Ilsa J. Bick's Blog, page 31
September 23, 2012
SHADOWS Book Birthday 9/25
Wow, can you believe it’s been a year since ASHES? Nope, me neither. Well, your wait is over. SHADOWS hits 9/25 (9/27, for those of you in the UK).
If it’s been a while since you’ve read the first book, I’d suggest dropping by my website for a recap: SO YOU READ ASHES A YEAR AGO. SHADOWS picks up where ASHES left off; it’s a bigger, broader story with multiple storylines and new characters. No wash-rinse-repeat here, and no recap in the book. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
A ton of blog stops and giveaways, too, both here and in the UK. For the first half of the month, they are:
9/26: Bookspark (Live Author Chat & Giveaway, 7 p.m.)
The Book Smugglers (Giveaway)
9/27: Teen Librarian Toolbook
10/02: Books and Bling
10/03: Hoobitsies
10/04: Emily’s Reading Room
10/05: Hope, Faith, and Books
Behind A Million and One Pages (Giveaway)
10/06: The Write Path Blog (Giveaway)
10/07: Karin’s Book Nook
10/08: Always YA at Heart (Giveaway)
10/09: I Blog, You Read
10/10: The Librarian Reads
10/11: Guilded Earlobe
10/12: ParaJunkee
10/13: Novel Novice (Giveaway)
10/14: Book Sweets Book Review (Giveaway and Recipe O.o)
10/15: Just Bookin Around
FESTIVALS:
10/13: Sheboygan Children’s Book Festival (Sheboygan, WI)
10/19: Chippewa Valley Book Festival (Eau Claire, WI)
10/20: STEMfest (DeKalb, IL)
September 2, 2012
To Skype, or . . .
If you’re any kind of writer these days, chances are you’ve been asked to Skype into a classroom or book club or festival. Sometimes the invitation comes from teachers, organizers, or club members; other times–and, probably, more frequently–your publisher. If you’re like me, you want to a) connect with your audience, potential or otherwise and b) please people, whether that’s your editor, your publicist, a friend of a friend, etc. No one likes to say no, and the invitation to speak–the idea that people might find what you have to say interesting or want to learn more about you–is very appealing, especially when you spend SO many hours slogging over a hot keyboard with only your cat for company who, let’s face it, loves you only so long as you’re holding the can opener.
So, the question isn’t only should you Skype, but is Skyping in your best interest? Forget being nice or pleasing people. Forget flattery. Will Skyping really help you?
Because, let’s be frank here: any appearance is a marketing tool, pure and simple. That’s it. You are showing up to market your product. In part, you’re marketing yourself, so it pays to learn how to perform in front of an audience. That’s what an author appearance is: a performance. You are attempting to persuade people to buy YOU and, only secondarily, your book. Really, it’s true. If an author is just filthy or drunk or a complete boor or obnoxious or so introverted that watching paint peel is more interesting . . . you’re not going to buy the book, or even glance through it. An author appearance is your way of inviting people to crack the spine and take a peek. You are marketing yourself and your work, that book you’ve worked so hard to produce. So your performance may make or break a sale. It’s really that simple.
Now, this isn’t a tutorial on performance, although–yes–I used to do a lot of stage work; I’ve presented tons of academic papers at various conferences well before any book festivals. I’m a physician, and a shrink; being with people–learning how to engage and keep them that way–was part of my training and vital to my job. Because when you’re trying to help people change things that aren’t doing them a whit of good, you are also selling them a different approach. It’s all about marketing: how you present your product. For a shrink, it’s selling your patient the idea of, say, refraining from swallowing that bottles of pills and, instead, giving you a call or finding their mother or getting to an emergency room. To do that, a patient needs to have faith. A patient needs to buy your approach. A patient must believe that the product you’re peddling is better than that nasty cola she’s been drinking for years.
If you think about Skyping in that way–as a marketing opportunity to engage with a target audience–then you need decide if this particular gimmick (and it is a gimmick) works in your favor. Yes, yes, I know that Skype is the new darling because people think it will save them money; they won’t have to put authors on tour; etc., etc. But I’ll bet none of them have thought of Skype as COSTING them sales, which I believe it can, and perhaps more frequently than they think.
I will be frank. For me, is Skype a great marketing tool? Most of the time, for me . . . no. And let me tell you why.
In some ways, it’s very simple and no mystery. It’s hard to engage anyone through the filter of a medium like a teeny, tiny computer screen (or a big one, for that matter; I’ve had it both ways). Not only can I NOT see everyone in the room, I can’t read visual cues (other than complete boredom, but we’ll get to that). I don’t know about you, but every performer–or at least, I–always try to home in on people who will make eye contact or have just the most exquisite facial expressions that let you know how you’re doing. You look for changes in expression; you may make quick jokes or smile or single someone out for prolonged attention. It’s all part of reading the audience.
Doing that is nearly impossible with Skype. It just is. In much the same way that I would never dream of Skyping with a patient because I might miss something I would otherwise catch if I’m in the same room, you tend to miss things when you’re confined to a single view through a camera. I can’t see everybody; sometimes I’m only looking at pieces of people. Frequently, we won’t even be making eye contact because cameras on laptops or mounted on computers don’t often catch people full-on. People are usually looking down, up, sideways. There’s no human engagement whatsoever, and so ability to read people well.
Another huge problem with Skype or any similar tech is. . . the tech. There are glitches; you get booted out; sometimes the picture sucks, or the sound quality, or (frequently) both. And no one knows how to fix these things. If you’re Skyping into a school, you can be pretty certain that their tech isn’t all that current. If it’s some poor hapless teacher who’s really not that skilled with this stuff, then he gets flustered or she has to find the AV person . . . blah, blah. Like that. The tech that is supposed to be so freeing and facilitate all this great communication ends up being a pain in the ass.
And try Skyping into a setting where people have accents with which you’re not familiar. If you think it’s hard to parse the words in person, magnify that about a thousandfold over Skype through crappy mikes or around bizarre echoes. What’s worse is when you can’t understand the helpful teacher with an accent that’s just as thick.
An even bigger problem–and I think this is the one that most people don’t think about–is this: kids don’t have the same relationship with a screen that they do with a person. Think about people in movie theaters these days. Think about yourself during a television show. And how often have you seen kids multitasking? (Which is really just a silly word that means doing many things not very well, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise; there are plenty of studies on diminished efficiency and attention span when a person pursues multiple activities simultaneously.) That’s right; all the time. Those kids are, maybe, doing homework while they are also texting, tweeting, Facebooking, maybe on the phone (but, heaven forbid, they actually use the phone to make a call), with music on and a minimized computer game they hope their moms won’t notice. (And those social mediums themselves FOSTER limited attention span and contact, too. Think about it. Do you REALLY engage in long, deep, soulful and altogether life-affirmingly meaningful discussions over Twitter? Or Facebook? Uh . . . no. Twitter is a cocktail party; you drop in for a quick chat; you leave. Facebook is the same.)
My point is that kids are used to not paying attention to a screen. A screen is practically an invitation to do something else. In the case of a computer screen and a talking head, a gnat with ADHD still has better attention–and yet, here you are, trying to demand that a kid pay attention in a setting and with the stimuli that foster inattentiveness. I’ve been in settings where dogs wander in and out of the room; kids wander in and out; adults hold private conversations; people deliver food because, all of a sudden, people have forgotten, you know, manners . . . Really, it’s a losing proposition.
If you’re getting the idea that I think Skype is a terrible idea in terms of a marketing tool, you’re right. Think of it this way: are you more likely to buy something from someone with whom you have a personal connection–who, you know, actually spoke to you, or on the basis of a commercial? Because that really is what Skyping boils down to: you are trying to overcome the limitations of a television commercial, albeit with a more flexible script and crummy graphics. If the medium doesn’t help you–if you run the risk of being boring because you can not engage a real human being–then why ever should you do it? (And, seriously, on a more academic level, do we really want to encourage children not to be with real people in the same bloody room? Do we really believe that a computer screen fosters better human connectedness and interaction and socialization than a person? Get real. If that were true, we’d have all infants cuddle inflatable dolls instead of mothers with arms and facial expressions and voices. Remember: a child sees herself as she is reflected in her parent’s eyes. Think about it.)
You might think you’re being cooperative and nice and accommodating your publisher or editor or teacher or what have you . . . but if you shoot yourself in the foot and cost yourself sales because the medium does not help you market effectively, what good did you just do for yourself or your publisher?
Can Skype be made to work for you? Yes–but only under very tight and limited circumstances (and even then, it’s Murphy’s Law all the way; anything that can go wrong will)–and for me, they are:
a) A small group (no more than ten) of interested people. Notice I said interested. For me, that translates to kids or adults who’ve either read my work or been sufficiently prepped that they have questions and want to engage in a conversation. Have I most often gone in cold, to an audience that’s never heard of me? Oh, sure. I don’t mind that either; remember, it’s all about performance. But in that situation–when I’m there–I can read the audience; I know how to engage people; I can use humor and make people laugh; and humor is often infectious. When you’re on a roll–when you’ve got people hooked and interested in the story of how the last third of a novel is like the time that Palomino rode away with you, bareback–it’s great and it doesn’t matter if they’ve never heard of you before. But it is nearly impossible to do the same through the barrier of a computer screen. At least, it is for me.
b) A visit that is very short. Remember what I said about attention spans and screens? Keep it brief. A half hour is plenty of time. Always leave an audience wanting more (and that’s a good rule of thumb all the way around).
c) A small setting. In other words, a small room or a table where everyone is gathered and you can pretty much see everybody. Easier to play to people; easier to see how people are reacting; easier to gauge how you’re doing all the way around.
d) A test run. Insist on it. You want to make sure your tech works. Life is hard enough already.
e) A discussion with the teacher/book club leader/festival host, etc., about expectations. What do they want their kids to get out of seeing you? Have they done this before? What works best? Hey, how about they do a bit of work and draft some questions or what they’re interested in? Make them your partners in this process, and believe me, things will go much more smoothly.
I’m sure you can come up with other caveats, but for me, these are the basics. As I’ve said, I’ve had some good Skype experiences, but they are the exceptions and conform to most of the above.
All things being equal, though, I prefer up close and personal. It plays to my strengths and what I’m good at and enjoy: being with people. If I want a meaningful interaction via a machine, I’ll go hug my Siri.
August 19, 2012
Those Boys in the Basement
Ever have those moments when you’ve slaved all day over a hot keyboard and gotten in all your pages and so you think, okay, I deserve a break today? (And, no, I don’t mean a Big Mac and fries.) Or let’s say you’ve been fretting all day and you just can not, for the life of you, figure out how to tweak something to make that plot go? In either case, you get up, walk away, head out to the gym–and then it hits you, that Bart Simpson moment: how you’re going to have to go back and tear up about five of those ten or twelve pages because you messed up. Or that messy plot point unravels for you? Or there’s something even better you coulda/shoulda/woulda written if you’ve only been THINKING?
Ah, but the trick is: you thought of it because you didn’t.
In BAG OF BONES and ON WRITING, King calls it the boys in the basement. Other people call it: muse, the subconscious, the unconscious, the artistic impulse. Me, I call it both a Bart Simpson moment and a necessary ingredient to creativity: those instances when you have relaxed your conscious attention to a task and, Eureka, the answer–or a reasonable facsimile–presents itself. For it to work for me, I need to be exercising or out in the garden, out in the sun, or hiking–doing something outdoors. I have a writer-friend who routinely takes a nap if he comes up against a plot point that just won’t fix itself. Stephen King goes for long walks, and so does his protag in BAG OF BONES.
What we’re all doing is diverting our attention from the task at hand. We’re removing ourselves from the surround and environmental cues that not only dictate how we should be behaving (i.e., hoeing a garden is altogether different from tapping on a keyboard and composing sentences) but create the expectations that we SHOULD both create and be creative. That is, we’re taking ourselves out from under the eye of the boss-man, who’ll certainly dock our pay if we take one second’s extra break than we’re entitled to.
We all know the difference in these styles of thought, too, because we feel them and we feel the transitions back and forth. (Hinky and unsettling, but true.) Conscious thought is analytic and derivative; that is, when we’re focused on a task, we think about it and make judgments. We winnow; we parse and pare; we don’t encourage the weeds. Unconscious thought is, of course, much more closely related to dreaming, when the mind makes what feel like bizarre associations on the basis of connections we’ve forgotten about. Think of the dream’s imagery as the brain’s attempt to find near-matches, places where your experiences should be slotted. Those pathways are not logical; they’re not derivative; they’re a bit like weedy cross-connections: dandelions that worked their way into your cucumber patch because both plants have yellow flowers.
Allowing your unconscious to help you out is a bit like letting the boys in the basement play. You need to relax enough to allow them to play, and for many of us, that means distractions: walking, napping, ripping out pesky weeds, breaking up of dirt, cooking dinner, doing the laundry; anything that allows your rigorous control over where your thoughts go to slip a bit.
But creativity is still a two-step process. Yes, you can let the boys play. They can come up with an interesting and novel solution. But then you have to allow that solution to become conscious; it has to translate and transfer itself from the back of your mind to the front. This isn’t trivial either. If you’ve ever tried a dream journal (I did, waaaay back when I was in analysis), you realize how stupid your dreams feel and sound and how fleeting they are once you engage a secondary, cognitive process like forming words with a pen or pencil. What felt so logical or emotionally laden in a dream becomes, well, kind of dumb in the translation–and you also tend to forget if you can’t find a way to allow the transfer to occur, and quickly.
For me, that means talking to myself, out loud, especially since I’m usually miles from home. Yes, I get many strange looks because I have to keep talking, or my attention begins to wander again. (This is both good and bad. I may lose what I just discovered, but I may also gain something else. In the middle of the night, if I jump up after a long period of staring at the ceiling and letting my attention wander, then I have a little tougher time deciphering what I meant if I’ve written it down. Hearing my own voice tends to sock it home. Even then, I still forget, which is kind of a pain. Not to mention the fact that I’m jumping up and down all night long, and the husband is . . . well, a little annoyed. OTOH, I have a very understanding spouse who doesn’t seem to mind talking for a while in the wee hours. He understands the value of calming the savage beast.) I know other authors carry notebooks; some talk into digital recorders or their phones. We all have our ways of translating that play into the work we’ve secretly been doing all along.
The important thing is to recognize that not paying attention allows us to solve complex problems–BUT that only works when we actually have a goal. In other words, if you’re inattentive and sort of a space cadet and have no real goal or problem or purpose . . . yeah, you’re going to flounder, you’re going to drift, and no Eureka moments for you. On the other hand, if you are engaged in solving a complex problem, then not paying attention–not thinking about what’s bothering you–will actually help the boys help YOU find the answer.
Now, excuse me . . . oooh, there goes a really pretty butterfly . . .
August 5, 2012
The Last Word
A few nights ago, I participated via Internet in a big teen lock-in and got a question I hear frequently: why did I choose to end ASHES the way I did? Now, for those of you who haven’t read the book, never fear. I won’t ruin it by telling you HOW it ends. Let’s just say that I broke several rules, and I did that on purpose. In fact, the end breaks enough rules that a recent Horn Book article talked specifically about this: that the “shocking” conclusion was among the “coolest” examples of an author being “daring enough (or heartless enough, depending on your tolerance for sad endings) to let their protagonists face seemingly insurmountable obstacles and find that they are, indeed, just that.”
Which is pretty darned cool in and of itself.
But, back to the question. Why did I do that? Well, whenever I’m asked, I always ask the question right back, not because I’m being coy but I want to hear what or how people think/feel/react. The answer I hear most frequently is that I did it to make people buy the sequel. EEEEHHHH! Wrong. (Although it’s true that my editor and I went back and forth about this–he was a tad nervous about breaking SO many rules–when I explained why, he was right on board.) Some people think I’m trying to be shocking just for the sake of being shocking, and that’s also wrong, but it’s a tad closer to what I was thinking and trying to convey. Going for that emotional gut-punch isn’t far off.
Let’s think, though, about what good beginnings and endings do for us. A great beginning grabs our attention, right? But a fabulous beginning sentence or paragraph also sets the tone for the novel; it hints at what’s in store. For example, one of my favorite beginning lines of all time belongs to William Gibson’s cyberpunk classic, Neuromancer: “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.” Oh, my goodness, is that evocative or what? You instantly “see” that sky; you know what color it is; you also know that we’re talking a lot of light and tech because only a ton of light–and that means, a big city–has the ability to wash out a black sky and bright stars. (Or skies are muddy orange; I’ve noticed this in places like New York, where I wonder if people even remember that looking up is fun to do.) Regardless, that line sets up the entire book. You’ve garnered tons of information from fifteen words. Fifteen. That’s amazing.
Similarly, a great last line (or last couple of lines) sends the reader and the book on her way, and if the writer is very skilled, evokes the mood the writer wants you to walk away with. For example, at the end of Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak, poor mute Melinda, who’s found not only courage and closure but her voice, has the last word: “Let me tell you about it.”
Hand’s down, though, I think that Libba Bray is fabulous at these type of send-off last lines/last paragraphs, and IMHO, her best work can be found in her Gemma Doyle series. All her last lines are great, but my particular favorite can be found at the end of A Strange and Terrible Beauty:
“The wind shifts, bringing with it the smell of roses, strong and sweet. Across the ravine, I see her in the dry crackle of leaves. A deer. She spies me and bolts through the trees. I run after her, not really chase. I’m running because I can, because I must.
Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.”
This is a perfect send-off for that first book because it is all about beginnings and a young woman daring to break the rules. This end does, in fact, set up the beginning of the next book and helps you understand where this series is headed.
Most often, when I reach the end of a book I’m writing, I know what the last line is because I knew it from the beginning, and the whole book has been a journey to that last line. The one time I was a little surprised by where I ended up was at the end of SHADOWS, not because the line hadn’t been “said” in my head already but because it wasn’t the last line/scene but the penultimate scene. When I got to the end, though, and penned what I had imagined the last line ought to be, it just didn’t feel right. Just didn’t. I realized after a few minutes that the book’s journey had really ended the scene before. So I switched them around, and now I do think that SHADOWS ends in a way that both evokes what I want to people to feel and summarizes the journey. (I’m sure you’ll tell me if I’m right.)
But back to ASHES: this is the G-d’s honest truth about why I ended it the way I did. It’s actually kind of artsy-fartsy, but my reasoning went like this: ASHES is a book about what happens when the world falls apart. Nothing remains that you recognize; all the niceties are swept away. Alex has to endure in that world, where all the old rules no longer apply. So my feeling was if she has to do that, why should you get a break? I wanted you to experience the same kind of shock and dislocation she does, that moment when you finally, truly understand that nothing will ever be the same again.
That’s why I did it. Do I succeed? I dunno; you tell me. But I sure hear enough from people who are FRANTIC to find out what happens next; who are so shocked and upset they want to yell and scream at me (that’s fine; just be civil); who think about throwing their books or Kindles across the room (some actually do). All that’s good because that means you felt something. You weren’t indifferent. You weren’t . . . oh, cool. You were . . . SAY WHAT?
All good. Mission accomplished. That you care is all and the best a writer can hope for.
July 22, 2012
When The Monsters Come Out to Play
But it occurred to me that what we’re really interested in when it comes to horror–or rather, the emotion with which horror shares so many qualities–is the feeling of awe.
Think about it a second. Some of the most frightening visions in all religions begin with fear and shade to horror before giving way to awe (or both at the same time). People crave the mystical, the psychedelic, because what is so frightening is so awesome. The face of God is awesome because you have to cover your face to protect yourself against the majestic horror of it all. I’m no Bush-apologist, but he had it right when he talked about destruction evoking shock and awe: things so horrible you can’t bear to look away–and leave you wanting even more, hungry to re-experience this most powerful and visceral of emotions.
I’m particularly mindful of this right now in the wake of the Colorado shootings. Whenever something like this happens, eventually someone will ask me what I think, my theories, why this kind of thing happens. Being a shrink, you get used to the questions, and I guess people want to feel reassured that understands what the heck’s going on.(Just because I can put a label to something, though, don’t mean I understand. It means I can fit behaviors into a syndrome. I have ideas about why. But understanding is a truly different animal.) So no surprise that I’ve been asked a couple of times in the last day or so about the Colorado shootings. Now, I claim no special knowledge; I’ve not been following the news that closely. People will advance all kinds of theories, some of them sound and others pablum–but people are intensely interested. What I found fascinating was one guy I know who decided that the shooter must be an extreme sociopath of some flavor: someone so monstrous he just couldn’t relate at all. When I suggested that, in fact, the guy might have been mightily depressed–and depressed men and boy are frequently preoccupied with and act on very, very violent fantasies–my friend was a little . . . perturbed. In fact, he said, “Well, I guess that explains what was going on when I was a kid.”
Which makes you wonder.
For some people, believing the horrific is alien a comforting fiction. It feels better to imagine monsters as being incomprehensible, something you’ve got about as much in common with as a paramecium. Yet that doesn’t mean we don’t find the horrible and horrific–the monstrous–completely enthralling, or that monsters don’t have a home in your mind. I’m only being a little facetious when I say that everyone loves a good (fictional) psychopath just as people enjoy a good scare (or a great cry). (Meeting one in the flesh . . . well, not so much.) It’s why people flock to things like Batman movies and Hannibal Lector’s entered the popular lexicon; why folks ride killer roller coasters, read horror, or are mesmerized by terrible crimes. Keep in mind that the words “awful” and “awesome” are both derived from “awe,” from the Old English “ege,” meaning fear and dread. The Word Detective has a lovely write-up on this, by the way. To say that people want to reassured that the monsters will stay put is only stating the obvious.
While I’d like to think differently, I probably find the monsters–my monsters and their potential–just as fascinating. Not that I’m suggesting I’m so very special; no, what I’m saying is that, as a shrink who’s used to navel-gazing and really getting into the muck and slime–and as a writer who wants to put words to emotions so horribly awesome you don’t want them into the light of day–letting the monsters out to play is crucial. Being as brutally honest about the horror of which I am surely capable is vital to making a story–my stories–credible just as it is imperative for me to feel as if I’ve got a handle on them. I can let them out for a little while, but then I know how to put them back. (This is a problem actors have, by the way; more than one’s mentioned that when you play a thoroughly despicable and evil person seven days a week and twice on Saturdays . . . it takes a toll. Truman Capote discovered this to his ruin. On a more shrinkly note, Robert Keppel, who hunted Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer, has written very compellingly about the emotional toll, and a very fine film made about Keppel and Bundy, The Riverman, explicitly deals with this.)
In a way, I am no different than a kid who enjoys a good shoot-’em-up computer game, one where you blast the monsters to bits. It’s all about mastery, enjoying horror for the awe it engenders, putting it back in its place when you’re done.
This is not to trivialize tragedy. There are plenty of examples of novels delayed because they’re too close to reality (think King’s Rage). Our gun laws are insane, and I actually like guns. But I do think it’s worthwhile think take a step back and think about what it is about violence on the screen or in a book that we crave–and why it’s so awe-filled when the monsters come out to play.
July 8, 2012
It’s the Story, Stupid
The New York Times excels in hand-wringing about non-issues. That’s not a slam; it’s just how I see things. Doesn’t stop me from reading, but sometimes you just gotta shake your head. One recent eye-roller focused on the “power” of YA lit, an exercise in silliness that tried to answer the question: how come so many adults seem to be reading YA lit? (Although I did get a chuckle out of the guy who declared that adults should read adult books, you slackers.)
Frankly, I think all this navel-gazing goes back to the uneasiness many adults felt when they were captivated by Harry Potter. Remember how they had different covers for adults so they could read in public and not be embarrassed? (And, yes, they put all the books in plain brown paper bags, like bottles of booze.) This whole thing about adults reading YA is one of those non-issue hand-wringers that have people moaning over cocktails: Why aren’t we reading Ulysses? (Really, they ought to be saying: But I just don’t get it. What the hell’s Joyce talking about? Say, remember when reading used to be fun and it was all about the story?)
Still, adults reading YA is an interesting question. Yet, in some ways, who cares? I don’t recall anyone getting all hot and bothered that adults might have liked, say, Watership Down (all those cute, furry, warlike little bunnies out to find females) or Lord of the Flies or . . . well, you get my drift. If adults like YA, more power to ya, that’s what I say. If you pick up one of my books, I’d be ecstatic.
But I’m not convinced that SO MANY adults are turning to YA lit. Rather, I think that certain YA books succeed is telling a story many or only certain adults like (more on that in a sec), and that those few books are both marketed quite cannily and turned into media events (as, for example, the recent Hunger Games movie and campaign; really some interesting reading there on the power of marketing to generate buzz where none might have existed).
YA lit may also be appealing to some adults for other reasons, too. Most YA books are frequently much easier reads than more highly self-conscious, literary fiction which calls so much attention to the crafting of each sentence (and don’t just take my word for it; this has been pointed out before). Although I know I’m going to get a lot of howling about that because there is just as much beautifully written literary YA, too. Believe me, I know that; in fact, I’d like to think that, every now and again, I manage to pull that off myself. But the reality is that YA lit is a tad easier; the action is much more direct; the pacing faster (closer to thriller pacing, frequently); POV is frequently limited to first-person which means that identification with the primary protagonist is much more rapid. It’s easier to slip into the story–and story-telling is the primary focus. A lot of YA is out to tell a great story.
Really, it’s not that YA lit is so much more powerful. I mean, honestly, do you really think a ton of adults are all that interested in reading about kids fretting over the various indignities you suffer in high school? (Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.) Or what happens when your boyfriend goes off to summer camp and you have to stay home? I’m not making fun; I’m really not; what I’m suggesting is that the “power” of YA lit is a specious argument just as what constitutes a YA novel is pretty tough to define. I’ll bet there are YA books you’ve read that made you take a step back and think, “Whoa, that’s not YA.” The book may be marketed as YA, but it’s not. Just because a protagonist is supposed to be 16 or 17, for example, doesn’t mean that the story feels authentic as a teenage/YA voice or narrative. (I remember a few where I was . . . huh? I don’t think so . . . ) But because YA is so hot–a genre that seems to be highly marketable and attractive to tons of cross-over authors–I can see the temptation in marketing a book as YA when it isn’t, and you know it when you read it. You just do.
So what I do think we’re talking about here are a) a few stories that captivate adult audiences because the story’s got enough complexity to reach beyond teenage concerns and b) readers–and predominantly young women–for whom a very, very large number of YA books focus on things that still concern them even when they’ve left high school and moved off into college and beyond: namely, relationships. Love. Romance.
Don’t believe me? Think about it a second. Go to any bookstore. Go to this FANTASTIC blog post on various YA covers and take a long look; then go over to the adult romance section and compare. Go on; I dare you. Think about the YA stories out there. Yes, yes, there are all types and subgenres; I’m not arguing that. But I think we can all agree that a high number focus on romance and love relationships. This isn’t anything to be ashamed about; love and sex and relationships are things adolescents think about, a lot. But many of the more successful YA books incorporate romance as central to the plot, and I think that only goes to show that the demographic toward whom the vast majority of YA lit is pitched is still concerned with that well into adulthood. Women read more than men; women also read more romance; romance still makes up the largest market share of the reading public and romance e-books are big sellers, no matter which way you slice that pie. So the idea that the same girls grow into the women who will still pick up a YA novel that’s heavy on the romance–and we all know which books we’re talking about here–isn’t so much an indication of YA’s power as much as it speaks to YA’s ability to continue to tap into the same concerns these girls carry into adulthood.
Please don’t misunderstand me. I love writing YA; it’s hard work for me and I think I deal with some pretty heavy things. I anguish over every single sentence, and I’m not kidding. I’m not demeaning YA or suggesting that it’s somehow a “lesser” literature. Far from it; what I take issue with is the idea that YA is more “powerful.” I don’t even know what that means, frankly, unless “power” is a synonym for “some YA books are bestsellers for adults and kids.”
Really, what it comes down to? It’s the story. YA or not, if the story sucks, people won’t read it. If the story is great and just happens to be YA, people will.
End of story.
June 24, 2012
Taking Care of Business
This is not a sexy post. No video, no glossy photos.
This post is about taking care of business, and unless you’re into that kind of thing, this is about as exciting as toe fungus.
Now, if you’re like me, one thing you hate is business. You know, charging people for services and then expecting to be paid? There’s just something so . . . craven about it. When I went to medical school, business was the last thing on my mind. The IDEA that I was rendering a service for which I deserved compensation . . . who thought about medicine that way? Okay, I’m sure someone did, but I didn’t. My focus was learning how to help people–or, maybe more accurately, how not to kill them while I was trying to help them. (Believe me, every doctor–in training or out of it–comes close every now and again. Why, there was this one guy . . .) So no one told me anything about how to set up an office, run it, collect fees. Really, there was so much MEDICINE to absorb, the business end of things wasn’t talked about. Earning money wasn’t on my radar.
So I learned as I went along, after I left the military and opened a solo private practice and was, for a good long time, a small business owner. Boy, was that rocky. I just didn’t get it. I mean, here I was, a pretty decent child shrink . . . and where were the patients? It had never dawned on me that I had to learn the biz, how to cultivate it, make contacts, find referral sources, all that. It felt a little slimy, to be honest, this need to go out and trawl for a paycheck. Eventually, I learned, through trial and error, what worked–which relationships to cultivate so I had referrals; what I had to do to gain exposure so people would know me; who I could trust with certain aspects of my business, those things I couldn’t do myself because it wasn’t my area of expertise–all so I could meet my office rent and, oh, make a living. Lucky for me, I ran a one-woman shop, so all I really worried about was making payroll for one. But it sure would’ve been nice if my med school education had included a unit on running a small business.
Like many professions, doctors are also expected to keep themselves educated and up to speed on their specialities. They’re called CMEs (continuing medical education credits) and every state has a mandatory number a doctor must complete every year, or they won’t give you a license to continue practicing. That’s fine; I’m no more anxious to kill anyone now than I was back then. But, darn it, there STILL aren’t any CMEs that tell you how to run a business, so far as I know. This isn’t the problem it used to be, primarily because I’m not seeing patients right now and, more likely than not, if I’d stayed in practice, I’d have hired an office manager and let her/him take care of business. But I might very well have gone to a couple business seminars, too.
Now that I’m a full-time writer . . . well, the experience has been only a little different. One question most beginning writers ask is how to break into publishing, which only makes sense and about which I wrote an earlier post. But what I think most beginners don’t realIy understand is that, as a writer, you’re the sole proprietor of a small business. Sorry, but it’s the truth. You’re into this because you love to write–but you also enjoy eating.
Since that IS the case, it behooves all of us to learn as much about the business side of writing as we can because things come up, all the time. Now, it’s true that if you are very fortunate and have done your homework (I am and have been), you will likely have an agent you trust acting on your behalf: negotiating contracts, selling your work, that kind of stuff. But that doesn’t mean that you can simply put your head down and spin out product. You must become as savvy about the business as you can, so you know what the terms of that contract mean, the publishing cycle, access to overseas rights, royalties . . . it’s a big deal. We’re talking money in or out of your pocket here. We’re talking groceries.
Business isn’t necessarily sexy. Business is frequently . . . well, business and requires a certain mindset, this idea that you really do need to be looking at what benefits you and your bottom line, and then weighing that against what benefits everyone else who supports your business. But taking care of your business is essential, and like everything else in this biz, you need to devote some time–doesn’t have to be a lot, necessarily, but some–to keeping current, getting those writerly CMEs. Like I was way back, you’re in private practice: the sole proprietor of your business. These days, you could make a go of it solo–as in no traditional publisher, no agent, or maybe an IP lawyer to look over contracts you DO negotiate with a traditional house (but only if you are just SO savvy and experienced, you really get the biz)–or you can hire people as you go along: a copy editor, a graphic artist, etc. Or you go the traditional route. Whichever way you choose, you still need to understand business.
I’ve attended only a handful of writers’ workshops, none more valuable than those devoted to understanding the business of writing, from copyright to contracts to publishing cycles (and I STILL need advice and help, believe me). The very first workshop I ever attended was not about plot or pacing or any of that; it was one entirely devoted to the business of publishing: a crash-course on breaking in, what to expect, production levels required to sustain x-amount of income over x-amount of years, when you can quit your day job (if ever), payment cycles, agents, work for hire, all that. Since then, I’ve made it part of my business to keep current.
I’m going to suggest that YOU consider doing this, too. You don’t have to read a gazillion articles or anything, but you should read some. Really, there is no one out there who cares as much about your career as you do, trust me on this.
There are organizations; the RWA, for example, has some fantabulous articles and presentations on all aspects of business (and they’re one of the best organizations at paying attention to the business side of things, IMHO). There are also a ton of books and Reader’s Digest condensed versions on things ike copyright law, etc. Yes, a drool-worthy snooze-fest, but essential reading nonetheless. We all run into this sooner or later. I just spent an hour shooting off nasty-grams to pirate sites offering my books, as one for example. These sites are like weeds, for God’s sake, and they’re stealing what I’ve worked very hard to produce. They’re stealing bread, man, figurative and otherwise. It’s like people walking by my table and nicking my drink because, well, it was just there. Who said this is acceptable behavior? Where are their mothers? Don’t get me started on this.
Back to business: you have to pay attention to who’s offering the advice, too. Now I don’t know about you, but if someone’s written a book on the biz, I tend to look at their credentials to do so. It would be the same if I hired someone to fix a toilet or build a house. Why trust people who, oh, aren’t all that published, or have zip credentials? I can not tell you the number of kids out there who take creative writing classes from teachers who aren’t published. What, WHAT? This is like me, a surgery intern, deciding to learn the ins and outs of open-heart surgery from, oh, a plumber. No, worse: a used-car salesman. There’s a reason doctors spend five hundred trillion hours learning from other doctors who have spent ten hundred bazillion hours. Look at the creds, folks. Don’t get me started on this either.
For my money, there are only a few people in the writing world whose take on business I truly trust (and admire). If you’re serious about your work, you’ve probably already heard of them and/or dropped by their blogs. If you haven’t, then here are two people to whom you should pay attention: the husband-wife duo, Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Both are consummate pros, writers with about ten trillion hours in the biz and several hundred–we’re talking hundreds here–of publications under their collective belts: short stories, articles, books. (I think the last time I talked to Dean, he had . . . what . . . well over a hundred books, both traditionally published and, only very recently, as self-pubbed ebooks. A hundred, people.) Both have been editors. Both have run a publishing house and just opened another. Both have their unique takes on the biz and they offer workshops, not only on the building blocks every writer needs for the craft but–just as importantly–the business of writing, which I would encourage you to think about taking (or ponying up the extra dough the next time you’re at a con or writers’ meeting and they’re offering a course). They are people to whom I routinely turn for their take on various issues, some of which I haven’t realized WERE issues until they brought them up. (And, yes, that very first workshop I attended was theirs. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and I mean that; I absolutely do. I trust and owe these two people more than I can express.)
How seriously should you take their opinions? How savvy are they? Well, let me put it this way: quite recently, Kris did a fabulous post on some shady dealings in various agencies–and her site was hacked. She reposted on a second site–and she was hacked again. And again, on yet another site. I’m not necessarily into conspiracy theories, but it really does seem that someone wanted to shut her up. Fortunately, that post is available on an alternative site (which is, on its own, another very good site to read about the biz), and Kris has since redesigned her blog to be as hack-proof as possible. Not saying it won’t happen again, but what I think this should signal is that when people who’ve been in the biz for a long time raise an alarm, you should pay attention.
But . . . you can’t do that if you’re not paying attention in the first place. If you’re not taking care of your business.
So I’m going to suggest that you start with Kris and Dean, and go from there. You won’t always agree with their views (I don’t), but for your opinions to hold much water, you need to at least understand and be able to talk the same language. It is stunning to me how many writers can’t, don’t and won’t. But trust me on this: you can’t afford to put your head in the sand and hope everything will work out for the best. That you can simply choose to hand over a part of your business–say, selling your work and contract negotiation–and trust that folks are doing the right thing by and for you. Yes, ideally, they are; I trust my agent, but I also talked to and researched quite a few agents before I settled on mine, and we keep talking and I still trust her because she has shown that she knows what she’s doing. She teaches me stuff, too, and when she says something, I go look it up to see if what she’s said is right. When she DOESN’T know something, she goes and finds out because she’s a pro and understands that you don’t get to remain a pro is you don’t act like one. Trust but verify.
You must do the same. You need to be able to evaluate if the folks you choose to work with are doing their jobs and you can know this only if you understand what their jobs are in the first place; if you understand the ins and outs of your business.
Remember: No one cares more about your career than you.
June 15, 2012
SOUTHEAST WISCONSIN FESTIVAL OF BOOKS
Hey, guys:
Tomorrow, I’ll be at the SE WI Festival of Books in Waukesha with other fabulous authors and editors like Alex Bledsoe, Matt McElroy, Kelly Barnhill. A couple panels, my two cents on YAs. If you’re around Milwaukee at all, drop by! Check out the official festival website for details.
My schedule:
10-11: SCBWI Welcome Desk (with the sweet, talented, much more likable Lisa Albert)–just hanging and letting Lisa do all the talking.
11:30-12:30: Scared BLEEPless: A Horror Writing Panel (w/ Kelly Barnhill, Daniel P. Coughlin, J.R. Turner , Alex Bledsoe, and Matt McElroy)–Someone, please, tell me, what could I possibly contribute here? These guys are the heavy hitters. Best for me to shut up and listen, maybe learn a thing or two.
2:30-3:30: Otherworlds: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Panel (w/ Kelly Barnhill, Mary Rickert, Alex Bledsoe, and John Klima)–Seriously? Me?
4-5: “Walks Like a Duck, Quacks Like a Duck . . . But is it YA?” – my 2cents & true confessions (or How I Used to be a Snob)
June 10, 2012
My Brain, Off-Grid
So my husband’s dragging me away this afternoon (it’s Thursday morning), and I’m thinking, shoot, I don’t want to go anywhere, not even to spend several days off-grid, in the woods, tramping around, getting all dirty and smelly and feeling strong, like an Amazonian queen. Which is how I am and feel, at times, when I’ve put in a good day’s hike.
But, for a person who never turns on her cell or answers it even when it’s on (that sucker’s always on silent, which drives my kids bananas); for a woman who turns off her phones all day, every day . . . I have tremendous trouble unplugging, being off-grid, going away. Always have had. Now, we can chalk this up to childhood traumas or something–and I’m sure that’s somewhat true (you don’t know true togetherness until you’re squashed into a tiny camper, when it’s about a thousand degrees outside and even higher inside–you’re baking in there and lying on a little bunk hammock with about an inch of clearance between you and the ceiling, and then . . . you have to pee. In a bucket. Right there, while everyone listens . . .).
Yet, when I was in my residency and fellowship, I hated going away, too. I used to hoard my vacation and mental health days; I hardly ever used them up, and it may have something to do with the dread I felt about returning: the killing pace, the emergencies, the constant demands. All that was still there when I got back on Monday morning, whether after a weekend or vacation. (Which is why, I’m convinced, a reason this impending sense of doom rolls over me on Sunday nights. I have a tough time sleeping at the best of times, but forget Sunday night.)
When I’m away–when my husband tells me I’m on vacation–I don’t really relax-relax until about Wednesday or Thursday and, then, only grudgingly. (I’m like a Belgian shepherd that way: always on alert.) So, say, about three or four days into it, I sort of unwind and then, boom, before you know it, time to go home. Hardly makes it worthwhile, you know? Always been like this, too. So, gosh, thank heavens for the Internet that allows me to do this NOW and NOT FRET about having ZERO INTERNET access and all that while I’m gone and feeling pressured to get the blog done and OH, NOOOOO… I’m so important, I MUST be reachable . . . without me, all life on Earth will cease to exist . . .
Oh, pshaw.
Here’s the thing, and I said it a couple weeks ago when I wrote about Facebook, et. al.: you are simply not that important. (Okay . . . I’m not that important, but you understand. It’s that prototypical “you” I’m talking about.) Unless you have dying relatives or something, the world will continue. There is nothing THAT all-consuming and life or death for which you absolutely MUST be in touch, tethered, reachable forever and always. Even though I don’t feel that way when I’m forced to go away, I’ve known this for a long time, and here’s why.
You want to know important?
Death is important.
People actively dying is important.
People THINKING about actively dying is important. This is why God invented pagers for nurses and doctors, so we would always be around to stop bad things from happening, or try to make bad things right. As a private practitioner, I was available 24/7, and yeah, when my pager went off at two in the morning, I knew that patient wasn’t calling just to shoot the breeze. If we were lucky, that patient was only THINKING about jumping off the bridge or taking pills or whatever. If we were unlucky, the patient was TAKING the pills or had a foot off the bridge or broken out a window . . . You get the drift.
When I was an intern and resident, I was tethered with a pager-umbilicus, too, because when it went off and squawked about a code blue . . . that was my cue to hustle because only I, the surgical intern, knew how to slap in that CVP line without dropping a lung or skewering an artery. (That was the truth, too, in the hospital where I trained.) When that pager went off, people were dying or trying to. Most number of times I blundered out of bed and ran to the same patient trying to tank, in a single six-hour period? Eleven. ELEVEN. Try to relax, unwind, get some shut-eye knowing that’s out there. Go on. I dare you.
Now, this isn’t to brag or anything. All doctors and nurses and techs and EMTs and cops and all that . . . people in those professions all do the same thing. So this isn’t about me being so wonderful; it’s about me doing my job, the one I volunteered for, entered willingly.
But this is also to make a very important point–well, important to me. It might even explain why I can’t walk into a hospital these days without a mild return of PTSD (I’m serious here, folks): the elevated heart rate, the sweats, the semi-flashbacks to blood and guts and all that, the smells that trigger it. It might also explain why I both HATE being on-grid and off it, too; my love-hate relationship with all tech, to be honest, and so my need to venture into the wild and this overwhelming urge, sometimes, to stay there even as all my instincts are screaming that I MUST go back.
People write about your brain on- and off-grid: the feelings of anxiety about going away, the pervasive sense of urgency that you simply MUST be available, that kind of thing. There was a very interesting series of articles in the New York Times a couple years back studying this same phenomenon, and it’s worthwhile reading, so take a minute.
What I found the most interesting–for me, personally–was all that stuff about attention: that the demands of a twenty-four hour news cycle, this barrage of information, reinforce the sense you are just SO IMPORTANT–and all that is awfully draining to creativity. (I could go into the neurochemistry of it–and it is REALLY fascinating–but I’ll take pity.) We’ve all heard about the benefits of unplugging, getting away, letting those creative juices flow . . . etc. But so many of us can’t do it or have a hard time or feel a profound ambivalence . . . blah, blah. As I think I’ve pointed out, though, our presence and attention to the minute workings of the universe are not required. The world will keep turning.
For the me of the past, though, this was not so because when I wasn’t around, bad things did happen. They also happened when I WAS around; patients still paged me, had a hard time, etc. In fact, I guess you’d say that I lived with the threat of bad, that Damoclese Sword of IMPENDING DISASTER AND DOOM–and it was constant. Coming back after a break–whether as an intern or in practice–I always felt my gut tighten because a patient would’ve crashed during the night; a previously stable patient would be in the hospital (I’d get these long voice mails about who did badly while I was away, for example); someone would’ve died . . . again, you understand. So vacation–going off-grid, leaving that beeper on the bedside table–became merely a prelude to more bad, more doom and gloom, and–sometimes–death.
So, not fun.
These days–the me of the now–I’m only a little better, both because there is the PTSD-esque spectre of all that hanging around, just at the corner of my eye, and . . . well . . . because people about whom I care a tremendous amount will die when I step out these days, and that’s a fact.
Now, I know you’ll think that’s silly, but it’s true. Yes, I agree, wholeheartedly, with Stephen King and others who’ve said that a writer must allow time for the boys in the basement to do their thing. Even when I think I know my story, it’s when I take a break–mostly, to exercise, and I do that every day, but it also happens after a night’s dreaming on it–that the “answer” for how to keep my book alive, my characters doing their thing, all the plates spinning, comes to me. (As it did this morning, for example: I’m leaving in about five hours; I know I’ll get maybe an hour of writing in before the rest of going away sucks me down; but I awoke, and very abruptly, knowing precisely what was keeping one of my characters from getting on with it already. That will necessitate killing about twenty pages and rewriting, but that’s the work.)
NOT being allowed to continue–being wrenched away–leaves my characters in a real lurch. I know that I will, obsessively, rehash what’s going on with them while I’m gone. I’ll jot endless notes. I’ve got an outline, but I’ll expand, in my head and on scraps of paper (I always hike with a pen and paper). I do my best heavy-duty thinking on the trail; I know that about myself.
Because here’s the thing: I really am these people’s life-support system. Quite simply, without me, my characters will wither up and die. They NEED me, Energizer Bunny Ilsa, to keep them ticking.
No, this isn’t narcissism, and I’m not psychotic (at least . . . hang on . . . no, I just checked; I’m not). But what I just wrote is the God-honest truth.
If I die tomorrow, my characters enter limbo. They’ll never live again, for anyone. I’ll never visit them again, and they won’t get to live for you either.
So, for someone like me, it’s imperative that I stay with them, keep them breathing and suffering and living for as long as I can–becauase only I truly know how to throw in that writerly CVP line for them. No one else can do it–or if they do (say, someone decides to release and/or finish the great previously unpublished, unfinished posthumous works of Ilsa J. Bick), my people won’t be entirely the same. Come on, you know what I’m talking about, too; it’s WHY no one can write the real conclusion to Edwin Drood, or WHY the Mozart Requiem is both so glorious and yet ultimately unsatisfying because the poor guy DIED after the first couple measures of the Lachrymosa. The folks who came after, trying to finish that masterpiece, ended up only repeating what Mozart had already done, just with different words. (Really. Go listen sometime. You can tell, INSTANTLY, what’s Mozart and what isn’t.)
Sure, I’m not Mozart. Some days, I’m not sure I’m even me. But I do know that I also unplug from THIS reality on a daily basis–because I dive into the page and the work at hand. You could say that I go on a vacation for as long as I can every single day; I get to go to a different country and leave all this, only to have to return to . . . pay bills, make dinner, etc. Pulling free from my worlds–leaving all those people HANGING–is tremendously anxiety-provoking. Yes, I know when I’ve done a good day’s work. I also know when I’ve sucked and that novel’s really limping along on life support. So I live in a continual push-me/pull-you of only you, Ilsa, will do.
I think this is reinforced by the fact that I’m working on the last volume of the ASHES trilogy. After it’s done . . . that’s it. No more chances. No re-dos. For people I’ve nurtured for so many, many months now–crying for them, worrying about them–the moment I truly pen the last sentence, they are . . . unplugged. They won’t die, of course. Crack the spine, and I can read about them. But I won’t be able to unplug and visit their world and make them live in quite the same way, ever again.
Once the words are set in their mouths, they’re set. They’ll never again have that chance to grow and become.
Would I have it any other way? Heck if I know. I only know it’s the way I–and they–live now.
Okay. I’m gone . . . and this is the sound of me, unplugging . . .
June 3, 2012
May 2012 Recommended Reads, Listens and Looks
Oh, you noticed that I didn’t have any recommendations for April? It’s true. There was nothing: not a book, not a movie, nothing that caught my fancy.
This past month was an interesting one in that I read mostly nonfiction: a couple memoirs, some articles. At least two memoirs have gotten a fair amount of press–one, quite a bit–but I just can’t make myself recommend either. They fall under the category of what I call “poor me” narratives: stories where you want to reach through the page and smack the author a good one for being SUCH a clueless idiot. What’s more annoying is when there are glimmers of good writing and a decent-enough story that you keep HOPING the author gets it together. Alas, didn’t happen.
READS
Beah, Ishmael. A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier(Sarah Crichton Books; 2007). I admit to a soft spot for this book; the author went to my undergraduate alma mater. This is not a perfect book, and it suffers from a somewhat disjointed middle section as well as less than satisfactory close. Having said that . . . this is a pretty gritty, fairly remarkable story that details the making of a boy soldier in Sierra Leone. Given how traumatic this all must have been, that Beah could write about it so well is an achievement. For me, the most interesting chapters were not those which focused on his indoctrination into violence and the means through which this was achieved (most of which revolved around feeding meth and “brown-brown,” a mix of cocaine and gunpowder, to these kids to keep them in line) but what happened during his rehabilitation. Beah himself has said that coming back to civilization was more difficult than becoming a boy soldier, and I believe him. One thing the shrink in me knows: a depressed adolescent boy is frequently an angry, violent one. That comes through here, loud and clear. Needless to say, this is a hopeful narrative; the author made it to the U.S., graduated from college and wrote this book after all.
Bissinger, H. G. “After Friday Night Lights,” Byliner.com and Friday Night Lights; A Town, a Team, and a Dream (DeCapo Press; 1990). The 45-page article is touted as a sequel to Bissinger’s book, which is a spellbinding chronicle detailing the lives of several players on the 1988 Permian Panthers. Odessa, TX, is the epitome of a high school football town; everyone supports the team, and the town measures itself (and its self worth) against its team. I don’t think this will be giving anything away to suggest that what the book is ultimately about is hubris, both the kids’ and, more importantly, the town’s. While all these boys go on with their lives after a fashion, this one year–and the almost criminal overvaluation of these kids’ abilities on the field–leave them ill-prepared for real life. At the same time, you realize that, for most of these boys, everything after this one year is an anticlimax.
The article isn’t really a sequel but a fairly brief look at the ongoing and very complex relationship the author’s had with one player, Boobie Miles. A rising star, Miles was injured in a meaningless scrimmage and not only knocked out of the season but really never recovered his equilibrium. The article follows Miles through some very dark times and, I think, reveals more than a little ambivalence on the part of the author. He’s made his fortune on this story; it’s spawned a movie (very good, if not entirely accurate) and a television series (that I’ve not seen but have heard great things about). Miles’s life has been a train wreck and while there’s an inkling of hope at the end, the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Whether Miles will ever really get his life together is an open question.
Sanford, John; Stolen Prey (Putnam, 2012). Lucas Davenport returns for his 22nd outing in Sandford’s mostly excellent crime-thriller series. This time, Davenport’s investigation starts off after the brutal murder of an entire family in a small Minnesota town and quickly escalates to a story involving Mexican assassins, drug cartels, and a lot of missing money. I’ve said before that I think Sandford’s done better by Davenport; the last REALLY great PREY book (for me) was BROKEN PREY, and I think he often sacrifices character development for a perceived need to indulge in a kind of Patterson-esque patter and pacing. That’s a shame because when Sandford’s firing on all thrusters, he really delivers a thumpingly good story. As the series goes, this one is not bad at all, and I certainly ripped right through it. OTOH, I was a little amazed that Davenport missed an obvious suspect for a REALLY long time. REALLY long. Nevertheless, I enjoyed myself and am not sorry in the slightest to have snapped this up in hardcover.
LISTENS
Tried several. Punted after the first third or so. Just . . . meh.
LOOKS
Awake (NBC; 2012) I am forever fated to fall in love with shows that are ultimately cancelled. In fact, I’d say that if you’re in a show and you want to last? Don’t let me anywhere near the remote.
This is one of those shows. The premise is both straightforward and brilliant. LA Detective Michael Britten (superbly played by Jason Isaacs) and his family (wife and son) are involved in a car accident, the circumstances of which Britten can’t really recall. What happens after the accident depends on your point of view–or, in Britten’s case, just where and when he wakes up. This is a man living two realities: in one, his wife is still alive; in the other, only his son survived. Britten goes back and forth between both realities; clues to crimes in one reality influence cases he’s working on in the other; and he really can’t tell if he is awake or not. The show cues the viewer with color: warm reds for his wife, cool blues for his son. Oh, and he’s got a shrink in each reality, too; each tries to convince him that his (or hers) is the only “real” world. I think one of my favorite lines in the opening credits is when one shrink says, “I can assure you, Detective, that this is real.” To which Britten replies, “The other shrink said the same thing.”
In a way, I can see why this show didn’t make it; it’s quite demanding, and you really have to pay attention. It’s not as complicated as playing MYST, but if you are into head games and like thinking about things like the texture of reality (I mean, honestly, how DO you know that you’re awake?), then you’re in for a treat. Full episodes are still available on the series website and I’m sure you can find this on HULU.
And it’s criminal: they nominate Isaacs for an Emmy and cancel his series. I just don’t get it.
