On NOT Puking, Because I am Such a Delicate Little Flower

By Cornelia

I am a puker. I admit it. Nervous states seem to take up residence in my stomach, but only temporarily.



For many years, starting in my late teens, this condition made itself most apparent when I was required to board an airplane. Like Our Jacqueline, I was not a happy flyer. Shortly after college, I traveled around the world for a year with my sister Freya, our friend Melissa, and Melissa’s boyfriend Peter. My mother joined us for India and Nepal.

During the course of that year, I ran through the entire lexicon for barfing listed in that early Eighties non-fiction masterpiece, The Preppy Handbook: Technicolor Yawn, Worshipping the Porcelain God, &c. Freya and Melissa and Peter and Mom did their best not to sit next to me on the various planes, or even at the departure gates in New York, London, Zurich, Frankfurt, New Delhi, Kathmandu, and on and on.

A month of hypnosis in Boulder ten years ago has helped with the flying thing, but my abdominal cavity can still be fraught with peril on other nervous-making occasions, let me tell you.

Last week I did the first four signings for my book, A Field of Darkness. I am happy to report that I did not barf at a single one, though I worried I would at the outset of each.

The first night was at M is for Mystery in San Mateo, bookstore of the marvelous Ed Kaufman. I figured if I could make it through the initial five minutes, I might be okay—a prediction that proved happily accurate. Cara Black had come down from San Francisco to introduce me, and I think there was something magically soothing about her gracious presence.

The second night saw me at Cody’s on Fourth Street, here in Berkeley. I announced to the inimitable Tova Zeff, who introduced me, how proud I was not to have yakked the night before. One smile from her made it all feel better.

Friday I arrived at Bay Books in Monterey, where I couldn’t quite bring myself to warn glamorous owner Joti Situ about my possibly imminent public reacquaintance with what I’d had for lunch, though I did caution my sister it might be better to sit in the second row.

Saturday saw me at the magnificent Mysterious Galaxy Books in San Diego, for their thirteenth-anniversary “Book Mitzvah” party. By this point, I was so proud of my previous puke-free performances, I dared a wee bit of bragging to the lovely Elizabeth Baldwin.

“I hope you won’t mind if we record you, today,” she said.

“Oh man,” I replied, “I really hope I don’t barf.”

“We can edit it out of the tape,” she said. “Don’t worry. Would you like me to get you one of our special author buckets, just in case?”

“Author buckets?”

“Yes,” she said. “We keep a bunch in the back. We will of course ask you to sign it, after, and then we’ll hang it on the wall. With ‘The Others.’”

“I take it you have the contents bronzed?”

“Of course.”

I love Elizabeth Baldwin.

Yesterday, I got an email from author Susanne Pari, asking whether I’d be interested in joining Our Jacqueline and Cara Black on a mystery panel at the upcoming Book Group Expo on June 17th. I said I’d be honored, and then proudly announced that after my first four signings, I remained happily barf-free.

She wrote back to ask whether I’d ever heard the story of the poor author who bolted offstage to vomit during her interview at the Herbst Theater, but neglected to remove the lapel mike first.

That sounds like something I would do. Seriously.

And I have to tell you that I worry about this coming weekend. On Saturday, I’ll do my first joint appearance with Lee Child, at Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona. I don’t think I can imagine anything more excruciatingly humiliatory than the prospect of barfing on Lee. I mean, he’s BRITISH. And tall and stuff. And he has been so very kind to me.

Luckily, we will not be on the same flight to Houston for our signing at Murder by the Book on Sunday, so I can puke to my heart’s content on that plane in relative anonymity, should the need arise.

Please keep your fingers crossed that I manage to contain myself once I get to Houston, though. I’m sure Lee would be eternally grateful.



(here is what I'm thinking of wearing...)

"IGNORANCE IN HIGH PLACES"

By Paul Levine

Journalism, rather than fiction, plasters my desk today.

"What Will Happen to Books?" by Kevin Kelly in Sunday's New York Times Magazine is a must-read piece. The author describes the digital library of the near future. It's a place where everything contained in all the libraries of the world -- 32 million books, 750 million articles, 25 million songs, 500,000 movies and more -- "will all fit onto your iPod. When that happens, the library of all libraries will ride in your purse or wallet."

Wow. I just hope the "library of all libraries" includes all the old issues of MAD magazine my Mom threw out around the time of my Bar Mitzvah.

* * *

Highly recommended: "Film's Know-Nothings" in Monday's Wall Street Journal. Joe Morgenstern, the nonpareil film critic, excorciates today's screenwriters, directors, and studio execs for their lack of experience in the real world. "Unworldly though today's Hollywood careerists may be, they are surely to be pitied as well as censured. So many meetings, so many calls to agents and managers, so many studio notes, so much ignorance in high places, such ardent input for such negligible output."

You're right Joe, but you're being far too kind.

* * *

With newspapers on my mind, what a shame that so few dailies still maintain full-fledged book sections. The column inches devoted to books continues to decline in favor of celebrity blather, gossip news, and Hollywood coverage that focuses on which movies make the most money. [The weekly box office charts puzzle me. When's the last time you said, "Honey, I see Porky's 7 did 30 million last weekend. We'd better go see it."] Thank goodness we have specialty publications like MYSTERY SCENE magazine, but still...the failure of major metropolitan newspapes to adequately cover books is scandalous.

So, let's give thanks to the hard-working (and easy reading) folks manning Internet book sites. I'd been away from the book world for several years, writing for television -- yes, that vast wasteland -- and I didn't know how many of these sites existed. But now, I recommend all of the following, and not just because they gave exceedingly kind reviews to SOLOMON vs. LORD and/or THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI. These sites are filling the void. Check 'em out. In no particular order:

Book Loons
Blog Critics
Round Table Reviews
Armchair Reviews
Huntress Reviews
Book-Girl Info
Once Upon a Romance
The Mystery Reader
Bookgasm
Mystery Cove
Reading Review
Bookbitch
Gotta Write Network
Crime Spree
Book Pleasures
Pop Matters
New Mystery Reader
Reviewing the Evidence
Who-Dunnit

There are more, many more, who still believe in the power and the majesty of the written word. Enjoy them all!

By Paul Levine

Diary of a Naked Author

From Patty

I admire authors who begin writing each morning at 5:00 AM and complete a specified number of pages or hours even if the sky is falling. I want to be one of them, so last week I kept a diary on a typical Wednesday just to see how I stacked up.

8:00 AM: Wake up, read Los Angeles Times in bed, drink coffee. Notice disheartening article about the publishing industry’s response to years of declining sales. Is it possible that 200,000 titles published each year are too many? Apparently so. Number of books published in 2005 dropped by 18,000 from previous year. Downward trend projected to continue. Conclusion: I am very, very lucky.

8:30 AM: Neighbor calls to inform me that buzz is growing in the ‘hood about my appearance with Harley Jane Kozak at the Palms-Rancho Park library on Tuesday, June 20th. Flyer needed to spread the word. Add “create flyer” to things-to-do list. Shower, get dressed, put on make-up (mandatory).

9:10 AM: Put in first load of laundry.

9:11 AM: Turn on computer. Answer email confirming appearance at Palos Verdes Library on Thursday, May 11 with fellow authors Naomi Hirahara, Marcos Villatoro, Gary Phillips, moderated by Diana James. (BTW, it was a great event. Big crowd, lots of laughs.)

9:18 AM: Check NakedAuthors.com for Cornelia’s post. Not there. Remember that it took my Monday post over an hour to register. Remind myself to check later. Ready to start writing. Doorbell rings. My British housecleaner arrives, an entrepreneurial psychology student who cleans houses to pay tuition. I can so identify. Love his accent, even if he’s telling me that my kitchen floor suffers from waxy yellow buildup. Waylay him by the broom closet just to hear him speak.

9:25 AM: Suddenly realize that I can’t remember last time I paid bills. Find credit card statement, which includes monthly charge for gym membership I have never used. Delude myself that exercise takes too much time away from writing.

9:40 AM: Where has time gone? Must leave immediately!!!!! Will be late to Pilates class. Abandon bills in disarray on desk. Realize I haven’t eaten breakfast. Rush to toaster. Check time. Toasting takes too long. Grab slice of bread. Eat in car.

9:59 AM: Despite construction bottleneck at Santa Monica Boulevard, arrive with one minute to spare.

10:55 AM: Cut workout five minutes short to be at Cheesecake Factory for friend’s surprise birthday party. Contributed to group present but real gift will be to tell her that it’s time to start lying about her age. No time to change clothes. Go in sweat suit. Tie silk scarf around neck, careful to hide newly discovered moth holes. Hope nobody notices tacky attire.

11:25 AM: Arrive at CF five minutes before birthday girl. People-watch in lobby while waiting to be seated. Tell myself I’m not wasting time; I’m doing research. See attractive man with gray hair that belies his age. WAIT! He’s embodiment of character in SHORT CHANGE. I watch his demeanor. He smokes. Who knew? Woman enters with two-seater baby stroller that’s almost as big as a Mini Cooper. Consider including snarky remark about strollers. No. Already covered this subject in COVER YOUR ASSETS.

Finally seated. Everyone at table is a police officer except for me. CF could be safest place in L.A. Discuss who will play Tucker when Hollywood calls. No casting decisions made but remind myself to calculate number of calories used while laughing. May make up for leaving Pilates five minutes early.

1:00 AM: Go back to police station. Eat oversized piece of birthday cake. Center layer includes strawberries. Rationalize that it’s fruit, a good thing. Tell everybody about NakedAuthors.com. They laugh and want to check it out but are afraid. The Department monitors computer use and may get wrong impression. Big Brother is everywhere.

2:10 PM: Return home. Discover message on answering machine about important research interview I’ve been trying to set up for SHORT CHANGE. Return call. Make arrangements.

2:20 PM: Notice pile of unpaid bills on desk from this morning. Finish paying to avoid foreclosure on house. Resume laundry detail.

2:30 PM: Check email. Nothing. Check snail mail. Find postcard from Weight Watchers: “Last Chance for Free Registration.” Ponder caloric intake from super-sized birthday cake and unused gym membership. Save postcard for future consideration.

2:55 PM: At last, sit down at computer to write.

2:56 PM: Check email once more. Can’t believe nobody is trying to communicate with me. Put in another load of laundry. Write.

3:50 PM: Feel brain dead. Could be sugar from birthday cake. Call mother. Write.

5:15 PM: One hour and fifteen minutes of uninterrupted writing (except for time spent folding clothes and making bed). Have tickets for play at Ahmanson Theater at eight. The Black Rider: The Casting of the Magic Bullets. Still wearing sweat suit sans moth-eaten scarf. Change.

5:30 PM: Leave for theater. Takes one hour to drive twelve miles.

6:30 PM: Dine at Music Center.

8:00 PM: Show time. For him, play is avant-garde, wildly creative, and edgy. For me, it’s pure torture. We leave at halftime.

10:00 PM: Finally read Cornelia’s blog post.

10: 30 PM: Ponder day’s activities. Discover naked truth about writing and life: Both are full time jobs. Set alarm for 5:00 AM.

Finding Amalgam

From Jacqueline

Every writer has a library they love, whether big or small, up-to-date-computerized or with creaky oak floorboards and a card file system. For me it was that tiny library in the town two miles away from my home in Kent, England. My mother and I used to walk to town every Saturday, my mother pushing my infant brother in one of those old-fashioned baby carriages with front wheels that were bigger than the back wheels. It had a grocery rack that was always filled with books, because my mother took the library order for the senior citizens in our small hamlet. I can trace my serious book habit back to that library and the piles of books we took to and fro every week. Since that time, wherever my travels have taken me, I have always sought out the local library - you can tell a lot about a place by the library.
At the end of April I was on a panel at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C., and before the event was thrilled to be taken on a private tour. Descending into the basement, I imagined librarians in times past tottering up and down those cast-iron spiral staircases, while books chugged back and forth on the old conveyer belt - an amazing piece of machinery, if ever I saw it - when requested by students and researchers who came from far and wide to use the reading room. I was told the story of one of the former librarians, who moved on to teach at a school in rural Nebraska several years ago. Not one child in that school had been out of town, and never expected to. So he set up a fundraising drive, everything from bake sales to sponsorship, and eventually there was enough money to bring the kids to DC. Apparently, when they entered the library, you could have heard a pin drop, as everyone looked up and marveled at the interior of the famous dome and the new world that had just opened up.

My next stop was Wilbraham in Massachusetts, a quintessential New England small town. My novel MAISIE DOBBS had been chosen for their first ever, "One Town, One Read," and I was met by Karen Demers who is responsible for outreach, events and other projects to generate community involvement in the library. Wait until you hear what this town did for MAISIE DOBBS! As we entered the town, there were large sandwich-board notices with my name and the book in very large letters. I was so surprised I could hardly speak. Karen pointed out the signs and went on to tell me what else had been going on. Since March they had organized a veritable festival of events, from cabaret nights where townspeople came to sing songs from World War 1 and the 1920's and 30's (when the book is set), to lectures about the time - professors have come in from UMass Amherst to talk about subjects such as the art of WW1 and the history of the era. As well as lapel pins and brochures, they'd had paper place mats printed with the first few pages of the book, for distribution to local restaurants so that everyone had a taste of the "One Town, One Read" special. To cap it all, the women were gathering to knit helmet warmers and socks for troops in Iraq (trust me, it can be nippy at night in the Middle East - I've been there!), just as they did almost 90 years ago when the first American soldiers left for the Western Front. That evening the library meeting room was packed when I gave my talk, and everyone kept thanking me for making the effort to come to Wilbraham. You could not have kept me away.

In his book, The Lost Continent, Bill Bryson returns to America after living most of his adult life in Britain. He came with the intention of traveling the length and breadth of his native land in search of what he called, "Amalgam" - a town that encompassed everything that was good about America. With all the darkness that seems to have enveloped the world and bears down us everyday on the TV news and in the press, I think I found Amalgam a couple of weeks ago. And I found it in two of America's libraries.

Revenge of the Words

from James

The week started on a bad note. I got a ticket for "failure to come to a complete stop" at a Stop sign. This was my second ticket for the same alleged offense since January, both from the same police department. I'm not one to make excuses, but this is the kind of small town police force that will give you a speeding ticket for doing 31 in an 30 mile per hour zone, and that hovers over your parking meter waiting for the time to run out. So I shouldn't have been surprised when they gave me a ticket for allegedly "rolling" through a stop sign while making a right turn onto a completely deserted road. In truth, I did stop, but what I didn't do is count to ten, have a cup a coffee, make a few phone calls, clean out my console--and then go. That seems to be the law here.
But that's not my point. I went home with the urge to make this certain arrogant cop a character my next novel -- maybe a drug dealer or male prostitute or the victim of some awful murder. But then I realized that I would merely be granting him the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. People actually pay money at auctions to be the next murder victim in Lisa Gardner's novels. Why should I immortalize this chump for free? So I decided not to do it. But part of me still felt like he deserved the "revenge of the words." And then it happened. I was driving in my neighborhood, stopping at every Stop sign, when I saw a sign on the side of the road that I had never noticed before. The city had named that section of the street in honor of a police officer who had been killed in the line of duty. My next thought is that the cop who gave me that cheeky ticket probably knew this fallen officer. Maybe they were even friends. And I suppose this is where my Catholic upbringing kicks in, but then I think, boy, wouldn't I have felt guilty if I had maligned this brave officer's best friend and mentor for merely doing his job and giving me a ticket? What's next -- kicking puppies? I guess I'm not cut out for revenge. Tough way to go through life . . . especially in Miami.

James Grippando

The Woolf at the Door

By Cornelia

Yesterday I was chatting by phone with my great pal Ariel, while her five-year-old daughter Eve was trying to simultaneously engage her in conversation about the disappointing quality of snack she had been offered for mid-afternoon sustenance. We were in our respective kitchens—mine in Berkeley, hers in Montclair, New Jersey.

Ariel is without doubt the most well-read woman I have ever met. She’s introduced me to amazing writers over the years—Robertson Davies, for instance, and wonderful children’s books like Half Magic and A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver, and Shirley Jackson’s Life Among the Savages. She is in her first year of library school, and has recently taken to re-reading the essays of Virginia Woolf.

“You know the one about ‘the angel in the house’?” she asked.

I admitted that I did not.

“Oh my GOD, Cone,” she said (my sister nicknamed me Cone years ago, because she thinks my head is a little pointy), “you MUST READ it. It is scathingly brilliant. All about how you have to kill the angel in the house if you’re ever going to get professionally serious, as a woman—the Victorian ideal of femininity and everything… well, Evie, if you don’t WANT to eat that, do you want some fruit? We have fruit… It was Woolf’s response to this saccharine poem by Coventry Patmore… Grapes. And Strawberries, I think… Here, Cone, I have to read you part of it… Crackers, then, do you want some crackers?… Where did I leave the book… I think we have cheese too, yes, my darling… Okay, let me just find the right page. I bookmarked it… You don’t want The Yucky Cheese? This wasn’t The Yucky Cheese yesterday. When did this one become The Yucky Cheese? Okay, so… ‘It was she [the angel in the house] who bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed her...She was intensely sympathetic. She was utterly unselfish. She sacrificed herself daily...’ What kind of juice, sweetie? We have apple or we have white grape… ‘The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. I took my pen in my hand...she slipped behind me and whispered [to me], “My dear, you are a young woman...Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure.”

"‘And she made as if to guide my pen...’ No you can NOT have a popsicle, sweetie, I’m sorry. Maybe after dinner.

"‘I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her...’ Yes, you did ask for the popsicle very nicely, but you still can’t have one now. 'Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing...'"

I could hear Eve’s voice piping up in the background. “Mommy,” she said, “I think you burned your lamb chops.”

Ari emailed me later to say that Eve had wanted to know what we’d been talking about, after we’d hung up.

“Cornelia’s book just came out, Evie,” she said, “and I wanted her to know I hoped it would be a bestseller.”

Eve, who’s a big checkers aficionado, pondered that, and then said “So if it’s a bestseller does that mean they will king her?”

Ari replied that she supposed so.

Eve nodded. “Then we’d better hurry up and get her autograph, don’t you think?”

Cornelia Rocks!

From Paul--

I'm bored.

I'm reading galley proofs of my next book, KILL ALL THE LAWYERS, due out in September. I don't know about my fellow bloggers, but by this point in the process, I'm bored silly. I've written and re-written, and re-written some more. I've polished the prose and sharpened the plot, and now it's time to move on before I start to hate my characters so much I kill all of them.

But reading gallley proofs is required. And sure enough, there are the usual typos. "Neiman Marcus" is misspelled. A few pronouns dangle out in space like lost astronauts, unsure of who they are or where they're going. Dialogue that seemed so perceptive and witty months ago needs tweaking. A few lines should be taken out, blindfolded, and shot.

So yesterday I put down my pages and picked up Cornelia Read's A FIELD OF DARKNESS.

Terrific! What an astounding first novel. Vivid characters, a fresh plot, and startling wordplay. That's all I'm going to say. Read it! Cornelia, you pulled me from the swamp of my own making.

And now, back to the mundane task of pouring over my own damn pages. Excuse me. "Poring" over. At this point, the only thing that might "pour" over these words is Blase Azul tequila.

Paul Levine