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If you love something, let it go...

by Toni L.P. Kelner

We Kelners went to see Tangled this afternoon, and quite enjoyed it. You've probably already heard that it's a re-telling of the fairy tale of Rapunzel, so I won't drown you in plot details, but one plot thread that struck home was the way in which Mother Gothel works so hard to keep Rapunzel from leaving the nest.

You might think that this was particularly meaningful to me because I have two daughters of my own--one of them even has long hair--and some day those girls will be leaving home. But that's not where I'm going with this because I am in complete denial about that concept. No, what I've been thinking about is the release of my latest book, Blast from the Past, which will be on Tuesday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now for the book buyer, this is a brand-new book, but I've been living with it for years. First there was an idea, then a proposal, then the various drafts, the copy edits, the galley proofs, and so on. But now it's out of my hands and out of my control. Sure, I can do some book promoting--like this blog, come to think of it--and talk it up and so forth. But basically, the book has to stand on its own two feet... or rather, on its own pages. All I can do is hope that people like it. 

Despite the fact that this is hardly a new experience for me, I still don't relish it. Part of me wants to hang out at the bookstores and personally introduce the book to prospective buyers, to tell them why it's written the way it is and explain the backstory if they haven't read the other books in the series. I'm afraid they won't understand that Tilda is into old TV shows and specializes in writing about the formerly famous, and they'll wonder why her encountering an old boyfriend is such a big deal. I'm itching to explain the references to comic books, and tell people that the fictional books I refer to in some of the epigraphs were supposedly written by friends of mine. (My pal Jerry Frazee gets credit for the book about indie comic books and my pal Mike Luce gets the book about Saturday morning TV shows.) I even want to explain the jokes, in case they didn't get them.

But that's not the way it works. I've done the best job I can. I listened to my beta readers (Femmes Charlaine and Dana, husband Steve, and agent Joan) and my editor, and addressed their concerns. I spell checked the manuscript repeatedly, and edited it over and over again. That's all I can do.

I have to let go now.

So here's hoping that people like it. As for me, I'll be at home with my scrapbooks, remembering when Blast From the Past was nothing more than an idea about doing something with a missing comic book author.

The top ten Facebook posts we'd rather not see

by Donna Andrews

So a few of us were talking about how some folks don't seem to realize that the whole freakin' WORLD could be reading what you post on Facebook--or on your blog, or what you Twitter, for that matter.  And inspired by that conversation, I came up the top ten things I do not want to see on Facebook.

1.  "We just uploaded the video of Typhani's birth!  A little out of focus where Jason puked during the episiotomy, but you can see EVERYTHING!"

2.  "The doctors are wacko not me!  I've been off my meds for months now and I've never felt better.  By the way, if anyone wants a tour of the mothership, just IM me."

3. "I think poor Kris is depressed. If you're a friend of Kris Neri's, why not call her up and chat?  Her home number is 928-555-1212."

4.  "Thank goodness for Ex-Lax!!!"

5.  "It was an open casket funeral.  Here are a few final shots I took of Uncle Ralph with my cell phone.  I think they did a great job on the bullet holes!"

6.  Did I mention I had a date with Jason? OMG!  We practically did it in the cab on the way home, and then when we got back to my place . . . wait, show you the video!"

7.  "Wat the hel do U meen, flunkig my kid!  Let me tell you what I think of U stuk up English teechers . . ."

8. "So the bandages came off, and I think my new boobs are great!  DDD!  What do you think?  Tomorrow I'll post the before and after shots from my bikini wax."

9. "Ohhhh.....I am SOOO wasted tonight.  You'll never guess what I just did."

10. "Great news!  I don't have an STD, just a UTI!"

Of course, I'm sure I haven't covered every single Facebook faux pas.  In fact, I bet I've only scratched the surface. Anyone want to suggest a few poisonous possible posts that I've missed?

Donna

p.s.  Kris Neri is not depressed today, as far as I know.  In fact, she and I are both celebrating the fact that we were nominated for the Lefty Award.  Go Femmes!

Those Pesky Resolutions

by Mary Saums

 

Goodness, it's hard to believe January is about over. Time absolutely zooms past me so fast I hardly ever know when it is or where I am on the great continuum.

Wait, is it 2011? It is. See what I mean.

What I like about January - it motivates me to work on New Year's resolutions. How are you doing on yours so far? Making steady progress, I'm sure, and in the groove on your way to accomplishing all your goals.

Mine are going along pretty g... I mean they're certainly moving toward ... well, they've really been on my mind .... okay, I've hardly done diddley spit. You know how it is, it's winter and it's cold and we've had lots of snow, all of which can put a serious squelch on your plans. Not to imply any of my resolutions had to do much with the outdoors.   

Every year, my resolutions are basically the same. I want to make myself exercise regularly. Maybe go back to the gym, take a class.

I want to find a diet that finally gets rid of the rolls ...

... and I'm willing to try anything, including changing my religion.

 

 

 

And then there's the yearly quest to re-organize my closets so they look like the ones in magazines.

Reading is a given, but this year I want to make time for more 'fun' books, the kind that make me laugh out loud, squint my eyes up tight and hold my side.

 

 

 

Instead of feeling lonely writing by myself so much, I'd like to get out and hang with book friends more often. A Nano write-in perhaps?

And, big resolution here, get outside and out of my head regularly for some fresh air. I like the idea of walking meditations in the woods. Commune with nature, hug trees, talk to the little animals, that kind of thing. It's a great stress reliever, whether you go alone or with a friend.

What new thing do you want to do in 2011? We're lucky to be alive now and have so many choices, so many interesting, wonderful things to experience. Do you have something special planned this year that you've wanted to do for a long time?
  

It's award season once again in movies, television, and writing. The list for the Edgars was released today by Mystery Writers of America, and I read it with great interest. The nomination list for the Agathas will be out soon (if it isn't already), and then it'll be time for the Anthonys . . .

Let the screen arts have their Golden Globes, their Emmies, their Academy Awards. We don't need no stinkin' Lamboutins. We don't need Gucci gowns. We just need to show up in our good-luck clothes, sit through an interminable banquet, and wait for the announcements.

What's the fascination with awards? Aren't they elitist? Don't they celebrate the achievements of a few to the detriment of the accomplishments of the many?

You betcha. And yet we long to be nominated, we yearn to win, we weigh our chances with the precision of butchers weighing meat. Yeah, it's an honor to be nominated. But that comes in a far second to actually winning.

Winning is a complex pleasure. There's the feeling that you won a particular kind of popularity contest, and there's also the validation of being recognized as a real writer. (I believe most writers spend their professional lives being afraid they'll be exposed as frauds.) Then there's the guilty pleasure of seeing the evidence that more people recognize the worth of your work than the work of others. And there's the sheer relief of having the whole ordeal over with.

There's the misconception that winning an award with manifest later in better money. That's not necessarily true in the writing field any more than it is in the film industry. But having that award may help in ways that are less tangible; after all, there's considerable cachet to being able to say "Anthony Award winner Joe Blow" or "Edgar winner Suzy Snodgrass." (Though I don't remember Joe or Suzy ever making the short list.)

After watching the Golden Globes last Sunday, there's one thing I can say about mystery awards: you won't find a mean-spirited host at the MWA banquet or the Agatha ceremony. That's one thing I can guarantee.

Chasing the sun

by Dana

The weatherman said forty-nine states out of fifty have snow.*  Official or not, to me, it's the middle of winter.

In a massive effort of denial, I've been spending too much time baking bread.  My whole wheat bread is pretty good, the soft dinner rolls and crusty pain de campagne are almost there, but my crackers are still only okay.  Biscuits and cinnamon rolls are next.  Obsessive?  Perhaps.  But warm.

What really helps is watching a lot of movies and reading, anything with sunshine.  I mentioned before I have been re-viewing "Deadwood;" "Rome" is next.  Not a lot of winter weather in either of those, I realized a while back.  Too bad "Dexter" is done for the season:  sunny Miami, even with serial killers, would be perfect now.  And surely it isn't coincidence that two of the books I'm reading right now are Cleopatra by Stacy Schiff and Naomi Novik's Tongues of Serpents.  Ancient Egypt and a parallel 19th-century Australia will do fine, thanks.**

I was lucky the year I discovered Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence.  I'd read over a Greek salad with lots of feta cheese (no wine at lunch, alas—how un-French), and the New England cold would seep out of my bones for an hour or so.  Even as Mayle explained that Provence is dry, not hot, and that winters there can be brutal, I didn't care.  I lingered over descriptions of lavender, honey, and young wine in summer.  Another year, it was Italy, with Tim Parks' Italian Neighbors.  Alternate that with viewing "Much Ado About Nothing," and Roberto's your uncle.  All those hot young actors in summery Tuscany?  I'd almost forget about shoveling, until the next blizzard.  That's saying something. 

Inevitably, this habit turns to vacation fantasies.  Anyone else score travel brochures and guide books, just to get a fix?  Websites make this kind of fantasizing easier, now.  Dangerously easy.  Two years ago, I was lucky/insane enough to have had two major trips, one to Greece for a wedding, and one to Turkey.  Oddly, it wasn't movies that did it for me the winter before (I never saw "Mama Mia"), it was poring over maps and reading the classics.  It was the anticipation and planning that made me feel virtuous—just like homework!--and the images when I researched each ancient site:  brilliant white marble, bright sandstone, scorched hillsides warmed the soul.   

Even now, as I'm working on an urban fantasy WIP, I'm finding the colder and darker it gets here, the farther east the story moves.  I have to rein that impulse in, because if I keep this up, everyone will be in India by the end of March.  I thought things would sort of wrap themselves up, say, in Paris, and now I'm in Venice.  On the other hand, if it means I have to stare at images of Corfu and Myknonos and  Ephesus for a few more hours...I'll figure out another subplot.  

(N.B. Until I get that WIP completed, there is another "Fangborn" story coming out. "Love Knot" will appear in The Wild Side, which also includes a a story by Femme Toni--but not until August.)

Do you have warm-weather books to get you through the cold and wet months?  Do you have movies set in exotic locales to turn to, when the weather outside is frightful?  Do you scan the Travel Channel, hoping Anthony Bourdain will be in Spain?  Tell me, please.  I need another hit.

*Only Florida has no snow.  Hawaii has snow on the volcanic peaks. 
**Here's hoping sunshine returns to Brisbane soon, and that my friends and readers there are well.

Remembering Ruth

 by Donna Andrews

This week I received the sad news that Ruth Cavin, my long-time editor, died on Sunday, January 9.  In one sense it wasn’t a surprise.  She was ninety two, and had been looking a little frail.  Then again, she looked a little frail the first time I met her, twelve years ago, when she was only eighty. 

Actually, it was a few months before I got to see her.  We first met by telephone, in 1998, when I got "the call."  I’d entered the St. Martins Press/Malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Contest in the fall. I’d heard after a few weeks that my judge loved my book and had sent it on to New York, to Ruth. 

But that was October, and this was March.  It had been a long winter.  Not that I was sitting around biting my nails waiting to hear about the contest.  During the time since I'd turned in the manuscript of Murder with Peacocks I'd finished most of the first drafts of two complete novels—one an as-yet unpublished humorous fantasy, the other the first incarnation of what become You've Got Murder.  And I'd made contingency plans—if I didn't win, I would start my agent hunt immediately, and from things people had told me, I suspected it would help, being a finalist in the St. Martins contest. 

Still, by March the joy of being a finalist was getting a bit frayed around the edges, and yet I knew I might still have weeks to wait before I found out whether I'd won or not—I think the deadline for notifying the winner was sometime in late April.  I'd been working long hours at my day job, followed by long hours on my two manuscripts, and I was a little worn out.  So when I came home one evening, at around 6:30 or 7 p.m., and dialed the number to retrieve my phone messages, I wasn't expecting much.  I certainly wasn't expecting to hear the now-familiar voice of Ruth Cavin, asking for Donna Andrews and, after a pause in case I was screening my calls, saying she'd try again tomorrow.

At that moment, I knew.  I told myself not to celebrate until I talked to Ruth.  But as I told someone later, I was pretty sure Ruth didn't call the runners up to taunt them.  I'd won the contest.

We did talk on Friday.  And yes, I had won.  That phone call from Ruth changed my life.  Twelve years and seventeen books later, I still get choked up when I think about it.

I also vividly remember something Ruth said when we first talked about what revisions she wanted me to make to Murder with Peacocks.  They weren't that extensive, really, and there was only one she was quite adamant about.

"Lose the prologue." It wasn't necessary, she explained, and made her think, at first, that it wasn't as good a book as it turned out to be and—

"Why are you laughing?" she asked.

I explained that I was laughing because I was delighted to lose the prologue; that I'd only tacked it on because so many people, citing conventional wisdom, told me that the first murder happened too late in the book and I had to open with something exciting. 

And then she uttered words that I've quoted ever since.

"Let it be the book it is."

I could tell a few more Ruth anecdotes, but at this moment, none are quite so vivid in my own mind as those first two—both of them happening before I met her at Malice Domestic, and saw her small figure—already bent, perhaps even frail but still indomitable.

I remember thinking as she approached that nobody had told me she was so old, and worrying, just for a moment, if she'd live to see my book published.  And then she spoke, and my worries about her age disappeared beneath the force of her personality.  How many people are lucky enough to work with an editor whose name is almost always prefixed with "The Legendary?"

She changed my life.  She let me be the writer I was.

I already miss her.

National Tragedy

by Kris Neri

I wrote my scheduled blog last week and put it into our blogging software’s queue for automatic uploading today. But I decided to take it down now and to save it for another day. There’s something more important I feel a need to address today — the tragic shooting in my adopted state of Arizona.

I wasn’t in Arizona at the time of the shooting and didn’t hear about it when it happened. I had flown to Burbank, California the day before to present a writing workshop at the Burbank Library. I was staying at the home my former student, mystery author Jane DiLucchio, and her partner, Sue, and we were busy catching up. I only heard about it from some friends who came to hear my talk, and there wasn’t much time to go into it before I had to begin my workshop.

I rushed off to the airport immediately afterwards. Since all the TVs at the airport displayed sporting events, I began to think it might not be as bad as I’d heard. But when my husband met me at the airport in Phoenix, and through our long drive home as we struggled to find radio updates in the big stretches of a state where radio signals can be scarce, I learned the casualties were even worse than I feared. Even more horrific and senseless, and just as wrong.

I was saddened by the news, of course, but not shocked. No, I can’t claim I knew Representative Gabrielle Giffords would be targeted, but after such a toxic election, I felt certain it was just a matter of time until someone was gunned down somewhere, either for their political beliefs, or the beliefs that others ascribed to them. Some of our public officials have been depicted as figuratively in the crosshairs, and it was only a matter of time until an actual threat was carried out against someone.

I’m so sick of politicians who play fast and loose with language. Tiptoeing over the line when it comes to instigating hostilities. Winking at their own careless choices of expression. And when the violence they’ve been flirting with calling for finally breaks out, jumping away from it and disclaiming all responsibility.

Remember that little ditty we learned as kids?:

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.

While the intent of getting kids not to take too seriously the nastiness other kids might dish out might be good, the sentiment is not accurate. Sticks and stones may hurt, they may even kill. But words can do just as much damage. Some people carry the wounds words create through all the days of their lives.

Words carry immense power. Every writer knows that, and every reader should. When we feel ourselves being swayed by heated rhetoric, our skepticism and personal judgment should kick in, especially when the intent appears to enflame our anger against someone else. While most of us do think for ourselves, the more unstable and the most gullible among us are too easily swayed. And some people simply find it more comfortable to move in lockstep with the slogans printed on bumper stickers.

We’re not big on taking personal responsibility in this culture, though. We’re more into blaming others for our mistakes and justifying ourselves when the action we took went the wrong way. And some of our politicians are leading the blame game charge. I think our leaders should be better than that. But how can we attract principled people if there’s a good chance they’ll fall prey to someone else’s “Second Amendment remedy” for stating their minds?

Perhaps a good first step in becoming a less toxic and angry society is to simply speak more exactly. To choose our words wisely, and to be aware of their power.

Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. And if you do say it, own up to what you said. 

What's Your Guilty Pleasure?

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

 You’ve gotta look on the bright side, I say. A recent bout with kind-o-like-the-flu resulted in a completely unplanned Hank-festival of guilty pleasure movies. Here’s how it happened. At the same time the deadline gods had made me incapable of thinking (let alone getting any farther in my current ms.), they provided a steady cable TV stream of my film favorites.

For three solid days, all I could do was watch movies. Sometimes, I was even well enough to watch with my eyes open.

Day one, oh my gosh, look what’s on. THREE DAYS OF THE CONDOR. How great a movie is that! “I’m not a field agent, I just read books.”” says Robert Redford.

You know this book and movie, right? Redford is a professorial-looking everyman type who works in a brownstone CIA office reading books to see if there are clues or ideas in fiction. I mean, I can’t get over what a great idea that is, and actually believe it exists. Great lines: Redford says, all serious and noir--“I don't remember yesterday. Today it rained.” “You think not telling a lie is the same as telling the truth.”

Of course as a reporter, I love the ending. (Will they print the truth? Ah...depends on how deep the conspiracy goes, doesn’t it?)

And in the complete metaphor for books to movies, you’ve got to remember the book (one of my all time faves) was called SIX Days of the Condor.

But wait. ADVISE AND CONSENT. I was riveted through hours of talking talking talking and it was still relevant, and clever, and thought-provoking. And then! THE CANDIDATE. Redford again, totally UNlikeable, with that amazing ending—“What do we do now?”

But wait. I take my pills, and there’s THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1,2,3. The real one, with Walter Matthau and Robert Shaw. And remember, how there are absolutely no surprises, not one, every moment of that movie you know exactly what’s gonna happen, and it does, and it’s still great?

 

 

YOU’VE GOT MAIL. In which Tom is SO adorable, and Meg is SO adorable, and it’s all so adorable, so funny, so cute, so clever, and I laughed out loud until the stupid sell-out ending. But, whatever.

Click. I’m not kidding—The BOSTON STRANGLER. Henry Fonda, Tony Curtis. And the guilty part of that is that I think I’d never actually seen it. It’s really fascinating, very dated, in such a cool way. (And today some guy knocked at our front door, alleging he was sent to change the water meter and would I let him in! Not a chance, buddy. He’s lucky I didn’t call 911.)

But gang, I clicked to the TV guide, and there it was. Starting now. The piece de guilty pleasure. Say it with me. POINT BREAK.

You know it, word for word, right? Ex-football hero Johnny Utah, played by Keanu Reaves, is an FBI guy who is sent by doofus but devoted agent Angelo Pappas (Gary Busey (!)) to infiltrate the surfing community where, they suspect, is the milieu of the gang of bank robbers called the Dead Presidents. (Irony, see? Plus they wear president’s masks. ) As a result, he meets the gorgeous, hot but hard-to-get Tyler (Lori Petty, whatever happened to her, the one person who isn’t given a ridiculous name) and the genius guru of the crowd, Bodhi, (“they call him Bodhisattva,” whispers an awestruck Tyler) and various ne’er do wells named things like Warchild. Oh, Bodhi is Patrick Swayze. I mean, I ask you.

It’s great. And the how-did-they-write-this stuff lines come non-stop.

Gary Busey: “How do you know?”
Johnny Utah: “I just have a feeling.”
Gary: “Last time you had a feeling, I had to kill a guy.”

Busey as Pappas, holding a gun on a surfer-suspect: “Speak into the microphone, squid brain.”

Two more things that were so hilarious: Johnny Utah learns to surf brilliantly in about a day. I’m from Chicago, so I admit I have no idea. But you all? Can that possibly happen? And he parachutes out of a plane without learning how.

And the dénouement is SO impossible it just—I’m sorry, it’s just impossible. And after that happens, another impossible thing happens which the writers deal with by just ignoring it.

Oh, wait. After that, the big finish includes another impossible thing.

Still, gotta love it. I mean, how many times have YOU watched it?

Now I know if I just keep surfing, channels I mean, I’ll get to watch DAY OF THE JACKAL. Or BRING IT ON. SPEED. LEGALLY BLONDE. CLUELESS. WORKING GIRL. DESK SET. TIME BANDITS. Ah…my faves. 

What are yours?

 

My Year in Nifty

by Toni L.P. Kelner

Like most of us living by the Gregorian calendar, when the end of December approaches, I find myself reflecting on the events of the previous year. And when I add it all up, I have to say it was a nifty year. I saw and did some pretty nifty things. Now these weren't necessarily earth-shattering accomplishments or life-changing events. They're just things that I'm really glad to have done or seen. So, in no particular order, here's my Nifty List for 2010.

 

Nifty Event

I'm an enthusiastic short story writer, so when Carolyn Haines invited me to submit to her anthology Delta Blues, I enthusiastically agreed. The fact that it was for noir stories about Mississippi Delta blues didn't bother me, even though I'd never been to Mississippi, didn't listen to the blues, and had never written a noir story. So just writing a story that Carolyn liked enough to include would have been nifty enough. But it got a whole lot better.

Carolyn and Ben LeRoy of Tyrus Books decided that what we really needed to do to debut the book to appropriate fanfare was to make a band out of the contributors. Fortunately, many of the contributors are legitimate musicians. I am not. This did not stop me for immediately volunteering to join the band.

So in March, Blue Muse and the Boomettes actually performed at Ground Zero in Clarksdale, MS. And there I was, singing on stage as a Boomette. That's right. I sang in public, and even moved in a marginally rhythmic way. And to my everlasting triumph, I did not fall off the stage.

And you don't have to take my word for it. We've got videos on YouTube!

 

Nifty Tour

In August, my husband, daughters, and I went to England. Now that itself was pretty nifty. We rode a double-decker bus, visited the British Museum, sat in Sherlock Holmes' chair at 221b Baker Street, and gawked outside Buckingham Palace. But the part of the trip that I really think was the most nifty was taking a Doctor Who tour.

Of course, you have to be a fan of the BBC series Doctor Who to appreciate an excursion like this, but believe me, we Kelners are big fans.  So we spent the entire day on a bus trip to Cardiff, Wales, where we got to see sites shown in the current series.  We also went to the Doctor Who exhibition in Dahl Plaza, which Torchwood fans may recognize as the entrance to the Hub.  Along the way, we watched episodes on the bus and competed in a trivia contest and just had the best time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

So if you're a Doctor Who fan with some spare time in London, taking a Brit Movie Tour is a really nifty thing to do.

 

Nifty TV Shows

For many years, I really haven't watched that much current TV. In 2010, that changed. We added four new shows:  Glee, Castle, Sherlock, and Big Bang Theory. Singing outcasts, a sexy mystery writer, a new take on an old favorite, and geek culture. Put 'em all together and it's a nifty bunch of shows to watch.

 

That's just a sample of what happened during my nifty year. I saw some nifty movies and other nifty TV shows, plus took some other really nifty trips--I haven't mentioned riding the Angels Flight funicular in Los Angeles, for instance. But that's enough about me.

What about your year?  What nifty things did you see and do? And what nifty plans do you have for 2011?

Because I think this is going to be a nifty year, too.