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THE BIG FINISH

By Hank Phillippi Ryan

So close. So close. I can almost see the end of my next book.

But not close enough to see exactly what it is. I know I’ll think of it. But the stretch from almost-the-end to typing THE END is a long road.

I know I should practice what I preach. In seminars and conferences, I talk about this. I tell writers: close your eyes, lean back in your chair (staying awake of course) and think about what someone would really do. If your story were true—and it is, in your head—what would a real main character do in the situation you’ve concocted? That always works, I say. And I know it will this time, too. I hope.

There’s also the ever-popular "check your synopsis" method. You wrote the synopsis right? I realized all I had to do was check my 70 page tome (yes, but that’s another topic for another day) and see how I planned the ending in that. So I did. And I had just ….breezed through it. There’s nothing very specific. How’d they let me get away with that?

Sandra Brown, suspense writer extraordinaire has an interesting take on endings. She says: "The first question asked in the book should be the last one answered." Sometimes I have a flash of understanding what that means. And I think it’s profound. (She’s incredibly inspirational, by the way, if you ever get a chance to hear her.)

Last night, my husband asked—he meant well--how’s it going with the ending of DRIVE TIME?

And I said—although I have no idea what it’ll be, I know the climax is already in the book. It’s already there. It’s already written into the first 75,000 words. The location, and the weapon, and who’s involved, and how Charlie escapes. It’s all there, waiting for me to find it. I just don’t know what it is yet.

Jonathan was a bit baffled. It’s—already there? he said. Yeah, I said. I’ve set the stage, I know it. I just have to figure out how I did it.

Do you think—just a thought—that there could be only one ending for my story? I just read the really excellent  Tell No One  by Harlan Coben. It was riveting, and one thing I particularly admired was the ending. It was NOT the one I’d predicted, and I’m always happy when that happens.

 

Then—the movie of TNO was at our neighborhood theater. Jonathan was in the middle of reading the book. But I couldn’t wait to see the movie. And he, sacrificing, agreed to go with me. And in the movie, the ending was completely different. Completely! (I won’t say more.)

That was so fascinating. I can’t wait to ask Harlan (he’s the guest of Honor at  Crime Bake —you’ll all be there, right?) how he felt about the writers taking his story, and yanking it into another reality.

It’s like movies on DVD’s that offer "alternate endings." Alternate endings? I kind of think that my book has only one. The right one.

Charles Dickens said every ending should include the outcome for each and every character. But then, he was writing by the word. I keep thinking: The loose ends all have to be tied up. It has to be realistic. It has to be fair. It has to be unexpected. It has to leave you thinking—oh! I never would have thought of that.

Now, I just have to think of what that is.And actually, it’s exciting, isn’t it? When I type THE END, I’m going to be so happy.

What’s your favorite ending?

What’s the worst? (I’ve got a major candidate for that one! Let’s see if you bring it up…)

The "Real" Mean Streets

by Toni L.P. Kelner

Note: I hate to break the string of Bouchercon reports, but darn it, the others said everything I would have.

I write the kind of mysteries often described as cozies, more Agatha Christie than Mickey Spillane, with the violence and sex kept to a minimum, or at least kept off-stage. Some people consider the word cozy an insult, and others consider it praise. For me, it's neither--it's just what I write most of the time. 

Unfortunately, there has long been a dispute in the mystery field, with some writers and critics taking the view that cosy mysteries aren't as authentic as other kinds of mysteries. And now and then, I worry that maybe they're right, that I'm writing about poison pen letters and petty motives when I should be delving into the dark, twisted underbelly of the world.

Then I look at the Boston Globe and read about William and Gail Johnson of Andover, MA.  Both 50, they have three teenage daughters, and were arrested while out jogging.  The chages?  Criminal harassment, identity fraud, and conspiracy against their neighbors, the Lyons family. Was it a drug deal gone wrong? Blackmail? Something sexual? Nope. It was a property dispute. The Johnsons had plans for their property, and the Lyons family objected.

Apparently the Johnsons hired a friend, Gerald D. Colton, to go after the Lyons on the internet. First there were the phony Craigslist ads for golf carts and a motorcycle, which led to dozens of phone calls and people showing up at the Lyons house to pick up these non-existent items. Unsurprisingly, some of them were quite upset with the Lyons. To add a touch of nastiness, the listing for the motorcycle said it had belonged to a deceased son, which Lyons took as a threat to his two teenaged boys.  

Next, the family found out somebody had tried to open a bank account using Mr. Lyons's Social Security number.  Then they were signed up as members for nearly a dozen websites, including a nudist site. A charity in California was told the Lyons were going to donate a boat to them.

It gets worse.  The Lyons got a letter from a man calling himself Brian, who said that he was a former employee of the Lyons family business who'd been molested there, and was going to prosecute. It never happened--in fact, the Lyons never hired anybody named Brian.

Nastier still, somebody called the Department of Social Services hotline to accuse one of the Lyons's sons of inappropriate behavior, and social workers showed up to investigate.  Further research showed that the name, address, and phone number of the accuser were false.

The Lyons even got an anonymous e-mail asking them to confirm all sorts of personal information, including a Social Security number, that included the nasty note, "Remember, if you aren't miserable, I ain't happy!  Let's Play!"

All of this was traced to Gerald D. Colton, who was subsequently charged with identity fraud and stalking. After his arrest, the Johnsons allegedly offered him $10,000 in hush money, but Colton eventually admitted that he had harassed the Lyons on behalf of the Johnsons.

Keep in mind that the case hasn't gone to trial yet, and the Johnsons have pleaded not guilty, saying that Colton was behind it all. We won't know for sure until the trial.  But still, the prosecutor's case would be at home in any cozy. The electronic version of poison pen letters, the veiled threats, the Craigslist ads--all on High Vale Lane, in a lovely neighborhood in Andover, MA. 

Actual crimes on a real street committed by mean people--those are the mean streets I write about.

The Perfect Con

The perfect con - was it in the movie The Sting? Or The Color of Money? Or my favorite, The Freshman, with one beautiful con after another?

No, of course not. You know the answer. The perfect con was - let's say it all together now - IN BALTIMORE! (tooting party horns, confetti thick in the air everywhere, loud cheering, turning to discretely spit out confetti that flew in mouth while cheering.) That's right. This is the third Femmes installment about Charmed To Death, the Bouchercon held in Baltimore last weekend. It was all too much fun to stuff into one or two blogs. It was too much fun to get over in only a week. Everyone I've talked to since is still floating in mystery heaven because it was such a grand experience.

The convention chairs, Judy Bobalik and Ruth Jordan, outdid themselves. They started out right by choosing the perfect hotel. The Sheraton staff couldn't have been nicer or more efficient. The layout for the convention rooms made it easy to find what you were looking for without walking for miles. The restaurant/bar had great food. Okay, the thirty or so big TV screens were a mite annoying when turned up but it was a sports bar and they would let you turn them down.

Like Dana and Charlaine said, their Werewolves of London panel was great fun and the room was packed to the max with fans. I know this because I got the last chair way in the back where later folks had to stand or sit in the floor. Toni and Donna, also on the panel, brought the were-Femmes total up to four, and they were all hilarious. Toni really knows out to throw out a quick zinger! Funny, funny stuff. Their anthology, Wolfbane and Mistletoe, is already on the New York Times bestseller list! Good work, guys.

My panel was first thing in the morning so I expected nobody to be there. Wrong. The fans came to B'con to party and were ready to get it started early everyday. I was on the Southern panel (I don't know why) with moderator Chris Roerdan and panelmates Cathy Pickens, J.D. Rhoades (Dusty), and Vicki Lane. I liked it because we didn't talk about the same old things. Chris steered us into discussions about how class distinctions and the differences in the regions we write about affect our books. Hearing how Vicki, Dusty and Cathy create their unique fictional worlds interested me so much that I didn't even touch my coffee. Pretty good for 8:30am.   

The best place at the whole convention was the hospitality suite, sponsored by Sisters In Crime. What a fabulous job Peggy Clifton, a Sisters member in Baltimore, did in arranging for local goodies to be brought in for hungry and thirsty fans after a hard buying jag in the book room. The cookies smothered in fudge and the seven (eight? ten?) -layer cake were out of this world! Many thanks to Peggy and all the volunteers from SinC who hosted throughout the weekend. Besides the snacks, the room was the most comfortable hospitality area I remember from a convention. It had a cozy den feel to it, with a pool table and a bar. I had such a good time there on Saturday night at the Pub Quiz. The crowd split into small groups to answer mystery questions. My team was the Golden Retrievers, a bunch of friends from the 4 Mystery Addicts list, with captain Maggie Mason, Maddy Van Hertbruggen, Donna Moore, and Judith Anderson.

It may be the love of mystery books that brings readers to a con, but books aren't what we'll remember years from now. We'll remember the new friends we made and the fun we had getting together with friends from previous conventions, e-mail lists and other mystery organizations. We'll remember how kind the big guys were to their fans, how the charity auctioneers Chris Grabenstein and Donna Andrews cracked us up, Val McDermid's lovely Scots accent when she said, "Oh, you think you write hard-boiled?" to her panel's male moderator, the look on George Easter's face when he won the Don Sandstrom award, the brilliant comedic delivery of Mark Billingham in his toastmaster duties.

Ahhhh. What a weekend. Thanks to everyone there for making it so much fun.

Bouchercon AGAIN

Dana has already posted on Bouchercon, but I figure there are as many Bouchercon experiences as there are attendees -- plus, I have nothing else to talk about. So here's my take.

This was a wonderfully organized Bouchercon with excellent panels. I only wish I'd gotten to attend more of them. For writers, Bouchercon is a multi-purpose gathering. Not only are we there to appear on panels and do our stint in the signing room, we're there to do business.

Some of that business may look an awful lot like fun: most publishers have a party of some sort for their attending authors. This may be a cocktail party with an open bar and hors d'oeuvres, or if we're lucky, a sit-down dinner. At Bouchercon, due to the number of authors attending, Penguin Putnam had a cocktail party. Unfortunately, the room assigned for this function was about half the size it needed to be. I felt like I was at a miniature ComicCon (a huge San Diego convention which is ferociously crowded at its peak hours). So I wriggled my way out, and Toni (L.P. Kelner) and I repaired to the lobby, soon to be joined by my agent, Joshua Bilmes. Even Joshua, a New Yorker, found the room too crowded for his comfort.

Aside from the business of attending parties, writers always meet with their editors, if their editors are there -- and most mystery editors are front and center at this annual event. Agents are there, too, and they always want some quiet time with each of the authors on their client lists. Then there are the mystery magazines, who like to have writers slotted to sign at their tables, and the writing organizations, like Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America, who have meetings of one sort or another.

It's a fact that you can attend Bouchercon from start to finish and never catch a glimpse of another writer whom you want to see. I'm always surprised to find that So-and-So was in the city, in the same hotel, and walking the same halls, but I never realized he/she was there.

That's why the Wolfsbane and Mistletoe panel was so much fun. There we were, all in one room and at the same table, and it was possible to visit a little with the other writers who contributed to the book. I would have seen Kat Richardson and Toni and Dana, for sure, but I might never have talked to (or seen) Alan Gordon and Joe Konrath if we hadn't been on the panel.

I think we had a good time, and I think the audience did, too. And we hope the reading public has an excellent time.

Back from B’con: cannibalism, werewolves, and traveling panties

by Dana

I'm just recovering from Bouchercon in Baltimore, and it was, as we say up here Nawtha Bostin, wicked excellent.  What particularly worked for me was the admixture of panelists.  On many of the panels, there were folks from different subgenres conversing and I thought it made for real interest and great give-and-take.  My thanks to the organizers and their crew:  bravissima, Judy and Ruth!

It was from “Six Days on the Road,” the panel about how to survive touring, that I jotted down some of the most incongruous notes I found in my program margin:  “contingency cannibalism” and “quick-dry panties.”  The first refers to a book that Barry Eisler couldn’t resist buying, touted as “the survival guide that starts where others leave off,” and the second refers to Marcia Talley’s survival tips for packing light while on the road  (clothing that can be easily washed and quickly dried in your room).  Jonathan Santlofer suggested sleep cures all ills, and having slept twelve hours after I got home, I can’t argue. 

There were actually four Femmes (Charlaine (second from left), Toni, Donna (middle), and me (second from right)) on “Werewolves of London” panel, discussing their short stories from Wolfsbane and Mistletoe, which hit shelves last week.  (Haven’t got a copy yet?  Go now.  I’ll wait.)   The house was packed, and it was a treat to be on the panel with members from the pack I’d never paneled with before:  Alan Gordon (far left), J.A. Konrath, Kat Richardson (far right), who generously gave out gorgeous Christmas ornaments with howling wolves on them to celebrate the book).  One setback was that being so far down the end of the table, when asked what “were-creature” we’d each like to be, all of the coolest answers—were-falcon, were-mountain lion, were-dolphin—were taken.  I had to settle—or was it really settling?—for were-chimpanzee or were-gibbon.  Actually, it would be pretty cool:  both are strong, cagey, and who wouldn’t like to brachiate?  Plus, there’s fruit and termites… mmm, termites.

It felt like there were tons of great panels to see and something going on every minute.  Because of that, it seemed too that I didn’t get to say hey to as many people as I hoped to.  There were happy meetings and new acquaintances in the excellent hospitality lounge or in passing, but with 1500 people…whew! 

Congratulations again to the Femmes who were nominated for awards, Toni, for Anthony for Best Short Story  “How Stella Got Her Grave Back,” and Donna for the Macavity for Best Short Story “A Rat’s Tail.”  And just in case you didn’t see the Anthony winners, they're here.  Congratulations, everyone!

Cranky writer time

by Donna

So I'm working on the next book.  People sometimes ask if it's fun writing my books, and the answer is that yes, a lot of the time it's fun.  But it's also work.  Which means that no matter how meaningful, rewarding, and even fun my work may be a lot of the time, at other times I run headlong against the fact that it is, after all. work.  If I'm recovering from a nasty cold followed by a secondary sinus infection and getting well even more slowly than usually because the ragweed allergy season is giving way to the leaf mold allergy season....it's less fun than usual. (Though still better than the old nine-to-five, Monday-through-Friday day job routine, any day.)

I'm only one day behind where I want to be on the book.  I'm chugging along, slowly but steadily.  But my writing avoidance behaviors are in full bloom.

One of the most common writing avoidance behaviors is nesting. Cleaning, organizing, and tidying.  It's not just me; a year or so ago, a writer friend reported a bafflingly  sudden and uncharacteristic urge to clean her desk. . . her office . . . perhaps her whole house.  Several of us asked if, perchance, she was on deadline.  Of course she was.  You may tell yourself that you can write better in a tidy office; you may claim that you're thinking about your book while dusting, mopping, scrubbing, and sorting; you may even be telling the truth.  But never try to fool yourself that these sudden domestic urges aren't writing avoidance.

I'm also prone to becoming intensely conscious of neglected social amenities. People who haven't heard from me in months will get long chatty emails.  My individual blog, which has had a long dry spell lately while I juggled more than a full plate of family and professional tasks, will probably begin thriving again. 

if possible, I try to make sure that some of my writing avoidance takes the form of writing stuff other than what I'm supposed to be writing.  I wrote a short story last week--because, of course, writing it was infinitely more attractive than adding an equal number of words to the book.

I'm also prone to falling into cranky writer syndrome.  Which looks something like this: writer comes up for air--perhaps after finishing daily quota--and decides, instead of playing Civilization for the rest of the evening, that perhaps she should do some Useful Tasks.  At least one of the tasks will result in some kind of annoyance that the writer might shrug off under normal circumstances, but a writer in full avoidance mode isn't very connected to normal.

Today's irritation: I replied to an email--in this case, someone asking me to support one of his projects.  A few seconds later, I get a form email that says:

Thanks for contacting [sender]. I'm protecting myself from receiving junk mail.

Please click the link below to complete the verification process.
You have to do this only once.

 [link]

You are receiving this message in response to your email to [sender], a Spam Arrest customer.

Spam Arrest requests that senders verify themselves before their email is delivered. 

When you click the above link, you will be taken to a page with a graphic on it. Simply read the word in the graphic, type it into the form, and you're verified.

You have to do this only once per Spam Arrest customer.

No, as a matter of fact, I don't have to do it even once.  I have no problems if [sender]--who was asking me to do something, remember--wants to protect himself from spam.  But if I'm replying to his request, I'm not spam.  If Spam Arrest offers no way for people who use it to pre-approve people to whom they are emailing, so they don't have to go through a multiple-step process to reply, then [sender] shouldn't be using Spam Arrest.  And if Spam Arrest does have such a feature, [sender] should learn how to use it before sending out requests by email.

There.  I feel much better, having gotten that off my chest.  So much better that I think I'll buckle down and write a page or two.

Just as soon as I finish organizing that messy desk drawer.

Where's My Sword?

by Kris

I’m late coming to the party, since millions of others have already made this discovery, but the most exciting books I’ve read lately are the two published books in The Fourth Realm Trilogy by John Twelve Hawks, The Traveler and The Dark River.

So many people have recommended The Traveler to me. I must confess that after hearing about the first chapter, it didn’t appeal to me, so it never made my TBR list. I only decided to give it a try when my husband and a friend couldn’t stop raving. And I still had to push past the child-in-jeopardy opening. But once I read beyond the opening of The Traveler, I couldn’t put it down.

Although marketed as science fiction/fantasy, I would describe The Traveler as a modern-day thriller with slight futuristic elements. Set in a post-9/11 society, a secret organization known as the Brethren uses the fear of terrorism to justify invasive surveillance, which allows them to control the world’s population. Opposing them are the few remaining Travelers, who are able to travel to other realms to discover lost truths, and the last of the Harlequins, fierce fighters whose mission it is to protect Travelers.

The Traveler is the first book in what will be The Fourth Realm Trilogy. The second book in the trilogy, The Dark River, came out in paperback this summer. I read that one just as fast.

John Twelve Hawks is a pseudonym for the anonymous author of these books.  According to legend, no one knows who he really is. What is known, through phone and internet interviews as well as information released by his publisher, Random House, is that he is not Native American, but is living “off the grid,” a term from his books that implies he is invisible to the network of surveillance and authority that he writes about — no address, no bank account, etc.

Though I regard it as a clever ruse, I’m too cynical to buy that anyone so successful can fully live off the grid. How does he get his advances and royalties? Does his agent meet him in a dark alley and pass over a suitcase full of cash? Could happen, I guess, but it’d have to be quite a suitcase. Yet that doesn’t lessen the power of his novels’ message, nor the passion with which he writes.

Internet speculation about Twelve Hawk’s true identity includes the possibility that he is physicist Stephen Hawking, authors Peter Gutteridge, F. Paul Wilson, Thomas Pynchon, and even Dan Brown. Most likely, he’s none of these.

I must say his writing style doesn’t remind me of anybody else I’ve read. While a skillful storyteller, he is still developing. Among my few quibbles is the fact that POV is sloppy in the first book, but better managed in the second. I also take issue with the fact that some characters’ underpinnings tend to morph into something else as needed. Neither those issues, nor others, was enough to lessen my enjoyment, though.

This series does for our world what Orwell’s 1984 did for his time and the era of his prediction. Frankly, the themes in these books scare me silly, but that’s what makes them such great thrill rides. I can’t wait for the third.

And as I face my daily challenges, I can’t help thinking how much more effective I’d be if I had a Harlequin’s power. That’s my new secret fantasy — I want that sword! Then again, being a Traveler would be pretty great, too. Anytime books capture the imagination like that, they're doing something right.