Meg Benjamin's Blog, page 12

Medium Rare Is Out!

Congrats to Heidi Duckworth Hard who won the third copy of Medium Well last week. Medium Rare, book 2 in the Ramos Family/Medium Trilogy is now available from Berkley InterMix.

Some readers have asked me how difficult it was to switch from writing contemporary romance to writing paranormal romance. I guess the answer to that is “not very.” You see, my paranormal romances tend to share a lot of qualities with my contemporary romances. There’s my slightly skewed point of view that doesn’t take anything entirely seriously. There’s the fact that my heroes and heroines, although they have a few supernatural abilities, are pretty normal for the most part. I think that’s important—while I get a kick out of paranormal romances where the heroes and heroines are anything but guys on the street, I’m more likely to write about people who don’t think of themselves as unusual. Until they find out that they are, of course.

Rosie and Evan are people like that. Rosie in particular just wants to have a regular life, in spite of the fact that her house is haunted by a several-thousand-years-old ghost and she herself is the descendant of several generations of mediums.

The main difference for me comes in the plot, in figuring out the what-happens-next part of the book. Paranormal books have a lot more possibilities in that area than contemporary romance. And I think I’ve taken advantage of at least some of those possibilities in Medium Rare.

Here’s the blurb. If you’d like a slightly scary, slightly funny treatment of the whole haunted medium genre, I hope you’ll give Medium Rare a try.

Medium Rare, Ramos Family/Medium Trilogy, Book 2

There are no skeletons in her closet…only ghosts

Rose Ramos was a reference librarian, until she inherited her grandmother’s house—and the family talent for connecting with the other side…

Moving into the lovely Victorian in San Antonio’s King William District is a dream come true for Rose—and also a nightmare. That’s the only explanation she has for the man hovering above her bed. But Skag is a ghost who’s been part of Rose’s family for generations. And now he’s all hers.

When Evan Delwin, a reporter out to debunk the city’s newest celebrity, posts an ad looking for a research assistant to investigate a famous medium making his home in San Antonio, Skag suggests that Rose apply for the job. Delving into the dark side has its own dangers for Rose—including trying to resist Delwin’s manly charms. But as the investigation draws them closer together, the deadly currents surrounding the medium threaten to destroy them all…

Amazon | Barnes and Noble

Medium Rare, Week 3

Congrats to Kim Linger Brooks, winner of last week’s drawing for a copy of Medium Well, the first book in the Ramos Family trilogy. Once again, leave a comment on the blog and you’ll be entered for next week’s drawing.

As I’ve said before, my heroine in Medium Rare, Rose Ramos, is a medium. Which means she sees and hears some things others don’t. In Rose’s case, it also means she has a few experiences that are a little off the beaten path—like being pursued by hell hounds on the San Antonio River Walk. Now I’ve just returned from San Antonio, and I’m here to tell you the River Walk is not a good place to be pursued by anything, particularly things that threaten to remove parts of your person, painfully. But Rose’s adventure takes place on the King William District end of the river, where it’s a little less crowded. Fortunately for all concerned, Rose’s race with the hounds ends well. Here’s a bit of an excerpt.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of paws galloping along the driveway, monstrous claws clicking on the asphalt. She fumbled for the key she kept in the old mailbox at the door, jamming it into the lock and twisting for all she was worth.

Close behind her, something yipped as she shoved the front door open, half falling through, trying to shove it closed with her shoulder. A large heavy projectile struck her chest with the force of a missile, blowing the door wide and throwing her down full-length just inside. She looked up into an immense mouth full of yellowing fangs. Threads of drool hung a few inches from her face.

She tried to twist away, pulling as far back as she could beneath the dog’s weight. Dread clenched her stomach as she closed her eyes. “Ohgodohgodohgod.”

“Rose!” Skag’s voice echoed through the hall. “That’s a hellhound. Stay absolutely still! Do not move!”

She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it, which, of course, it probably did. The dog’s huge paws still held her shoulders flat against the floor. Its breath blew hot against her cheeks, smelling of old meat and open graves. She struggled to breathe under its weight, tensing for the moment it would clamp its teeth on her throat. She heard the faint creak of its jaws as they opened wider.

And then something large, damp, and utterly disgusting swiped across her cheeks.

She peeked through her lashes up into the dog’s face. Glowing orange eyes stared back as the animal prepared to lick her again.

 

Medium Rare, Week 2

Congrats to Sheryl Asbury who won last week’s drawing for a copy of Medium Well. To be entered in this week’s drawing for Medium Well, just leave a comment below. I’ll give away two more copies, leading up to the release of Medium Rare on August 20.

One of the things I enjoyed about doing Medium Rare was that it allowed me to express both side of the whole ghost question–skepticism and belief. Since Rosie, my heroine, is a medium, she’s obviously a true believer (plus she’s got Skag around to remind her that ghosts are very real). My hero, Evan Delwin, is at the other end of the spectrum. He’s a writer who specializes in exposing supernatural fraud. He’s also a bit more than he appears to be early on, of course. And he definitely strikes some sparks with Rosie. Here’s a bit with the two of them. Rosie’s just had a bit of a rough evening, having been chased by some hell hounds (more on that next week) and Evan’s reeling a bit from the discovery that his mousy assistant isn’t really mousy at all.

He parked his car on the street in front of the house, then climbed up the steps to the porch and pushed the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside he heard a faint buzzing. He raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open.

Rose Ramos didn’t exactly look like Rose Ramos. Or anyway, she didn’t look like the Rose Ramos who’d been in his office that morning. Her black leather skirt stopped about three inches above her knees, showing an impressive length of curving calf and thigh. Her blue satin blouse hung untucked and slightly askew, revealing the curves of generous breasts, accentuated by the jeweled pendant that hung in her cleavage. Rich honey-colored curls billowed wildly around her shoulders. Emerald eyes stared back at him, outlined in luxurious dark lashes.

Rose Ramos was a fox. A dish. A knockout. Why the hell had she hidden all of that lusciousness under those awful clothes when she’d been in his office? Did she think he wasn’t worth dressing up for? He felt a purely masculine jolt of resentment. Just give me a chance, babe!

“Evan,” she croaked. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

He cleared his suddenly dry throat, trying to remember just why he’d come in the first place. “Just thought I’d tell you what I found out when I talked to the cops this afternoon. About Alana DuBois.” That sounded even lamer than he’d anticipated.

Rose blinked at him, jerking one hand behind her as if she was pushing something back. “It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Well, sure. But I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d . . .” He glanced down into glowing orange eyes and moved back a step.

It was the largest dog he’d ever seen. Coal black, with sharp pointed ears, its bulging shoulders were even with Rose’s waist. Its lips were drawn back in a low, rumbling snarl, showing large, jagged fangs, perfect for ripping something—more likely someone—apart.

“Nice dog,” Evan muttered, half to her and half to the hound that seemed on the verge of removing his favorite body part.

Her already-wide green eyes opened wider. “You can see it?”

“Hard not to.”

The dog moved a couple of inches closer, filling up half the doorway. It sniffed at Evan’s shoes.

Rose reached down and grabbed the scruff of its neck. “Get back, hellhound.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Hellhound?”

“Helen,” she corrected quickly. “Helly for short.”

The hound gazed up at her, then broke into a doggy grin, running a tongue the size of a bath mat across the back of her hand.

Rose grimaced, wiping her hand against her thigh. “So what did you find out?”

“Alana DuBois was an alias. Her real name was Sylvia Morris and she did time for fraud in Dallas,” Evan rattled off. Coming here had obviously been a major mistake.

Rose stared back blankly. “Oh, that’s . . . okay.”

“Okay?” Evan grimaced. So much for impressing her with his researching skills. “Yeah, I thought it was okay.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really processing things right now. I’m not at my best—I’ve had a very rough evening. Give me some time to think about all of this, along with the stuff I found about Bradford. I’ll bring it in when I come to work tomorrow.”

Evan’s practical side wanted to tell her to forget the whole thing and just send him an invoice. But his other side, his Delwin side—all Celtic music and wild laughter—was caught by the faint spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the arching honey-colored brows over those lush eyelashes. To say nothing of those gorgeous thighs. “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he found himself replying.

As he turned and headed back down the front steps, he heard her voice behind him, low and sultry. “Evan?”

He turned. Maybe things were looking up.

She leaned in the doorway, one bare leg stretched in front of the black mountain of dog beside her. “I may be a little late tomorrow.”

Ah well. Too much to hope that she’d invite him in for a little get-to-know-you-better nightcap. “Right. Whenever.” Frowning, he headed for his car.

Just enter a comment below for a chance to win the first Ramos Family/Medium book, Medium Well. And watch for Medium Rare on August 20.

Welcome To the Ramos Family

On August 20, three weeks from today, Medium Rare. the second book in my Ramos Family Trilogy is released from Berkley InterMix. To celebrate, I’m giving away three copies of Medium Well, the first book in the trilogy, to a randomly chosen commenter, one per week. To be entered, leave a comment (and your email address so that I can get in touch with you).

All three Ramos siblings are reluctant mediums—Mom neglected to tell them just what they were getting into. The heroine of Medium Rare, Rosie Ramos, discovers her supernatural power the night she moves into the house she’s inherited from her grandmother. It turns out the house isn’t the only thing she’s inherited from Granny Riordan. Here’s a taste of Rosie’s new status in Medium Rare:

“Who’s there?” she called and then felt like kicking herself. Nothing like letting the potential burglar-rapist–serial killer know you were awake and aware that he was there.

“Good evening.” The voice was faintly accented, slightly British, definitely masculine and . . . vaguely familiar.

Rose peered into the darkness at the corners of the room. A lot of darkness, actually. More darkness than she’d been aware of before. In fact, it was the darkest freakin’ bedroom she’d ever been in.

Not what she’d call a plus at the moment.

Her hand scrabbled around the night table, trying to find her cell phone. She flipped it open, squinting at the keys in the darkness.

“Please don’t bother,” the invisible man said. “You don’t need the police. Besides, you’ll find you can’t get service in here right now.”

Rose stared down at the glowing screen. No bars. How the hell could she have no bars? She’d just made a call this afternoon from the living room.

“Sorry,” the man said mildly. “It’s me. You won’t be able to get service while I’m in the room with you.”

She took a deep breath, lowering the phone to the spread. Calm, stay calm. “Where are you? Step out where I can see you. And do it slowly—I’m armed.” She picked up her book, a hardback fortunately. Assuming she could hit him, he’d probably have a lump.

“Throwing things at me won’t have any effect. Except to increase your own sense of satisfaction, of course.”

She gritted her teeth. She really hated being the straight man in this exchange. “Show yourself anyway.”

“I already have. You’re just not looking in the right place.”

Rose licked her lips. Okay. You’re okay. “Give me a hint.”

“Look up.”

She raised her gaze slowly to the ceiling of the room. At the far end, something glowed a dim yellow-green, like some kind of night-light. She squinted. The yellow light became a blob, then seemed to elongate, becoming vertical, stretching from the ceiling halfway to the floor, perhaps five feet or so. Slowly, the light began to change, becoming bluish white, then gray, then resolving, very slowly into the outline of a figure.

Rose’s hands closed tightly on the coverlet. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as her pulse hammered.

The figure became more clear. A man. Shortish. Stocky. Wearing a blue jumpsuit with a white undershirt showing at the V-neck. Hair slicked back, high forehead, deep-set eyes . . . Holy shit! A deeply satisfying wave of exasperation washed over her.

“Hannibal Lecter?” she snapped. “Really? Are you kidding me? Hannibal Lecter? What kind of sick joke is this? Get the fuck out of my bedroom!” Amazing how the combination of terror and annoyance made her sound like she was in control.

Hannibal Lecter floated a couple of feet away from the foot of her bed. His expression seemed vaguely disgruntled. “I was trying to find an appearance you were familiar with. I thought you’d like it.”

“Who are you?” She took another deep breath, trying to slow down her pulse. “And why exactly shouldn’t I just get the hell out of here right now?”

“If you walk out now, you’ll never know why I’m here, will you? And don’t tell me you don’t want to know.” Hannibal moved back a few paces. “Give me a moment and I’ll come up with something else.”

Lecter’s face became indistinct, the edges softening, blurring, then disappearing altogether. Slowly, he became a blob of light again. Rose stared, feeling slightly giddy, as if she’d been holding her breath too long. After a moment, the light elongated again, new features appearing in the face. Instead of the blue jumpsuit, the man now wore a tuxedo. The face was long and narrow, the hair parted at the side, nose slightly bulbous, narrow mouth spread in a faint smile. He raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

“I suppose. Who are you now?”

“George Sanders as Addison DeWitt. Won an Academy Award for All About Eve, one of the greatest motion pictures of all time. Your generation has forgotten him. Typical.” He had a pronounced British accent.

“All right.” Rose flexed her fingers, letting the spread drop. “So who are you really? And why are you here? And when will you go away?”

“To begin with your last question, I’ll go away after we’ve had our little talk.” George whatever-he-was reached into his pocket and extracted a cigarette in a cigarette holder. It was already lighted. He inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Rose said automatically.

George gave her a patronizing smile. “I hardly think this smoke will bother you.”

“So what are you—a ghost?”

George frowned slightly. “In a manner of speaking. I suppose it’s easiest if you think of me that way.”

“Are you haunting this house? Did you die here?”

He blew another cloud of smoke. “I died elsewhere. A very long time ago. And as for haunting this house, no. If you leave this house, so will I. I suppose you could say I’m haunting you.”

Remember: Leave a comment and be entered to win Medium Well!

Scenes From a Romance Conference

I just got back from the 2013 Romance Writers of America conference in Atlanta. It’s still too soon for me to make any kind of coherent statement, but I can describe a few memories while they’re fresh.

1. Atlanta may be lovely—I don’t really know. I spent most of my time in the Marriott trying to figure out the room numbering system for workshops. This always seems to happen at conferences and it’s largely our own fault. We romance writers schedule a little free time at the beginning or end of conferences, but it’s never enough. Once the conference starts, it’s all conference all the time. The furthest I ventured from the hotel was the terrific pub where my roommate and I went to grab dinner one night, and that was maybe a block away.

2. The number of workshops at RWA is absolutely overwhelming. Even if you’re conservative and give yourself time for lunch and bathroom breaks, you’ll still reach a point where you can only groan. I wanted to go to a workshop right after my Berkley signing, but frankly I just didn’t have the stamina. I know I missed a lot of good stuff, but boy did I enjoy the ones I did manage to make.

3. There doesn’t seem to be as much promo pressure at RWA as there is at RT. Don’t get me wrong—there’s a Goody Room and I gave away three bags of book thongs. But since most attendees are writers rather than readers, you don’t have as much relentless anxiety about promoting your books all the time. You can sit in workshops as just one writer among many, listening to advice and information without feeling like you have to be out there selling every minute.

4. The famous writers tend to blend into the flow, amazingly enough. Nora Roberts dances to Bon Jovi at the Harlequin party just like everybody else. Jayne Anne Krentz rides the same elevators. Susan Elizabeth Phillips schlepps her own luggage. It’s sort of exhilarating to be reminded that not all big timers have multiple assistants and bodyguards to smooth the way.

5. On the same note, it’s reassuring to listen to famous writers describe the same dilemmas that most of us have. Nora Roberts sometimes has problems getting started. Susan Elizabeth Phillips writes way too slowly. Tessa Dare worries about disappointing her editors. You’re not alone, people! We all do it.

6. Parties are excruciating for shy people like me, but they’re also fun. I went by myself to the Berkley party and found several folks to talk to. In fact, I had a ten-minute conversation with one of my idols, Jo Beverley, which absolutely made my night.

7. You meet idiots everywhere, though. One agent asked me who I wrote for and when I said Samhain and Berkley InterMix, she observed, “But you’re not making any money.” Note to aspiring writers. If your agent is so clueless that she still thinks digital books don’t sell, you need to move on.

8. RWA is not RT—it’s more business-focused. But they still know how to party. The Samhain bash after the RITAs was a blast even though my roommate and I had to leave after an hour because of early flights the next day.

So come. Next year RWA is in San Antonio and RT is in New Orleans. It will be a great chance to see what conferences are like and enjoy vibrant cities at the same time. I’ll be there at both. Stop by and say howdy!

My Ten Best

A couple of weeks ago, Entertainment Weekly hit a new level on the hubris meter: they listed the 100 best in a variety of entertainment categories, movies, television, plays, music, and books (and therein lies another blog post). Predictably, I disagree with a lot of their choices, but I’m sure I’m not the only one. Everybody has their own hundred best. There is no ultimate list, no matter what Entertainment Weekly says. So in  the interests of screwing with the Establishment, I’ve come up with my own ten best movies list—not twenty-five, not fifty, not a hundred. I make no promises that it’s final, and I should point out that it’s my list rather than the list. I say this to forestall any complaints from Citizen Kane/Gone With the Wind/Titanic proponents. Y’all undoubtedly would have different choices on your list.

1. Casablanca. The ultimate “movie movie”. If you’ve never seen it (and I didn’t until I was in college), you owe it to yourself to check it out. Crisp dialog, twisting plot, and a great hero. And yeah, I know I’ve called it the ultimate guy romance in the past, but that still doesn’t ruin it for me. It just works on most of the levels movies are supposed to work on.

2. Goodfellas. The movie that made me love Martin Scorsese. Yes, it’s violent—very, very violent. But it’s full of exuberance and energy and bouncy film technique, with possibly the best use of soundtrack songs ever. It’s a spectacularly well-made movie, with the longest panning shot I know (don’t tell me Touch of Evil; Scorsese does it better).

3. The Silence of the Lambs. You may remember this as another ultra violent movie, but you’d be wrong. There’s really only one very violent scene, and it’s absolutely necessary for the plot. The rest of the movie is all about dread, and it’s maybe the most fearful movie ever made. Plus it has a wonderful performance from Jodie Foster, one that simultaneously emphasizes her vulnerability and her strength.

4. Julie and Julia. Nora Ephron’s best as far as I’m concerned. About food and love and female accomplishment. And Meryl Streep is sublime as Julia Child.

5. Bullitt. Why I love Steve McQueen. The plot is so twisty that Robert Vaughn (who played one of the villains) says he didn’t understand it even after they finished making it, but this is the ultimate hero movie. Just relax and watch McQueen be McQueen.

6. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid/The Sting. Don’t make me choose—I just can’t. Newman and Redford were the ultimate buddies who made “buddy movies” possible, and none of the others ever touched these two. Plus both movies are shot beautifully by George Roy Hill—I live nearby some of the settings for Butch Cassidy and Hill did a marvelous job.

7. Nashville. There were a lot of Robert Altman movies I revered and some I didn’t like much, but Nashville sums up his multi-character, overlapping plot structure better than any other. And the underlying message about politics and entertainment still holds up today if you can ignore the seventies fashions and hairdos.

8. Some Like It Hot. Go ahead—watch it without laughing. I dare you. That slumber party scene on the train may be sexist as hell, but it’s also freakin’ hilarious. Billy Wilder’s greatest (and yeah, I’m including Sunset Boulevard and Double Indemnity).

9. Singing in the Rain. Tart, fast, funny and the ideal musical. Yes, I know Gene Kelly wasn’t as nice as he seems to be on screen. So what? It’s still great.

10. North By Northwest. Hitchcock fanatics may prefer Vertigo. But this one has humor and thrills and iconic scenes (the crop duster, the chase across Mt. Rushmore). And Cary Grant playing a weaselly advertising man who’s redeemed by chaos.

So those are my ten best. Feel free to disagree. Feel free to add your own. Feel free to comment on the idiocy of anybody coming up with a “ten best” that purports to be anything other that a list of personal favorites. I make no claims to the ultimate here, but all of these movies are worth seeing. Trust me.

Hanging From That Cliff

Dana Stabenow’s newest Kate Shugak mystery, Bad Blood, has been getting some mixed reader reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. Some readers comment that there’s not enough Kate in the book, that much of the story is told from others’ points of view. As a matter of fact, the crime in the book isn’t really connected to Kate directly—it’s her lover, Trooper Jim, who has to deal with a series of murders that take place in two feuding rural settlements. Kate does help, but it’s Jim’s show.

But the more serious objections concern the book’s climax. I’m not going to do any plot spoilers here. All I can say is that the book ends with an epic cliffhanger, one that has several readers very upset.

In a way, I can sympathize with this reader reaction, although I don’t agree that Stabenow is being “unfair.” Writers can basically do what they want with their characters, although readers obviously don’t have to like it. But there’s a legitimate question about whether authors should leave readers hanging at the end of books, particularly when you know there won’t be any relief for a year (the amount of time it usually takes Stabenow to publish another Kate book).

The problem, as I see it, is that writers make a kind of pact with readers. They ask readers to become involved in characters’ lives, to become interested in their adventures, ultimately to care about them. In exchange, authors offer closure. Readers may not like what happens to characters, but at least they know what happened. Stories have endings, they don’t resolve into the kind of chaos that frequently characterizes reality.

Fiction, particularly pop fiction, offers a patterning of events. That’s one of the many reasons people come to novels. Unlike real life with its messy clusters of incidents that may lead nowhere, pop fiction proceeds in a more or less linear fashion to its conclusion. And you want to know what that conclusion will be. While you may give a nod to possible future events (as in the kickers that frequently come at the end of blockbuster movies like The Avengers), you bring closure to the series of events you’re currently dealing with.

But the cliffhanger doesn’t do this. Some plotlines may be concluded (and this happens in Bad Blood), but some are deliberately left open. And in the case of Bad Blood, the plotlines left open are crucial to the future of the entire series. Television series do this regularly, of course, but it’s less common in fiction. And readers may be justified in feeling both shocked and furious when they find themselves dropped into this situation without warning.

I said before that I didn’t consider this an issue of fairness, but I do think there’s a question about how smart this kind of plot is. When you work hard to build readers’ investment in a character, to make them care, does it make sense to then exploit that caring by leaving readers hanging about a character’s fate? George Martin argues that he didn’t want his readers to find heroes in Game of Thrones, so he apparently feels no compunction about inflicting murder and misery upon his main characters. But those of us who write mysteries and romances don’t have quite as much latitude, nor do we want it.

So do I think the ending of Bad Blood is a bad idea? Yeah, pretty much.

The Formula

I just finished the latest Amanda Quick novel, The Mystery Woman (and before I go any farther, yes, I know Amanda Quick is actually Jayne Anne Krentz, but let me go on referring to her as Amanda Quick for simplicity’s sake). Like most Amanda Quicks of the last few years, it follows a formula: woman with paranormal abilities finds herself in perilous situation with unknown assailant. She’s rescued by a mysterious man with his own paranormal abilities. They join forces to solve a mystery. They fall in love. Woman is put in hazardous position with unknown assailant. Mysterious man rescues her. They solve mystery. Curtain.

As far as I’m concerned, the fact that several of Quick’s recent novels follow this formula isn’t particularly troubling. Most romance novelists follow formulas, including me. Sometimes they’re the formulas set up by the genre (e.g., the Impoverished Bluestocking Attracts Bored Aristocrat formula), and sometimes, as with Quick, they’re formulas that the author herself has established in previous books and that readers have come to accept as the formula for an Amanda Quick book.

Now the fact that romance novels frequently follow formulas is sometimes cited by critics as another reason why romance novels suck, but as usual that’s nonsense. All popular fiction follows formulas—it’s just that some critics prefer the formulas used in mysteries and sci fi to those used in romance. When I read a Carl Hiaasen novel or a James Lee Burke novel I’m also seeing their formulas, and although I like them, I’m not ready to agree that they’re automatically superior to the formulas used by, say, Elizabeth Lowell.

There is, in fact, something comforting about a book that follows a formula, particularly if it’s an author you like. When I pick up a Nora Roberts thriller, I have a fair idea of what I’m in for and I settle down with a lot of enthusiasm to see how she’s elaborated the formula this time. You reach certain landmarks in the book and you feel satisfied: Oh yeah, you think, this is where the hero will realize how sharp the heroine really is.

The only problem with the whole formula idea comes when the author lets herself get lazy about using it. Formulas can have a certain fill-in-the-blanks quality. If an author has a long-established plot routine, she needs to be very careful to keep the other elements of the story fresh. The characters need to have something special going on so that they’ll hold your interest when the plot doesn’t. If the author falls into a routine, the results can be monotonous, and you find yourself thinking same old same old. I’ve been known not to finish books when they’re a little too by-the-numbers.

The Mystery Woman doesn’t quite fall into that category, but it’s not among Quick’s best either. I have a feeling she’s gotten a little too comfortable with this particular routine—the story and characters are both a little too predictable. And that’s a shame.

But there’s a relatively easy solution to this problem. You create a new formula. Or you rework an old one. Or you tinker with the one you’ve been using just enough to make it sort of new. Not so much that you change it drastically mind you (ask Charlaine Harris how readers react to that), but enough to make readers occasionally sit up and blink.

I’m guessing Quick will do that at some point. She’s done it before and it worked out. And when she does, I’ll be reading her new one, thinking Oh well played! I didn’t see that coming.

Dumbing It Down

It’s always interesting to see your favorite books turned into television series, but it can also be troubling. The troubling part is what I’m thinking about at the moment, particularly as it applies to the television versions of two favorite book series: Bones and Rizzoli and Isles.

Both shows are based on long-running book series, by Kathy Reichs and Tess Gerritsen respectively. Both Reichs and Gerritsen have science backgrounds—Reichs is a forensic anthropologist and Gerritsen is an MD. And both series feature female scientists as lead characters. Unfortunately, both series seem to feel very nervous about seeing those female scientists as anything but freaks.

Let’s take Bones, for example. The lead character of the television series is Temperance Brennan, a forensic anthropologist at the “Jeffersonian Institution.” Temperance is brilliant, but she’s totally without people skills. Her friends and colleagues must continually correct her when she runs roughshod over people’s feelings or misunderstands simple human interactions. In fact, there have been times when Dr. Brennan has seemed so out of tune with reality that I’ve suspected she suffers from Asperger syndrome.

Now look at the Kathy Reichs books on which Bones is based. Again the central character is named Temperance Brennan, and again she’s a brilliant forensic anthropologist, but there the similarities end. This Temperance works as a consultant to police departments in Montreal and North Carolina. She’s divorced and has an adult daughter. More importantly, she had no particular problems interacting with the public. She works effectively with both her fellow scientists and her police contacts; in fact, she’s occasionally more skillful in talking to witnesses than they are. She’s as well acquainted with social mores as any other person she meets and she can toss off pop culture references with the best of them. In other words, she’s a normal woman who happens to be a very intelligent scientist.

Why am I making a point about this? Possibly because the difference between the television and book versions of Temperance underlines something that’s both troubling and annoying: the tendency of television to portray female scientists as non-functioning human beings. If Bones was the only example of this tendency, it might count as an anomaly—but it isn’t. Maura Isles in Tess Gerritsen’s books has several problems, but being unable to function in normal society isn’t one of them. Yet the Maura Isles in Rizzoli and Isles is another example of someone who doesn’t quite understand how the “common folk” operate—her partner, the more “down to earth” Jane Rizzoli, is constantly correcting Maura’s confused idea of how the man on the street thinks and talks. To be fair, male scientists in television series sometimes suffer from the same treatment, as witness the nerdish physicists on Big Bang Theory. But male scientists can also come across as “normal”—thus Hodgins on Bones may have a few hang-ups regarding conspiracy theories, but he can communicate with others and seems to have a solid grip on the way the world functions. And back in the days when CSI was an interesting series rather than a train wreck, Gil Grissom was clearly in command of his facts.

The problem here is that television lags behind books when it comes to the portrayal of strong, intelligent, functioning heroines. And if anyone wants to argue that Temperance needs some flaws to make her interesting, I’d point out that Reichs’ original Temperance is a recovering alcoholic who slips off the wagon at least once in the series. That’s a realistic flaw. Being too smart for your own good isn’t.

So I’m glad to see television production companies looking at book series for inspiration, but I’d like to see them go farther beyond the mere outlines of character than they’re using at the moment. Given the popularity of the books by both Reichs and Gerritsen, the reading public seems ready for intelligent heroines who can manage to hold a normal conversation. I look forward to the day when television is too.

Next Year’s Book

Here’s a little-known truth of writing: you’re always in love with next year’s book. Next year’s book is the new guy at work, the strap-hanger on the bus who looks a lot like Ryan Gosling, the new barrista with the cute smile. Next year’s book makes your heart race a bit, and the more you work on it, the more in love you fall.

This is it, the One, the relationship to end all relationships. Nothing can stop us, baby—you and me now and forever.

And then, into this little bower of bliss, an editor drops the ultimate bring-down: last year’s book. You know, that past relationship, the guy you thought was so cool, the one who was going to be the One. That one.

It is, of course, fruitless to complain, to claim that you’ve moved on, that you don’t want to look backward toward that old relationship. You have to go back to him, at least for a little while, because there’s no way your editor will let you off the hook about this. The two of you will be a couple again for the length of time it takes to fix all the weak spots you didn’t see when you were in love.

At first it’s a painful process. You find yourself shaking your head in disbelief. Why didn’t I notice how weak he was in secondary characters? Why did I think his plot structure was so great when it’s clearly a mess? And oh, how could I have missed how shaky he was in the subjunctives? That alone should have been a tipoff.

But as you spend some quality time with last year’s book, it’s possible you may fall in love again, at least a little (although it will never be as good as what you have now with this year’s book—or so you tell yourself). You remember how he made your smile with that little bit of dialogue. You find yourself growing nostalgic over that elegant Big Black Moment. Ah, good times, good times.

Still, it has to end. Yes, the relationship was good while it lasted, but it’s over now. Time to move on. You bid last year’s book an affectionate good-bye, sending him on his way to find other lovers (you hope), who’ll appreciate him for all the sterling qualities that made you fall in love with him in the first place.

And now it’s back to your new love. Next year’s book is so fantastic, so beautiful, so clever. He’s everything you’re looking for in a book. Perfect, just perfect. And he will never be last year’s book. Until, of course, he is.