Warren Adler's Blog, page 23

Robert James Russell

I always fashioned myself a storyteller to some degree—before writing it was with pictures, drawings. I wanted to be an animator at Disney when I was a kid: I drew methodically, wrote and sold comic books at lunch in elementary school, made my own cartoon trading cards in middle school. But then something changed. It was the writing around the pictures that began to draw me in. I gobbled up everything I could, especially old copies of National Geographic we had around the house and John Bellairs’ Johnny Dixon book series from our school library. I was hooked: Words, so powerful, could tell a story better than I could illustrate! It was a marvel—I was marveled. And I’ve never looked back. To me, writing is about place—where we are in relation to others, to other things—and that’s a powerful notion, how we move through this world, seen or unseen. Drawing gave me some of that, but writing immersed me deeper, more fanatically, and, a shy child, I needed that. And, much like Johnny Dixon (or, maybe I’m more like wily Professor Roderick Childermass?), I find myself, flashlight-in-hand, stumbling through the dark mystery of writing, through the story forming in my brain, until I can piece it together and make some sense of it, and then, hopefully, the world around me.

www.robertjamesrussell.com

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The Banality of Evil: My Encounters with Dictators and the Inspiration Behind the Villains in My Novels

Villains abound in my novels, especially those that deal with historical events where national power is the ultimate intoxicant. Most of the time my research into the past is deliberate and painstaking. A historian’s accuracy is necessary for creating reasonably believable historical characters. But there are times when a live, chance encounter falls into a novelist’s creative file cabinet and provides a rare ray of insight into the subtle nature of villainy. I’ve watched and listened. I’ve learned mindset and observed peccadilloes. Such proximity has provided me with a gold mine of story opportunities and an infinite array of authentic and colorful characters.

A Cornucopia of Riches

I vividly remember my attendance at an event in the ballroom of the Pan American Union building in Washington D.C. The building is the headquarters of the Organization of American States (OAS). The year was 1977 and the event was the celebration of the signing of the Panama Canal Treaty. My wife, Sonia Adler, then the editor of The Washington Dossier, had taken me with her.

In the ten years that she was the editor of the magazine, which kept a vivid and complete record of the social doings of the people who ran America and the world during that time, I accompanied her on her rounds attending the most important events of that era. For a novelist it was a cornucopia of riches.

These events included numerous embassy parties, White House dinners, congressional celebrations, inaugurations and the whole gamut of Washington social life. It was a heady experience and provided me with a plethora of ideas, interactions and conflicts that found their way into many of my novels and stories about those who inhabit the charmed circle of the power brokers and their sycophants.

As to this particular event in question, it was attended by all of the heads of state of those countries in South and Central America as well as Gerald Ford, who was the sitting President and his Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. Heading the OAS at the time was my long time friend Alejandro Orfila and his lovely wife Helga.

Because my wife had her own reportorial agenda covering these events, I was free to roam about, a kind of fly on the wall, observing, conversing and trying my best to appear an official participant. In that role I had casually befriended many journalists who covered these events. One of them was an Associated Press columnist, a charming man with a great sense of humor and a long history of covering South and Central America. He had intimate and long working relationships with all of the power players in Latin America.

Picture the Scene

In those years many countries in South and Central America were run by brutal dictators, most of them military men who had taken power in a coup allegedly designed to save their respective countries from the plague of inefficiency and corruption.

Among the most notorious were Augusto Pinochet in Chile, Alfredo Stroessner of Paraguay, Jorge Rafael Videla head of a military junta in Argentina, Omar Torrijos of Panama and others of similar or related background and history. They were all in the OAS ballroom that evening. After all, they were indeed the titular heads of these countries and were accorded official recognition by the OAS.

After the ceremonial part of the event concluded the various heads of state, including the American President and Secretary of State, were free to roam and socialize in the OAS ballroom. The scene segued into a typical reception where participants and guests mingled casually, chatted informally, and in my mind, shed their official status and became ordinary social beings.

My friend, the AP columnist had known and interviewed all of the heads of state present in the ballroom. He whispered in my ear, “How would you like to meet all these killers?” His suggestion was made with a hand and arm gesture. “Blood up to here.”

My fly-on-the-wall guise became activated, my novelist instincts stimulated and I jumped at the opportunity. He introduced me to a number of these heads of state, including those aforementioned. I shook hands with each of them and they responded politely with socially aware nods and smiles. Our conversation was perfunctory and he translated my non-controversial remarks into Spanish.

What struck me, and still does in retrospect, was how ordinary these men seemed, how oddly unimpressive and average. It reminded me of writer Hannah Arendt’s impression of Adolph Eichmann and her characterization of him as a symbol of the “banality of evil.”

Augusto Pinochet seemed more theatrical than the others, perhaps less average. He was the most sartorially splendid of them, hair perfectly in place, uniform carefully fitted and smartly pressed, face unlined, handshake strong, every inch the General.

Videla, of the Argentine junta, seemed even a bit modest and shy and, I must confess, it was a stretch to envision them signing orders that caused so much misery, heartache and pain. Despite my friend’s arm gesture signifying “blood up to here” I found it very difficult to wrap my mind around the brutal murders and torture committed under their leadership. But then, I had never been this up close and personal with such perpetrators. The faces and demeanor of these men linger in my novelist’s mind as I try to connect the dots between their villainy and their personas.

They were, indeed, villains, evil, malignant scum, and yet, I could not escape the fact that we were related by species, by genetics, by a million bonds of connectivity. Perhaps the lesson here is a time worn truth expressed in the old cliché that you can’t tell a book by its cover. It seems apt, especially, for someone in my profession.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Cris Burne

I was inspired to write Takeshita Demons (pronounced ta-kesh-ta and meaning ‘under the bamboo’) to encourage diversity in children’s fiction: anyone can be a hero, and that our world is a multicultural place. All children deserve to be the star of the show.

My interest in Japanese folklore sparked when I was working in Japan as a teacher and editor. My students shared fairytales, my colleagues told ghost stories, and I began to ask questions. I discovered the world of Japanese yōkai.

Yōkai are Japan’s strange and supernatural creatures. They appear in folk tales, artwork and oral stories passed from generation to generation. In Japan, yōkai have restaurants named after them, statues sold of them, anime and manga made about them.

But outside of Japan, their stories are largely undiscovered. I wanted to change that. Kids everywhere should be able to laugh and marvel and wonder at the strange and spooky world of Japanese demons.

www.cristyburne.com

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Jodi Ettenberg

I write because I need to write, and have always written. Despite the requirement that I get up and actively choose to put pen to paper, it feels like I have little choice in the matter. Without allocating time to write, I feel like my spirit atrophies and my happiness levels stumble subtly day-by-day.

A lot of the writing I do never sees the light of day, and is scribbled onto scrap paper or notebooks that I either keep or discard, as the case may be. It is the act of writing that matters most. Taking the time to write helps me tease through problems and ideas, sometimes even ones that I did not realize were bubbling under the surface.

It’s a magical thing that words have become my life’s work, but I would honor them even if no one were reading.

http://www.legalnomads.com

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Review | The War of the Roses by Warren Adler

It always amazes me to see younger generations of readers discovering and identifying with the story of “The War of the Roses” – Check out this great book review by the outspoken Booktuber Paper Faerie and subscribe to her channel here: http://bit.ly/1UlYSTI You can also learn more about the novel here: http://amzn.to/21n3GZA

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Matthew Gavin Frank

I remember in 5th grade collaborating with my friend Ryan Shpritz on a series of gross-out stories called “Death at Dark” (I, II, III, and so on). Mrs. Buccheim, our English teacher, was so excited that these two boys were writing extracurricularly that she allowed us to read our work in front of the class each week. As such, in order to satisfy the expectations of our peers, Ryan and I felt a pressure to ratchet up the intensity of each subsequent installment, which, to us at that age, meant ratcheting up the gruesomeness. Once, in Death at Dark part IX, I think, some serial murderer forced his victim’s hand into a garbage disposal before killing him, and we compared the resulting carnage to something like “a punctured egg yolk dripping from his ruined wrist.” Shannon Elliott, the cheerleader on whom I had a mad crush, started crying. After that, Mrs. Buccheim, put a stop to our public readings, which at first made me really sad, you know? My first real writerly rejection! By my own English teacher (not to mention Shannon), no less! But eventually, I sensed something infectious, and even addictive in this sort of rejection. Writing not only had the power to reveal, but the power to get one banned; the ability not only to confirm expectations, but also to agitate them. So, I kept at it, though Shannon never spoke to me again.

www.matthewgfrank.com

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THE RUMPUS Features “WHAT THEY NEVER TOLD ME, WHAT I NEVER ASKED: REFLECTING ON ROOTS AND WRITING”

While the miracle of analyzing your DNA can inform you of the origins of your ancestry, it will not offer you much about what they experienced, what they thought, what they felt, learned or endured in their lifetimes. Historians surely understand the pangs of such a loss and must rely on those who bore witness and left their accounts for posterity to interpret.

As a fiction writer I often define my role as a historian of the imagined. I meld my experiences, conversations, memories, illusions, dreams, and observations to fit the parallel lives and stories of the characters I create. These stories come from the bits and pieces flowing in and out of the mysterious engine that is my subconscious mind. I feel certain that other fiction writers and those involved in artistic pursuits in other mediums will define their creative adventures in a somewhat similar vein.

As I grow older, I have discovered some missing links that I’m sure might have embellished my stories and widened their scope if only I had pursued them with more energy and diligence. [Continue Reading on The Rumpus]

 

Writers of the World – What’s Your Story? Click to Explore and Submit a Reflection

 

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HUFFINGTON POST Features “Reflections on Balancing Family Life While Pursuing My Career as a Writer”

As a committed writer of imaginative fiction for virtually my entire life, I have often wondered about the effect my obsessive conduct and allocation of time to pursue such an occupation has had on my relationships with family, friends and others who need and crave my attention.

What is the ultimate effect of a writer’s creative compulsion on the people closest to him or her? No doubt, there is a correlation here with the inventor, the hobbyist, the business person, the techie startup guru or the garden variety workaholic or anyone with an intense need to pursue an activity, any activity, that is so obsessively singular and averse to distraction that it tears apart the fabric of personal relationships. [Continue Reading on Huffington Post]

 

Writers of the World – What’s Your Story? Click to Explore and Submit a Reflection

 

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Jennifer Brown Banks

Growing up as an awkward, shy teen, words provided refuge. Whether it was getting lost between the pages of a steamy romance novel, or penning my thoughts through poetry.

When I was hurt, I wrote. When I had questions of life, I wrote.

I kept journals. Lots of them. In every color, size and shape.

I found that words gave me power. They afforded me visibility and “poise” on paper.

One day, my mom discovered some of the pieces in my private “stash” in my room. She was impressed and encouraged me to share my “gift” with the world.

I haven’t looked back since then. I suppose I was always “wired” to write. I find that decades later, I can’t NOT write.

“I write. Therefore I am.”

http://Penandprosper.blogspot.com

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Carol Zielinski

I write because I have to. I must breath and write to live! I write because the muse calls out to me in the middle of the night. He refuses to take no for an answer. I write because it makes me feel all the emotions previously locked up in my very soul! I write because it lets me express things I never could say in any other way. I write because it is the only activity in which I lose myself for hours. I write because it is my true calling!

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