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Several thousand words, the easy way

Occasionally someone will ask writers if they have any creative outlets in addition to writing. There was a time when I'd have said no--when I'd have found the question vaguely puzzling.  Isn't writing enough?  But nowadays, I am delighted to exclaim that yes, in addition to writing, I'm also an avid digital photographer.  (At left: flowers in the Lied Jungle at the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha.)

Digital's important.  I never got that interested in film cameras, and would often allow the pictures I took to languish undeveloped.  Why bother, when all too often they would be blurry, overexposed, or afflicted by those fat, pink blimplike objects that haunt photographers who can't keep their fingers from straying in front of the lens.  And we won't mention the time I tried to photograph Neuschwanstein and got so excited I snapped a shot of my eyeball instead. (At right: jellyfish in the Scott Aquarium at the Henry Doorly Zoo.)

But something happened the first time someone put a digital camera in my paws.  Suddenly I got it. Maybe it was the immediate gratification (and immediate feedback) of being able to see the photo within seconds of taking it.  Maybe it was the sensation of viewing my subjects on a screen--after all, both as a writer and as a longtime television addict, I relate to things on screen.  (At left: alligators lurking in the Kingdoms of the Night exhibit at the Henry Doorly Zoo.)

I've also found that, like gardening, taking photos is an excellent balance to writing.  Both are nonverbal and get me out in the fresh air when I've been hunched over the computer too long. And when you've been beating your head against the wall over flat sentences, uncooperative characters, and a plot that doesn't seem to be going anywhere, it's a wonderful break to pick up the camera or stroll out the door with a shovel and do something else for a change.  (Penguins at the Henry Doorly Zoo.  Which was, incidentally, where I first got the idea for The Penguin Who Knew Too Much, the book that's coming out in August.)

I'm in draft mode now, trying to turn out a certain number of words every day, and when I finished Wednesday's quota and sat down to compose something for the Femmes blog, my mental pen seemed to run out of ink.  It's usually not hard to say something about life, or writing, or both; except when you're working toward a deadline, and it feels like all you're doing is writing and you can't imagine anyone would want to read anything about that.  (At left: in the desert habitat.  Can I say a word of thanks to my friend Lori Hayes, who for the past several years has taken me to see the Henry Doorly Zoo when I came to town for Mayhem in the Midlands.)

So I pulled out the pictures I took while I was visiting the zoo in Omaha.  It has nothing to do with writing, unless you're curious about what writers do when they're not writing.  And I guess some people might be: Kent Krueger organized a panel about that at Mayhem in the Midlands, "The Me You Never Knew," in which the panelists--Margaret Maron, Nancy Pickard, Sharan Newman, Ellen Hart, and I--talked about things other than our current book.  Made a nice change from the usual panel.  Just as my photos make a nice, restful nonverbal change from the daily routine of writing.  (At left, a fledgling hawk.  Also from the zoo, of course.)

And now back to that draft.  Thought if you're not ready to get back to your routine, check out the full album of pictures from this year's zoo trip. 

Just Like Riding a Bike

by Toni L.P. Kelner

This weekend was a momentous one for the Kelners. My daughters made the transition to riding two-wheelers.

Maggie, age 11, had become more and more embarrassed by the fact that she hadn't mastered the bicycle, no matter how much I reminded her that she'd had very few chances to practice, thanks to weather and a myriad of other delays. You see, every day she saw kids much younger than she was zipping along, and she was getting dangerously close to giving up all together.

My husband and I were trying to encourage her without pushing, but it was a tough line to draw. It's been many moons since I learned to ride a bike, and mostly what I remembered of the process was trial and error, plus lots of scrapes and bruises. I couldn't explain that to Maggie, so I kept yelling things like, "Keep going!" and "Peddle faster!" and "Turn!" It wasn't helpful.

Maggie was taking a break, which she'd been doing more and more of as the afternoon progressed, and I was feeling restless. I'd been making excuses for not getting on a bike myself--it had been fifteen years for me, too, the bike was too small, and I was never a particularly good rider. But I remembered that it used to be fun. So I climbed onto Maggie's bike, and about a minute of fumbling, I rode away. There's a reason they say, "It's just like riding a bike." It was still fun, too!

I was staying up, more or less, even though I wasn't peddling particularly fast or steering particularly accurately. I realized the one thing I had that Maggie was still missing was balance. I hopped off again, and my husband and I came up with ways Maggie could practice balancing. Within half an hour, she had it.

Meanwhile, Valerie, age 8, had been happily going along on her training wheels, but upon seeing her sister's example, she wanted them removed. And replaced. Then removed again. Like Maggie, she had the peddling and steering part, but needed the balance. (Well, she had the peddling anyway.) So we got her started practicing, and in an hour or so, she was riding for real, too.

The four of us ended up spending a great deal of time on our bikes this weekend, and a good time was had by all. So what does this have to do with writing?

First, there's the way Maggie felt bad because she didn't bike as well as other people her age. As a writer, when I see books by brand-new writers hitting the bestseller lists, giving up seems almost reasonable. But just as I knew Maggie shouldn't give up, I know I shouldn't give up, either. Of course, while it was reasonably sure that Maggie would be able to ride a bike eventually, there's no such certainty that I'll ever hit a bestseller list, but both of us will have fun rides.

Then there's my initial reluctance to get on the bike, which is something I feel every time I approach a new project. I have to get restless and remind myself of how much fun it is before I climb into the saddle, or onto my desk chair to get to work. Pretty soon, I'm zooming away, and have forgotten why I hesitated. (And fortunately, my chair is a whole lot easier on my tail end than a bicycle seat.)

Next there's my realization of what it was Maggie needed to put the pieces together. When I try to explain writing to a new writer, it's the same story for me. So many of the basics--typing, grammar, spelling, dialog--are instinctive for me, and I don't always remember how hard it was to balance those elements at first.

Finally there's Valerie watching her big sister master a new skill and wanting to do the same. As a writer, I'm constantly learning from the skills and success of other writers--particularly the other Femmes. Like Valerie and her on-again, off-again training wheels, I have had and will continue to have false starts, but knowing that my colleagues have persevered inspires me to keep peddling.

Southwest Taste

by Kris

For years I loved everything about the Southwest and moving here to Arizona is a dream come true. I loved the stark splendor of the landscape, its forever skies, the natural beauty of the crafts, the warmth of the people. I loved everything about it — except for the food.

When it came to food, I used to have strict rules about anything spicy. If it gave off any tantalizing aroma, I avoided it. If it created any sensation in my mouth, I never ate it again. And anything that raised my temperature even to normal was strictly verboten. Hey, it wasn't my fault. I was born to an Irish mother in New Jersey of all places, where I was taught to consider boiled cabbage a gourmet delight.

Okay, so maybe I did take too far. "She's a picky eater," my mother would explain to yet another offended hostess, while I whined, "Mom, this is really hot,"  as I scraped the offending sprinkle of paprika off the potato salad.

I might have gone on like that forever, had I not overheard my husband joking with a friend before we took our first Arizona house-hunting trip. "How is Kris going to survive there? She still doesn't eat spicy food, does she?" the friend asked. "Of course she doesn't!" my husband cried. "If she tried it, I'd have to bury her there." So, everyone knew I was a 98-degree weakling. But even wimps have some pride. Before I moved there, I decided, I would try blistering Southwestern cuisine.

Our first meal was just a snack of nachos. "This is really hot," I cried to my husband. My first time out and I was choking. I wanted my mommy and her awful boiled dinner. My back was to the wall. I feared if I didn't go out trying I would never be able to face myself again. I rallied my courage and moved on to dinner. I threw caution to the wind and ordered a New Mexican dish called Carne Adovada. How bad could it be?

One bite and my whole life changed. For one thing, I didn't have to worry about those pesky brain cells creating any more food rules. The top of my head had just been blown into the hereafter. My mouth exploded in flames. My body melted.

But you know, it wasn't bad. Bad nothing — it was great! Where had they been keeping that stuff? "This is really hot!" I sang to anyone who would listen.

My poor husband misunderstood and looked like he thought it was going to be a long life. "All right," he said with a sigh. "I'll change dinners with you. Mine isn't hot at all." He reached for my plate.

Having spent my formative years glued to TV westerns finally paid off. In a flash, I stabbed the interloper's hand with my fork. "My darling," I said tenderly. "Try that again and it'll be your heart." But I did give him a few tastes of my dinner, just so I could watch his eyes melt.

I stared death by chili in the face and found if you gotta go, that's the way to do it. But more than just my taste in food changed that night. I shed my inhibitions. Shed, nothing — I burned them out. I now stand at the top of life's mountain eager for whatever waits ahead of me, no longer crying, "But I thought this was a beginner's run."

I've also left my husband's taste buds in the dust. "You think this is hot?" I now ask across the kitchen table. "Hah! Next time I'll make it even hotter." I insist, watching the sweat run from his pores, while I barely produce a glow. I experienced a trial by fire that night and lived to tell about it.

Now if I could only learn to swim in cool water. ("This is really cold.") But what's life without challenges?

Home Again, Home Again

My mother used to recite a little poem to me that began, "To market, to market, to buy a fat pig! Home again, home again, jiggety jig!" I think it's a Mother Goose rhyme. Well, I've been to market. I wasn't buying a fat pig, I was selling one; to wit, my latest Sookie Stackhouse book, ALL TOGETHER DEAD. Along the way, I tried to remember to also tout Elaine Viets's new book, since Elaine's been in the hospital. I think I forgot at two or three signings . . . but my heart was more or less in the right place.

The pleasure of being home is immense. Of course I kept up with my husband and daughter (and my two sons who are grown up) via phone, and I checked my email from time to time. Those communications helped me feel attached to my world. But touring can be a lonely business, and even the pleasure of room service palls after a while.

Now that I'm home, I've found that the familiar obligations have piled up in my absence. My husband kept up with the laundry, but I have my own suitcase to clean out. I have some commitments that were put off that I now have to honor. I have some books to read that have piled up, and I have some people to thank who helped me along the way. And I had to catch up on my daughter's life,  which is full of incidents and drama . . . she's sixteen.

Oddly enough, my publisher still wants my book on its due date despite my travels. So I have to launch back into the next Sookie, which looks to be very complicated in plot.

The good part of this is, I scarcely remember what being bored felt like. The bad news is that since I hit 55, I wouldn't mind being bored once in a while . . . I think.

Thanks for turning out to see me on the road, those of you who showed up. It was great to talk to you. It was great to sign books, and meet the people who actually helped the book have a sensational first week. And when I'm peering into my kitchen cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook for supper, I'll think of all those wonderful faces waiting to hear me speak, and I'll think of the waiter asking me if he could pour my coffee, and I'll be nostalgic . . . just for a second.

But in the words of another famous traveler, "There's no place like home."

Charlaine Harris

Could Editors be Next?

Marlys Millhiser

Well, my new computer’s here, but I’m writing this on the old one. This old one’s been seeing its better days since Katrina. This is the laptop that can’t be closed because the lid joints are broken. I was about to replace it when Katrina hit and I had a writer friend all but wiped out by that storm and decided the friend needed it worse than I did. I had a computer sent straight to this writer from Dell. So when I finally scramble up enough to buy my own new computer Dell sends it straight to my friend in Louisiana. Cuze that’s where they sent the last one. Problem is this was a temporary address. No one lives there now. Problem is Del’s whole process is automated now. And automatons can’t think out of the box. The only live people willing to talk to you are the salesmen. It’s been a nightmare getting the new laptop here. And all because I couldn’t talk to real people. Once you’ve ordered it you talk only to salesmen or recorded voices that ask you a set of questions followed by a set of answers from which to choose. None of these choices are, "none of these choices apply to my problem here." You can call or email the salesmen but you never get the same one and they don’t give a crap about misdirected merchandise you’ve already bought.

So they redirect you to the labyrinth of thwarted hopes, the mechanical recorded voices that never end with "if none of the solutions above apply to your problem here, please press eleven" so an intelligent being might actually converse with you. Not necessarily in English mind you, but they could at least tish, tish some human sympathy for the overwrought. Now that it’s here, my new computer won’t perform as I desire–even though I explained at length to the salesman I ordered it from about how I wanted it loaded and the uses to which I would put it. (We have a Dell desktop for Internet access, etc. ordered without difficulty apparently before automation.)

Long, way long, before my new laptop arrived I was getting robotic e-mails congratulating me on making such a wonderful choice by ordering from Dell and hoping I was enjoying the fruits of my wise decision. There was even a questionnaire where I could extol the awesome wonders of my purchase, by check-marking boxes on a self-congratulatory questionnaire. But there was no way to answer this missive, to unload my despair. I didn’t even know where the hell it was!

So I got to thinking–since publishing is becoming so expensive and sales are the top priority in any business–what if we mechanize editing? A writer can type into a little box or better yet choose from a list of ten types of book her manuscript could become–if published. Pick from ten choices and another list would come up asking questions pertaining to previous published work and sales and things like that.

Maybe agents would become obsolete as well. And proof-reading too could become mechanized. To make this possible we would have to homogenize the categories and language a bit, cut way back on the types of books published–it would be too complicated otherwise, but we’re well along that path already with computerized ordering from Walmart, K-Mart, Borders. No orders for an author’s book if previous title didn’t sell, a machine’s decision. With everything mechanized and digital, reviews won’t be considered, forcing authors to use pseudonyms if a previous title tanked.

Won’t this stunt novelty, creativity, and awe? Well yes, it already has, but too much variety confuses the market place which is not good for business, it’s not going to happen, so get used to it. Reality always seems unfair to somebody–mostly whiners.

I’ve got a Geek coming to the house tomorrow to make it all better–I hope. The Geeks, at least, are going to profit handsomely from all this. The computer as we know it may be in big trouble though. It may be forced to go hand-held. You know, like a book.

Back from Malice

by Donna

Yesterday I figured out that I'd been away from home for all or part of eleven out of the last fourteen days.  A trip to Boston to see my brother and sister-in-law and twin nephews.  Malice Domestic.  The Festival of the Mystery in Oakmont.  Had a great time.  Glad to be home.

Making a visit to my nephews just before going to Malice and Oakmont helped me diagnose something that happens to me at conventions.  My brother and I took the boys out to a museum one day.  They had a great time . . . and we didn't get them back by their usual nap time, and we probably let them get a little overstimulated.  Result: they careened off the walls for the rest of the day, becoming crankier and crankier, and even Mama had trouble finally settling them down to sleep, poor tykes.  I think that happens to me when I'm at conventions--too much fun; too many old friends to greet; too many new ones to meet; too many panels and books and--before you know it I'm bouncing off the walls.  Can't sleep.  Can't even settle down.

But for some reason, when I'm away, I find it strangely calming to think about my house.  Imagine my yard, green and lush and neatly mowed.  My house, calm, serene, uncluttered.  And my computer, waiting in the office for me to settle back into the routine of writing, unhindered by other demands.  Never mind that it's a fantasy.  That the yard and house need work, and once I get home I'll be juggling a million and one tasks on top of my writing.  For some reason, meditating on that idealized version of my life lulls me to sleep and leaves me ready to face another busy day on the road.

Then, on the way home, I find myself thinking about all my friends who are scattering out across the country, by plane, train, and car.  A small diaspora of mystery readers and writers spreading out among people who don't really understand the importance of red herrings or the joys of a genuinely untraceable poison.  I imagine my friends hauling their book-filled suitcases to the luggage counters and shoving them into their car trunks.  I make mental notes of things I forgot to tell them about in person and should send in an email.  I wonder if they have their own small coming home rituals.

Because there's nothing like the feeling of walking in the door, setting down the suitcase, and murmuring to yourself, "Welcome home."  Many of my friends have spouses, children, large families waiting to pull them back into the happy chaos of daily life, but I find myself wondering if even they like to take that one quiet moment to mark their return home.

Then I like to do a tour of inspection.  Not a paranoid, look under every bed to see if the burglars are here inspection--just a quiet ramble through the house, getting acquainted again.  Which is silly, because I could probably tell you with a high degree of accuracy what each room looks like while I'm gone.  I've learned the folly of staying up half the night to get the house perfect before I leave for a trip.  I walk through, take pleasure in the neat rooms, tidy up a few things in the messy ones, and settle back into my house.  Into my life.  And into what I hope will be the quiet routine of my writing.

At least until Memorial Day, when I'm off again to Mayhem in the Midlands.

Malice XIX

Mary here, just home from Malice Domestic, the book convention for fans of traditional mysteries. Malice celebrated its nineteenth year of providing good clean fun for ladies and gentlemen with murder on their minds. Solving murders, of course, not committing them.

We cozy and traditional fans love to cheer on our mystery heroes, whether amateurs or professionals, while they hunt down the bad guys. But reading is a lonely job, isn't it, when it's just you, a book, a cup of tea? Maybe a loyal pet for company as you yell encouragement to the detective while he chases a perp down the street? Or gnash your teeth at the dastardly villain? Or leap from the chair and holler "Yes!" when the hero gets the bad guy in the end? Sure, your dog might look at you funny but at least he's there for you. Too bad he can't understand when you try to explain how the detective's wit and courage made the story a winner.

That's why Malice is such great fun. It gives us a chance to share our book passions with like-minded armchair sleuths. Throughout the convention hotel, groups of book fanatics huddle together to discuss panels or the books they loved and recommend. And if anybody feels like wearing a big fancy tea-time hat while doing so, it's perfectly okay. No gangs of marauding bloodlust authors or their molls are there to snub us. We can wear a veritable breastplate of cat and dog pins if we want. Fun is what it's all about, from the Theatre of the Air radio play on Friday to the Agatha Tea on Sunday.

Saturday night's banquet brought tears of sadness and joy for me. Our fellow Femme Elaine Viets was to be the evening's toastmaster. Her dear friends Jan Burke and Margery Flax, who have done so much in organizing a 'stand-in' tour for Elaine's new book, called Elaine during the banquet, then held out the phone so all of us there could say hello as a group to let her know we missed her. Then, two of the best banquet speeches I've heard were given by Carolyn Hart, this year's Lifetime Achievement Award winner, and Rochelle Krich, this year's Guest of Honor. Both spoke of the positive influences in their lives, of families and friends, of how goodness in the world remains in spite of the horrors.

The joyous part of the evening came when Femme Toni Kelner won the Agatha award for Best Short Story of the year. Here's a picture of Toni and her husband Steve at the banquet. Later, I found out that Femme Charlaine Harris has been chosen as next year's Malice Guest of Honor.

Way to go, ladies! Congratulations to both of you! 

   

When is it a book?

by Toni L.P. Kelner

Members of a writers' forum I frequent insist that a book isn't a book until it's published. Before that, they say, it's only a manuscript or a novel, or even the more generic story or work-in-progress. So I've tried to follow those conventions when I'm posting. But I'm not sure they've got it right. When exactly does the transformation from manuscript to book occur?

I've been thinking about that question a lot this week, as the release date for my next book approaches. Many Bloody Returns, an anthology I edited with fellow Femme Charlaine Harris, will be released in early September. And I'm itching for the moment when I can announce "It's a book!" So when should I start handing out cigars?

Maybe it should be when I see the first advance reader copy. A book is definitely a book by the time it reaches that stage. Sure, it doesn't have the fancy cover and there are still changes to be made, but it's recognizably a book by then.

So I'll go a step back. Even as I write this, the unbound galleys for Many Bloody Returns are sitting on my desk. I still have to finish reading them, and then changes will be made by the good folks at Ace Books, but it's already been typeset and 95% or more of the pieces are in place. I think it's fair to call it a book.

The step before that was receiving the cover flat, a sample of what the actual book cover will look like. Now that was a magic moment. An artist has now visualized an image to represent the stories, and a designer came up with a "look." It has an ISBN and everything. It must be a book at that point.

Going further back, I get to the copy-edited manuscript. It's not as pretty, but no editor would waste time going over every typo and comma mistake if it weren't a book. That's official enough for me.

Back further still, to the manuscript stage. Okay, it's not typeset and still needs editing, but the majority of the words are in place, and if you ask me, it's the words that make it a book.

Before that, there was the proposal. Okay, it's specious to call a few pages of plans a book, but it's the proposal that the publisher bases the offer on. Surely if they're willing to spend actual money and get signatures on an honest-to-goodness contract, it must be a book in their minds, and who am I to argue?

At the very start we had the idea. And from that humble beginning, Charlaine and I have been calling this project a book. Before the proposal or anything at all but a gleam in our authorial eyes, we saw it as a book and we called it a book. Very soon now, it will be a book by anybody's definition.

So maybe I should go back to that writers' forum and talk about my new book, even though I haven't so much a written a paragraph of it yet. Maybe by believing it's a book long before it physically exists, that will help it become a book. Words have power, after all, which is something all writers understand.