Due to a scheduling snafu, I had to swap days, and Alexandra graciously obliged. I’m taking her spot today, and she’ll be taking mine next Wednesday. So, if you’re disappointed Alex isn’t here—and how could you not be?—take heart, she’ll be here at the controls this coming Wednesday, February 8^th.

John Updike once remarked that he realized early on he couldn’t be both a reader and a writer and he had to choose one or the other. As my career has progressed I’ve increasingly realized the truth of that insight, unpleasantly so.

Writers are readers first and foremost. But recently the onslaught of work has been so overwhelming my reading has come to a virtual standstill. The time it takes to write, pitch, research, keep up with the business of writing (with more research required), prepare for my classes, teach, network, do my volunteer work in the community—I feel like I’m skating across my days like a madman on black ice. More and more often I wake up with a jolt of apprehension clenched in my gut. I know I’m behind, I know I can’t keep up, I know the stakes.

Read? For pleasure? It is to laugh.

One sneaky outlet I always had was the High Crimes book group I lead at my local indie bookstore. I knew that I’d get to read at least one book I wanted to each month. But even that has fallen apart on me. During December I was supposed to be reading Don Carpenter’s Hard Rain Falling. I loved the book, and was really enjoying it, but I got only halfway through by the time the group met to discuss it.

I promised to do better this month with Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto, a book I again was loving, but I barely got past page 20. I'm not exaggerating.

This isn’t just irritating, it’s irresponsible. I’m letting my group down. Worse, I feel like I’m letting myself down.

I’m not one of those writers who can’t read fiction when he’s writing. I actually get inspired reading fiction I admire and relish when I’m working on my own book. I take care of the voice-infection problem, the possibility that what I’m reading will seep into my own voice, by going back over what I’ve written the day before as I begin working and tidying it up before moving on to new pages. But now that inspirational fertilization of my imagination, that spur to my creativity, is absent. And I feel it.

I know we all have TBR piles that seem overwhelming. My TBR pile became a box, then several boxes, then a closet, and now pretty much consumes a whole second office. In no particular order (who has time to prioritize what you’ll never get to do?):

The Financial Lives of the Poets by Jess Walter

Lucifer at the Starlight by Kim Addonizio

The City The City by China Miéville

The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer

Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart

Spooner by Pete Dexter

The Outlaw Album by Daniel Woodrell

Nothing to be Frightened Of by Julian Barnes

The Given Day by Dennis Lehane

Dreamland by Newton Thornburg

Murder City by Charles Bowden

2666 by Roberto Bolaño

The Dawn Patrol by Don Winslow

The Hidden Assassins by Robert Wilson

The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty

Body of Lies by David Ignatius

Ash & Bone by John Harvey

The Spies of Warsaw by Alan Furst

He Kills Coppers by Jake Arnott

Total Chaos by Jean-Claude Izzo

I’m just listing the ones in easy reach. There are so many more—including books written by my friends and my fellow Murderateros. And I have to reread James Crumley’s The Wrong Case for an article I’ve been asked to do, and I should probably reread The Last Good Kiss while I’m at it, and I’m reading a number of writing guides as I conduct my courses and write my own book on character, and and and…

It’s not just that I feel like a slaggard. I feel like I’m letting the most important thing, one of my life’s greatest pleasures, slip away. And in no small way, it’s killing me.

Warren Zevon wrote an anthem to life at full throttle: “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” I’m beginning to think that’s when I'll get some reading in.

So, Murderateros—what book or books have you been aching to get to but just can’t? What is it that’s swallowing up your days? Is the pace of modern life really accelerating or are we just becoming increasingly scattered and unfocused? And if we don’t read, who will?

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: Take a wild guess.

Okay, I’m still in holiday mode here (this is the view from my towel most mornings, although this picture does NOT do it justice!). In my last blog I talked about what I’ve been up to on my extended holiday break and today I’m going to continue with the holiday theme. We’re still down in the Mornington Peninsula (until Saturday), and then on Monday my daughter starts school (scary!). Anyway…holidays…  

My mum is an avid golfer. She’s now retired and plays golf two to three times a week. She loves it. So, when she came down to the coast for a few days it was natural for her to persuade us all to go for nine holes of golf. I did try to suggest I could stay at home and write, but the look (you know the one that only a mother can give you) told me that it was NOT a good idea for me to bail on the golf. So off I went.

I’ve played golf a few times and keep thinking I’ll “get it”…but it hasn’t happened yet. After the first hole I was completely perplexed. What do people see in this game?? Why do they play it? Now the cynics reading this might think it had something to do with the fact that on the first hole (a par 4) it took me around 12 shots to get the stupid ball into the stupid hole. It may have even been 14 shots…let’s face it, by around six you lose count. My mum also tells me you have to count the shots when you completely miss the ball (air golf) but I think that’s a bit rough for a beginner.

The second hole wasn’t much better, but by the third I was down to about 8 or so shots (not counting the air-golf shots). Then one hole, I think it was the fifth hole, I took four shots for a par 3 and it did feel kind of good. But let’s face it, it was a complete fluke.

In the next hole there was a pond between me and the fairway. My daughter (who’s only 5) was in hysterics: “No, Mummy. It will go in the water. No!”  She was also quite worried about the ducks in the lake. But I thought I’d give it a go (maybe artificially buoyed by my four-shot hole). And what were the chances my ball would actually hit some poor innocent duck? Nil, surely. First ball went straight into the lake (of course), as did the second one. Thankfully, the ducks remained intact. Grace was most concerned about losing another ball (and I don’t think my mum wanted to give me another one either) so I walked around and dropped the ball on the fairway. And it still took me like a million shots to get it in the hole.

I think it was around this point that I said to my mum: “How many more holes have we got to go?” I guess it’s a variation on “Are we there yet?”

Interestingly, my daughter enjoys golf! My mum sometimes takes her to the driving range where they have 50 balls and then do some putting. On our 9 holes, Grace teed off about six times, often striking the ball further than me. Then we’d pick up her ball and give her a shot at the other end – putting. She seems pretty good for a 5yro, but then what do I know about golf?

As I walked around (for nearly three hours) I couldn’t help but think about what a complete waste of time golf was – and how I’d MUCH rather be at home writing. Time is very tight for me (the juggling act of motherhood, freelance corporate work and fiction writing) and I felt like I’d completely wasted three hours of my precious time. But I’m trying to be more ‘the glass if half full’ so I tried to think about the up-side.

1. I did walk around eight kilometers so at least I got a bit of exercise.
2. Cape Schanck is a stunning golf course, and on many holes you catch glimpses of the ocean in the background.
3. I was with my daughter, mum and mother-in-law.  Family time!

The only other thing that worried me on the course was that this particular course has lots of houses on it. I kept saying to my mum, “I’d be worried a ball was going to come sailing through my window.” She assured me they were designed so it rarely/never happened. But they hadn’t seen me play golf! Or maybe the designers had taken into account people like me because I miraculously avoided both ducks and houses. Yay, me!

So, any golfers out there? What am I missing?  Or do you think this game is as absurd as I do? Or maybe there’s some other sport or hobby that you just don’t get. 

One of the questions we writers get all the time is:

"Is your protagonist you?"

I've heard a lot of different answers to this question, some long and some short, but I don't think I've ever heard anyone just come out and say what we all know to be true:

"Of course he is!"

Because really, is there ever any doubt?  Why create a heroic character --- especially one who triumphs in the end --- if you can't live vicariously through him?  And how can you live vicariously through a character who's totally removed from yourself?

Has any card-carrying 'Rati ever read a Charlie Fox thriller and not seen Zoë Sharp herself doing all that ass-kicking?

I didn't think so.

Sure, we take pains to disguise ourselves, giving our protagonists attributes we don't actually share, but we're in there, all right.  Fiction is a game of pretend, and part of the fun of writing it comes from putting yourself at the center of the action, in the guise of a bigger and better you, facing enemies and dangers larger than you could reliably handle in the real world.  With ourselves as the underlying framework, we build a protagonist built for heroism, endowing him with strengths and powers we either lack altogether, or do not possess in sufficient quantity to tackle the task at hand.

But there's a limit to this process.  Unless you're writing pulp, or some kind of retro-crime fiction that harkens back to the days when "realism" was a dirty word, you never want to follow such fantasies to their extreme.  You know what your perfect protagonist looks like, but he's not anybody you could actually use in a story supposedly grounded in a non-fictional universe.

God bless Ian Fleming.  He got to have his cake and eat it, too, creating the ultimate male protagonist in James Bond, agent 007, at a time when scores of readers were still willing to forgive such laughable affronts to realism, common sense, and the sensibilities of women.  Try writing a series about such an ingenious, indefatigable, sexually flawless protagonist as Bond now and see how many rejection letters you collect.

Still, whether you can use him or her in your fiction or not, it's always fun to imagine what kind of protagonist you could build were the sky the limit.  Unencumbered by any restrictions suspension-of-disbelief might demand, what would he look like?  What would his powers be?

Or should I say, what would your powers be?  Because your protagonist is really you, remember?

When I created Aaron Gunner, the Los Angeles private investigator I've now put at the center of six novels, I drew the line at giving him only one thing my "perfect" protagonist would possess that I, sadly, do not: a red Ford Shelby Cobra, my favorite sports car of all time.

But I could have been much more generous to Gunner than that.

If I were building him according to my own personal wants and needs today, independent of what I thought readers would be willing to buy, this would be his basic profile:

1. Height/Weight: 6'-2"/220 lbs.
   
   Just big enough to give someone thinking about throwing down on him reason to think twice.
   
   
2. Physical attractiveness: 7.5
   
   This is on a scale of 1 - 10, 1 being Homer Simpson and 10 being Denzel Washington.
   
   
3. Sexual prowess: 8
   
   Again, this is on a scale of 1 to 10, where 10 basically means any song featuring the words "all night long" in its lyrics could have been written about him on a typical Tuesday in March.
   
   (Sorry, ladies, I know you think this stuff is silly, but we guys really do fantasize like this, especially those of us with serious performance anxieties.  You dream about chocolate and warm baths, we dream about making Gisele Bündchen forget she ever even met Tom Brady.  What can I tell you?)
   
   
4. Annual income: $95,000
   
   Enough to live comfortably without losing sight of his humble origins.
   
   
5. Place of residence: 3 bedroom home in Ladera Heights (Los Angeles, CA)
   
   Because every man should have an expansive view of his city, and a spare bedroom to put all his toys in.
   
   
6. Could be a Jeopardy champion in the category of: World history
   
   
7. Aptitude in the kitchen: 7
   
   Where Bobby Flay would be a 10.  Not good enough to win any cooking contests, but capable of making any first date memorable for the food and drink alone.
   
   
8. Languages spoken fluently: 3
   
   English, Spanish and Japanese
   
   
9. Musical instruments played: 2
   
   Piano and guitar.  Self-taught.  No pro by a longshot, but he could join the band at any concert and not embarrass himself.  And every once in a blue moon, can rip off a jam like this:




10. Hidden talent: Expert magician.
    
    And I don't mean card tricks.  I mean "How the hell did he do that??" stuff.

And so on and so forth.  You get the idea.  A ridiculous character, to be sure, but someone it might be fun to be for a day or so, just to see how it would feel.

So what about you, my fellow 'Ratis?  Using the 10 categories above as a jumping off point, what would the profile of your "perfect protagonist" look like, if suspension-of-disbelief was not a consideration?

Any parent with a kid in elementary school has had to read at least a dozen acrostics. If you haven’t been so blessed, let me explain. These are the “poems” in which the first letter of each line spells out something that, one hopes, refers back to the meaning of said poem.

For example

Mona could be found
Underneath, definitely not above,
Rachel’s  rosewood
Desk  . . . strangely
Emitting smells most
Repugnant.  

Or . . .

Kneeling quietly, hand
Nearing the throat
In and out
Forward and side
Enter eternity.

Okay, I must be in an Edward Gorey kind of mood. I’m just writing the first things that come to mind.

Pretty little eyes of newt
Odiferous fungi from the inner forest
Immerse in alcohol for a week
Sit it in the sun until dry
Open a packet of arsenic for insurance
No, not in the pudding! Add it to the stew.

So does anyone else want to play? I’d say anything goes. But if you want to keep it to a mystery theme, that might be fun. Repeated words are fine by me.

Let’s see just how wild we can make this Wildcard Tuesday!

Lately I’ve been streaming a lot of Bollywood movies. I’ve always liked the dancing and music in these films and, of course, the happy endings. But the other night when I’d stayed up late to watch one with a really stupid plot -- that had it been from Hollywood I would’ve turned off hours before -- I realized that it’s not the music or dancing that keep me coming back for more . . . it’s the exuberance.  The joy, man, I’m into the joy.

That’s what I want in every aspect of my life right now. I know being blissed out on a constant basis would be boring, but I want moments of that unabashed vitality and enthusiasm for life every single day.

I want it. I want it now!

In the Bollywood films, the camera pans around love-struck couples and then rises high above groups of dancers swirling in saris of hot pink, royal blue, new leaf green. I jump up from my couch and dance with them on my worn carpet in the privacy of my living room and I can almost feel the Indian sun warming my arms and shoulders, shining off my graying hair.

And do you know what? I want that same feel, that rush of delight, sometimes when I read. I want a laughing literary experience that doesn’t so much astound me with its wit or cleverness, the perfectly placed word or phrase  -- but that takes me on such a wonderful rapid ride I can hardly catch my breath.

Who am I kidding?

I want literary rides that take me so fast I don’t even think about catching my breath!

So much of what we write about here at Murderati has to do with control and thought and the wonderful mastery of creating excellent work.

But right now, I want to read books just for fun,  for the giddy experience I inhale when I’m engrossed in my Bollywood movies.

So, please, today help me:

Where can I find exuberant writing?

(Oh, and if you've got Netflix and want to recommend some b-wood movies, that'd be fine too. Or if you know of some posted vids online . . . I'd enjoy those too!!)

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

Yes, I'm still writing blogs about research. But this one serves a greater purpose.

I've got essays in two books out currently.

The first book is the new edition of the NOW WRITE! series, called Now Write! Mysteries. The book features essays from loads of outstanding mystery authors and each author includes a set of exercises designed to give the reader the opportunity to learn the skills discussed in the author's essay.

I've attached a link to my contribution, so you can get a sense of how the book works. I haven't really given anything away that cannot be found by clicking on the "Look Inside!" button on the book's Amazon page.

Some of the many talented authors in the collection include Aileen G. Baron, James Scott Bell, Rhys Bowen, Rachel Brady, Robert Browne, Rebecca Cantrell, Reed Farrel Coleman, Deborah Coonts, Bill Crider, Meg Gardiner, Gar Anthony Haywood, Harley Jane Kozak, William Kent Krueger, Robert S. Levinson, Sophie Littlefield, Tim Maleeny, Christopher Moore, Kelli Stanley, John Lutz, Louise Penny, Lorenzo Carcaterra and many, many more. I apologize for not including every contributor; the names themselves would fill a book.

The NOW WRITE! series includes other notable publications, such as Now Write! Fiction, Now Write! Nonfiction, and Now Write! Screenwriting.

The books are edited by Sherry Ellis and her niece Laurie Lamson. Laurie took over finishing the new book after Sherry passed away unexpectedly last year. It was a terrible loss to our community. And I'm honored to have been part of her last creative effort on this planet.

The other book I'm in is called WRITERS ON THE EDGE: 22 Writers Speak About Addiction and Dependency.

My essay here finally answers the big question I get when I'm on panels at conferences. The question: "How the hell did you do your research for Boulevard and Beat?"

When I don't want to get into the specifics, I go with the answer I have in the Now Write! series. I discuss the passion I have for boots-on-the-ground research, how I love to meet and interview people and learn the details of their lives.

When I get down-and-dirty, I talk about the struggles I had with my own sex-addiction, how I went to twelve-step meetings and marriage counseling and therapy and took a potentially life-threatening problem and turned it into something life-affirming and creative. My essay in this book is open and honest and, ultimately, uplifting. I discuss the things I did, how the addiction began, how it affected my psychology, my relationships, my marriage. It's the most personal discussion I've had on the subject. I was actually reluctant to write the piece, but the editors, Diana M. Raab and James Brown, convinced me that my experiences should be shared with others who might be struggling with their own addictive behavior. After all, it's Twelfth Step stuff - helping others along the path to their own sobriety.

All the essays in the book are fabulous. The authors speak from their hearts and I admire them for the vulnerability they exhibit.

The book also features a forward by Jerry Stahl, author of PERMANENT MIDNIGHT.

For those of you in the Los Angeles area, we will be launching the book from Book Soup on Saturday, February 25, at 4:00 pm.

That's it for now, folks.

Last year I ran the first in what I promised would be an occasional series of ‘guest’ blogs by my protagonist, Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Fox on the subject of personal safety. Charlie had a short-lived career in the Women’s Royal Army Corps, passing selection for Special Forces training, but being dishonourably discharged following a court martial. (Don’t ask.) She then taught self-defence for women in a small northern UK city, and eventually moved into a career as a bodyguard – initially for a London-based outfit run by her partner, Sean Meyer. When Sean was offered a partnership in Parker Armstrong’s prestigious close-protection agency in New York City, Charlie moved with Sean to Manhattan. She has been based there ever since.

Let me tell you, car drivers have it easy – sometimes too easy. There you are sitting in a cushioned little tin box on wheels, largely oblivious to what’s going on around you, but cocooned in your own little bubble of false security.

You think you’re safe in there, but you’re not.

Can’t you tell I’ve spent most of my motoring life on two wheels instead? Especially since moving to New York City. Like any city, getting around by car can be slower than walking and daily parking fees would just about feed a family of four for a month. Riding a motorcycle is the best way to cut through traffic, although since my Buell got trashed (another ‘don’t ask’ moment – ZS) I’m seriously thinking about sticking to travelling either by the subway or by up-armoured Lincoln Navigator.

Personal security on the move begins before you ever leave home. Well before. Never does any harm to walk around your car on a regular basis and check none of your tyres have gone soft, or are wearing unevenly. Tyre failure is the biggest cause of motorway accidents in the UK. And looking at the way some people abuse their wheels every time they park, I’m not surprised.

If I’m taking out a principal in their own car, I do a walk-round check every time. I also look for anything underneath or attached to it, often disguised as litter. Doesn’t need to be explosives – on one local sink estate the kiddies thought it was a great laugh to wedge nails against the tyres of cars parked outside the local late-night convenience store, just to watch the tyres go pop as they were driven away. Changing one flat tyre is a nuisance. Changing two involves calling your breakdown recovery service.

Speaking of which, it might just be worth checking that the spare wheel is inflated and has enough tread on it to get you home, and that the jack and wheelbrace are where they should be. Oh, and if your car has locking wheelnuts, make sure you have the key – better to find it now than have to search in the dark, in the rain, at three a.m. on a scary piece of lonely road.

Carry a map. Sounds obvious, but in these days of handheld GPS units a lot of people don’t bother any more. Bad weather like snow will block the GPS antenna from picking up a signal from the satellite and you’ll be doubly lost unless you can still do it the old-fashioned way.

Knowing where you’re going is a fundamental piece of safety advice. GPS is good, but not that good, and not all the time. If you’re going somewhere new for the first time, double-check the address and if necessary instruct the GPS to take you to a precise point on a map rather than the postcode or zip code, which could be anywhere within several miles of your actual destination.

If you’re travelling outside your home country, you have to decide if you’re going to rent a car and drive yourself or rely on local drivers or taxis. If you decide to rent, make sure there’s nothing about the vehicle that obviously marks you out as a foreigner. And learn which local rules of the road you can break to blend in.

In a hot climate air conditioning is not a luxury, it’s a necessity because it enables you to drive without all the windows open. Same goes for central locking. If it isn’t automatic, activate it before you set off rather than waiting until you’re in a dangerous situation – the sound of the locks operating may act as provocation.

In some countries, using taxis can be safer, unless they’re scoping out tourists as potential kidnap victims. Ask your hotel to recommend drivers they’ve used before without incident. Get an idea of the fare before you set out, and don’t flash too much cash when you’re settling up. And always make sure people know where you’re going and when you’re likely to return.

Of course, I’m generally happier in something with armour – it goes with the job. And if the vehicle is fitted with a direction-of-fire indicator so you don’t debus into incoming sniper fire, so much the better. But I’ve been known to stuff Kevlar body armour inside door panels or lay them on seats for instant protection.

OK, I realise that for most people this advice seems like overkill. But certain habits when you’re in your car are good practice, no matter who or where you are.

If you live in a city where you’re often caught in slow-moving traffic and car-jacking is a possibility, get anti-smash window film fitted to the side glass. Put your bag or laptop on the floor rather than on the passenger seat.

Women drivers should avoid having a private registration with an obviously female first name on it. And never mind valuables, don’t leave any personal items on show when you park. Particularly anything that makes your gender obvious. If you drive a girlie car, though, there’s not much you can do to disguise that.

When you leave the car, bear in mind what time it will be when you come back to it. It may not seem important to park under a light during the day, but after dark you’ll be glad you did. In a multi-storey parking garage, reverse park so you can drive out forwards quickly and easily.

Make sure you have your keys in your hand long before you reach your car, so you’re not standing there fumbling in your bag or pockets. If your alarm has the feature, keep your thumb on the panic button as you approach, just in case. Most alarms or remote central locking systems automatically put the interior lights on when the locks disengage. And I know it’s an urban myth, but check the back seat anyway before you get in.

I always do.

So, 'Rati, any tips to add to these from Charlie? Any near misses you've experienced or heard about while you've been on the road?

This week’s Words of the Week are flotsam and jetsam. Jetsam are goods jettisoned from a ship in time of danger, but also goods from a wreck that remain under water. The word is a contraction of jettison, from the Latin jacere, to throw. Flotsam, on the other hand, are goods lost overboard as the ship sinks and found floating on the sea.

Zoë Sharp recently posted an excellent piece on the question of why we—meaning you, me, and the shy, skulking, blinky stranger in the threadbare overcoat crouching over there in the corner with the thumb-worn paperback—why we, dear friends, read crime fiction.

Given a natural, almost irrepressible inclination to let my mind wander and generally, hopelessly digress, I soon found myself mentally drifting into the conjectural weeds, wondering about a related question:

Why do we write crime fiction?

I’m hoping all my fellow Murderateros chime in on this, because I have a nagging little notion that the answers will prove not just revealing but jaw-dropping.

I mean, why does a conscientious, civil, well-educated, upstanding, socially responsible, personally hygienic, cheerful, brave, clean and reverent soul and lifelong swell gal like Pari Noskin Taichert or Phillipa Martin—to take but two blushing examples—come to share the blue-skied expanse of their otherwise benign imaginations with schemy lowlifes, bumbling thugs, skin-curdling perverts, gun-toting birdbrains, shuffling miscreants, jolly sadists, penny-ante lawmen, bogus medicine men and anarchist shoplifters?

I hope the dozens-to-hundreds of the rest you toiling away in the crime fiction boiler room—whether famous or obscure, published or soon-to-be-published or dreaming-of-being-published or willing-to-kill-to-get-published—will also pipe up and be heard. Why oh why do you do it?

I can only speak for myself, of course, and what purpose would generalizations serve? So here is my sad and sordid tale, my ars poetica.

Let me take you back to the tranquil midwestern burg known as Columbus, Ohio—a great place to raise a family, it was often said. Or brew up a first-rate neurosis. Everything of any import, I was convinced, happened elsewhere. In particular, it happened in books.

I was a brainy, tubby, near-sighted kid who read voraciously, tirelessly, endlessly, so much so my less print-bedazed brother considered me an excellent target for mockery, torment and contempt. To little avail. I devoured the Hardy Boys and Danny Dunn and the We Were There novels—We Were There at the Battle of the Bulge, We Were There on the Chisolm Trail, We Were There at the Oklahoma Land Rush—and the Random House American history set that taught me about everything from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show to the U.S. Marine assault at Belleau Wood. I had the kind of knowledge that would serve me well later as a PI—a thousand miles wide and two inches deep. All of it from books.

Meanwhile, there was a gas station in my neighborhood run by the Moro brothers who always bought the change from my paper route, and once that transaction was complete I normally bought a soda from the machine and a candy bar and hung out for a while. Though not exactly Tom and Ray Magliozzi—NPR’s infamous Click and Clack from Car Talk—Jimmy and Johnny Moro weren’t far off, and they mesmerized me. They were earthy, funny, fouled with grease and full of fun. They laughed loud and seemed to possess that rarest of gifts I so wanted to share: They lived.

I wondered if it wasn’t an Italian thing, for I saw much the same kind of gioia di vivere at my buddy Vince Milletello’s house, even though he was even pudgier than me. His mom and aunts were gorgeous, their husbands charismatic, the food incredible—I didn’t know why everybody didn’t hang out at that house. (Mrs. Milletello was constantly trying to get me to go home, to the point, on occasion, of shaking her shoe.)

These people just lived larger than my family did. In my home, anything remotely emotional remained studiously in check—until unleashed by alcohol, or uncorked by rage.

This resulted in the all too familiar fate of the bookworm: self-loathing. I was convinced an essential piece to the puzzle of life was by its very nature nowhere to be found—by me. And it was the piece that had to do with the dirty business known as Life As It Is, not Life As It Appears In Books.

My egg-headedness began paying dividends, though, at least in attention from teachers—I still got the usual ragging crap from classmates—and I embraced my IQ as the quintessential essence of my life. Or at least the most direct way out of puberty. I was the guy who got straight A’s, but with a bit of a mouth, the class clown attitude, a rough edge here and there. I was never top of my class but always close. And in the pit of my black little soul, I sensed that any hope I had of getting a girl, it would probably be because I was so doggone smart.

What an idiot.

But I was also musical, played guitar in the campus coffeehouses, and then took a year off from THE Ohio State University to join a bar band, touring Midwestern backwaters like Beckley, West Virginia; Lima, Ohio; Kokomo, Indiana; Midland, Michigan.

It was a formative time. I met many cocktail waitresses.

(If you want an idea of what one of our signature tunes was, go here.)

But the siren call of campus life drew me back. There’s only so many times you can play “Color My World” to a roomful of horny, polyester-clad divorcees drenched in Old Spice—or sweet Midwestern fogheads nodding on quaaludes—before you begin having unhealthy imaginings, replete with knives and curdled in bile.

I returned to college and somehow bumbled my way into a math major. I was the department freak—a hippy entranced with diophantine equations and Fermat’s Last Theorem. I continued playing in coffeehouses, dabbled in writing, won a poetry prize (figure that one out), hung out with dancers—I mean, who wouldn’t?—and was basically on a collision course with full-blown academe.

But I had no clue what to do as a graduate student. I threw a dart, hit linguistics—a perfect marriage of my fascination with language and my scientific soul—and won a full scholarship to U.C. Berkeley.

Within a matter of weeks, I was drowning in doubt and my own lack of talent, not to mention a serious deficiency of oomph. I saw the life my professors were living—marrying young, the girl across the table in the library, then divorcing at 40, lustily chasing their students—and I ran screaming. On some deep level I knew I had to climb down out of the ivory tower and wander the world. Get my heart broken, my nose bloodied.

But I still had that artistic itch, so after leaving school I studied acting and began writing short stories. Ironically, it was two of my friends from acting school who turned me on to the PI firm where I would spend the next thirteen years of my life. One friend worked as a receptionist, the other as a stringer (serving subpoenas, spending hours in his car conducting surveillance), and they both made it clear—if I wanted to write, I couldn’t beat this job for material.

I bugged the owners of the firm, Jack Palladino and Sandra Sutherland, for nine months, and was finally hired because I wore them down (they graciously referred to me as the most persistent applicant they’d ever had—persistence, incidentally, being of far more use to a PI than anything else). As for my writing, I told myself: These will be my years at sea. What I saw and did would provide not just the subject matter but the texture and worldview that would inform everything I wrote for the rest of my life.

The job rooted me to the real world like nothing had before. I was now working for men and women whose freedom, life-savings, even their very lives were at risk. Half measures wouldn’t do. The stakes were high and the lights were on. I loved it, like no other job I’d ever had. I felt like I could finally go back home, walk into the Moro brothers’ gas station and not feel like a phony. I was no longer waiting for my life. I’d found it.

Up to this point, no joke, I hadn’t picked up a crime novel since the Hardy Boys. I associated crime fiction with B movies, fun but campy, and preferred Kafka and Borges and Robbe-Grillet, Pinter and Stoppard. Now that I was actually working in the world of crime, I figured: Oh, what the hell. I picked up Chandler’s The Long Goodbye. Shortly thereafter I devoured Cain’s Double Indemnity, and then the clincher, James Crumley’s The Wrong Case.

No, I wasn’t hooked. But I got it. And the point hit home in a way it hadn’t before. I saw the world I knew, the world of the justice system—witnesses, criminals, victims and cops, snitches and lawyers—transplanted to a literary landscape, a smart one (of course, I couldn’t give up that), and my artistic sensibility and my real-world existence had finally meshed in a way they never had before.

Here was the literary representation of the authenticity I’d been craving since my boyhood, the world where people didn’t think about life, they lived it. Yeah, sure, they existed in books, so sue me. Or shoot me. The characters in those books suffered the terror of their smallness before the crushing wheel of power, they fought and even killed for just a little more, they needed, they craved, they believed, they despaired. Justice might be small but it was everything. And even the most cynical had an inner fire.

Due to the heritage of American realism, there was a convincing lack of prettiness, a sharpness, a directness and hard-edged simplicity that rang true for me. I didn’t completely forego lyricism but the mode was now decidedly minor. And though I didn’t give up on literary fiction I needed the edge I found in crime, that same lack of sentiment, that commitment to a life faced squarely and lived fully, damn the bloody noses and broken hearts.

Please chime in: Why do you write crime? And if you don’t write, what do you expect from the crime writers you read that you don’t expect from others?

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: My own music career was behind me when Steve Earle came out with “Copperhead Road,” but on one of my very first author panels—which I got to share with both Laurie King and Michael Connelly—I admitted that this song probably had as much influence on me as writer as anything I’d ever read. Still does:

About two years ago I came across a piece by Marcus Sakey on his blog at The Outfit about writing successful query letters to agents. It was excellent down-to-earth advice. So good, in fact, that every time I’ve taught a workshop, or done a speaking event where there are would-be authors, I recommend that they go and read Marcus’s blog.

Things have changed a little over the past couple of years, however, and I wondered if Marcus had any new tips to add to his original post. Hence the fact I invited him onto ‘Rati for Expect The Unexpected Tuesday to offer an updated version.

For the one or two of you who maybe are not familiar with him, Marcus Sakey is the bestselling author of five novels, three of which have been optioned for film. He has been called “A modern master of suspense” (Chicago Tribune), and “One of our best storytellers” (Michael Connelly). 

His latest novel is THE TWO DEATHS OF DANIEL HAYES.  Marcus is also the host and writer of the acclaimed television series HIDDEN CITY on Travel Channel.

When I speak at a writer’s conference, I’m often asked about finding an agent.  And my response tends to piss people off. 

I explain the concept of a query letter, and then I say that a properly-written one should result in at least 75% of agents requesting the manuscript. 

People tend to disagree rather vehemently.  To them, I can only respond: respectfully, you’re wrong.

I know because I had that success rate.  In fact, once I had my query in its proper form, about 80% of the agents I queried requested materials.

Some people say that this isn’t realistic for today’s market.  And publishing has changed since I signed with my agent in 2005.  But while publishing has changed, the business model of agents has not. 

Other people point out that I’m an established author.  I wasn’t then.  In fact, I had no credits whatsoever.

Still others say that there are too many variables in play for query letters to achieve that success rate.  But remember, I didn’t say any query letter.  I said a properly written one.

Before I go on, I should address the elephant in the room: whether or not you even need an agent or a publisher these days.  After all, e-publishing, and especially Amazon, has fundamentally changed our business.

Whether or not to self-publish is a personal decision.  There are a lot of great arguments for it: a higher royalty rate, direct control of the promotion and pricing and cover design, an expedient publishing process.  Some authors, like my controversial buddy Joe Konrath, make the case that going with a traditional publisher at this point is akin to booking passage on the Titanic.

Me, I wouldn’t go that far.  I believe there are a lot of benefits to traditional publishing.  Foremost among them is the active involvement of a skilled professional editor.  I can say with certainty that my editor has dramatically improved all of my books.  I also believe that having a hurdle-clearing process benefits the overall quality of literature.   And the self-publishing world is still akin to the Wild West; some people will make their fortunes, but plenty will die of dysentery.

What will the publishing world look like in even one year, much less five?  I have no idea, and neither does anyone else.  Would I consider self-publishing?  Absolutely.  In fact, I have.  I self-pubbed a short story collection called SCAR TISSUE, and am delighted I did. 

But this article really isn’t about whether or not to self-publish.  Weigh the arguments.  Consider your own abilities (Can you write fast enough to feed the beast?  Do you believe an editor can improve your work?  Does the safety of an advance and a contract provide you a better headspace to write novels?) as well as the work you’re willing to do (Do you want to spend time formatting e-books, writing promotional copy, and managing cover design?  Do you have a platform to help you promote?  Do you enjoy the rather constant effort of reaching out to potential readers?) and make up your own mind.

If you decide that you would like to try the traditional approach, this is how you do it.

First of all, finish the book.  And I don’t just mean type “THE END.”  If it isn't polished to a high gleam, if it hasn't been read by a dozen friends and re-written in response to their comments, then you aren't ready to worry about Step Two.

But let’s assume that it is.  The next thing you need to do is decide which agents to approach.

This is one of the ways you limit the number of variables in the equation.  Only query agents who represent work like yours. My own agent, for example, specializes in crime fiction, thrillers, and some nonfiction. Sending him fantasy would be a waste of time. It's not his market, and even if he did like it, you'd be better served by an agent who really knows your field.

How to do that? Go to your local bookstore or library, and bring a notebook. Find the section that matches your genre, and start pulling books down. In their acknowledgments, authors almost always thank their agent (if they don't, you don't want that agent anyway.) Focus on books that are somewhat similar to yours, but don't obsess. Don't try to pick a favorite in advance.

After three or four deeply boring hours, you should have a sizable list. To find their addresses, turn to the Internet. You can Google search, using quotes around their full name. You can also look at sites like EveryoneWhosAnyone.com and AgentQuery.com. Again, not fun, but necessary. Make a spreadsheet, and include the agency, the agent's name, the authors they represent, the address and email, and sections for dates to track who you've sent letters and when.

Okay, so you've got a targeted list.  Now it’s time to write the dreaded query.

It’s dreaded for a reason, which is that you already wrote the book. You slaved over every one of 350 pages. You know its intricacies, its subtleties, its moments of grace and its smelly underarms. Now you have to forget all that.

Here's the key to writing queries. You're not actually selling the book.

I want to repeat that:  You are not selling the book.  In fact, you could write a highly successful query for a book that does not exist.

All you’re doing is seducing the agent. You want to get them interested enough that they ask to see your manuscript. That's it.

It's like online dating. If you can write a charming email, you might get a date; if you get a date, who knows where it could lead. But try to put all your history and baggage in that first message and you won't get any play. Instead, demonstrate that you're worth someone's time. That you are interesting, sincere, and respectful.

How do you do that?  Well, for one, you're polished. Your language is compelling and your presentation is perfect.

Also, you're brief. Agents are busy. There are hundreds of other queries to read.

Finally, you are a storyteller. You know how to tease, how to intrigue, and you're not afraid to put those wiles to work.

After a professional greeting (Mr. or Ms.), begin with a 1 - 2 line paragraph explaining that you are writing them because you know they represent X, and your book is similar.   This shows that you have done your homework.  It also begins to frame their expectations.  By implication they know the genre and style of your work.  This is also a good place to put the word count, because if it’s appropriate (70,000 – 120,000, depending on genre), that’s a hurdle you’ve already cleared.

Next, in 3 - 5 lines, sum up your story. This is the hard part, but it’s easier than most people make it.  In essence, what you want to do is leave out the tangents, complications, minor characters, and themes. Remember, this is seduction. Focus on drama and stakes. Here's mine:

For Danny Carter, retired thief turned respectable businessman, a normal life sharing a Lincoln Park condo with his loving girlfriend seems like the ultimate score--until his former partner comes looking for him. A hardened killer fresh out of Stateville, his partner wants to kidnap the son of Danny's millionaire boss, and he needs help to pull it off. Doing the job could cost Danny his career, his relationship, and his freedom.

Refusing could cost him his life.

Did I leave out a lot? About 86,974 words. And man oh man did it hurt at first.  But look at what it accomplished.  By keeping the pitch brief, using only one name, and including significant stakes, I demonstrated that I know how to tell a story.

And that, my friends, is the point of the query letter. 

Think about it.  Agents get hundreds of these a week.  Do you really think they remember them?  Hell, I bet they forget the beginning of most by the time they reach the middle.  You try and read 300 queries, see how fast your eyes glaze over.

So instead of trying to convey the beautiful bleeding soul that is your novel, just show an agent you know how to tell a story.  That’s what makes them willing to read your manuscript.

Okay, next paragraph.  This is the place for awards, previous publications, and nepotistic hookups. Will Stephen King blurb you?  Is Oprah your aunt?  Do you run a wildly successful blog?  Put it in there.

Also, if you have some experience that informed the book, consider including it. Be judicious: if you're hawking a mystery novel, by all means mention that you’re a cop. If your character likes to cook and so do you, leave it out. In fact, if you have nothing to mention here, leave the whole damn ‘graph out.  Never write just to fill space.

Finally, end with what in advertising is known as a call to action: "May I send you the finished manuscript?"

If you're writing a conventional query, you're done. However, these days I recommend you query via email. There are a couple of reasons. First, e-queries are cheaper and faster and better for the environment. Second, you can include a little taste of your novel. Do it like this: "Page one of <insert compelling title here> follows. May I send you the finished manuscript?"

Then, after your name and contact info, paste in the first page or so of the novel. Do not attach it, as that will freak people out about viruses. Also, be sure to check your formatting, since email can screw that up, and manually insert line-breaks to double-space. Finally, make sure that you end on a minor cliffhanger, something interesting.

The idea is simple. The agent has just read your brief and compelling query letter. They're intrigued. It's the easiest thing in the world to scroll down and read a little more.  And then, because your first page is dynamite (right?), hopefully intrigued upshifts to excited. Simple as that.

A good query letter is not written in a day. Write it and rewrite it. Have friends and critique partners read it. Buff the hell out of it. Once you feel like it's ready, start sending out waves, say 5 - 10 a week.

Doing it in waves is crucial, because it will tell you how effective your query letter is.  (Note: I didn’t say how interesting your book is.  Query letters and novels are separate things.)   Remember, your query letter isn’t finished until you’re seeing about a 75% request rate.

When you do get a bite, remember to write REQUESTED MATERIALS in big letters on the envelope or the email subject so that your manuscript hits the top of the pile. Then do a little happy dance and go send out another couple of queries.

Of course, the painful part is that for all the manuscript requests, you’ll get plenty of rejections.  I did.  This is a subjective business, and some very big names told me they didn’t like the book, that it lacked tension, that they didn’t think it had a market.  Which made it all the sweeter when CBS Sunday Morning called THE BLADE ITSELF “how immortality gets started,” or when we sold the film rights to Ben Affleck. 

Don’t sweat the rejections.  Have a beer, then send another query.  And great good luck!

When does thinking get in the way of writing? It’s not a trick question. I often wonder about the intrusion or benefit of analysis at each step of literary creation -- from the initial idea to writing, editing, revision, all the way to publication.

I ask because I’ve seen applied brain power work and, sometimes, destroy writing careers during the years I’ve paid attention to such things. Of the dozens of writers whose creative trajectories I have watched with interest, not all have been published or have earned a living in their chosen field. The publishing industry is much too capricious to judge their success in those terms. What intrigues me is the end product in relation to those writers' personal satisfaction AND ability to translate their ideas into pieces that evoke the intended responses in readers.

In the creative phase
I know writers who approach every word and scene with a director’s clarity of vision before even typing the first letter of the first “The.” Other writers agonize over every sentence to the point of utter creative constipation. In these cases, their analyses are debilitating. Some acquaintances write with ease and speed, never stopping to question their impulses. Some are satisfied with their disjointed -- and often sloppy -- results. Some don’t need to edit. Some can see the flaws in their works, without self-flagellation, and know how to fix them.

In the editing process
I know writers who, like great brain surgeons, work with a skill and attention to detail that slices away every errant adverb and cauterizes every poignant scene at the perfect moment. I also know writers who bleed criticism on their pages with such abandon  -- and lack of self-confidence -- I fear they’ll hemorrhage each time they take to analyzing the effectiveness of their creations.

So what’s right?
Hell if I know.

My own process has gone through many changes. I used to be delighted with everything I wrote and didn’t think I needed any editing at all. Then came the self-doubt. Then came the obsessive editing. Then came the creative constipation. Then came the fury at the lack of joy in the writing and the total rejection of editing while in the creative process. And now? Well, I'm still stuck in that last phase, but am starting to feel the urge to publish again. BUT I haven’t any idea what my editing approach will be.

I do, however, remain curious about others . . .

My questions today are

For readers:  Are there any books/stories you’ve read where you’re aware of the writer’s thinkiness? Of his or her plans, editing etc? Can thinkiness intrude?

For writers: Is there such a thing as overthinking, overediting? Or . . . have your processes changed since you started writing?