So it falls on me to kick off The Long Goodbye, our month-long farewell to our loyal readers, commenters, fans, and friends.
Ironic, since that Chandler title was the first crime novel I read as an adult.
I’ve been mulling over how to go about this and what to say for most of the afternoon without much to report in the way of success.
Talk about writer’s block. (Don’t worry. I won’t.)
Part of my problem is the weird tar baby of emotion I’m wrestling with.
I could be a good sport, chuck all that and just say how truly lovely it’s been, because it has.
I’ll leave that to someone else, though, someone better suited for it.
What I’m left with is grief of course and a certain numbness, mixed with no small amount of doubt and frustration, all mixed in with the usual frantic angst, being behind in everything, plus some small relief at having one less task to tick off my To Do list—a craven, chickenshit relief, admittedly.
There’s also a very considerable amount of guilt. I feel like I’ve let all of you down.
And guilt invariably invites along to the party his old friends self-loathing and resentment—you needy bastards, you imperious word gluttons, how dare you…
I wonder if this isn’t the natural way of things, that every human effort expands then morphs and ultimately fades away, or if that isn’t softy-lofty self-serving bullshit.
I can’t escape the sense that I fundamentally misunderstood something—I didn’t choose the right topics, the right tags, the right tone, the right time.
I trusted more what I knew I could write well than what you actually wanted to read.
And I know this is but one more symptom of the disease we call the writing life, this constant, cancerous uncertainty, not just in the merits of our words but this nonstop crowing for an audience that so often—no, invariably—feels like half tap dance, half begging.
In short, I’m seeing the end of Murderati as a personal failing, which I know is nonsense but Christ, you feel what you feel and that’s the curse of it.
I’m reeling and seething and unprepared to miss this, to miss all of you as much as I will. The fucker snuck up on me as I was getting ready to write this. Who knew?
I’m tempted to identify those of you I will particularly wonder about and wish I could talk to, check up on, encourage and console, but my brain’s such an overworked mess these days I know I’ll forget someone and then feel deservedly wretched.
Why did anyone let me kick this thing off? What were you thinking…?
What I should have done is put up the several hundred YouTube videos I’d bookmarked, planning to use them for Jukebox Hero of the Week.
What I should have done is said nothing but: Thank you.
What I should have done … there’s a plank to walk.
Meanwhile, my terminally, pathologically, ruthlessly cheerful girlfriend is sending me links to fun stuff on the net, hoping to buck me up.
Things like “Can Music be More Effective Than Drugs?”).
Things like the trailer for Trance, the latest offering from Danny Boyle, an art heist caper featuring Vincent Cassel and Rosario Dawson (I’m so looking forward to this — Gee, maybe I’ll talk about it on … Oh. Right.)
Yeah, I’m crabby and cranky and moody and meh.
I’ll miss this. Miss you.
I have a bunch of announcements I could make, about things coming up, but it feels obscene to do that here and now. Look for it on the Murderati Facebook Page or my Fan Page (Christ, like us already, will ya?).
So this is how the month-long dirge—I mean celebration—begins. Forgive me. I’m just a crappy liar.
I’m sure Zoë will be in a much sunnier frame of mind tomorrow—or pretend she is. So stiff-upper-lip, that woman. Bless her murderous little heart.
I’ll try to get into the swing of things by my next, final posting.
In the meantime: Murderateros, do your best: Cheer me up.
Tell me everything’s gonna be okey-dokey and swell!
* * * * *
Jukebox Hero of the Week: Maybe the Divine Miss M can work some magic:
Well, my insomnia gets me commenting early. (not sure if it will be intelligently) I'll miss Murderati, but I think all of us understand why it's time to move on. There are so many ways an author is supposed to self-promote, and only so many hours in the day. Toss in that pesky little bit about actually writing more books and the day already is too short. A blog is time-intensive and I can't imagine how all of you keep on coming up with new ideas. As well, writing is a business and that has to be taken into account. If not enough people are visiting the blog compared to the other methods of promotion, then that has to enter the equation.
That last bit does make me wonder: "What if I'd commented more?" and realize that whoever was blogging that day had spent all the time writing the blog and I couldn't even work up the brain power to think of an intelligent comment. Communication is a two way street and I don't think we commenters always held up our part of the bargain.
Anyway, I've liked the Murderati site on Facebook, Friended each of you and hope any of the commenters who want to keep in touch will friend me on Facebook.
Now what little brainpower I had is fading and it's time to go to bed. Thanks for all the great blogs and the Jukebox Heroes.
David, you bring the perfect tone to our open-ender. I wouldn't want it to be anyone but you. Which is to say, thank God it's not me.
Except that you've kinda said everything I was going to say, and, unfortunately, we both have to say it twice. Only once more for you, you lucky bastard.
I, for one, am going to miss your beautiful voice. I'll have to look for it elsewhere, and yet I know it won't feel as personal to me when I read it on your own blog or on some other site. Murderati is our connection. Who could forget, "Damn You Stephen Jay Schwartz!" The perfect title for a blog. It still comes up in my Google Alerts.
Now we're simply going to have to meet half-way for a beer. Fresno. I'll see you in Fresno, then.
I'll miss your funniness and the music, but most of all the blazing honesty in your posts.
Sometimes your doubt mirrored mine and made it easier for me to accept my failings (as a writer and a person).
Well, David, you know what they say about Catholic Alzheimers. You forget everything but the guilt.
But seriously, it's been a pleasure reading your posts. You have such a terrific voice. And I know I didn't comment often, but that was my failing. 'Cause you're just so darn smart. What could I possibly add to what you'd written? Just nod my head thinking, "Wow, another great post. I'm learning a lot from reading David. Don't want to make some stupid-sounding comment."
It was here that I discovered your books and stories. And I will continue to read everything you write. I have a feeling that even your grocery-shopping lists are works of art. And later today "The Art of Character" will be in my virtual TBR pile. I'm really looking forward to it.
I'm not on Facebook, but I'll check out your website from time to time. Here's wishing you nothing but the best, and thanks for all the hours of great reading.
Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving and more than once Murderati blogs stirred my emotions. Like a cyclone. Or a gentle wind. Today this blog and all these goodbye sentiments feel like i am breaking up with a boyfriend I neglected a little too much. Like Larry, I feel guilty and a little inadequate. I wish i had done more to make this site a must have instead of chaff. I will miss having the conversation up on my computer during the day even when i was too crazed or busy to comment. Thank yous are in order. All the authors i have read because of this site ( and all the books i bought). I wrote two manuscripts while following so thank you for all your advice and encouragement. Especially with David who i am lucky enough to call a friend and live near. I am Ann Abel on Facebook and @allisondavis531 on Twitter. This is going to be a long goodbye.
Just tell me that you also do these amazing collages of book discussions, opera plots, images from science fiction movies, writing advice, music, humor, wry banter, interviews, trailers, etcetera in your own space and I might be okay.
Right. Who am I kidding?
Thanks for letting me pretend to sit at the cool table for a while, David. I’m going to miss that.
Larry: I'm so glad you understood the secret meaning of this post: We all blame you. (I was SO hoping I wouldn't have to spell that out.)
Ahem.
Seriously, the decrease in comments — from everyone, not just you — was symptomatic of a much larger, multi-faceted issue. Don't for a minute think you shoulda coulda, because it would have made little difference in woulda. We always knew you were there (the numbers tell us that), and that was the real point. (Hope you got some sleep.)
Stephen: F**k Fresno, frankly. How about Pismo Beach? (And thanks for the attaboy. I'll miss your posts too. For the same reasons.)
Shizuka: What a lovely, kind thing to say. I'm glad I was helpful in any way whatsoever.
We'll have to find some other way to stay connected. Ever since you and Deb and I bonded at the Book Passage Mystery Conference, you've been one of the people I most want to hear from on this site. I'll miss you, to be blazingly honest.
Richard: My God, I feel badly you felt that way about commenting (that Catholic guilt thing again). There's a life lesson, I suppose. I always enjoyed your remarks, and felt incredibly grateful for them. Always. Thanks for poking a nose into my books. Means a lot.
Allison: Sweetly said, thanks. And let's stop now with the self-flaggelation, gang. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT. Guys, seriously. We knew the core readers were there, and were grateful. We just weren't doing the best job drumming up new ones. That's on us, not you.
Sarah: The cool table? If I was sitting there, it wasn't cool, trust me.(Voted Most Musical, Most Talented, and Most Eccentric in my HS graduating class.)
But thanks for the kind words — today and every day. You've been a real trooper, funny and smart and insightful, and I know we're all incredibly grateful for that — from you and all the regulars.
I'm not needy.
I love you.
Now someone has shut you off.
Like a TV.
We'll be on other shows.
Press a different button.
Change the channel.
Like a radio.
Turn the dial.
Ah, Reine. You know better than to take my guilty rant to heart.
Well, we shut ourselves off, actually, but not for a month yet. And yes, I'm sure you'll see us in guest spots here and there. (I'm on Bookshelf Muse today, for example. Let's see if I can post the URL: http://thebookshelfmuse.blogspot.com/
But there won't be this again. And I'm sad about that.
Ah, David. Yes. Of course. I know. You rant. Me too. Just briefer.
Reine: Touché, madame.
David, I've thought of something else you can do with today's blog, some BSP for the short story contest you're judging. Who knows, you might even see something from me if I can make the story work. For the first time since I started reading "The Art of Character" I'll be creating a new character and I'm looking forward to using the techniques from the book. (you were right about "A of C"being best for new characters, tho I have used it some for deepening the character in the novel)
I have to admit to feeling that same mix of grief/guilt/relief as well. Part of that, I think, is the writers' tendency to believe we're more important in the grand scheme of things than we really are.
I know, get over the guilt. But it's there, probably for most of us. I know there were times I could have made more of an effort to respond to some of these brilliant (and often intellectually intimidating) posts, to be more a part of the discussion even if it was just to say "me too," to contribute to the energy, to battle more fiercely with the fucking spam filter. And maybe the fact that I — along with others, and for whatever reason — didn't do that is a sign that it is indeed time to move on.
I think we're still in such early stages of the internet, we don't yet know much about the life cycle of things like blogs and other social media. Most of the people we've encountered online are still alive, for one thing. And now I'm getting all philosophical. Or something. Not my intention.
Speaking of the spam filter/captcha, can we turn the damned thing off for the rest of the month? It has managed to eat every single comment of mine for the past five or six months. Seriously. Every single one. Some show up eventually, but certainly not all of them. I know spam is bothersome, but is it really causing harm? I think we all know not to click on spam links, right? It would be pure joy to have comments post again. Just for one last month. Please?
Larry: Did I really say the book is better for developing new characters than deepening the portrayal of existing ones? Sheesh. Well, I don't think that's necessarily true, but I guess I have to take that up with myself. Regardless, glad it's working for you, and I'd love to see your story.
And thanks for the tip on the BSP and the story contest. To wit:
Folks, if you'd like to earn a free review of 50 pages of your WIP, submit a story of 3000 words or less and I'll judge it on the basis of the vivid and compelling nature of the characters. Here's the link: http://www.scribophile.com/contests/the-character-driven-tale-contest-with-david-corbett
This is from regular reader/contributor KD James, who once again had a problem with Captcha:
I have to admit to feeling that same mix of grief/guilt/relief as well. Part of that, I think, is the writers' tendency to believe we're more important in the grand scheme of things than we really are.
I know, get over the guilt. But it's there, probably for most of us. I know there were times I could have made more of an effort to respond to some of these brilliant (and often intellectually intimidating) posts, to be more a part of the discussion even if it was just to say "me too," to contribute to the energy, to battle more fiercely with the fucking spam filter. And maybe the fact that I — along with others, and for whatever reason — didn't do that is a sign that it is indeed time to move on.
I think we're still in such early stages of the internet, we don't yet know much about the life cycle of things like blogs and other social media. Most of the people we've encountered online are still alive, for one thing. And now I'm getting all philosophical. Or something. Not my intention.
Speaking of the spam filter/captcha, can we turn the damned thing off for the rest of the month? It has managed to eat every single comment of mine for the past five or six months. Seriously. Every single one. Some show up eventually, but certainly not all of them. I know spam is bothersome, but is it really causing harm? I think we all know not to click on spam links, right? It would be pure joy to have comments post again. Just for one last month. Please?
I've harvested Murderati's pearls of wisdom from the sea of bountiful blogs. How furtunate I.
I saw this post yesterday but didn't have the heart to respond. I hope we can stay in touch somehow, David. Maybe I'll see you at a conference sometime and buy you a drink. I consider you a writer friend, even if it's mostly virtually. (I can say the same thing to Stephen and Alexandra too — which I probably will.)
Guilt, begone! Hah…not that easy, I guess. If anything, your posts have generated some of the most lively conversations on Murderati. You haven't let us down. This is what life is–the coming and going of things. The people (or in this case group blogs) that come into our lives for awhile and then melt away, leaving us better off for them. That's how I feel anyhow.
Cheers, man, and more later.
KD: I've forwarded your request to the powers that be. We'll see what happens. meanwhile: Thanks for all the great comments over the months and years. I always appreciated your wit and candor and smarts.
Judy: So glad you feel that way, and thanks for stopping by so often.
Lisa: Absolutely. My email is david at davidcorbett.com. I'm sure we'll meet at a conference or a reading or something in the not-too-distant. Meanwhile, I've so enjoyed your comments here, and have felt fortunate you've been so loyal.
Dammit, I go on Spring Break and you guys are so lost without me that you ALL QUIT??? WTF? I'm posting this on every one of the goodbye blogs, just to show my immature frustration!
Thanks for all the great info and advice through the years. All of you. You guys rule.
Well, you guys suck for quitiing.
But other than that, you guys rule.
Actually, Jake, we were hoping to sneak away before you had a chance to notice. AND WE ALMOST PULLED IT OFF!
Oh well…
Your input has been one of those things that kept us going as long as we did. Thatnks for the loyalty, the wit, the generosity. You're one of the reasons this feels as lousy as it does..
Ah, that good old Catholic guilt. You can always count on it to completely twist something perfectly normal into SOMETHING I DID WRONG. David, you'll always have delighted, loving audiences for what you write, where and when you write it. Just make sure we know where to find you, okay?