A Little Sunday Afternoon Soiree

It's Sunday afternoon, and many of my friends are winding down their adventures at Bouchercon, a popular mystery writer conference. Since I was unable to go, I'm throwing a little party here for those of us who stayed home to toil away on our book projects or in our yards or wherever we landed on this fine September afternoon.

So let's take a break, crack a bottle of 2003 Tumbling Tractor Zinfandel, make ourselves an olive, cheese and cracker plate, and meet some entertaining bloggers and great writers!

First, let me introduce you to Adam Hurtubise, keeper of Random Thoughts. When I first visited Adam's blog, I pictured him as a politically-inclined intellectual living in a classic colonial house in a tony part of Boston only to learn that he hunts in the backwoods of upstate New York with a guy named Ed, has a penchant for venison jerky, writes of yard work using murderous verbs and thinks Bruce Springsteen is God. More importantly, Adam is a great friend to writers, and, if his skill at blog entries is any indication, his own book is just a few steps from publication and rave reviews.

Then there's the sassy and smart Mai Wen, my dear BFF (blog friends forever!). Mai Wen does sweet things like quietly posting cloud pictures on her blog for me. A study in contrasts, she writes literary fiction, reads Crime and Punishment, and blogs about the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Speaking of sass, next up, is M.G. Tarquini, known to many as The-Force-of-Nature. She insists she's shy, but if M.G. Tarquini is shy, then my skin color is green. Recently, Mindy invited me to team with her to interview thriller/mystery authors Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath for an article for the Fall 2006 issue of Spinetingler. I'd known Mindy for less than a month when the invitation came, but I agreed. Why? Because it's impossible to say no to M.G. Tarquini. Mindy drove, I taped, she wrote the first several paragraphs, I followed with several more and a close, she dumped my close and found a better one, I wrote a funny story, she wrote a funny story, she rewrote my copy, I rewrote hers, we edited the whole thing together in a weekend marathon and by the time it was all done we'd be hard pressed to tell you who wrote what. I'd do it again in a heartbeat!

And then there's Mindy's partner in crime, the lovely and multi-talented Angie of the Lazy Artist's Lounge. Once an editor for a crime encyclopedia, Angie now works in radio theater, is currently working on her first novel and lives in the picturesque town of Prescott, Arizona. In a perfect illustration of the magic of the blogosphere, Mindy and Angie met only recently, but to watch them talk is like watching two life-long friends at a gabfest. Oh yeah, and Angie's got more than enough sass to keep up with Mindy. Which reminds me, I'm supposed to get her a t-shirt design! Yikes!!

Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath are both accomplished authors with particularly interesting blogs. Barry's blog, Heart of the Matter, covers politics, rhetoric and social issues. While many similar blogs descend quickly into loud-mouthed and pointless banter, Barry manages the tone and tenor of his blog to provide visitors with a true "marketplace of ideas." Although he posts about emotionally-charged subjects, Barry maintains objectivity and seeks through conversation and rhetoric to get to, what else, but the heart of the matter. Be sure to read Barry's thriller series about a half-Japanese, half-American assassin named John Rain. The series starts with his debut novel, Hard Rain.

J.A. Konrath, known to friends as Joe, has developed a wholly unique approach to the business of writing. A former bartender, Joe wrote and queried for 12 years before finally getting published. His blog titled A Newbie's Guide to Publishing chronicles his career as a writer and provides a forum for aspiring writers to learn more about the business of publishing. His books, a series about a character named Jack Daniels, are both terrifying and hilarious.

While I'm on the subject of writers willing to help others, I want to mention another good writer's blog: Robert Gregory Browne's Anatomy of a Book Deal. A former screenwriter living in Los Angeles, Rob has a gift for writing about the writing process. I've learned more about writing fiction from Rob's thoughtful posts than I did in an entire semester of creative writing in college. And I can't wait to read his book due in 2007, KISS HER GOODBYE.

Another excellent writer, Brett Battles, should be teaching creative writing classes at UCLA on how to use dialogue to drive story. His first novel, THE CLEANER, is scheduled for release in Oct. 2007. I had the good fortune to read his final manuscript and couldn't put it down. Brett creates the kind of characters you don't want to let go when the book ends. For a taste of Brett's fiction, visit Flash Fiction. Brett also has a serialized story posted on the Killer Year blog. Here is Part 1 and Part 2.

One more entertaining writer/blogger before we close: Stephen Blackmoore, a short story and crime fiction novelist maintains L.A. Noir, a compilation of outlandish true crime stories from the Los Angeles area. If you're a mystery writer running short on ideas, just stop by Steve's and he'll give you plenty. Steve also has a gift for short story writing, in particular, a gift for getting into the heads of mob hit men. Odd...because Steve is one of the sweetest people I know.

Next week, we'll have another party and we can meet some more great writers. In the meantime, if you've found any great blogs or writers not mentioned here, please let us know by posting their link in your comments. We'll be sure to invite them to the next soiree!

On the Road with Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath

During the Thrillerfest conference held in Phoenix in July, M.G. Tarquini and I had the good fortune to escort Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath for two days of their book signing tours. This Friday, Spinetingler will publish our co-written story about our trip featuring the authors’ approaches to marketing, their friendship and their great sense of humor.

During our journey, we interviewed both authors with the intent of putting together a classic interview article. But, as our trip evolved, we realized that an interview-style article couldn’t capture everything we wanted to portray. Instead, we wrote our article as a narrative feature story. And, as is so often the case with writing, we sacrificed some of our favorite quotes for the sake of the story. The excerpt below features one of my favorite conversations.

We asked both authors to tell us the story of their road to publishing. J.A. Konrath -- friends and family call him Joe -- labored for 12 years before he published his first book, and might have given up if not for his encouraging wife. Barry Eisler worked on his book for five years, and, on his 51st query, found an agent. Then, he spent another three years making extensive revisions before finally bringing his first book to market. Once the first rights to their books were sold, both authors became overnight success stories.

In the following excerpt, the authors discuss Barry’s experience working with his agent to revise his novel and bring it to market:

Barry: My agent was the first to really devote a lot of editorial effort to what I’d written. His message was pretty simple: he said ‘I think you have talent. I can see that in here. I don’t think this manuscript is commercial-grade yet, and I’ll tell you why. If you agree with me, then we should revise it and we can work together. And if you don’t agree with me, then I may not be the right agent for you. You have to make that decision for yourself.’

Though his comments were really extensive, and it was a little depressing to realize how far I was from the finish line when I thought I was pretty close. I recognized that his comments were good. The thing wasn’t what it needed to be.

Joe: How did you recognize that?

Barry: I don’t know.

Joe: Because it’s very hard to be objective when you’re looking at your own work.

M.G.: You never had a crit partner?

Barry: No, I was stupid that way. I could have gotten better a lot faster if I would have read how-to books or gone to certain writer’s conferences. In anything you’re trying to acquire, whether it’s a new language or a martial art or a musical instrument or writing a novel, there’s an optimum blend of theory and practice, and I didn't have anything remotely like that optimum blend. Mostly it was all practice and no theory, except in so far as you get theory inadvertently by reading a lot. And if I’d added just 10% theory to the mix, I’d have gotten better at writing much, much faster.

Since I published my first book, I’ve read a lot of how-to books and been to a lot of conferences, mostly in a teaching capacity, and I’ve realized there’s a ton of good information out there. I wish I’d known enough to go seek it when I was writing my novel.

I don’t know how I recognized that what my agent was telling me was right. It’s a mystery how I’ll work on a scene, and I think it’s good that day, and I write more. Then the next day I go back, and I look at what I wrote, and it’s not quite right, so I play with it some more. It could be anything – dialogue, description, setting, whatever. The third day, I go back, and it’s getting closer, but it’s not quite right. And then there is a day when I look at it, and it’s perfect. It’s perfect because there’s nothing more I can do to it. How do I know? Because to judge something like this, you must have some template by which you measure it, right? What is that template? I don’t know.

So when my agent told me there were problems in the manuscript, there must have been a template existing in my mind because I wasn’t flying blind. It wasn’t as though he was trying to guide me and my eyes were closed and he was saying ‘Trust me. I’ll get you there.’ It was more like he said ‘I think this is the way to go,’ and I could see it. It made sense to me.

It took me a long time to implement all those changes, quite a few series of revisions. Each time I’d send it to him, he’d write back and say, ‘Well you addressed this, this and this, but I still see this problem and that problem,’ and I’d say, ‘Damn he’s right again.’ And it hurt, because I just desperately wanted to be done at that point. I’d been working on this thing for years, a lot of extensive rewrites.

Finally, in the summer of 2000, I sent him a manuscript thinking again that it was finished. At this point I was inured. I thought, ‘I trust this guy. He’s giving me good advice. I can sense that.’ I fully expected him to come back and say, ‘It’s better, I can see you addressed these things, but we still need to get this or that aspect up to speed.’ I was braced for that, and I was fine with that because I was just not going to quit.

But instead his e-mail said, ‘Barry, this is a terrific rewrite. There are just a few problems we need to address, but I see no reason why we can’t take this out for auction.’ And I actually started to cry. I printed out the e-mail and just wordlessly took it into the kitchen and showed it to my wife, wiping tears from my face.

* * *
Check out the soon-to-be-published Fall issue of Spinetingler for the rest of this story, and for many other features, interviews and thrilling short stories!


thriller fiction writing

Remembering September 11, 2001

September 11 American flag

The American Flag: Five Years After 9/11

Of all the visual images that define 9/11 and its aftermath, one grew so ubiquitous as to become symbolic: the American flag. The image pictured above zoomed around the country via e-mail and the internet in the days following the 9/11 attacks. Stores couldn't keep American flags in stock, and manufacturers couldn't make new flags fast enough. Car windows across the country sported miniature American flags flapping in the breeze of rush hour traffic. And remember New York’s Finest parading the tattered American flag around Yankee Stadium during the World Series? Even the burliest sports fans couldn’t restrain their tears.

Illustrating the iconic power of the flag as a symbol of this momentous event, the center spread of today’s New York Times bears two full-color ads from two competing networks, the Discovery Channel and ABC. Each ad advertises a show about 9/11 that will appear in the same time slot: 8 p.m. EDT tonight, the 5th anniversary of 9/11.

At first glance on a sleepy Sunday morning, I suspect many readers didn’t realize the ads came from competing television shows. I know I didn’t. They are nearly identical.

This weird juxtaposition poses a number of questions:

Did one network’s ad agency steal the idea of from the other? Darned unlikely. I worked on the creative side of advertising for many years where I learned that agency creatives want, perhaps more than life itself, to distinguish their work.

Did the two networks actually desire association with each other’s shows? With competing media ownership, competing time slots, and a firestorm of controversy surrounding ABC’s 9/11 docudrama, it’s highly doubtful that either network wants any association with the other.

What miscommunication within one of America's largest newspapers caused these two competing ads to face each other? On the center spread of the front section of the Sunday edition, no less? I can't even venture a guess; in fact, I suspect that at this moment frantic phone calls are crisscrossing the continent as television network, agency and newspaper executives attempt to unravel the bizarre coincidence.

Then again, was it a coincidence?

Now, this isn't a rhetorical question, nor do I pose it to imply conspiracy. One of the most intriguing aspects of creative thinking lies in how often ideas are replicated among people who have no conceivable contact with one another. For example, in his book, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Josepth Campbell demonstrates that a version of the hero myth appears in almost every culture on earth.

The fact that that two separate sets of creative teams, who had no inkling of each other’s approach, came up with a nearly identical concept illustrates more clearly than any TV commentator or editorial writer could how far America has come as a nation since September 11, 2001.

The images in these ads transform 9/11's most noble symbol into a mask of subterfuge, and their replication poses one last set of questions: Editorial writers and TV commentators said 9/11 would change everything, and it certainly changed a lot of things in our country -- airport security, the war in Iraq and the skyline of New York City to name just a few. But did 9/11 change us as people? If so, how? Are we better, or just more suspicious? Do you think it changed you?


September 11 American flag media media criticism

How Many ___ Does it Take to Change a Light Bulb?

A light bulb burned out on the track lighting in my kitchen.

Since my ceilings are 14’ tall, changing a light bulb requires borrowing a gigantic ladder from my mother. Which requires arranging the calendars of a teenager, a retiree with too much to do, a working-class gal, a truck and a truck bed full of bungee cords.

Weeks later, we finally procure the ladder. The Teenager brings it into the kitchen, I climb up, twist out the old bulb, twist in the new. The new bulb doesn’t work.

Hm. Why?

I fiddle and futz and find an interesting little switch I think might be the “on” button. I switch it to the right.

Wrong.

It is the "attach" button. The entire light bulb fixture falls out of my hands and vaporizes on the ceramic tile 14' below.

I go to Ace Hardware and buy a new fixture. I climb up on my mother’s ladder to install it, but can’t make it fit.

Hmmm. Why?

Back to Ace Hardware. This time I bring the Teenager-Who-Is-Expert-In-All-Things-Mechanical. We learn that my track lighting system is obsolete. No one makes a light fixture to fit. No one.

We buy a brand new brush-metal track lighting system with halogen bulbs. VERY trendy.

We take down the old fixture and discover that the paint underneath it is lavender. Ick…but nothing a little touch-up won’t fix. Except my touch-up paint is dried out.

Back to Ace Hardware, hauling the Teenager-Turned-Helpful-Ace-Hardware-Man with me, where we learn that the base paint for the paint color of my 14’ tall, 325 sq. ft, kitchen/Arizona room ceiling is obsolete. The paint can’t be matched. Ever.

The Teenager disappears.

My mother leaves longing messages about her ladder on my voice mail.

I purchase gallons of new paint, furniture covers, painter’s tape, scrapers, rollers, a long handle and brushes. It takes me three weekends to repaint the ceiling. We have no light. I burn lots of dinners. The ladder becomes a permanent fixture in the center of our kitchen complete with a collection of coffee cups and unpaid bills.

The big day arrives. The Teenager and I turn off all the circuit breakers in the house. He installs the new track lighting system. Gently unwraps the halogen bulbs. Twists them in. We turn back on the electricity.

Eleven weeks, $253.16 and 19 burned dinners later...we have a fresh light bulb in our kitchen.

Time Waits for No Parent

This morning, I stumbled out of bed at 6 a.m., walked into the living room and ran into a 5’ tall tripod. After regaining my balance and checking my nose for damage, I tripped over a light stand. I went into the kitchen and found a giant digital video camera recharging where my coffee pot used to sit, then stubbed my toe on a duffel bag filled with cords and strange metal parts.

Overnight, my house transformed into a movie and video production studio.

Three months ago, the Teenager couldn’t find a job flipping burgers. Now, he’s directing the TV news program at his high school, and is stage manager for A Midsummer's Night's Dream. He will direct the building of a $10,000 set for the annual musical production, Little Shop of Horrors. His teachers are funding his schemes to transform the school’s TV studios and stage sets. People pay him, and well, to shoot and edit videos. Local production companies hire him as a production assistant and grip.

And, he has minions: Goofy, Spiky, and a host of teenage writers, actors, news reporters and tech staff to help him achieve his lofty ambitions.

Worst of all, he works for my company’s competitors…and won’t tell me what they are doing.

The Teenager is 17 years old, and not yet a legal adult. Or at least he was still a teenager the last I checked. That was yesterday. And not a metaphorical yesterday, either. Yesterday: August 26.

Today, August 27, he is a young man.

Children don’t grow up all at once. They grow up in moments all strung together. It’s only parents who hang on to the past and see their growth in stages.

I remember when I realized my son was no longer a baby. He found an old pair of cowboy boots in my closet and pulled them on over his chubby legs, his diapers hanging over the top rim of the aged leather. He donned a straw hat and a denim jacket to match, and squealed all over the house, whooping it up like a cowboy on a cattle drive. I could no longer deny it. My baby was a toddler.

A couple of years later, he woke up at dawn and ran stark naked into my bedroom to wake me up, too. Suddenly, he realized he was naked. He swiveled on his heels, covered his butt with his tiny hands, and walked briskly away saying, “Don’t see me, don’t see me!” I knew he was no longer a toddler, he was now a little boy.

The little boy stage segued slowly into the big boy stage, the entire transition lasting several years. Until the sixth-grade, when he came home after school one day and said, “Ya know, Mom, all the popular girls are really cute and really smart. They get the best grades and never get into trouble. But all the popular boys get the worst grades and cause all the trouble. And all the popular girls want to date the popular boys, but they don't want to date the nice, smart boys.”

Even though he was just 11 years old, I knew he was already a teenager.

The Teenager has been trying to tell me for the past year that he’s a responsible adult and doesn’t need my prodding. I've tried to back off, but couldn’t quite believe he was past his adolescent forgetfulness.

As I massaged my bruised toe, he came into the kitchen for breakfast bubbling over about his plans for the theater stage sets, and the steady cam he’s constructing, and the clever way he handled the controlling teacher who has charge of the school’s TV equipment, and the bus stop movie he's making with.…his words ran together so fast I couldn’t discern the rest.

I smiled, and listened, for hours it seemed, then said, “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”

His smiled wide, so wide it looked like his face would crack open. For a fleeting second, he was a little boy again. “Finally, Mom! You’ve said you’re proud of me! I’ve waited for this for so long!”


parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Sinking of the USAT Dorchester

In an earlier post, I shared the work of Dick Levesque, a marine painter and historian who developed a fascination with the WWII story of the USAT Dorchester, her Coast Guard escort on her last fateful journey, and her heroic Four Chaplains. Recently, Dick completed his second painting inspired by this story, an illustration of the sinking of the Dorchester.

Here is Dick's commentary about this piece:

"This painting represents the sinking of the USAT Dorchester in wintry seas 150 miles south of Greenland on Feb. 3, 1943 during the Battle of the Atlantic. At 12:55 a.m., two torpedoes fired from German submarine U-223 hit amidships just aft of the stack and below water. Almost immediately, the Dorchester lost power continuing a short distance under her forward momentum before becoming 'dead in the water.' She then settled slowly towards the stern, rolled to starboard sinking bow first within 20 minutes of the initial blast.

"The painting illustrates her starboard side. On the upper deck, men frantically try to cut a frozen drum raft free while others attempt to clear two lifeboats.* Many men can be seen slipping on the ice-covered deck, others are only partly clad, having ignored their captain’s orders to sleep fully clothed and with their lifebelts on, and others, dazed, contemplate jumping into the frigid water, where they might last 20 minutes before succumbing to hypothermia, or taking their chances with the ship. The Dorchester’s famed Four Chaplains [link to Chaplains page] are depicted on the lower left of the main deck as they give their last life jacket to a man who had lost his own.

"Several survivors said the sinking ship looked like a 'giant Christmas tree of humanity with hundreds of glowing red lights on the life jackets.' There were 902 men aboard the Dorchester as it sailed into an area alternately known as 'Torpedo Alley' and 'The Black Pit.' Only 227 survived.

"The USAT Dorchester Sinking is now on permanent display in the Immortal Chaplains Memorial Sanctuary aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach, CA."


*The port side life rafts could not be released due to the severe list of the ship to starboard, some of the starboard side rafts were damaged from the blast, and the remaining life rafts were frozen into place by the severe weather. Based on a contemporaneous survivor report by Lt. William Arpaia, I believe my grandfather, was on the upper deck helping the merchant marines and Army troops try to free the rafts. They managed to free only two larger rafts, and, In the end, they freed as many of the smaller drum rafts as they could hoping that when the ship sank, these smaller rafts would survive the suction of the ship and be available for the men who had jumped into the water.USAT Dorchester Sinking
Media: Acrylic
Size: 5' x 3'
Painter: Dick Levesque




World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith honor USAT Dorchester writing

The zen of photography

If I'm struggling to figure something out -- maybe it's an idea for a scene or maybe it's something deeply personal -- I pick up my camera and make pictures.


Other times, I see a moment, and can't find the words to say what it makes me feel, so I make pictures instead.


And sometimes I make pictures for the sheer joy of seeing what takes shape inside my camera's frame.


These are for the joy.

Clouds for Mai Wen

Rain

Arizona’s summer skies tease us. They fill with evening thunderclouds, dust us with virga, and taunt us with distant lightning. Then...nothing. No wild thunderstorm to thrill our souls, no rain to soothe our parched earth or dusty throats. Nothing but hot dry wind.

Until early this morning, when a gentle rain fell for hours, the sweet pungent smell of creosote filling the air.

It’s raining words, too. At least here in my computer. Last weekend, the outline for The Black Pit came together like a perfect summer storm, and I’ve been obsessed ever since.

Can’t seem to think about much else. I’ll post more soon. Promise.

Arizona summer weather writers daily life writing diary