Able to Leap Tall Buildings!

Yesterday they announced that Robert Downey Jr. will play Iron Man in a new movie. This quote from the president of Marvel production, Kevin Feige, appeared:

"The Marvel characters are not just about how high they jump or how fast they fly, they're about their character flaws," Feige said. "They're about their inner demons. They're about the struggles that they go through between being a man and being a hero."

Isn't the true of all of us?

When I think of my characters, they may not have super powers, per se, but this is always what they struggle with. Billie Quinn solves cold cases using DNA. Yeah, she does something extraordinary, but there's a battle between being a woman with loved ones who are placed in danger for the work she does--and doing the heroic. Tom in The Roofer has to struggle between the light and dark halves of himself. He does a heroic thing--but it costs him his soul.

I'm working on a new paranormal trilogy for Nocturne called The Gemini Conspiracy. In each book are paranormal twins who DO have super powers. Even more, I get to play with these themes.

How about you? Know any super heroes and heroines? In your wip?

Achlys

Before Chaos, in Greek Mythology, there was Achlys. She was everlasting night, the personification of grief and human misery. And she is a metaphor for Billie Quinn, in one of my books.

It's no accident that Billie has a new ally in Trace of Doubt, in the person of Ben Sato. A Japanese detective, Ben spouts Greek mythology, and he tells her about Achlys. The whole book is about Billie leaving the place of eternal night and misery. She needs to leave it for the light, for morning.

And that's the thing when you write a novel. Chances are you are trying to make the realm of human emotions that much sharper. The grief is deeper and more visceral; love is that much more intense and passionate; anger and fury are enough to propel a character to an act of revenge or to avenge a wrong.

While some authors write books about the ordinary, chances are they are still trying to depict those emotions with a razor-sharp fineness. Otherwise, we'd just be reading about you and me.

Don't get me wrong. People are interesting. Everyone has a story. My life has definitely had its Greek tragedy moments. I have definitely fought some hard-won battles and done some things I think are remarkable given the circumstances. But . . . all in all . . . it's a life. A beautiful life. A life I wouldn't trade. But not terribly interesting except for the people who love me. (Or hate me in the case of my mother-in-law.)

In a novel, you pick 300 pages--you shine the light on a set time, a series of events, a moment. And in that moment, in the interest of propelling the book forward, chances are you're not going to write about your character doing the laundry, going to the bathroom, sleeping. Instead, you shine your light on the deepest moments.

People didn't go to the theater throughout time--Greece, Rome, Japan, London--to watch characters bore them to tears. They went to the theater or the colliseum to see the most intense moments of life--tragedy, comedy, triumph--acted out.

Same with books. Aim deeper, darker, or brighter and more passionate. Take your characters to the place where Achlys resides.

Anyone? What are the most intense emotions of your wip? Or of a favorite book or movie? What MADE it so intense?

Strange Love

I recently recommended the quirky movie WONDER BOYS (directed by Curtis Hanson) to a friend of mine. Along with that movie, I recommended Wes Anderson's RUSHMORE. Then I started thinking about some of my most favorite movies (LOST IN TRANSLATION, MY FIRST MISTER) . . . and I realized at their heart, they are about Strange Love.

In the romance biz, they talk of HEA (Happily Ever Afters). I don't do the HEA all that much--not in the conventional boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy wins back girl, HEA (or some variation). Instead, I wrote SPANISH DISCO first, a book of Strange Love. Quirky Love. Not the kind of love that you stick on a Hallmark card.

In my Billie Quinn books, Lewis loves a NUN! In Diary of a Blues Goddess . . . Georgia's best friend leaves town a man and comes back a woman.

So you can bet, when I go through my fan mail each week, I don't have a lot of traditional readers. Not usually. Because I tend not to write the more typical hero (I've had the hero in a wheelchair; the hero as penniless bluesman; the hero as gay novelist). And the not-so-typical heroine (four-times married diva; bitchy pill-popping editor; abused witness to the mob). Their love stories aren't simple. Sometimes they're not even pretty. Sometimes fate plays a trick on them, and their soul mate is gay (Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven).

So I thought about it. And I decided the reason I write about Strange Love is twofold. One, real life is messy. Forget intelligent design when it comes to love. It's messy and complicated. You meet the right person but at the wrong time. You find your soul mate, but he's an ocean away in a city you have no intention of moving to--and couldn't even if you wanted because it's war-torn or you can't get a visa. Your lover can't perform because he has no penis or he's gay or he's . . . whatever! Which leads me to two. My belief that even when the fates play a trick, Strange Love can be Big Love. It can be The One. From the first time you lay your eyes upon your Strange Love, you can know.

Some people speak of that "still small voice" that is God. Strange Love is kind of like that. You just know this thing that is inherently unknowable. That this Strange Love may never have a conventional HEA. But it has the power to transform you. And it may not ever be able to be in that conventional sense, but it will fill your soul in ways you can't quite understand.

So for some, that thought is depressing. If you find your One, shouldn't you be able to overcome all obstacles and be together? But Strange Love isn't that way. It's looking at the obstacles and realizing that some things like being gay or being in a wheelchair . . . or dying . . . can't really be overcome in the traditional sense. But if you accept the strangeness, you can come to a place--a MESSY place, an untidy place--where Strange Love can live in your life and you can feel your heart rest for a bit. You can feel safe. You can know you're home.

So anyone have any Strange Loves in their lives? In their wips? In favorite movies?

Peace.

Hearts and Minds!

Yesterday I had a really profound and amazing experience with my youngest daughter. I let her cut the last part of school (subversive mom that I am), and we headed off to a museum to see an exhibit called THE SPACE OF FREEDOM. In it, paintings banned from public expression in Russia during the 1960s were displayed in a re-creation of a Leningrad apartment of that time. I was awed at the variety of art . . . and what some of the paintings seemed to say. I was awed that my daughter, all of eight but already determined to be an artist, chose some of the most "difficult" to comprehend paintings as her favorites. And so today I wanted to blog about artistic expression.

In INVISIBLE GIRL, between the lines, were some politics about Vietnam. I had spent seven years or so working with refugees and boat people as a volunteer English teacher, and their stories always remained with me, coming home with me at night as I would sit and think about loss and war, and what my friends and students had gone through. And within the book I chose to later write, was a scene about dropping bales of rice over Laos--a policy meant to "win" the hearts and minds of the people of Laos by filling their bellies. I don't know that rice can win someone's soul. Or that we should have tried. My feelings about war are pretty obvious. But the most amazing thing, the thing I take for granted, was my ability to write that book, to HAVE that scene, with Jimmy Malone dropping his bales of rice, arguing that it was a foolish proposition the government was sure to lose (and indeed we did). And it wasn't censored. It wasn't cut. I wasn't jailed. I wasn't executed. Secret police didn't come and drag me off into the night for my family to eternally wonder my fate. My family wasn't beaten.

If you are a writer, an artist, a musican, or do anything in the arts . . . if you READ what you want . . . rejoice.

THIS IS BANNED BOOK WEEK. Celebrate your freedom! Celebrate by reading something controversial. Something banned. It's your right.

And whatever you do, do not take that right for granted. Your heart and mind are YOURS to determine what you want to read, see, and SAY! Share what you want here.

Peace.

Meaningful Quirks vs. Clutter

In life, we are each a huge assortment of personal quirks, downfalls, and traits. Some of them, when we get to be intimate with each other, are important to know. Some are just those little things--the millions of them--that make up a person, but they don't reflect our personal character.

So, for instance, if you were trying to get to know me as a person, it would be important to know I'm a practicing Buddhist who also is a theist. That's pretty evident in the "quirky" things on my desk--not only dozens of Buddha statues, but St. Joseph, too. But you'd also see me cross myself any time I said a prayer, or spoke of something evil. And if you got to know me, REALLY know me, which very few people do in life, then you would understand all those gestures and things are fiercely and hard won. I've been through a lot in this life. Would it be important to know my favorite color is green, my favorite vodka is Gray Goose, my favorite candy is Neccos, my favorite piece of music is Beethoven's Ninth? Not really. If you were in love with me, or my friend, then you might find those quriks mildly interesting. You might discover I like Neccos because my grandma always gave them to me. Or that the Ninth makes me feel like I am flying. And you might find it winsome or cute or interesting. But important to knowing me. Not so much. Or not as much as other traits.

Same with characters. You need to devise quirks and traits that have MEANING. If your character, like Ava in THE ROOFER, can't sleep in a bed with another human being because of abuse she suffered, it crosses the line from a quirk that she will get up from her lover's bed and go sleep on the couch, to something that is a hint of what is to come in the big reveal. Do you know if Ava happens to like patty melts? No. That is clutter that can get trimmed away.

A lot of us, as writers, create character sketches. We know everything about our characters. But the quirks that make it into your book should REVEAL something, not just be there for the sake of being there. I know a couple of writers who have shared what their characters' birthdays are in a blog discussion at some point. And that's great. But unless it has to do with the plot (a birthday party killer?), or you believe in astrology (something some do), then it is irrelevant. If it HELPS you, the creator and writer, to know your character better, then by all means, slap it in your character sketch. But does it belong in the book? Probably not.

I have no idea, by the way, what ANY of my characters' birthdays are. Or their opinions on tuna melts. BUT, I can tell you a couple of them like scrambled eggs with ketchup. Why is THAT important and not TUNA, you ask? Because it is a dinstinctly NYC trait to smother scrambled eggs in ketchup. I presume they do it elsewhere, but New Yorkers are really known for it, and so it comes up from time to time, when my characters visit diners.

Anyway, quirks vs. clutter. What quirks is it IMPORTANT for us to know about you . . . or your characters?

Cheers,
E

In Search of the Perfect Sidekick

I have a job opening. For the perfect sidekick. Of course, said sidekick must not mind dogs, many children, a python, and a cockatoo, and more laundry than the Hyatt hotel. Mustn't mind children climbing into bed at 3:00 a.m., and being woken at 5:30 a.m. by the alarm blaring that it's time to start the day. Mustn't mind moody teens and an eight year old who, in dramatic fashion, declares "Art is my LIFE!" Wimps need not apply. Not even Robin (Batman's sidekick), or Bucky (Captain America's sidekick) could handle it, I don't think. Sidekicks--good ones--are hard to find. And let's not forget about sense of humor, ability to hold one's liquor, and, in a pinch, sew a button and change a tire. Most importantly, a good, amusing personality and plenty of intelligence are needed.

Superheroes have sidekicks. Most of them anyway. I already have a significant other, but I was thinking I might like a sidekick. It would be helpful around here. BUT WATCH IT WHEN YOU PUT ONE IN YOUR NOVEL!

Why? Well, you have to be careful when giving your main character a sidekick. Though we often love those secondary characters--in fact, that is, often, a universal positive comment in all my reviews . . . the "cast of characters"--it's tough to do them well.

Because, make them TOO funny, TOO sexy, TOO witty, and TOO brilliant, and they can steal the show. Make them too fantastic and the book may slow to a crawl when they leave a scene. Make the lacking in the above characteristics, and they seem cardboard or boring; make them too typical of sidekicks and they'll seem cliched. (Hint: not every heroine in chick lit needs a gay best friends--of course, my male best friends ARE gay . . . but then if you have one in your book, draw them well.)

Yup . . . choosing a sidekick is a tricky proposition.

Do you have to have one? Well, in the universal rule of show don't tell, sidekicks are handy not only for their own quirks, but also for what they say about your character. Example: Billie Quinn's best friend is her boss and director of the crime lab. He collects blood spatter pictures, which he frames as art; loves zombie movies; and is colorful and then some. He can also be prickly and difficult, and he has an IQ hovering around 170, which means he doesn't tolerate fools. BUT, what does having Lewis for a best friend say about BILLIE? Well, she's his intellectual equal--I, in effect, am pointing out how smart she is without coming out and saying GOSH, MY LEAD CHARACTER IS SMART! She also doesn't mind the macabre--she is comfortable with his sick sense of humor, the fact that he has a brain collection in formaldehyde. Again, says something about her tolerance for the unusual and for eccentrcities in others. And though Lewis's lovelife and secondary storyline are important, he is there, in large part, to showcase Billie and verbally spar with her, and to tell the reader all sorts of interesting facts about her background and flaws. Lewis is a good sidekick, I think. As was Dominique in DIARY OF A BLUES GODDESS. She was a transvestite, there to play the "drama mama" for everything my heroine, Georgia, went through.

In my novels, I love the sidekicks I create.

In real life, I don't know that I'll ever find the perfect sidekick . . . The Green Hornet's Cato is unavailable.

How about your hero or heroine in your wip? Any job openings for a sidekick?

Pass the Tissues

Well, we certainly had a lively discussion about things that go bump in the night, and I've come to the completely non-statistical conclusion that clown-phobia is a lot more common than I thought!

Now to turn our attention to things that call for the box of tissues. Movies that are sad are called "four-hankie" movies, "weepers," and so on. And critics are quick to get annoyed with those movies that seem to toy with us--manipulate us just to go for the "easy cry," so to speak.

I myself cannot watch the St. Jude's Hospital telethon without crying so hard I'm makig noise and blotchy--I am NOT an attractive crier. There's a great deal of mucus involved. Messy, messy, messy.

Anything having to do with my own children being sick or being hurt emotionally--from bullies to loneliness--makes me cry. When my best pals have problems, I am there to listen as they confront infertility, betrayals, and life's cruelties. And I often cry.

If I feel I am being manipulated . . . then I am less likely to cry--that goes for personal relationships and books and movies. What really gets me in a movie or a book is something far more nuanced. For instance, while I had friends who could not get through LOST IN TRANSLATION (too boring!), I sobbed at the end. Great, wracking tears! Yet. . . Sofia Coppola's earlier, more obvious sobfest, The Virgin Suicides left me ice cold. It telegraphed every God awful thing that was going to happen, and it seemed so obvious.

When I wrote DO THEY WEAR HIGH HEELS IN HEAVEN, I knew I had to be careful. We're all so jaded, "disease of the week" movies and all that . . . you have to watch to make your character's struggles seem real, authentic, organic. That's why that book was far less about breast cancer and far more about the love of friends.

What else makes me cry?

Beethoven's 9th
Any story of child abuse
Moments of deep prayer when I realize that I just am never going to be as kind or good or generous as I would like to be
When I think about my grandma
Talking for too long about my beloved dog, Honi, who died three years ago
Clowns

(Just kidding on the clowns--that's from the Things That Go Bump post, and you have to READ the comments to believe 'em!)

And you?

Mafia Chic

Well, I've been found out. As you can see in the comments field from the last lively discussion (and trust me, we're getting back to that!), I have something to let you know.

My agent announced it on Publishers Lunch, and yes, what I've been hinting about is true. Mafia Chic was bought by Warner Brothers for television. They're hopefully developing it into a series. But as we all know, this is just another level of Development Hell.

What's the book about? Teddi Gallo is the only granddaughter among 17 grandsons of the last of the old-time mafia dons. She is doted on, and she has had way too many males being overprotective all her life. She is a chef--owns a restaurant--with her first cousin on her maternal side, an Irish devil named Quinn who likes to sleep with all the waitresses. If you've ever worked in a restaurant, you know what a soap opera they are. And Teddi's life gets very complicated when the FBI takes an interest in her restaurant. It was a Red Dress Ink title out about two Septembers ago. I loved the cover . . . and loved the book because it was full of the love only a boisterous big family can embody.

Of all my books, this is one that really lends itself to episodic TV. Why? Because most of my books, in my mind, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. When the book is over, it's over. But in Mafia Chic, because it's got a big cast of colorful characters, and a restaurant, they could go on in their meddlesome, loving, big , Italian fashion forever. My Big Fat Greek Wedding meets The Sopranos.

My agent did a brilliant job with this deal (thank you, thank you!).

But . . . there's another side to this announcement. I woke up to another day. Back to work. Contracts to sign, books to work on, ideas to develop. You see, selling your first book is great, your tenth is wonderful, your 25th (I think about what I'm up to) awesome. But it's still a job and, as I've blogged before, you can't look left and right to see what everyone else is doing. Keep focused on writing the best books you can and surrounding yourself with support.

So . . . announcement made. Now, back to work!

Things that Go Bump in the Night

I have a best friend. One of those utterly amazing people who come into our lives. She is my female soul mate--and no I'm not a lesbian. (Not, in the immortal words of Seinfeld, that there's anything wrong with that.) She is absolutely one of the most wonderful things about my existence . . . But I gotta tell you, she is NOT someone for me to go to scary movies with. I am sure she feels the same.

You see, when we go to scary flicks, I pull on her shirt, hide behind the sleeve of her sweater (and yes, I have RUINED one of her sweaters this way). I have squeezed her hand until the circulation stopped. And SHE NEVER FLINCHES. All I can say is What the F***?!?! Nothing. No reaction. Like ice water in her veins.

She is either a female serial killer . . . or . . . she doesn't scare easy. I don't THINK she's the former. As her best friend, I think I'd spot hints.

ME? I am the easiest scare there is. I am the one who sleeps with the dog if the Significant Other is gone (not that S.O. would be any use whatsoever; he has size but no fearlessness . . . and he sleeps the sleep of the dead meaning a nuclear explosion could land on his head and he'd snore through it). I am scared of, in no particular order:

Snakes (yes, we have a python, but I don't like her)
Rats (oh man, do I not like them)
Cockroaches, including Palmetto bugs and anything that RESEMBLES a roach
Serial killers (of which, perhaps, Jude, who drops by here, and my best friend MAY be)
The dark (I sleep with a nightlight)
Clowns (a perculiar fear of them--serial killers may lurk behind that red nose)
Elevators
Serial killers in elevators
Rats (I know I said them before but I really am afraid of them)
Things hiding under the bed--like serial killers
Satan

Oddly enough, I am not afraid of spiders--which IS the lone fear of my cold-blooded but wonderful and amazing best friend. And vampires and monsters don't scare me. I guess because I don't think they're real.

Which just goes to show you. Those things that go bump in the night are different for everyone. I cannot watch THE EXORCIST without freaking out. The movie SEVEN was the sweater-ruining one.

And in writing, I would guess a serial killer who hides in elevators with his pet rats while worshipping the devil would be the scariest thing I could write about.
And . . . TRACE OF DOUBT, which had a serial killer in it . . . I got mail from readers who said they had to sleep with their lights on after reading it. A HUGE compliment. Because if you're going to write scary . . . that's a sure sign you succeeded. So how about you?

What scares you?

Pieces of Useless Paper

On the wall of my office hangs a piece of parchment. It's a Phi Beta Kappa certificate. It's framed. Why? because it was stuck in a drawer and getting dirty, and someone thought it would be a good idea to get it framed, along with my college diploma (an even BIGGER piece of parchment), and took them to a frame shop and gave me them for a birthday present. I then felt obligated to hang them on the wall. To do otherwise would feel a little rude, because it was a gift. But frankly, I was content to have them gathering dust in my underwear drawer.

It's not that I don't think education is valuable. I do. I loved learning what I did, and getting to go to college. I'd been raised by parents who thought a good education meant everything--and since then, I have seen how the body of knowledge I have is very broad and useful. I am glad I can discuss topics from Camus to relativity. How hard I worked in high school got me a scholarship to college. It bought me a ticket to the wider world.

BUT . . . when it comes to writing, I really knew nothing until long after I graduated.

I really didn't understand about passive voice--not fully. I didn't understand the golden rule about show don't tell. I mostly wrote autobiographical or semi-autobiographical pieces working through the things in my life that left me sad or grieving or lonely at night. I didn't or couldn't see past my window--I took write what you know a little too seriously. I didn't write about anything I didn't know. Or I imagined romance or relationship stories that had no air of reality about them. The dialogue was "grand," not natural. I just didn't get it.

And I am not sure when it was I started to put it all together. Things fell into place. I tried and failed by writing crap for so long, and I finally started to see the crap for crap. And then I started getting better. I got some more living under my belt. I got my heart smashed to bits a few times, I faced death, I was betrayed, I had children, I lived and I learned and I gained--more than anything--perspective. I was able to see, really see, life from more than my own tiny autobiographical corner.

I realize now, as I look at my parchment, that it wasn't any of my professors' faults. They tried to teach me what I needed to know to be a writer. But heartbreak taught me a lot more than parchment.

How about you?

L-O-V-E

Today has been a rough day.

As someone with a chronic illness, every day is kind of a crap shoot. Some days, I wake up and basically want to pull the cover over my head. Low-grade fever, throwing up (hey, if I can't share . . . ), all that fun stuff. Kind of a typical day--or, for me, about one out of every seven or eight days, unless I'm real sick, then it's every day. And some days, you know, you deal with that better than others.

Today was a day my kids got pizza reheated for breakfast (bless you, Papa John's). The baby got raisins and Chex in a cup (God love you, Sunmaid!). I ain't winning any homemaker awards. (Though I did put on lipstick! Thank you, MAC!) And I have sat here trying to write feeling like I have the flu, more often than not putting my forehead on the desk.

And I believe in L-O-V-E.

Non-sequitur? No. Not really.

You see, I live in a no-whining zone, and so I will do anything to avoid feeling low. One technique I use is to set the timer on my oven for an hour. For an hour I will feel really sorry for myself. I mean, REALLY. I will just bemoan what kind of friggin' universe hands out diseases? When the timer goes off? Pity party over. Done. That's it. Get over it, pick yourself up and shut the hell up. Get to work.

My other technique is to listen to music--nothing dark (hence, sorry, not today for the Alexandre Desplat soundtrack to BIRTH). Today I am listening to the soundtrack to I AM SAM. Bad movie. Really bad. But the soundtrack is pretty cool, and Aimee Mann and Michael Penn remake TWO OF US. (The whole soundtrack is Beatles hits redone by people like Aimee Mann, Rufus Wainwright, and the beyond dreamy Eddie Vedder). And while TWO OF US was playing, the baby and his big brother played basketball in the house (it's always a little chaotic around here--their net is in the two-story foyer--bouncing basketballs on the hardwood floor). There is a decade between them, but my big guy loves that 18-month-old baby something fierce. And they were so cute. And it fit the song. (See basketball court in this post!)




Next I read the news online--about the 83-year-old bride and her 90-year-old husband--getting MARRIED this weekend with a reception for 170! Yup! Talk about believing in the power of love to transform no matter what your age.

And yeah. Love is all around us. If you're alive and reading this, you know, it's a good f***ing day.

And THAT (bringing it back to writing) is at the heart of most of my books. Don't we all want to believe in the power of love to trump all? To trump diseases and death and ruin and heartbreak and war and tragedy and the darkness of man? Don't we?

Best book to lift your mood? Best song? Best movie?

Come on . . . share a little L-O-V-E!

A Peaceful Rant

My best friend in college was a man of another race. I adored him like a brother, still do.

And one time, way back when, I was getting divorced and came to visit him. We went out for beers and as usual got to talking about life. And it happened to be when a rapper (I cannot remember who--this was a long time ago) advocated gunning down cops in the 'hood. The O.J. Simpson case was raging. And my friend and I ended up talking about race in America. And I had a simplistic, "Why can't we all get along" mentality. That's who I am. I just want peace. I, especially, was bothered by violent lyrics and writing. I didn't want violent songs recorded. At the least I wanted a warning label. And my friend, not in so many words, called me an idiot.

And he was right. Only I didn't know it yet. That would take me a while.

At the time, I had a child. He didn't. That's a big divide. I wanted to protect my child from hearing about cop killers.

And my friend, working an ugly crime beat as a reporter for the Miami Herald, told me "his" people's reality was the killing cops was a viable option in certain situations.

I thought he was insane.

On the way home that night, white woman in an African-American man's car driving into one of the wealthiest enclaves in Florida, where my parents lived, we were stopped by a white cop. He was nasty. Not a little nasty. A lot nasty. We were not speeding. We were sitting in front of an ocean condo in a car and my friend was giving me my birthday present--a book by Terry McMillan. The cop asked for our identification, flashlight in our eyes so close we really couldn't see. We refused and asked for his badge number. He called for back-up--a car that blocked us in. From there it got worse.

So how does this play to writing?

This is a mini-rant. I figure, if you want to fight with me here, go ahead . . . just play nice. I would say that the reviews for THE ROOFER were some of the best of my career. THE ROOFER, if you haven't read it, is unrelentingly dark. It has incest and murder and rape in it. And The Westies (the irish mob in Hell's Kitchen).

There are two on-line reviewers/bloggers who seem to HATE me. I mean, not just hate my books, but take it personally that I am published and they're not--AND that I write books "glorifying" the mob (ummm, did you actually READ The Roofer? Did you recall the bathtub scene? The claw hammer scene? The bloody nose in the dinner scene? The scene when Uncle Two gets his arm sliced to the bone? The glory in that is . . .???) And, in one online discussion after its release, someone suggested that my books carry a warning label. That they be censored.

Here's my belief: Censorship is wrong.

My spiritual beliefs don't love violence in lyrics and gratuitous violence in movies. I don't like politics of hate. And there's a lot of that in this country. But if you don't want to read it, see it, or hear it, turn off your TV, don't buy the book, turn off your radio.

I don't glorify the mob. I don't advocate solving your problems with a claw hammer. It's FICTION. That means we make it up. But I wrote about the world I knew. NOW I understand my friend. I may not like the world of rappers. I may not like the world of prostitution or the world of the mob or the world of racists or the world of MANY people ranting on their blogs. But I think an artist, a writer, a rapper, has the right to do their art, their rap, their book.

So . . . my peaceful rant of the day. Anyone?

When Did You Become a Real Writer?

Okay, I have a confession to make. (Don't I usually?) When Spanish Disco came out three years ago, my first novel (can you believe it was only three years and change ago?--January 2003), I flew to NYC for the Red Dess Ink cocktail party and then dinner. When I walked into the cocktail party, there hung my cover on a poster! And some actual copies of the book though it wasn't in stores yet. It was fun, thrilling--but definitely didn't feel real.

My next trip, in January, for a book signing, Spanish Disco was in Cosmpolitan magazine, which declared it "hilarious." I was in Manhattan, in Duane Reed (a drugstore chain in NYC). I was buying my favorite candy (Necco's), bottled water, and, having just heard this news from my editor, two copies of Cosmo. I stood on line, flipped to the page--there in a beautiful box they touted my new book. It felt strange. I called my friend and said, "Guess where I am?" (Yes, an annoying person standing on line talking on my cellphone). I told her the news. Called my dad (always do when something cool happens). But it felt . . . odd.

I can recount a hundred stories. Signings, conferences, parties, reviews, US Weekly (twice!), American Girl magazine, Woman's World, newspapers . . . fan emails, fan letters, fan stalker (a tale for another day). But I always told people it was my "fake" life. I didn't feel connected to it at all. I would say there was about a 20% chance I would tell you I was a writer if I met you. Maybe less than 20%. I saw book after book in stores. MY books. With my name (or pen name) on the cover. I turned the pages. Yeah . . . those were my words. I wrote them. I got a TV deal (still can't tell you all the details yet). Still not real.

What was real? My kids, my life, my laundry pile. My poker games, my sushi place, my best friend, my struggles as a human being. My periods of grief and stress, my periods of bliss and joy. The birth of baby number four. Sleepless nights and coffee-fueled days. My secret dreams--which have nothing to do with writing. But being an author didn't feel real.

Until, oddly enough, yesterday. I was putting the finishing touches on BLOOD SON, a February 2007 release. And I was writing a brutal rape scene. In fact, it was so brutal that I was having a hard time with it, imagining how readers would feel. What I was trying to do with it was give the villain some nuance. Yes, the man is evil, but he hates the persecution of his people throughout time. And he imparts a memory to my heroine. And I knew, on some level, I was really nailing it. And as I wrote, it dawned on me. For the FIRST TIME . . . this is going to be in a book that people read. I am writing something that, when they are done reading it, will stay with them because it is a really awful scene, a part of human history people are not very aware of, and it will affect them. I AM A WRITER.

So that's what I am now. :-)

How about all of you? When did you become a real writer? Doesn't matter if your pubbed or unpubbed, agented or not. You either are or aren't. I guess I am now. And you? Or have you not yet staked your claim on that title?

My Favorite Baby

Choosing a favorite character YOU yourself have written is sort of like saying to a mother "which child is your favorite?" You love them all equally.

Some writers say "My current one"--whatever their wip, that is the character they are excited over.

But if you HAD to choose. HAD to . . . which one would it be and why?

For me, my favorite character EVER isn't hard to choose. It's Tom, the brother in THE ROOFER. Tom acts in a really incestuous way toward his sister. When she has her boyfriend over, he is completely sh*t-faced and parades naked in front of them. He pukes in his bed he's so drunk every night and takes an awful lot of drugs throughout. He also does something horrific, a crime so personal and cold that it hopefully takes readers' breaths away.

But I love him. More than that, I lived and breathed him when I wrote Tom. More than THAT, he is my sacrifical lamb. He is the Christ figure in the book. It boils down to a certainty that Tom would do ANYTHING for his sister, Ava. Anything. He would die for her. And he wouldn't blink, hesistate, or pause. He would without looking around accept death in an instant because he loves her that much. She is HIS Ava. He wants to own her. He wants to possess her. He wants to suffocate her and keep her.

And then deep within him is a boy. In my favorite scene, a flashback, the adolescent Ava and Tom ride the subway to Lincoln Center and watch "normal" families as if the siblings were anthropologists living within a tribe, yet observing. They guess at what normal is, guess at what it looks like and smells like. And THAT boy, that dearly innocent boy, loses all in the book.

After the book was published, I got email after email from fans both loving Tom and hating him. And mostly they wanted Tom to have a hopeful ending of his own. One reader asked me if I would write that for her! Women wrote me sobbing. Several men wrote me trying to comprehend this brother.

Tom is my baby. In ways I can't quite explain, he is half my soul. I wish I could explain it. I wish I could make a non-writer understand it. He isn't an ideal man. He's not even a GOOD man, in the way most people undestand morality. But in the gray world of Hell's Kitchen, he is a righteous man.

In some ways, I am in love with Tom. I wish I could conjure him.

So . . . who is your favorite child. And why?

What Is Your Mantra?

One of my kids hates change. In fact, on her first day of school this year, she promised me, rather graphically, that she would "hurl" all over her teacher.

I try to help her see that change is a part of life. So as we walk to the bus stop, we repeat the mantra I devised for her. "I embrace change. I embrace change." It usually makes her laugh. And when she laughs she can't think about throwing up on her bus driver.

We all face challenges. Writers face them. We all have stumbling blocks. Fears. Things that make us want to hurl.

My mantra is Open Your Eyes. I am convinced there is a novel waiting in every day, in things I see, people I talk to, the life I embrace. So many people walk past the details of life.

It reminds me of my new glasses. My best friend will tell you I am very vain in that I SHOULD wear my glasses all the time, but don't. Or didn't for a long time. I just couldn't find a pair that suited me--I mean that really expressed my inner eccentric. Then I got these funky glasses with rhinestones. I wear them more--but they're not sunglasses. So two days ago, I bought a really nice pair of prescription shades (maybe I'll even snap a picture with them on to post). I love 'em. My teen pronounced them "sexy" (an improvement over "Did you really intend to wear THAT?!"). When I put them on today while driving, it was like seeing the world in high def vs. regular TV. I saw the details! Wow! Who knew the leaves were that color? Who knew the trees were that green?

They're there. The details of life if you open your eyes. The interesting tattoos, the shady appearances, the woman and man clearly having an affair over lunch (saw THAT yesterday at the local Italian place), the very odd woman who tells me WAY too much information, the man who revealed his vasectomy while administering my medical test (um . . . OK?!?). OPEN YOUR EYES. Stories abound.

In my personal life, my two mantras are "Breathe." And from Thich Nhat Hanh, "Peace in every step."

What is your writing mantra? What do you have to embrace or work on? Are you gripped by self-doubt . . . or do you "embrace change"?

New York State of Mind

You can take the girl out of New York, but not New York out of the girl. I love the Giants, the Yankees, the Rangers, and the Knicks. I love pretzels bought on the street--and hot handbags sold out of someone's van. I like looking up at the lions outside the New York Public Library and imagining them wisely watching the city expand right in front of them. I adore going into St. Patrick's Cathedral, a church where you can still light actual candles. I find an alcove and light candles to my grandparents and talk to them.

When I see the skyline of my beloved city, it still takes my breath away like a jewel. I know down on the streets it's dirty and grimy, and sometimes crime-ridden. There are homeless people, and rundown blocks, potholes and cabs that'll run you over. But from far away, it's beautiful. I feel my heart leap every time my plane circles. It's something special--I'm going HOME.

Except, of course, for two missing towers--and all the people who vanished, a modern Pompeii.

Today, September 11th, many people far more eloquent than I will blog about my city. I can't say why the city is so much a part of me. I haven't lived there in forever--or at least a good 18 years. Ah, but I have.

You see my books are very often love letters to the Big Apple. To everything about her, but most especially that she seems to have a heartbeat and a pulse. She's alive, somehow. It goes beyong the city that never sleeps cliche. It's made up of people from every walk of life and every place on earth--every one. I have met French cabbies and Turkish ones, Sikhs, and Moslems, and former merchant marines. I've listened to street musicians play on the subway and watched the sidewalk painters near Bryant Park. I've walked near Tudor City and imagined it's haunted. If you listen to people's stories, you realize New York has an energy unlike anywhere else. And this day, five years ago, broke our collective hearts.

What I remember most about it, aside from taking my kids out of school and lying on my bed with them around me, sobbing, was staying up all night hoping beyond hope they would find pockets of survivors. They couldn't all be ash . . . gone. But they were. Wiped from the face of the earth. Very few people who grew up near Manhattan didn't know someone in the Towers, or a family that lost someone--or a family with a cop or fireman who died or still feels sick.

I flew up to New York City two months later. Things had changed. A cop and a vigilant German shepherd guarded the block of my hotel. Barricades blocked certain streets. People were softer, a little kinder. They looked at you as if to say, "Yeah, it happened. We went through it together, didn't we?" We shared a grief, the way family members at a funeral share that experience.

In my books, I've never left. Ava in THE ROOFER, and Lily in DO THEY WEAR HIGH HEELS IN HEAVEN, and Mai and Jimmy and Maggie and Danny . . . in INVISIBLE GIRL . . . Often, embedded isn't just that they live there, but that they would never leave. A love letter to Hell's Kitchen and the old tough guys, to the gritty bars and the hidden churches and cathedrals, the East River and the Hudson, the skyline--changed--and the skyline the way it once was.

I've never left.

It seemed, today, that the only thing I could blog about was my town. My still broken heart. Anyone who cares to share . . . I wish you all peace today.

Weird Crap I Know

This post is all in fun--but also true.

When you are an editor, particularly if you are a freelance one and get to work on a wide swath of books, you accumulate a lot of information. Work as a novelist, and you'll likely do research . . . interview people, check out cool careers, find out how much a liver is supposed to weigh in an autopsy. Just a weird assorted tumble of strange facts.

So strange that I sincerely hope and pray no one I know is ever bumped off in supicious circumstance in which I am a suspect. Why? Because in this era of Big Brother, the utterly criminal list of my searches on Google is immense. For instance, I now know how to make methamphetimines in a home lab from an Internet recipe. I also know strange facts about how much antifreeze you need to kill someone. And the best food to put it in. I know the best way to kill yourself with pills--and the best food to put it in.

I know how to judge a dairy cow (don't ask! it involved editing a book twenty years ago). I know enough about superstring theory to carry on a reasonable conversation with a physicist--and enough to now know that most scientists bristle at calling it a "theory" and say it should be termed an "idea." I know a smattering about castrati. I know about filling a dead body with embalming fluid.

More? Well, I don't cook. At all. So when I had to put in a book about someone cooking an egg . . . I turned to the Internet to find out how long you should boil an egg to make hard-boiled eggs. I also found out--rather astonishingly--that there isn't ONE way to make hard-boiled eggs. Everyone has their opinion on how long those suckers should float around in boiling water.

I know Bram Stoker was bedridden for most of his childhood. I know that if a man pierces his scrotum (people will pierce anything nowadays), it can be very bloody--lots of blood vessels down there (don't try this at home).

So . . . what do you know? Do you have some obscure fact that was perfect for a book you were working on?

Welcome to the Roboto-tron

You know when they have these futuristic movies, like A.I., and you can hire a robot to keep your house and give you sex on the side? Is that the ideal? Some hunky guy or gal who can fulfill all your needs, never disagree with you, and won't leave the seat up, or, perhaps in a man's case, won't demand to be cuddled after sex.

Being a writer, you can create a love interest in your books that's rather like the Roboto-tron. You can give them any traits you want. Wish fulfillment, fantasy, whatever. Indeed, in the history of the romance genre, very often the man was wealthy and sexy and also a tender guy whose love for kids was there just beneath the surface of a suave gentleman, as one example.

So why are MY Roboto-trons so unbelievably complicated and difficult? I am working on a new book--already bought--in which the hero/main character is a recovering Vicodin addict. He equates addiction with grief--something else he's struggling with. And in an as-yet unsold book that I am playing with, the hero wants to commit suicide. The whole dance is will he or won't he? In TRACE OF DOUBT, Billie's live-in boyfriend is a former convict. And the Jungian soul partner she meets is a Japanese detective who quotes Greek mythology and doesn't talk much.

In real life . . . my God but I would run the other way. However, I can't say my relationships have been a piece of cake either. Maybe in writing, I find these very tortured sorts of characters have proved their worth somehow. They've had the dark night of the soul and then some and are somehow the deeper for it. And, in a rather hilarious bit of confession here . . . I find my heroines quirkily endearing, but I have gotten plenty of fan mail from people who have loved a book but wanted to deck the heroine a few times. And since they sometimes share some traits with me, I guess more than a few people would like to punch my lights out.

How about you? Are your Roboto-trons wish fulfillment of perfection? Really messed up? Somewhere in the middle?

Obsession: Love, Hate, and Passion

The best love stories aren't really about love at all.

They're about obsession.

The best murder stories aren't really about the act of murder at all.

They're about obsession.

The best detectives aren't really about following clues

and solving a crime.

They're about obsession.

Think about it. To me, that love affair between two people who literally crave each other physically--and mentally--who feel sick over separation, who would die for one another, who will never recover the loss of that person . . . that's a love story you can never forget. I am working on one now in the very early stages about a reincarnation of lovers from the 12th century--they're obsessed. Jane Eyre, one of my favorite love stories . . . she felt for him as an intellectual soul mate.

Murder stories. A killer who stalks his victim, learning every detail about him or her, invading their space on the fringes until he can strike. Terrifying. You can even extend that to characters like Dracula . . . and Mina and Lucy.

Detective stories or mysteries. Lots of detectives do their jobs--admirably. But the ones who live and breathe a case, not resting, they cross over to the most powerful novels. I know in TRACE OF DOUBT, I gave Billie Quinn the most personal of motivations for solving a case--the death of her mother. I love the Andrew Vachss BURKE novels. (I highlighted one there--they're all utterly fabulous.) Burke's obsession is there for reasons you never quite know. It's dark and gritty and over the edge--and brilliant.

Personally, the most compelling love affair of my life was one way too obsessive to be healthy. The things that obsess me in terms of the work I do, and the volunteer work I do . . . sometimes exhaust me. They consume me and keep me from sleeping sometimes. I know that about myself. I've seen friends wreck their lives over email affairs; I knew one woman who left house and hearth (husband and kids) and jetted off to California to meet a man she only knew from the internet. Obsession is responsible for more wrecked lives than nearly anything. Obsessed with a drug, gambling, alchohol--you'll lose it all. In DOUBLE DOWN, writing as Tess Hudson, I chronicled a woman's addiction to gambling, in particular sports betting. It was only until Skye filled the emptiest part of herself with something else that she was able to stop her obsession.

How 'bout you? Obsessed with anyone? Anything? Or know a great book that paints the suffocating horror of someone in the throes of true obsession?

The Outsider, the Rogue, the Anti-hero

Today, three of my four children started school--new schools in a new state, not knowing a soul, for the most part. It poured this morning, and I stood with my commuter mug at the bus stop in the rain and wanted to cry. Not only would I miss them, not only do I feel, at times, equally out of place, but I watched them, separate from the other kids a bit, outsiders, and my soul left me for a bit. I was always the outsider, and when you have children, they are so much a part of you that you feel their pains in ways no one can prepare you for. If you don't have kids, you can't understand, and if you do, no further words are necessary.

When I write YAs, I can tap into that immediately. The outsider girl, the keeper of secrets, the one no one understands for the things she has seen and knows. Lucy, in HIGH SCHOOL BITES is the outsider girl from the house that looks like the Munsters live there. She is the motherless girl, the girl who grieves but has to be responsible.

As Americans, I think we are fascinated by outsiders . . . and outsiders grow up to be rogues or anti-heroes (or anti-heroines). They stay outside the norm, never quite fitting in and deciding they prefer it better that way--skirting the law or skirting convention. I dress all in black--and people judge me . . . but it's not that I am dark or even dramatic (things I am accused of) but that it's simply easier and I never have to worry if I match. I don't give a thought to my clothes--black goes with black. What could be simpler? Yet it seems so different from the Barbie Moms. And that's okay. I've been outside the norm for so long I don't think I'd know what to do if I was suddenly invited to the club, so to speak.

I love the rogue. I love the anti-hero. My favorite hero was Robin Hood, and I would, in a heartbeat, lie, cheat, or steal for the inner-city kids I have mentored. I would bend the rules. Look the other way. And if I admire a hero who takes it a step further . . . well, I can't help it, I don't think. It's the outsider all grown up.

So how about you? Your favorite anti-hero? Your favorite rogue? Or do you color inside the lines?

Forcing It

Have you ever tried to write a scene . . . and it's right there in your mind. You see it. You feel it. But no matter how hard you try, what ends up on paper is forced. It's like a word on the tip of your tongue. No matter how hard you try to conjure it, you can't. You try starting the scene all over again. A new opening. A new POV. You try omniscient. You chuck that for first person. You try shutting up your internal editor and just write. But it won't come. You can do one of the following:

1. Bang your head against the desk. Repeatedly.
2. Crack the seal on a prized bottle of single-malt scotch and drink copiously.
3. Give up. (NEVER!)
4. Rent a DVD I highly recommend. Comedian, by Jerry Seinfeld.

Choice number one will give you a headache. Come to think of it, so will choice number two. Choice number three won't get you a novel. Choice number four . . . it will at least make you feel better. And not because the DVD is funny (it's not, really . . . parts of it are, but it's a documentary). It will make you feel better as you realize you are not the only one with this struggle.

Jerry Seinfeld has zillions of dollars. He certainly doesn't NEED the added few bucks he will get if you buy his DVD or rent it. BUT, despite having zillions, he is still trying to create, still trying new stand-up.

The DVD in question follows him as he tries out a new routine. At one point, he goes through this long set-up in front of a live audience in a small club--only to f*** up the punchline. He doesn't need to do this. But it's the creative process.

Whether you like his comedy or not, you end the DVD very aware that the creative process is full of frustration for most of us--zillionaire comics and writers alike. But there's more . . . a rather unknown comic is also shown. I won't ruin the DVD for those who will rent it except to say that he is insane. He analyzes his material with spreadsheets. Based on laugh response and all sorts of parameters. I suppose there is something to that, maybe . . . but what I was left with was the sense that some creative processes are simply that. Processes. They are messy and not adaptable to spreadsheets and numbers and figures.

So save yourself a headache. When you feel down about the process, remember, we're all, in one way or another, in this together. And yet utterly alone.