by Patty
I admire the economy of a language (German) that packs so much meaning into only one word—Schadenfreude—especially when English needs an entire phrase to describe the word’s meaning: pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. Schadenfreude seems to be on everybody’s lips these days because of author Kaavya Viswanathan.
According to Mark Morford’s Notes and Errata:
It happens to you, it happens to me, and it is apparently spreading like a virulent STD over at Harvard, where ferocious and hyper-competitive superteens are taking unbridled glee in the shockingly fast rise and equally brutal fall of Kaavya Viswanathan, the now-infamous "prodigy" student and burgeoning novelist who, in case you haven't heard, signed a six-figure book deal at age 17 and sold the film rights to her first novel (the now-infamous and eBay-riffic "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life") to DreamWorks before it was even completed -- but who also, it turns out, just so happened to have lifted dozens of passages of her novel -- many nearly verbatim -- from, well, upward of a half-dozen other chick-lit authors. Whoops.
Of course, what Viswanathan did was dishonest and merits censure. Compounding the problem, when her plagiarism was exposed she failed to fall on her sword. Instead, she blamed her parents for putting too much pressure on her to excel. She also claimed that the word theft was unintentional because she has a photographic memory. If your eyebrow is arching in skepticism, you aren’t the only one.
Still, why all the venom from her peers? Did she publicly gloat over her accomplishments or do we humans have a mean-gene that kicks in when success seems too much too soon?
Monday, May 08, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
Writing groups,the creativity muscle and Nancy Davenport
It was almost as soon as I completed BIRDS OF A FEATHER, my second novel, that I went into a complete funk. A cloud descended and I wondered what I thought I was doing, thinking I could be a writer. Of course, I later learned from more seasoned authors than I, that “second book blues” is a common phenomenon, a pit of embarrassment and despair in which to wallow while giving thanks that you didn’t give up the day job after all. I knew something had to be done about the malaise, so, in a fit of inspiration, I went online to the UCLA Extension website and began running through the writing workshops – perhaps I could meet some new people and reignite confidence in my writing. As soon as I saw "The Illuminated Writer – a 12-week course for writers of all levels," I traded a few emails with the instructor, Barbara Abercrombie, and signed up. It was everything I wanted it to be. In a group of raw beginners, writers returning to Barbara’s class, and a couple of professional scribes, we launched in, illuminated by Barbara’s teaching and by each other. A core group of us came back in Fall, then again the following Spring, and we’ve kept coming back to class. People often ask why I go to the classes, assuming that because I’m already a published author, I wouldn’t need such a thing. My answer is always the same – creativity is a muscle, and if you don’t use it, it’ll atrophy; if you don’t cross-train, you’ll never go beyond the plateau that comes along time and time again. There’s an athleticism with words to be gained in writing exercises, along with the camaraderie and encouragement of other writers. There are many ways to exercise that creativity muscle – going to a class just happens to be one of mine. Oh, and I never work on my novels in class, instead experimenting with memoir and the personal essay, or poetry, or creative non-fiction.
It was in Barbara’s class that a few of us played a part in publishing a book of which we are all very, very proud. I can only tell a small part of the story here, but I hope it will inspire you. Nancy Davenport came along to The Illuminated Writer as a beginner. At seventy-two years of age, she was past retirement and wanted to tell her story. Each time Nancy read her work, that story unfolded – and we were all absolutely captivated. She made us laugh, cry, shake our heads in disbelief and ask when the next piece was coming. I was just thrilled to see her back again at the next class, and the next. She already had emphysema, so when she began to have trouble speaking, we thought it would pass. We took it in turns to read her work, often penned in her beautiful handwriting.
Last year Nancy was diagnosed with ALS – Lou Gehrig’s disease (“And I’ve never even held a baseball,” said Nancy). As she lost the ability to speak, so her voice on the page became louder – and still she came to class until she could walk no more. We knew she was dying, and knew, too, that her dearest wish was to have her work published, to hold her book in her hands. As soon as Nancy delivered the final chapter at the beginning of February, we set to work along with the amazing people at iUniverse, who pulled out the stops so we had early copies one month later. Barbara Lodge, one of our classmates who was helping to care for Nancy, placed a copy in her hands in the first week of March and we had a “publication party” at her bedside on March 12. Nancy died three days later. Her memoir is called, ETERNAL IMPROV, and is available at www.bn.com. You will see that my name is listed there too – I had nothing to do with the writing of the book, but when you put a book into production with iUniverse, all the contact names are published on the webpage.
When we walked into class a couple of weeks ago, I felt as if she would come though the door at any time, leaning on her walker, ready to sit down and read another of her stories, or offer words of encouragement to someone else. Her book sits on my desk at home, as if the title itself were there to remind me that life, like writing, is an eternal improv.
Jacqueline Winspear
It was in Barbara’s class that a few of us played a part in publishing a book of which we are all very, very proud. I can only tell a small part of the story here, but I hope it will inspire you. Nancy Davenport came along to The Illuminated Writer as a beginner. At seventy-two years of age, she was past retirement and wanted to tell her story. Each time Nancy read her work, that story unfolded – and we were all absolutely captivated. She made us laugh, cry, shake our heads in disbelief and ask when the next piece was coming. I was just thrilled to see her back again at the next class, and the next. She already had emphysema, so when she began to have trouble speaking, we thought it would pass. We took it in turns to read her work, often penned in her beautiful handwriting.
Last year Nancy was diagnosed with ALS – Lou Gehrig’s disease (“And I’ve never even held a baseball,” said Nancy). As she lost the ability to speak, so her voice on the page became louder – and still she came to class until she could walk no more. We knew she was dying, and knew, too, that her dearest wish was to have her work published, to hold her book in her hands. As soon as Nancy delivered the final chapter at the beginning of February, we set to work along with the amazing people at iUniverse, who pulled out the stops so we had early copies one month later. Barbara Lodge, one of our classmates who was helping to care for Nancy, placed a copy in her hands in the first week of March and we had a “publication party” at her bedside on March 12. Nancy died three days later. Her memoir is called, ETERNAL IMPROV, and is available at www.bn.com. You will see that my name is listed there too – I had nothing to do with the writing of the book, but when you put a book into production with iUniverse, all the contact names are published on the webpage.
When we walked into class a couple of weeks ago, I felt as if she would come though the door at any time, leaning on her walker, ready to sit down and read another of her stories, or offer words of encouragement to someone else. Her book sits on my desk at home, as if the title itself were there to remind me that life, like writing, is an eternal improv.
Jacqueline Winspear
Thursday, May 04, 2006
And Sometimes we even Sit Down to Write Novels
by James Grippando
I read Paul's blog on Monday (Scottoline, Grippando & Levine, Attorneys at Law), and while my first impression was that I vote to put the firm names in alphabetical order rather than ascending levels of testosterone, my overwhelming impression was when the heck to these people have time to write?
Lately, I'm almost as guilty as Paul on this front, as I was involved in about half the diversions he managed to cram into the week. In my case, however, last week was a definite anomoly. My first novel was published in 1994, and yet the big shindig in New York last week for the 60th Anniversary Edgar Symposium was the first time in my life that I had attended the Edgars. I would file this lapse under the category of I didn't know what I was missing. It was well run, well organized, and of course the panels were excellent and informative. But beyond that, there is a lot to be said for simply chewing the fat (no aspersions cast upon the Grand Hyatt's banquet food)with fellow authors. I love being around people who love what they're doing, and there is nothing like being in a roomful of people who, deep down, not only love it, but realize how lucky they are to make a living doing it.
My wife and I made a mini-vacation out of the NYC trip. We stayed at the Pierre, which has a free Rolls Royce for guests to use if the residents in the building aren't using it. I'm not really into that stuff, but I have to say that just once in your life, you should step out of a shiny new Rolls on Fifth Avenue. My wife and I hammed it up a bit, but it's like being 12 again and playing movie stars. Next time, I'm going to put a political spin on it and see if Paul will play Secret Service Agent for us.
Oh yeah, yesterday, my eleventh novel was published - Lying with Strangers. It won't be in bookstores until 2007, but it is available right now as a Main Selection of the Literary Guild, Book of the Month Club, and Doubleday Book Clubs. This is the first time the book clubs have made an original novel available exclusively to their members, so I'm very excited. It's not in the Swyteck series, but it is a thriller in every sense of the word.
Bookspan, which owns the bookclubs, has been really good to me. The long-term business arrangement (in which "Lying with Strangers" is just the beginning) is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in my career (more about that in future blogs). But it is the personal side that is making this so enjoyable. Tiffany and I had dinner at the home of Cathy and Markus Wilhelm the night before the Edgars (Markus is the CEO of Bookspan). Markus has held this position for 18 years, which is remarkable, since someone in his position usually lasts about 18 months. When I was in NY last November, everyone of course was toasting to the success of the exclusive arrangement for Lying with Strangers but the thing that impressed me most was when Markus said that the most important thing is that we become friends out of this arrrangement. It's great to find someone who values relationships in this business, and that came through at his home. Tiffany and felt immediately comfortable with the Wilhelms. Their children and labra-doodle greeted us at the door. There were 14 people at the dinner table, including Nelson DeMille, Carole Baron (Markus' right arm at Bookspan and former president of Putnam), and Ann Moore (CEO of Time-Warner),and there was not a pretentious bone in the house. Very refreshing.
Enough for now. Time to write. Next week: I found a writer who is not Elmore Leonard and who still writes long hand. Can you guess who it is?
James Grippando
I read Paul's blog on Monday (Scottoline, Grippando & Levine, Attorneys at Law), and while my first impression was that I vote to put the firm names in alphabetical order rather than ascending levels of testosterone, my overwhelming impression was when the heck to these people have time to write?
Lately, I'm almost as guilty as Paul on this front, as I was involved in about half the diversions he managed to cram into the week. In my case, however, last week was a definite anomoly. My first novel was published in 1994, and yet the big shindig in New York last week for the 60th Anniversary Edgar Symposium was the first time in my life that I had attended the Edgars. I would file this lapse under the category of I didn't know what I was missing. It was well run, well organized, and of course the panels were excellent and informative. But beyond that, there is a lot to be said for simply chewing the fat (no aspersions cast upon the Grand Hyatt's banquet food)with fellow authors. I love being around people who love what they're doing, and there is nothing like being in a roomful of people who, deep down, not only love it, but realize how lucky they are to make a living doing it.
My wife and I made a mini-vacation out of the NYC trip. We stayed at the Pierre, which has a free Rolls Royce for guests to use if the residents in the building aren't using it. I'm not really into that stuff, but I have to say that just once in your life, you should step out of a shiny new Rolls on Fifth Avenue. My wife and I hammed it up a bit, but it's like being 12 again and playing movie stars. Next time, I'm going to put a political spin on it and see if Paul will play Secret Service Agent for us.
Oh yeah, yesterday, my eleventh novel was published - Lying with Strangers. It won't be in bookstores until 2007, but it is available right now as a Main Selection of the Literary Guild, Book of the Month Club, and Doubleday Book Clubs. This is the first time the book clubs have made an original novel available exclusively to their members, so I'm very excited. It's not in the Swyteck series, but it is a thriller in every sense of the word.
Bookspan, which owns the bookclubs, has been really good to me. The long-term business arrangement (in which "Lying with Strangers" is just the beginning) is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in my career (more about that in future blogs). But it is the personal side that is making this so enjoyable. Tiffany and I had dinner at the home of Cathy and Markus Wilhelm the night before the Edgars (Markus is the CEO of Bookspan). Markus has held this position for 18 years, which is remarkable, since someone in his position usually lasts about 18 months. When I was in NY last November, everyone of course was toasting to the success of the exclusive arrangement for Lying with Strangers but the thing that impressed me most was when Markus said that the most important thing is that we become friends out of this arrrangement. It's great to find someone who values relationships in this business, and that came through at his home. Tiffany and felt immediately comfortable with the Wilhelms. Their children and labra-doodle greeted us at the door. There were 14 people at the dinner table, including Nelson DeMille, Carole Baron (Markus' right arm at Bookspan and former president of Putnam), and Ann Moore (CEO of Time-Warner),and there was not a pretentious bone in the house. Very refreshing.
Enough for now. Time to write. Next week: I found a writer who is not Elmore Leonard and who still writes long hand. Can you guess who it is?
James Grippando
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Chanel No. Continued...
By Cornelia
Part the Second: In Which, Lo and Behold, The FREAKISHLY, TERRIFYINGLY, JUST- CLOSE-YOUR- EYES- AND- THINK- OF- ENGLAND SCATHINGLY, HEART-STOPPINGLY *SCARY* but yet STILL (O!- Lifetime- of- Nightly- First- Star- and- Annual- Birthday- Candle- Wishes- Laid- Yearningly- at- the- Altar- of- Fervent- Aspiring- Author- Hopes- Coming- True- at- Long- Sweet- Last {Hosanna Hosannadanna!}) BIG HUGE FAT SPLENDID DAY OF MY PUB DATE--BARRING CATASTROPHE--Approacheth (T minus 114 hours, ballpark, and counting)
Monday, May Eighth, is a day I have been dreaming of for a very very very long time. It is the official publication date of my first novel, A Field of Darkness.
The pub dates we imagine before getting published are, I think, akin to the view of government which P.J. O’Rourke once attributed to the Democratic party--to wit, the belief that “government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn.”
I’ve heard from a number of writing compatriots that the actuality can be far closer to O’Rourke’s take on Republicans, “the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it.”
I have often said that the road to publication, for me, has been so unbelievably unbelievable (in a great way) that I keep thinking someone’s put acid in my coffee. Luckily, it’s really good acid. Like, OWSLEY good.
But despite the fantastically amazing luck I have had with the process so far, and the astonishingly kind response the book has gotten so far, there is still a lot of crabgrass in my mental lawn. I don’t think I deserve it, for one thing, and the swings from catbird-seat high to hanging-over-the-abyss-by-my-last-toenail low never go away.
The best thing about getting to know the greater community of writers is that I’ve found I’m not alone, when it comes to that elation-to-terror pendulum. It's part of our makeup. We all have moments when we are CONVINCED everything good is either a fluke or a cruel ruse. That the other shoe is about to drop, and that it weighs more than one of those cartoon bank vaults suspended above the head of Wile E. Coyote as he trots, blithely oblivious to peril, down a cartoon desert highway.
Here is a snapshot of some things that have happened to me, over the last seven days or so, and my psychotropic hi-jinx in the wake of each:
1. An actor/director whom I greatly admire emails my publicist at Hachette Book Group to say he’s interested in optioning Field, “or talking to Cornelia about an original screenplay, should that already have occurred.”
Psychotropic Hi-Jinx: I am elated for about thirty seconds. I call my husband at work. I leave a voicemail for my mother. I then suddenly decide it must in reality be a joke email from some ex-boyfriend MASQUERADING as said much-admired actor/director. Probably the one who gave me crabs.
2. My agent emails to say he’s just read an advance copy of this Sunday’s New York Times Book Review, and that it appears to contain a third-of-a-page ad for Field. In COLOR, for God’s sake. He says this almost gave him a heart attack, since no one had told him to expect it.
PJH: I have actual heart attack. Look up ad rate card for NYTBR. Conclude ad costs more than advance for book. Lie on hardwood floor, hyperventilating, convinced that when not a single copy of book is EVER purchased, publisher will grow embittered and cut me loose, so that I will have to take up residence among a pack of ravening ferrets, in whose company I will become the world’s worst real estate agent in order to eke out a living.
3. Joshilyn Jackson, scathingly brilliant author of gods in Alabama, gives me a glowing writeup on her blog, in thanks for my having stepped in as her last-minute-substitute haiku-contest judge. Among other impossibly funny and kind things, she says, “OOOOH CORNELIA! YOUR BREASTS ARE LIKE WHITE GOATS ON THE HILLSIDE AND YOUR VIRTUE SINGES THE EYES OF THE UNHOLY.”
PJH: Examine real-life appalling boobulage in mirror. Front view… side view… Decide rack bears far closer resemblance to “hills like white elephants,” if not twinned Kilimanjaros. Consider full-frontal cosmetic surgery. Wonder if such is obtainable before first scheduled signing, Wednesday May 10th at M is for Mystery in San Mateo, California (7 p.m.). Wonder if emergency de-boobification doctor would accept IOU. Or perhaps signed copy of book. Fret over atrociously ugly and utterly illegible signature. Take oath to invent new handwriting style for self before Wednesday. Not that anyone will buy so much as a single copy of book at signing, obviously.
4. Great friend Andi Shechter emails part of current Mystery News review of Field she has typed up, since I have not yet received a copy. Review apparently closes with “I have seen the future of the crime novel, and her name is Cornelia Read.”
PJH: Weep. Perform Snoopy Dance around laundry-crowded living room. Weep. Experience panic attack over hideous stinking pile of unreadable crap which is manuscript of follow-up novel. Call husband at work, weeping. Rend garments with hand not holding phone. Husband sighs, no stranger to this. Weep more. Wail about impending June 1st deadline for hideous pile of stinking crap. Ask husband whether he thinks I can get Opal Mehta to ghostwrite it. Wonder to self if she’ll take an IOU. Harvard is expensive. Hang up phone. Call sister. Weep.
5. David Thayer posts interview with self on his splendid blog.
PJH: Write him thank-you email, weeping. Re-read interview. Decide I sound like odious windbag. Weep. Return to hardwood floor for hyperventilation purposes, clutching freshly printed pages of first half of the stinking pile of unreadable Work in Progress, as printer broke mid-way through job and ate second half. Consult Hollywood Tarot, online. Get impending-doom Pee-Wee Herman card, “The Fall.” Weep. Try again. Get Sean Connery card. Feel slightly better.
6. Start writing blog post for Naked Authors. Can’t wait for Monday… crabgrass and all.
Part the Second: In Which, Lo and Behold, The FREAKISHLY, TERRIFYINGLY, JUST- CLOSE-YOUR- EYES- AND- THINK- OF- ENGLAND SCATHINGLY, HEART-STOPPINGLY *SCARY* but yet STILL (O!- Lifetime- of- Nightly- First- Star- and- Annual- Birthday- Candle- Wishes- Laid- Yearningly- at- the- Altar- of- Fervent- Aspiring- Author- Hopes- Coming- True- at- Long- Sweet- Last {Hosanna Hosannadanna!}) BIG HUGE FAT SPLENDID DAY OF MY PUB DATE--BARRING CATASTROPHE--Approacheth (T minus 114 hours, ballpark, and counting)
Monday, May Eighth, is a day I have been dreaming of for a very very very long time. It is the official publication date of my first novel, A Field of Darkness.
The pub dates we imagine before getting published are, I think, akin to the view of government which P.J. O’Rourke once attributed to the Democratic party--to wit, the belief that “government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn.”
I’ve heard from a number of writing compatriots that the actuality can be far closer to O’Rourke’s take on Republicans, “the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it.”
I have often said that the road to publication, for me, has been so unbelievably unbelievable (in a great way) that I keep thinking someone’s put acid in my coffee. Luckily, it’s really good acid. Like, OWSLEY good.
But despite the fantastically amazing luck I have had with the process so far, and the astonishingly kind response the book has gotten so far, there is still a lot of crabgrass in my mental lawn. I don’t think I deserve it, for one thing, and the swings from catbird-seat high to hanging-over-the-abyss-by-my-last-toenail low never go away.
The best thing about getting to know the greater community of writers is that I’ve found I’m not alone, when it comes to that elation-to-terror pendulum. It's part of our makeup. We all have moments when we are CONVINCED everything good is either a fluke or a cruel ruse. That the other shoe is about to drop, and that it weighs more than one of those cartoon bank vaults suspended above the head of Wile E. Coyote as he trots, blithely oblivious to peril, down a cartoon desert highway.
Here is a snapshot of some things that have happened to me, over the last seven days or so, and my psychotropic hi-jinx in the wake of each:
1. An actor/director whom I greatly admire emails my publicist at Hachette Book Group to say he’s interested in optioning Field, “or talking to Cornelia about an original screenplay, should that already have occurred.”
Psychotropic Hi-Jinx: I am elated for about thirty seconds. I call my husband at work. I leave a voicemail for my mother. I then suddenly decide it must in reality be a joke email from some ex-boyfriend MASQUERADING as said much-admired actor/director. Probably the one who gave me crabs.
2. My agent emails to say he’s just read an advance copy of this Sunday’s New York Times Book Review, and that it appears to contain a third-of-a-page ad for Field. In COLOR, for God’s sake. He says this almost gave him a heart attack, since no one had told him to expect it.
PJH: I have actual heart attack. Look up ad rate card for NYTBR. Conclude ad costs more than advance for book. Lie on hardwood floor, hyperventilating, convinced that when not a single copy of book is EVER purchased, publisher will grow embittered and cut me loose, so that I will have to take up residence among a pack of ravening ferrets, in whose company I will become the world’s worst real estate agent in order to eke out a living.
3. Joshilyn Jackson, scathingly brilliant author of gods in Alabama, gives me a glowing writeup on her blog, in thanks for my having stepped in as her last-minute-substitute haiku-contest judge. Among other impossibly funny and kind things, she says, “OOOOH CORNELIA! YOUR BREASTS ARE LIKE WHITE GOATS ON THE HILLSIDE AND YOUR VIRTUE SINGES THE EYES OF THE UNHOLY.”
PJH: Examine real-life appalling boobulage in mirror. Front view… side view… Decide rack bears far closer resemblance to “hills like white elephants,” if not twinned Kilimanjaros. Consider full-frontal cosmetic surgery. Wonder if such is obtainable before first scheduled signing, Wednesday May 10th at M is for Mystery in San Mateo, California (7 p.m.). Wonder if emergency de-boobification doctor would accept IOU. Or perhaps signed copy of book. Fret over atrociously ugly and utterly illegible signature. Take oath to invent new handwriting style for self before Wednesday. Not that anyone will buy so much as a single copy of book at signing, obviously.
4. Great friend Andi Shechter emails part of current Mystery News review of Field she has typed up, since I have not yet received a copy. Review apparently closes with “I have seen the future of the crime novel, and her name is Cornelia Read.”
PJH: Weep. Perform Snoopy Dance around laundry-crowded living room. Weep. Experience panic attack over hideous stinking pile of unreadable crap which is manuscript of follow-up novel. Call husband at work, weeping. Rend garments with hand not holding phone. Husband sighs, no stranger to this. Weep more. Wail about impending June 1st deadline for hideous pile of stinking crap. Ask husband whether he thinks I can get Opal Mehta to ghostwrite it. Wonder to self if she’ll take an IOU. Harvard is expensive. Hang up phone. Call sister. Weep.
5. David Thayer posts interview with self on his splendid blog.
PJH: Write him thank-you email, weeping. Re-read interview. Decide I sound like odious windbag. Weep. Return to hardwood floor for hyperventilation purposes, clutching freshly printed pages of first half of the stinking pile of unreadable Work in Progress, as printer broke mid-way through job and ate second half. Consult Hollywood Tarot, online. Get impending-doom Pee-Wee Herman card, “The Fall.” Weep. Try again. Get Sean Connery card. Feel slightly better.
6. Start writing blog post for Naked Authors. Can’t wait for Monday… crabgrass and all.
The Heady Fragrance of Chanel No. DUDE! NO FREAKING BOOK-WITH-MY-NAME-ON-IT WAY!
By Cornelia
Part the First: O Joy! O Rapture! Could These Splendiferous Boxes Just Delivered by the Sainted UPS Hottie-Man Mean I Haven’t Actually Been Completely Hallucinating Whilst Flailing Around Like a Doof-o-Lusional Grinning Maniac for the Entirety of the Last Year-and-a-Half, After ALL (Knock Wood, Kinahora Poo-Poo-Poo, Hey Nonnie Nonnie)?
Two days later, and it still hasn’t sunken in. I think I must be in shock. It is a very NICE sort of shock—kind of simultaneously warm and fuzzy and even a little sparkly, around the edges—but it is shock all the same.
The impetus for my current mental state, the seed crystal precipitating the advent of its burgeoning fractally Fibonacci-ssimal hunka-hunka burnin’ serotonin-up-the-wazoo goodness, yea verily, are the three stalwart shipping cartons which arrived here at the Chateau Ultra-Trashy on Monday afternoon, each one filled to its dear little cardboard brim with copies of my first novel.
I wish I could report that I high-fived the UPS guy, but I would be lying my butt off, pretending to a cool dispassionate restraint not my own.
Here’s what actually happened: I hugged the poor man, little brown Bermuda shorts and all. Damn near knocked him over, too, what with all the leaping and frolicking to which he was subjected while in my vise-like grip.
In other news today, I got pulled over by a cop for taking a left turn at a light where you're not supposed to, between 4 and 6 p.m. (I'd jogged a block out of my usual route to mail some stuff, and didn't see the sign).
I of course had left my license in my top bureau drawer, BUT had a copy of the book on the passenger seat, so he believed it was me once I showed him my name on the front and my picture on the back, and agreed to radio in to have them look up my license number. Still gave me the damn ticket, but I told him it had been such a good day that I didn't mind so much. Total lie, but what the hell.
Maybe he'll buy a copy. Least he could do, considering.
TO BE CONTINUED once I drive the kids to school this morning, after MUCH coffee…
In the meantime, this is the funniest thing I've read in forever: "I am Michiko Kakutani"
Part the First: O Joy! O Rapture! Could These Splendiferous Boxes Just Delivered by the Sainted UPS Hottie-Man Mean I Haven’t Actually Been Completely Hallucinating Whilst Flailing Around Like a Doof-o-Lusional Grinning Maniac for the Entirety of the Last Year-and-a-Half, After ALL (Knock Wood, Kinahora Poo-Poo-Poo, Hey Nonnie Nonnie)?
Two days later, and it still hasn’t sunken in. I think I must be in shock. It is a very NICE sort of shock—kind of simultaneously warm and fuzzy and even a little sparkly, around the edges—but it is shock all the same.
The impetus for my current mental state, the seed crystal precipitating the advent of its burgeoning fractally Fibonacci-ssimal hunka-hunka burnin’ serotonin-up-the-wazoo goodness, yea verily, are the three stalwart shipping cartons which arrived here at the Chateau Ultra-Trashy on Monday afternoon, each one filled to its dear little cardboard brim with copies of my first novel.
I wish I could report that I high-fived the UPS guy, but I would be lying my butt off, pretending to a cool dispassionate restraint not my own.
Here’s what actually happened: I hugged the poor man, little brown Bermuda shorts and all. Damn near knocked him over, too, what with all the leaping and frolicking to which he was subjected while in my vise-like grip.
In other news today, I got pulled over by a cop for taking a left turn at a light where you're not supposed to, between 4 and 6 p.m. (I'd jogged a block out of my usual route to mail some stuff, and didn't see the sign).
I of course had left my license in my top bureau drawer, BUT had a copy of the book on the passenger seat, so he believed it was me once I showed him my name on the front and my picture on the back, and agreed to radio in to have them look up my license number. Still gave me the damn ticket, but I told him it had been such a good day that I didn't mind so much. Total lie, but what the hell.
Maybe he'll buy a copy. Least he could do, considering.
TO BE CONTINUED once I drive the kids to school this morning, after MUCH coffee…
In the meantime, this is the funniest thing I've read in forever: "I am Michiko Kakutani"
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Scottoline, Grippando & Levine, Attorneys-at-Law
By Paul
A potpourri of events of the past week. (“Potpourri” is a fancy foreign word meaning a pot of lukewarm porridge).
The Edgars: Great week for mystery writers, editors, agents, and fans. I kibitzed on a panel with fellow barristers Lisa Scottoline and James Grippando. Title of our session: “Let’s Kill All the Lawyers...Before They Write.” Many thanks to the Mystery Writers of America for obviously naming the panel in honor of my next book: “Kill All the Lawyers,” due out in September. The panel moderator was the smart and sassy Catherine Crier, a former Texas lawyer (and judge) herself. Afterwards, Lisa, Jim & I headed off to the Court TV studios where we shmoozed on Catherine’s show, shamelessly flogging our books. If I ever wanted to practice law again, I’d want Lisa and Jim as partners.
That night, I shared barbecue at Virgil's with fellow scribblers Reed Farrell Coleman, Jason Starr, James Born, and Ken Bruen. Yeah, I know. Go to New York and eat barbecue...did you just fall off a turnip truck? But it was good...better than Dr. Hogly Wogly’s Tyler Texas BBQ in Van Nuys. I also hit the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station for – guess what – oysters, and the always reliable Scandinavian restaurant Aquavit for herring and smoked salmon.
At the Edgars banquet, I was seated next to the effervescent Harley Jane Kozak. Little known trivia tidbit. I worked with Harley, an accomplished actress, on “First Monday,” the short-lived, critically abused Supreme Court show I co-created with Don Bellisario. The Grand Hyatt ballroom was awash in tuxedos and cocktail dresses, including Sarah Weinman in racy red.
Friday night, I enjoyed a preview performance of “The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial,” the stage adaptation of Herman Wouk’s Pulitzer Prize winning book. A bit dated, maybe, but the play still packs a punch. David Schwimmer is defense lawyer Barney Greenwald, Tim Daly the prosecutor, and veteran character actor Zeljko Ivanek is terrific as Captain Queeg.
Then, it was back to L.A. for the book festival. Scott Turow, Ridley Pearson and I played Secret Service agents Saturday night at U.C.L.A. where Dave Barry announced his candidacy for President. (Yes, of the United States! Hey, he couldn’t do a worse job, could he?) Then Dave and the rest of the Rock Bottom Remainders (Scott, Ridley, Amy Tan, Mitch Albom, Greg Iles, Kathi Kamen Goldmark, Matt Groening, etc.) played their unique versions of “Leader of the Pack” and “Wild Thing.” Believe me, you haven’t lived until you see Scott Turow, that buttoned-down, big-firm, deep-carpet lawyer (and brilliant novelist) loosen his tie and wail: “You make my heart sing!”
Sunday was book-signing day. Greatly enjoyed meeting readers, old and new, and hung out with the multi-talented Steve Cannell, who has conquered the world of television and novels. Fellow blogger Patty Smiley was featured prominently in the Los Angeles Times account of the book festival.
That was the week that was...and now...it’s back to work.
–Paul Levine
A potpourri of events of the past week. (“Potpourri” is a fancy foreign word meaning a pot of lukewarm porridge).
The Edgars: Great week for mystery writers, editors, agents, and fans. I kibitzed on a panel with fellow barristers Lisa Scottoline and James Grippando. Title of our session: “Let’s Kill All the Lawyers...Before They Write.” Many thanks to the Mystery Writers of America for obviously naming the panel in honor of my next book: “Kill All the Lawyers,” due out in September. The panel moderator was the smart and sassy Catherine Crier, a former Texas lawyer (and judge) herself. Afterwards, Lisa, Jim & I headed off to the Court TV studios where we shmoozed on Catherine’s show, shamelessly flogging our books. If I ever wanted to practice law again, I’d want Lisa and Jim as partners.
That night, I shared barbecue at Virgil's with fellow scribblers Reed Farrell Coleman, Jason Starr, James Born, and Ken Bruen. Yeah, I know. Go to New York and eat barbecue...did you just fall off a turnip truck? But it was good...better than Dr. Hogly Wogly’s Tyler Texas BBQ in Van Nuys. I also hit the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station for – guess what – oysters, and the always reliable Scandinavian restaurant Aquavit for herring and smoked salmon.
At the Edgars banquet, I was seated next to the effervescent Harley Jane Kozak. Little known trivia tidbit. I worked with Harley, an accomplished actress, on “First Monday,” the short-lived, critically abused Supreme Court show I co-created with Don Bellisario. The Grand Hyatt ballroom was awash in tuxedos and cocktail dresses, including Sarah Weinman in racy red.
Friday night, I enjoyed a preview performance of “The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial,” the stage adaptation of Herman Wouk’s Pulitzer Prize winning book. A bit dated, maybe, but the play still packs a punch. David Schwimmer is defense lawyer Barney Greenwald, Tim Daly the prosecutor, and veteran character actor Zeljko Ivanek is terrific as Captain Queeg.
Then, it was back to L.A. for the book festival. Scott Turow, Ridley Pearson and I played Secret Service agents Saturday night at U.C.L.A. where Dave Barry announced his candidacy for President. (Yes, of the United States! Hey, he couldn’t do a worse job, could he?) Then Dave and the rest of the Rock Bottom Remainders (Scott, Ridley, Amy Tan, Mitch Albom, Greg Iles, Kathi Kamen Goldmark, Matt Groening, etc.) played their unique versions of “Leader of the Pack” and “Wild Thing.” Believe me, you haven’t lived until you see Scott Turow, that buttoned-down, big-firm, deep-carpet lawyer (and brilliant novelist) loosen his tie and wail: “You make my heart sing!”
Sunday was book-signing day. Greatly enjoyed meeting readers, old and new, and hung out with the multi-talented Steve Cannell, who has conquered the world of television and novels. Fellow blogger Patty Smiley was featured prominently in the Los Angeles Times account of the book festival.
That was the week that was...and now...it’s back to work.
–Paul Levine
Monday, May 01, 2006
Weekend Mojo
by Patty
In the big news department
If you read Publishers Weekly or Sarah Weinman’s addictive blog, Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind, you will already know that I recently accepted a two-book offer from my former editor at Mysterious Press, Kristen Weber, who is now Senior Editor at NAL, a division of Penguin US.
When Kristen called to let me know that she was leaving Mysterious Press to accept this fabulous new job, I told her that I was happy for her but sad for me. We’d gone through a lot together—two books and the death of our beloved Sara Ann Freed. I’d grown addicted to Kristen’s cheery “This is great news, Patty!!!” emails and especially those supportive exclamation points. Kristen is the best kind of editor: erudite, eloquent, profound, dazzling, and clever, and she was also the unflagging champion of my books at Mysterious Press. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I learned that she wanted to take me to NAL with her. I am touched by her faith in me and look forward to embarking on this exciting new journey. Better still, I won’t have to attend any 12-step meetings for Exclamation Points Anonymous. This is great news!!!!!!!!!!!!
p.s. I warned Kristen that I was going to post this. Here’s what she said: “I do need to look at my exclamation point use. Although who am I kidding? I love them!!!” Did I say she was hilarious, too?
The Naked and the dead tired
Folks who lament the diminishing number of book buyers should have joined me at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books this past weekend where 150,000 bibliophiles beat feet to the UCLA campus to bask in all things literary. FYI, Los Angeles is the largest book-buying market in the country (We Angelenos buy more books than New Yorkers or San Franciscans) and the FOB is the largest community book event in the U.S.
Tish Fogarty (my friend and fellow writer) and I kicked off the weekend on Friday evening at the annual Pre-FOB party at The Mystery Bookstore with Bobby and Linda and a store full of fans and authors.
From there, Tish and I trekked to Royce Hall on the UCLA campus to attend the Book Prizes ceremony, MCed by Dana Gioia who is chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts as well as poet, critic, essayist, editor, and more. Joan Didion was awarded the 2005 Robert Kirsch Award. Prizes were also awarded for best Biography, Current Interest, Fiction, First Fiction, History, Mystery/Thriller, Poetry, Science and Technology, and Young Adult Fiction.
When I consider the amazing number of talented writers who attend this event, it’s difficult not to be star-struck. During the weekend I had the chance to chat with many fellow authors, including Denise Hamilton, Paula Woods, Robert Crais, Stephen Cannell, Louise Ure, Naomi Hirahara, Pari Noskin Taichert, Theresa Schwegel (still on Cloud 9 from her recent Edgar win) and the always hilarious and delightful Goldberg brothers, Lee and Tod. I also met Carolyn See, Aimee Bender, and Diana Gabaldon and discussed genealogy with Pulitzer Prize winning author, Jane Smiley. I've always wanted to meet her, and found that she was everything I imagined her to be: charming, funny, and brilliant. Later that day she bought my book, Cover Yours Assets, and even asked me to autograph it. I've always been in awe of her talent. Now I'm also in awe of her grace and generosity in supporting a newbie like me.
On Sunday I was on a panel called Hip Chicks Packing Heat with the irrepressible and impossibly cool Harley Jane Kozak and Susan Kandel moderated with insight and aplomb by Los Angeles Times writer, Emily Green. I’ve attended the FOB many times, but the 2006 event was a magical experience I will never forget.
Tomorrow: Tuesdays with Paulie.
In the big news department
If you read Publishers Weekly or Sarah Weinman’s addictive blog, Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind, you will already know that I recently accepted a two-book offer from my former editor at Mysterious Press, Kristen Weber, who is now Senior Editor at NAL, a division of Penguin US.
When Kristen called to let me know that she was leaving Mysterious Press to accept this fabulous new job, I told her that I was happy for her but sad for me. We’d gone through a lot together—two books and the death of our beloved Sara Ann Freed. I’d grown addicted to Kristen’s cheery “This is great news, Patty!!!” emails and especially those supportive exclamation points. Kristen is the best kind of editor: erudite, eloquent, profound, dazzling, and clever, and she was also the unflagging champion of my books at Mysterious Press. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I learned that she wanted to take me to NAL with her. I am touched by her faith in me and look forward to embarking on this exciting new journey. Better still, I won’t have to attend any 12-step meetings for Exclamation Points Anonymous. This is great news!!!!!!!!!!!!
p.s. I warned Kristen that I was going to post this. Here’s what she said: “I do need to look at my exclamation point use. Although who am I kidding? I love them!!!” Did I say she was hilarious, too?
The Naked and the dead tired
Folks who lament the diminishing number of book buyers should have joined me at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books this past weekend where 150,000 bibliophiles beat feet to the UCLA campus to bask in all things literary. FYI, Los Angeles is the largest book-buying market in the country (We Angelenos buy more books than New Yorkers or San Franciscans) and the FOB is the largest community book event in the U.S.
Tish Fogarty (my friend and fellow writer) and I kicked off the weekend on Friday evening at the annual Pre-FOB party at The Mystery Bookstore with Bobby and Linda and a store full of fans and authors.
From there, Tish and I trekked to Royce Hall on the UCLA campus to attend the Book Prizes ceremony, MCed by Dana Gioia who is chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts as well as poet, critic, essayist, editor, and more. Joan Didion was awarded the 2005 Robert Kirsch Award. Prizes were also awarded for best Biography, Current Interest, Fiction, First Fiction, History, Mystery/Thriller, Poetry, Science and Technology, and Young Adult Fiction.
When I consider the amazing number of talented writers who attend this event, it’s difficult not to be star-struck. During the weekend I had the chance to chat with many fellow authors, including Denise Hamilton, Paula Woods, Robert Crais, Stephen Cannell, Louise Ure, Naomi Hirahara, Pari Noskin Taichert, Theresa Schwegel (still on Cloud 9 from her recent Edgar win) and the always hilarious and delightful Goldberg brothers, Lee and Tod. I also met Carolyn See, Aimee Bender, and Diana Gabaldon and discussed genealogy with Pulitzer Prize winning author, Jane Smiley. I've always wanted to meet her, and found that she was everything I imagined her to be: charming, funny, and brilliant. Later that day she bought my book, Cover Yours Assets, and even asked me to autograph it. I've always been in awe of her talent. Now I'm also in awe of her grace and generosity in supporting a newbie like me.
On Sunday I was on a panel called Hip Chicks Packing Heat with the irrepressible and impossibly cool Harley Jane Kozak and Susan Kandel moderated with insight and aplomb by Los Angeles Times writer, Emily Green. I’ve attended the FOB many times, but the 2006 event was a magical experience I will never forget.
Tomorrow: Tuesdays with Paulie.
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