The Wildcard Tuesday New Year Interrogation

Zoë Sharp

The first moon of 2013

Welcome to the first Wildcard Tuesday blog of 2013, and an enormously Happy New Year to you all. For this I asked a few lighthearted questions of fellow ‘Rati past and present, and below are their answers. I hope you find them worthy of a giggle.

(As a small aside, I started off searching for sensible author pix, but what I’ve actually ended up going for are the silliest pix that came up on the first page of a Google Images search on that author’s name.)

ALLISON BRENNAN

Where did you choose to celebrate the holiday season this year?

Home, as usual.

What would have been your ideal location?

Home! (Though, I would have liked to have gone to Disneyland right after Christmas ... maybe next year!)

What was the best—or worst—gift you've ever received?

My husband once gave me an electric grout cleaner. Needless to say, I never used it.

The best—or worst—meal or item of food you've been served—or served to others?

The absolute best Christmas dinner we've had was when I decided to cook prime rib instead of the standard turkey or ham. It was pricey, but oh-so-delicious! I think that was back in 1997 ...

What's your idea of the Christmas From Hell?

Traveling for Christmas.

Looking back, what was your favourite moment from 2012?

Watching my oldest daughter graduate from high school—and hearing her and the Seraphim Choir sing the National Anthem. They were amazing.

I'm not going to ask about New Year's resolutions, but do you have one ambition, large or small, you'd like to achieve in 2013?

Walk daily, meet my deadlines, don't sweat the small stuff.

And finally, what book(s) have you brought out this year?

Two Lucy Kincaid books from Minotaur/SMP—SILENCED and STALKED; a short story in the anthology LOVE IS MURDER; an indie published novella MURDER IN THE RIVER CITY.

And what's on the cards for the early part of 2013?

A Lucy Kincaid novella in March (RECKLESS), and two more book STOLEN and COLD SNAP. Plus a short story for the NINC anthology and maybe another indie novella. If I have time.

DAVID CORBETT

Where did you choose to celebrate the holiday season this year?

Home alone, if "choose" and "celebrate" are the correct verbs. Mette arrives on the 28th, so things should get merrier at that point.

What would have been your ideal location?

Buenos Aires. Ireland. A beach in Mexico.

What was the best—or worst—gift you've ever received?

Best gift I ever "received" was one I gave. As a gag gift I bought my late wife a red flannel union suit with a button seat flap that she absolutely loved. Slept in it all the time. Cozy as hell. Damn, she was happy.

The best—or worst—meal or item of food you've been served—or served to others?

When I was a kid one of my classmates' families came over during the holidays and brought cookies that literally made me gag. I picked one up, sniffed it like a cocker spaniel, recoiled, and put it back. My brother started bellowing, "You touched it, you have to eat it." Unfortunately, King Solomon (my father) agreed. I almost upchucked trying to get it down.

What's your idea of the Christmas From Hell?

Oh, let's not go there.

Looking back, what was your favourite moment from 2012?

A weekend in San Antonio for the wedding of one of Mette's dearest friends, when I got introduced to the inner circle. Also, the moments when I read the cover quotes I received for THE ART OF CHARACTER. I was incredibly humbled and grateful so many writers I respect said so many kind and generous things.

One ambition, large or small, you'd like to achieve in 2013?

Make the new book a success, and wrap up the novel I'm working on to my own persnickety satisfaction.

And finally, what book(s) have you brought out this year?

Open Road Media and Mysterious Press re-issued all four of my novels in ebook format in 2012, with a brand new short story collection titled KILLING YOURSELF TO SURVIVE.

And what's on the cards for the early part of 2013?

The new book, THE ART OF CHARACTER, comes out on January 29th, 2013 from Penguin.

ALEXANDRA SOKOLOFF

Where?

New Orleans.

Ideal location?

It's hard to top New Orleans.

Best/worst gift?

Well, there's this pretty spectacular amethyst necklace...

Best/worst food?

I've served many a bad meal to others. For everyone's sake I stopped trying to cook long ago. Personally I don't care much what food gets served, but I do remember one Christmas morning in London with blackberry jam on waffles and whisky for breakfast. The blackberry jam ended up all sorts of places and it was all very lovely.  I could do that again.

Christmas From Hell?

It's hard to narrow that down, actually. Endless scenarios spring to mind. I hate being cold, though, so winter is perilous.

Favourite moment from 2012?

For public consumption, you mean? The general reader response to HUNTRESS MOON has been a real high.

One ambition in 2013?

I'd like to find a really wonderful place to live.

Books this year?

My crime thriller HUNTRESS MOON, a boxed set of three of my supernatural thrillers called HAUNTED, a novella called D-GIRL ON DOOMSDAY in an interconnected anthology with three other dark fantasy female author friends: APOCALYPSE: YEAR ZERO. And I got several backlist titles back and put them out as e books at wonderfully affordable prices: THE UNSEEN, BOOK OF SHADOWS, THE HARROWING and THE PRICE.

And for 2013?

The next book in my Huntress series comes out in late January:  BLOOD MOON. My next book in the paranormal Keepers series, KEEPER OF THE SHADOWS, comes out in May.

I'm selling my house in January and buying another as soon as possible, probably in California.

PD MARTIN

Where?

Every year we have Christmas Day at our home (in Melbourne) and then go down to the Mornington Peninsula (seaside) for most of January. It's the hottest time of year here in Oz, so it's great to be near the beach. We stay in a 1970s holiday house my grandparents bought in 1972, and given I spent summers down there as a kid it's particularly special to now be going down there with my children.

Ideal location?

The Peninsula is pretty good :) Although we've always said that one year we'll do a white/winter Christmas in New York or something.

Best/worst gift ever received?

Best gift I ever received was actually for my birthday this year—my Kindle. I'm a complete convert to the point where I can't imagine ever reading a 'real' book again. I prefer the Kindle reading experience for some reason.

Best meal?

I am biased, but I make a mean Tira Misu. I got the recipe from a chef and it's divine! And great because you make it a day or two before, so it's one thing to cross off the food preparation list early.

Christmas From Hell?

Mmm....I guess having to run around. You know, multiple visits. We do that a bit on Christmas Eve, but I enjoy the fact that then on Christmas Day we just kick back. We start with oysters at midday, then it's prawns (yes, on the BBQ), then an Asian style salmon fillet dish then Tira Misu (at about 4pm). Then a movie!

Favourite moment from 2012?

That's easy for me—picking up our son, Liam, from Korea and making our family of three a family of four :)

One ambition, large or small, for 2013?

I've got a few books I'd like to finish. And hey, a best seller or a lotto win wouldn't go astray either.

Book(s) this year?

THE MISSING (two short stories), WHEN JUSTICE FAILS (two short true-crime pieces), HELL'S FURY (new book in spy thriller series), and two novels for younger readers that I've released under the pen name Pippa Dee—GROUNDED SPIRITS and THE WANDERER.

What’s next?

Probably what I've been doing the past few months—juggling motherhood and writing...and feeling like I'm going to crack under the pressure! 

JT ELLISON

Where?

Nashville and Florida.

Ideal location?

A family trip to Italy would have been fun.

Best gift you've ever received?

I got engaged during Christmas 1994, so that ranks up there....

Worst meal?

Italy, Cinque Terre, a large full fish the size of a cat, with its baleful eye staring up at me... I swear the thing was still breathing. Ugh! 

Christmas From Hell?

There's no such thing. I love Christmas.

Favourite moment from 2012?

Seeing my DH in his gorgeous new kilt for the first time. *fans self*

One ambition, large or small, for 2013?

I want to learn how to paint. In oil, large canvas abstracts. 

Book(s) last year?

A DEEPER DARKNESS, EDGE OF BLACK, STORM SEASON

And for 2013?

Writing, writing and more writing. Deadline January 30!

 MARTYN WAITES (half of Tania Carver)

Where?

At my in-laws. The kids wanted to go to see all their cousins. They love a big family get together. As for me, I'm pretty bah humbug about it. I don't care where I go or what I do or whether I get any presents or not. As long as I get to see Doctor Who, I'm happy.

Ideal location?

Somewhere abroad. Morocco would be good. If they were showing Doctor Who.

Best/worst gift ever received?

I've been lucky enough to get plenty of presents. I can't think of specifics in terms of best or worst, but for me the worst kind of gift is the thoughtless kind that someone has put no effort, time or care into. The best ones are the ones you absolutely want. Even if you don't know you do until you get them. I was lucky enough to get one of those this Christmas.

Best/worst meal?

At Christmas? It's all the same. I'm not a fan of Christmas dinner. Or any roast dinner for that matter. I eat it, but that's because it's what you do at Christmas. Like getting into water and swimming. The best meal I was ever served was at a Persian restaurant in Birmingham in 1988. It involved chicken and pomegranates and I've never tasted anything like it to this day. The restaurant disappeared soon afterwards in a kind of Brigadoon fashion and I sometimes wonder whether I actually went there. As for bad food . . . loads. In fact, it probably outnumbers the good food. That's why I try to remember the good ones.

Christmas From Hell?

Being forced to spend time with people I hate. That goes for the rest of the year as well. And not seeing Doctor Who.

Favourite moment from 2012?

Well, I wrote about my favourite cultural things on the last Murderati post—Y Niwl and the Hammer films retrospective—so they would be there in a big way. But other than that, it was something very small and personal that I'm afraid I couldn't share and that I doubt anyone would be particularly interested in.

One ambition, large or small, for 2013?

I do. I can't say anything about it in case I jinx it, but it will be the culmination of a lifetime's ambition. Or at least I hope it will.

Book(s) this year?

CHOKED, the fourth Tania Carver book came out in September in the UK. THE CREEPER, the second one, came out in the States. There have been other editions round the world and I think Russia finally got round to publishing my 2006 novel, THE MERCY SEAT.

And 2013?

Finishing the new Tania, THE DOLL'S HOUSE, which I'm uncharacteristically quite pleased with. Although it could all go horribly wrong. And then there's the afore(not)mentioned secret project . . .

GAR ANTHONY HAYWOOD

Where?

At the family's new home in Glassell Park, which we moved into in October.

Ideal location?

At the family's new home in Aspen, Colorado, which doesn't exist.

Best/worst gift ever received?

The best was a dictionary.  It was given to me many years ago by a wonderful woman who at the time was my mother-in-law to be.  She knew I was an aspiring writer and gifted me accordingly, which, oddly enough, no one in my immediate family had ever thought to attempt before.  I still own that dictionary, too.

Don't get me started on the worst gifts I've ever received.

Best/worst food?

The best, far and away, is the egg nog my godfather makes over the holidays. It tastes great and man, does it have a kick to it.

Never been given a fruitcake as a gift, and I pray I never am.

Christmas From Hell?

I think I actually experienced it last year.  Attended the worst Catholic midnight Mass possible: cornball music, pointless sermon, and theatre lighting (the service was being video-taped) that would make a mole cover its eyes.  Awful.

Favourite moment from 2012?

The family's spring break vacation in the Galapagos.  Unbelievable!

One ambition for 2013?

Completion of a manuscript that a conventional publisher buys for a tidy sum.

Book(s) last year?

Didn't have a book published this year, though my Aaron Gunner novels were re-released as e-books by Mysterious Press/Open Road.

And for the early part of 2013?

Early?  Maybe my first book for middle-graders, which my agent is shopping now.  Later in the year?  With the grace of God, a publication deal for my first Aaron Gunner novel in almost 10 years.

STEPHEN JAY SCHWARTZ

Where?

Stayed at home with the wife and kids—enjoyed the beach and the beautiful Southern California weather.  Played Scrabble and hung out in cafés.  Enjoyed a big meal of matzoh ball soup and tofurky.

Ideal location?

Ireland.  Clifton or Dingle, to be precise.

Best/worst gift ever received?

I haven't paid attention to holiday gifts for a long time.  I think the worst gift I ever got was for my bar mitzvah—it was a belt buckle.  No, actually, perhaps the worst was the beer stein my father gave me for my high school graduation.  This, instead of the car I had my eyes on.

Best/worst item of food?

Probably that tofurky we had last week.

Christmas From Hell?

Again, tofurky takes the price.

Favourite moment from 2012?

Seeing my son come back healthy and happy after a two-month hospital stay in Wisconsin.

One ambition, large or small, for 2013?

Main ambition—work to live a creative life, 24/7.

Book(s) this year?

Move along, nothing to see here.

What's on the cards for the early part of 2013?

Move along, nothing to see here either...

BRETT BATTLES

Where?

The first half I spent in a hot, tropical location with my feet in the water, a beer nearby, and a Kindle in my hand; the second half at home in L.A. with my kids, my parents, and my sister and her kids.

Ideal location?

Nailed it this year.

Best gift ever received?

This year I got the complete set of Calvin & Hobbs from my parents. It was perfect!

Best food?

I made a pretty awesome ham this year that was juicy and delicious. Hmmm, I'm craving leftovers right now!

Christmas From Hell?

Not being able to spend time with my family.

Favourite moment from 2012?

It was a pretty good year all around, so one event...? Going to San Diego for a week with my kids and parents was pretty damn fun!

One ambition for 2013?

Just more of the same ... write, travel, and spend time with friends and family.

Book(s) last year?

2012: THE DESTROYED (Quinn #5), PALE HORSE (Project Eden #3), THE COLLECTED (Quinn #6), and ASHES (Project #Eden #4)

And for 2013?

At least four more novels (hopefully five), including a secret collaboration I can't quite talk about yet.

TESS GERRITSEN

Where?

At home. With family.

Ideal location?

Exactly the same place.

Worst gift you've ever received?

An orange pantsuit.  I mean, really. My husband has not bought me anything orange ever since. (I’m guessing it didn’t look like this, then, Tess? ZS)

Best/worst meal?

For Christmas?  Not one bad meal sticks out.  On Christmas, everything tastes wonderful.

Christmas From Hell?

Being stuck in an airport. Far from family.

Favourite moment from 2012?

Standing on the Great Wall of China, with my husband and sons.

One ambition, for 2013?

To finally plant a vegetable garden that the deer can't demolish.

Book(s) out last year?

LAST TO DIE was published this past summer.

And what's on the cards for 2013?

Early 2013, I am headed to the Amazon River.

PARI NOSKIN TAICHERT

Where?

At home in peace. No requirements, no expectations. I just let myself be.

Ideal location?

The only other place I can imagine being this calm and relaxed would be Antibes . . .

Best gift?

Probably the best gift I've received so far is an essay my younger teen wrote about a difficult incident we shared last year and how it has taught her empathy. Made me cry, it touched my heart so.

Best/worst meal?

The best meal remains one brunch I had in Puerto Rico: fresh flying fish brought in that morning from a catch in Barbados, steamed bread fruit, Barbadian yellow hot sauce, fresh mangos picked minutes before from a tree just steps from where we ate.

Christmas From Hell?

I think it would be one filled with efforts to make it perfect, so many efforts that they'd hit the tipping point and tumble down to the other side of happiness.

Favourite moment from 2012?

The one where I finally realized I'm going to be all right, that the trials of this last year may continue . . . but they're not going to pull me down into the depths of despair anymore.

One ambition, large or small, for 2013?

Yes.

1. I'd like to e-publish the book that "almost" sold to NYC. It's the first in a new series and I'd like my character to meet readers and vice versa.

2. To continue to explore my creativity in whatever ways it's now manifesting, to give myself permission to let it fly.

Book(s) last year?

Nothing in 2012. I've been in hibernation for many reasons including the whole copyright issue and the divorce.

And for 2013?

To begin writing again and to enjoy it . . .

ZOË SHARP

As for me, I also spent Christmas this year with my family, which was where I wanted to be.

My ideal would probably have been a ski-in/ski-out chalet somewhere with plenty of snow. Not necessarily for skiing, but definitely for sculpting. I never did get to finish that Sphinx …

As for my ambitions for 2013, to find a life/work balance and to continue to improve my craft.

And books? In 2012 I brought out two e-boxed sets of the first six Charlie Fox novels, plus several short stories, and of course, DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten.

In 2013, DIE EASY is hot off the press in the States. I’m also editing two new projects—a supernatural thriller called CARNIFEX, and a standalone crime thriller called THE BLOOD WHISPERER, as well as working on the first in a new trilogy, the first in what I hope will be a new series, a novella project I can’t say too much about yet, and—of course—Charlie Fox book eleven. That should keep me going for a bit :)

So, it only remains for me to wish you all an incredibly Happy New Year, and to thank you for your comments and your feedback during 2012.

Happy birthday to me...and Gar!

By PD Martin

Well, today is my birthday. When I first drew 22 May in the Wildcard Tuesday schedule I was going to swap it, but then I thought maybe a birthday post would be fitting. You know, another year older (although today I’m actually only a day older!), have I accomplished what I wanted in the past year, cool birthday presents, you know…easy, right? Plus, I discovered via Facebook alerts that I’m not the only Murderati with a 22 May birthday…hard to believe that both Gar and I were born on the same day! 

Anyway, here in Australia it’s night time – and I’ve had a fabulous day. But first, leading up to my birthday I’ve been feeling all reflective about this past year. What have I accomplished? What haven’t I accomplished in the year that perhaps I wanted to? Do you do that? 

Here are my runs on the board for 22 May 2011 to 22 May 2012:

• My daughter started school (big milestone for us both in this past year)
• I’ve gone crazy on the ebook strategy and released two Sophie Anderson short stories (The Missing), two true-crime shorts (When Justice Fails), The Wanderer (Pippa Dee fantasy novel) and Hell’s Fury (the first “PD Martin” book in over two years, and book 1 in a new series)

Things that I expected to happen this year, but haven’t:

• Really thought I’d have a new agent by now (my last one passed away nearly eighteen months ago)
• I thought I would have edited my mainstream drama novel and have it out at agents (too busy with the ebook stuff, I guess)
• Thought I’d be a little bit wealthier (financial wealth, that is … sigh)
• I thought I’d be slimmer (double sigh and pat of the tummy that doth protrude too much)

Still, all in all it’s been an excellent year. I’m happily married, loving family life (especially my gorgeous Grace), PLUS I’ve actually been very productive in terms of writing, especially in the last five months.

 

As for birthday presents. Here’s my catch: 

• Kindle Touch – sooooo excited!!!!!
• Bright pink nightie (yes, from Grace)
• Chocolates
• Wireless mouse (much-needed)
• Massager set (probably also much-needed but I need to sit down and relax long enough to use them)
• Cash (to be spent on heart rate monitor with calorie counter, I think)

And I’ve had an amazing day. Hubby took the day off work and we went to see Dark Shadows AND The Avengers. We’re both huge movie buffs but find actually getting to the movies much harder nowadays. Then there was birthday cake, and a stunning dinner. Yes, I’ve been spoilt. 

So … how do you celebrate and/or deal with birthdays? How’s your year going so far? And what’s your best birthday present ever? Hopefully Gar will stop by today to tell us about his birthday too! 

Happy birthday to me…and Gar! 

The Eternal Typo

By David Corbett

Looking for Pari? Fret not. We’ve traded places this week, since I’ll be in the air ...

... heading to New York on Wednesday. Look for Pari’s post then.

* * * * *

My first two novels and a brand new story collection are coming out in ebook format tomorrow through Mysterious Press and Open Road Media.

Open Road and Mysterious Press have also re-issued the works of fellow Murderateros Gar Anthony Haywood, Martyn Waites, and Ken Bruen. Click on their names to see the books available.

I’m particularly jazzed about the story collection, for it includes a new story not previously published, the eponymous “Killing Yourself to Survive;” plus “Pretty Little Parasite,” which was included in Best American Mystery Stories 2009; “The Axiom of Choice” (a personal favorite), which appeared in Strand Magazine; “It Can Happen,” which was nominated for a Macavity Award and has been optioned for a film; and several other nuggets that have appeared here and there but have never been collected in one place.

I’ll let you know how to track down the books below. For now, in celebration of the re-issue of The Devil’s Redhead, let me tell you about the most embarrassing—and perversely resilient—goof-up in any of my books. (So far. That I know of…)

On page 301 of The Devil's Redhead hard cover edition (page 313 in the mass paperback), you will find this curious phrase: "sandstone palavers."

In isolation, it has a certain surreal/dada/Lewis Carroll quality. If only that were what I’d intended.

I wish I could blame some drudge in the bowels of Random House, anyone but myself. Note to aspiring writers: Never edit when you're blind with grief.

The word I wanted, of course, was "pavers," a word I'd never heard until my wife, Terri, used it as we were choosing tiles for a rehab job on our back porch.

Part of the word's charm was her usage, a kind of giddy almost childlike pleasure that she brought to everything. And when it came time, a few years later, to describe a Monterrey-style décor in a Mexican hotel, it seemed the mot juste.

Except my brain couldn't find it. It rummaged around in "similar sounding" bucket, and came up with "palavers." I knew this was wrong, and mentally earmarked the spot for revision once the right word came to me. Unfortunately, it never did.

The reason? By the time of this rewrite Terri had died of cancer. The manuscript for Redhead was purchased by Ballantine six weeks before her death, and I reworked the passage in question after her passing.

She was forty-six, the love of my life, and I was devastated. Anyone who knows that kind of grief knows it turns your mind and memory to slop. The simplest things confound you. Both the inner and outer worlds acquire a smudgy dullness, as though wreathed in a leaden haze, and the only light you see comes in lightning bolts of helpless pain and rage.

Such was my state of mind when the copy-edited version of the manuscript reached me.

When I came to the page in question I saw the copy editor had corrected it, but had been so baffled by my misuse, so unclear on my intent, that she changed it to another inappropriate word, with a question mark in the margin. It felt like a violation, given the word's link to Terri, her happiness, but I still couldn't conjure the right word myself. I stetted angrily, once again hoping that before I returned the pages the correct word would come to me. Then, of course, I forgot.

I forgot a lot of things back then.

The typo has proved to be as immortal as a Transylvanian count. In edition after edition, even in the U.K., the lousy little monster remains. (God only knows how the Japanese translation must read.)

I promised myself that, should a new edition appear I would finally, once and for all, erase this blight from the book. But when I sold the rights to Mysterious Press, I didn’t have a Word document I could go in and change at will. All I had was a PDF. But that allowed me at least to place a strikethrough mark on the telltale “la” that turns “paver” into “palaver.” I wrote a note pleading that this error be addressed in the final version of the ebook.

We shall see, said the blind man. I'm not, as they say, holding my breath. Typos, unlike the rest of us, are eternal. And who listens to the author anyway?

I'm sure somewhere, Terri is chuckling way. This is what I deserve, she no doubt thinks, for losing my temper. I wish I could tell her: Oh baby, I know. I know.

* * * * *

So, Murderateros: What’s the worst in-print gaffe you’ve committed, and have you been granted a dispensation, given the right to go back in and tweak the little sucker? Or does it sit there still, a troll beneath the bridge of your otherwise perfect prose?

* * * * *

Now, for a bit of TBSP [Tediously Blatant Self-Promotion]:

Here again is a little author profile video that the team at Open Road Media put together to help publicize the launch.

And here are links for purchasing the books:

The Devil’s Redhead 

Done for a Dime

Killing Yourself to Survive

If you haven’t yet tried my work, give one of these babies a spin. I’m proud of each of these books in different ways. I’d be honored and pleased if you decided one of them was worth a look.

* * * * *

Jukebox Heroes of the Week: I’m choosing two, one for each of the first two novels. Music always figures prominently in my books, and these two tunes were signature pieces for Redhead and Dime respectively: Rickie Lee Jones with “We Belong Together,” and Charles Mingus with “Moanin’:”

"You Are An Evil Boy"

David Corbett

First, if I may, a preliminary bit of shameless self-promotion:

On May 15^th, Open Road Media and Mysterious Press will allow me to join fellow Murderateros Gar Anthony Haywood and Ken Bruen as a Brother in Backlist as they re-publish in ebook format my first two novels, THE DEVIL’S REDHEAD and DONE FOR A DIME, plus an all-new collection of stories, KILLING MYSELF TO SURVIVE.

Pre-orders are now available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple, and Google.

I’ll have more info when I post on May 14^th (I’m trading days that week with Pari), but for now here’s a personal profile the folks at Open Road prepared for the launch. Hope you enjoy it:

* * * * * 

The author, age three or so. Note the evil.

This is a story about unspeakable sin and ultimate redemption. 

Whose sin, whose redemption? You tell me.

At the age of six I entered first grade at Our Lady of Peace Elementary in Columbus, Ohio. Nothing, nothing about the public school where I attended kindergarten the year before could have prepared me for what I was about to encounter.

The first bit of strangeness involved the women in whose care my parents abandoned me.

Penguins, the older kids called them.

I’d never seen nuns up close before. And not just any nuns. Dominicans. Daughters of the Inquisition.

They had antiquated names linked to obscure saints—Sister Malcolm (there’s a St. Malcolm? Who knew?) Sister Sabina. Sister Norita. Sister Euthenasia (Okay, I made that one up.)

The habits they wore, which I would later refer to as Medieval Madonna Drag, had a black-veiled wimple with a flat mortarboard top. It looked like a nice place to park a cup of coffee if there wasn’t room on your desk. I was secretly hoping one of them might pull a stunt like that—you know, for laughs. But you don’t take vows of lifelong obedience, chastity and poverty if what you’re looking for is a chuckle.

But it wasn’t just the habit. The truly weird part about their get-up was that each of them had tied around her waist a long chain of black beads:

At the end of that chain was the figure of a dying man, naked except for a loincloth, nailed to a cross, a gaping wound in his side and a bird’s nest of thorns jammed down onto his head.

They referred to this man as their spiritual husband.

All of which explained, I suppose, their generally unpleasant demeanor. What a pack of sourpusses. Scowls outnumbered smiles ten-to-one, and a few were just mean as weasels. They glared at you through their rimless spectacles with an expression that said: There’s a chair in hell waiting for you, my pretty.

But as strange and menacing as these women were, they were nothing compared to Father Foley, the parish pastor. Kids would literally turn white and tremble at the sound of his name—partly because the nuns said it the same way your babysitter talked about the guy with a hook for a hand out on lover’s lane. The constant, inescapable message was: Beware! Beware of the Wrath of Father George Foley!

Central Casting's Image of Fater Foley

He was a huge bucket-headed Irishman, 6’2, 250 pounds. He ran the only “legal” bingo operation in all of Franklin County and believe me, there were a LOT of greased palms involved. He’d been a boxer before he went into the seminary and his first stint as a priest was at the boy’s industrial school, as they called it. Reform school.

But none of this — NONE of this — could prepare you for your first face-to-face encounter with the man himself.

To borrow a line from The Twilight Zone: Imagine if you will … You’re six years old. Six years old. You’re still in a state of childlike awe over so many of life’s mysteries, things like dragonflies and waffles and questions like: If I have a right shoe and a left shoe, does that mean I have a right sock and a left sock? (You wouldn’t believe how long I puzzled over that sucker.)  Innocent, okay? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re innocent.

But you’re also Catholic. Which kinda nullifies the innocent.

Then one day, as you’re sitting quietly at your desk while Sr. Sabina teaches you the Hail Mary or the Our Father or the ever-so-important, never-to-be-forgotten Act of Contrition ("O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins..."), suddenly downstairs the door to the school SLAMS open.

I mean, LAPD’s SWAT Team would love to kick in a door like this.

And then you hear it. The voice. The voice you will never forget.

BAAAAAHHHH!!!!!! LITTLE MONSTERS.

You hear his steps on the stair — did I mention he had elephantiasis in one leg, so he was crippled and in constant pain. There’s a mood enhancer. But despite all that he dragged himself up the stairs to the second floor where the classrooms were, his steps an eerie and ominous:

BOOM Thud.

BOOM Thud.

BOOM Thud...

Silence as he reached the top of the stairs. Every kid in my class is shaking. Then the classroom door BLOWS back. He’s there in the doorway, immense, fire-eyed—he’s John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, he’s Ahab harpooning Moby Dick. He’s the God of the Old Testament. And he’s come —  here to YOUR classroom — to pass out report cards.

The first thing he says, still in the doorway, is: STAND UP!

Confused, wobbly and weak-kneed like baby goats, we clamber up as best we can from our still somewhat puzzling desks — but that’s not good enough:

When sister or I enter the room, you don’t just stand up. You leap up. LEAP!

For the next five minutes, we had leaping drills. He’d tell us to sit. Then he’d bellow: LEAP. We’d shoot up from our chairs like bottle rockets. Okay, he’d say. Sit down. Pause. Then: LEAP. Up we’d shoot again. Over and over, until he decided we'd finally gotten the message.

Then he passed out report cards.

“Have they been good, sister?”

“Well, for the most part, father. Some better than others.”

To say Father Foley believed in discipline is kinda like saying the Vikings were fond of sailing. And it wasn’t like you could run home for sympathy. My mother — my mother — told me: Don’t come running to me complaining that Father Foley hit you because if you do I’ll just swat you again.

If you got a C in conduct Father Foley would BLISTER you with a harangue that would make a Marine drill sergeant weep. His voice could knock out fillings — and if it didn’t, he’d use his hand, or his cane — no joke. For a C in Conduct. It was like you’d robbed a bank or strangled your kid sister or raped the school mascot. Then you had to come down for the next 6 Saturdays and help Mr. Johnson, the janitor, clean the school.

Father Foley called it: The Rock Pile.

I never had to go on the Rock Pile. My crime would be far more serious than that.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First grade went by reasonably quick and without memorable incident. I habitually got straight A’s and was thought of as a decent kid and a good student.

Things would change.

In second grade I had Sister Alphonsa, who truly, madly, deeply … HATED me. Even before I did the terrible thing.

One day I was working quietly at my desk like all my fellow second-graders when suddenly I heard this swoosh swoosh swoosh and the rattle of beads.

I glanced up: Sister Alphonsa was charging toward me, her habit and rosary swaying from her momentum, a look on her face as though, given half a chance, she would eat me whole and pick her teeth with my bones.

She grabbed my hair, pinched my cheek hard, slapped my face, and said: Look what you did!

She slammed a piece of paper down on my desk. I’d misspelled the word “school” on my spelling test.

Call it the curse of being a good student, I suppose. I got the message — I was supposed to be perfect.

Maybe that’s why I did it. The terrible thing.

What was it?

I signed my own report card.

Now, let me remind you, we’re talking straight A’s, across the board, even for Conduct and Effort. I’d show my grades to my parents and they were so blasé about it like: Oh, Christ, this again? Yawn.

So I thought: What’s the big deal?

Now, in second grade we were just learning how to write script, and we hadn’t gotten around to “a” yet, which made writing my mother’s name somewhat challenging, since it was Mary. I thought, Oh well, I’ll just use an “e.” Like Merry Christmas, except it was Merry Elizabeth Corbett. And Merry only had one “r.”

But the misspelling was hardly the giveaway. My mother had the most beautiful handwriting. Her signature belonged on the Declaration of Independence, or the Magna Carta. When I signed her name beneath her previous signatures, it looked like this woman with the beautiful script had lost her hand to a wolf, and was writing with the stump.

But arch fiend criminal genius that I was, I thought: Eh. Who’s gonna notice? Nobody looks at these things.

Several weeks went by. Then Sister Alphonsa appeared beside me once again. She didn’t come flying down the aisle this time. She came slowly, methodically, as though pacing herself to a dirge only she could hear. When she reached my desk, she stopped, glared down at me with every drop of contempt and disgust she could muster and said:

"You … are an evil boy."

She told me to go out into the hallway. Sister Macaria wanted to speak with me.

Sister Macaria—named for St. Macarius, of which there are in fact three: Macarius the Elder, Macarius the Younger, and Macarius the Wonder Worker—Sister Macaria was, as it turned out, pretty much the opposite of Sister Alphonsa. The kids liked Sister Macaria, the boys especially. She played softball with the eighth graders, had a mean underhand and when she was at the plate and the wood met the leather that little sucker was outta heah.

She also wore her wimple cocked a little to the side with a kind of — how shall I put this — devil-may-care jauntiness.

Sister Macaria had my report card. She looked at it. Looked at me. Looked at it. Back at me. Said finally:

Huh. You signed your own report card.

Yes, sister

Why?

I dunno. Sister.

She sighed voluminously. Well, go inside and get back to your schoolwork.

I’m thinking: That’s it? One minute I’m evil, the next it’s: Go back to your desk and try not to puke on your shoes. 

I’m thinking: Wow. This is sin? Count me in. 

A few more weeks go by, then early one morning: SLAM.

Boom. Thud. Boom. Thud...

The classroom door blows opens: We all leap up.

Good morning, Father Foley.

Oh yes. We'd learned our lesson only too well. We were God’s little children. Obsequious, oleaginous, obedient little drones.

The weird thing. Father Foley was in an incredibly chipper mood. He didn’t bellow, didn’t threaten, he even cracked a few jokes with the nun.

But I knew what was on my report card, and I’m thinking: You know, this may not end well.

But then I think: Oh come one. He loves my mom—she made an incredible apple pie, and when she baked one for bingo he’d sneak down to the school basement, scoop it up before the crowd arrived and take it back to the rectory all for himself. And my brother Jim, the sanctimonious suck-up, was his favorite altar boy.

I had juice, is what I’m saying. How bad could it get?

Father Foley goes through the A’s: Jimmy Adamski. Marie Anthony. Terry Archibald.

Then the B’s: Mike Bernardo. Kathy Brennan. Debbie Bucci.

Finally the C’s: Jack Cardi. Nancy Callahan. David Corbett.

He looks at my report card — again, such a good mood.

He says: Okay, Corbett, let’s see what we’ve got. A in reading, good. A in arithmetic, good. A in conduct, A in effort.

He turns it over, looks at the back.

YOU. SIGNED. YOUR OWN. REPORT CARD!!!

STAND UP.

I shot out of my chair like a moon launch and stood there shaking. I was so terrified I don’t even remember what he said but he made me stand there for what felt like eternity, going on with the other report cards but returning his attention to me every few minutes to scold me, browbeat me, humiliate me.

The other kids, I knew, hated this. Hated me. I’d turned the sunshine into gloom. For everybody.

I was an evil boy.

Finally Father Foley wrapped up with Brian Zimmerman. No more distractions. But instead of handing down my sentence, he got up and started to leave. He shot me one last withering, malevolent glare, then said: Corbett? What you did is so bad I have to go home and think about what I’m going to do to you.

Thus began my year in hell. I knew, as only a seven-year-old can, that Father Foley was spending every waking minute of every day trying to come up with the most hideous, shameful, pitiless punishment he could dream of — for me.

If he came within sight I’d duck behind somebody else and shrink up like a sponge, trying to become invisible. For whatever reason he didn’t hand out report cards any more that year, Sister Macaria did, but I knew that just meant he hadn’t come up with an appropriate punishment yet. He was still thinking. And what he was thinking was just getting worse and worse and worse the more the days rolled by.

Finally summer break came, I forgot about it for a while, though I knew he hadn’t forgotten. How could he? What I’d done was so bad …

Next year, third grade, we’re preparing for Confirmation, the sacrament that would make us Soldiers of Christ.

We had to memorize the catechism

because we’d be questioned by the bishop and if we flubbed an answer, we wouldn’t be confirmed, our families would be shamed — we’d be a public disgrace not just to our confirmation class but the entire parish.

And so we learned:

The three conditions for a mortal sin.

The four kinds of sanctifying grace.

The three Evangelical Counsels.

The four cardinal virtues.

The seven chief works of corporal mercy.

The two types of judgment.

The three kinds of lies.

The eight beatitudes and:

The seven gifts of the Holy Ghost (which are, by the way: Wisdom, Understanding, Counsel, Fortitude, Knowledge, Piety and Fear of the Lord—some things you never forget.)

Father Foley conducted the confirmation classes. I still expected him any minute to finally say: Okay, Corbett. I figured out what I’m gonna do to you.

Me: still trembling scared. Terrified.

One day, as he’s running us through our paces, trying to explain the difference between mortal sin and venial sin, he says to Molly Medaglia: Medaglia, say you push good old Corbett there down the stairs …

I didn’t even hear the rest of the question. It didn’t even register that, at least hypothetically, he’d just pushed me down the stairs.

I thought: He called me Good Old Corbett.

Good. Old. Corbett.

He forgot.

Inside, it’s like the Bells of St. Mary’s are ringing in my chest. Doves are flying off toward sunlit towers. Raindrops on roses and blah blah blah blah.

From somewhere deep inside, a voice rose up: Free at last! Free At Last. Thank God Almighty I am free at last!

I was an evil boy. But I never spent a minute on the rock pile.

But I’m still Catholic, and I know how this works. No one gets off Scot free.

Somewhere in hell. There’s a chair. With my name on it. In my mother's handwriting. 

* * * * *

So, Murderateros: What incidents of childhood fear, dread, sacrilege or shame formed you indelibly as the hopeless wretch— ahem, soulful writer — you are today?

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: Speaking of an evil boy: Moodvideo's revisualization of Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing" (oh yeah):

THE FESTIVAL OF BOOKS

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

 

There's nothing quite like the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. It's a two-day extravaganza that was for many years held at UCLA, but has now found its home at USC.

The Festival consists of hundreds of small and large press publishers as well as booths for popular book stores, newspapers, comic book publishers and just about everything else related to books. There are stages for poetry reading, performance art, musical acts and children's story-telling. Dozens of lecture halls hold author panels that run dawn to dusk.

Thousands of authors appear at tables to sign copies of their books. Every genre is represented. It's a huge celebration of the written word.

In years past I've had the opportunity to rub shoulders with the likes of James Ellroy, Walter Mosley, Michael Connelly, TC Boyle, Buzz Aldrin, Barbara Eden and Bernadette Peters, among others. A couple years ago Bono poked his head into the Mysterious Galaxy tent and stared me right in the eye. We smiled at each other and he walked away. I'm still kicking myself for not stuffing a copy of Boulevard into his hands.

This year the celebrity guests ran the gamut: John Cusack, Julie Andrews, Rodney King, Betty White, Marilu Henner, Ricki Lake, Sugar Ray Leonard, Anne Rice, Molly Shannon and Tori Spelling.

This is my third year at the Festival and each year I've been blessed to be on a panel. Last year I sat with Miles Corwin and Marcia Clark, and this year my panel included April Smith, Ned Vizzini, Jerry Stahl and John Sacret Young. Our panel was actually featured in Sunday's issue of the L.A. Times.

 

Everybody's experience of the Festival is different. There are just too many cool panels, parties and events for anyone's experience to be the same. Between my panel and the booth signings I did I was only able to attend two other panels. My wife and son split off to see their favorite YA authors while I caught Gar Anthony Haywood and Kelli Stanley at a crime panel.

(YA panel)

(Crime panel with our Murderati member Gar Anthony Haywood and Kelli Stanley)

Saturday evening featured an author bash at the Los Angeles Central Library, a beautiful Art Deco backdrop for the literati crowd.

 

I caught dinner before the event with authors Lee Goldberg, Boyd Morrison, Lissa Price and Barry Eisler. It was the best "panel" on non-traditional publishing I've ever attended.

 

My son Noah has become quite the event photographer and I let him go hog-wild documenting the event. Noah might not have had such an interest in photography if it hadn't been for the encouragement of one beautiful woman who no longer walks among us.

Publicist Diana James, the late wife of author Darrell James, gave Noah his first paying job as a photographer, hiring him to take photos of authors at last year's Festival of Books. She gave him a wonderful letter telling him to follow his dreams and continue taking pictures, something we've framed along with a copy of that first check. Her kindness had an impact on our lives.

The following are images of the Festival from an eleven-year old's point of view. It's not everyone's experience at the L.A. Times Festival of Books, but it was ours...

(Denise Hamilton and Cara Black)

 (Tough Guy Gary Phillips)

(YA author Maggie Stiefvater)

(Ned Vizzini and his wife at the library party)

(Naomi Hirahara)

 (Jerry Stahl)

(Lissa Price, YA author of Starters hanging out with my lovely wife)

(Kelli Stanley and Gary Phillips)

 

(Eric Stone)

(Darrell James)

 

 (The wife and me at the library bash)

(Boyd Morrison)

(Stuart Woods and Tom Epperson)

(Moderator Tom Nolan and Barry Eisler)

(YA author Maureen Johnson)

(The Green Room and the back of Kelli Stanley)

(Mark Haskell Smith)

(Ceiling of the L.A. Central Library)

(Patty Smiley smiling)

(Music in the air...)