From James
I need help. I just received the most bizarre rejection this week, and somebody is going to have to explain it to me. Preferably, someone from California.
This weekend I will be speaking at the La Jolla Writer’s conference in California. It is a spectacular three-day event for over 200 published and aspiring authors, and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. I’ll admit, however, that I was a little nervous about accepting this gig. Past keynote speakers include Michael Connelly, Joseph Wambaugh, Phillip Margolin, Tess Gerritsen, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, and the like, and I tend to get a little uptight when the collective sales of my predecessors rival such books as, say, the Bible. This will be my first ever appearance as a keynote speaker in the Golden State, and I was just getting over my jitters when—bam—I got blindsided (Californicated, I think they call it). Well, now I’m just flat out puzzled. Here’s why.
Lately I’ve been speaking to school children about my new young adult novel, Leapholes. It’s been a blast to get in the classrooms and interact with kids who are genuinely enthusiastic about the concept of entering into law books, traveling through time and meeting Rosa Parks, Dred Scott, and other real people who were involved in some of our nation’s most important cases. It’s been such a great experience, in fact, that I decided to take this show on the road with me to California. We booked a signing for tonight (Thursday) at Mysterious Galaxy bookstore. Great folks, and I’m looking forward to it. Then I’m scheduled to talk with a group of fifth graders on Friday morning. Another cool event.
Unfortunately, I must have tempted fate once too often. My first commitment at La Jolla isn’t until Friday evening, so my publicist tried to slate another school appearance for Friday afternoon. We figured we’d contact a smaller private school, thinking that they’d be better able to organize something on such short notice. I’m not pushy about these things. I didn’t ask for an honorarium (most authors do), and the school doesn’t even have to buy my books. I just bring my Power Point presentation into the classroom and we talk about people like Rosa Parks or Dred Scott. I like doing these kinds of things. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it with videotape of me taking school kids on research trips to cool places like crime labs, and I even have some embarrassing photographs of me dressed up like everyone from Rembrandt to Salvador Dali at my own kids’ school.
Well, this was the California school’s response: We think our students are “too privileged” to appreciate the book. And they referred me to a public school.
I’m not going to name the school, because I’m hoping that this reflects the attitude of one person and not an entire institution. Still, I’m laughing now as I’m typing this. I’m from Miami, and as we say over here: “Yo no comprendo.” Put aside for the moment that the first school appearance I have slated upon returning to Miami is a private school of 350 middle-school students—that’s well over $7 million in annual tuition alone sitting in one auditorium. So, can someone who speaks Californian please tell me what the heck this response can possibly mean?
Surely no one is “too privileged” to appreciate Rosa Parks, so that can’t be it. Perhaps they are “too privileged” to appreciate the fact that the boy in Leapholes has to visit his father in prison. But I’m guessing—and surely I’m way out on a limb here—that there must be one or two people “of privilege” in California’s jails. So that can’t be it either. I can only surmise that it must be me—not the book—that they are “too privileged to appreciate.” Could they have feared that this Miami author was actually the dreaded Scar Face, dressed in a white leisure suit and draped in gold chains? Or maybe they thought my name was Jed, not James, and that I planned to roll into the school parking lot with Granny and Jethro on the back of the turnip truck.
Oh, well. It’s going to be a busy weekend at the writers’ conference, and some R & R on Friday afternoon will probably do me some good. I’ll read a book, have drink.
Maybe I’ll even catch a little California sunshine down by the cee-ment pond.
P.S. Sorry I can't participate in the give and take Thursday. It's a travel day. I'm loadin' up the truck and movin' in the general direction of Bever-lee.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Jacking In
By Cornelia
William Gibson's novel Neuromancer chronicles the adventures of Case, a "cyber-cowboy" who, when the story opens, can't get online because the employers he double-crossed on his last hacking job damaged his nervous system with a Russian mycotoxin as punishment.
No longer able to "jack into the matrix," Case has lost both his livelihood and his raison d'etre, and spends the first few chapters floating around seedy Tokyo bars with a death wish the size of a mid-century Pontiac. Published in 1984, Neuromancer quickly gained a massive following, and proved Gibson's prescience about the culture that would grow up around the Internet in subsequent decades.
This past Tuesday, professor Norman Nie, director of Stanford University's Institute for the Quantitative Study of Society (IQSS), released the results of an internet-usage study conducted by IQSS. 4113 people were surveyed by phone on the topic, and the resulting statistics have given rise to alarming headlines about the possibility of "Internet Addiction" in journals around the world.
Obviously, if you're reading this, you have access to the Net, but do you see yourself as someone who may be standing up in a church basement sometime soon, confessing your destructive passion for e-mail and chat rooms and, okay, blogs, to a roomful of sympathetic strangers with whom you're bonding over styrofoam cups of bad coffee?
I admit that that image has crossed my mind more than once. I spend a lot of time online, and the relationships I've forged there, especially in the mystery community, have come to mean a great deal to me. So this morning I took an online Internet Addiction Test quiz to gauge the level of my own dependence (which should probably in and of itself be a red flag).
I got a score of 45, which the survey's authors tell me means, "You are an average on-line user. You may surf the Web a bit too long at times, but you have control over your usage."
I think if I'd been a bit more honest I would've scored in the Fifties--on the low end of the mid-range profile--"You are experiencing occasional or frequent problems because of the Internet. You should consider the full impact on your life." My friends and family might rate me somewhat higher, however. Especially when they're wondering whether dinner is forthcoming.
If you have time, please take the quiz and tell us how you scored in the comment section. Is the Net a problem or a boon for you? Would you say it allows you to be more or less productive? Do you feel you get significant returns from your time spent online, or are you trying to wean yourself off late-night jags playing Mah Jong Solitaire at Gamehouse.com, in between checking your Amazon ranking and Technorati hits?
In the meantime, I'm just hoping I don't run into that guy Case, the next time my DSL goes down and I feel the urge to cruise seedy Tokyo bars....
William Gibson's novel Neuromancer chronicles the adventures of Case, a "cyber-cowboy" who, when the story opens, can't get online because the employers he double-crossed on his last hacking job damaged his nervous system with a Russian mycotoxin as punishment.No longer able to "jack into the matrix," Case has lost both his livelihood and his raison d'etre, and spends the first few chapters floating around seedy Tokyo bars with a death wish the size of a mid-century Pontiac. Published in 1984, Neuromancer quickly gained a massive following, and proved Gibson's prescience about the culture that would grow up around the Internet in subsequent decades.
This past Tuesday, professor Norman Nie, director of Stanford University's Institute for the Quantitative Study of Society (IQSS), released the results of an internet-usage study conducted by IQSS. 4113 people were surveyed by phone on the topic, and the resulting statistics have given rise to alarming headlines about the possibility of "Internet Addiction" in journals around the world.
Obviously, if you're reading this, you have access to the Net, but do you see yourself as someone who may be standing up in a church basement sometime soon, confessing your destructive passion for e-mail and chat rooms and, okay, blogs, to a roomful of sympathetic strangers with whom you're bonding over styrofoam cups of bad coffee?
I admit that that image has crossed my mind more than once. I spend a lot of time online, and the relationships I've forged there, especially in the mystery community, have come to mean a great deal to me. So this morning I took an online Internet Addiction Test quiz to gauge the level of my own dependence (which should probably in and of itself be a red flag).
I got a score of 45, which the survey's authors tell me means, "You are an average on-line user. You may surf the Web a bit too long at times, but you have control over your usage."
I think if I'd been a bit more honest I would've scored in the Fifties--on the low end of the mid-range profile--"You are experiencing occasional or frequent problems because of the Internet. You should consider the full impact on your life." My friends and family might rate me somewhat higher, however. Especially when they're wondering whether dinner is forthcoming.
If you have time, please take the quiz and tell us how you scored in the comment section. Is the Net a problem or a boon for you? Would you say it allows you to be more or less productive? Do you feel you get significant returns from your time spent online, or are you trying to wean yourself off late-night jags playing Mah Jong Solitaire at Gamehouse.com, in between checking your Amazon ranking and Technorati hits?
In the meantime, I'm just hoping I don't run into that guy Case, the next time my DSL goes down and I feel the urge to cruise seedy Tokyo bars....
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Thug U? Saturday Night at the Orange Bowl
By Paul
I received an e-mail yesterday from Donna Shalala, President of the University of Miami.
No, she wasn’t demanding repayment of my student loans. She wasn’t asking for a contribution for a new swimming pool. And she wasn’t rescinding my Law School Alumni Achievement Award, which curiously was presented after I stopped practicing law.
She was trying to explain to U.M. alumni the unexplainable...how the university’s young scholars in shoulder pads and plastic helmets behaved like street thugs Saturday night in their 35-0 victory over outmanned Florida International University.
In case you missed it, a melee, brawl, fracas, or riot (take your pick) broke out in the third quarter. Helmets and spikes were used as weapons, and a phalanx of policemen eventually moved onto the field after several minutes of chaos.
“What happened Saturday night at the Orange Bowl was outrageous,” President Shalala wrote, and she wasn’t talking about the price of Bud Lite. “Regardless of who started it, this was an embarrassing display of unsportsmanlike behavior. Fortunately, there were no injuries.”
True, it was a thoroughly disgusting incident. But why the note from the President? There’s no apology in it. There’s no promise of any disciplinary action, other than what has been imposed by the Atlantic Coast Conference. More about that later.
“We expect the best from our students,” Ms. Shalala wrote, apparently using the term to include football players. “Indeed we hold all of them to a high standard of personal conduct.”
I wonder why President Shalala did not write the alumni after last season’s Peach Bowl debacle. That’s when the Hurricanes engaged in a post-game brawl after getting shellacked 40-3 by L.S.U..
As best I recall, the last time President Shalala wrote the alums was two years ago when the Hurricanes offered a football scholarship to Willie Williams, the most highly touted high school linebacker in the country. The president’s letter was prompted by a newspaper story that Mr. Williams, barely 18, had been arrested eleven times and was on probation at the time he signed his grant to enroll at Nirvana in Coral Gables. President Shalala endorsed offering the young man a scholarship based on his commitment to change the course of his life, not to mention his exceptional time in the 40.
Willie Williams failed to make the starting roster, and in something of a pique, transferred to that football and scholastic powerhouse, West Los Angeles College, which is currently winless in a community college conference. However, I believe that Mr. Williams should get a good citizenship award. He spent two years at the University of Miami without flunking out, getting arrested or shooting a firearm. Over the summer, Willie Cooper, one of his U.M. teammates was shot in the buttocks by an intruder. Another teammate, Brandon Meriweather proved his mettle by returning fire with his own gun. Mr. Meriweather can spend this weekend on target practice. He's benched for the Duke game, after being caught on video using his spikes to stomp on a fallen F.I.U. player.
Now that I think about it, President Shalala’s letter yesterday actually was a plea for funds. Or conversely, a plea not to stop giving. U.M. alumni are exceedingly generous, having been the prime movers and shakers in a recent $1 billion capital campaign. Ms. Shalala is trying to convince the folks to keep those dollars coming.
Good luck, Madam President. Your football team is an embarrassment to the alumni and the so-called Magic City. Coach Larry Coker seems like the nicest guy in town, but he’s clearly lost control of this team.
F.I.U. has suspended 16 players “indefinitely” and booted two of them off the team. So far, Miami has simply accepted the A.C.C.’s decision to suspend 13 players for this Saturday’s game against winless Duke and to suspend one player indefinitely. You want to show you’re committed to those “high standards of personal conduct” you write about. Bench all 13 implicated players for the rest of the season. If not, accept the fact that you’re running a win-at-all-costs football factory, and a fairly mediocre one at that.
Go Canes...Paul
Monday, October 16, 2006
Happy 20th Birthday, Sisters in Crime
Patty here…
Southern California is the largest book-buying market in the United States, and it also has an extensive community of writers. There are many book-related events in town, so after seeing those authors often enough, many begin to feel like family. So it’s always fun when a reunion opportunity arises. Like Saturday at Book Carnival in Orange. Theresa Schwegel and the Orange County chapter of Sisters in Crime hosted a party to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the national organization, which was founded by Sara Paretsky and others to raise the profile of women crime novelists.
Just before the event began, Michael Connelly signed his latest Harry Bosch novel, Echo Park, after which a reception was held for Sisters in Crime members and readers. Among the attending authors were Naomi Hirahara, Steve Hodel, Sue Ann Jaffarian, Darrell and Diana James, Eric Stone, Dianne Emley, Robert Fate, John Morgan Wilson, and Taffy Cannon. It was also a pleasure to meet Colin Cotterill whose novel The Coroners Lunch was an Edgar nominee and the winner of the Dilys award at this year’s Bouchercon in Madison, Wisconsin. Colin is English but he lives in Thailand, so it was interesting to hear his take on various issues including the recent military coup. And check out his Web site. It's handwritten and hilarious. I especially loved his "Dilys" diary.
Also attending the party was intrepid photographer Andrew Klaczak who has chronicled the book signings of many local writers through his pictures. Here are a couple of the shots he’s taken of my events in the past.
At Book Carnival for the signing of Cover Your Assets. There's mom again.
With Ed Thomas, owner of Book Carnival
Thank you Andrew for the great pictures and happy Monday.
Southern California is the largest book-buying market in the United States, and it also has an extensive community of writers. There are many book-related events in town, so after seeing those authors often enough, many begin to feel like family. So it’s always fun when a reunion opportunity arises. Like Saturday at Book Carnival in Orange. Theresa Schwegel and the Orange County chapter of Sisters in Crime hosted a party to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the national organization, which was founded by Sara Paretsky and others to raise the profile of women crime novelists.
Just before the event began, Michael Connelly signed his latest Harry Bosch novel, Echo Park, after which a reception was held for Sisters in Crime members and readers. Among the attending authors were Naomi Hirahara, Steve Hodel, Sue Ann Jaffarian, Darrell and Diana James, Eric Stone, Dianne Emley, Robert Fate, John Morgan Wilson, and Taffy Cannon. It was also a pleasure to meet Colin Cotterill whose novel The Coroners Lunch was an Edgar nominee and the winner of the Dilys award at this year’s Bouchercon in Madison, Wisconsin. Colin is English but he lives in Thailand, so it was interesting to hear his take on various issues including the recent military coup. And check out his Web site. It's handwritten and hilarious. I especially loved his "Dilys" diary.
Also attending the party was intrepid photographer Andrew Klaczak who has chronicled the book signings of many local writers through his pictures. Here are a couple of the shots he’s taken of my events in the past.
At Book Carnival for the signing of Cover Your Assets. There's mom again.
With Ed Thomas, owner of Book Carnival
Thank you Andrew for the great pictures and happy Monday.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Do-oo-by ... do-oo-by ... do ... and more news from my friend Glenda
from Jacqueline
As you all know, I’ve had a more than my fair share of opportunity to listen closely to the language of US airlines in recent months – yes, it’s going on months now, this book tour. I’ve observed, between fighting with seat-backs that won’t stay up, and broken tray-tables, a locution employed by the airlines that is creeping into broadcast news and into our everyday speech, and it’s beginning to annoy me. The annoyance could be due to a general crabbiness with the whole phenomenon of airline travel, however, pay attention next time you’re on a ‘plane and you’ll hear what I mean. Let’s take the word “do.” This is the word most mis-used, followed by “did.”
Sample announcement while taxi-ing: “We do ask that you read the instructions carefully, so that if you do have any reason not to be seated in an exit row, please do inform the flight attendant ... (etc).” What’s the point of adding “do?” Why can’t they simply say: “We ask that you read the instructions carefully, so that if you have any reason ... (etc.).
Another sample from this morning’s news: “We did ask the senator for a statement, however, he did decline at this time.”
What a whopper! No wonder the bloke declined. Wouldn’t the sentence have been more elegant without the added “dids?” (“We asked the senator for a statement, however, he declined.”) And you can leave out the super-annoying “at this time” while you’re about it.
Another over-used word is “that.” You can go through any magazine article and remove about 80% of the “thats” and not only will it still make sense, it will have some grace and rhythm.
I’m so glad I’ve removed that weight from my chest, now on to more important things. First, my friend Glenda, who is back in Darjeeling after a brief sojourn in Europe. I’ve had emails from visitors to nakedauthors.com, asking for an update from me, so here it is. When Glenda left Darjeeling, she was in the midst of rehearsals and costume-making for a production of The Wizard of Oz, and had been working fiercely to create new gardens for the children. Here’s her most recent update:
“I have been in the same place for so long, it seems, that the extraordinary has become ordinary. I am sure many of you can relate to near death experiences in the Himalayas when driven by a drunk/drugged driver at night with the headlights glaring, around hairpin curves and precipices with no guard rails, the streets filled with people, rickshaws, lorries and worst of all cows--it seems they are let out at night to wander.
How mundane is the tale about the tilers throwing cement everywhere including on my newly sodded garden and mixing the same cement in a patch meant for flowers while displacing all the rocks so laboriously placed by size? Frescos made by the children with holes poked in them have become one of many daily trials as I prepare for the Art exhibit by the children and complete the other tasks I have before the 25th.
Father has given me many lectures on patience but I still stress out as the time to complete becomes shorter – 14 days to be exact. Our first dress rehearsal with an audience is this Sunday and the rush to finish costumes and perfect the scenery is on. Now if the kids would just remember all their lines, I would be a happy woman.
I am so enjoying the last minute rituals that I used to practice when I was working – you know that we all work better under stress. I just wish I would stop dreaming up new things to do while I am supposed to be asleep.
Penny , the Irish (ex)ambassador's wife to India, is trying to get a sculpture project done before the big opening and I don't have the heart to tell her that it takes 7 days for a pair of jeans to dry – how long for clay?
All the buildings in town are being spruced up with paint and flowers, people are buying new clothes or having them made and the tailors are working day and night. At Woodcot the same work is being conducted and the kids are so excited by all the activity. This is the Christmas and New Years all rolled into one, with a few birthdays added just for the gifts and good stuff. Food and dry goods are flying out of shops and bazaars for the holiday feasting and that was what we were doing on the day of the drive from hell - shopping. We are all working from 5am until we drop into bed with hoarse voices. The tailors (I use that term loosely) at Woodcot are making new dance costumes for the girls' dance program – it is going to be a fabulous celebration.
Unfortunately, I will only get the tip of it as I have to be in Mumbai on the 30th. But the timing is really great, as we would all be heartbroken if I had to leave during a lull – this way all the kids will be partying for a week after I leave and then school's out for the next two months. TOO COLD.
I guess that's about it – I have 16 hanging baskets to put together (made out of stacked vegetable racks and dog chains) before the weekend, and tomorrow I go to see if any more damage has been done, this time by the painters.”
Glenda will be back in California on December 15th – and I cannot wait to see her. But how long will she bear to be away from the children in Darjeeling?
In the meantime, last weekend I was fortunate to have dinner with a virtual exultation of independent booksellers at the NCIBA (Northern California Independent Booksellers Association) conference in Oakland. Whenever I am with a group of such dedicated booksellers, I am struck by the knowledge, the curiosity and the energy for the business that is represented by our independent booksellers. They are the (often unsung) keepers of our First Amendment, ensuring that a broad spectrum of books are available, and that readers know about them – and fortunately, their encyclopedia knowledge goes way beyond the big names or the “most likely to” authors. I couldn’t say “thank you” often enough.
This time from Seattle on a perfect fall day, here’s wishing you a great weekend.
PS: And thank you to Patty, the techno-hero of nakedauthors.com, who is posting this for me because I’m traveling. I haven’t been able to read posts from my fellow bloggers all week – oh, the inadequacies of hotel dial-up internet service for the non-wi-fied.
As you all know, I’ve had a more than my fair share of opportunity to listen closely to the language of US airlines in recent months – yes, it’s going on months now, this book tour. I’ve observed, between fighting with seat-backs that won’t stay up, and broken tray-tables, a locution employed by the airlines that is creeping into broadcast news and into our everyday speech, and it’s beginning to annoy me. The annoyance could be due to a general crabbiness with the whole phenomenon of airline travel, however, pay attention next time you’re on a ‘plane and you’ll hear what I mean. Let’s take the word “do.” This is the word most mis-used, followed by “did.”
Sample announcement while taxi-ing: “We do ask that you read the instructions carefully, so that if you do have any reason not to be seated in an exit row, please do inform the flight attendant ... (etc).” What’s the point of adding “do?” Why can’t they simply say: “We ask that you read the instructions carefully, so that if you have any reason ... (etc.).
Another sample from this morning’s news: “We did ask the senator for a statement, however, he did decline at this time.”
What a whopper! No wonder the bloke declined. Wouldn’t the sentence have been more elegant without the added “dids?” (“We asked the senator for a statement, however, he declined.”) And you can leave out the super-annoying “at this time” while you’re about it.
Another over-used word is “that.” You can go through any magazine article and remove about 80% of the “thats” and not only will it still make sense, it will have some grace and rhythm.
I’m so glad I’ve removed that weight from my chest, now on to more important things. First, my friend Glenda, who is back in Darjeeling after a brief sojourn in Europe. I’ve had emails from visitors to nakedauthors.com, asking for an update from me, so here it is. When Glenda left Darjeeling, she was in the midst of rehearsals and costume-making for a production of The Wizard of Oz, and had been working fiercely to create new gardens for the children. Here’s her most recent update:
“I have been in the same place for so long, it seems, that the extraordinary has become ordinary. I am sure many of you can relate to near death experiences in the Himalayas when driven by a drunk/drugged driver at night with the headlights glaring, around hairpin curves and precipices with no guard rails, the streets filled with people, rickshaws, lorries and worst of all cows--it seems they are let out at night to wander.
How mundane is the tale about the tilers throwing cement everywhere including on my newly sodded garden and mixing the same cement in a patch meant for flowers while displacing all the rocks so laboriously placed by size? Frescos made by the children with holes poked in them have become one of many daily trials as I prepare for the Art exhibit by the children and complete the other tasks I have before the 25th.
Father has given me many lectures on patience but I still stress out as the time to complete becomes shorter – 14 days to be exact. Our first dress rehearsal with an audience is this Sunday and the rush to finish costumes and perfect the scenery is on. Now if the kids would just remember all their lines, I would be a happy woman.
I am so enjoying the last minute rituals that I used to practice when I was working – you know that we all work better under stress. I just wish I would stop dreaming up new things to do while I am supposed to be asleep.
Penny , the Irish (ex)ambassador's wife to India, is trying to get a sculpture project done before the big opening and I don't have the heart to tell her that it takes 7 days for a pair of jeans to dry – how long for clay?
All the buildings in town are being spruced up with paint and flowers, people are buying new clothes or having them made and the tailors are working day and night. At Woodcot the same work is being conducted and the kids are so excited by all the activity. This is the Christmas and New Years all rolled into one, with a few birthdays added just for the gifts and good stuff. Food and dry goods are flying out of shops and bazaars for the holiday feasting and that was what we were doing on the day of the drive from hell - shopping. We are all working from 5am until we drop into bed with hoarse voices. The tailors (I use that term loosely) at Woodcot are making new dance costumes for the girls' dance program – it is going to be a fabulous celebration.
Unfortunately, I will only get the tip of it as I have to be in Mumbai on the 30th. But the timing is really great, as we would all be heartbroken if I had to leave during a lull – this way all the kids will be partying for a week after I leave and then school's out for the next two months. TOO COLD.
I guess that's about it – I have 16 hanging baskets to put together (made out of stacked vegetable racks and dog chains) before the weekend, and tomorrow I go to see if any more damage has been done, this time by the painters.”
Glenda will be back in California on December 15th – and I cannot wait to see her. But how long will she bear to be away from the children in Darjeeling?
In the meantime, last weekend I was fortunate to have dinner with a virtual exultation of independent booksellers at the NCIBA (Northern California Independent Booksellers Association) conference in Oakland. Whenever I am with a group of such dedicated booksellers, I am struck by the knowledge, the curiosity and the energy for the business that is represented by our independent booksellers. They are the (often unsung) keepers of our First Amendment, ensuring that a broad spectrum of books are available, and that readers know about them – and fortunately, their encyclopedia knowledge goes way beyond the big names or the “most likely to” authors. I couldn’t say “thank you” often enough.
This time from Seattle on a perfect fall day, here’s wishing you a great weekend.
PS: And thank you to Patty, the techno-hero of nakedauthors.com, who is posting this for me because I’m traveling. I haven’t been able to read posts from my fellow bloggers all week – oh, the inadequacies of hotel dial-up internet service for the non-wi-fied.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Mafiya
From James
Earlier this week I read that a leading Russian journalist was murdered—shot execution style. Someone didn’t like Anna Politkovskaya’s investigative reporting, which was often critical of some very powerful people in Moscow. Politkovskaya, 48, was known in particular for her reporting on human rights abuses in war-torn Chechnya. She was killed in her apartment building by gunshots to the chest and head after a Saturday afternoon shopping trip.
My first thought upon reading the news of this assassination—which had at least some of the markings of a mob-style hit—was “Mafiya.”
I researched the Russian Mafiya extensively for "Beyond Suspicion." Like most of my Jack Swyteck novels, that story is set in south Florida. You may wonder what the connection between the Mafiya and south Florida is. Truthfully, I happened onto it by accident. I was ordering a bagel at a coffee shop and noticed that the news stand next door had a half-dozen Russian language newspapers to choose from. No, I wasn't in Moscow. I was in Hollywood, Florida, a typical suburban community north of Miami. Naturally, I had to ask: What gives?
It turns out that south Florida - known for its ethnic diversity, though usually with a Latin beat - has a sizeable Russian population. The vast majority are law-abiding, good people. But there's a dark side, too. Take Tarzan, for instance. No, not Johnny Weismüller. This Tarzan is a legendary, muscle-bound Russian mobster famous for the drug and sex orgies on his boat off Miami Beach. He's now even more famous (not to mention incarcerated) for a serious but unsuccessful scheme to buy a nuclear submarine from a former Soviet naval officer and then use it to smuggle cocaine from Colombia.
Miami has a new criminal powerhouse knocking at its gates. Brighton Beach, New York is the only place in America with more Russian mobsters - the Mafiya, as it's called..With a little help from my law enforcement contacts, I was able to find a Ukranian-born undercover agent who was willing to tell me all about it. One meeting with him, and I knew: There had to be a novel in this.
The good news is that the Mafiya is nowhere near as well organized as La Cosa Nostra. The bad news is that what they lack in organization, they make up for in utter brutality. The other interesting thing to me was that the type of illegal activity a Mafiya member might engage in was largely determined by which former soviet state he comes from. Armenians, for example, are into mail fraud. But it was the Georgians who gained my fascination as a novelist. They are the hitmen. And they are so lethal, I’m told, that the Italian Mafiya now contracts out its hits to none other than the Georgians.
So, when I read about Politkovskaya, I immediately wondered if it was a Georgian hitman who’d pulled the trigger. I don’t mean that blithely. Moments like these make you realize that the things a novelist researches and writes about, primarily in the name of entertainment, often have life and death consequences for real people. It’s a healthy reminder. Any responsible thriller writer will ask himself several times during the course of writing a book whether there is too much violence. Is this or that scene really needed? Does it advance the story or define some essential element of a character? Would the suggestion of violence, rather than the actual showing, be enough? In other words, is it merely gratuitous? Those are often hard decisions.
I try to remember people like Anna Politkovskaya when I make them.
Earlier this week I read that a leading Russian journalist was murdered—shot execution style. Someone didn’t like Anna Politkovskaya’s investigative reporting, which was often critical of some very powerful people in Moscow. Politkovskaya, 48, was known in particular for her reporting on human rights abuses in war-torn Chechnya. She was killed in her apartment building by gunshots to the chest and head after a Saturday afternoon shopping trip.
My first thought upon reading the news of this assassination—which had at least some of the markings of a mob-style hit—was “Mafiya.”
I researched the Russian Mafiya extensively for "Beyond Suspicion." Like most of my Jack Swyteck novels, that story is set in south Florida. You may wonder what the connection between the Mafiya and south Florida is. Truthfully, I happened onto it by accident. I was ordering a bagel at a coffee shop and noticed that the news stand next door had a half-dozen Russian language newspapers to choose from. No, I wasn't in Moscow. I was in Hollywood, Florida, a typical suburban community north of Miami. Naturally, I had to ask: What gives?
It turns out that south Florida - known for its ethnic diversity, though usually with a Latin beat - has a sizeable Russian population. The vast majority are law-abiding, good people. But there's a dark side, too. Take Tarzan, for instance. No, not Johnny Weismüller. This Tarzan is a legendary, muscle-bound Russian mobster famous for the drug and sex orgies on his boat off Miami Beach. He's now even more famous (not to mention incarcerated) for a serious but unsuccessful scheme to buy a nuclear submarine from a former Soviet naval officer and then use it to smuggle cocaine from Colombia.
Miami has a new criminal powerhouse knocking at its gates. Brighton Beach, New York is the only place in America with more Russian mobsters - the Mafiya, as it's called..With a little help from my law enforcement contacts, I was able to find a Ukranian-born undercover agent who was willing to tell me all about it. One meeting with him, and I knew: There had to be a novel in this.
The good news is that the Mafiya is nowhere near as well organized as La Cosa Nostra. The bad news is that what they lack in organization, they make up for in utter brutality. The other interesting thing to me was that the type of illegal activity a Mafiya member might engage in was largely determined by which former soviet state he comes from. Armenians, for example, are into mail fraud. But it was the Georgians who gained my fascination as a novelist. They are the hitmen. And they are so lethal, I’m told, that the Italian Mafiya now contracts out its hits to none other than the Georgians.
So, when I read about Politkovskaya, I immediately wondered if it was a Georgian hitman who’d pulled the trigger. I don’t mean that blithely. Moments like these make you realize that the things a novelist researches and writes about, primarily in the name of entertainment, often have life and death consequences for real people. It’s a healthy reminder. Any responsible thriller writer will ask himself several times during the course of writing a book whether there is too much violence. Is this or that scene really needed? Does it advance the story or define some essential element of a character? Would the suggestion of violence, rather than the actual showing, be enough? In other words, is it merely gratuitous? Those are often hard decisions.
I try to remember people like Anna Politkovskaya when I make them.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Happy Birthday, Dear Eleanor...
By Cornelia
I always try to tune it to KALW, one of the Bay Area's NPR stations, around nine a.m. on weekdays. If everything's on schedule, I've dropped off one kid at school and am headed back over the Berkeley hills to school two by that point.
First you get the promo for that day's Fresh Air with Terry Gross, and then Garrison Keillor comes on with Writer's Almanac for a few minutes. I like to hear whose birthday it is, with Keillor's little blurb on what they've done. Today is the birthday of Elmore Leonard, which is cool, but I was even more interested to hear about birthday girl Eleanor Roosevelt, whom I've long admired.
I first read about her in a Scholastic paperback biography when I was eight years old or so, and felt an instant kinship. We were both born in New York City (albeit 79 years apart). Her parents were divorced, and she spent time with various relatives around New York state, including her uncle and godfather Teddy Roosevelt, at his place in Oyster Bay--the same town I visited each summer, staying with my mother's parents.
She wrote of herself, "I was a solemn child without beauty. I seemed like a little old woman entirely lacking in the spontaneous joy and mirth of youth."
I remember reading those words in my school's battered beige paperback, and how strongly they struck a chord with me. To discover that serious, self-consciously awkward girls could find the courage to do great things, as she did, was for me a tremendous epiphany.
She went to school in England,
Top row, third from right
that, "...no matter how plain a woman may be if truth & loyalty are stamped upon her face all will be attracted to her...."
She was brought home to New York from her beloved school, the first place she'd ever truly felt she belonged, in order to "come out" as a deb. Judging from the portrait photo taken to mark her debut, she was not exactly psyched about it:
On a train to Tivoli, New York, to visit her grandmother, Eleanor ran into her fifth-cousin-once-removed Franklin Delano Roosevelt. They began courting secretly, and were married in 1905.
Here she is at the end of her wedding trip, in Venice:
Eleanor and Franklin had six children, one of whom died in infancy.
"I suppose I was fitting pretty well into the pattern of a fairly conventional, quiet, young society matron," she would later write in her autobiography. But she was also a dedicated volunteer for a variety of social causes.
When her husband was named Assistant Secretary of the Navy during World War I, Eleanor began work for the Red Cross, visiting wounded and shell-shocked troops in the Naval Hospital. Appalled by what she found there, she demanded that the government inspect the poor conditions affecting the sailors.
I have to say here that FDR was not exactly admired by my relatives. One grandfather used to whisper, "of course his name was actually Rosenfeld," while the other blamed him for his fraternal twin brother's death in WWI--claiming Roosevelt had purchased defective planes from the French, one of which my great-uncle was, fatally, chosen as test pilot for.
They were the sort of people who, generally, viewed the New Deal as class treachery. That made me like Eleanor even more.
Especially because she resigned from the Daughters of the American Revolution when they refused to allow Marian Anderson to sing in Constitution Hall, a building they owned in Washington DC.
Eleanor made sure that Anderson was given an even better concert venue: the base of the Lincoln Memorial, and on April 9, 1939, Easter Day, that performance was broadcast across the country.
She once wrote:
When her husband died in 1945, Eleanor Roosevelt told reporters: "the story is over."
But within a year she became the American spokesman to the United Nations, where she was elected the chairperson of the UN’s Commission on Human Rights.
She believed that her work on that commission's Universal Declaration of Human Rights was her greatest legacy, but still said, "I’m so glad I never feel important, it does complicate life!"
By her own definition, she is to me one of the very best examples of maturity:
I always try to tune it to KALW, one of the Bay Area's NPR stations, around nine a.m. on weekdays. If everything's on schedule, I've dropped off one kid at school and am headed back over the Berkeley hills to school two by that point.
First you get the promo for that day's Fresh Air with Terry Gross, and then Garrison Keillor comes on with Writer's Almanac for a few minutes. I like to hear whose birthday it is, with Keillor's little blurb on what they've done. Today is the birthday of Elmore Leonard, which is cool, but I was even more interested to hear about birthday girl Eleanor Roosevelt, whom I've long admired.
I first read about her in a Scholastic paperback biography when I was eight years old or so, and felt an instant kinship. We were both born in New York City (albeit 79 years apart). Her parents were divorced, and she spent time with various relatives around New York state, including her uncle and godfather Teddy Roosevelt, at his place in Oyster Bay--the same town I visited each summer, staying with my mother's parents.
She wrote of herself, "I was a solemn child without beauty. I seemed like a little old woman entirely lacking in the spontaneous joy and mirth of youth."
I remember reading those words in my school's battered beige paperback, and how strongly they struck a chord with me. To discover that serious, self-consciously awkward girls could find the courage to do great things, as she did, was for me a tremendous epiphany.
She went to school in England,
Top row, third from right
where she was inspired by the school's activist headmistress who, according to Garrison Keillor this morning, "was passionately devoted to liberal causes and social justice."
I like to think her school portrait proves the merit of an observation she wrote down at age 14:
I like to think her school portrait proves the merit of an observation she wrote down at age 14:
that, "...no matter how plain a woman may be if truth & loyalty are stamped upon her face all will be attracted to her...."
She was brought home to New York from her beloved school, the first place she'd ever truly felt she belonged, in order to "come out" as a deb. Judging from the portrait photo taken to mark her debut, she was not exactly psyched about it:
On a train to Tivoli, New York, to visit her grandmother, Eleanor ran into her fifth-cousin-once-removed Franklin Delano Roosevelt. They began courting secretly, and were married in 1905.
Here she is at the end of her wedding trip, in Venice:
Eleanor and Franklin had six children, one of whom died in infancy.
"I suppose I was fitting pretty well into the pattern of a fairly conventional, quiet, young society matron," she would later write in her autobiography. But she was also a dedicated volunteer for a variety of social causes.
When her husband was named Assistant Secretary of the Navy during World War I, Eleanor began work for the Red Cross, visiting wounded and shell-shocked troops in the Naval Hospital. Appalled by what she found there, she demanded that the government inspect the poor conditions affecting the sailors.
I have to say here that FDR was not exactly admired by my relatives. One grandfather used to whisper, "of course his name was actually Rosenfeld," while the other blamed him for his fraternal twin brother's death in WWI--claiming Roosevelt had purchased defective planes from the French, one of which my great-uncle was, fatally, chosen as test pilot for.
They were the sort of people who, generally, viewed the New Deal as class treachery. That made me like Eleanor even more.
Especially because she resigned from the Daughters of the American Revolution when they refused to allow Marian Anderson to sing in Constitution Hall, a building they owned in Washington DC.
Eleanor made sure that Anderson was given an even better concert venue: the base of the Lincoln Memorial, and on April 9, 1939, Easter Day, that performance was broadcast across the country.
She once wrote:
Where, after all, do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home—so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any map of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person: the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination. Unless these rights have meaning there, they have little meaning anywhere.
When her husband died in 1945, Eleanor Roosevelt told reporters: "the story is over."
But within a year she became the American spokesman to the United Nations, where she was elected the chairperson of the UN’s Commission on Human Rights.
She believed that her work on that commission's Universal Declaration of Human Rights was her greatest legacy, but still said, "I’m so glad I never feel important, it does complicate life!"
By her own definition, she is to me one of the very best examples of maturity:
A mature person is one who does not think only in absolutes, who is able to be objective even when deeply stirred emotionally, who has learned that there is both good and bad in all people and in all things, and who walks humbly and deals charitably with the circumstances of life, knowing that in this world no one is all knowing and therefore all of us need both love and charity.Happy Birthday, Dear Eleanor.
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