Just for the fun of it

Zoë Sharp

I hope you’ll forgive me this week if I repeat a blog I did over at Sirens of Suspense a couple of weeks ago. We’ve been rushing around like eejits for the past week or more, and although we expected to be home a couple of days ago … we’re not. Long story that involves builders letting people down and the prospect of houses not being finished for Christmas means our DIY skills have been called into service. And, weirdly enough, we rather enjoy it.

Part of the rushing around involved seeing our friend, fellow crime author Anne Zouroudi, doing two events for Kirklees libraries with Penny Grubb and Lesley Horton, plus a crime writing workshop also with Lesley, and interviewing the delightful Martina Cole at the 4^th Reading Festival of Crime Writing last Friday. So, if you’ve been wondering why I’ve been very quiet on these pages, that’s my excuse …

 

When was the last time you did something just for the fun of it? Or took a moment to really observe rather than just see your way through a familiar journey?

As a race, humans are becoming hardened to beauty, disconnected from the simple pleasures in life, and I find that very sad. As a writer, part of my job is to dig deep into the kind of emotions that drive us on a primal level. To do that, I need to be in touch with those kinds of feelings.

And maintaining a sense of wonder definitely falls into that category.

Andy (my Other Half) is as daft as I am about this. We rush to the office window to see a steam train passing on the other side of the valley, a low-flying Hercules transport plane lumbering overhead, or a particularly beautiful strake of sunlight on the hills behind our house.

I still build snowmen – and snow-bears, and snow-Easter-Island heads, and I was in the middle of a full-size horse last year, but the snow turned powdery and its head fell off, dammit. I know – what an excuse – the wrong kind of snow …

I still ride the shopping cart back to the stack after we’ve loaded up the car at the supermarket, still laugh like a drain at dirty jokes and whoopee cushions. But frost on leaves or winter mist or sunlight through a cloud leaves me breathtaken.

Because how can you hope to write something that will instil any sense of wonder if you don’t have it yourself?

We are not simply hardened to beauty in the modern world, but isolated from it. A fabulous cliff view will now have a safety railing to save you from yourself. Everything, we are told, would be better with our lives if we just had the latest gadget, a larger TV, a newer car, a bigger house. And it takes something drastic to make us realise that those things are not important.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to come out with some worn platitude about the best things in life being free. Whoever said that has never had to pay for meds, make the rent, or put food on the table. Those things cost money, and you better have it when the red bill arrives, or life is going to turn pretty ugly pretty fast.      

At the moment I’m caught between rich and poor in my writing, and it’s making me re-evaluate a lot of things. By definition, my bodyguard heroine Charlie Fox works for those wealthy enough to afford her services. In the latest book, FIFTH VICTIM: Charlie Fox book nine, she’s babysitting the rich and powerful of New York’s Long Island playground. She sees what too much of everything has done to these people, and it makes her reconsider what’s important in her life – love, health, happiness.

And just as FIFTH VICTIM is gearing up for its January 2012 publication in the States (sorry, but it’s been out in the UK since March this year) I’m also hard at work on the next in the series – DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten. For this book I wanted to set the ‘haves’ much more firmly alongside the ‘have-nots’. Where else was better to do that – where was the contrast more stark – than New Orleans, post Katrina.

OK, so the centre of NOLA looks very much as it always did, but some of the outlying areas are derelict ghost towns. It’s a fascinating setting for a book, and one that grabbed me from our first visit last year. As for the huge recycling plant – Southern Scrap – a crime thriller writer couldn’t ask for a better location for a confrontation, or a show-down.

But driving round the place it was hard not to be saddened and sobered by the destruction still on view. I came away grateful for what I have, and even more determined that as I pass the good things in life, I don’t want to miss them because I have my eyes in a text message and my ears in an iPod.

So, ‘Rati – what did you see today? And what will you notice tomorrow?

This week’s Word of the Week is innuendo. An Italian suppository …

Starting Over

Zoë Sharp

At the start of this month I began work on a new book, tentatively titled DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten.

Actually, that’s not entirely true – well, what do you expect from someone who lies for a living? I should say that as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing tentative about it – DIE EASY is the perfect title for this story. Ever since I first saw the old Bruce Willis classic ‘Die Hard’ I’ve wanted to do a riff on that theme. Let’s face it, it was that movie turned a light comedy TV leading man into an all-action movie star, bare feet and all. And as my book is set in New Orleans – The Big Easy – what better title?

OK, that was itsy little lie #1.

Itsy little lie #2 was that I didn’t start this book on October 1^st. I should say I RE-started the book this month, as I wrote the opening three chapters and the half-page jacket copy outline way back at the beginning of this year.

But then Other Things got in the way – like getting the entire Charlie Fox backlist out in e-format, plus putting together an e-thology of CF short stories, FOX FIVE: a Charlie Fox short story collection. And I have to say that I don’t begrudge the time spent on those projects at all. It was a thoroughly energising experience that has brought me back to my writing, and the series, with renewed enthusiasm, as I’ll explain.

Having found out, however, that my lovely US publisher Pegasus Books is bringing FIFTH VICTIM: Charlie Fox book nine out in January 2012 instead of the March I was expecting, I realised that I needed to Extract My Digit in quite a big way if I’m to deliver the finished t/s of the next book before publication of the last one.

(Of course, Brit readers have already been able to get hold of 5V from Allison & Busby since March this year.)

At that point I had only 5800 words written out of 100-110,000 and no full outline. I knew the broad brushstrokes, the major dramatic highlights and emotional themes, but not the nitty-gritty that would enable me to actually get on with the scribbling.

So why write the opening scenes at all?

Because I wanted to know where it all began. Sounds totally illogical, but very few books start at the very beginning of the story itself. Deciding the right jumping-in point – where you grab the reader by the arm and rush them towards the edge of the cliff – is a vital choice for me. Until I know that, I can’t get on with it. I know some people just start writing and worry about that later, but sadly I’m not one of them.

From early on in the series, I’ve been trying to avoid the foreshadowing opening. The ‘had I but known’ style of thing. I did it in the first book KILLER INSTINCT, but I’ve tried to avoid it since, otherwise it becomes very old very fast. I’ve used a couple of flashforward openings, though, and those I do like.

For instance, some people assumed that the opening chapter to SECOND SHOT: Charlie Fox book six was from the very end of it, but without giving too many spoilers, it’s not.

When I wrote ROAD KILL: Charlie Fox book five the original opening for the story had a group of soldiers standing around a fallen motorcyclist who lay screaming in the middle of a road through a very dodgy housing estate in East Belfast, with an angry crowd gathering.

It was a great opening chapter and I loved it.

But it never made it into the final cut of the book. It simply did not drop my protag – and the reader – into the right place in the story. One of the reasons that book was such a pig to write was that I held onto that opening chapter far longer than I should have done. Even now, I still hanker after that original rather than the first chapter I eventually went with. But the final version – which opens with Charlie swinging a sledgehammer into the walls of her cottage – does better serve the story.

Sigh.

But I digress.

It’s now twenty days into October, and so far I’ve had three zero-word days and one day when I only managed a bit of reshuffling, which added 43 words to my total. (Yes, I’m sad enough to keep it all on a spreadsheet.) But yesterday I still managed to hit 20,000 words and I’m aiming to be at 35k by the end of the month.

Then 70k by the end of November, and 105k by the end of the year. That leaves me the last bits to finish off in January, print it all out, do a read through to try and catch inconsistencies, repetitions, check my chapter breaks are in the most effective positions, and ruthlessly scalpel out unnecessary words.

Just like that. Ha!

But I’ll be keeping a running tally of all this on my Facebook author page – seeing as how I’ve almost discovered how this social media stuff works – and possibly on Twitter as well.

I hope you’ll stop by and have a giggle at my expense.

Speaking of having a giggle at my expense, if you happen to be near South Wales next week – October 26^th – I shall be appearing at the Newport Big Read event in Gwent. If you can make it, I’d love to see you there.

So, ‘Rati, that’s how I’m intending to tackle my writing schedule over the next couple of months. How about yourselves? And if you're not writing a book at the moment, how do you deal with big tasks that seem overwhelming at first glance? Do you break them down into work first/reward later, or do you put them off as long as you can possibly manage before knuckling down?

This week’s Word of the Week is ultracrepidate, which means to criticise beyond the sphere of one’s knowledge. It comes from the painter Apelle’s answer to the cobbler who went on from criticising the sandals in a picture to finding fault with the leg. “Ne sutor ultra crepidam.” – “The cobbler must not go beyond the sandal.”

the hometown boogie

by Toni McGee Causey

"Where are you from?"

It's an innocent, easy question, right? Drives me nuts to answer it, and now, it's just gotten more complicated.

I'm "from" a small town just northeast of Lake Charles, Louisiana (Kinder), if what the questioner wants to know is "where were you born?" But I didn't live there long. I lived briefly in Lake Charles and then Breau Bridge and then Baton Rouge and then Zachary and then back to Baton Rouge (for a long time) and now, I divide my time between Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

I just say, "Louisiana" to make it easy, but someone always ends up asking questions to try to narrow that down (if they're from here). 

Less difficult, up until a couple of months ago, was "what's your hometown?" and that was pretty easy: Baton Rouge. It's where I've lived for 29 years. It's the home of the LSU Tigers (not that I've ever mentioned that here) and there are tons of good people and great food. I lamented to my oldest son, Luke, that there wasn't that much to do there and he listed off a couple of dozen things that there were to do, from the symphony to the Little Theater productions (which are, frankly, quite good), so I think my only real problem with Baton Rouge is that it's much easier for me to be a hermit there and not participate. 

The last couple of months, though, we've been in New Orleans. The move was supposed to be temporary because it's work-related, but we do love it here, and after the job is done, who knows? We're in the Quarter, where it's almost impossible to be a complete hermit, and that's even when you're not into the drinking/night-life. There are several dozen things to do and see all within walking distance, or a very short drive, which is appealing. [Just last Sunday, for example, we had lunch at a local cafe and then wandered down Royal, meandering into art galleries. One of the managers of the galleries showed off some of their very expensive originals that they keep locked in a back room.Carl admired his guitar, and before we knew what was happening, we were seated on a sofa and he was jamming out old Johnny Cash songs, playing for us like we were a room of a thousand: so much energy and enthusiasm, and talent, and when it was over, it felt like an event.]

Most of the locals don't really hang out at the Quarter, unless they live here (like us), so you get a pretty fun assortment of tourists from all over the world. It's a fascinating cross-section for a people-watcher/writer, and fun for eavesdropping for ideas. (Oh, the ideas....)

What I like best about the Quarter, though, is not the noise or the food or the architecture - well, it's all of those things combined - but what I like best are the very early mornings when dawn is cracking open the sky over the old buildings, some which have been here since the early 1800s, and you get to see the real Quarter - the people who work here, prepping for the day ahead. Someone pressure washing a sidewalk, someone else setting up a restaurant, delivery men shouting to each other the news of the day as they pass, a few drunk tourists trying to toddle home, doing that 'I'm not really drunk' walk where they stare straight ahead, zombie-like, trying to fool everyone and failing exponentially. Living here is a bit like living out behind the big top of a circus, where you see the equipment piled up, the magicians prepping the show for the night to come, where musicians are winding down and counting their tips and the dancers and bouncers are warily walking to their cars. 

It's an interesting place, for a writer. I'm not sure it's home, and N'awlins is much more than the Quarter -- the locals will be quick to tell you that -- but it's fast becoming another hometown for me. We only half-way joke that we wish we could do this in several other major cities--have a job that would take us there for a year or so. There are a dozen places I'd love to live, love to know it as intimately as one would a home town.

Does a home town define us? Or do we, in some way, define it? 

What if it were wiped away? New Orleans almost was, during Katrina. Some of it has come back fine--some will be gone forever. It's grown again from the mud and the debris and stood proud and even won the SuperBowl... but everywhere I go, there are still scars. Empty storefronts. Rotting houses. Roads that are in desperate need.

And then I look at the images coming in from Japan, and I am rendered speechless. Heartbroken. I cannot look at this, without choking up. Imagine if everything you knew was gone. So much of your own family--your history--your place in this world: wiped out. It is astonishing, the fortitude the Japanese people have shown in the face of this destruction and I am in awe of them. In awe of the firefighters and men who are trying to keep the nuclear power plant cool. The men who you know... you know, despite claims otherwise... are going to have practically committed suicide by going into that plant every day to try to prevent it from melting down. They're saving lives. And all those other people, digging through the rubble, counting bodies. It's devastating. 

What if my own home town--my sense of place--had been ripped from me? Would I still be me?Would I be the same? What would you miss the most? (besides the amenities) 

What do you love about your home town? Do you have more than one to claim? Have you moved around a lot? Enjoyed it? Hated it? And where would you stay put, if you could only choose one place on earth?

We Suck

As I'm sure you're aware, the underdog New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl the other day. They're probably still partying in NOLA. It was a great game, and a joy to watch, and I'm really happy for those guys, and their city.

I need to hang on to all that happiness and joy right now, because tonight at 9:00 ET, my beloved UNC Tar Heels take to the basketball court against the  hated Duke Blue Devils.

Normally, I'd be getting really psyched for this game. We usually play the spoiled crybaby  prima donnas from Duke and their rat-faced little coach at least two, sometimes three or even four times a season (depending on the tournament brackets), and each game, by virtue of the intense rivalry between the teams, becomes the Biggest Game of the Season.

It's difficult to explain to outsiders just how intense this rivalry is. It can best be summed up by the title of a book (yes, an entire book)  by Will Blythe about it: "To Hate Like This Is To Be Happy Forever."

But I'm not foreseeing much happiness tonight. See, the problem is, the Tar Heels SUCK this year. I mean we really, REALLY suck. We've lost six of our last seven games. We lost to COLLEGE OF FUCKING CHARLESTON. It wouldn't be so bad if we hadn't, you know, WON THE NCAA TOURNAMENT LAST YEAR. I know it's a rebuilding season, but JESUS, I cannot BELIEVE THESE GUYS...

Oh. Sorry. Was I shouting? I get a little carried away. Our old dog used to get up and leave the room every time he heard the sound of  shoes squeaking on a basketball court on the TV, because he knew that yelling was soon to follow.  It's kind of a  family tradition.

So, anyway, it's probable that we're not going to do all that well against those smug, insufferable pantywaists and their coach with the ridiculous and unpronounceable name. And it's kinda got me down.

It's not just me.  UNC Coach Roy Williams, as you might imagine,  is really in the dumps about how poorly our team is doing. In a recent interview, Roy (we call him Roy, 'cause we're all like family) said : "The way I'm feeling now,  I'm wondering if I'm worth anything, wondering what I'm doing."

I read that, and I thought, "hey, that sounds familiar." And I bet it does to you, too, if you're a writer. You know the feeling I mean. The one you get after getting a rejection that  things suck, they're never going to get better, that let's face it, YOU suck, and why do you even try?  It's even more discouraging if, like a lot of writers, you had some success in the past few years, only to get caught in the recent publishing bloodbaths. Clearly, any success you had was a fluke, an aberration, a mistake. Just admit it and move on, right? There are wonderful opportunities waiting in the ever-growing food-service industry.

But, you know, the team's had bad times before, most recently in what we call The Dark Years (2000-2003), when Matt Doherty, who was clearly not ready for the stress,  took over.  Doherty managed to not only lead the Heels to their first losing record since 1962 (8 and 20), but also managed to drive away both key players and long time Athletic Department staff by, basically, being a world class jerk.

But we bounced back from that, with a vengeance. Did I mention last year's NCAA Championship? And that makes it easier to believe we can do it again.

In the mystery world, look to the  example of Charlaine Harris. Her first novel, REAL MURDERS, got nominated for an Agatha. But subsequent books and series did not, as her website delicately puts it, "set the world on fire." Until she wrote DEAD UNTIL DARK, the first Sookie Stackhouse book. It won the Anthony, and more importantly for Charlaine's career,  hit the NYT bestseller list, as have the sequels. The Sookie books became a series on HBO, and I hope they're making Miz  Harris dirty rotten filthy stinking rich, 'cause she's a nice lady.

So, despite the bleak season,  the Heels lace up their shoes and get out on the court, and we go back to the keyboard. In the meantime, Roy has some more words of wisdom:

"I don't think there's any question you need to enjoy the ride and enjoy the journey...If you don't enjoy the good times, the bad times can just kill you." Williams said.

Amen, Brother Roy.

And,  in writing as well as in sports,  I always try to remember this classic conversation between two fans of the British football club Arsenal in the original UK version of the movie FEVER PITCH:

Fan 1: What about last season?
Fan 2: What about it?
Fan 1: They were rubbish. They were fucking rubbish.
Fan 2: They weren't that bad.
Fan 1: They were fucking rubbish last year. And they were fucking rubbish the year before. And I don't care if they are top of the League, they'll be fucking rubbish this year, too. And next year. And the year after that. I'm not joking.
Fan 2: I don't know why you come, Frank. Honest I don't.
Fan 1: Well, you live in hope, don't you?

Yeah, Frank, we do. Who knows...it's the Atlantic Coast Conference. Anything can happen!

GO HEELS!

BEAT DOOK! 

We called...

EDITED TO ADD....

CHAMPIONS!!!!!!

SUPERBOWL #44

WHODAT, BABY, WHODAT!

by Toni McGee Causey

Lean on me...

Sometimes in our lives

we all have pain

we all have sorrow.

But, if we are wise

we know that there's

 

always tomorrow.

Lean on me

When you're not strong.

And I'll be your friend. 

I'll help you carry on.

For it won't be long

'til I'm gonna need

somebody to lean on.

If there is a load

you have to bear

that you can't carry

I'm right up the road

I'll share your load

If you just call me.

Not so long ago, we called...

And you listened... and came...

And even though New Orleans still has a long way to go...

A couple of weeks ago, we got to see a little bit of that comeback in motion:

I know to a lot of people, it was just a football game. But for a beleaguered city, for a people who've already been through hell and high water, it was a welcome change.

Right now, there's a huge need in Haiti... I hope that if you haven't already given something, that you'll consider even a small donation. You'd be surprised how much it matters. You'd be stunned how well it adds up, and what a difference it makes. 

In the mean time, tell me about your favorite fictional underdog stories or favorite succeeds-against-the-odds character. 

(like I could resist)

* Lyrics and music by Bill Withers

**Photos linked to their photo credit, where possible.