I'm the daughter of a professional chef.  My father's family owned a popular seafood restaurant in San Diego called Tom Lai's, and in that noisy, chaotic kitchen, my dad performed culinary miracles. Six days a week, he'd wake up before dawn to buy the fresh catch off the fishing boats.  He'd spend the morning fileting the fish, then he'd cook for the lunch crowd, followed by cooking for the dinner crowd, followed by the cleanup. He'd get home around midnight, fall into bed -- and be up the next morning to start all over again. That was his schedule, six days a week, fifty weeks a year. 

Growing up in a chef's family, I learned that the restaurant business is not for the faint of heart.  It requires superhuman stamina and dedication and an abiding passion for food.  While I don't have my dad's stamina, I did inherit his obsessive passion for food, and I have an eerie memory for meals I've eaten over the years.  I don't remember faces, I don't remember names or dates, but I sure as heck remember the exquisite asparagus I ate at L'Arpege in Paris and the mahi filet at Burdine's in Marathon and the fried lettuce (it sounds weird but it was delicious) at the long-gone Nanking Restaurant in San Diego.  

In fact, not only do I remember what I ate, I often remember what other people ate.

A few weeks ago, while I was visiting New York City, I had dinner with friends, another married couple. We got to talking about the year we'd all had dinner together in Paris.  It was 2003, and we ate at a lovely little restaurant called Flora's.  I looked at my friend's husband.   "And you ordered the turbot," I said.

He looked a little startled.  "Wow," he said.  "You remember that?"

Yes, peculiarly enough, I do -- even seven years after the fact. I'm the idiot savant of past meals.  I'll play the same game with my husband, too.  "Remember nine years ago, when we had dinner at such-and-such restaurant, and you ordered those lovely snails?" I'll ask him.

"You remember I ordered snails?" he'll respond.  "I don't even remember the restaurant!" 

As someone who thinks way too much about food in real life, it's not surprising that I think a lot about fictional food, too.  I often find myself asking: "What would Jane eat?" or "What would Maura eat?"  It's not as trivial a question as you'd think, because what a  character eats reveals a lot about them.  It can tell you their family history, their ethnic background, whether they grew up in a city or a small town, whether they're choosy or undiscriminating, whether they're neurotic or obsessive or bursting with joie de vivre.  It might even tell you something about their political persuasion.

Your characters' dining habits also reflect their skills in the kitchen, and whether or not they value those skills.  Which again tells you something about who they are as people.

Jane Rizzoli, one of the two co-stars in my thriller series, is a Boston homicide detective.  She grew up in a blue-collar family with a homemaker mother, so she's been exposed to the role model of a woman who cooks, and cooks well.  

But don't expect to read too many scenes with Jane cooking dinner.  She certainly knows how to, because she grew up in an Italian-American kitchen.  But Jane has struggled all her life to be accepted as "one of the guys."  She's tried to project toughness and professionalism, and cooking symbolizes a traditionally female role that she's been trying to escape from.  She has a love/hate relationship with the kitchen, and only when she's with her mother do we see Jane's inner Italian chef emerge as she cooks gnocchi and veal sauce and roast lamb and cannoli.  (Naturally, I had to test out those recipes myself first.)

Jane's diet isn't limited to home-cooked Italian food.  In the eight books she's appeared in, Jane has eaten fried fish and lobster rolls, barbecue and french fries.  She's very much an all-American, middle-class gal who'd choose beer over wine, hot dogs over sushi, and would probably not go hunting for exotic French cheeses at her local grocery store.

Then there's Dr. Maura Isles, Jane's co-star in the series. Maura grew up in San Francisco, trained as a physician, and she has a great deal more disposable income.  She also has far more exotic tastes.  In BODY DOUBLE, she cooks herself a spicy Thai dinner with fresh basil.  When her lover comes to visit, she cooks him osso bucco and opens a bottle of Amarone wine.  But when she's exhausted and depressed and too tired to cook, you'll find her hunched over a grilled cheese sandwich, washed down with a gin and tonic.

Yes, not only does food help define who your character is, it also helps define mood.  A dinner of scrambled eggs says: "in a hurry."  A dinner of home-made risotto says: "willing to fuss long and lovingly over the stove."  And a dinner of Oreo cookies -- well, that's just plain pitiful.

I realize that I'm guilty of stereotyping here.  Although we hear sneers about "latte liberals" and the snooty "white wine and Brie cheese set", taste in food can cross class and cultural and regional lines.  But as writers, we have to consider whether a character's particular choice of foods seems a bit ... unexpected.  And if it is, we need to explain it.  A neurosurgeon who loves Cheese whiz? Um, needs explanation.  A Bostonian who eats grits?  Again, needs explanation.  But a San Francisco artist who dines on sushi one night, tacos the next, and Thai food on the weekends?

No explanation required.

(David Corbett is someone I've known and respected for years. A couple of weeks ago, he was so moved by some of the posts here, that he asked if he could contribute a message close to his heart. I am certain everyone here at the 'Rati can benefit from David's personal experience and wisdom.
Pari)

If you need anything, don't hesitate to call.

This is the sentence most people who are grieving from a devastating personal loss, or suffering through a crisis, hear over and over and over and over. It is almost always well-intended. Unfortunately, it also reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of what the person is going through.

In this country, where individual initiative, responsibility, stoic resilience and good-natured optimism are so prized, one seldom feels as unattractive, unworthy, uninteresting and burdensome as when withstanding some personal crisis or struggling through a terrible loss.

The sorrow is so disorienting, the rage so unpredictable, the numbness so leaden—while the rest of the world quite rightly goes on about its daily business—that one comes to think that the best thing to do is hide away. You feel like a raw and suppurating wound. You can't imagine anyone wanting to waste time with you and you don't blame them. You're sick of yourself.

So if someone tells you that, if you need anything, just call, they're missing the point on two scores. One, you have no clue what you need, except for this part of your life to end. And you wouldn't dream of asking anyone for anything—the imposition feels obscene. Why stain anyone else's life with your pathetic relentless misery?

As a friend, you need to instead do something. Stop by with food, for example. Nothing was more valuable to me after my wife died than a neighbor's bringing frozen dinners she'd prepared that I could microwave if I finally did recover my appetite. Everything tastes like sand, cooking feels too intimate, too laden with memories of shared meals—and so having someone else bring food is a surprising grace note.

As odd as it may seem, providing help with chores is also incredibly helpful. My friends came by and helped me one weekend in the garden. I can't tell you how much that meant to me.

And of course just stopping by. Or calling. Or sending a card.

The problem is, we feel as though we're imposing, violating the chapel of our friend's sorrow. Well, yeah, you may be doing just that. But the tendency of someone going through a terrible ordeal is toward isolation, and that's just unhealthy. You have to be willing to risk being a bother, a nuisance, a nag, and accept criticism or irritability if that's the case. Apologize, discreetly withdraw. Your love for the person and hers or his for you will survive such things. You're going to make mistakes, you're going to show up at the wrong time, you're going to stay too long, you're going to say the wrong thing and offer the wrong help and blunder in who knows how many other ways. Get over yourself. Give up on perfection. Grief is the realm where perfection vanishes forever. You're not going to be a perfect friend. You're just going to give as much as you can and try to sense when enough is enough, it's time to go. And there is no smart little guidebook for that. You will simply have to pay attention, open your heart, trust your instincts. And be willing to mess up.

Don't leave it up to the person going through the ordeal to decide for you what the right thing to do is. That's abdicating your responsibility as a friend. It's putting your fear of doing or saying the wrong thing ahead of genuinely caring. Be willing to enter with him or her into this new world, where nothing is right, all the cues are mistaken, and simply putting one foot in front of the other borders on the miraculous. If you can do that, share the devastation and give up on being the perfect pal, be willing to accept some hard feelings if you cross the line (understanding that you cannot be spared anger, you cannot be spared the feeling of not having enough to give, not in this situation), you'll offer a gift of genuine friendship and concern. You will have shown yourself willing to understand what it means to enter a world where nothing is right, at least not yet. That's courage. That's love.

David Corbett has published four critically acclaimed novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime, Blood of Paradise, and Do They Know I’m Running? His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Best American Mystery Stories 2009. Visit him at www.davidcorbett.com

(Pari here: I'll be around today -- as will David from time to time -- so please, let us know what you think. I know that so much of what he writes here is absolutely true. Grief is incredibly nonlinear. The friends I remember most from those times in my life were often people at whom I raged the loudest. But they stuck by me and it made all the difference in the world. David's message today gives each one of us a small roadmap to help those we love.)

In how a writer of international thrillers about covert government agencies and conspiracy theories discovers a dark secret… about herself.

It’s the beginning of March and I have already failed at my New Year’s resolution.  

For this reason, I am coming out of the closet, and I am willing to admit my grave secret to the world: I am a horizontal filer. Before you pull out your can of Lysol, rest assured that it isn’t highly contagious—unless you get bitten. Horizontal filers, if you don’t know, are people who usually place important things in the open, because if they file it vertically (as in a real file) they fear they will forget about it. Horizontal filers tend to fall into the out-of-sight, out-of-mind type.  And, as you are wondering if it can get any worse (it can), they are probably procrastinators.  Which is why they have the IRS.  The IRS, as you know, is that not-so-covert government agency that forces horizontal filers like me not only into putting little pieces of paper into a vertical file, but also into sorting them out into organized groups.

This is completely unnatural. If you haven’t guessed this by now, horizontal filers have messy desks.  And probably messy countertops.  And they hate tax time, which is coming up very quickly.

I’ll wager that horizontal filers who are also writers probably have the same #1 New Year’s resolution. Most of you are thinking that would be to clean the desk, but you would be wrong.  It is to find that receipt from your last purchase at Walmart before the 90 days expires and they force you to accept a discounted return price on a Walmart gift card, which, thankfully, has no expiration date, even if you are only getting ten cents to the dollar. 

Every year I resolve to turn that clean-the-desk resolution into a routine.  And ever year I fail. I clean off my desk, and it stays that way for maybe a day or two at the most. My thinking is that if my desk is clean, I can write books much faster, because it will free my imagination.  I suspect, however, that this is an elaborate government conspiracy to get me to clean off my desk before tax time, so that I can find my checkbook to write the IRS a check.

What keeps me from maintaining a clean desk is the piles of papers, magazines I intend to read, business cards from conferences, and everything else that doesn't get handled that month (like any bill that doesn’t have a late payment penalty). All of these things get shoved in a pile, with the thought that if I didn't need it this month or next, it can be moved to the side of the desk instead of right in front of the computer in the priority pile. And that is how I discovered the dual purpose of drawers. You can pull them out and use them to pile even more papers on top, like an extended desk shelf. 

If the stacks of paper get really bad, I might grab a file box, and shove everything in that, fully intending to go through it before it gathers dust beneath the desk. It may even be how I discovered the plot to my last book, THE BONE CHAMBER, because when I do get around to attempting to clean, it's a lot like archeology. Layers of things that you can decipher by month and year. Old photos, bank statements, catalogs, conference programs, etc., etc. And sometimes, like in my book, I discover treasures that may actually be dangerous to all of mankind. Unlike my book, anything found on my desk is not several hundred or even two thousand years old.  I’m not even that old.  Even without Adobe Photoshop.

Every so often, I whittle that mountain of papers down to a short stack maybe an inch thick (which, considering this year started off as two file boxes of stuff, is pretty darn good).  It's that little bitty pile left over that keeps me from succeeding, which makes me wonder if there is the precursor to the zombie virus on my desk, because that pile of papers has a life of its own.  I can separate it, move it, bury it in a box and it always comes back. I have not yet tried to fire bullet rounds through it, because there is a law about this in city limits, because the city council has not yet recognized the dangerousness of such a virus. And yet each time, I find myself putting aside the very same pile of leftover stuff as the time before:  In it are two Christmas cards circa 2002/03, one to an editor who left the business several years back, and one to my agent.  The cards never made it to the mail, and I figured I'd send them the next year.  (I haven't sent out cards since the twins were born in 1995, so the fact I actually partially addressed two envelopes is pretty amazing.) With them are a stack of cards or letters I’ve received, dating as far back as 2000, from people I had always planned to write back to—and clearly never did—perhaps with the idea that I'd let them know about my latest book.

What's a horizontal filer like me to do?  I keep that little pile of things clipped to a clipboard, put it aside—never to be revisited until the next time I attempt to clean the desk. Problem is that the pile on the clipboard grows, propagates, breeds like dust bunnies atop and beneath the desk, and I have to get another box, sometimes even a shopping bag to catch the spillover. Now before you get any bright ideas, I have already tried putting money on the pile to see if it would grow.  It does not. The IRS has infused money with the anti-zombie virus—a good thing to know should the zombies attack.  Most recently as I worked my way through the papers, all the way down to the annual stack from the clipboard, I ruthlessly tossed those cards and letters. Just threw them all away. They went into the recycle bin with the catalogs and the junk.  It wasn't easy, but I did it. And if my friends and relatives haven't figured out that I have a new book out by now without me sending notice, they never will.

We'll see if that keeps my desk clean, or if it's just wishful thinking on my part.  How about you? Horizontal filer?  And if so, what is the secret to keeping your desk clean?

Robin Burcell, an FBI-trained forensic artist, has worked as a police officer, detective and hostage negotiator. The Bone Chamber is her latest international thriller about an FBI forensic artist. Visit her website at: www.robinburcell.com/

I was randomly Googling my Great-Grandfather William A. Read a couple of weeks ago. I don't know a huge amount about him, since Dad is a little nuts and doesn't like to talk about his family all that much.

Here is what I do know (mostly from a book about the investment bank he founded The Life and Times of Dillon Read, by Andrew Sobel):

He graduated from Brooklyn Polytechnic at the age of nineteen, and went to work for a bond house called Vermilye & Company. He could apparently write with both hands at the same time, composing a letter with one while solving equations with the other. He formed his own bank, William A. Read & Company, which later became Dillon, Read. He was walleyed, and always wore violets in his lapel. He invented the bond issue which underwrote the construction of the first subway system in New York City. Four of his sons, including my grandfather, his namesake, were naval aviators in World War I. By that time, however, he was no longer around, having died in 1916 of the flu. He was fifty-two years old.

An older cousin once told me that her father (my grandfather's brother Bayard) had sold his shares in Dillon Read before the 1929 stock market crash. He got $29 million for them. My grandfather waited until after the crash and "only" got $6 million for his. I've often wondered what it must have been like to have six million bucks, cash, at the outset of the Depression. It's kind of astonishing to think about the lengths my grandfather must have gone to to squander all of that by the time he died in 1976. I figure he must have stayed up late at night, pondering ludicrous investments.

But when I Googled his father the other day, I found something else that was exceedingly bizarre--something I'd never heard about. On a rare book site, a copy of the hardbound 1936 auction catalog of "The Splendid Library and Collection of Historical and Literary Autographs of the Late Mr. and Mrs. William A. Read." It was offered for twenty-five dollars, and extremely oddly, this volume was for sale at a rare bookstore a block from my apartment in Exeter. 

The stuff parted with at this auction included a letter from Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Poe ("her reply to him for his dedication of The Raven and Other Poems to her"),

from John Keats to his love, Fanny Brawne,

the first four folio editions of Shakespeare (published in 1623),

stuff from George Washington, Thackeray, Twain, Dante, Milton, Oliver Goldsmith, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and apparently a large collection of primary documents used in the witchcraft trials in Massachusetts, first edition of Spenser's Faerie Queen, "the finest copy of Grimm's 'Popular German Stories,'"

"M.T. Cicero's CATO MAJOR, or his DISCOURSE of Old-Age" printed by Benjamin Franklin,

among lots of other groovy crap--the catalog is 287 pages long. And all of it sold "By Order of the Heirs."

Some days my family annoys me far more than others. 

The foreword of this catalog describes these books as "not the modern sort of library limited to the collecting of one or two special classes of books. It is a more generous kind of collection, rich in many fields and showing a wide range of interests. It is the result of the collaboration of two elaborately balanced minds in search of a library equipped to fit all moods. Not every volume is a rarity, yet every volume was chosen carefully to satisfy a particular need and the whole is so compacted with treasures and delights that it must necessarily attract many collectors by its variety and excellence."

I bought this catalog for myself yesterday, an early birthday present since I'll be turning 47 on Monday.

And as I'm now leafing through it, I wonder what the library itself looked like, when all these books still lived together on its shelves. I wonder that these two people I never knew, my great-grandfather William Augustus and his wife, Caroline, would make of me.

Here is a crappy photograph I took last summer with my iPhone of a portrait of her with their daughter Carol (who died in a car crash in France in the Twenties):

 I wish I knew what that book lying open across her lap is.

I wonder if my great-grandparents were the people I get my love of books from, as not a whole lot of people who came generationally between us seem to have quite this deep a lust for the printed word.

I love that the foreword of the catalog refers to them both as the minds responsible for putting together this library. I wish I could have known them.

Most of all, I'm glad that the catalog of their library ended up in the magnificently dusty basement store I visited yesterday, just across the String Bridge from my new digs. How odd is that?

But it makes me miss my own collection of books,38 cartons now in storage in California until I can afford to rent a U-Haul truck to drive them across the country. I feel so rootless without them...

'Ratis, what's a book you've lost that you wish you still had?

As I write this, my new book has been on the shelves for a little more than a week. It’s official release day wasn’t until March 1, but it was in bookstores for a while before that (copies were leaking out all over the country.) I’ve spent the last week doing radio, television and print interviews, and signings. Five signings, to be exact. By the end of the day Friday, that number will be seven. In two weeks, the tour will be over and I’ll have done thirteen readings/signings and attended two conferences, and will be on my way to Oak Ridge, Tennessee to teach a couple of workshops for the Tennessee Mountain Writers. Today, I'm in Knoxville, TN and Forest City, North Carolina, doing my thing.

Tiring, yes. Nothing compared to the unreal touring schedules of the big dogs, but enough to wear me out. But it’s exhilarating too, because there’s one thing every single signing has in common – the kindness of strangers.

With Scalzi’s formula in mind, I couldn’t help but think about how many people, most relative strangers, have contributed to the success of this book. Store managers, CRMs, publicists I’ve never met but on the phone, reporters, the folks who work at the Harlequin distribution center in Buffalo, New York, Librarians, fans, bloggers, Twitterers, Facebookers, and of course, the non-strangers – friends, family and spouses – I can’t begin to cover them all. Add in Scalzi’s list, editors and assistants and interns and marketing and publicity and sales and management and buyers and accounts…. It’s kind of mind boggling, really, when you think about the months you spent in utter isolation creating your magnum opus, and how far-reaching the work ultimately is.

Even if one reader buys the book, just one, the cycle has worked.

And if you can imagine that cycle recreating itself for the 170,000 odd books that are released each YEAR…

Yeah. And they say the book is dead.

I had all this floating in my mind because the kindness that’s been extended to me over the course of the past week has been overwhelming. I’ve received gifts from fans – Brenda from Tennessee brought me a stunningly beautiful Vera Bradley tote, replete with glasses case, travel tools and oodles of pens and paper. She said it was an early birthday present. It was much too generous, and I’m going to treasure it always.

And then there was Beth, in Lebanon, who came in all out of breath and so happy she hadn’t missed me because she’d been very busy helping birth a foal from one of their prized Tennessee Walking Horses, a champagne filly they named Yorks J.T. Ellison. Yes, I have a horse named after me. My jaw was literally on the floor. But there was more – they also have Yorks Taylor Jackson, and are planning Judas Kiss and The Pretender. Tickled me to pieces.

Then there was Shirley Holley and Mayor David Pennington in Manchester, who rallied up the folks who helped me with the research for the book and hosted me at the Manchester Library for a signing.

Overwhelming kindness.

I’d already planned to write this post, was composing it in my head when I was running errands Wednesday. The usual haunts - Staples (to make copies of my copyedit that thankfully landed on my desk when I had three off days to address it!) Walgreens for more miniatures for travel, the post office, the laundry. After Staples, I pulled up to Walgreens and there was a small, wizened old woman out front, begging. Now, homeless folks begging aren’t something we normally get out in the burbs. I was shocked. And as per usual, I had no cash on me. I said sorry and went into the store. Bought my things, walked out. She hit me up on the way out too; I apologized again and got in my car. Sat there for a full minute trying to figure out what to do. I finally shrugged it off, I had no cash, and what was I going to do, go to the ATM? I went to the post office to mail my copyedits, and realized I’d left my credit card at Staples in the copy machine. As I went back, I couldn't get this woman out of my head.

Sure enough, someone (a kind stranger again) had turned the card in. I went back to the post office and decided I wasn’t going to be a hypocrite. What kind of person would I be, talking about the kindness of strangers on my blog, if I didn’t walk that walk myself when faced with someone in need?

I spent five minutes agonizing over whether to get her coffee or hot chocolate, knowing that it was cold, she was old, she needed energy and ingesting sugar is a good way to do that. But would she want her coffee with cream? With sugar? Should I keep them separate and let her doctor them herself? Should I dump them in and take my chances? What if she was lactose intolerant? In the end, I went with the hot chocolate. With whip cream. I know, it’s not much, but outside of taking her home with me, it was my best-case solution. It was snowy and cold and I figured she’d appreciate something hot.

By the time I got back to Walgreens, she was gone.

But as I drove away, I spotted her in the parking lot of the Pizza Hut. She turned when she heard the car and my heart felt full to bursting. I pulled beside her, put down my window, and handed her the cup.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Hot chocolate,” I replied, beatific smile in place.

She shook her head. “I don’t drink milk or chocolate products,” she said, and turned away.

The cliché came to me immediately, – hey, beggars can’t be choosers. But that’s her right. She could have been lactose intolerant, or diabetic. Or, she just wanted money. I, on the other hand, wanted to make myself feel good. I felt guilty that I was warm in my car, with money in my bank account and a roof over my head. I guess she taught ME, huh?

When I used to work in downtown D.C., we kept Burger King coupons in our pockets for the homeless. They’d accost me as I walked down the street, and I’d hand them the coupon – they could redeem it for a free burger. A good deal, I thought. I quickly learned they didn’t want the food, they wanted money for alcohol and drugs. Sad, that. I'm hoping that my little old woman wasn't out for a quick high, but that's probably the case.

Like Rob, I’m tired and overworked and a bit rambly, so I’ll end it here.

This is an ode to those who make an effort, whether we realize it or not. Thanks to everyone who’s made my tour thus far so damn much fun, and for those who quietly help those less fortunate, in word and deed.

Any good stories about times you’ve tried to help people who don’t want help???

(Forgive me for being sketchy today, I'm in a car, and I get naseaus trying to type on my iPhone whilst in motion. But I'll have several down moments, and I'll pop in then : ))

Wine of the Week: Anything from Chile. After the recent earthquake, much of the wine was spilled, the racks broken, and general havoc wrecked throughout the Chilean wine industry. Estimates say 12% of the 2009 vintage was lost. So show your support, and ask your local wine store for a few suggestions. Chilean wines are excellent, you can't miss with the cab, or the caremere.

This week, I’m delighted to be able to do an interview with a writer I greatly admire. Please give a warm ‘Rati welcome to…JT Ellison!

Yes, I realise that you all know JT, but that doesn’t mean you’re aware of just what an all-round superhero(ine) she is. So, for those of you who are unaware, I’m going to quote from her author biog:

“JT is a graduate of Randolph-Macon Woman's College and received her master's degree from George Washington University. She was a presidential appointee and worked in The White House and the Department of Commerce before moving into the private sector. As a financial analyst and marketing director, she worked for several defence and aerospace contractors.

“After moving to Nashville, Ellison began research on a passion: forensics and crime. She has worked with the Metro Nashville Police Department, the FBI, and various other law enforcement organizations to research her books.

“Her short stories have been widely published, including her award winning story "Prodigal Me" in the anthology KILLER YEAR: STORIES TO DIE FOR, edited by Lee Child, "Chimera" in the anthology SURREAL SOUTH 09, edited by Pinckney Benedict and Laura Benedict, and "Killing Carol Ann" in FIRST THRILLS, edited by Lee Child.” 

Not only that, but JT was lucky enough to have Lee Child as her mentor for Thriller Year, an organisation that was dedicated to raising awareness for the debut novelists of 2007. How could she possibly fail?

“She is the bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Taylor Jackson series, including ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, 14, JUDAS KISS and now THE COLD ROOM. Her novels have been published in 14 countries, and she was named “Best Mystery/Thriller Writer 2008” by the Nashville Scene.”  

“She lives in Nashville with her poorly trained husband (Randy) and a cat.” Oh, hang on, I may have got that last bit the wrong way round … 

This interview all came about because of JT’s latest book, THE COLD ROOM, as you'll soon see:

Zoë Sharp: Where did the character of Taylor Jackson originally come from? Allison's blog last Sunday about the characteristics of strong leading women felt quite apt as I was reading about Taylor, a strong, intense and sensual woman, who finds it difficult to resist the physical attraction of another man, even though her emotions are completely wrapped up in her fiancé, FBI profiler Dr John Baldwin.

JT Ellison: “I got the idea for Taylor after reading John Sandford’s PREY series, back in 2003 or so. I was driving down Interstate 40, thinking about Lucas Davenport’s icy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and that scar, and his depression, and realized I wanted to write about a woman in his shoes. A woman in control, who’s strong without being strident, who commands the respect of her peers and her enemies. One who’s worked hard and paid her dues. Taylor literally leapt fully formed into my mind, talking in that low, smoky drawl, and I was hooked. I knew I had to tell her story. Considering her humble beginnings, it’s so fitting that she represents Athena to me. And aren’t all Goddesses irresistible to the men around them???”

ZS: The character of Taylor's lover, Baldwin, is a strong figure right from the start of the series. Did you always intend to give Taylor a partner - both in her professional and personal life - or did he creep up on you? How do you feel their complementary skills give the pairing a unique edge?

JTE: “No, I didn’t. Initially, she was on her own, still recovering from the betrayal of her last boyfriend, a dirty cop she was forced to kill after he attacked her. The first book I wrote with Taylor, she hadn’t met Baldwin. He came in halfway through the story, and she wasn’t terribly enamored with him. Truth be told, she felt sorry for him. He was in an emotional tailspin, self-medicating with alcohol, and truly on the edge. She was HIS savior, not the other way around.

“Now, they’ve started to depend on one another, and that’s going to cause its own set of frictions.”

ZS: How important do you feel the actual police procedure is? Obviously, Taylor is a Nashville Homicide detective, so it has to play a large role in each book, but how tied do you feel to accuracy when it comes to this aspect of your storytelling?

JTE: It’s very, very important to me. I want to at least know the procedure so I can make an educated decision whether to alter it to fit the story or keep to the truth. I’d say I keep to the truth about 99% of the time. The procedural aspects are what lend credibility to the books. The thriller formula is inherently preposterous. How many times can one cop be singled out, be touched by evil, be forced to kill? Most cops never draw their weapons, Taylor has killed four people. The procedure keeps the books grounded in a bit of reality, enough so that readers can suspend their disbelief at Taylor’s horrific luck in the serial killer department and enjoy the story. At least, that’s my goal.”

ZS: In this book, you use the character of DI James 'Memphis' Highsmythe to create an internal conflict for Taylor. How do you go about putting your protag under pressure on a constantly changing basis? Obviously, there's the pressure of catching the bad guys, but this book also worked on a more personal level for Taylor, not just because she's been busted back from Lt to Det. Was that a deliberate objective you set out to achieve?

JTE: “Absolutely. On paper, she seems nearly perfect: Intelligent, beautiful, loved, respected. She’s a hero, she must be larger than life and “better” than the average Joe. But I wanted to let people see that’s she’s human. She’s struggling with her emotions, with her independence, with the idea of commitment. She’s been dragged through the mud and publicly humiliated, and she has to keep her head help high and soldier on. That outward strength is so important, because when the reader gets a glimpse of her true self, her vulnerabilities, they can relate. We’ve all put on a brave face before.”

ZS: Where did the character of Memphis come from? The son of an earl, working for the Metropolitan Police in London? Why a Brit rather than a guy from the LAPD, or Chicago? Or even an Italian, since part of the book is set in Italy, and it feels like you know that setting very well? What made you come up with him, and how tricky was it to get inside the head of someone from another culture?

JTE: “Because I love to challenge myself. Memphis was another one of those characters who practically writes himself. He started as an Interpol agent, until a source of mine from Interpol explained that he wouldn’t have the freedom to chase after a suspect. Since there were crimes being committed in London, he became a New Scotland Yard DI. Which necessitated tons more research, and of course, I had to make him a Viscount, so he would stand out. Speak differently, act differently. He and Taylor are such similar creatures, both products of their environment, both from privileged backgrounds, both eschewing their personal wealth to work in law enforcement.

“Memphis posed so many challenges… (and just a note to our readers, Zoë is the reason Memphis came to life. I can’t count how many emails we exchanged trying to nail him down. Phraseology, background, everything, Zoë influenced in so many ways. So THANK YOU!)

“I could have made him Italian, it certainly would have been easier on me, the language, the history, the setting. But sometimes a character is who he is, and I can’t explain why. That’s the deal with Memphis. And it means I get to do more research in England, which will be cool.”

ZS: I’ll never forget the initial email from JT that read: “I want my Brit character to see my main protag and have a bit of an inconvenient erection. How would he refer to this?” As you can imagine, the conversation went rapidly downhill from there…

But, I digress! The structure of the story has altered from the version I read when we were kicking bits of Britishness backwards and forwards. It originally started with a scene of Taylor at the gun range, and then moved to the character of Gavin Adler. Why did you lose that initial opening?

JTE: It had been dropped in the Australian version, and when we pulled the book and went back through it, my US editor really wanted to drop it as well. I fought long and hard, because I felt that was such a quintessential scene. But it was important for Taylor’s character, and not the actual story. It was a very “hard” opening, and they wanted her a bit softer. It might make its way into one of the future books, because I still love it. But revision is all about killing your darlings to make the story work better, right? And opening with Gavin just set the perfect, creepy, scary tone. In retrospect, I’m very glad we did drop it.”

ZS: You mentioned in your last blog that you were asked by your publisher to alter the direction of the book for Taylor. How do you feel you've done this? I know, with a series character, you have to make the decision to keep them static, or take them on a journey through each book, from which they emerge changed in some way. What was your original journey for Taylor, and how do you feel it's altered in the final version?

JTE: “You know, it’s funny. I resist making Taylor be too girly, mostly because I’m not girly and can’t relate well enough to make her work that way. But she’s so tough, and the consensus was she was almost too tough. Too serious, too committed. Too earnest. The wanted me to “soften” her. But Taylor isn’t a soft woman. She’s intense and focused, and I struggled with the whole concept of “softening” her, because to me, that meant girlifying her up (Um, I don’t know if girlifying is a word, so…) I found a perfect solution. When I did the revision, I played up her sense of humor. Instead of being so angry all the time, she’s rolling with the punches a bit more. It worked very well, and helped me find another layer into her psyche that I didn’t know existed.”

ZS: When I first read your books, I was rather struck by the similarities between Taylor Jackson and Charlie Fox. Both are strong female protagonists, sure, but they both sport scars around their necks from knife attacks, and even both wear a TAG wristwatch. Now, that's just spooky!

JTE: I LOVE that they have these bizarre bits in common. I remember reading FIRST DROP and saying Wow, Charlie and Taylor are so similar. Of course, Charlie could probably kick Taylor’s ass… The TAG comes from me, I’ve worn the same TAG HEUER watch since I was 21. And the scar – well, that was her vulnerability when I first started out. She’d nearly lost her life, and it colored the way she acted from there on out.

ZS: You said: "We all know how I feel about strong heroines, and the ways we give them flaws and vulnerabilities. I'm always in favor of a strong heroine who's independent and not driven by a tortured past, who can handle most anything, but has some weaknesses that can be exploited for story. My favorite thing to do is hand my main character something that falls into the gray areas, situations she's never faced that challenge her code. That's the fun stuff!" Discuss!

JTE: “The gray areas are where we have fun, I think. Heroes have flaws, and throwing challenges at them is one of my favorite pastimes. Taylor especially is incredibly strong and sees the world in black and white, so giving her something that’s out of her spectrum, like having sex-tapes go live online, or getting demoted, helps me challenge her in the now, instead of focusing on things that happened in her past. We’re all the sum of our parts and experiences, but it’s more rewarding to me as a writer to find the paths that will move her conscience, alter her reality, and make her rethink her code.”

That’s it from me, but what questions do you all have for JT? And if you haven’t already rushed out and bought a copy of THE COLD ROOM, do so!

This week’s Word of the Week is scooning, or to scoon, a completely made-up one, that we’re trying to bring into common useage. A guy we used to know called Scoon was taking a long flight, when he fell asleep in his seat. Gradually, his head lolled until it was resting on the shoulder of the total stranger in the next seat. This guy was very polite and didn’t want to wake him up, until he realised that our friend had been drooling in his sleep and had actually soaked through the guy’s jacket and shirt and was making his shoulder damp. Now, if anyone drools in their sleep, it’s known in our household as scooning. Enjoy…

by Rob Gregory Browne

I don't know how many times we've talked about conferences here. Probably more than we should.

But with Left Coast Crime coming up next week (holy shit, time flies!), in Los Angeles no less, I've kinda got conferences on the brain.

Before I sold my first book, I had no idea what a writers' conference was. I vaguely remember something called Bouchercon -- which I pronounced boo-shay-con -- but I really had no idea what the heck it was, even though I knew it was named in honor of William Anthony Parker White, otherwise known as Anthony Boucher.

But other than that one small kernel of knowledge (ha!), I was completely clueless about such things.

The way I looked at it, I really only had one shot at selling my book. That shot was my former screenwriting agent, who I hadn't spoken to in a couple years and who I hoped would agree to read what I'd written and pass it on to one of her contacts in New York. Which, fortunately, is exactly what happened.

Had my ex-agent not loved the book, I'm not sure what I would have done, because I really had no idea how to go about getting a literary agent to read my work.

If I'd been smart and had been paying attention to the novel writing community (although I didn't even know there WAS an actual novel writing community), I would have noticed that these little get togethers are not only a great place for authors to get drunk and gripe about their lives (let's face it, we're all lonely, isolated sonsabitches who need some simple human interaction), they're also a truly terrific place for unpublished writers to get their feet in the door.

When I went to my first conference -- Thrillerfest #1 in Arizona, still the best conference I've ever been to -- I was surprised to find that there were a LOT of unpublished writers there. In fact, I was surprised there were any unpublished writers there at all. For some reason I had the mistaken impression that there would be writers and readers, with no crossover.

Shows you how stupid I am.

So it surprised me to meet so many aspiring writers. But it also delighted me. Because I knew that these people were playing the smart game. There is no better way to get your work read by those who can really make a difference than to MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM.

Yes, I put that in caps.

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM.

So next time you're at Bouchercon and Lee Child walks by, be sure to grab him by the elbow and shout, "Lee! Lee! I love your books, will you be my BFF?"

Because I'm sure Lee will love you for it.

Okay, maybe not.  That's actually a pretty terrible idea. This ain't Facebook. And even though Lee is one of the kindest gentlemen you're likely to meet, you wouldn't want to subject him to such abuse.

So it's probably not a great idea to grab anyone by anything. That kind of behavior could potentially get you arrested.  Or hurt.

What you DO want to do is not target any author or agent or editor in particular, but to simply start talking to the people around you. Make real friends. Share the moment.

Strike up a conversation with Joe over there, and Barbara over here, neither of whom have a book deal yet but may well introduce you to Bill or Trudy, who do. And who knows, by this time next year Joe and Barbara may have deals themselves. If you've become drinking buddies with all these published or about-to-be-published authors, sooner or later one of them may agree to read your book and give you the help you need.

But only if you're sincere. Because insincerity will be spotted right away. If you try to be cynically manipulative you will be ignored. People aren't interested in that kind of bullshit. Just be honest and real and, most of all, yourself. And remember that we were all in your shoes at one time -- outsiders looking for a way in. So we understand.

And unless we're total douchebags, we'll be happy hang out with you and offer encouragement and sometimes even offer to help if we can.

I know because I've done it. There are a couple of people I've met at conferences whose books I agreed to read -- books that turned out to be so good that I sent them on to my agent.

But this was after seeing these people time and again at different conferences and signings, developing a genuine friendship with them and knowing that they are sincere, talented people who just needed a little nudge from someone who has been fortunate enough (and I do think luck plays a part in it) to get published.

And if you want to get a good jumpstart on it all, one of the best things you can do is come to blogs like Murderati, make comments, have interesting things to say. Then, when you do show up at a conference, the first hurdle has already been made. We KNOW you. And we're happy to see you.

I think I'm rambling at this point. I've been working so hard lately I tend to do that. Ramble.

So, I guess the point is, if you want to get your work read, if you want to be inspired to keep writing, then don't be a clueless clod like I was and get your butt to the next available writers conference.

There.  That should do it.

I'd love those of you who have been to conferences to tell me your best author-meet story and how it affected you and your career, if at all.

Oh, and see you next week in Los Angeles. In the Omni Hotel bar, of course.

Lee? BFF?



By Louise Ure

About ten days ago I got an appreciative email from a reader that I want to share with you. Not that I want this man’s words enshrined anywhere (on the contrary), but to remind us all that there are some true crazies out there. I’ve removed his email address and signature line, just in case you’re so deeply offended (as was I) that you’re tempted to reply to him.

His message, complete with vitriol, bigotry, violence, illogic and original misspellings is as follows:

From: Crazy M-Fer

Date: February 20, 2010 9:38:52 AM PST

To: Louise Ure

Subject: THANK YOU for Liars Anonymous!!

 

Dear Mrs. Ure: I want to THANK YOU so much from the bottom of my heart for your recent book Liars Anonymous that I just finished reading. THANK YOU for redeeming Caucasian Christian Men, as you did in this book. I was very worried when I first began reading, that your character was a bull dagger for her she was a woman who thinks she can act like a man and do the things men do, like kick ass, and protect women and children. This is NOT the job of a woman and your books proves how stupid, gullible, and easily led astray women are. And you confirmed what men have been saying all along, only it means so much more because you are a woman - you are a real woman, yes? Not one of those girly men who's transformed himself? For if so, then it doesn't count. We reaffirmed what men have been saying all along: women LIE! And women ESPECIALLY lie about being sexually molested as children, and especially to their best friends. And their motivation is always their sick attempt to destroy men and to make the real women who love those men look stupid and hateful to their children when they believe their man over those spiteful, lying girls. We all know women make up childhood sexual abuse, and if not to bring trouble to grown men, then because their bull dagger therapists lead to to 'remember' false memories because we know these women hate men and want to destroy us. And I am further thrilled that it is a dirty jew that was the evil force behind real murders and another jew was eliminated (which should have happened to ALL of them years ago); and the other evil force was that rich woman. Women are ALWAYS the manipulators and real dogs and you have proved it with your story. I hope you leave your character in jail where she belongs and make her serve even longer that most women in this country serve for murdering anyone. Thank you for contributing so emmensely to the exoneration of men and proof that women make up abuse to try to punish us. You are such a credit to women and making sure their role is kept as God meant it to be. I look forward to your next book! MEN RULE!

 

Where to begin?

First of all, I think you’re a hateful, deluded, dangerous person and I can’t believe you actually read books – any books – let alone mine. Did it bother you when my protagonist kneed the guy who was trying to rape her and smashed his elbow with a crowbar? I’m surprised you had the nuts to keep reading.

Let me take this point by point:

1.“THANK YOU for redeeming Caucasian Christian Men”

Uh, no. I think Caucasian Christian Men are just as likely to be evil as anyone else and maybe even more so, as they often hide their own insecurities and obsessions behind their religion.

2. “I was very worried when I first began reading, that your character was a bull dagger for her she was a woman who thinks she can act like a man and do the things men do, like kick ass, and protect women and children.”

You’re dating yourself here, pal. I haven’t heard the term “bulldagger” (derogatory appellation for an aggressively masculine lesbian , more often one who is muscular or burly , who assumes the male role in lovemaking) for decades. Imagine the horror of a woman saying “I’m going to touch you here.” My God, we can think and feel for ourselves!

And I’m sorry you f-ing chauvinist, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and anybody else I care for including other women and children. Women today are not waiting around for some man to save us.

3. “ ... their sick attempt to destroy men and to make the real women who love those men look stupid and hateful to their children when they believe their man over those spiteful, lying girls.”

Ooh, sounds like somebody’s got some history here. Do the cops still have you on a sexual predator list? Did your kids disown you when they heard? Sounds like you’ve still got the little wife cowed, though. But I’ll bet you don’t let her friends come by any more.

4. “And I am further thrilled that it is a dirty jew that was the evil force behind real murders and another jew was eliminated (which should have happened to ALL of them years ago)”

Okay, there you go, right past the Tin Foil Hat stop sign and into the high speed zone of dangerous, deadly bigotry. Zip it, you pinhead. I don’t have the time or energy for your particular combination of stupid and hateful.

By the way, there’s not one character in that book described as Jewish.

5. “. Women are ALWAYS the manipulators and real dogs and you have proved it with your story.”

Don’t you get it? Stories PROVE nothing. They’re stories. Fiction. I could just as easily write a novel about an ignorant white man who abuses little kids and then hides behind his religion to get away with it. Would that story be any more true? (In your case, maybe so.)

Back here in the reality-based world where I live, abuse happens to men, women and children all the time. And it’s assholes like you that try to excuse it away or pretend it never happened.

OK, ‘Rati Readers. I’m back, now that I’ve vented just about as much as he did.

I never did write back to him directly and hope to hell he doesn’t read this blog, but as hateful and misinformed as his email is, my real question is: does it matter? Does it matter that I didn’t intend to write any of those coded messages that he picked up?  Does it matter that he’s misconstrued the basic nature of my characters and their battle with guilt, blame and responsibility?  Once our work leaves our hands, can we still claim ownership of how it should be received?

The audience is free to interpret a poem, or a ballet or a piece of music. Does is matter that their  comprehension is not what the poet, the choreographer or the musician intended?

Fire away, my ‘Rati friends. Either with your response to this Crazy M-Fer or at the notion of ownership of creative ideas once they’re loosed on the world.

PS: Tiny update on the situation at home. Bruce has fallen in love with those old-timey popsicles that have a joke printed on the stick. "What kind of clothes do frogs wear? Jump suits." I'll soon be a hit at all the kids' parties.

But I've come to realize that there's one part of me that's still from the rest of the country.  New Yorkers, more than any other people I know, hire people to do their work.  They have housekeepers, doormen, handymen, personal trainers, personal shoppers, and dogwalkers. They send out their laundry.  And they have everything under the sun delivered.

Apparently I haven't quite made that leap.  This week, I shocked my NYC friends by painting the wall of our apartment all by my lonesome.  Here's the proof:

And next week I just might slap up some wallpaper.

Now, this DIY stuff is nothing new to me.  Back when my sewing machine still worked, I sewed my own clothes. And when I bought my first house on a baby DA's salary, I spent every weekend at Home Depot.  By the time I sold that house three years later, I had tiled a hearth, lineoleumed a laundry room, laid down a wood plank floor, painted thousands of square feet of walls, replaced two faucets, and even built a cedar fence.  Consider me handy.

And in many ways, my recent painting adventure was typical of my do-it-yourself tendencies.  I do my own taxes.  I made my own video trailer for my new book, 212.  I navigate my way through the lay-out for the (admittedly imperfect) newsletter I send to my mailing list. And today, I've tinkered once again, creating a mystery thank-you gift to send to online friends who pre-order 212.   (Details below, online friends.)

But if you ask my husband, I'm no DIY-er.  He teases me that if we had enough money, I'd hire a butler to cater to my every whim.  Why would he tease me that way?  Because despite lingering self-reliance, in some ways, I have begun to adjust to the New York way.  My dog, the Duffer, has both a dogwalker and a daycare center.  I've been known to have wine, groceries, and even a small container of chicken soup from the downstairs-deli delivered.  If it were up to me, we'd send out our laundry instead of dealing with the apartment complex laundry room.  And, I'm ashamed to say it, I once paid a woman to clean out my closet.

So what's the deal? Why do I happily entrust some aspects of my life to others while I pride myself on handling the rest on my own?  Am I hopelessly conflicted and inconsistent, or is there some method to my madness?

I tried to hire someone to figure it out for me, but couldn't find anyone on Craig's List (kidding, of course).  The most noble explanation is that I recognize which tasks I'm either really bad at or simply hate to do.  I'm bad at throwing out old clothes from my cluttered closet, but I'm good at taxes.  I hate folding laundry, but creating my home-made book trailer was pretty damn fun.

Or maybe it's about bragging rights.  You can bet that I told every person who visited my Portland house that I built that (semi-crooked) fence myself.  And if I do take on that wallpaper job, I'm sure I'll point to every bubble and wrinkle like a gold medal.  But there's no glory to be gained in doing laundry or preventing your closet from ending up on the next episode of Hoarders.

Or, you know, maybe I'm just random and incoherent about these things.  I'd love to hear from others on this.  What sorts of things, both in your work and home life, do you do yourself, and when would you prefer to hire out? 

P.S. As I mentioned, my most recent tinkering was on a special mystery thank-you gift for online friends who pre-order my new book, 212.  For every hardback copy of 212 purchased by March 22, I will send a mystery gift to thank you for supporting my work.  See details here.  (And, yep, I did the html myself so forgive the imperfections.)

Yesterday, I made the time to attend my local RWA meeting where New York Times bestselling author Alyssa Day spoke about heroines. Alyssa is a talented paranormal romance writer who has a reputation for writing alpha heros AND alpha heroines. I asked her permission to talk about her workshop on this blog because I think it would benefit ALL writers, not simply romance or romantic suspense authors.

Alyssa's workshop was hugely inspirational and beneficial to me. A lot of people might think that after 13 published books why would I want to attend a craft workshop? The same reason why I bought Donald Maass' FIRE IN FICTION last summer--I am still learning. While I believe my strength in writing is centered around my heroines, I also believe that all writers, no matter what their level or how many books under their belt, published or unpublished, can learn something simply by listening to others. Sometimes it's not like we learn something particularly new, but we are given a new way of looking at something we know and it broadens our perceptions and our craft.

Yesterday was just such a day for me.

I write strong heroines. My hardest characters are the heroines who are not in a naturally kick-ass professional. For example, Julia Chandler (prosecutor in SEE NO EVIL) or Robin McKenna (night club owner in KILLING FEAR.) Why? Because when your heroine has a role like cop or FBI Agent or P.I. reader expectations are that the character knows how to take care of themselves, that they are independent and strong-willed. Female cops are not wimps, for the most part, and I don't have to convince my readers that Detective Carina Kincaid (SPEAK NO EVIL) knows how to investigate a murder. I can simply put her in the middle of the investigation and give her the label "detective" and readers get it.

I've judged the Thrillers for four years, and there are a lot of fantastic books I've read--the finalists and some that haven't finaled. I love thrillers, suspense, mysteries, romantic suspense, anything with twists, turns, high stakes. One thing I've noticed is that some writers--many male writers, but even some female writers-- create stereotypes for their female characters. The femme fatale. The man-hating cop. The wimpy Perilous Pauline. Some books are more about the hero's journey--and that's fine. But good books have strong secondary characters, too, and while stereotypes can (and often should) be used in writing, they should be relegated to the third tier characters.

The female protagonist--whether she is a true heroine (i.e. equal to the hero, like in a romantic suspense novel) or a secondary character (such as a partner or an ex-wife)--is crucial to a strong story. Alyssa's advice to writers is terrific. For example, is your heroine strong or passive? Does she DO things or is she always having things DONE for her? Can she solve her own problems, or is she always looking for the hero to do it?

There is nothing I hate more than a woman who can't do anything for herself. This doesn't mean she has to do EVERYTHING for herself, but she should have common sense. If she has a flat tire, she might not know how to change it, but she damn well knows how to use a cell phone. Or flag down a truck. Or capable of walking a mile to the nearest gas station. (And yes, some women--not me--know how to change a tire.)

If you have an important female character, does she advance the plot in any way? Or is she standing around wringing her hands waiting for the big, strong guy to save her? (Gag.)

Alyssa identifies five core character traits of a strong heroine:

• She's an independent thinking and makes intelligent choices.
• She has a sense of humor--she can face conflict and adversity and be able to laugh at herself or her weaknesses.
• She's ready and willing to fight, either it's physically or not. Meaning, she should be able to defend herself verbally or physically, to stand up for what's right, and not always cave to those seemingly bigger or stronger.
• She should accept her hero as he is and not try to change him.
• She should be able to face everyday situations with strength and resilience.

Smart choices, the first point, is crucial, but often misunderstand. It's not always that we can make the RIGHT choice. Sometimes, we don't have all the information we need. Sometimes, we have to do something we know is wrong because the stakes are so high. Sometimes, we're in a lose-lose situation. ACTION is what's important, that inaction is a sign of weakness. Inaction in fact is a character trait. But strong heroines will do what they think is right given the circumstances--they have strong motivation in doing what they do.

Some writers, Alyssa points out, take the idea of a strong heroine to mean she has to be perfect, flawless, beautiful at all times. WRONG! I love Alyssa's comment, "I believe in Kryptonite." Meaning, every character has a fatal flaw. Perhaps the flaw is physical or emotional or situational. Every character has their own Kryptonite. (This goes for heroes, heroines, villains, secondary characters--doesn't matter who! But it's doubly important for your protagonists and your villain.)

But in the end, what I loved most about Alyssa's workshop was when she ended with when you're stuck, just think:

What would Princess Leia do?

So now I have that phrase etched in my mind as I finish the copyedits for CARNAL SIN. My problem in writing is not usually the heroine--my heroine's are generally strong. Sometimes TOO strong. In FEAR NO EVIL I had my first hero who wasn't in law enforcement paired with a heroine who was a renegade FBI Agent. I had to make sure that my trained, smart, and talented heroine wasn't stronger than my forensic psychiatrist hero. So to resolve the central problem, it was my hero's ability to think like the villain that gave them the edge to save lives--not my heroine's training or law enforcement background.

A female character I've been hugely impressed with is FBI Agent Olivia Dunham from FRINGE. Olivia is trained, strong, independent, but she also has a vulnerable side. She can love, she has a sister and niece she is close to but her job keeps getting in the way of her promises. This bothers her, but she is driven to do the job well. She is not hardened, but she can be tough. She doesn't make too-stupid-to-live decisions--when she makes a risky decision it is always with the purpose of saving an innocent life. She is smart and capable and not too rigid. 

In LIFE, the erroneously canceled NBC series starring Damian Lewis as Det. Charlie Crews, his partner Dani Reece is another example of a strong female character who has flaws but still gets up every day to do the job. She's a recovering drug addict. She has a problem with relationships and therefore has one-night stands instead of any steady boyfriend. She's a good cop, but is overshadowed by her well-known retired father, also a cop. She changes over the course of the two-season series to be able to have 1) a friendship with her partner and 2) a relationship that last more than one night (not with her partner) and 3) the courage to try to move up the ladder on her own merits.

And of course Princess Leia. She was a princess, after all, but she was also capable of taking charge. (So what if she got them trapped in the trash compactor? At least she DID something rather than stand around and be shot at!)

I'd love to hear more examples of strong female characters, and some of your pet peeves about heroines and female characters . . . rant away!