Chris Ransom and I were brought together by our agent, Scott Miller, when Scott sent him a copy of my novel, BOULEVARD, to blurb.  And then I read THE BIRTHING HOUSE, Chris’s novel, and it blew me away.  I loved the dark, tense prose and his brilliant depiction of a common man passing through what could either be a deep psychological crisis or the scariest haunting you’ve ever encountered.  The psychological ambiguity and torment in his book brought comparisons to “Crime and Punishment” and “The Turn of the Screw.” 

THE BIRTHING HOUSE was first published in the U.K., where it became an instant bestseller.  It has subsequently been released by St. Martin’s in the U.S.

We come from a similar background, Chris and I.  We both struggled as screenwriters in Hollywood, became disillusioned with the process, and turned to writing novels.  I ran from the Biz to take a “day job” and he ran all the way to Wisconsin.  We are at the same place in our careers, having just finished our second novels.

We decided to meet in a virtual pub today to share a drink and a conversation about our experiences.  I’m not much of a drinker, so on the rare occasion that I do drink, I do it right.  I’m having a Macallan, aged 18, on the rocks.

Stephen:  Good to see you again, bro.  What can I get you?  I think you had a beer when we met in Hermosa Beach a while back.  You gonna wuss out again or can I get you a real drink? 

Chris:  Hey, buddy.  Good to see you again.  Where did you get that leather jacket?  You look like Serpico in that thing.  Every writer needs a leather jacket like that, but most of us can't pull it off.  It really works for you because you're the guy who wrote BOULEVARD.  I guess I'll have another Guinness.  It's either Guinness or a Moscow Mule, sometimes a Manhattan.  I'm not tough enough to drink straight scotch. 

Anyway, I wanted to correct you on something first.  Scott (our agent) didn't send me your novel soliciting a blurb.  I swear.  What happened was, I asked him if he had read anything good lately.  He told me about BOULEVARD and I said that sounds like something I would love.  Then, being the busy agent he is, he forgot to send it to me, so I reminded him again, because I really wanted to read a novel about a homicide detective who is also a sex addict.  Who doesn't want to read that, right?  So he mailed it to me, and I devoured it in two nights.  So I wrote back telling Scott how much I loved it, and thus the blurb.  You pulled off a minor miracle with that book, I think, walking that thread-thin line by taking Hayden to very dark places without ever succumbing to the gratuitous.  It was very controlled and just a searing novel.  So there, just wanted to clear up any notions of, whattaya call it, same-agent nepotism or whatever.

Stephen:  Well, it’s very cool how that all worked out.  When I read THE BIRTHING HOUSE, I found myself getting lost in the rhythm and poetry of your style.  I really couldn’t put your book down.  I remember when I had just finished the second draft of my second book, BEAT, I suddenly had the fear that, if I were to die right then, the book would never be realized.  Right now my two-book deal is my only “life insurance policy,” and I need my second book to be published in order to at least leave my family with something.  And your style just seemed to speak to me—it came to me in a flash – that’s when I wrote to you and asked if you would finish my novel if something terrible happened to me.  I thought it was very cool when you asked me to do the same for you.  Fortunately, we both survived writing our second novels and we can each enjoy sole writing credit on our works.  But, hey, if I fall out of an airplane before I finish Book Three, you know your assignment…

Chris:  Awesome.  We are each other’s life insurance policy.  Our wives will be so relieved.

Stephen:  So, what the fuck are you doing in Wisconsin?  You ever coming back to L.A.?

Chris:  I doubt it, though I do miss it.  I have a strong love/hate relationship with the City of Angels.  The tacos, burgers, weather, bookstores, and whole mess of the place are great.  It's so vibrant and glossy here, so gritty and freaky there, which is fun.  But the traffic and housing prices and wannabe-a-movie-star scene of it wore me down.  Ultimately I need more peace and quiet to write.  Spending an hour in the car just to go to the post office drove me fucking nuts.  I grew up in Colorado, you know, so I need the open space that LA lacks.

But strangely I can't seem to let it go, either.  My second novel, THE HAUNTING OF JAMES HASTINGS, is set in LA.  I have some very vivid memories of living in the historical neighborhood of West Adams, where we bought our first house, and that proved to be fertile ground for my second book.  It was a lot of fun to “go back there” for the nine months I spent writing the Hastings book.  Some of my favorite novels are these great, gritty LA stories, like ASK THE DUST, most of the Bukowski canon, and so much of the best crime fiction.  So maybe I wanted to steal some of that down-and-out atmosphere, dink around in with the dark side of the "scene".

Stephen:  I’m a big John Fante and Bukowski fan, too.  My favorite Fante is BROTHERHOOD OF THE GRAPE.  I’ve never read such charming, seemingly effortless description of intergenerational feuding.  And, of Bukowski, I prefer his novels.  My favorite is HAM ON RYE.  I also love POST OFFICE and HOLLYWOOD.  It’s more than just gritty stuff, it’s perceptive, lyrical, humorous.

Chris:  Absolutely.  I think you recently told me that your second novel is not set in LA, is that right?  What was your decision with that?  Did you find it harder to jump cities?  More liberating?  How would you describe the effect of setting in your work?  For me it's hugely important.  The setting helps set the tone for the entire novel, and I am very wary of getting the tone just right before I begin.  Do you feel the same?

Stephen:  I did switch locations for my second book, even though it is a sequel to BOULEVARD.  I’ve always loved San Francisco and I felt it would be a great place for Hayden Glass to find himself.  It’s a city filled with sexual triggers.  And I like making him a fish-out-of-water, his tough-guy LAPD tactics slamming up against the often subtle, more complicated tactics of the SFPD.  I did a lot of research with the SFPD – lots of ride-alongs and late nights doing beat patrol in North Beach.  Most of the locals think I’m an undercover cop, and I did get a lot of “Serpico” comments.  It was a fucking blast and I wish I could do it every day of the week.

To me, the city becomes another character in the book.  It absolutely sets the tone, and my characters are either in sync with the city or at odds with it.  In some ways, the cities are the most complicated characters in my books.

Chris:  I get so much pleasure from Colin Harrison's novels for the same reason.  Reading him always takes me back to the pulse and throb of New York.  Harrison said something once about sitting in coffee shops to steal conversations and get ideas for his books, because in your average New York diner you might eavesdrop on cops, captains of industry, or some 80-year-old Chinese woman who's husband has disappeared.  And I just love that man-on-the-street quality in fiction. 

Reading BOULEVARD is like traveling the underbelly of LA, taking a tour through the massage parlors, the deadbeat motels, the twisted clubs.  I didn't see much of that while we lived in LA (I promise, honey, ha ha...), but you always sensed it there.  The drugs and sex and danger lurking around every corner... the cops who have more important things to do than bust you for jaywalking.

Stephen:  I’ll take another Macallan, by the way, and an Evian.  Christ, you’ve barely touched that Guinness.

Chris:  (Glug, glug, gluh . . . aahhhhh.)  Excuse me, bartender?  Can I get another pint?  My friend here is trying to put me into an early grave.  Thank you.

(Eyeing his new beer)  Bukowski makes a compelling case for living through something in order to have something to write about.  I just reread POST OFFICE for the 3rd or 4th time, hadn't looked at it for years, and I too was struck by the elements you mention.  But what I really took away was a reminder of the value of writers going out into the world and doing something, finding something real to write about.  We can’t just sit behind our desk, writing in our own echo chamber.

Bukowski worked for the post office for some 12 or 13 years and that novel, his first, was the result.  Amazing.  It's a hundred and ten pages or something, but it's a whole life, you know?  If he had never written anything else, you could hold that book up and say, "Well, if you want to know what it was like to be a half-crazed mailman in mid-century LA, here it is.  Humanity at its most bureaucratic, absurd, and raw."  He lived it, he earned that book as much as anyone can.

You mentioned riding along with cops and doing all kinds of real-life research for your follow-up.  I think that's very valuable and probably a survival tool for a crime writer.  My work is a little more domestic and I probably need to get out of the house more.  A lot of my stuff is set in the average suburban home, the bedroom, stuff between neighbors, and so forth. 

Stephen:  I know you’ve got another U.K. deal for THE HAUNTING OF JAMES HASTINGS.  What’s happening in the U.S.?  And how are you proceeding with Book Three?

Chris:  My second novel dips a toe in the cesspool of celebrity a bit.  It features a celebrity look-alike, a guy who doubled for a fictional Eminem.  My character has no talent or artistic qualities himself, but basically made a living for several years pretending to be someone else.  I am a huge Eminem fan, and had read much of his biography, dissected a lot of his lyrics and so forth.  I actually met one of Eminem's doubles when I lived in LA, and this guy really stuck with me.  Here was this young kid who helped Eminem with videos, awards show skits, and god knows what else--all because he had “won” some kind of weird genetic lottery and looked exactly like Marshall Mathers. 

What would this do to the average person, over time?  Pretending to be someone else?  Of the three main characters in my book, none are who they claim to be.  And it is ultimately a story about one man coming to terms with who he was--and who his wife was--before she died in this terrible accident.

Do you wanna do a shot?  Oh, I guess you're already doing a shot.  Of scotch.  OK, fuck it, I'll order one.  Grab her when she comes around again.

Stephen:  Yo, bartender!  So, will readers in the States get to read this Hastings novel?

Chris:  I hope so.  I was fortunate that Scott was able to secure us a two-book deal with my British publisher, Little, Brown, after they brought out The Birthing House.  Our man is currently shopping the Hastings novel to St. Martin's and other US publishers as we drink, so I don't know if and when it will be released here.  But Hastings and his group of false identities will be released in the UK on July 1, 2010.  In this economic climate, my friend, I'm just happy someone wants to publish it somewhere. 

What's going on with Hayden after the sequel to BOULEVARD?  By the way--can we bill this all to Scott?  If he were here, we could easily make him pay the tab.

Stephen:  Scott’s too busy drinking with the other writers at Murderati.  He represents half of them already. 

I’m absolutely fascinated with your idea about the “Eminem” impersonator.  What a cool character.  It’s a fresh idea.

Book Three for me will be a standalone, and I’m currently bouncing ideas around in my head.  Have no idea where the “wheel of fortune” will stop.  But I think Hayden’s journeys will continue.  There’s at least one book left to complete his psychological through-line.  Despite the raucous ride he’s on, there’s a path to healing, and he’s on it.  The first book is just the first act. 

Chris:  I think a trilogy for Hayden sounds about right.  That's a nice journey and stopping at two books might have felt incomplete, or short.  Healing is a long process, and the guy we met in Boulevard was pretty messed up!

I'm really looking forward to writing my third.  The writer's emotional state is very different than with the first two.  With your first book, you're just out to prove you can do it, right?  It's you writing in the dark, the writer against the world.  That's very freeing and gives you great reserves.  You have no deadlines. 

I don't know if you felt the same way, but the second novel was, for me, much more difficult, more frightening.  You've got a deadline.   You did it once, but what if it was a fluke?  You're afraid of repeating yourself, or doing something that's too far off the radar for your readers, whoever they are.  Dan Simmons told me that Harlan Ellison told him that “any fuckhead can write one novel.  Real writers make their names on the second novel, third novel, fourth, fifth . . .”

Stephen:  Nothing like getting advice straight from the source.  I’m in total agreement with you about the different stages of approaching our first few novels.  I’m on the same trajectory.

Chris:  But now that we've done it twice, there's a certain sense of (relative) calm.  Like, OK, this is a habit now, not a fluke, I can do this.  And yet, I find that the saying is true--every novel teaches you how to write a novel all over again.  Because every novel needs to be written in its own way, right?  It never comes easily.

Stephen:  I think my third novel is going to be a bitch.  I expect it to be more difficult than the second, since the second was a sequel.  And I still haven’t managed to shake that day job, so I still have to fit the whole process into evenings and weekends.  Well, brother Ransom, we’ve got twenty minutes to get downtown to hit that burlesque show you’ve been begging to go to.  Research never stops, I guess.  Go ahead and finish that shot, I’ve got Scott sending a town car to pick us up. 

Real quick, what’s your third book about?

Chris: My third novel is called THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE.  It's about a struggling American family confronted with a set of very, uhm, abnormal neighbors, another family who seem to have it all.  The Beautiful People are both more and less than human, hiding a horrible secret, and their fates are intertwined with my normal family.  It features two patriarchs going head to head, the children getting mixed up with each other, out of control wives.  It's about health, appetite, and security.  How far will you go to provide for your family?  To keep them safe?  At what cost this American life?

I'm challenging myself with a bigger cast of characters on this one, more points of view.  I can't wait to see how it turns out, and since I have another deadline looming . . .

Stephen:  Check it – Scott sent a stretch limo instead of the town car…go ahead and grab that bottle. 

Chris:  Why’s the bartender smiling at you?

Stephen:  She said she loved my work on Godspell and Wicked.  Left me with her resume and an 8 X 10 glossy.  I won’t tell her I’m the other Stephen Schwartz.  Let’s blow this joint.

Chris:  Catch you on the other side of book three, amigo.  Don’t forget your jacket!

Murderati folks – I’ll be at Left Coast Crime all day and it won’t be easy for me to make comments.  I’ll try to sneak in during breaks in the panels, if the Omni Hotel doesn’t charge me $15 every time I log on.  But Chris will be hanging out to chat with you throughout the day.  And, check out his website, it's one of the best I've ever seen.

(First off, today’s the first day of Left Coast Crime right here in my town of Los Angeles, California. If you’re attending, make sure you stay hi when you see me!)

Today I thought I’d share a story about living the writer’s life. Hope you enjoy it.

I grew up in a community of about 25,000. It’s actually two communities that basically operate as one. China Lake is a military base, and Ridgecrest is the town that surrounds it.

To get anywhere of comparable size you had to drive over an hour though empty desert. And if you wanted to go to the big city - in our case Los Angeles - it was at least 2 1/2 hours, and usually more if you hit traffic.

Did I say empty desert? I guess that really depends on how you look at it. There were times in my life I noticed all the mountain peaks and dry river washes and odd rock formations, and there times when I thought it was just one big, endless expanse of brown.

I moved away a good twenty-five years ago, and my parents moved less than five years after that. Which meant I no longer had family there, so return visits became fewer and farther between, until it became an every five of six years kind of thing.

But even with my infrequent visits, and even though I've been a big city guy for the last quarter century, Ridgecrest has always been with me because it's my hometown.

Why am I bringing this up now? Two reasons: 1) my next book NO RETURN is set entirely in the Ridgecrest/China Lake area, and 2) [the thing most forefront in my mind at the moment] last week I returned there because I'd been Invited to talk to the local branch of the California Writers Club.

The invitation came early last December, and I immediately accepted. I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to returning. I've been hoping to go back to speak at an event for a long time. So it was with more than just a little bit of excitement that I drove up last week.

I got in town about three hours before I was to meet with the group's leaders for dinner prior to the meeting. I spent two of those hours just driving around and taking in the old and the new. It's a small town, so that meant I made several circuits before I finally stopped at Starbucks and read a book for an hour. So much was the same, and so much was different. It was, as I think I posted on Facebook at the time, surreal.

Dinner was very nice. One of the leaders of the group was actually the mother of an old friend I'd gone to school with since at least junior high, if not before. I remember actually going to her house for a birthday sleepover party for her son. It was nice talking to all of them and hearing about life there, which really wasn’t that different from when I lived there.

As I drove from the restaurant to the place where the talk was to take place, I started to get nervous, which was odd. I don't get nervous before speaking to crowds. Ten people, a hundred, a thousand, more...it doesn't matter. (THANK YOU high school drama club!) But this time I did get nervous. See, there'd been a feature article the local paper about me speaking...think "hometown boy makes good." I knew there might be a lot of people there I knew from my past, so I guess I was worried about screw up in front of them…and, I think, also a little concerned no one I knew would show up.

Turns out I didn't have to worry about anything. There were old high school friends, parents of old high school friends (including the father of the girl I dated junior year at high school), and even friends of my parents. And as soon as I started greeting them before the talk began, I realized it didn’t matter if I screwed up or not, we were all just happy to see each other.

There ended up being between 40 and 50 people there. I was told it was one of the larger meetings the writers group has had...they even had to bring in a lot of extra chairs from elsewhere in the building.

It felt so good being there, and talking to my hometown friends. I even did something I’ve never done at a talk before. I read from one of my books…actually from the book that will be out next year, the one set in Ridgecrest.

And after the meeting, I was able to go out for a drink with a friend I’d probably first met in third grade. It was great catching up with him. He’s had an eventful life to say the least, but still has a smile on his face and a positive attitude about life.

The next morning, after being interview on the local FM station, I headed back home to Los Angeles, thinking how much I enjoyed the visit, and looking forward to the next time. And there will be a next time.

Alright, Murderati…many of you have probably moved away from the hometown you grew up in. Love to hear what it’s like for you when you return to your old stomping grounds.

Please excuse the lack of responses today from me as I’ll be at the conference trying (not to hard) to avoid the allure of the bar.

Perhaps I should be drinking this: (via i09.com) Scientists Have Discovered Booze That Won’t Give You A Hangover!

     As most of you know,  I live in a Southern state. Since my area is a big resort destination, though, we have  a  lot of transplants from various places, particularly the Northeast and, for some reason, Ohio. (Will the last person out of Akron please turn off the lights?)

    There are any number of  funny stories illustrating the linguistic  misunderstandings that occur between Americans and our British cousins (Hi  Zoe!) I  may have told the story here of the time I was working as a DJ in a hotel bar and played a song that's popular in the Southeastern US  extolling the joys of "shagging" (it's a dance). This led to much consternation on the part of a nice British couple at a nearby table.   The disconnect led George Bernard Shaw to famously observe that the British and the Americans are "two peoples separated by a common language."

     You don't have to cross the ocean, however,  to find locutions that puzzle, baffle, and confuse. We get plenty of that with folks from right here within our own national borders.  Most often, I see it in court, which is the place where worlds  collide.  Lately I've been hearing so many examples in the day job that I figured I might was well use them in a Murderati post, for you fans of using  regionalisms in your writing--and, frankly, because they amuse me.

"I want to say": this is used by someone who's really not sure of an answer, but who's giving it their best guess. Such as:

 Q: "How long did the two of you live together?"
 A: "I want to say...two years?"

Clueless comeback: "Don't tell me what you want to say, tell me the truth."

A: "Huh?"

"Whenever": this is used as a substitute for "when." Example "Whenever I was in high school..."

Clueless comeback: "Wait, how many times did you go?"

A: "Huh?"

 "Kindly": Its use is fading a bit, but you still hear older people from out in the country use this one  to mean "kind of." I once heard an older lady, from the teeming metropolis of Black Ankle, North Carolina, admit on the stand that her son had, on occasion,  been "kindly violent." A social worker from (of course)  Ohio, who'd been involved in the case, immediately got into a state of the highest dudgeon. When it was her turn on the witness stand she blasted the old woman: "That's what's wrong with this family! There's no such thing as 'kindly violent!" Embarassed silence. Finally the judge (who, as it happens, was born and raised in the same county as the old lady) leaned over and asked the social worker:  "you're not from around here, are you?"

"Talking": This was common in the African American community a few years ago. It means, basically, having sex. I rermember talking to a  client who had cross warrants with an older man for assault with a deadly weapon. He informed me that it was all a result of a misunderstanding involving the older fellow's daughter: "Me and her been talking for while and I guess her daddy got mad." So, I naturally thought the older fellow had overreacted to someone merely striking up a conversation with his litte girl, and I was all ready to paint him as the unreasonably violent agressor. Fortunately, an older colleague set me straight before I made a colossal ass of myself. More than usual,  I mean.

So, wherever you're from, tell me what regionalisms from your area tend to befuddle the average outsider.  Or tell me about a localism that befuddled you.

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?