suggested edits from my editor and a few short weeks to create them. Panic, especially if you are doing it for the first time, as I was, can set in. You think, "I just wrote this and now I have to write it again?" Some authors have confided to me their anger at having their scenes gutted or questioned by the editor. They spent months writing them only to find them marked out and left on the cutting room floor.
From the first time it happened to me I remember looking at the list of edits and taking a deep breath. I knew intellectually that they would probably make the book better, but I was frightened that I would not be able to produce on a regular basis. Yet, once the book is sold that's what you are asked to do. So I created a mantra for myself and it goes like this:
You're a writer. That's what you do. You should be able to rewrite this scene a hundred times and make it interesting. So let's go.
If you're writing your first and haven't sold yet you are in that wonderful place where it's just you and your imagination. Enjoy it! When you do sell it will still be magical, but the reality of other expectations will crowd into the room and stand at your back as you write. Don't worry, it's not all pressure; they'll applaud, too.
And when I looked at the list of thriller writers that were plagiarized it makes me want to go out and read their novels. They're all good, but because Raymond Benson is a Chicago based author and this is a Chicago blog I suggest that you start with his latest, The Black Stiletto.
My last post talked about an author that wrote one amazing book and never wrote another and I got to thinking--who is a one hit wonder and why? We hear them all the time when dealing with songs, so what makes an author write one (or two) and then walk away?
For those who missed the last post, the one hit there was Zemindar, an epic story about the Sepoy Mutiny in India 1857. Valerie Fitzgerald wrote an amazing story and never wrote another. I compared this book to Gone With The Wind, and...guess what--Margaret Mitchell only published GWTW during her lifetime. Another manuscript was found after her death. Seems as though for these two authors one epic historical novel was enough. Perhaps the research required was just too taxing, or they thought they would be unable to top the earlier work.
I did a quick google search and found that some of our most famous novels are one hit wonders. From the well known To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee to Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man the list is distinguished.
I've also found great books by writers writing under a pseudonym who then give it up. I remember reading Stephen King's Thinner written as Richard Bachman and wondering "this writer is great, why doesn't anyone know about him?" Ha! Joke was on me.
Without a doubt, creating a novel is a labor of love and work and I can understand someone having done it, done it well, and then deciding to move on to another medium. Apparently this is what Oscar Wilde did after The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Which makes me think--are there any great books that you've read that never received the acclaim you think they deserved? These novels were "one" but not a "hit?" I'd love to learn about them and add them to my "to be read" pile!
At a recent dinner party my friends and I started discussing our previous jobs, from the earliest to present. Once we began going around the table asking the best and worst jobs we've had it became really funny. I've continued the discussion by asking those I meet to tell me their experiences. At least two had worked in some sort of meat processing facility and both quit after three days. Apparently you don't want to see how sausage is made, nor do you want to work on a poultry farm.
Others discussed the grind of physical labor. Lifting cords of wood and shoving steel wore out two friends, even though they were young when they attempted it. Watching children in a summer day camp climbed the list for one as the most stressful job she's ever had. She said it takes a special person to handle thirty children at once. She's says now when her three seem to be running in all different directions she calms herself by remembering the thirty. Most seemed to like being a waiter or waitressing (I did as well) and one loved working summers at a summer camp.
It never occurred to me how different it is to be a writer until I happened to pick up some email the other day while on the fly. It was work related-- I have a separate email address only for my agent, publicist, editors and publishing houses-- and it was about the upcoming launch of The Ninth Day. Because the launch is less than two months out (September 27) I'm in the prelaunch period where there are a lot of decisions to be made. Tour schedule, signings and marketing. I picked it up on my phone on a late Friday and it was an easily handled request.
Now, as a lawyer, any given day would have included an email or call from a panicked attorney in the firm with a crisis that needed to be addressed that minute. By that I mean drop everything else and head to the office immediately. I once got a call on a friday at noon from the mail room. A sixty page injunction was coming through by fax with an emergency hearing in a far north suburb. It was the Friday before the Fourth of July. Yep, some lawyer had arranged the hearing for what he thought would be the worst possible time for the opposing counsel to appear. Of course everyone was already gone or at the golf course. I, however, was there and the document ended up on my desk. Within minutes I was on the road for the hour and a half drive to make the hearing.
This kind of gamesmenship doesn't seem to be the norm in the publishing world. Yes, I heard about the time that Amazon uncloaked their emails by mistake and it was discovered that some industry professionals were busy posting bad reviews on the books of their competitors. Whenever you allow anonymous reviews you'll get some bad behavior and the anonymity of the internet makes this easy to do. And I'm not saying that emergencies don't happen, but for the most part a well planned launch will address as many variables as possible well before publication date.
Probably the toughest aspect of writing as a profession is the discipline needed to write on a schedule when no one is hovering over you demanding it. It's easy to let other things take your attention away. Before you know it, you're cleaning the kitchen or fielding phone calls when you should be writing. You need to self motivate. Luckily, writing is so enthralling, that getting it done seems to be fun rather than work. And that is a great thing to be able to say!
It's 95 degrees outside and even hotter in my air conditioned house. Why? Because I'm in the middle of one of my manuscripts. Yes, I'm at that lovely space about two thirds of the way that we writers like to call "Death Valley." It's when the plot is formed, the action moving along, and the characters heading toward discovery, BUT, they're not close enough for the last twenty five pages.
I love the last twenty five pages because they're all about momentum. These are the pages that write themselves. For me endings are just a blast to write.
But death valley is the most difficult part. That's because you need to be mindful of the red herrings that you've placed along the way, the plot points that you want to strike and the story arc that you need to hit. I always thought if I was one of those writers that use an outline I would breeze through this section, but I'm told by those writers that do outline that this is not true. They groan when I mention Death Valley, so I assume the pain is equal for them as well.
If you're a new writer beware this section. This is the time that most new authors throw in the towel. Doubts arise, it's difficult and you get a good sense of just how hard it is to write a cohesive story for as many pages as are required. That's why at writing conferences I get a slew of hands when I ask how many are in the middle and stuck.
The best advice I can give for this section is to do just a bit of research. Not a lot, mind you, or you'll just give yourself another reason to procrastinate, but a little. I've found that research will give me some more ideas that will often help me break through to the next level.
In the meantime, I'm just sitting here, sweating it out. I'd go outside for a quick break, but it's as hot out there as in here. I'll just keep on working, ignore the pain and struggle on through. Back at you when I get to the other side!
Here are some of my favorite lines from books on Writing:
My students assume that when well-respected writers sit down to write their books, they know pretty much what is going to happen because they've outlined most of the plot, and this is why their books turn out so beautifully and why their lives are so easy and joyful, their self-esteem so great, their childlike senses of trust and wonder so intact. Well I do not know anyone fitting this description at all. Everyone I know flails around kvetching and growing despondent, on the way to finding a plot and structure that work. You are welcome to join the club.
Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
...your first writing is as delicate as a seedling. Don't show it to some yahoo who wouldn't know an orchid from kudzu.
Making a Literary Life, Carolyn See
If you use a colloquialism or a slang word or phrase, simply use it; do not draw attention to it by enclosing it in quotation marks. To do so is to put on airs, as though you were inviting the reader to join you in select society of those who know better.
The Elements of Style, Strunk and White
Sometimes you just have to be stubborn. No matter how difficult the writing task, how slowly the words come, how altogether discouraging the act of writing seems to be, your stubborn streak keeps you going.
The Daily Writer, Fred White
If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
Elmore Leonard's 10 Rules of Writing
Just for fun, agree with criticism directed toward you (then watch it go away)
Don't Sweat the Small Stuff...and it's all small stuff, Richard Carlson, PH.D
When I first started writing I used to sit in conferences rolling my eyes when a writer talked about character taking over the plot line and acting in unpredictable ways. I'd think, "are these people crazy? Their character isn't real!"
Until it happened to me.
It first happened in a manuscript that I still have on shelf--my first completed novel--called Black Money. One of the characters was supposed to be a crazy, fun and irresponsible musician. In every scene where I expected to write a nutty response to a situation, this character was the voice of reason. I kept trying to make him insouciant, but I continued writing sane. Finally I bowed to whatever my subconscious wanted and wrote the character as if he wore a suit to work, did the right thing and just happened to be employed in a band. The juxtaposition worked. He ended up being one of the best characters in an otherwise uneven piece.(Black Money is staying on the shelf because the occasional flashes of brilliance are not enough to save the first draft. It needs a rewrite, which I simply don't have the time to do right now).
The phenomenon of a character taking off in another direction just happened again in my latest manuscript. There I was, minding my own business, and everything started to go haywire. This time I have no excuse. I saw it happening and just leaned into the change. Figured, "oh what the heck, just run with it." Need I say that the character is better than the synopsis I submitted to my publisher those many months ago? Need I say that my fingers are crossed that the publisher thinks so as well?
I've learned to embrace such moments because they usually herald a nice switch up from standard. By standard I mean the "serial killer is crazy," or the "killer is smarter than the rest of the world" familiar character that we've all come to know and love. While at BookExpoAmerica I did a short video interview. They didn't clear the questions first, so when the interviewer asked me "how do you keep a thriller fresh" I said, "It's genre fiction and some things are expected" which was shorthand for "you'd better have some moments that, while standard, define the genre." Don't write a long piece about the lovely scenery or readers will think they've wandered into the wrong novel. Do write some tension, action and suspense.
But having said all the above, I find that these moments "off topic" usually end up making the manuscript fresher than it would have been otherwise. I don't write from an outline and now you know why, because I can't seem to even stay true to my own short synopsis. I think this form of creation may lend itself to more tangents. Some, like the one I just took, are all for the better. Yes, one can write oneself into a corner, but I don't often find that to be a problem. Fiction writers have the world at their disposal. We just bend it to fit the story and keep on going!
I've been reading a couple of mysteries and thrillers--unusual for me because I'm writing continuously now and don't like to read others while I write-in order to nominate on various awards and moderate a panel at Printers Row Lit Fest in Chicago. One of the novels is written in first person, the others in third. I'm not surprised that the first person novel is a mystery, while the third person fiction is a thriller.
I love first person. Especially one as well written as the novel I'm reading: The Damage Done, by Hilary Davidson. It feels like you are right there with the protagonist as she moves through the mystery. The immediacy is wonderful, and as the clues unfold the reader experiences the "aha" moment along with the character. This novel is filled with a cast of shadowy characters that surround the sister of the main protagonist. The sister has a long history of drug addiction and collects trouble in the way that you would expect when someone deals with the fringes of society so long. When the addicted sister is found dead, her older sibling returns to New York to solve the mystery.
First person can present problems for the writer. How to describe the character's physical appearance without having her look into a mirror? Ms. Davidson does a wonderful job weaving in the protagonist's love of classic movies and physical comparison to Ava Gardner. Well done. The story's cast of characters, from a police detective to a Pakistani "import/export" specialist are dark and filled with contradiction. I wouldn't call Ms. Davidson's book noir exactly, but it has the brush of it in a new, modern way that's great to read.
Third person, on the other hand, allows a myriad of options both for the writer and the reader. In this form, the reader gets the benefit of crawling into the mind of several characters and there's nothing more chilling then being the fly on the wall when the killer starts to justify the act. The other novel I'm reading is The Outfit's own Kevin Guilfoile's The Thousand. If you like the Stieg Larsson novels, you'll love this one because it has a believable premise with a heroine that is unusual and tough. This is a great read that is a thriller but with the puzzle plot that's pure mystery. Wonderfully written, this book takes a great premise: a woman with an unusual ability that sets her apart and ties it to an ancient cult. Very very cool stuff and probably best written in third person because it goes back in history.
It's tough to keep a thriller moving when in first person. I know, because I've tried it. One of my manuscripts--written after my debut but never shown to either my agent or editor--initially started out in first. After two thirds of the way done I realized that I wanted to get into the mind of the killer and show how he was tracking the protagonist, but I couldn't because it would involve showing things that a first person character couldn't possibly know. I ended up rewriting the manuscript in third person in order to do justice to the idea that I had. What I lost in intimacy I gained in plot in that case, but that's a call that only a writer can make. Sometimes a story requires first person. Especially in a story of self discovery, as is Ms. Davidson's, where I think third person would not have been as effective.
I've seen writers that bounce between the two forms in the same novel. Harlan Coben has done this to great effect, as has Barry Eisler. It's tough to do without jarring the reader and takes quite a bit of skill. Both these writers have that skill and I think the switch up worked just fine. Notably, neither writer does this in every book. Once again a writer making a decision about form for each individual story.
I'll be reading two more novels in the next three weeks in order to moderate the panel at Printers' Row. I'll post about those soon!
I have just returned from somewhere in viral purgatory. It started with a massive headache. Headaches are rare for me, so I usually try to tough them out. Of course, a doctor friend set me straight: "You can't tough it out. They rarely disappear quickly. Best to just take aspirin."
I ran the first day, but noticed my heart rate spiking. (For the non runners, interestingly enough, your resting heart rate rises during an infection. I can often predict oncoming illness this way). And from there the situation became dire. I stumbled from the bed to the computer to write, wrote fifteen words and staggered back to the bed. This back and forth kept going for three miserable days. I never was sick enough to just give up and sleep all day, but I was logging lots of hours in a darkened room with hot tea next to me in between running essential errands.
I figured out that my own writing would suffer during this plague onset, so turned to my bookshelf. My To Be Read pile is long, and I certainly got a close up look at only a portion of the stack. Here's what I have:
Strip Jack, Ian Rankin
I'm Spiritual Dammit! Jenniffer Weigel
The Devil's Company David Liss
The Complete Guide To Mysterious Beings, John Keel
The Midnight House, Alex Berenson
The mysterious beings book is actually research for one of my own. I managed to get through whole chunks of it while ill, which salvaged some of the week.
Jenniffer Weigel's book was funny and interesting, and I did manage to finish it in between bouts of aspirin.
The others are still there, staring at me. My brain was too fevered toward the end for me to continue reading. Sleeping was the activity of choice.
Now I'm feeling much better and of course back at the computer hacking away, but I wonder if I should stash a book for the next bout. If I do, I want it to be something uplifting. Happy. Seems like that is lacking when the flu is upon you. Of course a fantastic mystery or thriller would do, too.
I just came home from seeing Robert Plant and his Band Of Joy at Chicago's Auditorium theatre. Up until two days ago I had no idea I'd be there, but on Friday morning I heard Mr. Plant interviewed on the local radio. He sounded intelligent, thoughtful and interesting. A far cry from the man in the band known for its excess and I was surprised by the interview. And since I've lately been on this "why aren't you grabbing at life more?" kick I thought, Well, here I am, living not three miles from the Auditorium Theater and I'm letting this concert roll by. How foolish is that? I got home, hit the web and found last minute tickets.
Less than twenty four hours later I was sitting twenty feet from this artist and watching him sing songs that bore little resemblence to his Led Zeppelin days. No problem for me, because the band broke up before I began to buy records with my own money. I've never bought a Led Zeppelin album. In contrast, I do have his latest Gone Gone Gone with Alison Krauss and Angel Dance on my ipod.
Like Steven Tyler on the recent country music awards, Plant hits his notes and is a consumate professional. These rock and roll guys can make it happen, can't they? Indeed, the man's voice was astonishing. In this age of auto tune and backing vocal tracks it's always obvious when an artist who didn't work with such crutches appears on stage.
After opening with an unusual arrangement of Black Dog and making the crowd crazy, it became clear as he sang his new music that the audience, though respectful, was itching to hear another Zeppelin song. And as I sat there I thought about artists and how they become brands. How some of the readers I know tell me, "I love John Sandford, but only read his Davenport novels, never his Flowers stuff." But at least those two protagonists belong to the same mystery genre. What Plant was doing was blues infused alternative, far from the hard rock and roll of his Zeppelin days. I wonder if the Sandford fans would tolerate it if he wrote a romance along the lines of Nicholas Sparks? Would they reject him? Force him back into the mystery world?
I was discussing this with a few other writers I know and some pointed out the obvious successes, Nora Roberts/JD Robb, Grisham's crime and family novels. And yet, one author friend stated it pretty succinctly: "I don't think authors that are brands can branch out too far. Imagine if Beyonce decided to sing country. It could be the best country album ever, but the fans would probably reject it because it would be too much of a stretch."
But as an artist, part of the creative process requires stretching, learning, imagining and attempting. While the corporations that manage an artist's career may shudder at creative need to try new genres--they know all too well that there are fans who will reject the attempt no matter how well done-I think the artist needs to take that risk. Having done it allows him or her to return to the familiar with a renewed sense of imagination and possibility.
Plant eventually launched into (just two more) Zeppelin songs (Ramble On and Tangerine) and wow, did the audience go wild. As a man who gave me the impression that he rarely laughs out loud, I was heartened to see his face break into a large smile as the crowd roared and rose to its feet. Whatever he must think about being locked into the past, it was clear that he understood that for these fans that part of his history will never go away and his rendition of these old favorites had a fresh new sound. No Jimmy Page shredding and heavy bass, but a cool bluesy vibe that worked.
I also was heartened by the fans. It was clear that they loved him and while they wanted the past, they paid money and listened to his present, which is what I thinks readers do, too. Watching both Plant and his fans embrace the new and honor the past to create a vibrant, still relevant career made me happy that I'd taken the plunge and got off the couch. And I guess it's obvious now that I'm going to have to keep getting up and getting out. Because life-- and art-- should be lived and enjoyed. Don't you agree?
There's been a link circulating on Facebook that leads to a heated debate between an author and her reviewer. Authors responding inappropriately to poor reviews happens, some famous authors have fallen into this trap, and inevitably the author takes the fall for the both response and the review.
As with most conflicts, the argument on the link devolved into everyone getting caught up in arguing and no one actually solving the problem. As a litigator who spent her life dealing with two angry people/corporate CEOs/ or governmental bodies lunging at each other across tables, I was frustrated to see this argument play out. I could think of several ways both the reviewer and the author could have solved the problem without the vitriol that ended on the page for all to see.
Bad reviews exist, inappropriate author responses to them exist, and poor manners on the part of reviewers exists also. I also think many people forget their manners in an online setting. The medium is a bit disassociative. You're in another's presence, but don't really feel that connection and you're not looking them in the eye. Nevertheless, what you say will reach them as if you were facing them. For example: On the recent facebook string of a New York Times bestselling author someone wrote: "Read the book and liked it. Not great literature, but good."
Now, really, if this person were invited to a cook's home for dinner would he leave saying "Ate the food and liked it. Not gourmet quality, but good?" Of course not. At least I hope he wouldn't. I would hope that, even if the pork was shoe leather and the beans overcooked, he'd find a way to compliment something and leave the other part out. Or say nothing. This person wanted to say something nice, actually took the time to go to the author's page to say it, but couldn't control himself or perhaps hadn't thought out how that sentence would read once on the page. That whole disconnect thing took over. Maybe later he realized his error and deleted the comment. I think he meant well overall.
Which brings me to Brad Meltzer. Mr. Meltzer is well known, a great writer, and I've enjoyed his books immensely. Like most writers that have been in the game for a while, he has received his share of bad reviews. But Mr. Meltzer's response to them is priceless, funny, and puts everything into perspective. The man has a wicked funny sense of humor. It's called "Reviews of the Book of Lies." I loved it. You can watch it here.
I was pleased to see that the new movie Jane Eyre got great reviews. It's a favorite book of mine and I hope it will do well at the box office. At the same time that I write this I'm struggling with creating a male/ female relationship in a short story with conflict, sexual undertones but one that does not result in sex. Why no sex, you ask? Because I want to take the tougher road as a writer. My writing schedule is packed these days and I'm juggling a couple of different novels, but every weekend I do my best to turn to a short story. I need to write to stay sane, so weekends off aren't always the best for me, but I feel as though I need to switch it up and give my brain time to ferment on the novel-length manuscripts. The change of pace keeps the other writing fresh.
I posted a few months ago on the use of imagery in classic movies to convey tension between characters without graphic results and without having the characters simply say what they wanted out loud. It's a study in conflict, unresolved tension and innuendo. It's wonderful to see unfold and, I'm learning, tough to create. In this modern era writers can simply have their characters hop in bed, resolve some of that tension and then lie around smoking cigarettes and discussing the other plot points in the novel. Kind of a "whew we got that out of the way now let's discuss if Harry killed Sally and where he hid the body."
The classics did this in so many different ways that I feel it's instructive to read them to get a feel for how they accomplished it. Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Bronte's Jane Eyre, Conan Doyle's A Scandal in Bohemia, where the tension is there and the parties, through their actions convey it. Too often modern writers take these stories and graft on a motivation that subverts the original reason for the tension into something that is feels equal but is not. For example, I got the definite impression that the latest Sherlock Holmes film and latest BBC television show made Sherlock appear to be in love with Watson in a way far greater than simply as friends. I don't think the stories support this view (and if you do feel free to point out the instances, perhaps I'm not seeing the sub-context due to its subtlety). To me, Holmes is an automaton and equally as dismissive of any emotion, either that of love of women or men. His moment in the Scandal In Bohemia seems to be one of the few times that he notices women in any other way then a cerebral one, and even then one gets the distinct impression he's just angry that she bested him.
My short story is clipping along, and I hope to finish it soon, commission a cover, and pop it onto the web. When I do I'll give everyone the heads up and you can tell me if I got anywhere even close to the subtlety of the writers above.
I was thinking about dialogue today while I wrote some chapters in my latest manuscript. Some have asked me how I get my ideas for dialogue. Well, for most it's just from listening to people talk. I'm lucky to be able to ride the Chicago subway, where the best dialogue is all around you. For instance, heard today on the red line:
He had a bad heart and then ended up having a stroke on the table. So he wants to unload his BMW. (speaker listens to response on the phone).
Yeah, well I can't tell you what kind it is--kinda looks like a Camry to me.
(I'm not sure anyone buys a BMW so they can appear to be driving a Camry, but perhaps the person on the other end of the line won't care).
He says 'aintnothin' wrong with it. Says he never had no trouble. He goes out, dusts off the snow and starts it up just to keep the battery going.
(Clearly person on the other end of line is suspicious and doesn't want to pay BMW prices for a Camry-looking type vehicle).
Well all I can tell you is it's real pretty and might be a good deal- cuz he can't drive it no more, him having a stroke and all.
I felt sorry for the man with the stroke, and cheered the person on the phone who was suspicious. I thought the speaker was telling it straight, but I wondered if the man with the stroke had underplayed to her any problems with the vehicle. Maybe, maybe not. Hard to tell with this one.
One of my writer friends comments that I don't have my characters swear. To her, it seems "off," because, and she feels, and rightly so, that so many people use profanity today that its absence is noticeable.
This is one part of dialogue that I avoid. While an occasional bit of blue language is appropriate, I'm always concerned that once I start writing it, I'll lapse into a complacent place where I'll be writing profanity for impact, but it will have lost any it ever had because it's littering the page.
The other day I made a point to listen to every conversation I could while moving through the city. While on the subway, walking to my appointments, or sitting in the coffee shop. To my surprise, there wasn't a lot of profanity. Neither the people on the train, the cops in the coffee shop, nor the man speaking to the newspaper seller were swearing.
The only place where I heard it was from a group of tough looking young men hanging in front of the McDonald's at the Chicago and State Street red line stop. This McDonalds seems to be a gathering place for people on the margins of society. There are street vendors hawking counterfeit bags, homeless people peddling for some spare change, and groups of teenagers that should be in school but are truant. Here the F- bombs were flying and the testosterone levels high. The corner feels dangerous to me. I always remain alert there, expecting violence at any moment. It's a visible stop, though, with very high traffic, so perhaps actual violence is minimal. I wasn't surprised that this location rang with profanity.
Teenagers do have a unique way of speaking, but not as "valley"girl, or "surfer dude" as many would think. That's a stereotype. Granted, the teenagers I deal with on a daily basis are attending school and not hanging on street corners, but while they'll sometimes say,
"Dude, I don't get why I have to learn physics,"
they more often will say,
"This is really a myth based on the Egyptian story of Horus" (whispered during Christmas Eve mass) "and I might decide to be atheist."
Provocative? Yes. Defying stereotype? Yes and no, because to be a teenager is to question what you've accepted without a doubt before. Anything different would be suspect. I haven't yet written a teenage character, but if I do, you can bet you'll know their age not based on the "dude" dialogue, but on the fresh take on life that they bring to the table.
It's easier for me to write dialogue than scenery, and I think this is because it's active. When two people are firing words back and forth at each other, ideas are conveyed. It propels the story forward. Getting each character's personal voice down is a challenge, but worth the time spent making each sound the way they should.
I'm currently writing a manuscript that contains a lot of characters--most intelligent and some quite evil. Their dialogue is bouncing around the pages, and I'm really enjoying it. And, no, none have yet used any profanity.
Already. Time to make resolutions and say good bye to the old. The year. The decade. Time to start anew. At my age, resolutions seem like a waste of effort. My bad habits are so deeply entrenched they seem like canyons. Most days. But I'm still hopeful...
When I was in college, I put off writing assignments until the night before they were due. Then I'd stay up all night to complete them. I didn't know I was a writer then. Writing was just something I had to do to pass. Writers were people inspired by God. Or genetics. Creatures driven to put words on paper. Individuals with something to say.
Years later, when I was hired to attend and report on meetings, I put off writing until my boss said he wanted the finished product "on my desk tomorrow." Then I'd stay up all night getting the job done. I still wasn't a writer. Writing reports was just something I did to collect my pay.
Then in 1980, I discovered that writers are simply people who write—me by that time. And published writers—authors, people I'd thought of as divinely inspired—were people who learn how to write well and persist at it until someone at a publishing house notices.
Thirty years (Thirty years!) and nine novels later, I can't imagine any work but writing. But I still seem to put off doing it until I can't any more. I still resolve to start sooner. I still procrastinate.
But I resolve to try harder. To start sooner. To write more and write more often.
This appeared last week on Patti Abbott's blog, but I thought I'd republish it here.
TRUE CONFESSION: I do remember the Sixties.
Especially 1968. That was the turning point in my political “coming of age.” I was in college in Philadelphia on April 4th when Martin Luther King was assassinated. I watched as riots consumed the inner cities. I was saddened and disappointed -- as a teenager growing up in Washington DC, I’d gone to plenty of concerts at the Howard theater where blacks and whites grooved to Motown artists together. I actually thought we were moving towards a color-blind society -- I was young and idealistic then). So the frustration and rage expressed through the riots was – in a way– confusing.
Two months later I understood. My college boyfriend had been tapped to head up the national “Youth for Bobby Kennedy” program. I was really excited; I planned on dropping out for a semester to work with him. For some reason I couldn’t sleep the night of June 5th and turned on my radio. Bobby had been shot just after winning the California Democratic primary. He died the next day. So much for the Youth for Kennedy campaign.
Sadness soon gave way to bitterness. The country was falling apart. Over the years some of our brightest lights had been snuffed out. Internationally our government seemed to be supporting the “bad guys.” And underlying it all was an unwinnable war that – perversely -- was escalating and risking the lives of my peers. I began to question why I should work through the system, especially when the system wasn’t working for us.
I wasn’t alone. Plenty of others yearned for change. Fundamental change that would rebuild our society and culture. The next few years were tumultuous and volatile, but in the final analysis, we failed. Maybe the task was impossible -- how many Utopias exist? Sure, there were cultural shifts. But political change, in the sense of what to expect from our leaders and our government? Not so much. The era left me with unresolved feelings. What should we have done differently? Are all progressive movements doomed to fail?
At this point you’re probably wondering what this has to do with writing a thriller. And you’d be right. It’s never been my intention to write a political screed. I am a storyteller whose stories, hopefully, you can’t put down. I realized that if I was going to write about the Sixties, I needed a premise that would hook readers in the present, regardless of how much they know or remembered about the Sixties.
I found that premise in a film. Do you remember SIGNS, starring Mel Gibson? It came out in 2002, and I thought the first half was the most riveting film I’d ever seen. Gibson’s family is being stalked, but they don’t know who and they don’t know why. The second half of the film, when we discover it’s just your garden variety aliens, was an enormous let down. Putting a face, an identity, on fear reduces its power. But NOT knowing who’s targeting you -- or why -- is the most frightening thing I can imagine.
So that’s what happens to Lila Hilliard, a thirty-something professional who’s come home to Chicago for the holidays. Someone has killed her family, and now they’re after her. She has no idea who or why. As she desperately tries to figure it out, she finds wisps of clues that lead back to her parents’ activities forty years ago. In the process she discovers that her parents were not the people she thought.
The relationship between the past and present, the consequences of events that occurred years ago fascinate me. I also love stories that plunge characters into danger and make them draw on resources they didn’t know they had. SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE was the way to combine all those themes. Writing the book was an exorcism of sorts, a way to make peace with the past. And while I enjoyed reliving the past, I loved putting it behind me even more. I’m finally ready to move on.
I hope you enjoy the read.
I already posted about the book trailer -- it has actual footage from the 1968 Democratic Convention which I re-edited into a montage. If you haven't seen it, you can find it here.
PS Thanks to all the hardy souls who braved the elements and came to the Book Stall yesterday!
As those of you who follow me on Facebook know, I often post questions. Part of the reason is that I find the whole social media thing a little me-me-me oriented, and as a good Midwestern boy, I was raised to find relentlessly talking about myself impolite. But the larger part of the reason is that I'm fascinated by the answers.
Yesterday, my question was this: "What's a book or movie that you've read or watched over and over? Ready, Go."
As of this writing, 49 people have responded. Here are some of the big winners, mentioned multiple times:
To Kill A Mockingbird (book and film)
The Star Wars Trilogy (the real one, not the one for the kiddies)
The Last of the Mohicans (film)
The Lord of the Rings (films)
Catcher in the Rye
North by Northwest
The Godfather
The Shawshank Redemption
Mystic River
This is, at first glance, one weird ass list.
But the more I look at it, the more sense I see. These are all big titles, by which I don’t mean so much that they made a lot of money, though they did, or that they were sweeping in scope, though most of them were.
No, the bigness I mean here is something else. It’s an ineffable sort of bigness. A sense that the story has weight, heft. Something that will endure.
That makes sense, of course, since my question was about books and movies that people have enjoyed multiple times. But as a writer, it’s also an interesting and daunting thing to recognize.
Something made these big. It didn’t just happen. A quality in the idea, or in the telling, or both, took these beyond the norm.
The vast majority of books and movies come out, live their day, and fade into the background. They aren’t lost, but they aren’t likely to get three or four mentions on a list like this. They aren’t likely to haunt the collective imagination of a wide group of people.
If I have a point, I suppose it’s this—I wonder if, as writers, this is a worthwhile test to apply to our own work. It would be a painful one, no question. This is a scary ass hurdle to put before yourself while you’re trying to create something from nothing.
But maybe it’s a good one. Maybe it can help. Maybe, if nothing else, aiming for bigness has value.
Meanwhile, I’d love to see more answers to this question. What book have you read a number of times? What movie can you always watch again?
I just returned from Bouchercon 2010 the annual mystery convention. My first writers conference was Bouchercon when it was here in Chicago. I remember finding the web page online, seeing the list of authors--many that I admired and read voraciously, and scanning the panels page.
That conference sticks in my memory, mostly because it was my first, the weather in Chicago was beautiful (I rode my bike down the lake to get there) and many friends that I made there have stayed friends. Some were other, aspiring writers at the time that are now published and working on their second or third novels, and others were readers that loved the same authors that I did.
What is fun about these conferences now is the fact that they take me away from my computer and writer mode and back into fan mode. I learn about new authors, new stories, and get to be a fan again. For the first couple of days I'm thrilled to be out and about.
What's tough about the conferences is the flip side: that I usually don't have time to write. By the last day I'm usually holed up in my room pounding out a few pages. Writing keeps me balanced, happy, and gives me a chance to go wherever my imagination takes me. I love it. Can't wait to do more of it, and am thankful to be able to do it as a living. For that last bit I thank the readers.
A while ago I blogged on my web page about the differences between lawyers and writers. I feel I have some perspective on this, having been both now for a while, as are my fellow bloggers here at the Outfit: David Ellis and Laura Caldwell.
My first conference ever was Bouchercon Chicago. I dutifully paid my fee and had a wonderful time attending panels and wandering the halls, watching the famous writers casually stroll by. In between panels I did what most lawyers do during the day--I went to the nearby Starbucks to get a shot of the caffeine that propelled me through my day. When the evening rolled around I also did what most lawyers do: I headed home to catch a quick bite in order to see the kids, put them to bed, and then begin working again. For the lawyer, billable hours are what you strive for, and those hours must get recorded no matter what else you did that day. No rest for the weary.
Little did I know that the writers were in the hotel bar, having a great time. It would have never occurred to me to go to the bar--if I did, how would I stay sharp enough to bill those late night hours?
The other thing I've noticed is planning. Now, many writers I know are great planners, but they don't engage in it the way lawyers do. Many lawyers plan like extreme athletes: they organize weeks, even months in advance. Writers? Not so much. Arranging lunch during a business trip can be a last minute affair, but it's safe to say if the meal gets arranged the writer will be calm and far less stressed out than their legal counterpart. I've been known to get texts from writers suggesting a quick drink one hour in the future! If that had been a lawyer he would have arranged the drink a week in advance and sent me a link to not only the bar, but reviews and a google map.
But there is one thing that is absolutely the same between the professions--networking. Whether done in the hotel bar or a law firm conference room, meeting others in your profession is still the best way to further your career, make friends in the profession, and learn the ropes. This is an important fact that many people forget--writers and lawyers alike. There is no substitute for that face to face meeting.
And, one other thing--both lawyers and writers can be fascinating company. They're intellectual, smart, curious, and often quite funny. I love hanging out with both. They have a curiosity about what make people tick and most have insightful views into human nature. Perhaps this is why so many lawyers write, and why so many writers are able to make characters in their books leap from the page, but whatever it is, let me just say there is no better way to spend an evening!
One of the best days of a novelist's year is the one we print out the finished book. It's great fun the first time you finish, but it's all the sweeter after you've revised it, sent it to your editor and agent, listened to their notes, wrestled with the changes they suggest--which always improve the quality of the work, but that's not the same as saying they're fun--revised it again, and, finally, printed it again.
For me, yesterday was that day. Book the Fifth, tentatively titled FADE OUT, is sitting on my kitchen table, markered up with polishes and minor changes and notes. I've got a couple more days of work on it, and then I'll send it off.
In celebration, I thought I'd post the first few pages. I've not shared it publicly before--hope you enjoy.
---
He was naked and cold, stiff with it, his veins ice and frost.Muscles carved hard, skin rippled with goosebumps, tendons drawn tight, body scraped and shivering.Something rolled over his legs, velvet soft and shocking.He gasped and pulled seawater into his lungs, the salt scouring his throat.Gagging, he pushed forward, scrabbling at dark stones.The ocean tugged, but he fought the last ragged feet crawling like a child.
As the wave receded it drew pebbles rattling across each other like bones, like dice, like static.A seagull shrieked its loneliness.
His lungs burned, and he leaned on his elbows and retched, face down, liquid pouring in ropes from open mouth, salt water and stomach acid.A lot, and then less, and finally he could spit the last drops, suck in quick shallow lungfuls of air that smelled of rotting fish.
In.Cough it out.In.Out.There.There.
His hands weren’t his.Paler than milk and trembling with a panicky violence.He couldn’t make them stop.He couldn’t remember ever being so cold.
What was he doing here?
Like waking from sleepwalking, he couldn’t remember.It didn’t matter.The cold was filling him, killing him, and if he wanted to live he had to move.
He rolled onto his side.An apocalyptic beach, water frothing beneath a shivering sky, wind a steady howl over the shoals, whipping the sawgrass to strain its roots.Not another person as far as he could see.
Had to move.His muscles screamed.He staggered upright and tried a tentative step.His thoughts were signals banged down frozen wires; after an eon, his legs responded.His feet were bloody.
One step.Another.The wind a lash against his dripping skin.The beach sloped hard upward.Each step brought muscles a little more under his control.The motion warming them, oh god, warming them to razors and nails, his blood gone acid.He concentrated on breathing, each inhale a marker.Make it to the next one.Five more.Don’t quit until twenty.Goddamn you, breathe.
The boulders the ocean had broken to pebbles gave way to those it hadn’t yet, broad stones with moss marking the leeward side spaced with pools of dark water where spiny things waited.He stumbled from one rock to the next until he reached the top.
As lonely and blasted a stretch of earth as any he’d seen.Black rocks and foaming sea and sky marked only by the passage of birds.Only.Wait.
He blinked, tried to focus.Two thin dirt tracks led to a splotch of color, a boxy shape, a car.A car!
Legs cramping.Breath shallow.He couldn’t force his lungs to take.To draw enough.Air.The shivering easing.Bad sign.His feet tangled and he fell.Inches from his eyes, pale grass spotted and marked by the appetite of insects.The ground wasn’t so bad.Almost soft.Easy now.Easy to go.
No.
Crawl.Elbows scraping.Knees.Forearms going blue.Blue berries, blue water, blue eyes.
He reached the trunk, pulled himself up, the metal burning cold.Slouched his way to the door and bent stiff fingers around the handle.
Please.
The door opened.He maneuvered around it and fell into the smell of leather.His legs wouldn’t move.It took both arms to pull them in, one at a time.Gripping the burnished handle, he yanked the door shut.The wind’s laughter died.
There were keys in the ignition.He fumbled for them.They danced away, jingling.Come on, come on, come—
The engine roared to life.
The man turned the heat all the way up and collapsed against the seat.
#
A soft time.Warm air making his body ache and tingle and finally ease.For awhile the man stared at the ceiling, head lolled back.Content to watch the drifting spots in his eyes.Tiny floating things that he could only see when he didn’t try to look at them.He didn’t think about where he was, or why, or who the car belonged to and when they might return, or whether they would be happy to find a naked man dripping on the leather seats.
Just cowered like an animal in his den, the doors locked and the heat blasting.
After a long time—how long he had no idea—he felt himself coming back.Surfacing like he was waking from a nap.Words and questions swirling like leaves blown from an October tree, tossed and swirling and never touching the ground.
Gasoline.That was one.Gasoline.What did…
Oh.He straightened, rubbed at his eyes.His muscles weak and languid.The fuel gauge read almost empty.He switched off the ignition.
So.Where was he?
The car was nice.A BMW, according to the logo in the steering wheel, and well-outfitted, supple leather and wood-grain inlays.A pair of Nikes rested on the floorboards on his side.The passenger seat was buried in maps and takeout bags and a soda cup and empty blister packs of ephedrine and gas station receipts and a worn U.S. road atlas and a fifth of Jack Daniels with an inch left in it.
Hello.
He opened the whiskey, swallowed half the remainder in a gulp.It burned all the way down in the best possible way.
Now that it wasn’t killing him, the world outside the glass had a kind of desolate beauty.Lonely, though.Other than the narrow two-track the car was parked on, there was no sign of people in either direction.And while he hadn’t been fully conscious the whole time, he hadn’t seen anyone since he’d climbed in the car.
So then…
How had he gotten here?
Where the fuck was here and what was he doing in it?
Easy.Don’t panic.The worst is over.You’re safe.Just think about what happened.How you ended up here.You…you…
Nothing.
He closed his eyes, jammed them shut.Opened them again.Nothing had changed.Had he been drinking?Drugged?Maybe.So retrace your steps.
You were…
You were…
It was like that terrible moment he sometimes had waking up in a strange environment, in the dark of a friend’s living room, or in a hotel somewhere, that period where his brain hadn’t come online yet and everything was automatic, just panic and readiness and fear, the tension of waiting for certainty to click, for normalcy to fall like a warm blanket.That moment always passed.It passed, and he remembered where he we was and what he was doing there.
Right?
He set the whiskey down, gripped the steering wheel with both hands.Focus.Focus!
Outside, the wind whistled.The trees looked like they’d been on fire, dark black trunks spreading to broad limbs marked by a handful of stubborn orange and yellow leaves, the last embers.
Okay.Easy.Something must have happened.An after-effect of hypothermia, maybe, some kind of shock.Don’t try to force it.Tease it, coax it out.Like the floaters in your eyes, you can’t drag this front and center.Come at it sideways.
Your brain seems to work.Use it.Where are you?
A rocky beach.Cold.He could taste the salt on his lips, knew this was an ocean.Which one?
The question was crazy, but he ignored that, just focused on answering it.Let one thing lead to the next.The dashboard clock read 7:42.The sun was only a brighter shade of gray above the waves, but it was higher than before.Which made it morning, which made that east, which made this the Atlantic.Assuming he was still in the United States.Yes.The road atlas.
Okay.The Atlantic.And cold and rocky and sparsely inhabited.Maine, maybe?
Why not.Roll with that.“This is Maine.”His voice cracked.He coughed, then continued.“I’m in a BMW.It’s morning.”
Nothing.
His eyes fell on a bank envelope curled in the cup-holder.Inside was a stack of twenties, a couple hundred dollars.Under the envelope there was something silver that turned out to be a stainless steel Rolex Daytona.Nice watch.Very nice watch.
What else.He leaned over to open the glove box.There was an owner’s manual, three pens, a pack of Altoids, a sealed box of No-Doz, and a large black gun.
He stared.An owner’s manual, three pens, a pack of Altoids, a sealed box of No-Doz, and a large black gun.A semiautomatic, he noticed, then wondered how he could know that and not remember where he had been before he woke up on the beach. Or worse, even his own—
Stop.Don’t go there.If you don’t face it, maybe it’s not true.
The trunk.
He stepped out.The wind whipped his naked body, and his skin tightened into goosebumps.His balls tried to retract into his belly.He stepped gingerly to the back of the car on bloody toes.
Would there be a body in there?Handcuffed and shot in the head, maybe, or rolled in a carpet, hair and boots spilling out.
No: it held only a set of jumper cables and a plastic shopping bag with a red bulls-eye on it.He opened the bag.A pair of designer jeans, a white undershirt with pits stained yellow, crumpled boxer-briefs, wadded-up socks.Someone’s laundry.
He looked around again.In for a penny.
He shook out the underwear, stepped into it.The jeans were soft and worn, expensive-looking.Too fancy for Target, and dirty to boot.Maybe the Target purchases had been a change of clothes.He wriggled into the shirt then slammed the trunk.Climbed back in the car, the air inside wonderful, stiflingly warm.The sour smell of feet rose as he wriggled into the sneakers.
Then he sat and stared out the window.
How had he known that red bulls-eye was the Target logo?How had he known the watch was a Rolex?Or that Jack Daniels was whiskey, and that he liked whiskey?
How was it that he had been able to count the money, knew Maine was in the northeast, could identify the symptoms of hypothermia, he could do all of that and more, but he couldn’t remember his own goddamn—
He reached for the owner’s manual in the glovebox, careful not to touch the gun.The manual was bound in black leather.Inside the front cover was a registration card and proof of insurance.Both in the name of David Hayden, resident of 6723 Wandermere Road, Malibu, California.
Huh.
He climbed out of the car, walked to the back.California plates.
Who wandered away from a sixty-thousand dollar car, unlocked, keys in the ignition?Where would they go in the middle of nowhere?
And the clothes.The shoes fit.The jeans felt familiar.
Calling yourself David Hayden is a start.Try it on, just like the jeans.
David got back in the car, put on his watch, then cranked the ignition and pulled away.
So yesterday I sent the draft of my new book to my editor.
This is a very good thing. But it’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about what happens now.
My typical process when I finish a book is to tuck it in a drawer for as long as possible, then read it in one sitting. Then I combine my own notes with feedback from buddies, writer friends, and most particularly my agent and editor, in order to edit the thing.
But while in one sense I'm highly focused on the book, at the same time, something else is happening. I'm beginning to let go of it.
This isn’t a simple process, a flip of a switch. When you’ve lived with a story for a year, it takes time for it to drift from your head, which needs to happen in order to leave space for the next one. So during that time, besides editing, I like to read a lot. I mean a lot.
I read all kinds of books, in every genre. But during these periods I focus on books that will inspire me. Not novels I want to emulate per se, but books that take the broad genre I write in and do something innovative with it. That do more than just present a thrilling tale—they do it in an interesting way, or put a twist on it, or cross the border into other genres.
Novels like these are palate cleansers. They perk up my brain, get it receptive to new ideas and new directions.
For example, yesterday I reread WATER FOR ELEPHANTS by Sara Gruen. It’s a lovely book, one of those that you can heartily and universally recommend. And it’s a hell of a palate cleanser, because it takes what is at heart a traditional boy-meets-girl and weaves in a wonderfully realized world, some compelling musings on growing old, and healthy doses of cross-genre material. The result is magic.
Thing is, of course, it’s not easy to find books that are at once innovative and commercial. That’s the sweet spot for me during this period: much as I love David Foster Wallace and David Mitchell, much as I dig postmodernism, or the textual play of a book like HOUSE OF LEAVES, it doesn’t work as a palate cleanser. I need books that balance invention and accessibility, that startle and surprise while also seeming familiar.
That, in the Hollywood parlance, do the same thing, only different.
And since I’m part of this wonderful community, I thought I might ask you for some recommendations. What have you read that did this well?
I’m especially interested in books that have a strong commercial appeal, but they don’t need to be straight-ahead thrillers—just a hell of a tale that’s also got something to say. Books like WATER FOR ELEPHANTS, or THE STAND, or THE HUNGER GAMES.
What have you read that you couldn't put down--and couldn't forget?
