A week of slogging through mystery Web sites and blogs in prep for my panel discussion has left me with “web brain,” the cybersurfing equivalent of the alcoholic’s “wet brain.” My skull cannot expand to fit my swelling cerebellum, and my eyeballs feel as if they are being pushed out my sockets to make room. I’m sure my liver has been damaged somehow. Call 1-800-WebAnon.
In my search for cybersavvy, I had the odd experience of finding myself quoted in a 16-year-old Singapore girl’s blog, Oct. 1, 2005: http://samology.blogspot.com/, and given credit (thank you, Samantha!). She must have read a Family Circle article I wrote about parenting; "See yourself through your child's eyes." Who knew the publication has a Singapore issue. If I’ve influenced the life of one Singaporese/Singaporian/Singaporite teenager, I’ll die happy and feel hipper than I ever have thought possible.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
Across the River...and Under the Sun
After a two-week delay, the ATR Web site was finally linked to my name on the Sleuthfest attendees page (www.sleuthfest.com). Sleuthfest is an annual crime fiction conference presented in Fort Lauderdale by the Mystery Writers of America’s Florida Chapter—well-attended, well-run and well-fed fun-in-the-sun. I managed to get on an “expert” panel on how to attract media attention. This is appropriate, as at last year’s ‘fest, I attracted a bit of attention—only, not in a good way.
At first, I was invisible, so invisible that people took notice. Whenever I raised my hand to ask a question in a panel discussion, the moderator failed to call on me, even when mine was the only palm waving. The first time it happened, one of the panelists, Blake Stewart of Bleak House Books, made eye contact and waggled his eyebrows in puzzlement. I shrugged and muttered, “I guess I forgot that I had on my Harry Potter invisibility cloak.” Finally, audience members on both sides of me were pointing and calling out, “She has a question!” The moderator still hesitated, but eventually sighed, “Okay, the young lady in the gray jacket.” I looked around. Someone said, “He means you.” My jacket was green and I ain’t so young, but I asked my question anyway. I don’t discriminate against the color- or age-blind.
During the next panel, I raised my hand. Raised it again. Raised it again. Raised it…. “Okay, you—oh, sorry, time’s up. We have to empty the room.”
Number 3: The crowd was much larger this time. Raise, raise, raise. A woman was walking around with a microphone to hand to anyone who asked a question. Raise, raise, raise… The mike lady kept coming over to me (I was on the AISLE, ferchrissake), even she assuming that this time, no this time, maybe this time…. Raise, raise, raise. Again, my fellow audience members rose to my defense—literally standing up to call out, “Hey, she’s been waiting!” I was grudgingly given the floor. When I sat down, someone said, “That was a good question.” I said, “I hope it was worth waiting for.” I put those Sleuthfest-ers on my Christmas card list.
Final panel of the day: Ten people in the audience. Two of us had our hands up. The moderator pointed to the other hand. One of the panelists, the kind and gallant mystery author Cecelia Tishy (www.ceceliatishy.com), stopped the moderator and gestured at me, “No, pick on THAT lady! I was in the other panel when she waited so long to ask her question!” I put Cecelia Tishy in my will.
Wait. It gets worse. At the Friday night banquet. Christopher Whitcomb--guest of honor, ex-FBI agent, terrorism investigator, overall great-looking guy--finishes his very charming talk about his real and fictional adventures and opens the floor to questions. Yep, up goes my hand. At least 350 people are in the cavernous ballroom, but I’m the only one with my hand raised. He looks around. “No one has a question?” Someone at another table, who has perhaps scratched her nose but does not have her hand up, points to me. Whitcomb calls on her. She shakes her head and points to me again. Whitcomb calls out, “The lovely lady in the pink jacket.” That’s the woman next to me. (My jacket is still green, but I’m at least as lovely.) My tablemate loyally shouts, “Not me—her!” Whitcomb says, “Okay then.” So I say, “This may be a little anticlimactic at this point, but now that you’ve told us all this, do you have to kill us?” Whitcomb looks away and mutters, “I get that all the time. Anyone else?” This is why the terrorists are winning.
Wait. It gets WORSE. The next day ex-attorney/mystery author Lisa Scottoline is the luncheon speaker and will be signing her latest book. Ms. S and I have a history. The year before, at the Mystery Writers of America annual symposium in New York, she was the guest of honor and I had, of course, asked her a question, a two-parter, from the audience: “Do you think the Italian-American aspects of your novels are a part of their appeal to readers and is there room for another Italian-American writer in the mystery field?” “Yes!” Ms. S pumped her fist in the air and went on about writing what you know and what you are, and OF COURSE there’s room for another Ital-Amer! Then caught up in her own fervor, she thrust her arm out and shouted, in front of 200 witnesses, “I will get you published! Send me an E mail!”
I’m no lawyer, but I know that what someone says when standing on a stage with a microphone in her hand can’t be upheld in a court of law. But I sent Ms. S. an E mail that night, at 2 a.m., before my own adrenaline rush had subsided. I’m still waiting for a reply. But now, what’s the harm of reminding Ms. Scottoline of her promise, all in fun, while she’s signing my copy of her latest book at Sleuthfest? So I’m mentally preparing for that when the lunch plates are being cleared and she steps up to the podium. Coffee is being poured and the woman next to me asks if I could pass the cream? It’s in a rather large carafe but I get a grip on it and hand it to her. She takes it…and drops it. Milk splashes up onto my face, down the still-green jacket, into my lap, into my shoulder bag with the sample chapters I’d brought to give the agent I’d be meeting with that afternoon, into my shoes. Even the copy of Lisa Scottoline’s new book that I’d just bought is doused in dairy product. My other tablemates gasp in horror, the males offer to mop up whatever’s landed on my bosom, and the perpetrator, without a drop on her, is almost in tears. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” She wants to clean me up. So we exit to the ladies’ room, she tries to dry me off, offers to bring my jacket to the dry cleaner—not enough time before my meeting—but arranges to have it blown-dried. In the meantime, whatever landed between my legs is heating up nicely and giving off a bleu-cheese fragrance. “Well,” I say cheerfully, “I’ll just tell people I’m lactating.”
Returned to the banquet room just in time to hear Ms. S say, “Does anyone have any questions?” She answered without any publishing promises. As the book-signing started, I ran to my car, changed into a clean shirt (yes, I foresaw some sort of wardrobe disaster), grabbed more copies of my chapters, slung my shoulderbag over the stained side of the jacket and went back inside. As Ms. S autographed my slightly soggy copy of “Killer Smile,” I brought up the publishing promise. “Paesan’! Sure, send it to my agent Paul!” The thing is, at the end of her talk she had told EVERYONE in the audience to send their samples to her agent Paul. So much for our Italian-American Social Club bond. But Ms. S is a hoot and all is forgiven.
Despite it all, I’m looking forward to Sleuthfest again. I won’t be wearing that green jacket, though. This year my blazer will be blue, bright enough to be picked up by color-blind moderators or by any spy satellite.
At first, I was invisible, so invisible that people took notice. Whenever I raised my hand to ask a question in a panel discussion, the moderator failed to call on me, even when mine was the only palm waving. The first time it happened, one of the panelists, Blake Stewart of Bleak House Books, made eye contact and waggled his eyebrows in puzzlement. I shrugged and muttered, “I guess I forgot that I had on my Harry Potter invisibility cloak.” Finally, audience members on both sides of me were pointing and calling out, “She has a question!” The moderator still hesitated, but eventually sighed, “Okay, the young lady in the gray jacket.” I looked around. Someone said, “He means you.” My jacket was green and I ain’t so young, but I asked my question anyway. I don’t discriminate against the color- or age-blind.
During the next panel, I raised my hand. Raised it again. Raised it again. Raised it…. “Okay, you—oh, sorry, time’s up. We have to empty the room.”
Number 3: The crowd was much larger this time. Raise, raise, raise. A woman was walking around with a microphone to hand to anyone who asked a question. Raise, raise, raise… The mike lady kept coming over to me (I was on the AISLE, ferchrissake), even she assuming that this time, no this time, maybe this time…. Raise, raise, raise. Again, my fellow audience members rose to my defense—literally standing up to call out, “Hey, she’s been waiting!” I was grudgingly given the floor. When I sat down, someone said, “That was a good question.” I said, “I hope it was worth waiting for.” I put those Sleuthfest-ers on my Christmas card list.
Final panel of the day: Ten people in the audience. Two of us had our hands up. The moderator pointed to the other hand. One of the panelists, the kind and gallant mystery author Cecelia Tishy (www.ceceliatishy.com), stopped the moderator and gestured at me, “No, pick on THAT lady! I was in the other panel when she waited so long to ask her question!” I put Cecelia Tishy in my will.
Wait. It gets worse. At the Friday night banquet. Christopher Whitcomb--guest of honor, ex-FBI agent, terrorism investigator, overall great-looking guy--finishes his very charming talk about his real and fictional adventures and opens the floor to questions. Yep, up goes my hand. At least 350 people are in the cavernous ballroom, but I’m the only one with my hand raised. He looks around. “No one has a question?” Someone at another table, who has perhaps scratched her nose but does not have her hand up, points to me. Whitcomb calls on her. She shakes her head and points to me again. Whitcomb calls out, “The lovely lady in the pink jacket.” That’s the woman next to me. (My jacket is still green, but I’m at least as lovely.) My tablemate loyally shouts, “Not me—her!” Whitcomb says, “Okay then.” So I say, “This may be a little anticlimactic at this point, but now that you’ve told us all this, do you have to kill us?” Whitcomb looks away and mutters, “I get that all the time. Anyone else?” This is why the terrorists are winning.
Wait. It gets WORSE. The next day ex-attorney/mystery author Lisa Scottoline is the luncheon speaker and will be signing her latest book. Ms. S and I have a history. The year before, at the Mystery Writers of America annual symposium in New York, she was the guest of honor and I had, of course, asked her a question, a two-parter, from the audience: “Do you think the Italian-American aspects of your novels are a part of their appeal to readers and is there room for another Italian-American writer in the mystery field?” “Yes!” Ms. S pumped her fist in the air and went on about writing what you know and what you are, and OF COURSE there’s room for another Ital-Amer! Then caught up in her own fervor, she thrust her arm out and shouted, in front of 200 witnesses, “I will get you published! Send me an E mail!”
I’m no lawyer, but I know that what someone says when standing on a stage with a microphone in her hand can’t be upheld in a court of law. But I sent Ms. S. an E mail that night, at 2 a.m., before my own adrenaline rush had subsided. I’m still waiting for a reply. But now, what’s the harm of reminding Ms. Scottoline of her promise, all in fun, while she’s signing my copy of her latest book at Sleuthfest? So I’m mentally preparing for that when the lunch plates are being cleared and she steps up to the podium. Coffee is being poured and the woman next to me asks if I could pass the cream? It’s in a rather large carafe but I get a grip on it and hand it to her. She takes it…and drops it. Milk splashes up onto my face, down the still-green jacket, into my lap, into my shoulder bag with the sample chapters I’d brought to give the agent I’d be meeting with that afternoon, into my shoes. Even the copy of Lisa Scottoline’s new book that I’d just bought is doused in dairy product. My other tablemates gasp in horror, the males offer to mop up whatever’s landed on my bosom, and the perpetrator, without a drop on her, is almost in tears. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” She wants to clean me up. So we exit to the ladies’ room, she tries to dry me off, offers to bring my jacket to the dry cleaner—not enough time before my meeting—but arranges to have it blown-dried. In the meantime, whatever landed between my legs is heating up nicely and giving off a bleu-cheese fragrance. “Well,” I say cheerfully, “I’ll just tell people I’m lactating.”
Returned to the banquet room just in time to hear Ms. S say, “Does anyone have any questions?” She answered without any publishing promises. As the book-signing started, I ran to my car, changed into a clean shirt (yes, I foresaw some sort of wardrobe disaster), grabbed more copies of my chapters, slung my shoulderbag over the stained side of the jacket and went back inside. As Ms. S autographed my slightly soggy copy of “Killer Smile,” I brought up the publishing promise. “Paesan’! Sure, send it to my agent Paul!” The thing is, at the end of her talk she had told EVERYONE in the audience to send their samples to her agent Paul. So much for our Italian-American Social Club bond. But Ms. S is a hoot and all is forgiven.
Despite it all, I’m looking forward to Sleuthfest again. I won’t be wearing that green jacket, though. This year my blazer will be blue, bright enough to be picked up by color-blind moderators or by any spy satellite.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Across the River...and into the Oven
A few days ago, two ’60s icons passed away: Betty “The Feminine Mystique” Friedan and Al “Grandpa on ‘The Munsters’” Lewis. They wound up on the same NYTimes obit page, and it seems they had a lot in common. Both were long-time New Yorkers, both were politically active, both spoke up for the downtrodden (desperate housewives and Death Row inmates, respectively) and both favored the same makeup techniques, judging by the photos of a young Betty in a vampish pose and a youngish Al in his vampire costume. Their resemblance only grew stronger with age. You can’t tell me those pics weren’t a deliberate choice by the Times’ layout editor.
Speaking of death, I now understand why Sylvia Plath wanted to take a nap in her Hotpoint. After publicly launching the Website for ACROSS THE RIVER, I had to publicly admit it had at least two major glitches. 1. AOL’s browser will not transfer the Feedback form data and sends a blank E-mail from anyone with an aol.com account. Can’t figure out to fix that beyond suggesting that AOL customers copy and paste the questions with answers into the E mail and send them that way. How annoying. 2. Chapter 1, the excerpt on the site, is in three sections. Some folks didn’t realize a link at the bottom of the first two scenes would let them read more. Even worse, Scene 3 was mis-linked, so NO ONE was able to read it. I created the site, so I have only myself to blame; that’s why people hire professional Web designers, to have someone else to blame. This has been fixed now, but only fuels my suspicion that those who sent such lovely comments about the chapter were only being polite.
But just when I started thinking of firing up the Amana range, I thought of Oprah. She admitted HER mistake in front of MILLIONS, whereas I only look like an idiot to maybe a couple hundred. So what can I do for complete redemption? WWOD? (What Would Oprah Do?) Maybe dump some of the blame onto James Frey.
Speaking of death, I now understand why Sylvia Plath wanted to take a nap in her Hotpoint. After publicly launching the Website for ACROSS THE RIVER, I had to publicly admit it had at least two major glitches. 1. AOL’s browser will not transfer the Feedback form data and sends a blank E-mail from anyone with an aol.com account. Can’t figure out to fix that beyond suggesting that AOL customers copy and paste the questions with answers into the E mail and send them that way. How annoying. 2. Chapter 1, the excerpt on the site, is in three sections. Some folks didn’t realize a link at the bottom of the first two scenes would let them read more. Even worse, Scene 3 was mis-linked, so NO ONE was able to read it. I created the site, so I have only myself to blame; that’s why people hire professional Web designers, to have someone else to blame. This has been fixed now, but only fuels my suspicion that those who sent such lovely comments about the chapter were only being polite.
But just when I started thinking of firing up the Amana range, I thought of Oprah. She admitted HER mistake in front of MILLIONS, whereas I only look like an idiot to maybe a couple hundred. So what can I do for complete redemption? WWOD? (What Would Oprah Do?) Maybe dump some of the blame onto James Frey.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Across the River...and into Cyberspace
By E-mailing everyone I know, I have just publicly launched the Website for ACROSS THE RIVER, which includes the first chapter. And I had the idiot idea of asking for feedback. This feels like a combination of my three most often recurring nightmares: showing up for the final exam without having studied; showing up at an important event in only my underwear; and showing up at the election booth and accidentally voting Republican. Which may be what Woody Allen meant when he said, “Ninety percent of life is just showing up.”
So to distract myself, I will, like everyone else in the known universe, comment on the flap over James Frey and his fiction-based memoir, “A Million Little Pieces of Bull Dinky.” Oprah’s getting lots of pats on her broad back for having the “courage” to “admit her mistakes” and “confront” him on her "show." Com’on! Humiliating a writer is SO easy! Just tell him that you bought the book a few months ago but haven’t read it yet. That the first chapter was good, but it kind of went downhill from there. That the book reminded you too much of “The Diary of Anne Frank.” If Oprah had been truly Oprah-like, she would have staged an intervention, with Frey surrounded by his loved ones and a competent psychiatrist to get him to admit his addiction to falsehoods. But she didn’t even bother to drag out Dr. Phil to harangue Frey about his “truth issues.” Where was the compassion, Oprah? Where was the group hug?
And face it, O, this was all your fault anyway. You and Phil Donahue started the whole public confession industry back in the ’70s and ’80s. Eventually, we would have HAD to run out of sensational-but-true stories, which is why we now have TV “reality” shows, which is like a Peeping Tom going to a strip joint (where’s the fun in sneaking a peek when it’s all for show anyway?). Frey tried to sell his book as fiction first, and no one was interested. Now suddenly, as a memoir, it was a masterpiece? Like most struggling writers, he probably just wanted to be published, for goodness’ sake, and didn’t think anyone except his mother would actually read it. An Oprah pick? In your dreams!
Even when a book is clearly labeled fiction, though, everyone wants to believe at least part of it is true. In author interviews, I too have inevitably asked the question, “How similar are you to your main character?” Profiles very often include biographical data that links the author’s own life to details in his fiction. Wouldn’t we all feel cheated if it came out that John Steinbeck had never even visited Salinas, California? To bring it all back to my own novel, of course, I’ve had workshop buddies insist that my true details could not possibly have happened and that my fake stuff rang so true it just had to be real. And they are always disappointed when I tell them that I made up my fiction.
Maybe the solution is to give memoirs the same disclaimers that are perfectly acceptable at the end of blockbuster movies: “Based on a true story” or “Inspired by true events.” A few fudged truths didn’t stop “A Beautiful Mind” from winning all those Oscars and making millions.
And the Bible...well, no disclaimers there. Yet whether you file it under "fiction" or "non," over the years it has inspired quite a few folks to kick some bad habits.
This blog was inspired by actual tongue-in-cheek opinions briefly held by the author, as she remembers it and without anesthesia.
So to distract myself, I will, like everyone else in the known universe, comment on the flap over James Frey and his fiction-based memoir, “A Million Little Pieces of Bull Dinky.” Oprah’s getting lots of pats on her broad back for having the “courage” to “admit her mistakes” and “confront” him on her "show." Com’on! Humiliating a writer is SO easy! Just tell him that you bought the book a few months ago but haven’t read it yet. That the first chapter was good, but it kind of went downhill from there. That the book reminded you too much of “The Diary of Anne Frank.” If Oprah had been truly Oprah-like, she would have staged an intervention, with Frey surrounded by his loved ones and a competent psychiatrist to get him to admit his addiction to falsehoods. But she didn’t even bother to drag out Dr. Phil to harangue Frey about his “truth issues.” Where was the compassion, Oprah? Where was the group hug?
And face it, O, this was all your fault anyway. You and Phil Donahue started the whole public confession industry back in the ’70s and ’80s. Eventually, we would have HAD to run out of sensational-but-true stories, which is why we now have TV “reality” shows, which is like a Peeping Tom going to a strip joint (where’s the fun in sneaking a peek when it’s all for show anyway?). Frey tried to sell his book as fiction first, and no one was interested. Now suddenly, as a memoir, it was a masterpiece? Like most struggling writers, he probably just wanted to be published, for goodness’ sake, and didn’t think anyone except his mother would actually read it. An Oprah pick? In your dreams!
Even when a book is clearly labeled fiction, though, everyone wants to believe at least part of it is true. In author interviews, I too have inevitably asked the question, “How similar are you to your main character?” Profiles very often include biographical data that links the author’s own life to details in his fiction. Wouldn’t we all feel cheated if it came out that John Steinbeck had never even visited Salinas, California? To bring it all back to my own novel, of course, I’ve had workshop buddies insist that my true details could not possibly have happened and that my fake stuff rang so true it just had to be real. And they are always disappointed when I tell them that I made up my fiction.
Maybe the solution is to give memoirs the same disclaimers that are perfectly acceptable at the end of blockbuster movies: “Based on a true story” or “Inspired by true events.” A few fudged truths didn’t stop “A Beautiful Mind” from winning all those Oscars and making millions.
And the Bible...well, no disclaimers there. Yet whether you file it under "fiction" or "non," over the years it has inspired quite a few folks to kick some bad habits.
This blog was inspired by actual tongue-in-cheek opinions briefly held by the author, as she remembers it and without anesthesia.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Across the River...without a paddle
“Raoul thought he had never seen a more magnificent creature. As he stroked her gleaming chestnut flank, he felt a stirring in his own haunches...”
Okay, now that I have your attention, let me tell you about my career coach. She's a lovely woman who calls herself “Gina Hiatt” (but I suspect that’s the name they gave her in the Witness Protection Program). She suggested that I regale casual cyber surfers with tales of my adventures in the publishing trade via blog, thereby building an audience of would-be readers should my novel ever be published. After I laughed until my eyes bled, I thought, "Why not? What a wonderful opportunity to be ignored by a whole different class of people in a whole new genre!"
After 20 years of editing and writing for many national magazines with "Woman" or “Family” in the title, I blithely began writing a mystery novel, titled ACROSS THE RIVER. Perhaps if I had actually named the main character "Blythe," it would have gone easier. It didn't help that I chose September 10, 2001, as my start date. Herein lies the story. Or rather, I'll try to share the current situation, while throwing in confusing "Memento"-like flashbacks. Sound intriguing? Let me know.
Oh, by the way. My mystery novel has nothing to do with Raoul and his four-legged love interest. The actual opening lines are:
“The double doors of The Rock Bottom swung closed behind me, shutting out the lazy light of a mid-June afternoon. Even in the gloom, the smoke-hazed saloon seemed smaller than I remembered. But then again, the last time I'd been in here, I was wearing chaps, a holster and a ten-gallon hat.”
Okay, now that I have your attention, let me tell you about my career coach. She's a lovely woman who calls herself “Gina Hiatt” (but I suspect that’s the name they gave her in the Witness Protection Program). She suggested that I regale casual cyber surfers with tales of my adventures in the publishing trade via blog, thereby building an audience of would-be readers should my novel ever be published. After I laughed until my eyes bled, I thought, "Why not? What a wonderful opportunity to be ignored by a whole different class of people in a whole new genre!"
After 20 years of editing and writing for many national magazines with "Woman" or “Family” in the title, I blithely began writing a mystery novel, titled ACROSS THE RIVER. Perhaps if I had actually named the main character "Blythe," it would have gone easier. It didn't help that I chose September 10, 2001, as my start date. Herein lies the story. Or rather, I'll try to share the current situation, while throwing in confusing "Memento"-like flashbacks. Sound intriguing? Let me know.
Oh, by the way. My mystery novel has nothing to do with Raoul and his four-legged love interest. The actual opening lines are:
“The double doors of The Rock Bottom swung closed behind me, shutting out the lazy light of a mid-June afternoon. Even in the gloom, the smoke-hazed saloon seemed smaller than I remembered. But then again, the last time I'd been in here, I was wearing chaps, a holster and a ten-gallon hat.”
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