It's a Business, After All

Clare’s short-but-sweet post this past Monday elicited some very interesting comments, a few of which I’ve heard in various forms over the years from almost every writer I’ve known. Being a writer myself as well as an editor, I understand both sides of the issue—what my writer friends feel, believe, and wish and the reality.

The reality is that publishing is a business. It would be wonderful if the publishers could take leaps of faith and sign all the manuscripts their editors took a shine to. It would be fantastic if they didn’t need to be concerned with authors being new or having poor track records, being good writers technically or not, having more than one book in them or not, being marketable or not. It would be great if the bookstores could just stock every book ever published, whether or not its predecessors did well, whether or not the store’s customers indicated an interest in the author or the subject or not. These things would be ideal. But they wouldn’t be good business.

Just like other companies, publishers are in business to make a profit. They find their niche, they hire skilled employees, and they work to get their share of the market. If they repeatedly publish books that don’t sell enough to cover the company’s operating costs, they soon go out of business. And books, even the tiniest ones, cost a small fortune to publish. They’re composed of just paper and ink, but a ton of people work on them—not merely the author and editor, but a copyeditor, proofreader, indexer, book designer, compositor (typesetter), cover designer, printer, binder, cover copy writer, catalog copy writer, publicist, salespeople, special salespeople, subsidiary rights people, and all their various supervisors and assistants. And this list, which isn’t inclusive to begin with, doesn’t include the people who don’t directly work on the books but keep the publishing house running, such as the accounting personnel and IT people. Every publisher occasionally takes a chance on a “special” project, but no publisher can afford doing this too often.

The same is true at the bookstore level. To make enough money to cover their operating expenses and turn some kind of profit, bookstores need to sell what their customers want. If they fill their shelves with books that most people have never heard of and don’t offer enough copies of the books that people specifically come in for, it’s a problem. Such a bookstore would soon find its customers going down the street to a store that does have the books they want.

This is why it’s so important that authors be willing and able to help publicize their books. It’s also why it helps to have a previous book that sold well. It’s a sad fact that the publishers put most of their budgets behind the books that seem to need it the least—the books by the authors who already have big followings, recognizable names, or some sort of platform. But look at it this way: If you had a business, would you rather commit your hard-earned finances to the product that most of your advisers agree has an excellent chance of bringing a good return or to the one that, if lucky, will bring a small return?

Sometimes I feel jaded looking at publishing like this. I, too, have dreams of selling a million copies, chatting with Oprah, and becoming a mainstay on the New York Times Best-Seller List. I know I’m not a favorite at functions attended by writers where this subject comes up. Worse, because of the realities of publishing, many writers see the publisher-author relationship as adversarial. Since I’m an editor, I’m an enemy.

But that’s silly. Publishers want to find new writers. They need to replenish their stables. And the bookstores want fresh voices to draw new readers. After all, it’s just good business.

What's in a name?

I want to talk about titles. But first, an announcement.

Well, it's done. My new thriller. Sent to the publisher two days ahead of my February 1 deadline.

I'm relieved, happy and quite disoriented. My last push to get the manuscript ready meant total immersion this last couple weeks. Except for that pesky day job and a few completely necessary parties, I put everything else on hold -- answered no email, didn't update any web pages, returned only essential phone calls, even rescheduled some theater tickets!

I've been living in West Virginia in 1976 for so long that my day-to-day reality in present-day New York City seems less real to me than my setting and characters.

One of the events I did take time for was a dinner for the new national board of the MWA on which my husband Larry Light will be serving as Treasurer. I was sitting with one of my favorite authors of all time and one of my favorite people, Lee Child. I told him that I was racing a deadline and was worried about making it. He asked my current word count and my target, did a quick calculation, then told me not to worry. "You'll make it," he said confidently.

And if Lee Child thinks you can do it, by god you can!

But at a hotel bar for drinks later that evening, we were sitting with a bunch of authors talking about books, our own and others. I told them I was nearly finished with my manuscript. Then they wanted to know the title...

Here's the deal. The new novel was based on a short story I published in EQMM in December 2006. I had turned in the story under the title, "Murder at the Ass End of Nowhere." The 'ass end of nowhere' being a phrase used frequently to describe the small town I grew up in, or, if you were in the town, the rural parts of the county that were even, if possible, more remote.

Now, Ellery Queen doesn't do ass, so the story was published under the title, "Murder at the Butt End of Nowhere," which is, in my mind, a little less punchy and a little less vernacular, but still ok. I was just happy to see it in print.

But as I expanded the story and wrote the novel, the issue of what to call it was always on my mind. Should I go back to my original title? Or find something new?

I explained my predicament to a bar full of more-or-less inebriated authors -- with dozens of thrillers, traditional mysteries, cozies, humorous who-done-its and noir titles among them.

One cute but pushy gent insisted that "Ass End of Nowhere" was the bomb. He was like Beavis and Butthead -- "She said 'ass' -- heh, heh, heh, heh."

A small, less vocal contingent rooted for butt. "Butt End of Nowhere" was bruted about.

A mild-mannered woman said no to ass, but liked my next suggestion, which was "I Shot the Sheriff" -- a song title which figures in the plot.

The merits of using the Bob Marley/Eric Clapton classic as a book title were hotly debated.

There was no clear victor. But I loved the debate and the ideas.

Last weekend as I was putting the final touches on the draft, I found myself adding a new first chapter -- sort of a prologue. It's brief but gutsy. It really takes the whole thing up a notch. And the first words of that chapter suddenly seemed to me to be perfect as the title.

"It Started With Sex."

Look for it at a bookstore near you -- in about a year. If the publisher likes it.

Wish me luck.

Update to Joan Brady Story

From The Guardian, in which Brady says that the Times, not she, claims her thrillers are less highbrow than her literary fiction.

Who Hates Sophomores?

Shuh! No fair! As if!

Gawker explains how a debut author's first book's can affect how and where B & N stocks the second.

Key concept: secret algorithms
<twiddles magic fingers>

The Two Faces of Joan (?) Updated

er, Janus I mean, via Mountainair Arts.

I do hear the credit that some give to "genre fiction" (read this Wired article by Clive Thompson on why scifi is the last bastion of philosophical writing), and further, I think it could easily be argued that what scifi is to philosophical questions, great crime fiction is to modern social and cultural issues.

I also note that many writers of so-called "quality fiction" are now dipping their toes into genre. I like it, since it shows fans come in all kinds, and it also occasionally proves that writing a ripping genre title may be harder than it looks from one's perch atop the NYRB. However, these are but exceptions proving the rule, and I had to laugh out loud at this snippet about Whitbread-winner Joan Brady:

A prize-winning novelist has won a settlement of more than £100,000 after she claimed to have become so intoxicated by fumes from a nearby shoe factory that she was reduced to writing thrillers.

The link to the Times and Guardian articles and more juicy commentary at Sarah Weinman's blog. The fantastic Guardian article disputing the ease of writing crime novels is here.

Update: In other lit'ry happenings, tonight is (Robert) Burns' Night, so grab your Scotch and haggis, poetry lovers.

Update2: See Laura's post on Brady's claims to have been misquoted. Good.

EReaders, Schmeereaders

This past week, the NY Times had an article called Thumbs Race as Japan’s Best Sellers Go Cellular about the new breed of "cell phone novelists." [Picture from Times article, with caption: Rin, 21, tapped out a novel on her cellphone that sold 400,000 copies in hardcover.]

Now, as I've stated many times, I can't even read for long periods on my computer, with its lovely bright screen, let alone attempting to read on my cell phone. And the last time I tried to send a text message, it took me something like 15 minutes to write "I'll be ready at six." But I totally "get" that I am old, and not like the people writing and reading cell phone novels.

What I don't understand is this statement:

After cellphone readers voted her novel No. 1 in one ranking, her story of the tragic love between two childhood friends was turned into a 142-page hardcover book last year. It sold 400,000 copies and became the No. 5 best-selling novel of 2007, according to a closely watched list by Tohan, a major book distributor.

I can't imagine wanting to read something written-- and designed to be read--on a tiny screen in short bursts (and therefore composed of short sentences and chopped paragraphs) in book form. And then there's the weirdness of the fact that the people who write these things aren't readers. If you're like me, you'll find some of the quotations in the Times article astonishing. And, if you're a grammar geek, a word geek in general, you may even find them frightening.

But take heart. Once a generation of cell phone novelists have their hands crippled by writing on the things (or, at the least, bloodied like the woman in the article), maybe cell phones will at least become more ergonomic. And when that happens, perhaps they'll make a cell phone/eReader us regular book-loving folks can tolerate.

Plagiarism and Responsibility

Do you ever worry that you might have committed plagiarism in your work? It can happen innocently enough. In researching something for your WIP, perhaps you quickly copied word-for-word from some source material. But when it came time to utilize your notes, you forgot you did this and just dropped chunks, unchanged, into your manuscript.

Perhaps you’re reading another book and notice a similar passage. Or you're watching a show on TV and hear familiar words come out of the characters’ mouths. Will your neighbors begin snickering as you pass through the aisles of the supermarket?

Accidentally using research notes unaltered isn’t a sin. It’s a mistake, and it’s one that more than a few writers make. And writing something similar to what’s in another book or in a movie or TV show is unavoidable. After all, there are only so many believable ways to present certain situations or conversations.

But if you do plagiarize, or skate dangerously close to it, whose responsibility is it to catch it before your material is published? Whose responsibility is it to correct it?

Ann M. Marble, an editor by day and romance reviewer and writer at night, discusses plagiarism and writers’ and editors’ responsibilities in an excellent column posted Monday at All About Romance. The website is for romance writers and readers, but the article applies to all types of writing—fiction, nonfiction, long, short, romance, mystery, what-have-you. You can find the article here.

Who's Buying the Bookstore?

Cover image from Parasitic Ventures Press. I believe this art book is exactly what it claims.


As a follow-up to my recent post about surviving independent bookstores, I thought I'd link this article I just read in the Wall Street Journal about how some of them are trying to do it: community investment.

What do you think? Would you buy/donate a share?

Sample Hook?

At our January SinC, NY/TriState meeting's open mic session, Laura read her phenomenal hook for her work in progress. That night she posted it on our blog. It was a slam-dunk success. In our flurry of comments, Clare2e said she'd post hers if I posted mine.

Game on!

Only this comes with the news that my moment at the mic was not a slam dunk. More like the first two kicks by Lawrence Tynes at last night's football game - you might know the ones I'm talking about... Giants vs Packers, and all that.

Clare noted that it's easier to read with your eyes than with your ears. That says a lot about what can happen at a book signing when the opening gambit hasn't been pre-read by the attendees. Hmmm.

So, I'm offering up the beginning of my work-in-rewrite. Sure would like to hear comments on whether the writing's clear. It might not be your cuppa tea, but does it set a clear image? One that MIGHT eventually fall into the right agent's lap?

The working title: BUSTY BIGGS AND THE RUNAWAY DEATH (Apologies for the length. Stop reading whenever you feel like it.)

CHAPTER ONE: UNEXPECTED PACKAGE

Titillation is a good thing. Busty was certain of that. Living proof of that. All she needed was an innocent whiff of testosterone, a chance to flirt and she’d be good to go. All God’s children need a taste of the apple now and then. That pheromone boost sharpens wits and makes everything seem possible. So where was Charlie when she needed him?

The next best thing was a chocolate pill. Melt in your mouth, not in your hand. Busty fished one out of her dancer’s satchel. Her stash of M&M’s was running low. Not a good sign. She tried to ignore the problem at hand: the snarky kid sitting at the empty Ale House bar, chomping a mega-burger, avoiding all eye contact. Busty checked her watch again. The damn silent treatment wasn’t working on the kid. Miss Dixie should have used the burger as bait. Held the food until the kid opened up. Thirty minutes and counting before the locals arrived, looking for their after-work beer. And, dammit, the chocolate pill wasn’t working.

The kid looked to be maybe nineteen, a worn out nineteen. No visible sign of drugs or withdrawal, at least not at the moment. The stud in her tongue showed when she opened wide for another bite, but Busty saw no other piercings. No visible tattoos. The kid’s hooded sweatshirt and jeans hung limp on her bony frame. Her half-empty backpack was jammed between her worn-out sneakers and the brass foot rail. She was a tightly kept secret. How many secrets was she carrying?

The kid was on the run. No doubt. Needed help. Obvious. But how much protection did she need? Was she running solo, or was she part of the Native underground, escaping from an abuser who had insider connections – running from someone with power and money and an appetite for violence?

Did this kid need to be tucked deep in the secret chamber?

Busty drummed her red nails on the worn bar. Silent treatment. Crap.

The soulful voice of Mahalia Jackson drowned out conversation that didn’t exist. With blinds down and work lights on, the bar was beginning to show its age. Like Busty. It needed a face lift, but the local crowd loved it. Loved it like their lumpy old recliner. Maybe they’d feel that way about Busty when she got old and lumpy. If she lived that long. If this snarky kid didn’t cause a ruptured aneurism before then. Busty tried for calming thoughts. She looked to Miss Dixie for silent support.

Usually Miss Dixie sang along with Mahalia while prepping the bar, red wig bobbing with the gospel music. But not today. Today the old dancer stood silent behind the counter, her wig askew, studying the kid.

The waif shifted on her stool. She stared at Busty from behind her screen of splotchy bleached bangs. “You really named Busty? Busty Biggs? You ain’t all that big.” She twitched her thumb toward Busty’s chest. “I’ve seen bigger. That’s for sure.”

Busty was so startled that she laughed out loud. The girl had a set of balls after all. Biting the hand that fed her! The last thing Busty expected. Friggin’ amazing. “What’s it to you?”

Miss Dixie leaned across the bar as if sharing a secret with the kid. “That’s the trouble with nicknames like Busty’s. They’re as hard to shake as a stalker.” Her southern drawl pushed the word “stalker.”

The girl stopped chewing for a nanosecond. Busty noticed. Miss Dixie pressed on. “I bet you know something about stalkers.”

The waif stuffed more burger into her tight mouth. Dixie’s special sauce dribbled down her chin. She swiped at it with her napkin and kept chewing.

Are You Suffering for Your Art?

Suzzan Blac is a surrealist who uses her "pain, anger, and frustrations" to fuel her art. I found her through beinArt.

It used to be accepted wisdom that artists routinely suffered to create. Now, in the era of happiness science and multiple therapeutic and pharmacologic approaches to that elusive state, Eric G. Wilson worries in this article from The Chronicle of Higher Education (hat tip: Arts & Letters Daily) that we're losing our appreciation of grief and melancholy and the richness of life and art produced from experiencing the full spectrum of emotion deeply.

I find his arguments a little overweighted towards selling misery, and I do bristle at his pejorative use of the phrase "American happiness" as a kind implied to be both manic and plastic. Aside from that, I do think he has an interesting point about a popular culture which seems to view it as unnatural or unhealthy to experience spells of sadness, a condition which used to be considered just another part of the existential package. I believe, as he seems to, that some people are more temperamentally inclined to melancholy, and that personality type doesn't necessarily represent something that has to be cured.

For myself, I can't write if I'm genuinely in the Slough of Despond. I can't focus well enough. However, I feel too much like celebrating, not working, when I'm soaring on clouds of glee. My best writing mood is a taciturn kind of broodiness, where most of my energy turns inward, trying to figure things out. I may even be unconsciously scowling into the distance as I wrestle with a plot point, but I'm not unhappy, and it does work for me.

Do you think of your writing as art or craft or both? What's your best mood for writing? What mood is sabotage to your work?

Turning Spam into Crown Roast of Pork

The past several months, I’ve been picking away at planning out a new novel. I had intended to write this particular novel for Nano, but my computer crashed four times, so I never even finished my character and setting sketches. However, I’ve spent enough time with the story in my head that I know it inside out.

Since it’s another book in the series my last book belongs to, I also intimately know a good number of the characters. Thank goodness. Mind you, it’s not that I dislike creating characters. Rather, it’s naming them I despise. It stymies me. Big time.

It’s not that I can’t think of names. I can think of a ton of names. But when I chart them out, I discover I have the same problem as the client I complained about a while ago. All my names begin with the same few letters. Or too many end in i or y. Or they all seem to have two syllables. Or they sound too much alike. You get my drift.

And when I finally come up with The Perfect Name, it eventually turns out to be the wrong nationality. Or the wrong generation. Or it’s a name I like, but other people feel it imparts the wrong impression.

To make character naming just a tad less torturous, I’m always on the lookout for good new sources of names. I have two character-naming guides and about half a dozen baby-naming books in my bookcase, plus I have several character- and baby-naming websites bookmarked. I also hang on to old phone books. Someone on one of the email discussion lists I belong to recently said she collects college yearbooks for this purpose. Someone else mentioned the various name-generator programs available on the internet. One I use that has a free version is simply called Random Name Generator, by Kitchona Software, and lets you specify gender and nationality.

But as I was downloading my email this morning, I realized I had a slew of names free for the picking right in my inbox. Just today I got messages from Linda Toure and German N. Camp. I might be wrong, of course, but I believe Ms. Toure, who would like me to provide a bank account into which she can temporarily deposit her $18.3 million, won’t mind if I borrow her name for the character I’ve just been calling “the receptionist.” And Mr. Camp, who suffers from word salad but seems to be offering to sell me medications that he’ll ship very fast, might feel honored if he becomes one of my homicide cops.

I know! I’ll order some Viagra. That should yield enough character names for the rest of this series and maybe even a couple more!

Saluting Bookstores

I have no idea where she came from originally. Fab salute, though!

Upon reading the sad news of the closing of another local bookshop, JB Dickey, owner of Seattle Mystery Bookshop, jotted a note to the newspaper asking why it seemed so difficult to get publicity for local bookstore successes. I read this from the Seattle Times site (snips mine):

...When we moved our shop, the Seattle Mystery Bookshop, over the Memorial Day weekend in 2005, we sent out a press release saying how here was a story about a small, independent bookshop that was doing so well that it could move to a larger space after 15 years, and no one in the local press paid any attention. Two and a half years later, business is terrific; 2007 was our best year yet, a 6.5 percent increase in sales over 2006...

If you want to know how independent booksellers really are doing, come ask us. Reacting to the closing of one bookshop by saying it is another death-knell of an industry simply isn't fair or correct and can be counterproductive. It can also mislead customers and drive more into the hands of the corporate Big Boxes, encouraging the difficulties that small independents face. Why not do a story about how some independents are doing fine because of their customers who want to support small businesses? Isn't there a story in that?...

JB has more background and more insight at the bookstore's blog, and it's also worth reading if you like charting how little online happenings suddenly swirl over their banks.

So, are there local bookstores near you doing it right, and what do you like about them? Let's celebrate!

Daphne du Maurier Contest Announcement

The Daphne du Maurier Award is sponsored by the Romance Writers of America's "Kiss of Death" chapter, the online chapter devoted to writers of romantic suspense. It is, however, open to writers of all genres. (If your book has no romance, you should enter it into the "mainstream" category.)

Basics:
• There are separate categories for published and unpublished authors (the "published" category is for those who have published book-length fiction).
• You'll need to have the first fifteen pages and a one page single-spaced synopsis (oy, just try condensing your entire opus into a page, it's harder than writing the thing!) by March 15. If you're a finalist, you'll need a five page (or shorter) double-spaced synopsis and the first 25 pages shortly thereafter.
• You do not need to be a member of RWA to enter the contest.
• Fee for entry: $15 KOD members, $25 non-members

Details:
• Available on the Kiss of Death website

One of the things that makes the DDM Award so interesting is its complete transparency. RWA/KOD posts score sheets (blank, not filled out!) on their website, so you can see exactly what the judges will be looking for and how you go about accumulating points.

I am planning on entering this contest, myself. Since I don't (can't) outline, I'm using the entry date as a spur to prompt me to write every day; if I don't, I won't know what happens in time to write a synopsis!

Why I Want To Be Like Laura

I spend a lot of time in Florida, especially in the winter months. My daughter, her husband and two of my grandchildren live here.

In past years, I've had great writing experiences in Florida: I attended Sleuthfest 2006, and in 2007 I received the e-mail notification that “Strike Zone” had been accepted for publication while I was at my place in Delray Beach.

For a mystery writer, the advantage of living in Delray Beach is the proximity of Murder on the Beach bookstore, where Joanne Sinchuk runs fabulous events, including a profusion of book signings by every mystery writer passing through south Florida during the winter season.

Alas, March 2007 was my last glimpse of the east coast. We are now three hours away on the Gulf coast, where the sunsets are beautiful and probably very inspirational for romance writers. But I write mysteries. I haven’t yet found the bookstore where I can bump into Jerry Healy, Barbara Parker or a couple of mystery fans who will set me straight about what they are dying to read. Half an hour in Murder on the Beach would send my running for the keyboard. Ah, the keyboard! That leads me to Why I Want To Be Like Laura.

Laura writes with a fine fountain pen. I am incapable of writing anything other than condolence letters and thank-you notes in longhand. A two line note to my doctor asking for a prescription renewal requires me to let my fingers dance across the keyboard, print and send the note on its way.

But I can’t print. With all this moving around, I actually carried my old not-so-trusty printer hundreds of miles, stored it in a closet in my daughter’s house and then set everything up in my cute little rental, only to find that the printer is less and less reliable. Every page it spits out has an illegible line or two. So I bit the bullet and tossed the printer. I ran over to the newly opened Staples on Pine Island Road and bought the same printer I have in New York. Only it’s not quite the same. (Next model up, or something, but hey, it came with a seventy-dollar rebate.) I had some trouble with the set up.

Okay, I had a lot of trouble with the set up. The next step is for me to admit defeat and call my son-in-law (the computer wiz) and ask his assistance. Yeah, right. My entire family will tell you that my major flaw (although not my only) is that I want to do everything myself. Asking for help will fling me into a snit for days.

Fortunately, I have reached the decision to ask for help on a day that my son-in-law is out on the Gulf fishing for his dinner. So I don’t have to pick up the phone and admit my inadequacy right this minute. Instead, I’ll just whine to you and wish I had Laura’s ability to write with a fine fountain pen.

Terrie

Writing and Reading

Last night's meeting of the New York/Tri-State Sisters in Crime chapter was a reading session. 17 members read their work. We were each allowed 5 minutes. We got to hear works in progress, works slated for publication, and published works. It was great. And they weren't all mystery, either; the Sisters write all kinds of things!

Anyway, I thought I would post here the draft of the prologue to my romantic suspense I read. It's still rough (I was editing it on the train on the way to the meeting...I'm lucky I could read it at all!), but I'm getting comfortable with it.

St. Martin, FWI
Nicole Lewis Brody made a beautiful corpse. But then, being long on looks and short on life came with her genes. Her killer chuckled at the thought as he duct taped her ankles together and wrapped them in a cashmere stole from her closet. He was going to have to drag her down the hall, and he didn’t want to leave scuff marks on the polished wooden floors.

He hadn’t planned to kill her just yet. The minute she’d started making noises about trying to find her biological father, her death had been inevitable, but he’d hoped to be able to do away with her in such a manner as to keep the police out of it, as he had with her mother. Nikki's fondness for parties and pills would have made the job a breeze if he could have taken his time. He’d even bought the supplies, but she--in typical female fashion--had screwed everything up. She’d found the picture of that damned writer, Calliope Pearson, and the situation had become urgent.

He put his hands under her shoulders and hoisted the upper part of her body with a grunt and a grimace. The bitch was heavy for being so skinny. He hadn’t had to move any of the others, and he dropped her back to the floor while he reconsidered his plan. Maybe he should put her clothes back into the drawers, her suitcases back in the closet, and leave her for her husband to find, as had been his original design.

The idea brought a thin smile to his lips. Hell, Nicole owned half the hotel where Calliope Pearson was planning to stay; maybe management would shut the place down for a couple of weeks for a proper mourning period. He snickered again. Talk about two birds and one stone. Even if they stayed open, his New York associate could more than likely get rid of Pearson before she ever set foot on the island. He’d call the man in the morning and put him to work.

Timing, however, was crucial. If he could rely on the New York connection to rid him of the final difficult woman in his life, he could leave this one to rot where she lay. But he had to plan for all contingencies, and if Pearson did make it to St. Martin, her appearance would raise questions he’d prefer Nicole’s corpse not be available to answer.

Plus, without a body, people might believe Nicole had simply up and left her husband, postponing--if not entirely eliminating--an investigation. Aidan Macmillan Brody was another little complication, another rock Nicole had tossed into the smooth waters of his life. If she’d chosen anyone but an ex-cop to marry, he could have framed her husband and been done with it. But pointing a finger at a cop, even an American cop, even a former American cop, was a risky proposition. No, as much of a pain in the ass as removing her corpse might be, having Nicole disappear was safer and smarter.

Once again, he lifted the bitch’s upper body and began dragging her toward the back door.

"Your Heart Must Be In It"

If you, like I do, write what's labeled "genre fiction," it's easy some days to feel like a jerk.

Our WOM Laura recently confessed to writing romantic suspense. In addition to crime fiction, I confess to writing fantasy and horror and comic books. These noble gents in my photo from NYC's ComicCon? They're part of my target crowd, my peeps, but if you think a group of avid Sherlockians earns the occasional sideways glance... let me tell you.

Critics often prejudge books, and sometimes accurately, from the genre shelves as if creativity, compelling storytelling, and good craftsmanship weren't possible for those working within an identifiable framework. Of course it's possible, and so-called genre writers prove it all the time, breaking out of their categories and onto the bestseller list. But when what is judged to be an exquisite and thoughtful "literary" masterpiece lands there, it's a confirmation of the book's intrinsic value. When a genre title lands there, it's damning evidence of lousy populist taste. In that case, the reader's always wrong.

I'm not saying every bestselling book's equally wonderful in every dimension, but they all must do something right. Michael Allen would say what they share is the ability to create emotion in the reader, and I think he's onto something. But how do you create feeling in readers if you're merely a mindless slave to formula or a calculating sell-out?

The fact is it's just as emotional and difficult and time-consuming to write a genre book or one that doesn't work as a mega-seller. The bestsellers at the airport kiosk can be as heartfelt, as connected to their author's intimate concerns and force of will, as any arguably loftier creation. Tony Parsons makes the case well in this Spectator article (snips mine):

... The books that Harold Robbins wrote for money are the books that nobody ever read. Anything that gets on to the bestseller list deserves to be there. And even if it is not your cup of Darjeeling, never doubt that the author of The Da Vinci Code is as serious in his intent as the author of Atonement.

Every bestseller is an act of will from somewhere real. A bestseller is organic. Often it is an idea — an incident, a hunch, a headline — that will just not let you go. In 1964 a journalist called Peter Benchley read about a fisherman called Frank Mundus catching a 4,550-pound great white shark off Long Island. But it was ten years before Benchley published Jaws...

If you spot a bandwagon, then it is already too late to clamber aboard. You need your own set of wheels. If your book does not grip you by the throat, then it will not do the same to anyone else. This is why so many bestsellers are a kind of secret life story that incorporates fears, hopes and all the darkest places, a dream world more potent than the real world could ever be...

Banishing Words

Last week, Lake Superior State University released its List of Words Banished from the Queen’s English for Mis-Use, Over-Use, and General Uselessness for 2008. The school, located in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, has been publishing this whimsical wish list annually since New Year’s Day 1976.

Every year, thousands of words and terms are nominated for inclusion on the list by English-speaking people around the globe. This year’s final list has 19 entries, from the current “it” words organic and webinar, to the oldies but goodies perfect storm and give back, and to terms such as [blank] is the new [blank] and it is what it is that make many people I know want to deck whoever utters them. Interestingly, only one word, sweet, is a kid favorite.

While I understand the logic behind each word’s inclusion on this year’s list, and I even wholeheartedly agree with certain selections, not all these words and terms bother me. At the same time, there are some words and terms not on the list that make me want to retch every time I hear or read them.

One word I’ve been seeing in more and more novels lately is shrug. It doesn’t disturb me when a character shrugs a response or shrugs off something like an appointment or a hurt. What drives me insane is when a character shrugs into a coat. No one slips a coat on anymore. No one slides into a coat. No one tugs a coat on, or pulls it on, or even just puts it on. No, everyone seems to shrug into coats these days. When one of my favorite authors had her character shrugging into a coat in every other chapter recently, I almost threw the book across the room.

Another term that bothers me is boot up, as in boot up the computer. For some reason, this term sounds very dated to me, although it probably isn’t. Personally, I stopped booting up my computer years ago. Now I just turn it on, much like I turn on a lamp, a TV, and my car. Sometimes, however, I have to admit, I do very much want to boot my computer—out the door, out the window, against the wall, with all the force I can muster.

But the top of my list is reserved for the euphemisms used in romance novels. Before I even read my first romance, I’d heard the joking about these euphemisms. I thought that’s all they were—jokes. But they weren’t just jokes, and they continue to flourish today; I see them over and over in the romance manuscripts I edit. His throbbing maleness. Say huh? Her secret spot. Um, her childhood tree house? Her sweet spot. The ice cream aisle of the supermarket! I almost prefer today’s erotic romances over the PG-rated ones because at least they call these body parts by name—or at least something less silly.

None of these words and terms is truly horrible. They’re just my personal cringe inducers. Do you have any words or terms that push your buttons—um, that bug you—er, that get you started?

Report From the Trenches

My deadline to get my new thriller to my publisher is February 1. This year.

I woke up the day after New Year's Eve -- or maybe that afternoon -- in a state of complete panic.

I had an outline, a character list, a box of research, and around 100 written pages. I also had a huge panic attack -- which is exactly what I was counting on to push me along.

Today, I am closing in on the finished draft. I'm pretty pleased with it.

I have a nearly complete manuscript, a new title, and just enough time to finish and polish it up a bit.

I set the bar pretty high this year. Remember those stress scales? Well, mine is off the charts. During 2007, I have (1) put our beloved apartment on the market, (2) started a new and very time-consuming and creatively demanding job, (3) taken over my aging mother's finances, (4) launched and promoted LADYKILLER, the thriller my husband and I co-authored, (5) written and sold a short story to EQMM which will be out in May, and (6) written a novel. Yikes! Those are the high-stress items.

On the relaxing side, I hosted a couple dozen dinner parties, went to a bunch more, saw most plays on Broadway and off, watched all the important TV series and most of the year's best movies, traveled a little and read a couple hundred thrillers.

All this is by way of apologizing for not blogging more. And I want to salute those who have. I read our blog with pleasure and post only ocassionally. But I'm proud to be a part of it and look forward to contributing more this year!

Worst Short Story Evah?

Author J.A. Konrath is judging a short story contest, and he's written a sample entry collecting the most common errors he's seeing. I found it a scream, if only because the funniest things are also true. I know lots of the Great Unwashed and Unpublished class of writers like me who are working hard at becoming better craftspeople and storytellers. I've also met plenty in our class who swear their work is flawless and that it's the industry conspiring to stifle their greatness. Most of the latter artistry reads like this, and they all want introductions to my agent:

It was a very sunny day in the spring of 2004 in fact it was so sunny, that even the sun had to wear sunglasses! It was on this very sunny day that I first met my wife. Her name was Rhoda, and she loved life. She lived in a house at 8786 Cranberry road, with her mother and three dogs named Sharpie, Bull, and Doxie, who are a Sharpei, a bulldog, and a doxhund. Boy were those dogs trouble! Yes they were! Trouble spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E with a capitol T! But Rhonda loved those dogs, so much, that I never would have guessed, how it all ended up. And, boy, did it end up, bad! On a very cloudy day in the fall of 2006, Rhonda took the dogs out for a walk, but you can actually say that they walked her. Those were some frisky dogs! As they all walk to my house, Sharpie sniffe d out a skunk and got squirted, which smelled even worse. Sharpe thought it was a cat, but he sure was surprised! When Rhonda brought the dogs into my house, boy was I ever really very upset.

Read the rest of the brief jewel-like tale here at Joe's blog. The more you read, the more trouble you'll find. And if you have any of these occasional uh-ohs lurking in your own work, well, be very ashamed and get to editing. That's what I'm doing.

Do We Need to Move?

Looking for your audience? Wanna be closer to your readers? How about property shopping based upon book sales, etc.?

The annual rankings of the "most literate cities" are out from Central Connecticut State University, accounting for per capita booksellers; educational attainment; internet resources; library resources; newspaper circulation; and periodical publications.

These cities led the per capita bookstores list:
1 Seattle, WA
2 San Francisco, CA
3 Minneapolis, MN
3 Cincinnati, OH
5 St. Louis, MO
6 Portland, OR
7 Pittsburgh, PA
8 St. Paul, MN
9 Cleveland, OH
10 Washington,
10 Denver, CO

What Do You Write?

Over at the BookEnds Blog today, Jessica posted about respect--and the lack thereof--for the romance genre. This comes just after a long discussion on Dorothy-L (or at least I think it was on Dorothy-L--I belong to too many lists, obviously!) about the choices editors and agents make to call something "suspense" or "thriller" vs. "mystery" because mysteries don't sell as well.

But whether they sell or not, people respect mysteries. You don't see people in the mystery aisle at the bookstore who dart out of the aisle once they realize someone's seen them, or turn their back so they won't be recognized. These are things you see when you breeze through/by the romance section.

My current work in progress is a romantic suspense novel. I call it my "smut book" around the house. Not out of a lack of respect, but because the romance is the hardest part for me to write. I can plot the mystery, I can research the international laws and procedures, I can even walk around the house muttering lines of dialogue until they sound natural, but I can't manipulate the romance. The characters have control over that. Referring to the book the way I do is a constant reminder to me not to let my focus on that area of the story slip.

And yet, I do find it harder to tell people I am writing romantic suspense than I did to say I was working on a mystery. Which is ridiculous, given that more than 50% of mass market paperback sales are romance, and that a good portion of the bestseller's list is romance.

So let me tell you an awful secret: not only do I write romance, I read it. Now, I don't read historical romance. I did when I was twelve and thirteen, but after that, my taste for history was too factual--I liked hard history, not historical fiction. Besides, historical romances were the embarrassing one with the bodice-ripper covers.

But romantic suspense, and the new "mystery romance" genre are among my favorite kinds of books to read. Dorchester Publishing's "Making It" line of mystery romances, for example, are perfect beach reading. Lighter, more humorous, more romantic than traditional mysteries, they have enough suspense to keep me intrigued, but not enough to make me nauseous with fear, the way some of my favorite thriller writers do. (I don't like roller coasters--but I do like thrills and chills while my feet are firmly planted!) I just bought Gemma Halliday's latest, Undercover in High Heels, from Amazon, and it occurs to me I don't know where they shelve "mystery romances" at my local Borders. I'll have to take a look.

Because shelving is what it's all about. I know a number of men who read Iris Johansen, who's shelved in the Mystery & Thriller aisle, but who's always written--in my opinion--romantic suspense. Ditto Elizabeth Lowell and Tami Hoag. But offer these men a Sandra Brown book and they'll look at you in horror, though Brown is no less adept at the thriller side of the coin than Lowell or Hoag. And her books, like theirs, consistently hit the bestseller lists. It's just that she's shelved in the romance section.

So I'm going to add something to Elaine's "complete" for my 2008 phrase. I'm going for "complete disclosure." My name is Laura, and I write romantic suspense.

Complete

This past Monday, crime novelist Laura Lippman asked her blog readers to name their one-word resolutions for 2008. The call was taken up with gusto, in the comments section of her blog (www.journalscape.com/LauraLippman/) and over at the email discussion list of the Guppies chapter of Sisters in Crime.

I didn’t have to think about it. As soon as I saw the subject line in my Guppies email inbox, I thought, “Complete.” A natural choice for a writer, huh? Yes, but while I’d love to complete the two books I currently have underway, I was primarily thinking of something more basic.

Sometime during 2007, I noticed that my journey through life seemed to be coming full circle. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not referring to my life coming to an end. Rather, my path through life in some ways seemed to be returning to where it started. This is a good thing. Once I get back to where I was—once I complete that circle of what I now see as a detour—I can begin moving forward on my true path again.

I don’t mean to sound woo-woo here, because what I’m referring to really isn’t. The color yellow is a good example. When I was a kid, I loved yellow. My room was yellow, lots of my clothing was yellow, and when I had a choice of colors in picking or purchasing something, I would select the yellow one.

But as I reached my teen years, I began to feel self-conscious about my color preference. No one else I knew—not a single darn person—claimed yellow as their favorite. Some even downright hated it. My best friend loved red. My mom adored pink. My aunt Anne reveled in purple. Then, of course, there were all the blue people, which seemed to be the whole rest of the world.

So I stopped liking yellow. It was hard, but I forced myself. And through the years, I’ve latched on to different colors as my favorites, because you have to have one. But I never really loved any of those substitute colors. How sad for yellow. How sad for me.

Then my dental hygienist gave me a yellow toothbrush about half a year ago. My eyes lit up. I discovered that I actually loved that silly toothbrush, that I still loved yellow, and I decided, as my next appointment approached, that I would ask for another yellow one. I also realized that yellow was just one of several things I had taken a detour on. Perhaps the most important, the most basic, was how I viewed myself.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. All through my childhood and adolescence, that desire never wavered. I wanted to write novels. Short stories were OK. Poems were OK. Even magazine articles were OK. But novels? They were my passion.

In college, however, the practical side of me kicked in. I majored in journalism. I figured I could get a day job as a newspaper reporter and write my novels at night. I got that day job alright, and at first I did work on my novels at night, but that day job soon began to take up more and more of my time. Then I got married, and I moved, and I had kids, and soon my novel writing fell by the wayside. I was still a writer, but not exactly the kind I wanted to be.

Eventually, I added editing to my repertoire and I became a writer/editor. Then, as the years went by, the editing jobs began to make up the bulk of my income and I became an editor/writer. One day, finally, I was an editor, period.

Funny, but at around the same time I got that yellow toothbrush last year, I realized I had to start thinking of myself as a writer again if I wanted to be a writer. It’s strange how that works. So I started calling myself an editor/writer once more. But you know what? I don’t want to be an editor/writer. I don't even want to be a writer/editor. I want to be a writer, period.

So my one-word resolution for this year is complete. I want to complete my journey back to being a writer, period. I want to see working on my own books as primary and taking in editing projects to help pay the bills as secondary. I want to, yes, complete my books.

The yellow thing? Under control. In fact, my new noveling notebook and novel-related file folders are all yellow. I’ve also been using a pen with gold ink. That journey back I can call complete.