Jason Pinter's debut novel, The Mark, first of three in the Henry Parker series, will be released in July 2007 from MIRA Books. He is one of the co-founders of Killer Year – The Class of 2007.
JB: Wow, Jason, where do we start? You have an impressive number of irons in the fire, and I'd like to touch on all of them if we can, so you'll have to help me if I miss any ...
Let's talk first about your book. Can you give us a jacket synopsis of The Mark?
JP: My irons thank you for that kind intro. Oh man, this is tough. I'm glad we have our own copy department. Anyway, here goes ...
Henry Parker is a young newspaper reporter who's living his dream, working in the greatest city in the world, and hoping to bring some integrity back to an industry that's been rocked by scandal in recent years. His boss, Wallace Preston, editor-in-chief of the New York Gazette, sees Henry as journalism's new blood. A young man with pride, passion and integrity. A new foundation to build on.
After getting his feet wet with undemanding reportage, Henry is finally given the chance to collaborate on a real story alongside his boyhood idol, venerated newsman Jack O'Donnell. But when Henry knocks on an interviewee's door only to find two people beaten and a gun thrust in his face, a brave decision results in murder. And suddenly Henry is on the run for his life, finding he's accused of the very same crimes he swore to uncover.
In 24 hours, Henry Parker will be wanted across state lines, his only hope a bold woman who must be shielded from the truth.
In 48 hours, Henry will be hunted by two cops out for revenge, and a ruthless killer whose own motive for vengeance is more personal than anything Henry could fathom.
And in 48 hours Henry will discover a secret that could destroy a city ... or control it.
JB: You've been working for several years as an editor, first with Warner and now with Crown's Three Rivers Press. When did you decide to venture to the other side of the desk? How has your being an editor affected your writing?
JP: They were pretty exclusive, though I think being on both sides lends insight that makes both of my jobs easier (and sometimes harder). I've been writing all my life, and always aspired to publish a novel. But I also entered editorial because I loved working with authors, helping them squeeze out every last drop of talent they have, and going to bat for them in a competitive marketplace. So in truth I made the decision to venture to the writing side of the desk about 15 years ago when all my stories were Terry Brooks and Stephen King ripoffs, and fortunately as of next summer it will be a reality.
Being an editor makes me expect more from my writing, since working in publishing I know that to stand out you need to offer something different, something that will resonate. I tried to do that with The Mark, and with my character of Henry Parker. I've been a huge mystery and thriller fan for years, but it was so important to me to create a younger hero written by a younger author. I wanted to appeal to traditional thriller fans, but also to my generation who've been criminally underserved in this genre. Being a writer helps the editorial side in the sense that I can empathize with my authors, and truly understand their dreams and insecurities. I know, as an author, how I'd want my editor and publisher to treat me, and I try to show my authors the same respect and courtesy. Ideally I can balance both sides for as long as possible. Though I've had to get stronger contact lenses almost every year. That should tell you something.
JB: You recently co-founded Killer Year – The Class of 2007 with (I'm proud to say) my Literary Siblings – J.T. Ellison, Brett Battles, and Sandra Ruttan. Share with our visitors how Killer Year came about and your vision for the group's future.
JP: It was completely random, but I think all great ideas are born out of spontaneity rather than out of focus groups. I had written a post on my blog, and J.T. made a fairly innocuous comment about the "Class of 2007," referring to the debut authors of that calendar year. A few others chimed in, and the next day Sarah Weinman wrote a post on her website to that effect. And something just clicked.
Within two days we'd registered www.killeryear.com, started designing t-shirts, and soliciting members. Thankfully word spread quickly, and now we have a great group of 15 authors whose debut novels are being published in 2007. We thought Killer Year would be a great way to give a group of talented writers a platform to spread awareness of their debut novels, not to mention a whole lot of fun. Working in publishing I know how hard it is to break out and get noticed, and Killer Year is an avenue for debut novelists to form professional bonds, as well as get people talking about some great books.
JB: Your latest project is a weekly feature spot at M.J. Rose's Buzz, Balls & Hype, and you have your own blog, The Man in Black, as well as a blog launched June 19th for Killer Year. I've seen discussions on a certain listserv-that-shall-remain-nameless about whether blogs are effective as marketing tools. What's your opinion on the subject?
JP: There's indisputable proof that blogs can be valuable sales tools, but I think the most successful blogs give the audience a taste of their book and their voice and leave them wanting more. At Three Rivers Press, I just bought a trilogy of vampire thrillers from an author named David Wellington, who first got recognition by serializing a zombie novel on his website. Without that Internet audience, people wouldn't have learned about this fantastic new talent. But I also think too many writers blog about the craft and business of writing. It's valuable information and some people do it quite well, but as any writer will tell you, the craft and business of writing is quite boring.[amen, brother]
On my blog, I often talk about pop culture, sports, random observations, trying to extend my audience beyond writer's circles which are very insulated. I'm a big proponent of creating an audience for your work prior to publication, but to be an effective marketing tool you need to appeal to the masses. Blogs can either appeal to a very small niche, or cast a much wider net. I think if you look at a blog as a marketing tool, you need to cast it wide.
JB: So, we've talked about Jason the author, Jason the editor, Jason the promoter and Jason the blogger. Are there any other facets of your personality that we haven't explored? I'm sure there's Jason the red-blooded American male in there somewhere. What do you do when you're not doing all this other stuff?
JP: Actually, I sit around all day dreaming up questions I hope to be asked on an interview. So if you don't mind, Jason the editor will now interview Jason the author for a few minutes.
Jason the Editor: How are you, Jason the Author?
Jason the Author: My foot hurts.
Jason the Editor: That's too bad. Bunions?
Jason the Author: No, I think it just fell asleep.
Jason the Editor: Is that because as an author your nerve endings are more sensitive due to your great insight into the human condition?
Jason the Author: No, I just sat Indian-style for too long.
Jason the Editor: That's fascinating.
Jason the Author: Is it?
JB: Oh-kaaaay, and as if that wasn't enough insight into your psyche, let's ask some totally random questions. What's your one junk food weakness?
JP: I'm actually not a big junk food guy, and my fiancée (hi Sue!) will tell you it drives her nuts since she's got a big sweet tooth.[I like her already!] Though I've been known to kill for chocolate-covered pretzels ...
JB: How do you take your coffee?
JP: Milk and two Equals. Although the people at my neighborhood Dunkin Donuts usually interpret that as, "Half and Half and Six Splendas."
JB: What's your favorite season of the year and why?
JP: Late summer. Everything slows to a crawl. New York is beautiful, I play basketball on the weekends, I can sit outside and tan (or in my case, burn). The publishing industry is hibernating, so I have time to work, to write, to drink Margaritas and see X-Men XXIIVMIIXIM—The Last, Last (Last, Last) Stand.
JB: Thanks so much, Jason, for taking time out of your crazy busy schedule to chat with me here in the Lunch Room. Have a great time at ThrillerFest!
Jason lives in New York City and works as a book editor and writer. His first novel, The Mark, comes out in July 2007 from MIRA Books. The next two novels in the Henry Parker series will be released in 2008. Jason is a member of the International Thriller Writers (ITW). He hopes that being on both sides of the publishing desk will not cause him to become schizophrenic and begin referring to himself in the third person. You can visit Jason at www.jasonpinter.com.
6.27.2006
What's Next?
Today is an in-between day. Yesterday marked my 100th post, and tomorrow I'll be sharing my interview (dude came through) with Jason Pinter, co-founder of Killer Year - the Class of 2007. Be sure to tune in, because this guy is definitely worth getting to know.
So today I'm doing a few things around the house that require some attention - like the laundry. Amazing how quickly the clothes pile up in a house with five people living in it. Also catching up on my reading - the current project is recent Lunch Room victim ... er, guest author Susan McBride's The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club - while trying to shake the remnants of this chest cold. The WGH promises to bring me home more Gatorade (the wonder drink) so I can bring my system back into balance. Rest and fluids, doctor's orders.
Music of the Moment: Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, Op. 27, Sergei Rachmaninov
Read a book (or four). It's good for you.
=) JB
So today I'm doing a few things around the house that require some attention - like the laundry. Amazing how quickly the clothes pile up in a house with five people living in it. Also catching up on my reading - the current project is recent Lunch Room victim ... er, guest author Susan McBride's The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club - while trying to shake the remnants of this chest cold. The WGH promises to bring me home more Gatorade (the wonder drink) so I can bring my system back into balance. Rest and fluids, doctor's orders.
Music of the Moment: Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, Op. 27, Sergei Rachmaninov
Read a book (or four). It's good for you.
=) JB
6.26.2006
The 100th Post
Here's another milestone for you. As of this post, I've shared my ramblings and musings with the cyberworld 100 times. I never knew I had so much to say. ;)
Little Bit leaves for church camp this morning. It's going to be a quiet week at our house.
I should be posting another interview sometime this week, provided I hear back from my subject in the next day or so. (That's a hint, dude.) J.T. and some of the others from the Killer Year class are headed to ThrillerFest this weekend. In a way, I'm jealous that they all get to see each other (my Triplets will get to meet each other for the first time and I won't be there). But since I'm the fluffernutter of the bunch it's not such a bad thing that I'm staying home. All that dark and evil genius wandering the conference for an entire weekend? I'd have to spend it with my hands covering my eyes. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
The Boy and his friends are about to commandeer my computer for some game they are playing, and I'm off to help Little Bit get packed and delivered to our church for her six-hour bus ride into the mountains. She's going to have so much fun this week.
I'm going to read a book. Or four.
I realize I didn't share any profound pearls of wisdom in this my 100th post, but I think it's only fitting that I stick to the formula that started it all - random thoughts and musings. Maybe tomorrow I'll be profound.
Maybe not.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
Little Bit leaves for church camp this morning. It's going to be a quiet week at our house.
I should be posting another interview sometime this week, provided I hear back from my subject in the next day or so. (That's a hint, dude.) J.T. and some of the others from the Killer Year class are headed to ThrillerFest this weekend. In a way, I'm jealous that they all get to see each other (my Triplets will get to meet each other for the first time and I won't be there). But since I'm the fluffernutter of the bunch it's not such a bad thing that I'm staying home. All that dark and evil genius wandering the conference for an entire weekend? I'd have to spend it with my hands covering my eyes. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
The Boy and his friends are about to commandeer my computer for some game they are playing, and I'm off to help Little Bit get packed and delivered to our church for her six-hour bus ride into the mountains. She's going to have so much fun this week.
I'm going to read a book. Or four.
I realize I didn't share any profound pearls of wisdom in this my 100th post, but I think it's only fitting that I stick to the formula that started it all - random thoughts and musings. Maybe tomorrow I'll be profound.
Maybe not.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.25.2006
Mission Accomplished!
At a certain point my novels set. They set just as hard as that jam jar.
And then I know they are finished.
-- Dame Ivy Compton-Burnett (1884-1969) English writer
Whew, what a feeling. To have assigned yourself a task and worked hard at it until its completion is the greatest sense of accomplishment you can imagine. I have finished something I started.
Well, sort of.
What we're now calling the "first draft" is complete at a slim 71,000 words (my normal range is 93-95,000) and has been whisked away through the ethernet to my illustrious critique partner, Wonder Triplet #3. It does need some serious work, but I am so sick of looking at it that I have entrusted it to J.T.'s capable hands with no further qualms. She will slosh through it looking for plot holes, weak character development, continuity and inconsistencies, to see where it could use some beefing up, and to make sure the story makes sense and has a satisfactory conclusion. I'm one of those writers who has to have all loose ends tied up by the time the reader turns the last page. It's a thing with me.
With that burden lifted, I'm going to take a week off from writing and dive into my TBR pile. My goal for this week is to catch up the New Year's resolution reading list. Little Bit is leaving for church camp in the morning and will be gone until Friday. Since The Tall One and The Boy are self-sufficient and independent teenagers, they demand less from me as far as time and attention than Little Bit does. One or two good movie nights and a couple of games of cards ought to satisfy their Mom-time requirements for the week, and those are easier to schedule with little sister otherwise occupied. All of that and I'll still probably have plenty of time to read. A couple of years ago we took the kids to St. Louis for Spring Break, and between the zoo, the Science Museum, a college basketball game, the Arch and a run through the war museums downtown, I managed to read four books. This week all I'll have to work around is five hours a day devoted to my part-time job and writers' group meeting on Wednesday night.
So, J.T. has as much time as she needs (and can spare) to read this book and see whether it can be salvaged. I'm going to kick back and relax while I can, because I know that once I get the manuscript back, there'll be some serious work to do.
I'll keep you posted on my progress this week, and the list there on the left will be added to as I finish each book.
Add to your list, too. It's good for you.
=) JB
*French, Italian, Spanish and German translations (English "finished") courtesy of SYSTRAN Language Translation Technologies (SYSTRANet).
6.24.2006
I learn something new every day
I get 10 or 11 daily ezines from my favorite ezine site, ArcaMax, including trivia, comics, quotable quotes and a vocabulary word of the day (see yesterday's post). On Saturdays, the Vocabulary ezine features The Word Guy, Rob Kyff, who is a writer and a teacher.
As a writer I enjoy Rob's weekly column, because sometimes he'll throw things at me that I didn't know. Like today's article, entitled "Call the SWAT Team in for These Pests". See how many of these you know:
As the season of summer picnics and barbecues approaches, one pesky question constantly buzzes around my head: Is it "coldslaw" or "coleslaw"? This is just one of many annoying pests. Now it's your turn to take a swat at some others:
1. Does "nonplussed" mean calm or perplexed?
2. Is it "vicious circle" or "vicious cycle"?
3. Is it "nerve-racking" or "nerve-wracking"?
4. Is it "to the manner born" or "to the manor born"?
5. Is a publicist a "flack" or a "flak"?
6. Do you "cue up" or "queue up" videotape?
7. Is the Southernism spelled "y'all" or "ya'll"?
8. Do we "while" away the hours or "wile" away the hours?
9. Do we eat a "hardy" meal or a "hearty" meal?
10. Do you "scarf" up food or "scoff up" food?
----
It's "coleslaw." It may be served cold, but the name for this salad made of raw cabbage comes from the Dutch "kool" (cabbage) and "sla" (salad).
1. "Nonplussed" doesn't mean calm or nonchalant; it means perplexed, baffled, at a loss for what to say.
2. It's "vicious circle," a term first used in the field of logic to describe a fallacious form of circular argument.
3. It's "nerve-racking." "Rack" means to stretch and strain to the breaking point, while "wrack" means to utterly ruin, wreck.
4. It's "to the manner born," meaning trained or bred to do something in a certain way.
5. A publicist is a "flack," a term of unknown origin that first appeared during the 1930s. "Flak," a shortening of the German "FliegerAbwehrKanonen" (flyer defense cannons), also appeared in the 1930s, but denotes antiaircraft guns or the bursting shells fired from such cannons, or, by extension, criticism.
6. You "cue up" videotape (set it to begin at a certain point), but people "queue up" (line up) to buy a popular video or DVD.
7. It's properly spelled "y'all." Only the "you" is contracted, and it always refers to two people or more.
8. It's "while away" the hours; "while" means to spend time idly.
9. We eat a "hearty" (nourishing, satisfying) meal. "Hardy" means bold, vigorous, robust.
10. You "scoff" it up; "scoff" is an alteration of the dialectical word "scaff," to eat greedily, as in "scoff up coleslaw."
Copyright 2006 Creators Syndicate Inc.
Now that I've had my first helping of brain fortification for the day, I'm going to spend some quality time with the old WIP and see if I can't get something accomplished.
Music of the Moment: Piano Sonata No. 11 in A Major, K. 331 "Alla Turca" (Allegretto), Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Read a book. Learn something new today. It's good for you.
=) JB
As a writer I enjoy Rob's weekly column, because sometimes he'll throw things at me that I didn't know. Like today's article, entitled "Call the SWAT Team in for These Pests". See how many of these you know:
As the season of summer picnics and barbecues approaches, one pesky question constantly buzzes around my head: Is it "coldslaw" or "coleslaw"? This is just one of many annoying pests. Now it's your turn to take a swat at some others:
1. Does "nonplussed" mean calm or perplexed?
2. Is it "vicious circle" or "vicious cycle"?
3. Is it "nerve-racking" or "nerve-wracking"?
4. Is it "to the manner born" or "to the manor born"?
5. Is a publicist a "flack" or a "flak"?
6. Do you "cue up" or "queue up" videotape?
7. Is the Southernism spelled "y'all" or "ya'll"?
8. Do we "while" away the hours or "wile" away the hours?
9. Do we eat a "hardy" meal or a "hearty" meal?
10. Do you "scarf" up food or "scoff up" food?
----
It's "coleslaw." It may be served cold, but the name for this salad made of raw cabbage comes from the Dutch "kool" (cabbage) and "sla" (salad).
1. "Nonplussed" doesn't mean calm or nonchalant; it means perplexed, baffled, at a loss for what to say.
2. It's "vicious circle," a term first used in the field of logic to describe a fallacious form of circular argument.
3. It's "nerve-racking." "Rack" means to stretch and strain to the breaking point, while "wrack" means to utterly ruin, wreck.
4. It's "to the manner born," meaning trained or bred to do something in a certain way.
5. A publicist is a "flack," a term of unknown origin that first appeared during the 1930s. "Flak," a shortening of the German "FliegerAbwehrKanonen" (flyer defense cannons), also appeared in the 1930s, but denotes antiaircraft guns or the bursting shells fired from such cannons, or, by extension, criticism.
6. You "cue up" videotape (set it to begin at a certain point), but people "queue up" (line up) to buy a popular video or DVD.
7. It's properly spelled "y'all." Only the "you" is contracted, and it always refers to two people or more.
8. It's "while away" the hours; "while" means to spend time idly.
9. We eat a "hearty" (nourishing, satisfying) meal. "Hardy" means bold, vigorous, robust.
10. You "scoff" it up; "scoff" is an alteration of the dialectical word "scaff," to eat greedily, as in "scoff up coleslaw."
Copyright 2006 Creators Syndicate Inc.
Now that I've had my first helping of brain fortification for the day, I'm going to spend some quality time with the old WIP and see if I can't get something accomplished.
Music of the Moment: Piano Sonata No. 11 in A Major, K. 331 "Alla Turca" (Allegretto), Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Read a book. Learn something new today. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.23.2006
What an interesting concept ...
Word of the Day from ArcaMax:
blatherskite [BLATH-uhr-skyt] (noun) - 1. A person who babbles about inane matters. 2. Nonsense; foolish talk.
From Old Norse blathra (to chatter) + Scots dialect skate (a contemptible person).
Blather. Blathering. Blah, blah, blah ...
This is it! The proper explanation of why this blog is subtitled "Musings from the mind ..."
This is how my brain works. I go from one thing to the next without any apparent continuity. Most of the time, however, I can bring everything together and connect the beginning with the end, like a circle. A friend (I'm pretty sure it was the GP, if I remember correctly) once described my book plots as a series of storylines that went along, sort of twisting around one another like ribbons but not really connecting until the end of the book when I wrap everything up into a nice neat little package. The WMVR says I can twist a plot like a pretzel.
High compliments.
So, why can't I apply this strategy to the WIP? I feel like I'm almost there, but there are things missing that I can't quite get my head around.
Today the kids and I are having lunch with the WMVR, who after several years has finally moved "back home" - yay! - and then this afternoon, when all is quiet at my house (yeah, right) I am going to dive into this book. I'm going to do the rest of what I can do with it and not worry about things that I know J.T. will pick up on when she reads it. That's what critique partners are for, right? She's my twin, after all. She knows what I'm thinking, sometimes even before I do.
There will be a post in the not too distant future (yeah, I know, I keep saying this, but this time I feel like it's closer than ever) where I'll be able to say, this thing is finally ready to go. The draft is done, really - it's the second phase that I'm working on now, the comb-through. I have only four sessions' worth of notes from the BMWs left to read, and a few chapters after that to the end, and then I can let this baby go and get back to the random, incoherent blatherings that I'm so famous for.
Finally.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
blatherskite [BLATH-uhr-skyt] (noun) - 1. A person who babbles about inane matters. 2. Nonsense; foolish talk.
From Old Norse blathra (to chatter) + Scots dialect skate (a contemptible person).
Blather. Blathering. Blah, blah, blah ...
This is it! The proper explanation of why this blog is subtitled "Musings from the mind ..."
This is how my brain works. I go from one thing to the next without any apparent continuity. Most of the time, however, I can bring everything together and connect the beginning with the end, like a circle. A friend (I'm pretty sure it was the GP, if I remember correctly) once described my book plots as a series of storylines that went along, sort of twisting around one another like ribbons but not really connecting until the end of the book when I wrap everything up into a nice neat little package. The WMVR says I can twist a plot like a pretzel.
High compliments.
So, why can't I apply this strategy to the WIP? I feel like I'm almost there, but there are things missing that I can't quite get my head around.
Today the kids and I are having lunch with the WMVR, who after several years has finally moved "back home" - yay! - and then this afternoon, when all is quiet at my house (yeah, right) I am going to dive into this book. I'm going to do the rest of what I can do with it and not worry about things that I know J.T. will pick up on when she reads it. That's what critique partners are for, right? She's my twin, after all. She knows what I'm thinking, sometimes even before I do.
There will be a post in the not too distant future (yeah, I know, I keep saying this, but this time I feel like it's closer than ever) where I'll be able to say, this thing is finally ready to go. The draft is done, really - it's the second phase that I'm working on now, the comb-through. I have only four sessions' worth of notes from the BMWs left to read, and a few chapters after that to the end, and then I can let this baby go and get back to the random, incoherent blatherings that I'm so famous for.
Finally.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.22.2006
No Thinking Zone
I'm back to having very little energy today, so instead of trying to come up with something profound and witty for today's post, I'm just going to let you all sit back and be entertained.
J.T. Ellison's Killer Year blog post for Thursday: Hooked on a Feeling - the post is good; the video is mindless entertainment at its best
Donna Andrews turned me on to this site, and I found this shirt, which I'm seriously considering ordering. Oughta put a few folks on their toes around my neighborhood, I tell ya.
Joke of the Day from ArcaMax:
100 Camels for Wife
US tourists, a man and his wife, are traveling in the Middle East. An Arab approaches the husband, saying, "I'll give you 100 camels for your woman."
After a long silence, the husband says, "She's not for sale."
The indignant wife says, "What took you so long to answer?"
The husband replied, "I was trying to figure out how to get 100 camels back home."
And this is how I keep myself entertained for stretches at a time: Blobs
And if all else fails, read a book. It's entertaining and good for you.
=) JB
J.T. Ellison's Killer Year blog post for Thursday: Hooked on a Feeling - the post is good; the video is mindless entertainment at its best
Donna Andrews turned me on to this site, and I found this shirt, which I'm seriously considering ordering. Oughta put a few folks on their toes around my neighborhood, I tell ya.
Joke of the Day from ArcaMax:
100 Camels for Wife
US tourists, a man and his wife, are traveling in the Middle East. An Arab approaches the husband, saying, "I'll give you 100 camels for your woman."
After a long silence, the husband says, "She's not for sale."
The indignant wife says, "What took you so long to answer?"
The husband replied, "I was trying to figure out how to get 100 camels back home."
And this is how I keep myself entertained for stretches at a time: Blobs
And if all else fails, read a book. It's entertaining and good for you.
=) JB
6.21.2006
So little time ...
Today is the first day of summer, at least on our side of the globe. The year is nearly half gone, and I'm sitting here wondering what I've accomplished and thinking of all the things I'd like to do.
In yesterday's mail there was a notice that The Tall One's senior pictures are ready. Okay, the pictures are ready. I'm not. Not ready for my oldest child to be a senior in high school with college basketball coaches LOOKING AT HER while she's at team camp. I mean, it's exciting but it scares the crap out of me at the same time. This is my firstborn, the one the WGH and I call our "responsibility child" - because we were newlywed and carefree, not really giving much thought to being responsible adults, and then ... oh, by the way, you're having a baby. Holy bassinettes, Batman! You mean we gotta get real jobs?? Pay bills? Buy groceries?
That was almost 17 years ago, and it would take me more time than we have to fill you in on everything that's happened over those 17 years. Suffice to say there has been enough to make me think I'm supposed to be a grown-up now. Well, duh.
This past Sunday marked two years since I left my full-time job so that I could spend more time with the kids and on my writing. The writing may be coming along a little more slowly than I'd planned, but the time I've been able to spend with my children has more than made up for anything I've not done.
What I'm trying to do now is look to the future instead of regretting how quickly the past has gone by. Thinking ahead. Just not too far. Little Bit is only 12, but she'll be her sister's age before I'm ready, and I don't want to be sitting here five years from now writing this same post all over again.
So, there are things to do, places to go and people to see. So much to do ...
Music of the Moment: The Great Gate at Kiev, from Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition
Majestic.
Spend some time with someone you love today. It's good for you!
=) JB
In yesterday's mail there was a notice that The Tall One's senior pictures are ready. Okay, the pictures are ready. I'm not. Not ready for my oldest child to be a senior in high school with college basketball coaches LOOKING AT HER while she's at team camp. I mean, it's exciting but it scares the crap out of me at the same time. This is my firstborn, the one the WGH and I call our "responsibility child" - because we were newlywed and carefree, not really giving much thought to being responsible adults, and then ... oh, by the way, you're having a baby. Holy bassinettes, Batman! You mean we gotta get real jobs?? Pay bills? Buy groceries?
That was almost 17 years ago, and it would take me more time than we have to fill you in on everything that's happened over those 17 years. Suffice to say there has been enough to make me think I'm supposed to be a grown-up now. Well, duh.
This past Sunday marked two years since I left my full-time job so that I could spend more time with the kids and on my writing. The writing may be coming along a little more slowly than I'd planned, but the time I've been able to spend with my children has more than made up for anything I've not done.
What I'm trying to do now is look to the future instead of regretting how quickly the past has gone by. Thinking ahead. Just not too far. Little Bit is only 12, but she'll be her sister's age before I'm ready, and I don't want to be sitting here five years from now writing this same post all over again.
So, there are things to do, places to go and people to see. So much to do ...
Music of the Moment: The Great Gate at Kiev, from Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition
Majestic.
Spend some time with someone you love today. It's good for you!
=) JB
6.20.2006
Recovering
I managed somehow, somewhere between working at breakneck speed on the WIP on Friday and waking up Saturday morning, to contract the chest cold from Hades. The up side of being sick is that it requires some time spent resting, the concept of which I took advantage to its fullest. I was a total couch potato this weekend. You probably noticed I didn't even manage to drag myself up here to the JBTAuthor study to post. I did, however, call my Dad on Father's Day. Did you?
Sunday morning The Tall One left for her last high school basketball team camp, the WGH took The Boy and Little Bit to church, and I took a hot shower and some cold medicine, put on comfies and crawled back into bed. Watched two hours' worth of Whose Line Is It Anyway? (the original British version, mind you) on BBC-America. They say laughter is good medicine. I'm feeling much better now.
While I was recovering, my Literary Siblings and their buddy Jason Pinter launched the Killer Year website and blog yesterday (note I did manage to add the links to the left in addition to getting Susan McBride's terrific interview up). If you haven't seen what this is all about yet, hop over and take a gander.
I'm whittling down my to-do list so that I can concentrate on those things that need my attention in the most immediate sense (those things besides my children - Little Bit is going to church camp next week - insert separation anxiety here). The WIP is first on the list, as usual. When that's done and in J.T.'s hands, I'm going to take a break from writing for a bit and try to catch up on my reading. My TBR pile is daunting at best. I'm not one of those people who can generally read several books at a time, and yet there are four books on my nightstand that all have bookmarks in various places. It's that nasty habit I have of not finishing things I start trying to creep back into my life again. Back! Back, you savage!
Music of the Moment: William Tell Overture (Conclusion), Rossini
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
Sunday morning The Tall One left for her last high school basketball team camp, the WGH took The Boy and Little Bit to church, and I took a hot shower and some cold medicine, put on comfies and crawled back into bed. Watched two hours' worth of Whose Line Is It Anyway? (the original British version, mind you) on BBC-America. They say laughter is good medicine. I'm feeling much better now.
While I was recovering, my Literary Siblings and their buddy Jason Pinter launched the Killer Year website and blog yesterday (note I did manage to add the links to the left in addition to getting Susan McBride's terrific interview up). If you haven't seen what this is all about yet, hop over and take a gander.
I'm whittling down my to-do list so that I can concentrate on those things that need my attention in the most immediate sense (those things besides my children - Little Bit is going to church camp next week - insert separation anxiety here). The WIP is first on the list, as usual. When that's done and in J.T.'s hands, I'm going to take a break from writing for a bit and try to catch up on my reading. My TBR pile is daunting at best. I'm not one of those people who can generally read several books at a time, and yet there are four books on my nightstand that all have bookmarks in various places. It's that nasty habit I have of not finishing things I start trying to creep back into my life again. Back! Back, you savage!
Music of the Moment: William Tell Overture (Conclusion), Rossini
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.19.2006
Let's Do Lunch! Interview with Susan McBride
I'm thrilled to have as my guest in the Lunch Room today the lively, lovely Susan McBride. Susan is the author of the Debutante Dropout chick-lit mystery series featuring Andrea (Andy) Kendricks as well as a darker mystery/thriller series featuring Detective Maggie Ryan. The Deb Dropout debut, Blue Blood, won the Lefty Award for Best Humorous Mystery of 2004 and received an Anthony Award nomination for Best Paperback Original.
JB: We all know Andrea Kendricks as a web designer who ditched her own debut to go to art school. Without giving too much away, can you tell us a few things about Andy that aren't in the books?
SMcB: Andy's my inner "new kid on the block," as my family moved around a lot when I was growing up. So I suffered the how-do-I-fit-in syndrome a lot, until I finally gave up and just decided to be myself. Andy has a hard to please mother in Cissy (which, thankfully, I don't), and, though raised in privilege, has never felt like she belonged. So throughout the series, Andy's discovering more and more of herself - and feeling comfortable with the growing understanding that she is not her mother nor will she ever be - and coming to accept who Cissy is as well. There's a lot of love between them, despite how differently they see the world around them.
JB: What prompted the switch from the darker Maggie books to the lighter Deb series?
SMcB: Well, I wrote Blue Blood in between the first two Maggie books, And Then She Was Gone and Overkill. It was a great way to exorcise the demons left behind by writing about a missing child in GONE. I wanted to make myself laugh basically. I had titled the comic mystery, Stabbed in the Back, which morphed into Death and the Debutante Dropout. It wasn't named Blue Blood until after I'd signed with Avon. It sat on a shelf for years before there was a market for so-called "chick lit mysteries," and so I didn't get an agent interested in it until after Overkill had come out. I love doing humor. I'm such a smart ass so that comes through pretty clearly in Andy's voice. I want to write all kinds of books (and have - you should see the variety of unpubbed manuscripts stacked in my linen closet!) as I think flexing one's literary muscles only makes a writer better.
JB: Walk Into Silence is the next book you've written in the Maggie Ryan series. What's the latest news? Can we expect a release announcement any time soon?
SMcB: I hope so! Keep your fingers crossed, please. I really love that one. It's full of layers and more suspenseful than anything I've written.
JB: Some of your fans believe that Andy's life parallels yours, although that might be a misconception [wink]. What are some of the similarities/differences between you and Andy?
SMcB: As I mentioned already, Andy's voice is pretty close to my own, in that I tend toward sarcasm and self-deprecation with a dollop of cynicism. I lived in Texas for 20 years (Houston and Dallas with a year at UT-Austin), so I knew I wanted the setting for those books to be Big D. I pledged a sorority at UT with a bunch of Dallas debutantes, and they were just ripe for making fun of; so it's nice I get to do it now, in my mysteries. I always had a more unsettled life, because of the constant moving (my dad worked for IBM), and Andy's mom still lives in the house on Beverly Drive where Andy grew up. So Andy has the kind of roots I never had. Cissy is about as opposite my mom as you could get, but she does have a profound love for her daughter. She just doesn't understand her. On the other hand, my mom and I are so much alike it's scary. My boyfriend got it pretty well on the nose when he said that Andy's about 60% to 65% me. The rest is pure fiction.
JB: Night of the Living Deb, the fourth Dropout book, is due out in January 2007. Can you give us a sneak preview of what the story is about (just the elevator pitch, maybe)?
SMcB: Hmm, first off, it starts out with scenes in two different strip clubs (okay, one's a Chippendale's show, but that counts, right?). Andy's boyfriend, Brian Malone, goes to The Men's Club for a bachelor party, and he ends up vanishing, and all sorts of weird explanations for his disappearance start popping up. Then a dead stripper is found in the trunk of his car, parked illegally at Love Field, and soon the cops are looking for Malone as well…and Andy goes from thinking she's been ditched to realizing Malone's life is in danger. My editor called the pace "breakneck," which works for me!
JB: When you're not writing, touring or speaking, what other things do you like to do?
SMcB: I'm finally done with four months of speaking and touring (with just a few gigs left on my schedule), so I'm excited to nest for awhile, catch up on reading, put on that garage sale my mom has been begging me to help with 'cuz her basement looks like a bomb went off down there. Oh, and I'm house hunting with Ed, so that's exciting! Basically, I'm a homebody and a goofball. Bowling and putt-putt are on my list of things I want to do, believe it or not! I will need to start writing Book Five soon, however, so I'll have to squeeze that in.
JB: Time for the fun questions. What's your dream car? (Are you driving it now?)
SMcB: I drive a Saturn coupe, which I love, but I think my dream car is a Volvo SUV. I know, sad, isn't it? I'm channeling my inner soccer mom or something. My brother is the car aficionado in my family. He has a Lotus Esprit, and I have a feeling he'll get that Lamborghini someday. Though he just bought a VW Tourag because a child seat fits easily, and he and his wife are expecting their first baby. How cute is that?
JB: Where's the most beautiful place you've ever watched the sun rise?
SMcB: Can it be a sunset instead? I'm not usually up for sunrise. When I was with Ed in Mount Dora, Florida, for a book festival this past April, we watched a lovely sunset from the upstairs porch of the B&B where we stayed. I have the photo as my computer wallpaper. It's so pretty.
JB: If you could have lived in another time period, which would you choose and why?
SMcB: I like where I am right now - I'm having the time of my life. Besides, much as I like history, I would miss air conditioning. So I think I'll stay put, if that's okay. ;-)
JB: Of course it is - we kinda like having you here, too. Thanks so much, Susan, for visiting with us today!
Susan is a frequent speaker at mystery conventions, writing conferences, and book festivals. She blogs with three other authors at The Lipstick Chronicles and participates in group promotion with The Mystery Chicks. Learn more about Susan and her books at http://www.susanmcbride.com.
JB: We all know Andrea Kendricks as a web designer who ditched her own debut to go to art school. Without giving too much away, can you tell us a few things about Andy that aren't in the books?
SMcB: Andy's my inner "new kid on the block," as my family moved around a lot when I was growing up. So I suffered the how-do-I-fit-in syndrome a lot, until I finally gave up and just decided to be myself. Andy has a hard to please mother in Cissy (which, thankfully, I don't), and, though raised in privilege, has never felt like she belonged. So throughout the series, Andy's discovering more and more of herself - and feeling comfortable with the growing understanding that she is not her mother nor will she ever be - and coming to accept who Cissy is as well. There's a lot of love between them, despite how differently they see the world around them.
JB: What prompted the switch from the darker Maggie books to the lighter Deb series?
SMcB: Well, I wrote Blue Blood in between the first two Maggie books, And Then She Was Gone and Overkill. It was a great way to exorcise the demons left behind by writing about a missing child in GONE. I wanted to make myself laugh basically. I had titled the comic mystery, Stabbed in the Back, which morphed into Death and the Debutante Dropout. It wasn't named Blue Blood until after I'd signed with Avon. It sat on a shelf for years before there was a market for so-called "chick lit mysteries," and so I didn't get an agent interested in it until after Overkill had come out. I love doing humor. I'm such a smart ass so that comes through pretty clearly in Andy's voice. I want to write all kinds of books (and have - you should see the variety of unpubbed manuscripts stacked in my linen closet!) as I think flexing one's literary muscles only makes a writer better.
JB: Walk Into Silence is the next book you've written in the Maggie Ryan series. What's the latest news? Can we expect a release announcement any time soon?
SMcB: I hope so! Keep your fingers crossed, please. I really love that one. It's full of layers and more suspenseful than anything I've written.
JB: Some of your fans believe that Andy's life parallels yours, although that might be a misconception [wink]. What are some of the similarities/differences between you and Andy?
SMcB: As I mentioned already, Andy's voice is pretty close to my own, in that I tend toward sarcasm and self-deprecation with a dollop of cynicism. I lived in Texas for 20 years (Houston and Dallas with a year at UT-Austin), so I knew I wanted the setting for those books to be Big D. I pledged a sorority at UT with a bunch of Dallas debutantes, and they were just ripe for making fun of; so it's nice I get to do it now, in my mysteries. I always had a more unsettled life, because of the constant moving (my dad worked for IBM), and Andy's mom still lives in the house on Beverly Drive where Andy grew up. So Andy has the kind of roots I never had. Cissy is about as opposite my mom as you could get, but she does have a profound love for her daughter. She just doesn't understand her. On the other hand, my mom and I are so much alike it's scary. My boyfriend got it pretty well on the nose when he said that Andy's about 60% to 65% me. The rest is pure fiction.
JB: Night of the Living Deb, the fourth Dropout book, is due out in January 2007. Can you give us a sneak preview of what the story is about (just the elevator pitch, maybe)?
SMcB: Hmm, first off, it starts out with scenes in two different strip clubs (okay, one's a Chippendale's show, but that counts, right?). Andy's boyfriend, Brian Malone, goes to The Men's Club for a bachelor party, and he ends up vanishing, and all sorts of weird explanations for his disappearance start popping up. Then a dead stripper is found in the trunk of his car, parked illegally at Love Field, and soon the cops are looking for Malone as well…and Andy goes from thinking she's been ditched to realizing Malone's life is in danger. My editor called the pace "breakneck," which works for me!
JB: When you're not writing, touring or speaking, what other things do you like to do?
SMcB: I'm finally done with four months of speaking and touring (with just a few gigs left on my schedule), so I'm excited to nest for awhile, catch up on reading, put on that garage sale my mom has been begging me to help with 'cuz her basement looks like a bomb went off down there. Oh, and I'm house hunting with Ed, so that's exciting! Basically, I'm a homebody and a goofball. Bowling and putt-putt are on my list of things I want to do, believe it or not! I will need to start writing Book Five soon, however, so I'll have to squeeze that in.
JB: Time for the fun questions. What's your dream car? (Are you driving it now?)
SMcB: I drive a Saturn coupe, which I love, but I think my dream car is a Volvo SUV. I know, sad, isn't it? I'm channeling my inner soccer mom or something. My brother is the car aficionado in my family. He has a Lotus Esprit, and I have a feeling he'll get that Lamborghini someday. Though he just bought a VW Tourag because a child seat fits easily, and he and his wife are expecting their first baby. How cute is that?
JB: Where's the most beautiful place you've ever watched the sun rise?
SMcB: Can it be a sunset instead? I'm not usually up for sunrise. When I was with Ed in Mount Dora, Florida, for a book festival this past April, we watched a lovely sunset from the upstairs porch of the B&B where we stayed. I have the photo as my computer wallpaper. It's so pretty.
JB: If you could have lived in another time period, which would you choose and why?
SMcB: I like where I am right now - I'm having the time of my life. Besides, much as I like history, I would miss air conditioning. So I think I'll stay put, if that's okay. ;-)
JB: Of course it is - we kinda like having you here, too. Thanks so much, Susan, for visiting with us today!
Susan is a frequent speaker at mystery conventions, writing conferences, and book festivals. She blogs with three other authors at The Lipstick Chronicles and participates in group promotion with The Mystery Chicks. Learn more about Susan and her books at http://www.susanmcbride.com.
6.16.2006
Finally Friday
I've been working hard on this manuscript for the last several weeks, and I think it might actually be taking shape. The BMWs are not going to recognize it when they read it again in its "final" form. Funny how one tiny suggestion from a critique group member can turn a scene into something completely different. (And now for something completely different ...)
It's interesting and enlightening to read some of the comments and suggestions made by my fellow wordsmiths. We've been working on this book, 10-12 pages at a time, for nearly a year. I don't always go back and read the comments right after a meeting. Sometimes I skim through them the next day to see if there's anything that's going to affect what's next or make me have to change something I've already done. Most of the time I wait until we're through the draft, and then go back and incorporate some of the comments.
This time around, I did what I could do myself, then dug out all my file folders with the group notes and am going through them one by one, section by section, looking hard at the comments and seeing what needs to be done, changed, fixed, or added. The other night I came across a completely shocking correction made by one of the more conservative members of the group and I about fell out of my chair. I never knew she had it in her. (I will not embarrass her by listing said notation here, it's really just too shocking. Funny as all get out, but shocking nonetheless.)
Since today is Friday, quite possibly my most favorite day of the week, I get to do lots of things without the constraints of time that my Mondays through Thursdays have. I work a little part-time job (from home, tres sweet) which requires my attention from two to six each afternoon, so I really have to bust a little tail to get something accomplished from eight to two each day. On Fridays I can relax a little, think more freely and really get some serious work done.
The Boy is having a Lord of the Rings movie marathon party with a couple of his friends this afternoon/evening, so we're going to stock up on enough groceries to feed five teenagers for nine hours (yeah, I know - two carts, probably) and then I am going to hide in my study for the rest of the day. Hey, I have 65 books in the TBR pile and a computer - what more do I need?
Enjoy your Friday. Do something outside if it's pretty where you are. Sit on the deck and read a book. Ooooh, now there's an idea ...
=) JB
It's interesting and enlightening to read some of the comments and suggestions made by my fellow wordsmiths. We've been working on this book, 10-12 pages at a time, for nearly a year. I don't always go back and read the comments right after a meeting. Sometimes I skim through them the next day to see if there's anything that's going to affect what's next or make me have to change something I've already done. Most of the time I wait until we're through the draft, and then go back and incorporate some of the comments.
This time around, I did what I could do myself, then dug out all my file folders with the group notes and am going through them one by one, section by section, looking hard at the comments and seeing what needs to be done, changed, fixed, or added. The other night I came across a completely shocking correction made by one of the more conservative members of the group and I about fell out of my chair. I never knew she had it in her. (I will not embarrass her by listing said notation here, it's really just too shocking. Funny as all get out, but shocking nonetheless.)
Since today is Friday, quite possibly my most favorite day of the week, I get to do lots of things without the constraints of time that my Mondays through Thursdays have. I work a little part-time job (from home, tres sweet) which requires my attention from two to six each afternoon, so I really have to bust a little tail to get something accomplished from eight to two each day. On Fridays I can relax a little, think more freely and really get some serious work done.
The Boy is having a Lord of the Rings movie marathon party with a couple of his friends this afternoon/evening, so we're going to stock up on enough groceries to feed five teenagers for nine hours (yeah, I know - two carts, probably) and then I am going to hide in my study for the rest of the day. Hey, I have 65 books in the TBR pile and a computer - what more do I need?
Enjoy your Friday. Do something outside if it's pretty where you are. Sit on the deck and read a book. Ooooh, now there's an idea ...
=) JB
6.15.2006
"Borrowed" from the Playground
I mentioned to one of my Sisters in Crime Tuesday night that I'd read a really great article on one of my favorite blogs, The Writing Playground. It sums up my feelings exactly about borrowing books. Some people can go through their bookshelves and actually (gasp!) weed out the ones they don't want any more. I do not understand this phenomenon. My books are like my children. And would I give up one of my children? Aw, heck no!
Anyway, with proper credit given to the author and thanks to PC for letting me "borrow" it, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.
Of all the terrifying circumstances to which one's home is vulnerable, nothing equals that of a guest who stares straight at one's bookshelves. It is not the judgmental possibility that is frightening: the fact that one's sense of discrimination is exposed by his books. Indeed, most people would much prefer to see the guest first scan, then peer and turn away in boredom or disapproval. Alas, too often, the eyes, dark with calculation, shift from title to title as from girl to girl in an overheated dance hall. Nor is that the worst. It is when those eyes stop moving that the heart too stops. The guest's body twitches; his hand floats up to where his eyes have led it. There is nothing to be done. You freeze. He smiles. You hear the question even as it forms: "Would you mind if I borrowed this book?"
(Mind? Why should I mind? The fact that I came upon that book in a Paris bookstall in April 1959—the 13th I believe it was, the afternoon, it was drizzling—that I found it after searching all Europe and North America for a copy; that it is dog-eared at passages that mean more to my life than my heartbeat; that the mere touch of its pages recalls to me in a Proustian shower my first love, my best dreams. Should I mind that you seek to take all that away? That I will undoubtly never get it back? That even if you actually return it to me one day, I will be wizened, you cavalier, and the book spoiled utterly by your mishandling? Mind?)
"Not at all. Hope you enjoy it."
"Thanks. I’ll bring it back next week."
"No rush. Take your time. [Liar.]"
Not that there is any known way to avoid these exchanges. One has books; one has friends; they are bound to meet. Charles Lamb, who rarely railed, waxed livid on the subject: "You borrowers of books—those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes." But how are such people to be put off, since they are often we, and the non-return of borrowed books is as old as books themselves? ("Say, Gutenberg, what's this? And may I borrow it?") It is said that Charles I clutched a Bible as he mounted the scaffold. One shudders to imagine the last earthly question he heard.
Still, this custom confutes nature. In every other such situation, the borrower becomes a slave to the lender, the social weight of the debt so altering the balance of a relationship that a temporary acquisition turns into a permanent loss. This is certainly true with money. Yet it is not at all true with books. For some reason a book borrower feels that a book, once taken, is his own. This removes both memory and guilt from the transaction. Making matters worse, the lender believes it too. To keep up appearances, he may solemnly extract an oath that the book be brought back as soon as possible; the borrower answering with matching solemnity that the Lord might seize his eyes were he to do otherwise. But it is all a play. Once gone, the book is gone forever. The lender, fearing rudeness, never asks for it again. The borrower never stoops to raise the subject.
Can the borrowers be thwarted? There are attempts. Some hopefuls glue EX LIBRIS stickers to the inside covers (clever drawings of animals wearing glasses and so forth)—as if the presence of Latin and the imprint of a name were so formidable as to reverse a motor reflex. It never works. One might try slipping false jackets on one's books—a cover for The Secret Agent disguising Utility Rates in Ottawa: A Woman's View. But book borrowers are merely despicable, not stupid; they tend to leaf before they pluck. Besides, the interesting thing about the feeling of loss when a book is borrowed is that the book's quality rarely matters. So mysterious is the power of books in our lives that every loss is a serious loss, every hole in the shelf a crater.
And this, of course, is the key to the sense of helplessness in this matter. Our books are ourselves, our characters, our insulation against those very people who would take away our books. There, on that wall, Ahab storms. Hamlet mulls. Molly Bloom says yes yes yes. Keats looks into Chapman, who looks at Homer, who looks at Keats. All this happens on a bookshelf continually—while you are out walking the dog, or pouting, or asleep. The Punic Wars rage; Emma Bovary pines; Bacon exhorts others to behave the way he never could. Here French is spoken. There Freud. So go war and peace, pride and prejudice, decline and fall, perpetually in motions as sweeping as Milton's or as slight as Emily Dickinson considering the grass. Every evening Gatsby looks at Daisy's green light, which is green forever. Every morning Gregor Samsa discovers that he has been transformed into a giant insect.
These things are not what we have, but what we are. Leigh Hunt exulted: "Nothing can deprive me of my value for such treasures. I can help the appreciation of them while I last, and love them till I dies, and perhaps, if fortune turns her face in kindness upon me before I go, I may chance some quiet day, to lay my over-beating temples on a book, and so have the death I most envy." Plato was reputedly found dead with a book under his pillow, Petrarch in his library with his elbow resting on an open page. Books gave them more than solace. They were their lives extended, a way of touching eternity. "Go, little book!" wrote Chaucer at the end of Troilus and Criseyde, sending his work on a journey that no man could complete.
Small wonder, then, that people will do almost everything for books, to acquire and preserve them, to prevent their banning or burning. Stories of manuscripts lost or destroyed are especially heartbreaking because one knows how ephemeral ideas and images are, what vast effort it takes to dust off the confusions, tune out the noise, and create those books, that, for whatever inadequacies they may display, still set the mind in order for a time, giving it a spine and a binding. There may be no more pleasing picture in the world than that of a child peering into a book—the past and the future entrancing each other. Nor does anyone look quite so attractive as with a book in hand. How many people have fallen in love merely at the sight of someone reading.
All of which would appear to offer an argument that booklending ought to be encouraged. It is the supreme selfless act, after all. Should we not abjure our pettiness, open our libraries, and let our most valued possessions fly from house to house, sharing the wealth? Certain clerics with vows of poverty did this. Inside their books was printed not EX LIBRIS but AD USUM—for the use of—indication that it is better to lend than to keep, that all life's gifts are transitory. Should we not follow the clerics? OR might we just for once summon our true feelings on this subject and, upon hearing the terrible question, smile back and speak from the heart: "Mind? I'll break your arm, you bastard!"
My nose is back to the grindstone today. I'm grounded until tomorrow because the van is out of gas, so I have nothing to do today but work on this book. Maybe today will be the day I actually get the draft done and sent to J.T., who is (quite patiently) waiting to help me cull it into something readable.
Read a book. And return that one you borrowed last year, wouldja?
=) JB
Anyway, with proper credit given to the author and thanks to PC for letting me "borrow" it, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.
Would You Mind if I Borrowed this Book?
By: Roger Rosenblatt
Time Magazine, April 5, 1982
Of all the terrifying circumstances to which one's home is vulnerable, nothing equals that of a guest who stares straight at one's bookshelves. It is not the judgmental possibility that is frightening: the fact that one's sense of discrimination is exposed by his books. Indeed, most people would much prefer to see the guest first scan, then peer and turn away in boredom or disapproval. Alas, too often, the eyes, dark with calculation, shift from title to title as from girl to girl in an overheated dance hall. Nor is that the worst. It is when those eyes stop moving that the heart too stops. The guest's body twitches; his hand floats up to where his eyes have led it. There is nothing to be done. You freeze. He smiles. You hear the question even as it forms: "Would you mind if I borrowed this book?"
(Mind? Why should I mind? The fact that I came upon that book in a Paris bookstall in April 1959—the 13th I believe it was, the afternoon, it was drizzling—that I found it after searching all Europe and North America for a copy; that it is dog-eared at passages that mean more to my life than my heartbeat; that the mere touch of its pages recalls to me in a Proustian shower my first love, my best dreams. Should I mind that you seek to take all that away? That I will undoubtly never get it back? That even if you actually return it to me one day, I will be wizened, you cavalier, and the book spoiled utterly by your mishandling? Mind?)
"Not at all. Hope you enjoy it."
"Thanks. I’ll bring it back next week."
"No rush. Take your time. [Liar.]"
Not that there is any known way to avoid these exchanges. One has books; one has friends; they are bound to meet. Charles Lamb, who rarely railed, waxed livid on the subject: "You borrowers of books—those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes." But how are such people to be put off, since they are often we, and the non-return of borrowed books is as old as books themselves? ("Say, Gutenberg, what's this? And may I borrow it?") It is said that Charles I clutched a Bible as he mounted the scaffold. One shudders to imagine the last earthly question he heard.
Still, this custom confutes nature. In every other such situation, the borrower becomes a slave to the lender, the social weight of the debt so altering the balance of a relationship that a temporary acquisition turns into a permanent loss. This is certainly true with money. Yet it is not at all true with books. For some reason a book borrower feels that a book, once taken, is his own. This removes both memory and guilt from the transaction. Making matters worse, the lender believes it too. To keep up appearances, he may solemnly extract an oath that the book be brought back as soon as possible; the borrower answering with matching solemnity that the Lord might seize his eyes were he to do otherwise. But it is all a play. Once gone, the book is gone forever. The lender, fearing rudeness, never asks for it again. The borrower never stoops to raise the subject.
Can the borrowers be thwarted? There are attempts. Some hopefuls glue EX LIBRIS stickers to the inside covers (clever drawings of animals wearing glasses and so forth)—as if the presence of Latin and the imprint of a name were so formidable as to reverse a motor reflex. It never works. One might try slipping false jackets on one's books—a cover for The Secret Agent disguising Utility Rates in Ottawa: A Woman's View. But book borrowers are merely despicable, not stupid; they tend to leaf before they pluck. Besides, the interesting thing about the feeling of loss when a book is borrowed is that the book's quality rarely matters. So mysterious is the power of books in our lives that every loss is a serious loss, every hole in the shelf a crater.
And this, of course, is the key to the sense of helplessness in this matter. Our books are ourselves, our characters, our insulation against those very people who would take away our books. There, on that wall, Ahab storms. Hamlet mulls. Molly Bloom says yes yes yes. Keats looks into Chapman, who looks at Homer, who looks at Keats. All this happens on a bookshelf continually—while you are out walking the dog, or pouting, or asleep. The Punic Wars rage; Emma Bovary pines; Bacon exhorts others to behave the way he never could. Here French is spoken. There Freud. So go war and peace, pride and prejudice, decline and fall, perpetually in motions as sweeping as Milton's or as slight as Emily Dickinson considering the grass. Every evening Gatsby looks at Daisy's green light, which is green forever. Every morning Gregor Samsa discovers that he has been transformed into a giant insect.
These things are not what we have, but what we are. Leigh Hunt exulted: "Nothing can deprive me of my value for such treasures. I can help the appreciation of them while I last, and love them till I dies, and perhaps, if fortune turns her face in kindness upon me before I go, I may chance some quiet day, to lay my over-beating temples on a book, and so have the death I most envy." Plato was reputedly found dead with a book under his pillow, Petrarch in his library with his elbow resting on an open page. Books gave them more than solace. They were their lives extended, a way of touching eternity. "Go, little book!" wrote Chaucer at the end of Troilus and Criseyde, sending his work on a journey that no man could complete.
Small wonder, then, that people will do almost everything for books, to acquire and preserve them, to prevent their banning or burning. Stories of manuscripts lost or destroyed are especially heartbreaking because one knows how ephemeral ideas and images are, what vast effort it takes to dust off the confusions, tune out the noise, and create those books, that, for whatever inadequacies they may display, still set the mind in order for a time, giving it a spine and a binding. There may be no more pleasing picture in the world than that of a child peering into a book—the past and the future entrancing each other. Nor does anyone look quite so attractive as with a book in hand. How many people have fallen in love merely at the sight of someone reading.
All of which would appear to offer an argument that booklending ought to be encouraged. It is the supreme selfless act, after all. Should we not abjure our pettiness, open our libraries, and let our most valued possessions fly from house to house, sharing the wealth? Certain clerics with vows of poverty did this. Inside their books was printed not EX LIBRIS but AD USUM—for the use of—indication that it is better to lend than to keep, that all life's gifts are transitory. Should we not follow the clerics? OR might we just for once summon our true feelings on this subject and, upon hearing the terrible question, smile back and speak from the heart: "Mind? I'll break your arm, you bastard!"
My nose is back to the grindstone today. I'm grounded until tomorrow because the van is out of gas, so I have nothing to do today but work on this book. Maybe today will be the day I actually get the draft done and sent to J.T., who is (quite patiently) waiting to help me cull it into something readable.
Read a book. And return that one you borrowed last year, wouldja?
=) JB
6.14.2006
Two in the Morning
Talk about irony. How funny is it that yesterday I was talking about being a morning person, and today found me wide awake at two AM?
Sebastian, our 13-pound orange tabby, usually wakes me up in the middle of the night - three or four in the morning, that is. Normally I can escort him to the food tower, prove to him who doubts me that there actually is food in it, stumble back to bed and fall right back to sleep. I'm not sure whether it was he who awoke me at somewhere around twenty of two this morning, but he did accompany me to the kitchen and let me go back to bed without much protest. It was then that I realized that I was NOT going back to sleep. I lay there for about 15 minutes, finally got up and trudged upstairs to the study. It's fun to check email at two in the morning, especially when you're trying to TYPE SOFTLY so that The Boy is not disturbed (his bedroom and my study share a wall with a plenum so that sound travels between the two rooms).
After about an hour I crawled back downstairs and got back in the bed, and promptly fell back to sleep. Didn't even hear the WGH get up to go to work. Bliss.
Then the McCartney alarm went off.
This morning I'm working on "the scene", the one that needed some serious rewriting. The BMWs meet tonight, and we're getting close to the end of this draft with them. Progress! We'll have to see how I do today on 5-1/2 hours of sleep.
Music of the Moment: Beethoven, Symphony No. 2
And yes, I do have all nine of them on CD. Hours of inspiration!
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
Sebastian, our 13-pound orange tabby, usually wakes me up in the middle of the night - three or four in the morning, that is. Normally I can escort him to the food tower, prove to him who doubts me that there actually is food in it, stumble back to bed and fall right back to sleep. I'm not sure whether it was he who awoke me at somewhere around twenty of two this morning, but he did accompany me to the kitchen and let me go back to bed without much protest. It was then that I realized that I was NOT going back to sleep. I lay there for about 15 minutes, finally got up and trudged upstairs to the study. It's fun to check email at two in the morning, especially when you're trying to TYPE SOFTLY so that The Boy is not disturbed (his bedroom and my study share a wall with a plenum so that sound travels between the two rooms).
After about an hour I crawled back downstairs and got back in the bed, and promptly fell back to sleep. Didn't even hear the WGH get up to go to work. Bliss.
Then the McCartney alarm went off.
This morning I'm working on "the scene", the one that needed some serious rewriting. The BMWs meet tonight, and we're getting close to the end of this draft with them. Progress! We'll have to see how I do today on 5-1/2 hours of sleep.
Music of the Moment: Beethoven, Symphony No. 2
And yes, I do have all nine of them on CD. Hours of inspiration!
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.13.2006
The McCartney Alarm
I love summertime. Mostly because there's lots of daylight, and I am definitely a lark (morning person, that is, as opposed to an owl, which is what the WGH is). The sun comes up at our house somewhere around five in the morning. The down side to that is that McCartney thinks that when the sun is up, everyone should be up.
He barks because he's thirsty. His sleeping place is one of those huge metal kennels that we keep in the basement (no, it's the downstairs living room - not the dank, moldy concrete bunker you just pictured). The kennel sits right inside the door that goes out into the back yard. When the sun comes up, it wakes him, of course (even with the blinds shut) and he says, "Hmmm, I need a drink." Unfortunately, we have yet to find the miracle of modern engineering that will allow us to keep a water supply inside the kennel without having this 70-pound puppy spill it all over the place, so this last statement is made in doggie language. BARK! BARK BARK BARK! BARK BARK! At 5:30 AM.
Most mornings I go down, take him out of the pen, let him get his drink, put him outside and then I go back to bed. One of these days I may do all of that and actually stay up, because I find I get a lot more done when I get up early. I used to do that every morning, when the kids were still in school. Summertime is lazy time. That's another reason I like it so much.
I've been working on the read-through of the WIP, and I was going great guns on it last night when somewhere around 10:00 PM and chapter fourteen I came across a note (from J.T., of course) that stopped me in my tracks. Something not jiving. Something that could be major but probably wasn't, but at that point I was out of brain power and decided to call it a night.
Now, I've said before that I suffer from occasional short-term memory issues. As I was drifting off to sleep last night, the epiphany struck. I know exactly how to fix that scene. Rather than doing the smart thing, which would have been to get up, trundle upstairs to the study and write down my idea, I resolved to remember this flash of brilliance in the morning. Please, Lord, I said, let me remember.
When the McCartney alarm went off this morning, I stumbled downstairs and did my thing with him, then went back to bed, not giving another thought to the book or my epiphany. At 7:45 I woke up, and praise the Lord, the epiphany was right there, as fresh in my mind as when it first hit me last night. I heard the angel choir. Really.
So, with all my busy-ness today (Sisters in Crime meets tonight) I will at some point get back into that scene and get it fixed. I did, in case you're wondering, finally write down a few notes so that if the short-term memory failure kicks in again, at least I have something to refer to. Let's just hope I can do the epiphany justice.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
He barks because he's thirsty. His sleeping place is one of those huge metal kennels that we keep in the basement (no, it's the downstairs living room - not the dank, moldy concrete bunker you just pictured). The kennel sits right inside the door that goes out into the back yard. When the sun comes up, it wakes him, of course (even with the blinds shut) and he says, "Hmmm, I need a drink." Unfortunately, we have yet to find the miracle of modern engineering that will allow us to keep a water supply inside the kennel without having this 70-pound puppy spill it all over the place, so this last statement is made in doggie language. BARK! BARK BARK BARK! BARK BARK! At 5:30 AM.
Most mornings I go down, take him out of the pen, let him get his drink, put him outside and then I go back to bed. One of these days I may do all of that and actually stay up, because I find I get a lot more done when I get up early. I used to do that every morning, when the kids were still in school. Summertime is lazy time. That's another reason I like it so much.
I've been working on the read-through of the WIP, and I was going great guns on it last night when somewhere around 10:00 PM and chapter fourteen I came across a note (from J.T., of course) that stopped me in my tracks. Something not jiving. Something that could be major but probably wasn't, but at that point I was out of brain power and decided to call it a night.
Now, I've said before that I suffer from occasional short-term memory issues. As I was drifting off to sleep last night, the epiphany struck. I know exactly how to fix that scene. Rather than doing the smart thing, which would have been to get up, trundle upstairs to the study and write down my idea, I resolved to remember this flash of brilliance in the morning. Please, Lord, I said, let me remember.
When the McCartney alarm went off this morning, I stumbled downstairs and did my thing with him, then went back to bed, not giving another thought to the book or my epiphany. At 7:45 I woke up, and praise the Lord, the epiphany was right there, as fresh in my mind as when it first hit me last night. I heard the angel choir. Really.
So, with all my busy-ness today (Sisters in Crime meets tonight) I will at some point get back into that scene and get it fixed. I did, in case you're wondering, finally write down a few notes so that if the short-term memory failure kicks in again, at least I have something to refer to. Let's just hope I can do the epiphany justice.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.12.2006
Down Time
And I'm not talking about Blogger.
Every once in a while I need a little time off to recharge my batteries. Don't we all? So yesterday was that day for me.
Happy Birthday. Before I go any further I need to take a second to wish Nephew #2 a belated happy birthday. The young man I just watched graduate from high school, the one at whose birth I was actually present, turned 18 years old yesterday. What are those silly commercials about how fast life comes at you? They make you laugh (well, some of them make you laugh, others make you shake your head and ask, what were they thinking?), but the premise is frighteningly true. This child is no longer a child, just like mine are no longer children. They do grow up fast, and I thank God every day that I'm working from home now so I don't miss it.
Coincidentally, yesterday was also his stepmom's birthday. So, you two, good wishes from me, and your cards are on the way. ;)
After yesterday's down time, I'm charged up enough to do this last read-through and get this book to J.T. for the first set of edits. The other day I said this was the hard part. Well, it's also the fun part. Now I get to see whether this thing actually has flow and function.
Speaking of my triplet, fellow Blogspotter and my very own SinC-MidTN Vice President Lonnie Cruse has done a great interview with J.T. over at her Cruse'n With Lonnie blog. Check it out here!
Also, there's been an update on J.T.'s Missing cold case. The miracles of modern technology (specifically DNA evidence). We're all praying it will be the break the case needs.
Music of the Moment: Vivaldi, Spring, from The Four Seasons
In honor of my renewed energy.
Read a book! It's good for you.
=) JB
Every once in a while I need a little time off to recharge my batteries. Don't we all? So yesterday was that day for me.
Happy Birthday. Before I go any further I need to take a second to wish Nephew #2 a belated happy birthday. The young man I just watched graduate from high school, the one at whose birth I was actually present, turned 18 years old yesterday. What are those silly commercials about how fast life comes at you? They make you laugh (well, some of them make you laugh, others make you shake your head and ask, what were they thinking?), but the premise is frighteningly true. This child is no longer a child, just like mine are no longer children. They do grow up fast, and I thank God every day that I'm working from home now so I don't miss it.
Coincidentally, yesterday was also his stepmom's birthday. So, you two, good wishes from me, and your cards are on the way. ;)
After yesterday's down time, I'm charged up enough to do this last read-through and get this book to J.T. for the first set of edits. The other day I said this was the hard part. Well, it's also the fun part. Now I get to see whether this thing actually has flow and function.
The individual woman is required a thousand times a day to choose either to accept her appointed role and thereby rescue her good disposition out of the wreckage of her self-respect, or else follow an independent line of behavior and rescue her self-respect out of the wreckage of her good disposition.
-- Jeannette Rankin (1880-1973) first female US Representative
Speaking of my triplet, fellow Blogspotter and my very own SinC-MidTN Vice President Lonnie Cruse has done a great interview with J.T. over at her Cruse'n With Lonnie blog. Check it out here!
Also, there's been an update on J.T.'s Missing cold case. The miracles of modern technology (specifically DNA evidence). We're all praying it will be the break the case needs.
Music of the Moment: Vivaldi, Spring, from The Four Seasons
In honor of my renewed energy.
Read a book! It's good for you.
=) JB
6.10.2006
The First Draft
A novel is balanced between a few true impressions and the multitude of false ones that make up most of what we call life.
-- Saul Bellow (1915-2005) Canadian writer
As you all know, I have been hard at work on the WIP. Last night I reached the point where I said, I think this draft is done.
Finally.
Now it's time for the real work to begin.
Some writers say the hard part of writing a book is writing the first draft. For me? That's the easy part. I can put ideas on paper with the best of them. Give me an idea and I can usually run with it (the GP does for me that a lot, especially when she's medicated). It's getting the thing into some semblance of order that I have trouble with. Plot holes. Undeveloped characters. Unresolved issues. Those things, that's what's hardest for me. Hence my problem with having so many "unfinished projects". But see, I'm working on that.
I'm going to go through this manuscript one more time, from beginning to end, and edit where necessary based on the comments from the BMWs. Then I'm going to turn it loose to J.T., my wonderful critique partner. After that, I get it back and work on more edits based on her additional comments.
It's a process.
Music of the Moment: Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 5
Lovely stuff. Soothing and inspiring. Enough for me to get some work done.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.09.2006
Let's Do Lunch! Interview with Rhys Bowen
Special Note: Before we get to today's interview, I'd like to ask a special favor. As you all know, my best writer friend J.T. Ellison blogs over at Murderati. Her post today is about a cold case that is near and dear to her heart. Please take a minute to read this, and if there's anything you can do, please help. Thank you!
Today I'm delighted to have as my guest the incomparable Rhys Bowen. In addition to an extensive writing career outside the mystery genre, Rhys is the author of the Constable Evans mysteries and the Molly Murphy mysteries, has been nominated for every major mystery award (Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, Barry, Macavity) and has won seven of them. Oh Danny Boy, the latest Molly, is available now, and Evanly Bodies, the next Constable Evans, will be released in August.
JB: Why two different series?
RB: I was enjoying writing the Constable Evans mysteries, but writing about such a small corner of Wales is definitely limiting. There are some situations and some crimes that would never happen there. Also Evan was SOO polite and I was dying to write about someone who didn't always know when to shut up, who constantly got herself into trouble – more like me, in fact.
Strong female protagonist was one driving force for Molly Murphy. A second was wanting to write about Ellis Island, which really blew me away when I visited it. And so Molly became an Irish immigrant who had fled from Ireland after having killed a man.
JB: You've had an amazing writing career in addition to your award-winning series and short stories. Do you envision yourself writing for a good long while yet, or do you have future plans that don't include writing?
RB: I can't envision myself not writing. When I go on vacation and I'm supposed to be resting, after a couple of days I start scribbling notes to myself on pieces of paper and planning out ideas for future books and short stories. Luckily writing is a career from which you never have to retire.
JB: Currently you're cranking out two books a year. Evan and Molly are two completely different characters in very different settings. Is it easy for you to switch gears, going from one to the other? What's your production schedule like?
RB: My production schedule is crazy!!!! It takes me about three months to actually write a book. The research for each Molly book begins long before that. I'm on the road promoting each book so it seems that I deliver one manuscript and get started on the next. I'm trying to slow down but it's hard. My publisher has production schedules all planned out years in advance.
JB: In your biography you tell us that your Welsh grandfather was the inspiration for the pen-name you chose for your mystery series. Was he still living when you were born? If so, what are some of your fondest memories of him?
RB: My grandfather lived until I was 12. He was an orchestra conductor, a fiery little man with a terrible temper, but he adored me. He was very Welsh – extremely gifted musically, Celtic temperament and he looked very Welsh. All of his children were gifted in the arts. My fondest memories of him are that he was a good carpenter and he made me a doll's bed, a little daybed with storage trunk under it and a big red train to ride on. I wish I'd kept them to hand on to my kids.
JB: Are you able to spend a lot of time with your own grandchildren? What do they think of your writing? You are also a children's book author – have you ever written a book specifically for your children or grandchildren?
RB: I spend one day a week with one set of grandchildren. The oldest are only 6 so I don't think they have any concept of my being a writer, although I have read them my children's books and they have enjoyed them. Mostly they like playing pretend games with me – princesses and unicorns and witches, etc. I wrote a book called Benjamin's Balloon for my son, after he let go of his helium balloon and it went up into the sky.
JB: Tell us a little bit about your new group blog, The Lady Killers. How did the five of you get together?
RB: Ah yes, the wonderful world of blogging that I am just learning about! The five of us are Lyn Hamilton, Mary Anna Evans, Meg Chittenden, and Cara Black [and of course, myself]. Mary Anna and I were on book tour together and decided that blogs were a good idea, so I invited other close friends and touring partners, Lyn, Meg and Cara. We have a lot in common – we all write about long ago and far away and we all have interesting research stories.
JB: It's off to a great start. Now we'll switch gears a little bit, to what I like to call the "just for fun" questions:
When you were very young, what did you want to be when you grew up?
RB: A lion tamer (seriously) or an opera singer. My parents put me off the latter because I was so skinny and opera ladies were so large. Now that just isn't true. I have a daughter who studied voice and has this huge opera voice. I'm so jealous.
JB: What's your favorite thing to eat that you can't get in California? Where can you get it?
RB: I crave several food items from UK and eat them as much as possible when I go to visit. One is smoked haddock. Kippers. Cockles. Plaice. You can tell I'm a seafood lover. Also the desserts. Sticky toffee pudding, trifle ... I guess it's all the comfort foods of childhood that one craves.
JB: Who's your favorite James Bond?
RB: No contest. Pierce Brosnan. I thought he was destined to be Bond the first time I saw him. But I'm not a huge Bond fan. I like my mysteries to be subtle and without things being blown up all over the place.
JB: I agree about Pierce Brosnan. Although I did enjoy him as Remington Steele, too. The whole movie citation thing he did, I just loved that. ;)
Thanks so much, Rhys, for spending some time in the Lunch Room today. We've enjoyed having you.
Rhys Bowen is the author of 15 books (to date) between her two mystery series, the Constable Evan Evans and the Molly Murphy mysteries. Visit Rhys' website at RhysBowen.com and check out her group blog, The Lady Killers.
Today I'm delighted to have as my guest the incomparable Rhys Bowen. In addition to an extensive writing career outside the mystery genre, Rhys is the author of the Constable Evans mysteries and the Molly Murphy mysteries, has been nominated for every major mystery award (Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, Barry, Macavity) and has won seven of them. Oh Danny Boy, the latest Molly, is available now, and Evanly Bodies, the next Constable Evans, will be released in August.
JB: Why two different series?
RB: I was enjoying writing the Constable Evans mysteries, but writing about such a small corner of Wales is definitely limiting. There are some situations and some crimes that would never happen there. Also Evan was SOO polite and I was dying to write about someone who didn't always know when to shut up, who constantly got herself into trouble – more like me, in fact.
Strong female protagonist was one driving force for Molly Murphy. A second was wanting to write about Ellis Island, which really blew me away when I visited it. And so Molly became an Irish immigrant who had fled from Ireland after having killed a man.
JB: You've had an amazing writing career in addition to your award-winning series and short stories. Do you envision yourself writing for a good long while yet, or do you have future plans that don't include writing?
RB: I can't envision myself not writing. When I go on vacation and I'm supposed to be resting, after a couple of days I start scribbling notes to myself on pieces of paper and planning out ideas for future books and short stories. Luckily writing is a career from which you never have to retire.
JB: Currently you're cranking out two books a year. Evan and Molly are two completely different characters in very different settings. Is it easy for you to switch gears, going from one to the other? What's your production schedule like?
RB: My production schedule is crazy!!!! It takes me about three months to actually write a book. The research for each Molly book begins long before that. I'm on the road promoting each book so it seems that I deliver one manuscript and get started on the next. I'm trying to slow down but it's hard. My publisher has production schedules all planned out years in advance.
JB: In your biography you tell us that your Welsh grandfather was the inspiration for the pen-name you chose for your mystery series. Was he still living when you were born? If so, what are some of your fondest memories of him?
RB: My grandfather lived until I was 12. He was an orchestra conductor, a fiery little man with a terrible temper, but he adored me. He was very Welsh – extremely gifted musically, Celtic temperament and he looked very Welsh. All of his children were gifted in the arts. My fondest memories of him are that he was a good carpenter and he made me a doll's bed, a little daybed with storage trunk under it and a big red train to ride on. I wish I'd kept them to hand on to my kids.
JB: Are you able to spend a lot of time with your own grandchildren? What do they think of your writing? You are also a children's book author – have you ever written a book specifically for your children or grandchildren?
RB: I spend one day a week with one set of grandchildren. The oldest are only 6 so I don't think they have any concept of my being a writer, although I have read them my children's books and they have enjoyed them. Mostly they like playing pretend games with me – princesses and unicorns and witches, etc. I wrote a book called Benjamin's Balloon for my son, after he let go of his helium balloon and it went up into the sky.
JB: Tell us a little bit about your new group blog, The Lady Killers. How did the five of you get together?
RB: Ah yes, the wonderful world of blogging that I am just learning about! The five of us are Lyn Hamilton, Mary Anna Evans, Meg Chittenden, and Cara Black [and of course, myself]. Mary Anna and I were on book tour together and decided that blogs were a good idea, so I invited other close friends and touring partners, Lyn, Meg and Cara. We have a lot in common – we all write about long ago and far away and we all have interesting research stories.
JB: It's off to a great start. Now we'll switch gears a little bit, to what I like to call the "just for fun" questions:
When you were very young, what did you want to be when you grew up?
RB: A lion tamer (seriously) or an opera singer. My parents put me off the latter because I was so skinny and opera ladies were so large. Now that just isn't true. I have a daughter who studied voice and has this huge opera voice. I'm so jealous.
JB: What's your favorite thing to eat that you can't get in California? Where can you get it?
RB: I crave several food items from UK and eat them as much as possible when I go to visit. One is smoked haddock. Kippers. Cockles. Plaice. You can tell I'm a seafood lover. Also the desserts. Sticky toffee pudding, trifle ... I guess it's all the comfort foods of childhood that one craves.
JB: Who's your favorite James Bond?
RB: No contest. Pierce Brosnan. I thought he was destined to be Bond the first time I saw him. But I'm not a huge Bond fan. I like my mysteries to be subtle and without things being blown up all over the place.
JB: I agree about Pierce Brosnan. Although I did enjoy him as Remington Steele, too. The whole movie citation thing he did, I just loved that. ;)
Thanks so much, Rhys, for spending some time in the Lunch Room today. We've enjoyed having you.
Rhys Bowen is the author of 15 books (to date) between her two mystery series, the Constable Evan Evans and the Molly Murphy mysteries. Visit Rhys' website at RhysBowen.com and check out her group blog, The Lady Killers.
6.08.2006
The Class of 2007
I really wanted to post something profoundly witty and intelligent today, but my brain is ensconced in my WIP and I must save all my wit and wisdom for that. Must. Write. Brilliantly.
So instead I'm going to extol the virtues of my Literary Siblings, namely J.T. Ellison, Brett Battles, and Sandra Ruttan. My triplets and our little sister have, along with J.T.'s fellow MIRA author Jason Pinter, co-founded The Class of 2007, for any and all crime writers who have debut releases due out next year (it’s gonna be a Killer Year, get it?). Sandra's been grandfathered in (her book, Suspicious Circumstances, comes out in November). The excitement is building. They're all going to be huge.
What this means for me, though, is that I have 65 books that I have to read before the end of the year so that I'll have the time and money to buy up all these new blockbusters scheduled to come out in 2007. Dang. I'd better get crackin'.
Be sure to stop by tomorrow for my interview with Rhys Bowen. Yeah, I know, I said that yesterday, but wouldn't you rather be told twice than not at all?
Read a book. And start saving your pennies, 'cause the Class of 2007 is going to break the bank.
=) JB
So instead I'm going to extol the virtues of my Literary Siblings, namely J.T. Ellison, Brett Battles, and Sandra Ruttan. My triplets and our little sister have, along with J.T.'s fellow MIRA author Jason Pinter, co-founded The Class of 2007, for any and all crime writers who have debut releases due out next year (it’s gonna be a Killer Year, get it?). Sandra's been grandfathered in (her book, Suspicious Circumstances, comes out in November). The excitement is building. They're all going to be huge.
What this means for me, though, is that I have 65 books that I have to read before the end of the year so that I'll have the time and money to buy up all these new blockbusters scheduled to come out in 2007. Dang. I'd better get crackin'.
Be sure to stop by tomorrow for my interview with Rhys Bowen. Yeah, I know, I said that yesterday, but wouldn't you rather be told twice than not at all?
Read a book. And start saving your pennies, 'cause the Class of 2007 is going to break the bank.
=) JB
6.07.2006
A Milestone
Today the hit counter at the Lunch Room reached 1,000! I'm truly overwhelmed that so many of you have visited here in just the last couple months. It's an honor, really!
Be sure to drop by the Lunch Room this Friday, when my very special guest will be the incomparable Rhys Bowen.
In the meantime, read a book!
=) JB
Be sure to drop by the Lunch Room this Friday, when my very special guest will be the incomparable Rhys Bowen.
In the meantime, read a book!
=) JB
The Critic's Corner
A while ago I mentioned having watched a terrific little British movie entitled Mrs. Henderson Presents and that I would post a review on it. This is another feature of the blog that I hope to continue. I've always said being a movie critic would be the ideal job for me because it would combine the two things I enjoy the most (outside of my family, of course) - writing and watching movies.
To wit, my first "official" movie review is below. Don't know if I've done it right, but I'm one of those who likes to dive into things and learn the rules as I go along (as evidenced by my writing career).
Mrs. Henderson Presents
The Weinstein Group, 2005
Rated R
103 minutes
available on DVD
Judi Dench, Bob Hoskins, Christopher Guest
Widow Laura Henderson (Dench) isn't about to spend her remaining years sitting around the house playing bridge. Having already cultivated an offbeat reputation among high society in 1930s London, Mrs. Henderson embarks on her newest adventure: the transformation of an old movie house into The Windmill Theater, a space that will host continuous performances of a musical revue. The infamous showman Vivian Van Dam (Hoskins) becomes her partner and fiercest opponent.
The Germans are bombing London but the roar of the Windmill is all that can be heard, as Laura convinces Lord Cromer (Guest) to allow her actresses to be the one thing no one could ever imagine – nude. Members of her social circle don't quite know what to make of Mrs. Henderson's controversial enterprise, a shocking venture that has everyone up in arms. Brought to its knees by war, what Mrs. Henderson Presents brings a nation to its feet in applause.
It was a happy coincidence that I came across this movie while looking into a completely different one. I thought the premise sounded appealing, and after seeing it I can only say its charm and poignancy made the effort entirely worthwhile.
Mrs. Henderson Presents marks Hoskins' 55th appearance in a feature film, and thoroughly emphasizes his versatility after portraying such characters as Eddie Valiant in Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988), Sancho Panza to John Lithgow's Don Quixote (2000) and the bumbling but lovable Smee opposite Dustin Hoffman and Robin Williams in Hook (1991). Dench is best known for her television work, especially in Britain, but has a fair number of movies in her pocket as well, including a turn as "M" to Pierce Brosnan's James Bond in Goldeneye (1995), Tomorrow Never Dies (1997), The World is Not Enough (1999), and Die Another Day (2002), and as Queen Elizabeth in Shakespeare in Love (1998) with Gwyneth Paltrow and Joseph Fiennes.
If you can imagine chemistry between two people of a certain maturity, Dench and Hoskins have captured the essence of it in this delightful film, although their interactions are never of a romantic nature. An equally excellent supporting cast surrounds these two outstanding actors. The story's overall cheek is tempered by the devastating effects of the war that rages around the city of London and its people, especially the soldiers and those who love them. Dench's character has a naive self-centeredness that becomes unfathomably heartbreaking when her true motivation for opening the theater is revealed.
If you're looking for a cozy afternoon huddle up on the couch kind of flick, I'd recommend Mrs. Henderson Presents. Just make sure the kids aren't in the room – it's rated R for brief language, mature themes, and of course, full nudity (female and male) - although tastefully done, it can be a bit of a shock.
Now, back to that other thing I love to do. I did some tremendously helpful research yesterday, and the WIP is coming along swimmingly.
In case you haven't, check out Sarah Weinman today - she mentions my triplet siblings by name and a link. Kudos, sibs!
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
To wit, my first "official" movie review is below. Don't know if I've done it right, but I'm one of those who likes to dive into things and learn the rules as I go along (as evidenced by my writing career).
Mrs. Henderson Presents
The Weinstein Group, 2005
Rated R
103 minutes
available on DVD
Judi Dench, Bob Hoskins, Christopher Guest
Widow Laura Henderson (Dench) isn't about to spend her remaining years sitting around the house playing bridge. Having already cultivated an offbeat reputation among high society in 1930s London, Mrs. Henderson embarks on her newest adventure: the transformation of an old movie house into The Windmill Theater, a space that will host continuous performances of a musical revue. The infamous showman Vivian Van Dam (Hoskins) becomes her partner and fiercest opponent.
The Germans are bombing London but the roar of the Windmill is all that can be heard, as Laura convinces Lord Cromer (Guest) to allow her actresses to be the one thing no one could ever imagine – nude. Members of her social circle don't quite know what to make of Mrs. Henderson's controversial enterprise, a shocking venture that has everyone up in arms. Brought to its knees by war, what Mrs. Henderson Presents brings a nation to its feet in applause.
It was a happy coincidence that I came across this movie while looking into a completely different one. I thought the premise sounded appealing, and after seeing it I can only say its charm and poignancy made the effort entirely worthwhile.
Mrs. Henderson Presents marks Hoskins' 55th appearance in a feature film, and thoroughly emphasizes his versatility after portraying such characters as Eddie Valiant in Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988), Sancho Panza to John Lithgow's Don Quixote (2000) and the bumbling but lovable Smee opposite Dustin Hoffman and Robin Williams in Hook (1991). Dench is best known for her television work, especially in Britain, but has a fair number of movies in her pocket as well, including a turn as "M" to Pierce Brosnan's James Bond in Goldeneye (1995), Tomorrow Never Dies (1997), The World is Not Enough (1999), and Die Another Day (2002), and as Queen Elizabeth in Shakespeare in Love (1998) with Gwyneth Paltrow and Joseph Fiennes.
If you can imagine chemistry between two people of a certain maturity, Dench and Hoskins have captured the essence of it in this delightful film, although their interactions are never of a romantic nature. An equally excellent supporting cast surrounds these two outstanding actors. The story's overall cheek is tempered by the devastating effects of the war that rages around the city of London and its people, especially the soldiers and those who love them. Dench's character has a naive self-centeredness that becomes unfathomably heartbreaking when her true motivation for opening the theater is revealed.
If you're looking for a cozy afternoon huddle up on the couch kind of flick, I'd recommend Mrs. Henderson Presents. Just make sure the kids aren't in the room – it's rated R for brief language, mature themes, and of course, full nudity (female and male) - although tastefully done, it can be a bit of a shock.
Now, back to that other thing I love to do. I did some tremendously helpful research yesterday, and the WIP is coming along swimmingly.
In case you haven't, check out Sarah Weinman today - she mentions my triplet siblings by name and a link. Kudos, sibs!
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.06.2006
On a Tangent
Problem Child over at the Writing Playground is leaving on a jet plane, going to Scotland and Ireland for a family wedding. Wow. I wanted to leave her good wishes, so I looked up how to say "have a wonderful time" in Gaelic (iontach am, in case you're interested). You gotta love the Internet. You can find all kinds of cool stuff there.
For kicks I did a search for a Scots Gaelic dictionary or list of terms. My main series character, Jack MacAnder, is of Scottish descent, although I completely screwed that up in the first two books. Sigh. Live and learn. He is also not part of the current WIP, hence the title of this post. The NaNoWriMo book/draft I mentioned a couple of days ago is what will probably be the fourth (and possibly final) installment in the Jack series. I bookmarked the page I found so that I could refer to it again. Later. When I get to that item on my to-do list.
The Tall One is at the beginning of basketball team camp month, and today the WGH was gracious enough to spend his day off playing bus driver (in The Tall One's Explorer) to someplace about three hours southwest of here. They were up at quarter to six. Unfortunately, so was I. So I'm on early this morning, haven't had my walk yet but have had my cup of coffee. Today's forecast is going to be pretty much a repeat of yesterday (mostly sunny, high 82). It's gonna be a great day.
Hop over to Murderati and see what Deni Deitz said that made me laugh at six in the morning. It's always nice to start your day on an up note.
Read a book. It's good for you!
=) JB
For kicks I did a search for a Scots Gaelic dictionary or list of terms. My main series character, Jack MacAnder, is of Scottish descent, although I completely screwed that up in the first two books. Sigh. Live and learn. He is also not part of the current WIP, hence the title of this post. The NaNoWriMo book/draft I mentioned a couple of days ago is what will probably be the fourth (and possibly final) installment in the Jack series. I bookmarked the page I found so that I could refer to it again. Later. When I get to that item on my to-do list.
The Tall One is at the beginning of basketball team camp month, and today the WGH was gracious enough to spend his day off playing bus driver (in The Tall One's Explorer) to someplace about three hours southwest of here. They were up at quarter to six. Unfortunately, so was I. So I'm on early this morning, haven't had my walk yet but have had my cup of coffee. Today's forecast is going to be pretty much a repeat of yesterday (mostly sunny, high 82). It's gonna be a great day.
Hop over to Murderati and see what Deni Deitz said that made me laugh at six in the morning. It's always nice to start your day on an up note.
Read a book. It's good for you!
=) JB
6.05.2006
How Blue is Blue?
How green is green?
What color is your world today?
I'm serious. Go, right now, look out the window. Pick a color, any color. The Boy and I have an ongoing argument about how to pronounce cerulean. (Say it with me - [sa-roo'-li-an] - that's from Webster's.) Your sky could be gray today. It could be pink and orange (sunrise, people).
It doesn't matter what colors you choose. The point is, it's COLOR. God's very own finger-painting set.
The forecast for our area today is mostly sunny, high 81. I tried to find a cloud on my walk this morning. Really, I did try. There weren't any. And we've had our fair share of rain lately, so all the lawns in our neighborhood are the greenest of greens.
So, what are your colors today?
Inspiration on the first lap: Yesterday, Jeff Cohen over at Murderati had this to say about The Question (Where do you get your ideas?) [in part]: "I don't always know the genesis of my story ideas. Sometimes, they just sort of happen when I'm not trying to think about such things, like in the shower ..."
I'm with Jeff on this one, except that on the walk mentioned above I couldn't help but be inspired by all the wonderful color and bright air and sunshine and expanse of blue sky and green grass. So the thoughts and direction for today's post were tumbling around in my head. The problem is, I have short-term memory issues. Nothing worse than being a writer with short-term memory dysfunction. So I'm halfway around the subdivision, chanting things like "how blue is blue, how green is green, what color is your world today" over and over so I wouldn't forget. I finally decided the neighbors might call the men in the little white coats to come get me, so I popped back in the house on my way by for my handy-dandy notebook so I could jot down some things while I was completing lap two.
The Baseball. On my way around the loop this morning I noticed a pristinely white baseball lying in the grass beside the road. It took a tremendous amount of self-restraint on my part to not pick up the baseball and throw it. It wasn't really in anyone's yard, you see, and there are about five or six houses on that side of the subdivision that it could have come from. I would have been left with the question, "Which yard do I choose?" And then, what if I chose the wrong one?
Do you see where I'm going with this? It's a writer's job to ask what if? That's the answer to Jeff's question in the simplest terms. Where do writers get their ideas? By asking, "What if ...?" You can look at any scene, any circumstance, a picture, a blue sky, ask a what if? question and have an entire story gel in your head.
It's days like today that you want to make up excuses to be outside. On my first lap this morning I passed a yard crew. Three guys, one truck, lots of lawn care equipment. One guy mows while one weed-eats and the other trims hedges. It's an efficient operation. By the time I crested the hill on my second lap, they were already heading out to service their next client. As I passed by on that first lap, Mr. Weed-Eater was pulling his tools off the truck. I commented that they probably loved their jobs on a day like today. He responded with a thoroughly Southern "Yes, ma'am."
The Femmes Fatales are one of my daily reads. Yesterday Charlaine Harris pointed out that she couldn't have her desk facing the window in her new office (her reasoning being she'd worked for years in a "closet" and couldn't get used to being able to see out the window - at least, that's how I read it). I have the same problem, although not for the same reason. My study window is opposite my door, and I would have two major problems if my desk were in front of the window. One, I can't stand having my back to the door (don't like people sneaking up on me), and two, I'd be too busy watching the world outside to write.
If it's a beautiful day where you are, too, then make up an excuse to be outside. Take a book out on the deck and read. Take a walk. Go play with the dog. Just be sure to notice what color the sky is.
=) JB
What color is your world today?
I'm serious. Go, right now, look out the window. Pick a color, any color. The Boy and I have an ongoing argument about how to pronounce cerulean. (Say it with me - [sa-roo'-li-an] - that's from Webster's.) Your sky could be gray today. It could be pink and orange (sunrise, people).
It doesn't matter what colors you choose. The point is, it's COLOR. God's very own finger-painting set.
The forecast for our area today is mostly sunny, high 81. I tried to find a cloud on my walk this morning. Really, I did try. There weren't any. And we've had our fair share of rain lately, so all the lawns in our neighborhood are the greenest of greens.
So, what are your colors today?
Inspiration on the first lap: Yesterday, Jeff Cohen over at Murderati had this to say about The Question (Where do you get your ideas?) [in part]: "I don't always know the genesis of my story ideas. Sometimes, they just sort of happen when I'm not trying to think about such things, like in the shower ..."
I'm with Jeff on this one, except that on the walk mentioned above I couldn't help but be inspired by all the wonderful color and bright air and sunshine and expanse of blue sky and green grass. So the thoughts and direction for today's post were tumbling around in my head. The problem is, I have short-term memory issues. Nothing worse than being a writer with short-term memory dysfunction. So I'm halfway around the subdivision, chanting things like "how blue is blue, how green is green, what color is your world today" over and over so I wouldn't forget. I finally decided the neighbors might call the men in the little white coats to come get me, so I popped back in the house on my way by for my handy-dandy notebook so I could jot down some things while I was completing lap two.
The Baseball. On my way around the loop this morning I noticed a pristinely white baseball lying in the grass beside the road. It took a tremendous amount of self-restraint on my part to not pick up the baseball and throw it. It wasn't really in anyone's yard, you see, and there are about five or six houses on that side of the subdivision that it could have come from. I would have been left with the question, "Which yard do I choose?" And then, what if I chose the wrong one?
Do you see where I'm going with this? It's a writer's job to ask what if? That's the answer to Jeff's question in the simplest terms. Where do writers get their ideas? By asking, "What if ...?" You can look at any scene, any circumstance, a picture, a blue sky, ask a what if? question and have an entire story gel in your head.
It's days like today that you want to make up excuses to be outside. On my first lap this morning I passed a yard crew. Three guys, one truck, lots of lawn care equipment. One guy mows while one weed-eats and the other trims hedges. It's an efficient operation. By the time I crested the hill on my second lap, they were already heading out to service their next client. As I passed by on that first lap, Mr. Weed-Eater was pulling his tools off the truck. I commented that they probably loved their jobs on a day like today. He responded with a thoroughly Southern "Yes, ma'am."
The Femmes Fatales are one of my daily reads. Yesterday Charlaine Harris pointed out that she couldn't have her desk facing the window in her new office (her reasoning being she'd worked for years in a "closet" and couldn't get used to being able to see out the window - at least, that's how I read it). I have the same problem, although not for the same reason. My study window is opposite my door, and I would have two major problems if my desk were in front of the window. One, I can't stand having my back to the door (don't like people sneaking up on me), and two, I'd be too busy watching the world outside to write.
If it's a beautiful day where you are, too, then make up an excuse to be outside. Take a book out on the deck and read. Take a walk. Go play with the dog. Just be sure to notice what color the sky is.
=) JB
6.04.2006
In It for the Long Haul
We write because we believe the human spirit
cannot be tamed and should not be trained.
-- Nikki Giovanni (b. June 7, 1943),
American poet and civil rights promoter
I have a tendency to leave things unfinished. I have a lot of creative energy, which I'm very good at channeling into a project right at the beginning, but since I constantly need something to stimulate my brain I tend to get bored very easily with things and lose my enthusiasm for them.
Last year I started the "Read Through the Bible in a Year" program. I made it six months.
I have five manuscripts that are in various stages of completion at the moment. One is actually finished, edited, has been read by several independents, and is "out there" - searching (desperately, at this point) for an agent. The second has been through the critique group, but I gave up working on the rewrite because I got so into the third one, which is the current WIP. On this one, the draft is done, it's going through the critique group, and I'm working on the rewrite as we go along. The fourth of the five is the not-quite-completed draft of my NaNoWriMo novel with which I met the 50,000 words in 30 days goal in November. I put it on the shelf and am leaving it there until I get something else finished, but since NaNo's goal was to write NEW material, I wrote a new book. The fifth and final unfinished project is the seed of an idea I had a couple of years ago for a hot-chick mystery series. It's also on the shelf and will stay there until God only knows when.
I'm trying to fix myself. Not train, as Ms. Giovanni said, because I think she's right about the human spirit (especially mine). But I need to be modified a little. I'm trying to do things that will help me focus more and actually finish what I start for a change.
There's the New Year's resolution - to read a book a week for the whole year. I'm only two books behind at this point, which for me is probably a major accomplishment. I used to read a lot faster than I do now, but I'm working on building back up to speed. (I should take a lesson from J.T. on this one - I don't think I've ever met anyone who speed-reads like she does.)
On July 1st I'm going to pick up where I left off on the Bible reading.
I've been President of Sisters in Crime - Middle Tennessee for a couple of years now and am starting my third term this month. I've been editing the newsletter for the chapter for two years, and got the website up and running about a year and a half ago. Again, major accomplishments.
And then, there's the blog. By writing every day - something, every day - I've been able to keep my focus a little more narrowed, a little more ... well, focused.
Since I started keeping track somewhere around the middle of April, I've had over 950 page views here, which is great - I really appreciate your taking the time to read my musings and ramblings. Really. But even if no one read it, I'd still be okay with that, because the truth is, I'm doing this more for myself, anyway. The fact that you're here, reading this now, just adds a bit of a motivation factor. Knowing that someone out there cares enough about me to want to know what I'm doing, and might stop by occasionally to offer a few words of encouragement - all the more incentive to commit to this thing for the long haul.
That goes for the writing, too.
I've learned, especially over the past couple of years (since I quit my job), that the writing is a part of me. My brother says he knew all along that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. (I asked him why he didn't tell me that years ago.) Because it's a part of me, even if I start something new, and it takes me a while to finish it, I know I'm going to do it. Not doing it is no longer an option.
So, I'm armed with a new list of priorities as far as the books are concerned:
1. First and foremost, I will not start something new until I finish what I've already started.
2. I will finish the draft on the current WIP and get it to J.T. (my primary critique partner, in case you haven't figured that one out by now) so she can comb through it.
3. I will finish that unfinished rewrite on the last book to have made it through the critique group and get it ready to submit.
4. I will dig out the NaNoWriMo book and flesh it out to a completed first draft, and will concentrate my efforts fully on it when #'s 2 and 3 are done.
5. Depending on my agent, whom I have confidence will be in my camp by this time next year (positive thinking always works best), I will pull up the attempt at the hot-chick mystery series and see what can be done with it.
After all that, if I'm not a) retired; or b) dead, who knows?
Music of the Moment: Symphony No. 3 ("Eroica"), Beethoven
Read a book. It's good for you. And thanks again for sticking with me for the long haul.
=) JB
6.03.2006
Bird Alert!
I grew up in one of those John Mellencamp Small Towns in Indiana (population 16,000 - sah-LUTE!). Our house was in an older residential neighborhood, about two blocks from "downtown", i.e. within walking distance of EVERYTHING - the ice cream parlor, the cinema, the local five-and-dime, the post office, and the library. The region is fairly flat, so we used to walk, roller skate, ride our bikes, etc., pretty much all over town. My best friend (the BF you met recently) and I would spend equal amounts of time at the library and the cinema (I remember the two of us walking to the theater to see the first STAR WARS movie when it was released in July 1977).
Now, there are a fair number of tiny fowl indigenous to Indiana, and one of the funny stupid games we used to play was when these little birds would fly overhead while we were walking, we'd throw our hands up to shield ourselves and yell, "Bird Alert!"
You laugh, but the truth is that later in my life I became the victim of a fly-by pooping. I was in college, and was on my way to take a final exam. I walked under a tree, and ... SCHPLUT!! ... on my head, down the side of my neck, and onto my shoulder. Yeah, gross. The friend who was with me was laughing her butt off. I didn't have time to go back to the dorm and change, so I had to duck into the bathroom at Ballantine Hall and clean up as best I could before taking my final. I made sure I sat well away from the other students during the exam so they would be spared having to take their finals with eau de birdie-doo permeating their nostrils.
On my morning walk yesterday, I purposely went a couple of feet out of my way to avoid walking directly under a bird perched on one of the phone wires overhead. Today, for some reason I was more aware of the sounds around my neighborhood. The Dog-eluia Chorus wasn't quite in full swing (it was early), but the birds were up. Living where we do now, we have quite a different menagerie than we had where I grew up. There is a pair of groshawks who hunt around midday in our subdivision. One will fly from utility pole to utility pole while its mate circles continuously. I don't know enough about them to know which is the male and which is the female, but it's a fascinating process to watch.
But I'm always careful to not walk directly under them.
I have been making great strides on the WIP over the last couple of days. Today the WGH is at work, The Tall One has both basketball and volleyball practices, and The Boy is helping his aunt with some around-the-house chores, so Little Bit and I have the place to ourselves. She's busying herself with DVDs and books (halle-frickin'-luia), so I have the day ahead of me to get this @#$%&*! draft finished.
Music of the Moment: Nicolai Rimsky Korsakov, The Sea and Sinbad's Ship (from Scheherazade)
You can just hear the waves crashing against the sides ... blood-pumping inspiration, yeah, that's the ticket.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
Now, there are a fair number of tiny fowl indigenous to Indiana, and one of the funny stupid games we used to play was when these little birds would fly overhead while we were walking, we'd throw our hands up to shield ourselves and yell, "Bird Alert!"
You laugh, but the truth is that later in my life I became the victim of a fly-by pooping. I was in college, and was on my way to take a final exam. I walked under a tree, and ... SCHPLUT!! ... on my head, down the side of my neck, and onto my shoulder. Yeah, gross. The friend who was with me was laughing her butt off. I didn't have time to go back to the dorm and change, so I had to duck into the bathroom at Ballantine Hall and clean up as best I could before taking my final. I made sure I sat well away from the other students during the exam so they would be spared having to take their finals with eau de birdie-doo permeating their nostrils.
On my morning walk yesterday, I purposely went a couple of feet out of my way to avoid walking directly under a bird perched on one of the phone wires overhead. Today, for some reason I was more aware of the sounds around my neighborhood. The Dog-eluia Chorus wasn't quite in full swing (it was early), but the birds were up. Living where we do now, we have quite a different menagerie than we had where I grew up. There is a pair of groshawks who hunt around midday in our subdivision. One will fly from utility pole to utility pole while its mate circles continuously. I don't know enough about them to know which is the male and which is the female, but it's a fascinating process to watch.
But I'm always careful to not walk directly under them.
I have been making great strides on the WIP over the last couple of days. Today the WGH is at work, The Tall One has both basketball and volleyball practices, and The Boy is helping his aunt with some around-the-house chores, so Little Bit and I have the place to ourselves. She's busying herself with DVDs and books (halle-frickin'-luia), so I have the day ahead of me to get this @#$%&*! draft finished.
Music of the Moment: Nicolai Rimsky Korsakov, The Sea and Sinbad's Ship (from Scheherazade)
You can just hear the waves crashing against the sides ... blood-pumping inspiration, yeah, that's the ticket.
Read a book. It's good for you.
=) JB
6.02.2006
Deliver Us From Evelyn
I was asked by fellow writer Chris Well to participate in a worldwide special event today, where blogs, websites and MySpace pages all over are
joining together to post the first chapter of his new novel, Deliver Us From Evelyn. (I am among those privileged enough to have a copy signed and given to me by the author himself [insert self-satisfied grin here].)
Without further ado:
Deliver Us From Evelyn
(Harvest House Publishers)
Chris Well
Everyone from the Feds to the mob is scrambling to find the husband of heartless media mogul Evelyn Blake. But no one can decide which is worse — that he is missing, or that she is not ...
CHAPTER ONE
Sunday night. April 23.
On his last day of this life, the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins checked the party dip. Just stuck his finger right in there, pulled some glop free, stuck it in his mouth and sucked.
Hmm, good dip.
He wiped his saliva'd finger on his jacket, popped the top off a can of Pringles, shuffled a neat row of curved chips onto a Dixie brand paper platter.
There.
Setting the can down, he stepped back from the secondhand coffee table in the middle of the shag-carpeted office, looked at what his party planning skills had wrought. And he saw that it was good.
He went to the stereo system across the room, selected a CD. Personally, he would have preferred something by the Rolling Stones, maybe Exile on Main Street or Beggars Banquet -- muscular, honky-tonk rock 'n' roll you can get drunk or stoned to, depending on your mood. He could really go for the bluesy wail of "Tumbling Dice" right now.
But the music library here offered none of that. Besides, his marks -- that is, the members of his "flock" -- held certain expectations regarding what music was appropriate for a prayer meeting. Especially in a small armpit of a town like Belt Falls, Illinois.
(Who names a town "Belt Falls", anyway?)
The ladies would be here soon. Then Missionary Bob could use his people skills, honed from his years of "ministry", to good effect. Would lead the group in a spontaneous (but carefully planned) evening following "the Lord's leading" -- some Bible, some hymns, some ministry time. A carefully rehearsed prayer, a combination of wails and pleas, which experience had shown to be a very effective prelude to the passing of the offering plate.
Swept up by the rush of maudlin and spiritual emotion, the ladies would cough up plenty.
"Yea, but there are those who do not have it as comfortably as we do," he found himself practicing, fiddling with chair placement in the circle, maneuvering pillows on the couch. "Poor children who do not have the food or clothing or shelter such as we take for granted."
He double-checked the handy photos on the table. The orphanage in Mexico went by a lot of names. It would not do for the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins to get all weepy-eyed over JESUS AMA A LOS NINOS PEQUENOS and then whip out a photo showing a bunch of tiny brown faces smiling under a banner that said CHILDREN OF HER MERCY ORPHANAGE.
Following the fiasco in the last town, he'd played it cool once he got to Belt Falls. (Really, who brings a wagon train across the frontier, breaks ground on a settlement and says, "From henceforth, this shall be known as 'Belt Falls'"?)
Ever since Andrea -- his partner, his companion, his ray of light -- had got Jesus, she'd stopped helping with the scams. Stopped helping him fleece the flock, so to speak. She laid it on thick enough, It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment, and all that.
He tried to smirk it off, tried that face that always brought her around, but it didn't seem to work anymore. Whatever had got hold of her wasn't letting go.
Missionary Bob would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, that the dividing line between success and failure began and ended with Andrea. When she was working with him, the scams worked like butter.
But then she got religion and the whole machine went up in flames.
Not that Missionary Bob got the clue. He kept working his games, town to town, each new gambit failing, each new town harder to crack than the last.
Once he set up shop here in Belt Falls (don't even get him started about the name of the town), he took his time getting to know the people. He found them to be a small, close-knit community, smugly going to their church services.
Smug, but not that pious -- it did not take much effort to plant sufficient evidence that the only pastor in town was a raving drug user, maybe even a dealer. Not enough evidence to get the man convicted -- even the hick sheriff saw it was a weak case -- but the hapless pastor had to make only one phone call to the wrong deacon asking for bail money before word of his unholy lifestyle rushed through the congregation like wildfire.
In the eyes of God and the law, he was probably an okay guy. But once a congregation chooses to believe the worst, a preacher may as well pack his bags and move on.
Missionary Bob had even heard tell of one particular church, somewhere in the Midwest, where the members had booted the pastor because he'd had the temerity to wear short pants to a church potluck.
Yep, hell -- if it existed -- would be packed to the lips with smug, busybody churchgoers who ran their preacher out of town because he had worn shorts to a church potluck. Or, as in this case, was the victim of circumstantial evidence planted on him by a traveling huckster.
He stood and straightened his dress jacket. Felt a bulge in his left pocket, was surprised to discover a coaster with the face of Jesus on it.
He looked around the office, befuddled. When had he picked this up?
You don't have to lift anything here, he reminded himself. You've pretty much lifted the whole office already.
Missionary Bob, in what used to be the hapless pastor's office, heard steps echoing from the foyer, somebody clomping up the stairs. My, my, thought the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins, these ladies do need to lose some weight, don't they? Whoever this was, she was pounding the stairs to wake the devil.
He stopped fidgeting with pillows and stood up straight, getting into character. Thinking of his plan, his mission, remembering the correct accent and speech patterns of a Right Fair Reverend Missionary, an accent as specific and undeniable as the drawl of New Orleans or the wicked blue-blood of Boston.
There was an insistent pounding on the door, a battering, really, if he had stopped to think about it. But he was too wrapped up in the character of a Right Fair Reverend Missionary. He slapped on a toothy grin and opened the door. "Welcome, child, to -- "
It was a man. A. Large. Man. A grizzled bear towering over him, bloated flannel shirt cascading out of pants where they were almost tucked, tractor cap on his head declaring EAT ROADKILL. The grizzly bear pressed his flannelled beer belly against the Right Fair Reverend Missionary, leaned down from on high and belched, "I'm Darla Mae's husband."
The Right Fair Reverent Missionary Bob Mullins broke character and cursed.
The rest of the confrontation was like a dream, a nightmare of slow motion, the bear smacking him, a freight train to the skull, tossing Missionary Bob across the room. Hitting the coffee table as he went down, elbow in the dip. The grizzly roaring, storming in, Missionary Bob on the floor, scrambling backward, away, fleeing in the only direction he could, farther into the room. The angry husband kicking the table over, party snacks flying, dip spattering across the bookcase.
As Missionary Bob kicked to his feet, always moving backward, until the wall stopped his escape, one question kept flashing through his mind: Is this about the fake antique Cross of James or is this about the adultery?
Either way, his back against the wall, this grizzly man bearing down on him, Missionary Bob was out of options. The giant man, his eyes red, had barrel fists clenched and ready to swing, like jackhammers.
There was a noise behind the grizzly, at the open door. "Missionary Bob?"
One of the ladies.
The enraged husband turned at the voice. Missionary Bob took his one and only chance, grabbed the stone head of Moliere, clubbed the grizzly across the side of the head. The man stumbled backward and fell.
Missionary Bob, fueled by anger and fear and blind, stupid adrenalin, kept clubbing, again and again. The man on the floor now, blood streaming from his head. Missionary Bob clubbing him with the bust again and again. On his knees, on top of the man, clubbing him again and again and again.
Finally, adrenalin loosening its grip, Missionary Bob became aware that the man was not moving. Clutching air in hot, painful gasps, he dropped the bust to the carpet.
Felt something wet on the side of his face, wiped it with his sleeve, saw blood smeared on fabric. Not his own blood.
Gasping, wheezing, he looked up and saw the witnesses, ladies pooling in the doorway, staring agape at the Goliath on the floor, downed by the David with his stone.
© 2006 Chris Well
Deliver Us From Evelyn is available from Amazon (see link above). Happy reading!
=) JB
joining together to post the first chapter of his new novel, Deliver Us From Evelyn. (I am among those privileged enough to have a copy signed and given to me by the author himself [insert self-satisfied grin here].)
Without further ado:
Deliver Us From Evelyn
(Harvest House Publishers)
Chris Well
Everyone from the Feds to the mob is scrambling to find the husband of heartless media mogul Evelyn Blake. But no one can decide which is worse — that he is missing, or that she is not ...
CHAPTER ONE
Sunday night. April 23.
On his last day of this life, the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins checked the party dip. Just stuck his finger right in there, pulled some glop free, stuck it in his mouth and sucked.
Hmm, good dip.
He wiped his saliva'd finger on his jacket, popped the top off a can of Pringles, shuffled a neat row of curved chips onto a Dixie brand paper platter.
There.
Setting the can down, he stepped back from the secondhand coffee table in the middle of the shag-carpeted office, looked at what his party planning skills had wrought. And he saw that it was good.
He went to the stereo system across the room, selected a CD. Personally, he would have preferred something by the Rolling Stones, maybe Exile on Main Street or Beggars Banquet -- muscular, honky-tonk rock 'n' roll you can get drunk or stoned to, depending on your mood. He could really go for the bluesy wail of "Tumbling Dice" right now.
But the music library here offered none of that. Besides, his marks -- that is, the members of his "flock" -- held certain expectations regarding what music was appropriate for a prayer meeting. Especially in a small armpit of a town like Belt Falls, Illinois.
(Who names a town "Belt Falls", anyway?)
The ladies would be here soon. Then Missionary Bob could use his people skills, honed from his years of "ministry", to good effect. Would lead the group in a spontaneous (but carefully planned) evening following "the Lord's leading" -- some Bible, some hymns, some ministry time. A carefully rehearsed prayer, a combination of wails and pleas, which experience had shown to be a very effective prelude to the passing of the offering plate.
Swept up by the rush of maudlin and spiritual emotion, the ladies would cough up plenty.
"Yea, but there are those who do not have it as comfortably as we do," he found himself practicing, fiddling with chair placement in the circle, maneuvering pillows on the couch. "Poor children who do not have the food or clothing or shelter such as we take for granted."
He double-checked the handy photos on the table. The orphanage in Mexico went by a lot of names. It would not do for the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins to get all weepy-eyed over JESUS AMA A LOS NINOS PEQUENOS and then whip out a photo showing a bunch of tiny brown faces smiling under a banner that said CHILDREN OF HER MERCY ORPHANAGE.
Following the fiasco in the last town, he'd played it cool once he got to Belt Falls. (Really, who brings a wagon train across the frontier, breaks ground on a settlement and says, "From henceforth, this shall be known as 'Belt Falls'"?)
Ever since Andrea -- his partner, his companion, his ray of light -- had got Jesus, she'd stopped helping with the scams. Stopped helping him fleece the flock, so to speak. She laid it on thick enough, It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment, and all that.
He tried to smirk it off, tried that face that always brought her around, but it didn't seem to work anymore. Whatever had got hold of her wasn't letting go.
Missionary Bob would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, that the dividing line between success and failure began and ended with Andrea. When she was working with him, the scams worked like butter.
But then she got religion and the whole machine went up in flames.
Not that Missionary Bob got the clue. He kept working his games, town to town, each new gambit failing, each new town harder to crack than the last.
Once he set up shop here in Belt Falls (don't even get him started about the name of the town), he took his time getting to know the people. He found them to be a small, close-knit community, smugly going to their church services.
Smug, but not that pious -- it did not take much effort to plant sufficient evidence that the only pastor in town was a raving drug user, maybe even a dealer. Not enough evidence to get the man convicted -- even the hick sheriff saw it was a weak case -- but the hapless pastor had to make only one phone call to the wrong deacon asking for bail money before word of his unholy lifestyle rushed through the congregation like wildfire.
In the eyes of God and the law, he was probably an okay guy. But once a congregation chooses to believe the worst, a preacher may as well pack his bags and move on.
Missionary Bob had even heard tell of one particular church, somewhere in the Midwest, where the members had booted the pastor because he'd had the temerity to wear short pants to a church potluck.
Yep, hell -- if it existed -- would be packed to the lips with smug, busybody churchgoers who ran their preacher out of town because he had worn shorts to a church potluck. Or, as in this case, was the victim of circumstantial evidence planted on him by a traveling huckster.
He stood and straightened his dress jacket. Felt a bulge in his left pocket, was surprised to discover a coaster with the face of Jesus on it.
He looked around the office, befuddled. When had he picked this up?
You don't have to lift anything here, he reminded himself. You've pretty much lifted the whole office already.
Missionary Bob, in what used to be the hapless pastor's office, heard steps echoing from the foyer, somebody clomping up the stairs. My, my, thought the Right Fair Reverend Missionary Bob Mullins, these ladies do need to lose some weight, don't they? Whoever this was, she was pounding the stairs to wake the devil.
He stopped fidgeting with pillows and stood up straight, getting into character. Thinking of his plan, his mission, remembering the correct accent and speech patterns of a Right Fair Reverend Missionary, an accent as specific and undeniable as the drawl of New Orleans or the wicked blue-blood of Boston.
There was an insistent pounding on the door, a battering, really, if he had stopped to think about it. But he was too wrapped up in the character of a Right Fair Reverend Missionary. He slapped on a toothy grin and opened the door. "Welcome, child, to -- "
It was a man. A. Large. Man. A grizzled bear towering over him, bloated flannel shirt cascading out of pants where they were almost tucked, tractor cap on his head declaring EAT ROADKILL. The grizzly bear pressed his flannelled beer belly against the Right Fair Reverend Missionary, leaned down from on high and belched, "I'm Darla Mae's husband."
The Right Fair Reverent Missionary Bob Mullins broke character and cursed.
The rest of the confrontation was like a dream, a nightmare of slow motion, the bear smacking him, a freight train to the skull, tossing Missionary Bob across the room. Hitting the coffee table as he went down, elbow in the dip. The grizzly roaring, storming in, Missionary Bob on the floor, scrambling backward, away, fleeing in the only direction he could, farther into the room. The angry husband kicking the table over, party snacks flying, dip spattering across the bookcase.
As Missionary Bob kicked to his feet, always moving backward, until the wall stopped his escape, one question kept flashing through his mind: Is this about the fake antique Cross of James or is this about the adultery?
Either way, his back against the wall, this grizzly man bearing down on him, Missionary Bob was out of options. The giant man, his eyes red, had barrel fists clenched and ready to swing, like jackhammers.
There was a noise behind the grizzly, at the open door. "Missionary Bob?"
One of the ladies.
The enraged husband turned at the voice. Missionary Bob took his one and only chance, grabbed the stone head of Moliere, clubbed the grizzly across the side of the head. The man stumbled backward and fell.
Missionary Bob, fueled by anger and fear and blind, stupid adrenalin, kept clubbing, again and again. The man on the floor now, blood streaming from his head. Missionary Bob clubbing him with the bust again and again. On his knees, on top of the man, clubbing him again and again and again.
Finally, adrenalin loosening its grip, Missionary Bob became aware that the man was not moving. Clutching air in hot, painful gasps, he dropped the bust to the carpet.
Felt something wet on the side of his face, wiped it with his sleeve, saw blood smeared on fabric. Not his own blood.
Gasping, wheezing, he looked up and saw the witnesses, ladies pooling in the doorway, staring agape at the Goliath on the floor, downed by the David with his stone.
© 2006 Chris Well
Deliver Us From Evelyn is available from Amazon (see link above). Happy reading!
=) JB
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