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It's the most wonderful time...

It's the most wonderful time of the year!
When the book has been finished,
Not one thing can diminish the good feelings here!
It's the most wonderful time of the year!

Picture a grown writer cavorting around the house to the tune of the song whose verse is mangled up above. That was me, just three nights ago, as I finished the final draft of my ninth novel, Without Mercy, which I am fervently hoping will be the first in my "Where Are They Now?" series. The dancing continued through yesterday, when I mailed the hard copy and e-mailed the electronic copy to my editor at Five Star. I'm still bopping a little as I write this, which is as good an excuse as any for the typos that will probably creep in.

Despite it being the tail end of June, the Christmas motif isn't completely random. This moment is very much like that moment when I've wrapped and mailed the last present, and can finally savor the tingle of anticipation that the approach of Christmas Day always brings. I'm reasonably sure I've done a good job with the book, but even if I haven't, I've done all I can do. Now it's time for those sugarplums to start doing the lambada in my head. The sugarplums are just a little different with a book.

Instead of greedy thoughts of the presents I'll receive, I've got greedy thoughts of the sales figures that will shoot up the chimney faster than Santa when he climbs down to find a lit fire. Instead of anticipating the oohs and aahs as my little girls survey their bounty, I'm hoping for similarly delighted reactions from the editor, and later on, the reviewers and booksellers. Instead of sleigh bells, I'm listening for whispers like "breakout book" and "bestseller." And dangling overheard, like the most effective mistletoe imaginable, the just-out-of-reach goals of award nods and plump contracts for more in the series.

Of course, I've never had a perfect Christmas. Sometimes the tree dries out early, or the turkey is overdone. The sweater from my sister was too small, and I bought the wrong Gameboy game for my daughter. It never matters--it's still Christmas.

So even if not all my dreams come true for Without Mercy, even if the editor requires a change for every person in the Returns line at Target on the day after Christmas, even if royalties are as flat as January candy cane sales and the reviewers act like the Grinch with a hangover, I'll still have my glorious finished book.

No matter what, it's still the most wonderful time of the year!

Award-nominated author

I've been an award-nominated author. My first book garnered two noms -- both fan awards -- and I've got to tell you that both times I was more thrilled than I could ever imagine when those calls came in -- it's right up there with typing "The End" on your first completed manuscript.

Perhaps because of my own experience in the cloud-nine section of the book world, I nominate my favorite books for fan awards whenever I'm eligible to do so. I've also served on peer-award committees for both contests and awards -- and worked hard to judge as fairly as I could while serving there. It was a joy to find at the end of the process that there was an overwhelming consensus for the top picks. Men, women; hard-boiled, cozy; East Coast, West Coast, central USofA -- we all recognized good work when we saw it.

So why do I anticipate the advent of award season (both Spring and Fall) with a sense of watching the train coming through the tunnel?

It's the inevitable e-mails from writers I barely -- or just plain don't --  know. Often deceptively titled. "Hi"; "remember me from..." these are actually stealth attacks on my nomination slots stating, "Put my name on your nomination list and I'll put yours on mine. Win - win."

Actually, no. Lose - lose.

When I nominate books, it's because 1) I've read them. 2) I liked them. and 3) I thought they deserved an award.

Asking someone who doesn't know you well or has not read and raved about your book is insulting to the award, to the authors eventually nominated and to the readers who take the time to nominate books they think worthy.

Writers using this technique show a shocking lack of experience -- which I prefer to think is of the hope-springs-eternal variety rather than head-in-the-sand ignorance. Either way: please don't ask people to nominate your book. If it's good enough, it'll make it onto enough people's lists to make it to the final 5.

Unless you're a woman writing thrillers. Then you're on your own.

Julie

A matter of perspective

By Dana

It’s all a matter of perspective.

Flashback: Bread Loaf, eight years ago, the first day of our group classes. I’m asked what I do for a living because the instructor doesn’t believe I’m an archaeologist.  Why?  Because every time I get to a place in my story where there is some telling archaeological detail, I back away.  Shoot, I think, everyone I know is an archaeologist and knows what happens.  Taking notes and observing soil types, that’s the boring bit, so why should I bother writing about it? 

Wrong. Most people don’t know what it’s like to feel the soil under a mason's trowel, don’t know what it feels like to unearth something and know that moment of excitement when you have the past revealed to you.  Put those details in, no matter how you might feel personally about them, because that will be what draws the reader into your world.

Flashback: Edinburgh, a month ago. I’m in the Museum of Scotland, having been thrilled to see the tiny figures in coffins that were found at Arthur’s Seat. These are early 19th century, beautifully carved and clothed, and each, no more than four inches long, is enclosed in a tiny coffin.  Among other things, they inspired Ian Rankin’s The Falls. Are they evidence of witchcraft?  Are they a reference to Burke and Hare’s ghastly crimes, killing people to provide medical specimens?  Are they toys? 

So compelling, on so many levels, I ask the clerk in the gift shop if there are replicas to be purchased. I’m astonished to see her literally back away from me: “What on earth would you do with them?” she says.  I know at least twenty people who would be thrilled by these, I think, archaeologists, anthropologists, material culture specialists, mystery writers.  “Why, I’d put them on my coffee table,” I answer. “What a fabulous conversation starter!”  She moves back farther from the cash point--and me.  “But…that's so…er…well, we’ve got postcards, that’s all,” she says.

Again, I’m reminded that not everyone thinks about death, the past, about crime, the way that many of us who write--or read--this blog do. Not making light of death or crime, we do see the world in a different light.  Again, it’s a matter of balance between what is interesting to us and what we can convey to readers in such a way that they recognize what we see is significant about it.  I realized this too when I was reading Tess Gerritsen's books and realized that as creeped out as I was by some of the biological oddities she was describing, I was so caught up in her desriptions and how they fit into the plot that I couldn't put the books down. 

Flashback: this afternoon. I’m trying to finish the copyedits for my short story, “The Lords of Misrule,” which will appear in Sugarplums and Scandal with five other fabulous stories in November. I realize that I’ve used two words that are either 19th-century or American in origin and I’m faced with the decision:  Do I use an awkward turn of phrase that my 18th-century English character would have used, or sacrifice historical accuracy in favor of language that is both a lot clearer and reads better? I come to the conclusion, once again, that I’m not writing academic prose but a fictional narrative, and everything else is subservient to the story. 

In each of these instances, I realized I had to take a step back, a useful exercise for a writer, because communication is the name of the game, and you can’t afford to stay wrapped up in your own world.  It’s all a matter of perspective, finding the right word, the right approach to a subject, the set of explanations that will suddenly open up your world to someone else.  So much of the time, we’re told to search within ourselves, when just as often, it’s all important to put yourself not only in the shoes of your characters, but in the shoes of your readers.

My Favorite Substance

by Kris Neri

Every day I wake up and, like millions of other women, (including my series protagonist, Tracy Eaton) I suspect, I feel fat. Then I get dressed and when the buttons and zippers don't close as well as they used to, I have to admit that maybe it's not just a feeling. Thereafter I go through the day without taking a bit of action to remedy the situation. No diets here. But then the next morning rolls around and the thought hits me all over again.

Now don't get me wrong — this isn't going to be some whiny, depressing blog. Sure, I note daily that I feel fat, but it's not something I'm all bummed out about. Thinking it has become more of a habit. You might believe that having made this observation pretty steadily for a while, it might be time to give it a rest. But there's a precedent for pointless repetition in my life. Hey, I brushed my teeth this morning, too, and I'm probably gonna do it again tomorrow.

Yet I am starting to think that I wouldn't need to have this conversation with myself quite so often — if it were not for Licorice Altoids. To say I love Licorice Altoids simply doesn't do justice to how I really feel about them — if understatement were a crime, I'd earn a life-sentence with that remark. I absolutely live for licorice.

I know, as a hormonal female, I should crave chocolate. Don't get me wrong — chocolate is a magical, sensuous substance. But black licorice positively rocks. Its only problem is that when I do consume large quantities, it makes my teeth look like I abandoned that morning brushing ritual. But Altoids fixed that predicament by putting the world's most wonderful flavor into little disks that melt instantly in your mouth. Now it's extra easy to eat more of them than any sane human being should, while avoiding that rotten teeth look.

I do have one concern about that. No, not that I eat more than any sane human being should and now have trouble buttoning my pants — I told you, I've accepted that. Rather it's the current scarcity of the product. I used to see them everywhere and now I don't.  I fear the Altoids Company is phasing out the licorice version of their mints.

In Sedona, they're only available at one drugstore, which is in the process of selling off its stock so it can close its doors. On the upside, they now sell Licorice Altoids at 30% off. That means I can buy extras! So I find myself driving by more than usual, stopping more than I used to, and buying 2-3 tins a couple of times a week. I'm not sure I write better with a tin on my desk next to my computer, but all that sugar sure makes me write faster.

Each time I enter the drugstore, I check to see how many tins are left. I nervously eye other shoppers, hoping they're just there for discounted makeup or band-aids. And I dread the day that I'll be forced to roll another shopper for their stash of Licorice Altoids, although I'm not ruling it out.

Of course, I could just buy up their whole supply in one visit. But who am I kidding? I know I inevitably polish off half of whatever stash I acquire before I pull out of the parking lot. Oh, sure, if I bought them all and finished them fast, maybe I could finally start making some inroads on fitting in my clothes again. But the loss of maybe months of experiencing the sensation of one deliriously wonderful Licorice Altoid after another melting on my tongue seems a poor trade-off.

"You've got a problem," my husband said.

He came to that conclusion because when he asked if he might have one mint from my precious stash, I hesitated for a moment. Okay, I hesitated for a short eternity. And he insisted a stricken look of such horror came over my face, he took me for someone condemned to the guillotine. Like he'd seen a lot of those.

Okay, so Licorice Altoids has become a compulsive need that I think about from the moment when I wake up in the morning (after I get past that sensation of feeling fat), to the time I place my head on the pillow at night. And sure, I get a little antsy unless I know I have a tin in every room of my house, with a couple of spares in the glove compartment of my car. And, of course, a few near the computer — otherwise I'd have to go back to writing at something less than warp speed. But those things don't up to a problem.

Once the stash dries up — that's when I'll have a problem.

In the Company of Books

By Elaine Viets

I need two things to write: A cat sleeping by my computer, and shelves crammed with books. I can’t work without both in my office.

Harry, a brown-and-black striped cat, looks like a bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup. He’s supervised four mystery novels, including my newest, "Murder Unleashed." Harry didn’t seem to mind that this book was mostly about dogs.

Harry is asleep right now on a mound of papers, with his chin on a pile of books. There are stacks of books on my desk. Piles of books on the floor. More books on the table by my reading chair. Seven bookcases are stuffed with tomes from floor to ceiling. A few are books I’ve written. The rest are by friends or writers I admire.

I take comfort in their colorful covers, and in their stories: the tales in the books and stories behind them.

There’s "Island of Bones," a gripping novel by my friend Kristy Montee, one half of P. J. Parrish. I like the story behind her book, too. Kristy started out writing romances, and sold a lot of them until she got dumped in a publishing management coup. Then she didn’t write another book for five years. Kris came back big-time. Now her mysteries make the New York Times bestseller lists.

There’s another favorite by a friend, Barbara Parker’s "Suspicion of Rage." Barbara hated being a lawyer so much, she tended bar while she got her writing career going.

That fat yellow book there, "Enough Rope," is a fine collection of traditional short stories by Lawrence Block. I don’t know him well enough to slap him on the back and call him Larry, but I do know Mr. Block is another writer who went through a long dry spell before his Matthew Scudder series hit the big time.

I have paperbacks by Harlan Coben, Nancy Martin, Jeff Abbott and Laura Lippman, all writers who made the scary leap from paperback original to hardcover.

I have books by writers who’ve won awards, and writers who’ve won hearts. Living writers and dead writers. Writers who quit their day jobs to sit in a cramped office, work on their novels and worry about the house payment. Writers who got up at four in the morning to finish their novels before they went to dull jobs. Writers who never stopped creating, even when they were sick, when their marriages fell apart, when it looked like their careers were tanking.

All their work, all their effort, all theirs dreams are in this room with me. They are my inspiration.

I’ve heard writers say they never read other authors in their genre. I wonder how they survive without the company of their own kind. I can’t.

When my husband Don Crinklaw and I moved to Fort Lauderdale from Washington DC, we trucked two thousand pounds of books down the interstate. The burly movers called my book collection "box hell," and complained about carrying the books up to the seventh floor of our condo.

"You read all these books, lady?" asked one sweating mover, as he hauled another handtruck piled with books into my office.

"Yes, sir."

"You like ’em?"

"I like all these books," I said. "I like their stories, too."

***

Elaine Viets is the author of "Murder Unleashed: A Dead-End Job Mystery."

Where have all the flatware gone?

By Donna

I'm getting reeeeally close to the end of a book, which is good news, because as soon as I type "THE END," I'm going to turn the house upside down and figure out what happened to all my forks.

I have--well, had--a stainless steel service for eight.  It has served me well for over twenty years, so I was a little puzzled lately to realize I was running out of forks.  And the set came with both dinner forks and salad forks, so there should be sixteen of the little critters running around the house.  I tend to favor the dinner forks most of the time.  Some atavistic instinct--go for the largest weapon.  Maybe even the carving fork.  (There's a story, possibly apocryphal, that Confucius deplored the use at table of something that resembled a weapon and influenced the Chinese to continue using chopsticks even after forks were invented.)

But eventually, when I ran out of dinner forks, I'd use the salad forks.  And normally, even in the middle of writing a book, I can find a fork. Plucking your dinner plate, glass, and flatware from the dishwasher isn't elegant, I admit; Martha Stewart will probably never invite me on her show for a feature on writers who live graciously.  But it gets the job done.  And when you're on a deadline, that's what counts.

I first began to notice the fork shortage in January or February.  I assumed that it was an after effect of a week-long Christmas visit from the munchkins (my twin nephews).  A lot of small kids go through phases in which they enjoy helping grownups tidy up the house, but are a little vague on what should and shouldn't go into the trashcan.  Instead of getting peeved at the slight decline in the fork population, I shrugged my shoulders, smiled at the memory of the munchkins' adorable antics, and went back to my outline. 

But lately the fork depletion has gotten much more serious.  Yesterday, there were no forks in the drawer or in the dishwasher, so I had to scour the premises for one clean enough to use after a little hand-washing.  It's been a while since I've had every dish in the house clean and put away, but I think even when I manage that, I will find at least half of my forks have disappeared, and I can't blame the munchkins for all of it.  I eat a lot of meals in odd locations when I'm writing, curled up with a a manuscript.  Maybe I've absent-mindedly dropped forks in places where they'll turn up in that post-book cleanup.  Or maybe I threw some of the forks away myself--I came close to doing that the other day--leaving a fork in a disposable microwave dish I was chunking into the recycle bin.

I got so frustrated that I went online to see if I could buy some replacement forks.  But I've had the flatware so long I don't know the pattern name.  Made by Rogers--says so on the back--but unfortunately Rogers made a lot of patterns.  I haven't yet come across a site that has a really good photo display of the patterns.  I suspect this one is discontinued.  I resolved to work on it after the book.  I have a book to finish; I can eat with my hands if I have to.

But the fork shortage continued to bother me.   And even my favorite rogue fork had disappeared.  This was a non-matching fork that mysteriously appeared in my collection several years ago.  I rather liked the pattern, to the point that I considered getting some like it if I ever needed to replace my old faithful set.  Since I had the vague suspicion that the rogue fork had come from the on-site cafeteria where I used to eat lunch daily back when I had my day job, I was able to locate the pattern, or something very like it, by looking for flatware aimed at the restaurant supply business.  It's a pattern called Colony, from Libbey. And it wasn't expensive, so I ordered some forks.  The smallest box possible.  Of course, at the moment I can't imagine ever needing 36 forks, but I'm sure I'll find something to do with the surplus.  Donate them someplace.  Put them with the party supplies.  Or maybe keep them till the next time I'm this deep in a deadline and the forks start vanishing again.

After I ordered the forks, I realized that maybe it would be nice to have a few knives and spoons to match.  They're on order, too.  I wasn't planning to add to my flatware collection right now, much less in such a haphazard fashion.  But I like the pattern, and it was easy to buy the stuff online, and as soon as the fork order arrives I can eat in peace while I finish the book.

I don't know about my fellow Femmes Fatales, but this is all too typical of what my life's like when I'm trying to finish a book.  Stuff doesn't get done.  Stuff gets done at the last minute.  Stuff gets done a little differently than it would if I had all the time in the world to mess around.  In a few weeks--heck, a few days--I will look back and rejoice that I've finished another draft and then I'll beat my head against the wall a bit when I realize some of the demented things I did while I was doing it.

But right now--what?  Why am I eating this hot dog with my fingers? 

Ask me later.  Right now, I have a book to finish.

Gotta Blog

By Marlys Millhiser

I gotta bank robber needs killing and I've about convinced my heroine to raise the rifle and shoot off half his face.  But the Femmes say I gotta blog.  Something about my writing space.

I have a beautiful second-story office to write in that had a view of the Rocky Mountains until a new house went up three stories with a peaked roof right in front of it.  That's okay, I don't write up here anyway.  I have the desktop up here for the Internet, printer, research materials, and the cat's tree house.  (She still has a view.)  Oh yeah, and now for blogging.

The cat's on steroids, totally allergic to every food but Gerber's baby food, and she just ate a live mouse whole right in front of me--spleen, whiskers, tail, squeak--everything. A humane society orphan--her pharmaceutical bills would buy two laptops like the one I need--she stares up at me with a challenge but, sorry Kitty--the Femmes say I gott6a blog.

The blogs I've read so far have to do with where we write.  I write on a laptop, actually on my lap.  When the weather's nice we (laptop, cat, and I) write on one of two patios, the front porch, the window seat, or a small deck upstairs.  When it's cold we're in front of a sunny window or the gas-log fireplace.

My husband's newly retired.  He has all these wonderful projects around the house and yard now that he has the time--you know, together stuff.  Sorry honey, I gotta blog.

I enjoy watching the deer eat our flowers and trees, the squirrels hold us up for peanuts, the humming birds and butterflies check out the laptop, narrowly avoiding the cat.

My son's a corporate pilot.  "Blogging's for salesmen and the unemployed.  You've got dad full time now, a nauseous cat, and bad guys to knock off.  You ever liquidate that bank robber on a horse?  And don't forget to plant those bedding plants I sent for Mother's Day."  Sorry Prince Charming, I gotta . . . .

I began my first book when he was eighteen months old.  When I finished it he had a baby sister.  "Mom," my daughter, who is now managing a whole department in a major medical instruments company, says, "stay focused on Dad and the kitty and killing people."  (My children had a rather exciting upbringing.)  "Anybody who's got time to read blogs doesn't read books anyway."

My  children have their own mates, cats, careers.  My husband has now retired to nap peacefully with our cat on his chest.  To my knowledge she has yet to rid her troubled digestive system of a half-chewed mouse, and if she does it in her present position--none of my doing--I was blogging.

Much as I didn't want to blog, I actually feel kind of good.  Maybe my sister Femmes were right after all.  Maybe now's the time to blow away a nasty robber and rescue that beautiful horse.

My First Posting

Since the others have described their offices, I will, too. It's my first posting here. I've been gone on tour, and had sundry family obligations, too. It's good to be sitting in the space that is most thoroughly mine.

Oh, sure, there are other computers in here; but my oldest son's will be gone when he finds a job (keep your fingers crossed) and moves out. After that, if I have my way, sooner rather than later my son's room will be converted into an office for my husband. I love the man dearly, but I confess that I want this room all to myself.

My office is not in our house, but in a room across the carport. It's literally not under the same roof, and that is just fabulous. In our previous home, I worked in what was a glorified and (of course) windowless closet. When we moved into this place, I was ecstatic to have a really separate workspace. I put my desk by the window, so I could glance out at the grass and trees. I was sure it would be wonderful to have a view. I was wrong. I couldn't work. After so many years of the closet, I had to move my computer to face a wall with no apertures.

I freely confess that my office does contain a television, not only for the other family members who use it, but for days when I'm filing or printing out a manuscript. As for decor, there are printed banners on the walls that some readers used to decorate a book club event; there's the table centerpiece (a cowboy boot stuffed with dried flowers) from the Bouchercon in Austin where I won the Anthony, though I think the actual award in is in the house; some more dried flowers a fan sent me; two stuffed vampire dolls and one china vampire; two mugs with logos from the Sookie series printed on them, sent me by a writer for whom I did a favor; various certificates and awards; a portrait of Jane Austen, and a caricature of me I got in Monterey; and a picture of my three children together.

My only real stab at a theme are my New Orleans cemetery pictures. I haven't been in the old cemeteries since Katrina, because I'm sure my broken heart would get even sorer, but those old cemeteries (especially St. Louis Number One) are simply a dream place for me. Every time I go the Big Easy, I head for the cemeteries. Last year, I bought a few wonderful black and white pictures of some of the gorgeous tomb art, just awash in the strangely beautiful and macabre atmosphere of the cities of the dead.

My daughter Julia ruined my enjoyment of my favorite photograph by remarking that the angel, sculpted kneeling with her head buried in her arms in grief, looked as though she was throwing up. Philistine!

There's a closet now that's crammed full of stuff -- manuscripts, copies of my older books, computer paper. In the closet's former incarnation, the doors opened to the outside, and it functioned as the totally inadequate toolshed. On one of my brighter days, I asked the Wonderful Guy  -- the one we hire when we can't do something   ourselves, which is quite often -- if he could close off the outer doors, cut one into the office, and put shelves all around. He could. Now I have a fantastic storage space, and we (that is, Wonderful Guy) put up a much roomier tool shed nearby.

Incidentally, I do play music when I'm working. Here's what I play: Yo Yo Ma's cello music, bagpipe music, and movie music. Okay, I'm just weird.

And now I need to stop looking around my office and get back to work, on Sookie VII. Wish me and my New Orleans tomb angels luck. We need it.

Charlaine Harris