Category Archives: Fiction

The Changing Publishing Scene

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Writers—and some readers, too—are worried about the massive shifts in the publishing industry, including whether it will be possible to make a living as a serious writer for very much longer, not that it was ever very easy, and what making authorhood impossible means for the diversity of ideas in the cultural marketplace.

My professional organization, Sisters in Crime (it’s worth joining just to be able to say that!), recently released a new report on the state of publishing, based on expert interviews with 15 individuals involved, in various ways, in the industry. They asked about books in general and mysteries/suspense/thrillers in particular. The experts they talked to echoed the rather gloomy predictions heard for the last couple of years regarding the challenges the industry faces.

Given the difficulty new writers have being published, many are advised to go-it-alone. But “understand the risks,” one prominent agent said. Yes, it’s easy to self-publish with today’s technology, but publishing does not necessarily lead to sales and income for the writer. Because about 300,000 print titles and an almost uncountable number of ebooks are published each year—think of it as a thousand new books a day—the necessity for and burden of promotion and marketing are enormous. Accomplishing this shifts the emphasis entirely onto the self in self-publishing.

The few self-published books that have achieved financial success have encouraged many more writers to try to follow in those footsteps, creating such a rising level of background noise level, even excellent books go unnoticed.

The implications of the rise of e-books has yet to sort itself out. And, because of a number of economic pressures on publishers, the bar for new authors is constantly being raised. Worse, publishers aren’t interested in mid-list authors—“they want bestsellers.” Authors want to write bestsellers, too, but most won’t. The Great Gatsby sold poorly when it was first published in 1925, but now it is one of the most highly-ranked English-language novels of the 20th century (second-highest in the Modern Library’s list after Ulysses.) As of today it ranks #10 in Amazon’s bestsellers’ list, 4th among novels. For authors whose publishers aren’t banking on returns 88 years into the future, the emphasis on bestsellers is a problem.

The one bright spot for writers of mysteries is that the genre retains its popularity in this fast-changing environment. Mysteries account for 24 percent of ebook sales, though only 15 percent of the dollars, which means their prices are discounted compared to other books. Mysteries are 21 percent of library ebook collections and 24 percent of their print collections. And “cozy mysteries,” that less-sex-and-gore subgenre perfected by Agatha Christie and still practiced by many authors today are actually increasing in popularity.

Exploring Further:

“The Slow Death of the American Author” – Scott Turow’s recent, widely circulated lamentation in the New York Times

Sisters in Crime – membership organization promoting the professional development and advancement of women crime writers

The Modern Library’s lists of 100 best novels; one list selected by its board and one by readers

Cozy Mysteries Unlimited – website for cozy fans

Zombies and Enneatypes

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An interesting cast of characters assembled yesterday for the Liberty State Fiction Writers’ fourth annual conference. Two hundred writers, editors, and agents in a Woodbridge, N.J., hotel talked about stuff I know zero about (zombies) and never heard of (enneatypes).

Quite a learning experience. Many of the attendees write in genres and sub-genres I’ve also never heard of. Romance publisher Harlequin alone has some 30 lines, including Harlequin Medical, Harlequin Historical, and Harlequin Historical Undone, as in bodice laces, I suppose. Since Harry Potter, there’s an upsurge in writing for the Young Adult and Middle Grade markets. None of this is what I do, but what was nevertheless inspiring about the meeting is that these women—and most of the attendees were women—are getting it done. They have kids, they have jobs, but they are writing books. Not only that, their books are published, sometimes self-published and self-promoted, but they are getting it done, and a remarkable number are making a living at it. At the book-signing session, a ballroom was filled with long tables where authors sat behind piles of their books, beaming like proud mamas.

Yes, I heard the common gripe, “I just want to write, I don’t want to do all this social media,” and the firm answer, “Today, being a good business person is half your responsibility as a writer.” Even an agented book that goes to a traditional publisher needs promotion at the author’s end. With only one major bookstore chain left, the competition for attention is keener. Meanwhile, the biggest physical store selling books is Wal-Mart. Marketing expert Jen Talty reflected on the myriad forms available to authors now, from self-publishing to e-books to audio to video game scripts to film, to you-name-it and said, “The product is not the book, it is the story.”

About the zombies. “New York Times best-selling author” Jonathan Maberry—an entertaining speaker—said, “a zombie book isn’t about the zombies. It’s about how people behave when faced with an immediate life-threatening crisis.” He recommended World War Z by Max Brooks, son of Mel. This summer, a movie version will be released, starring Brad Pitt. Maberry borrowed a great image for keeping the action in a thriller moving: “Imagine your character is walking a tightrope and behind him, it’s on fire.”

All the people in one workshop seemed to know about enneagrams except me. They are typologies of people’s personalities—nine types, precisely—and the traits associated with them, reduced to a dense chart. Authors can use these typologies to assess how their character might react in a particular situation. For example, a character of the “perfectionist” type tends to react with gut instinct and under stress becomes moody and irrational. I suspect such charts are helpful to the writers who use them, but that many characters are combinations of types, and one or another comes to the fore depending on circumstances. It seemed to simplistic to me, and Wikipedia notes that the system isn’t science-based or easily tested.

My reason for attending the conference was to talk face-to-face with literary agents. It’s bad form to collar an agent in the hallway and pitch your book, but the conference arranges brief (5-minute!) appointments, and I signed up to meet all three agents there who represent mystery/thriller authors. But first, I attended a workshop on pitching, which was filled with good advice and timely reminders, which I immediately adopted. And, all of the agents I talked to want to see all or part of my manuscript. A possible first step on a long road ahead, while I get cracking on the video game adaptation.

Have a Story Busting to Get Out?

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“I’ve always wanted to write a book,” people tell me when they find out I write. “I have a great story in mind.” Clearing desk and mind-space to do it is the problem. They need help getting started.

In November, I wrote about National Novel Writing Month, when several hundred thousand participants worldwide commit to writing a novel of at least 50,000 words in thirty days. Last year they penned almost 3.3 billion words! And some of them actually go on to get published. But for academic schedules and other reasons, November isn’t always a convenient month to participate.

So NaNoWriMo has branched out. In April and July, The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organizer of these events, is holding Camp NaNoWriMo, “an idyllic writer’s retreat, smack-dab in the middle of your crazy life.” The goals are up to participants, but it’s meant to be “a challenge to dash off the first draft of your ambitious writing project in just one month.” The days are longer, after all!

This year’s Camp has several new features:

  • The Word-Count Archery Range: A flexible word-count target that suits your project—anything from 10,000 to 999,999 words.
  • Your Camp Cabin: A small group of fellow-writers to cheer you on, bounce ideas off of, or be a quiet resource. You can choose cabin mates based on their age, shared genre (mystery, historical fiction, fantasy, memoir, or whatever), similar word-count goal, activity level, or even by name.
  • Scripts included: a new category has been established for scriptwriters.

Camp NaNoWriMo provides the support, encouragement, and resources you need to write a novel in a month, start to finish. Its resources will help you

  • plan your novel
  • track your progress
  • create a cabin full of like-minded writers
  • receive online encouragement from staff, fellow campers, friends, and family.

Sign-up for the April session is available now. What with other deadlines coming up, I’m planning to participate in July. I have a new novel one-fifth completed, and I want to buckle down and get the first draft done so I can really get to work! See you at camp?

Telling an Award-Winning Story

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Live-action shorts are to feature films as short stories are to novels. You have to get in fast, establish the scene and your characters, make a limited number of points—and out you go. I wrote about the short documentaries nominated for the Oscar last week. Now that we know Curfew won the live-action category—it got my vote!—here’s why.

The other four nominees (and all the documentaries) were pretty depressing. True, Curfew opens with a young man (filmmaker Shawn Christensen) sitting in a bathtub full of bloodied water, and he’s holding a razor blade. Damage has been done. Still somehow there’s a sense of incipient redemption, because when his sister phones in desperation (“you’re last on my list”) and asks him to babysit her nine-year-old daughter for a few hours, you know he’ll say “OK.” After he cleans himself up.

The unlikely relationship between the uncle and niece develops engagingly. A true story is unfolding there. Curfew benefited from the charming, cool, and always on-point performance by Fátima Ptacek (with Christensen at left).

 

Two other films were about children–young boys living in impoverished circumstances (Afghanistan and Somalia) whose big dreams are hard to hold onto. In Oscar handicapping, these two cancelled each other out. Today’s U.S. child actors are vastly better trained and directed than they used to be. These boys hadn’t had that support and retained some awkwardness.

The fourth movie was about an aging gentleman, a concert pianist, facing a confusing mélange of past and present, real and unreal, as he searches for his wife. Well done, if a little too predictable and a lot too like Amour, so a no-go for this year in such a strong field, the critics agree. And the last, Death of a Shadow (right), too slow-moving and surreal, short on action and long on atmosphere and outright weirdness. Steampunk clocks, silhouettes of corpses, endless corridors, creepy teeth.

While all the short documentaries were right around 40 minutes, making for a squirmy evening in only semi-comfortable chairs, all but one of the live action shorts were half that length. Curfew packed in so much feeling and character that it was a rich experience, deep if not long. And, BTW, it was edited on Christensen’s MacBook Pro!

  • Curfew (USA, 19 minutes) trailer
  • Asad (South Africa, 18 minutes) trailer
  • Buzkashi Boys (Afghanistan, 28 minutes) trailer
  • Death of a Shadow (Belgium/France, 20 minutes) trailer
  • Henry (Canada, 21 minutes) trailer

Adam

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Hi? Mr. Flavic? Mrs. Flavic? Adam here. I couldn’t get you on your cell? And you said you’d call the house to pick up your messages? So here is one. It’s kind of weird standing here talking to you—to your machine, I guess—and hearing myself at the same time. Really, wow!

So, anyway, thanks for asking me to house-sit for a week. My mom’s real proud. Said you guys must like living dangerously. But I don’t think a beach vacation is all that dangerous. Between you and me, I think she’s glad to get rid of me for a few days, you know?  Not for any bad reason, it’s just she doesn’t like loud parties—know what I mean? An age thing, I guess.

Whoa! Careful, dude.

So, anyway, I have a couple of questions? How many cats do you have? I thought you said two, but I’ve just seen a black one. He’s a good mouser, though. Or she. Who knew mice have so much blood in them? That wasn’t my second question, though, this is: Are you sure your smoke detectors are working? No special reason, I was just wondering. Better safe than sorry, my grandma says. And she knows. Oh, and do you have more trash bags? The boxes you left are empty already. Wait, never mind, I’ll pick some up. I found your car keys! Do not stress, my learner’s permit came yesterday! I’ll bet you’re surprised! We forgot to talk about that. It’s all good.

Did you just hear a scream? Like really loud? It’s okay. I think it came from somewhere outside. There’s a lot to think about with a whole house to take care of! Inside, outside. There she goes again! You’ll be home when?

You guys should ask for a street light down here. Awfully dark at night. You could trip on something and break your leg or arm or some other bone if you weren’t really, really careful, just sayin’.

Still, it’s a really nice neighborhood! Even the cops are okay. Not great, but I assure you, they are way better than some. So, anyway, you guys just relax and have a good time. Don’t worry about things here. So, when are you coming home?

Chichi’s Magic and the Books of Childhood

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My namesake’s third birthday is coming up on Valentine’s Day, and when thinking about a gift, I thought back to the presents I enjoyed as a child. Books, same as now. First to come to mind was Chichi’s Magic, about a mischievous monkey (is there any other kind?) in the Central American jungle who finds a mirror—the magic. My uncle worked for The Steck Company, a commercial printing firm that served banks, schools, and the like, but also published a series of children’s books called “Woodland Frolics,” and Chichi’s Magic was one of them. Part of the joy of the book was that it came from him. Possessed by nostalgia, I ordered the book from ALibris. It arrived. I flipped through it, loving the pictures, but hesitated to read it again. Maybe it wouldn’t be as charming as I remembered. What I do remember now seems so fragmentary and idiosyncratic. Chichi wanders the countries of Central America. I learned their names. Chichi encounters ancient Mayan ruins, which laid the foundation for a lifelong fascination with pre-Columbian civilizations. Chichi encounters a beautiful green quetzal—a strange word for a fourth-grader—and I recall its extravagant tail. But the book is clearly too advanced for the birthday girl, so will be lovingly saved until she’s older. Another book I hope to share with her is one I read many times, Heidi. I associate her with delicious goat’s milk cheese and the sweet aroma of spring flowers in alpine meadows. Still today it’s hard to resist a charming round cheese in the dairy case. I remember Heidi as the first time I was bothered by having pictures in a storybook, because the artist’s drawings did not match the vision in my head. Reading their books repeatedly, children acquire images and associations that in later life may take some digging to uncover. Hidden threads woven into the mental fabric.

Exploring Further: A blog post by another person who fell under the spell of Chichi’s Magic

Scholastic’s “Celebrity Bookprints,” where some 300 celebrities–from Bill Clinton to Mehmet Oz to R.L. Stine—describe the five books that have been most important to them.

Witness – Scene 1

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This week’s post is the first scene of my thriller Witness, set in Rome in the current day. I’m interested in your feedback. Enjoy!

The scowling twenty-something with spiky white-blond hair still trailed her by more than a block, though the distance between them was shrinking fast. Steel zippers and snaps punctuated his black leather jacket, and he hid his eyes behind mirror sunglasses, but the prickling skin on Eugenia Clarke’s neck told her he fixed those eyes on her.

She forced herself not to turn and look. Dozens of times she’d walked these few blocks along Rome’s Via del Babuino, which connects the Piazza del Popolo with the Piazza di Spagna, but the street felt hostile now. Despite the clear autumn sunlight of a Sunday afternoon, the stones of the shuttered buildings reflected no warmth.

She glanced behind her. Damn!

She should have called out to one of the young couples she’d passed when she first entered the street, but at that point she hadn’t expected he would really follow her. Even now she could hardly believe it, did not want to believe it, did not want to panic. Yet the street was unaccountably deserted, its antique shops closed tight as oysters. How ironic, she thought. An experienced travel writer, Eugenia helped tourists stay out of trouble. Thousands of readers relied on her. How is this happening? She picked up her pace.

Her gaze darted left and right, searching for refuge, help of any sort. A side street to the left, jammed with parked cars, no people. On the right, a trattoria a few doors down, closed. Even the cats took siestas. She kicked off her flapping sandals and began to run. The clomp of his boots alternated with her pounding heartbeats. He’d catch her long before she could reach the crowds near the Spanish Steps.

His bootsteps grew nearer, and the metallic taste of adrenalin filled her mouth. Another few strides and, finally, ahead on the right, the Anglican All Saints’ Church. She remembered the sanctuary’s side door that opened onto a narrow park leading to another street. She dashed across the Via di Gesu e Maria—Thank you, Jesus and Mary!—through the main doors, and into a hallway sidling along the sanctuary.

“Hello?” Panting, Eugenia called again, louder, as she streaked past the unattended offices. Silence. Desks abandoned. Phones stilled. Where is everyone? Isn’t there church business on a Sunday? Counting the collection, choir practice—something?

A hint of incense and candle smoke lingered in the empty sanctuary. Sun streaming through leaded windows stained the brickwork bloody. The tile was cold on her feet. She called out to the empty air. “Hello! Anybody here?” After a few seconds, “Anybody??”

She checked behind her, down the unlit hallway. Not there yet. At the side door, the new-looking deadbolt turned easily, but the heavy brass doorknob resisted, and she needed both sweating hands to turn it. A final glance over her shoulder before she jerked open the stubborn door.

Outside, she blinked in the sudden brightness. She sensed movement to her left, and tried to duck away. A harsh blow struck the back of her head. Dizzy, she watched her new straw hat sail to the ground. Reaching up to protect herself, she knocked off the man’s sunglasses. He seized her arm and squeezed it hard enough to bruise.

“Fatti i cazzi tuoi!” he growled. Mind your own fucking business! She swayed, stunned and staring into eyes pale and hard as silver coins, until her knees gave way and she collapsed against him. She slid down his chest, breathing the foul odor of sweat-stained leather. A zipper tore her cheek. He gripped her armpit to keep her from falling, and his fist found her face, stomach, ribs. She twisted away, but she couldn’t escape. Their bodies were locked too close together, and she managed only to bury her face deeper in the rancid jacket. Again a metallic taste. Blood, this time. She gasped for breath as a boot came down hard on her bare foot. She felt the force of his blows, but the pain hadn’t started yet.

Her vision blurred, her thoughts clouded. She stared mesmerized at the intricate tattoo coiling up his wrist and disappearing under the leather sleeve. A blue and green snake’s head covered the back of his hand, and through her hazy perceptions she could almost believe it was the snake striking her. Her gaze followed its hypnotic black eyes as it dove into the man’s pocket, and he pulled out a knife. The flash as the blade flicked open broke the spell. She tore herself from his grasp and choked out, “No!”

“Impicciona!” he spat. Meddler.

A flood of pain rose up within her, and she might have heard shouts, running feet. She fell into blackness.

The Reading Challenge

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Books I read 002

Here’s a resolution for 2013 that I haven’t broken yet: to read all the books in the pile on the left. The pile on the right comprises books read in 2012—not counting more than a dozen audio books and Mr. X, courtesy of the West Windsor Library. The number of notable books from last year near the top of the unread pile (holiday gifts) suggests I’m way behind. And some of the books near the bottom are carryovers from 2012. I hadn’t counted on needing to read 2000 pages of Dickens for my class last fall! If you’re wondering which were my favorites, they were Hilary Mantel’s Bring up the Bodies—those Tudors are irresistible—and two nonfiction volumes: Counterstrike and In the Garden of Beasts. (The latter, by Erik Larson, startlingly echoed the plot and characters in Herman Wouk’s 1971 novel, The Winds of War, which I happened to be listening to at the same time, all 46 hours of it. Although the novel begins shortly before the Nazi invasion of Poland—six years after the period covered in Larson’s book—they are probably hopelessly muddled in my mind. It would be interesting to learn whether the diplomatic family Larson portrays figured into Wouk’s planning, even if fictional daughter Madeline did not go as seriously off the rails as real-life Martha Dodd.) These favorites aside, audio books provided my most enjoyable “reading” experiences this year: The Lotus Eaters, State of Wonder, The Submission, and the truly thrilling Macbeth: A Novel. I’ve recommended that last one endlessly. Despite all the words that have passed through my brain via eyes and ears, picking up a new book is still exciting. It may hold a character to love or despise; it may offer a memorable phrase or insight or image, whose creativity I can strive to emulate. My stack of 29 books is paltry beside the average goal of 61 books that participants in the Goodreads 2013 Reading Challenge have resolved to read. I note that 32 challenge participants have already met their reading goal for the year, which must have been one book or, possibly, none. That may be an easy resolution for them to keep. Not for me.

A Week in Room 1435

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This short-short story is a holiday thank-you for friends, family, and fellow authors near and far who continue to support me in my writing. Be of good cheer!

Monday Check-in:  Julia

The orchid on her pillow did it.  Julia arrived in Oahu on a late flight from Chicago, ill-fed, stiff, wearing too many clothes. In the fourteenth-floor room of her Waikiki Beach hotel, the fuchsia jewel suggested a treasure chest of possibilities.  She slid open the lanai door, shed her clothes, and melted into bed. The flower-drunk air kissed her good night; the ocean sang her to sleep.

At daybreak, a teasing breeze investigated her room, slipped through the closet’s louvers, and ruffled the clothing hanging there, light as a pickpocket’s touch. Rose and gold clouds hugged the horizon and framed a tourist’s view of Diamond Head. Surfers waited, their bobbing heads sprinkling the ocean like peppercorns.

A lone man swam back and forth across the blue cattleya that glowed from the bottom of the hotel pool. She sat on her lanai, drank coffee, watched . . . interested. He flipped onto his back and regarded the bank of hotel rooms. The sun broke the horizon, and, gradually, people appeared on the beach. Early people, stuck in wrong time zones.

Sundressed, sandaled, the bright orchid pinned in her hair, Julia strolled to breakfast at the House Without a Key. The swimmer sat at a nearby table. Over the top of his menu, his eyes smiled at her. She smiled back. One of the seven brides she would see that day posed for pictures in the garden alongside the restaurant. The air was that precise temperature where it cannot be felt at all, and the world held its breath.

A waiter brought pineapple juice and a note.  “Dinner – La Mer – 7 pm?”  She rubbed the orchid’s velvet petal between her finger and thumb and with the offered pen wrote, “Sharp.”

Thursday Check-in:  Kurt

Business meetings in Hawai`i are an affront, Kurt thought, scowling at the view. From his fourteenth floor lanai, every single thing he could see was infinitely preferable to another marketing meeting. The orchid pool. He hadn’t surfed in years, but . . . Girls in bikinis decorating the beach bars. The snorkeling bay hidden behind Diamond Head.

Hours later, in the windowless downtown conference room, the afternoon dragged, participants grew edgy, needed breaks, shifted in their chairs. Early adjournment.

For a forty-eight-year-old man, at least that many pounds past trim, Kurt moved fast. Within a quarter-hour of re-entering the hotel, he was downstairs again in turquoise swim trunks, t-shirt, and flip-flops, gleaming with suntan oil. In even less time, he hugged a longboard and splashed into the sea.

The surf shop’s rental manager, a skinny kid with sun-whitened hair, took out his camera. He wasn’t going to miss this.

Saturday Check-in:  The Thorntons

Standing on the lanai, Bill sighed first. The Halekulani—“their” hotel—had grown and changed since their honeymoon, but the ocean hadn’t. The welcome hadn’t. The feeling they’d found a place where everything was good hadn’t. Dee twirled the pink orchid and let it draw her into memory’s arms, fourteen floors above the beach where they’d been young.