Best Protagonists--Are they all in the past?

by Jamie Freveletti

I'm participating in a "Best Protagonists" debate over at the International Thriller Writer's blog, "The Big Thrill" and started wondering about past versus present protagonists. So far we've been fairly consistent in picking the obvious classic and unbeatable characters: Sherlock Holmes, Adam Daglieish, and Elizabeth Bennett. But note, these are all classic characters. In reading the responses I thought, what about the classics made them that way? Characterization? Voice? Or is it just that familiarity and retelling over the decades have made them become like friends to us?


But familiarity is not always the ticket. A teen in my household that I'll call the "resident guitar player" so as to preserve some of his anonymity said to me: "How come when Dad was fifteen he got the Rolling Stones and Cream, and I got the pop drivel I hear now?"


I countered with some of the bands from my formative dance years: New Order, The Cure, Talking Heads and REM. He thought about that a moment and said, "But I'm talking about rock classics. Bryne became a composer and the other guys weren't hard rock. Stones and Zeppelin are still discussed more on the radio."

And funny thing is, I agree to some extent (and I'll bet David Bryne, formerly of the Talking Heads would agree as well) that the bands that he's mentioning managed to stay together long enough to create a huge body of work that keep hitting the airwaves year after year. The other bands broke up, and their musicians went their own ways. But, like a great protagonist, a great band must have not only longevity but something so unique, so unusual, that it catches the imagination of generation after generation. I think the Rolling Stones's music will definitely bridge the years, and Sherlock Holmes already has.


But will the current batch- and by this I think I'll limit the thought to those writers that have ten or more books under their belts so that we can see a pattern, do as well?


Or in music terms, the bands that stayed together to create music year after year: the Pearl Jams, Madonnas and Red Hot Chili Peppers of the music scene post 1980?


It's exciting to think that the literature and music of this very moment could become a "classic" in the eyes of generations to come.


I certainly hope so. There is some great stuff out there. And on that note, I'm turning on my ipod to play "Burning Down the House" and "In Between Days."

Amazon vs. The World

by Libby Hellmann

Remember the battle between Betamax and VHS a few decades ago? Remember how VHS won? Well, as many of you know, there's a new battle today in the ebook world: Amazon vs. ePub. For those of you who have been in a cave, ebook formats roughly break down into the Mobifile format, which Amazon uses, vs the epub format, which everyone else (Barnes and Noble, Sony, Google, Kobo, etc) uses.

For a while now, I've been saying that, unlike the Betamax-VHS struggle, Amazon is going to win this one. Why? Because their inventory is unparalleled, and their interface is the smoothest around. I really wanted to like Google, since they made it possible for independent booksellers sell ebooks, but their interface is lousy. Then we began hearing that Apple was going to restrict the Kindle app on the iPhone and iPad -- previously it was free -- and people started to say, "You see? Amazon is on the decline."

Well, think again. SHELF AWARENESS today reports news from blogger Chuck Toporek:

Will bookstores eventually be able to sell Kindle books? Cnet reported that Amazon might be working on a way to circumvent Apple's new rules on subscriptions by utilizing the Kindle app for iOS...Bookstores, authors, retailers, bloggers and other website owners will be able to offer Kindle books from their own sites, let their readers start enjoying the full text of these books instantly, and earn affiliate fees for doing so....Toporek suggested "the reason we haven't heard Jeff Bezos screaming about this recent change to the IAP rules is because Amazon isn't worried. They have a solution already in beta testing.

Read the complete post here.

Interesting times we live in...

Went to the Idea Store....

by Michael Dymmoch

...the other day— Er... the CVS pharmacy. I was getting instant prints made at the Kodak kiosk when I noticed U.S. Passport wallets for sale at the camera counter.



Then, along with my prints, I received some prints left by a previous customer—passport photos, judging by the size. Which gave me an idea for a story about a devious or desperate person who finds someone else’s passport photos in a film kiosk and notices the passport wallets conveniently for sale and a security camera recording the activities in the store, and...

My reprints cost me $3.82. There was no charge for the story idea.


On another note, my Cannon G10 is way too convenient—fits in a pocket so it goes almost everywhere with me. I use it to record really cool stuff:








and odd signs,

















and what I call visual puns:

(pigeon & scare pigeon)








Great fun.

But then, I'm easily amused.

Selling an Expensive Item: Does it Translate to The Book Industry?

by Jamie Freveletti

I spent the weekend in Florida, speaking with publishing professionals, editors of the books section of the local newspaper, and other writers. We, of course, all discussed the rise of the e-book and the change it will bring in the industry. But it was a discussion with a man not in the book industry that made me think.

I visited one afternoon with a writer friend whose husband sells high end merchandise. In particular, grand pianos. These beautiful musical instruments are costly, easily selling in the high five figures and above, and are geared to a wealthy clientele. We talked about how one ships the instruments, tunes them, and runs the stores that display them. He commented that not all the franchisees were profiting, especially in this current economic climate. When I asked him what advice he would have for a struggling franchisee he said:

"They should think about what the ideal piano store would look like, how it would function, who would be drawn to the store, and how one would provide stellar service. Then he should look at the stores in his control and strive to make them this way. Not in two years, not in six months, but in two weeks or shorter if humanly possible."

It wasn't until much later, on the flight home, that I got to thinking about what he said. What he seemed to be saying was: "visualize your ideal situation, then make it happen."

Except he was really saying something a bit more concrete. If one took his advice, one would have to not only analyze the store under their control, but then take the steps to make it happen.

It's the last part that writers often stumble upon. Dreaming of the ideal situation is easy and fun. Creating the manuscript that will make it happen requires dedication and time. In short, keep writing. The writer, whether faced with a hardcover, paperback, ipad, nook or kindle, needs to remember that she must make the story happen. Without that story, the career doesn't exist. Without it, all the marketing in the world will not provide long term sales.

And isn't that the best part anyway? The creation? It's a magical thing that all writers love to do.

The Book Machine

by Libby Hellmann

We're all talking about ebooks, the future of publishing, and everything else. (Btw, this is a not-to-be-missed blogpost. So is this by Kris Rusch.)

But what about this? Would you buy a book from this machine?



What do you think?

BREACH OF TRUST is now on sale

I am recounting this story in case I am not around when the dust settles. If some accident should befall me, as they say, and I am unable to testify, I want to have some account of what I did and why. I will not try to justify my actions. I could tell you that they made me do it, but that's hardly the point, and it may not be entirely accurate.

I won't lie to you, which is to say I will not deliberately mislead you. I will give you the most accurate account of events I can muster, but I can't promise it will be the truth. Truth is a matter of perspective, and if you don't believe me, then just watch how this whole thing plays out. Everyone who is a part of this story will tell a different version, when their time comes. In most of those versions, the hero will be whoever is telling the story.

In many of those versions, no doubt, the villain will be me.

Thus begins my new novel, BREACH OF TRUST, the one that is kinda-sorta based on the prosecution of Rod Blagojevich. Here is the Chicago Tribune's review of BREACH OF TRUST.

You can buy the book here. And while I'm at it, I have a new website, where you can read another excerpt from the book or anything else related to the novel or me, for that matter.

Thanks for letting me plug! Just leaving Scottsdale and Poisoned Pen, now off to Houston and San Francisco....

Bad Advice. Some breathtakingly bad, and some just....weird.

by Jamie Freveletti

I spent the weekend at the Love is Murder conference and gave a presentation about writing query letters. We discussed bad advice that we'd received and I mentioned the concept of "selective hearing."

It's important to cultivate selective hearing in this industry, because there are those that insist on giving the worst advice possible--all under the umbrella of being helpful, of course. This is where a writer needs to learn how to hear the good and throw out the bad.

The Bad:

1. Bad: Telling a Thriller writer with an International thriller manuscript to give up on it and "Write a cozy from the perspective of a mom in a Chicago suburb."

I got this from a well known editor in town for a writing conference. For a reading fee, she had accepted the first chapters of manuscripts to read and edit. When my turn came, she began with one good suggestion to keep the tone dark (it was fluctuating), but kept claiming that the story (a plane plummeting to the ground) didn't include people screaming. When I pointed out the lines where the people are screaming so hard that they lose their breath, she closed her eyes for a moment and put the paper down. It was then that I saw the notes from her assistant. She hadn't read the manuscript, was reciting someone else's suggestions, and that person clearly hadn't read the chapter very closely. I think she was embarrassed. I had a certain sympathy, as a partner in a law firm I'd had underlings mess up projects that I'd delegated as well, but she kept soldiering bravely on, reading the assistant's notes that included the bad advice above. Were I her I would have asked me to give her a few moments to "reread" the chapter and then address it again, but I think she didn't want to appear negligent. I took the suggestion to fix the tone in the piece and ignored the rest. I don't live in the suburbs, don't have a mind for cozys, and knew I was onto something with this novel. (Running From the Devil sold on preempt, has won several awards, and became an international bestseller).

2. Bad: Go ahead and send the entire manuscript unsolicited to agents. They'll be curious enough to read it.

This reportedly came from a creative writing coach who runs paid classes in how to sell your manuscript. A smart writer in a conference who had taken his class came up to ask me what I thought of the advice. She seemed wary of it. I told her it was dead wrong, never send an agent a full without first being asked to do so. Will an agent read an unsolicited full? Not likely. Will they read the first page? Not if it's an attachment because they may unwittingly download a virus. Will they delete it completely? Yes. Will they toss a printed manuscript that is unsolicited? Yes, but a few might read the first page before they do. However, I don't think they'll be disposed to represent you, and you could have gotten the same result by sending a one page letter and the first page. Moral of the story: follow the guidelines.

3. Bad: Give an agent an exclusive right to read your manuscript when at query stage.

I had one agent tell me at a conference that she wanted to read my manuscript, but demanded an exclusive six weeks to do so. I told her the truth: that it was already out on queries to six other agents, and that I couldn't, but I understood if she declined. Within a second she said what I would have under the same circumstances: "Oh, okay, well can you send it anyway?"
And why not? She's a businesswoman, as am I. No one has six weeks to give you the inside track on a hot manuscript--either grab it and beat out the competition, or be left behind. I liked her better after she asked for it despite the multiple submission, and while she doesn't currently represent me, I still think she did the right thing by throwing aside the exclusivity request. I'm not a fan of agents that demand exclusive reads before they've even gotten the query. After the query is accepted and they ask for a full, I see nothing wrong with giving them two weeks to read it, but not much more. It's likely they will not finish in that time, but you have been fair and after two weeks can continue your agent search with a free mind.

The Neutral

4. Neutral: Write what you know.

I wanted to put this under "bad" advice, because none of us really write what we know. Thriller novelists have not been pursued by international consortium of spies, cozy writers don't find dead bodies in the tea room, and mystery writers don't solve serial murders on a daily basis. However, there is a kernel of truth in this one in that you should either know about the field in which you write or at least research it enough to learn about it, so I consider it neutral, as opposed to bad, advice.

5. Neutral: Hire a book doctor.

A book doctor, if they're good, can probably do a lot to improve your novel. I'm neutral on this advice, because a. they're expensive, and b. eventually you'll need to do this on your own anyway, so what better time to learn? However, I have some friends who used book doctors with success and, when done right, they can be a help.

I'd be interested to hear the bad and neutral advice given to other writers. I'll be writing about good advice in my next post. There's a lot more of that, thank goodness, than the bad.

Two Sixties Stories

by Libby Hellmann

Following are two stories from the Sixties. Both are true. An abbreviated version of one is in SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE, but the other has an ending I just discovered, so it’s not in the book.

I lived in Georgetown near here during what I now call “The Summer of My Discontent.” I shared an apartment with four other people above a movie theater at 28th and M. (Both are gone now). I was working at an underground newspaper, selling them on the streets, and generally trying to make sense of the world. Next door to the movie theater was a head shop run by a weird – but sweet -- guy named Bobby. He wore black all the time, before there were Goths. The scent of Patchouli oil hung in the air.

I used to drop in every once in a while. Often two of his friends, Donna and Linda, would be there. They were a couple: Linda had long brown hair and appeared to be kind of spacey. Donna had short blond hair and wore a leather jacket, even during July. They were cool, though, in the way that everyone was cool back then, and we’d smoke a joint, laugh a lot, and discuss what a shitty place the world was becoming. Then, around August, they disappeared. After not seeing them for a week or so, I asked Bobby where they went. He hemmed and hawed and wouldn’t tell me. Finally, he did.

Donna used to be Don, he said. And was going through the process of becoming a woman, but hadn’t completed it when she met Linda. They fell in love, and because of that, they jointly (no pun intended) agreed that Donna should turn back into Don. So they hustled some money from someone and were off to California to reverse Donna’s transformation.

I never saw them again. But I still think about them.

The other story is more political. As I said, I worked at an underground newspaper in DC for a summer. I was just a flunkie, not even considered staff. But there was a photographer, Sal, who was in and out all the time. He took photos at every demonstration, interview, and event that could be considered “alternative.” I actually had a crush on him at one point. (Yes, I know. Very bourgeois).

At any rate, the editor of the newspaper was very cautious about trusting people, almost to the point of paranoia. He always thought the paper was being infiltrated by CIA or FBI types (these were the days before COINTELPRO proved the FBI was indeed infiltrating radical groups) At the time, I thought his paranoia was exaggerated. Triggered perhaps by an inflated sense of self-importance.

I left at the end of the summer to hitchhike across country (That’s a different story), but I heard a few months later that Sal had left too, and was off to Paris. He stayed there for a while, then disappeared. I never knew what happened to him. Then, about a month ago, well after I finished SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE, I Googled some of the people from the newspaper. Suddenly a photo of Sal popped up. It turns out he had been featured in Secrets: The CIA's War at Home by Angus MacKenzie.

Yup. You guessed it. Sal had been a CIA agent, recruited when he was in college in Chicago. The entire time he was taking photos for the paper, he was reporting to his CIA handler. Eventually, I think the editor suspected him. Maybe he even confronted him, which precipitated his abrupt departure.

It doesn’t end there. According to MacKenzie’s book, Sal went to Paris, befriended Philip Agee, himself a former CIA agent turned whistleblower, and fiddled around with the typewriter on which Agee was writing his story. Agee discovered it, and Sal fled. From what I understand he changed his name and now lives in Southern California.

True stories. Really. I mean, who could make this stuff up?

Was justice served? Detective John Burge Sentencing

By Laura Caldwell

Last week, Detective Jon Burge was sentenced to 4 1/2 years in prison for perjury and obstruction of justice. As nearly every Chicagoan knows, Detective Burge, while reputed to be a very good police officer in many respects, also brutally tortured suspects at Area 2 on a regular basis. But by the time Burge’s tactics were revealed and confirmed, the statute of limitations for bringing torture charges against him had passed. A civil case against him resulted in a hung jury. Detective Burge was finally fired, and he retired to Florida on his city pension.

However, many in Chicago continued to demand that justice be served, not the least of who were the victims of Detective Burge’s tactics. Yet the only thing he could be brought to court on was obstruction of justice and perjury. In essence, the allegations against Burge were that he lied about torture in earlier cases. Detective Burge was found guilty, and Judge Lefkow (whose husband and mother were tragically killed by a former litigant) sentenced him to 4 1/2 years, saying, “…the jury did not believe you, and I must agree. I did not either.”

After the verdict, Mark Clements, someone who was tortured by Burge as a teenager, said of the sentence, “It’s outrageous,” and “It's not justice.” I know Mark personally and respect him immensely, but I have to disagree. The recommended sentence for Burge, via federal guidelines, was roughly 2 years. By giving him 4 ½ years, Judge Lefkow more than doubled that sentence. If she had given him, say, 10 years, 15 years or 30, as many suggested, she would likely have been overturned. And then Detective Burge would have once again escaped any ramifications for his actions.

The fact of the matter is, in our society, we must pay attention to the established rules and procedures. If Jon Burge had done that, he would not have caused all the pain he did. So if we insist that Jon Burge should have followed the law, we must still follow the law too. And that law says if you’re convicted of perjury, the suggested sentence is 2 years. Sentences must be commensurate with the crime. By more than doubling Burge’s sentence, Judge Lefkow went as far as she could. We cannot allow Judge Lefkow to go above and beyond the law, any more than we should have let Detective Burge do that.

Marvin Reeves, a good friend of mine and a client of Life After Innocence, was tortured by Burge and his men, and subsequently served 21 years for a crime he didn’t commit. Marvin has been completely exonerated, but he spent many days at the courthouse watching the Burge trial and sentencing. He told me, “Judge Lefkow had to be fair and impartial. That’s her job. If being fair and impartial allowed her to give Burge a thousand years, I think she would have done it, but she had to sentence him according to the guidelines. She did her job. In fact, I think she did a fantastic job.”

The New Covert-One

Our own Jamie Freveletti has some exciting news. Congratulations!

Legacies

by Michael Dymmoch

My editor died recently. Ruth Cavin was an extraordinary person and a standout in her field. Mike Shatzkin, who knew her well, described her as a "great editor and world’s nicest person." Julia Spencer-Fleming, one of Ruth's authors, eloquently expressed how many of us felt about her.

I remember getting Ruth's call, informing me I'd won the Malice Domestic contest. She sounded too young to be an editor, and I'd have thought she was putting me on if I'd told anyone else that I entered the contest. I was too naive, then, to understand what that call meant, but my agent's response was a clue. "Oh. Oh! That's wonderful!" When I finally met Ruth in person, I was amazed—she'd sounded so young!—and reassured that I was in good hands. As an editor, she was very wise and reasonable. When she questioned how I could have a character drown herself in a toilet, I explained how it could happen, and Ruth dropped her objection. She did not, however, relent on matters of good writing.

Ruth didn't start her career as an editor until age 60, after raising three children and having a successful career in public relations. She went to work for Thomas Dunne Books/St Martins Press when she was 70. She was still working at the time of her death; she was 92.

In a sense, her legacy will go on as long as there's a Library of Congress, in the hundreds of books she guided from manuscript to bookshelf. And in the children and grandchildren she was so proud of.

A second legacy was featured, recently, on WTTW's Chicago Tonight. Vivian Maier was a professional nanny and an amateur photographer of extraordinary skill. Her story is amazing—her legacy would have been lost if John Maloof hadn't discovered some of her photos and negatives at an auction of unclaimed storage items. Maloof was so taken with the materials he'd purchased, that he tracked down others who'd bought some of her stuff and bought all of it—over 100,000 negatives as well as prints, cameras, books, hats, and rolls of undeveloped film. Prints of eighty of Maier's amazing photos—mostly of people who caught her interest—are on exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center until April 3. After viewing them, I found myself studying the faces of people I passed on the street, even snapping a few photos.

Finally, The New York Times Magazine recently ran a relevant piece by Rob Walker: GHOSTS IN THE MACHINE: IT'S POSSIBLE TO LIVE FOREVER ON THE INTERNET, WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT.

Other Eyes

by Barbara D'Amato

Marcus Sakey is my new role model. When he posted the first few pages of his new book [Outfit May 19, 2010] I thought what a good idea it was. I would really like to read everybody's first chapter. I'd buy the book anyway, but I like an appetizer. So here is mine--

OTHER EYES [Forge, Jan. 18, 2011]

CHAPTER ONE

Noon
May 29
Chicago Illinois

Interstate 90 rises in Seattle, less than ten blocks from Puget Sound, skirts the Seahawks Stadium, and heads east. It ends in Boston, throwing a tail across Boston Harbor to Logan International Airport. Between Seattle and Boston, it snakes across three thousand and eighty-eight miles, the width of the continent. When it passes through Chicago, it makes a shallow sidestep around the base of Lake Michigan.

In Chicago, Interstate 90 fattens to eight lanes, ten in some places, and frequent heavy-traffic entrances and exits are needed. The speed limit is fifty-five, which few people heed. Three hundred and twenty thousand cars go through The Loop on I90 every day.

Just north of the Loop, the road is eight lanes wide with a median of metal posts supporting wide metal guard rails. The right-of-way is fenced with chain link wire.

The baby had found one of the many breaks in the chain link fence. Attracted by the activity of the cars going past, he pushed through the gap. He was a vigorous little boy who had loved model cars even before he was able to sit up and play with them, and now, at the age of eleven months, had his own fleet of plastic cars and trucks. These real ones were even more exciting.
He wore a small pair of waist-hung jeans, which didn’t stay up very well, since he had no waist. The top of his diaper bulged out on the left side. In the back, the jeans had slipped halfway down his rump. Now he sat up on chubby haunches to watch the cars.

It was just past noon, late May, and quite warm. The grass near the fence had been mowed recently and was comfortable to settle down on. A duo of early white butterflies danced over the baby. However, he thought the cars ahead of him were more interesting than the butterflies. He got back up on hands and knees and trundled toward the highway. His chubby starfish hands made soft plops on the concrete as he crossed the shoulder into the traffic lane.

An eighteen-wheeler roared by, trailing a slipstream of dust and detritus.

The baby sat back, alarmed, then decided that the big truck, as big as a house from his vantage point, was thrilling, not scary. He giggled and chortled as the dust and papers from the roadside danced in the diminishing slipstream.

The baby patted his hands together. Two or three other cars passed. There was a gap, and then a yellow bus went by. The baby laughed again.

The high sun struck a new section of the metal median divider in the middle of the highway, four lanes away from the baby. He cocked his head at the sudden brightness. Then he smiled toothlessly. The bright strip beckoned.

With great decisiveness, the baby started crawling across the highway to the median, right hand-left knee, left hand-right knee, his little jeans riding farther down as he turtled forward.



Brad Oliver had slipped out of New Trier High School after lunch period, even though he was supposed to finish out the day. He thought hanging around just for gym and then study hall was a stupid idea. Brad had wanted his friend Jay to cut with him, but Jay was such a goody-goody he was staying to the end of the school day. Being fair to Jay, Brad admitted that since Jay had European History last hour, his absence would be noted more than Brad’s would.

These last two days were stupid, anyway, in his opinion, with exams Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Why not have a whole week of reading period?

However, Brad’s absence would be noticed. He didn’t fool himself about that.

Brad figured if he could get to Wrigley Field before one p.m. he could get in line for bleacher seat tickets to the Cubs. Otherwise, there wasn’t a chance. Used to be easy, but not since the Cubs went so far last year.

Some things were more important than school.

Jay was going to take the El down to Wrigleyville, but he’d better not get there too late to meet Brad outside. Plus, Jay was bringing Aaron, a senior who was eighteen and could buy beer. Brad would be eighteen next week, but that wasn’t good enough if they got carded. They had it all worked out. Aaron buys a large beer. Jay and Brad buy small Cokes, and they spread the wealth.
His parents were way too strict. A little beer never hurt anybody.

Brad got onto Interstate 94 at the Willow Road interchange. It was about twenty miles from New Trier in Winnetka, north of Chicago, to Wrigley Field. I94 merged into Interstate 90 a few miles north of downtown. His old Chevy wasn’t running as well as he’d like. He pictured the oil as being the consistency and color of hot fudge by now; he really needed to change it this weekend. The brakes had gotten funny lately, too. The pedal went yay far down before hitting pay dirt. The air conditioner hadn’t worked in a year. Brad had all the windows open. He complained about the air conditioner to his friends, but the truth was he loved driving fast with the air rushing in.

But the old tub, which had belonged to his mother, still had a fair amount of go, Brad was pleased to see. He kicked it up to sixty-five in the fifty-five zone. The cop father of a friend of his often said, “We’ll give you five and you can take five,” which meant they didn’t get pissy about ten miles over.

And he’d better push it, he thought, passing a Volvo determined to drive fifty in the middle lane. Arrive at Wrigley after people started lining up and no more cheap seats.



The baby padded determinedly across the rightmost lane of Interstate 90. A Toyota with a Wisconsin license plate sped past in the second lane. The driver briefly had a sense of something pinkish in the road, but it wasn’t in his lane and by the time he was aware of its existence he was past it, without knowing what it was.

As the baby started into the second lane, his jeans worked their way fully off his hips. As he achieved the middle of lane two, the pants slid the rest of the way down and he crawled out of them, padding along now on dusty hands and clean knees.

Unaware of leaving the jeans behind, the baby crossed the second lane to the third.

A carpenter in an S10 pickup, with two hundred one by sixes in the back, intended for a hardwood floor, was doing seventy in the farthest left lane. He saw the baby one lane over and was so shocked that he swerved when he didn’t need to.

A woman driving a Jeep Cherokee in the third lane saw the pickup swerve, saw the baby in her lane, grabbed for her cell phone to call 911 at the same time as she swerved sharply right to avoid him and braked. A semi, following her, noticed both cars swerve, and without seeing the baby, stood on his brakes.

Farther back, in the second lane, a taxi coming in from O’Hare with a passenger noticed there was trouble ahead and started evasive action, slowing and pulling right from lane two. A terrified driver of a panel truck behind him braked frantically.

The shriek of brakes startled the baby. He was not quite frightened yet, but his single-minded advance toward the shiny median divider had been interrupted, his train of thought broken. He paused and sat down on the white line dividing the third and fourth lanes. His face contracted into furrows of worry.

Brad was behind the panel truck and following too closely. He braked hard, but seeing the cars ahead of him swerving right, stayed in lane. He saw the pickup hit the Cherokee on its right rear. The Cherokee spun out of control sideways, rolling across the two lanes on the right as the pickup sideswiped the metal median dividers and crashed into a guardrail around a median light stanchion, coming to an abrupt halt, while the lumber in its back kept going, shooting across the roadway ahead.

Brad saw the panel truck crank to the right, where it was hit by the taxi. The truck tumbled end over end into the lumber.

At that instant, Brad saw the baby.

The infant was sitting up on the white line, puzzled.

There was just a glimpse of the baby before Brad slammed on his brakes. The pedal went way down, then grabbed. Brad swung the wheel of his car, slewing the old Chevy onto the right shoulder. It hit the ditch and rolled onto its side. Brad shoved himself through the open driver’s side window, which was now a sun roof.

He popped out like a cork and sprinted fifty yards back up the roadway, sure he would see a mangled child.

The baby still sat on the white line. A small yellow school bus had just missed him. Its driver had his mouth open as if screaming and the bus fishtailed as it tried to stop before hitting the Jeep Cherokee. A semi and two other cars were bearing down on the baby.

Brad scooped up the baby like a football player snagging a fumble, vaulted to the median and tumbled onto it, cracking his shoulder hard. Crawling over the metal barrier, holding the baby under his arm, he crouched on the far side, just out of the lanes where the northbound traffic was speeding past.

He huddled there as several more vehicles plunged into the back of the wrecks, as one ran into the ditch and struck his car, as northbound traffic began to slow down and gape at the pile-up.
A quarter of a mile back in the southbound lanes was a gondola truck carrying tons of ledge stone from a quarry in Montana to a site in Oak Park where a Frank Lloyd Wright lookalike house was being built. The driver was doing seventy.

As Brad held him, the baby screamed, the first time he had showed fear. Brad cuddled the infant into his shoulder.

At seventy, the truck full of stone covered the quarter-mile in just over ten seconds. The driver saw the pile-up and hit his brakes, putting his full body weight onto his foot, but it was too late. Laying rubber, the screeching juggernaut plowed into the mass of cars and trucks, corrugating metal and pancaking flesh.

Brad leaned against the median divider, holding the baby close. They were both crying.

Great review for Set the Night on Fire

in Sunday's Sun-Times. Congratulations, Libby.

Scatalogical Talk in a dive bar in Chicago

Arlynn Presser, former romance writer and all-around smart and funny woman, is conducting a year long project. She's decided to meet all her Facebook friends in person, even if it means traveling across the country or to the far corners of the earth. Her plans are to have a drink and videotape their conversation. She's convinced her friends have terrific stories to share.

I think it's a fabulous idea, and I was honored to be Friend #9. (Watch out Elliot Spitzer-- I'm right behind you). The conversation was about writing, but we were in a dive bar in Chicago -- are there any others worth going to?-- and it kinda sorta got off track.


Here it is.
Scroll down a post or two.

Have a great weekend.