Incoming Flack

I've been fortunate to write over a hundred reviews for New Mystery Reader over the past five years. During that time, I have been ever luckier to deal almost exclusively with NMR's patient and long-suffering editor, Stephanie Padilla. Stephanie has made sure books got to me and interviews were set up, so I rarely had to deal with the major publishers' publicists. For that I am eternally grateful.

Earlier this week a publicist slipped through my previously effective cordon and sent me an email directly. She must have got my address from a predecessor, as I don't recognize her name, but I did speak with a few publicists at Bouchercon a couple of year ago. Anyway, this (presumably delightful young) woman (since aren't all publicists that way) sent me an email with the following subject line, which has been tastefully redacted:

A brilliant blend of fact and fiction, XXX unravels one of the greatest unsolved mysteries …!

The body of the email was not only awfully familiar for someone who probably doesn't know me, but made it clear by the end she doesn't know me at all:

How are you? I wanted to check to see that you received a finished copy of XXX. Offering a fresh, contemporary spin on a fascinating period, XXX paints a lively world XXX, expertly capturing the panorama of social change and rich historical intrigue XXX. It is a fascinating work that I hope you will seriously consider for reviews and features in your publication or an interview with the author on your show. I look forward to speaking with you soon.

I had to ponder a suitable reply for a few days. This is what I came up with:

Dear XXX,

I am fine; thanks for asking. Sorry for my delay in replying, but it's been a hectic week. Who would have thought the Prince George's County jail doesn't take Discover? (Visa and Master Card only.)

As I have not received a copy of the book, I must reserve judgment for the time being as to whether it truly is "a brilliant blend of fact and fiction" that "[offers] a fresh, contemporary spin on a fascinating period in XXX's history." Nor can I determine if the lively world XXX paints expertly captures the panorama ofXXX. If the book arrives, I will happy to give it a look, though you need not send another, as I am currently between review publications and do not have a either a radio or television contract, much to my dismay.

Thanks for thinking of me.

What the hell. It's not like XXX was thinking of publishing me anytime soon. Even I should get to have some fun in the publishing business, right?

Jim Munford

I learned today my friend Jim Munford has died. Jim had to be ninety, and had been frail from the first time I met him in in the winter of 2002. The fact that learning of his death was not wholly unexpected does not make it any easier.

I know only passing bits of Jim's earlier life. He was a merchant seaman, and lived in New York for much of the Fifties and Sixties. A professional photographer, it was Jim who showed me how photography could be an art form. As someone with never more than a passing interest in the visual arts, I once took the Sole heir for a day trip from Maryland to Manhattan to see an exhibit of Jim's work. Had I been employed then, I might have bought any one of several of his photos.

I knew him best as a writer, though he didn't do a lot of writing during the too brief time of our acquaintance. (Commercial interest in his early photography picked up late in his life, and he became engrossed in capturing his images digitally.) We met as peers during a semester in George Washington University's Jenny Moore McKean program, that year taught by John McNally. Frankly, I thought of Jim as a bit of a prick early on, an attitude that fell away as my knowledge of writing grew. He had an insightful way of cutting through to the crux of the weaknesses of any piece, and came to be one of my most trusted advisers for writing problems during the years a rump group from McNally's class continued to meet periodically at Jim's home.

Jim was an audiophile and lover of classic jazz. He often had a vinyl LP of some great trumpeter playing when I arrived at his house, and would make me guess who it was. (Fortunately, I was better than fifty-fifty.) He could converse intelligently on more subjects than I am even aware of, and was a gentle soul who tirelessly encouraged the rest of us at every opportunity, remembering drafts and fragments of stories years later, asking we were going to something with a character we'd long ago given up on.

I have no idea what kind of father or husband he was, or what his personal habits might have been as a young man. The gentleman I knew-- and I never met a more gentle man--was a pleasure, and I never failed to look forward to our monthly visits. Now, as is always the case in these circumstances, I only wish I had made time for more of them.

Something to Consider

Writers are often told it's pointless to chase the market. By the time your book is ready, the market will have moved on. Write a young adult book about wizards and everyone wants religious symbol thrillers. Write one of those and the world has moved on to vampires. Write a vampire story and it's minotaurs everyone wants.

"Write what you'd like to read." Makes sense, since you're going to be reading the hell out of it for a year or more. No point going over and over something you don't want to read in the first place. There's a catch to this, too. What if your tastes aren't mainstream enough?

For most writers, I'm willing to wait for the paperback to come out. There are a small handful for whom that doesn't cut it. I want the new book as soon as it comes out. (Sooner, if I can wrangle an advance copy out of them.) Only one has a secure income from writing alone. One works a day job. Another works his ass off as a freelance writer, doesn't even have a contract now. Another has just written a book that I think nudges its way into masterpiece territory, and may lose his contract.

Most of their books don't sell well, though all of them write rings around me. And they're who come to mind when I sit down to "write what I'd like to read." Explains a lot about my level of success.

It's Not Just Us

Many (including me) have lamented ever-lower standards in the English language. Lax American education and a lack of editorial oversight are the usual culprits when someone complains about how Americans are ruining the mother tongue.

It ain’t just us.

The Guardian’s web site has an article—entertaining enough in its own right—about how the owners of the Los Angeles Dodgers have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to have a Russian “scientist” named Vladimir Shpunt “beam thought waves to boost the team’s chances.” (The entire O’Malley family must be rolling over in their graves.)

This is not a sports blog. (That’s here.) The sentence of greatest interest in this context is the following: He [Shpunt] was introduced to Jamie McCourt in 2004 and claims to have cured her through long-distance energy transmission of an eye infection.

A quick reading leaves the impression Shpunt transmitted an eye infection to Ms. McCourt to cure her of an undisclosed ailment, one presumably more unpleasant than an eye infection. A more felicitous—and accurate—phrasing might be: He was introduced to Jamie McCourt in 2004 and claims to have cured her of an eye infection through long-distance energy transmission.

I don’t know where all our editors have gone, but at least I’m pretty sure it’s not England.

Even More Justified Than before

Justified is becoming Wire-esque in its storyline and character development. Early in the season it was a cool show, with offbeat plots, sharp dialog, and fresh, well-defined characters. Now the end of Season One approaches, and we can see how everything that seemed merely episodic three months ago is showing how interrelated it was. It’s a thing of beauty, and can’t be an accident.

The show’s worth watching to see what happens with Boyd Crowder alone. Is he legitimate about his “church,” though in a twisted way? Is he bughouse nuts? Is there some criminal enterprise here we still haven’t seen? No one—including the other characters—has a clue. It’s fascinating to watch everyone else act on incomplete knowledge, knowing how what appears to be a reasonable action by a character isn’t going to work out like he expects, but wondering how bad the eventual miscalculation is going to be.

Best of all, it makes sense. No supernatural aspects. No wild chases with gunfights to let God sort ‘em out. Solid writing and performances by excellent character actors, run with rare vision by Graham Yost. It’s enough to get me watching television again.

(Editor’s Note: Speaking of watching television, The Bridge will premiere on CBS July 10. Written in part by friend John McFetridge, this Canadian show has received good reviews and word of mouth from north of the border. I’m familiar enough with John’s work and standards to look forward to it with anticipation, and recommend everyone giving it a shot.)

Sexy Beast

I don’t want to sound like some terrorist-loving, socialist, Karl Marx butt boy because I’m bashing America, where everything is superior to anything else found anywhere in the world, but the Brits do crime movies much better than we do. This week’s example is Sexy Beast.

The story is simple: Don Logan (Ben Kingsley) wants his old running mate Gal (Ray Winstone) to leave his cushy retirement in Spain to pull one more job for Teddy Bass (Ian McShane). Gal doesn’t want to go. Don doesn’t like to take “no” for an answer, in a childish psycho prick kind of way. The tension is generated from the war of wills between Gal and Don, and Teddy’s response to how it is decided, which I won’t go into because it’s a bit of a spoiler, innit? (Damn, there I go again.)

The acting is first rate, as would be expected from the cast. Kingsley’s Don is made even creepier when he goes off on a rant because you can’t help but think in the back of your mind, “This is Gandhi!” Winstone conveys Gal’s world-weariness and desire to be left alone while still showing this is a man who can only be screwed with so far, and, retired or not, knows how to take care of himself. Ian McShane’s face now serves as the official definition of “malevolent” in online dictionaries; no one does menace better.

What distinguishes Sexy Beast from most American crime films is its willingness to let the writing and situation carry the story. The robbery itself is almost a throw-away; it’s there to bind Teddy’s response to what has transpired between Don and Gal. The ending would be an anti-climax by American standards, but when it’s over, you’ll think, “This is exactly what he would do,” and be right about everyone.

They apparently tried to get the band back together for last year’s 44 Inch Chest, but it didn’t fare nearly as well. If you saw that one—I didn’t—and think you don’t need to see another similar film by many of the same blokes, think again. Sexy Beast is a good one.

A Humble Man, With Good Reason

I have made a conscientious effort to adjust my expectations as a writer as I learned about the field. First I recalibrated my assumptions about how much promotion a publisher would provide, and how effective it might be. Okay, I’ll have to do a lot of that myself.

Then I learned how few writers can make a living from it, even though they appear “successful” to the public at large. That’s fine, too. I never planned to get rich, I can live with writing as tip money. Maybe it will pay for the annual Bouchercon trip. It’s all good.

Of course, getting an agent is an enormous pain in the ass. I know they’re busy, but the advent of e-mail should make the “if you don’t hear from us, we’re not interested” answer a thing of the past. It takes ten seconds to hit Reply and drop some Auto text into a message and send it back. Still, I hung with it and actually found two agents the old-fashioned way, through cold queries. The first relationship dissolved amicably, the second not as much, though I’ve since learned I may have been a little hasty, so I’ll eat that one.

A few bits of encouragement got me to thinking I might be getting closer to a deal, so I stepped up my study of what happens after you get a contract, and learned that, no matter how much bullshit has to be endured to get an agent and a contract, it probably increases after you get a deal. Edits, copy edits, marketing, all compete with trying to write the next book, and there doesn’t seem to be much consideration for the fact you’ll be balancing this against a full-time job while you’re at it.

That’s a writer’s life: lots of bullshit, no money. If you have some success and cop a contract, the money goes up a little; the bullshit goes up a lot. The only reason to fool with it at all is the joy of losing yourself in the actual writing.

Except now that’s not so much fun, either.

Adrian McKinty has a book trailer from comedian Lewis Black near the bottom of his blog. (Take a minute to check it out. Black is, as always, a riot, and Adrian’s blog is always worth checking out. I’ll wait here for you.) Black sums up exactly how I’ve come to feel about writing: it’s like having homework every night.

I’ve treated writing as essentially a second job for almost ten years now. Two agents thought enough of my writing to hire on. Writers I respect have said kind things, and I’m proud of being included in Todd Robinson’s newest Thuglit anthology. I’ve written five novels in that time, with a sixth just a polishing draft away from completion, with nary a sniff from an editor. (With one exception, which doesn’t count.)

I have a concept called the “Income to Bullshit Curve” I like to use when making career decisions. Picture a standard graph, with a line running diagonally from the lower left corner up and to the right. The vertical axis is Money; the horizontal axis is bullshit. For any job to be worth the effort, the point where you are needs to be above the line. It may dip below for brief periods; all jobs do that. It can’t live there.

The point occupied by my writing on the Income to Bullshit Curve is 0.0001 inches up the income axis; right now it’s pretty far to the right on bullshit. It’s a bad deal. The weather’s nice, I have a couple of family trips planned, it’s baseball season, and I’m too old for homework every fucking night. It’s time for a break.

I’ll finish the WIP; it’s too close not to. I’ll send it out. It would be stupid to spend almost two years on it and not make the effort. Other than that, I’ll write what I want, when I want. Blog posts as the spirit moves me. (I’m having fun with the new sports blog.) Flash fiction. Maybe a novel, though I’m more likely to update those already on the disc, maybe post them via Smashwords or something. If it gets to be fun again, I’ll dig in. If not, I’ll look forward to having more time for recreational reading.