Mike Billington's Blog, page 2
December 29, 2017
Trump needs sergeants, not generals
I was having lunch with Matt Blanchard and Mick Church at a small restaurant near the Sacre Coeur Cathedral in Paris when the subject of American politics came up.
(The nice thing about having lunch with characters in my books is that we can meet anywhere in the world for lunch... pretty cool, actually.)
"You know, what President Trump SHOULD have done when he was choosing his staff was hire a bunch of sergeants. Instead, he made the mistake of picking generals," Matt said.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, really," Matt said.
"Why?" Mick asked.
Matt, one of the main characters in my mystery novel "Blood Debt," looked at us and shook his head.
"Guys," he said, "we were all sergeants in Vietnam so that should be easy enough for you to answer."
I shook my head.
"You better explain it to us," I said.
Mick, one of the characters in my novel "Jacks or Better," nodded in agreement.
"Okay, so what are the three qualities every good sergeant must have?" Matt asked.
"Well," I said, "I'd say that the first thing is the willingness to do everything and anything he asks his squad or platoon to do."
"And," Mick added, "a sergeant has to know his troops inside and out. What are the strengths and weaknesses of everyone in the unit? When you know the strengths and weaknesses of everyone in your unit you don't make the mistake of asking your troops to do things they aren't capable of doing, or doing well. When they succeed as individuals the unit succeeds as a whole."
"And," I added, "any good sergeant will tell you that it's not enough to just give an order. You have to have built up enough trust in the unit to have those orders carried out instantly, without question. I mean, when you think about it, that just makes sense. When you're trying to get between 12 and 50 heavily armed troops to all go in the same direction at the same time just shouting 'Forward, March!' isn't really the best way to go about that. They have to trust you... actually, they have to BELIEVE in you."
Matt leaned forward, picked up his coffee cup and took a long drink.
"Exactly," he said.
"But that doesn't explain why you think the President should have hired sergeants instead of generals," I said.
Matt shook his head.
"Look," he explained, "generals see the world in entirely different terms than sergeants do. They think in terms of thousands, not a dozen or so. They see big objectives and seldom take into account that it takes a lot of small steps to get to those big objectives. They make their plans, draw lines on maps, and set timetables without thinking about the fact that each of those small steps is being taken by a soldier, a squad, a platoon, a company, a battalion..."
"So?" Mick asked.
"So they don't take into account the very real human cost of achieving a goal. They don't stop to think, for example, that some guy named Tom in the West Wing is going through a divorce and might not be up to all the tasks he's been given because he's more than a little distracted. They don't stop to consider that Mary, who works on the National Security staff, just found out her mother has been diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer and is not only worried but probably exhausted."
"But surely, when they find out these things they'll take them into account," I said.
"Sure, IF they find out," Matt said. "The thing is, the men and women who work in the White House are ambitious. They're not likely to go running to the boss with their personal problems. Doing that could put the brakes on their careers."
"But..." Mick said.
"But nothing," Matt said. "That's the way the world works and the way it has worked for a long time. You show signs of weakness, signs that you're not up to the job, the people in charge start giving the good assignments to other people and you find yourself stuck in neutral while other folks move up the ladder."
"But sergeants would know these things because..." Mick said.
"Because that's what we had to do when we were sergeants. Nobody had to come to us and say they were having trouble at home. We might not know exactly what was wrong with one of our soldiers at any given moment but we'd always know when something wasn't right because we knew our troops. These were people we dealt with on a day-to-day basis. We worked alongside them. We sweated with them, laughed with them, ate and drank with them," Matt said.
"They weren't numbers on a board. They were actual human beings who, in many cases, we depended upon to keep us alive when things went pear shaped."
I nodded as it dawned on me exactly what Matt was saying. I remembered my own days as a sergeant, telling a young second lieutenant to keep his eye on a PFC and to do what he said when he said it.
When the lieutenant asked me why my reply was simple: "Because he's been here for 11 months and he's still alive. If you want to make it through this tour you'll do what the rest of us do... duck when he says duck, run when he says run, and hide when he says hide."
"I suppose that you're talking about all non-commissioned officers, not just Army sergeants like we were," Mick said.
Matt nodded.
"A Navy or Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer, a Marine Gunnery Sergeant, an Air Force Master Sergeant... yeah, any non-com from any service knows the same things we all know," he said.
The waiter came over with the check and I paid.
(I always pay... I mean, Matt and Mick don't have any actual money in their wallets.)
Later, as we were walking through Montmartre admiring the art on display Mick said something low, under his breath.
I leaned close to him while Matt wandered over to check out an artist working on a landscape.
"What?" I asked.
"I hate it when he's right," Mick said.
To read about Matt's adventures, check out "Blood Debt" on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OJCCII2
To read about Mick's adventures, check out "Jacks or Better" on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DS09W7G
Mike Billingtonhttps://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
(The nice thing about having lunch with characters in my books is that we can meet anywhere in the world for lunch... pretty cool, actually.)
"You know, what President Trump SHOULD have done when he was choosing his staff was hire a bunch of sergeants. Instead, he made the mistake of picking generals," Matt said.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, really," Matt said.
"Why?" Mick asked.
Matt, one of the main characters in my mystery novel "Blood Debt," looked at us and shook his head.
"Guys," he said, "we were all sergeants in Vietnam so that should be easy enough for you to answer."
I shook my head.
"You better explain it to us," I said.
Mick, one of the characters in my novel "Jacks or Better," nodded in agreement.
"Okay, so what are the three qualities every good sergeant must have?" Matt asked.
"Well," I said, "I'd say that the first thing is the willingness to do everything and anything he asks his squad or platoon to do."
"And," Mick added, "a sergeant has to know his troops inside and out. What are the strengths and weaknesses of everyone in the unit? When you know the strengths and weaknesses of everyone in your unit you don't make the mistake of asking your troops to do things they aren't capable of doing, or doing well. When they succeed as individuals the unit succeeds as a whole."
"And," I added, "any good sergeant will tell you that it's not enough to just give an order. You have to have built up enough trust in the unit to have those orders carried out instantly, without question. I mean, when you think about it, that just makes sense. When you're trying to get between 12 and 50 heavily armed troops to all go in the same direction at the same time just shouting 'Forward, March!' isn't really the best way to go about that. They have to trust you... actually, they have to BELIEVE in you."
Matt leaned forward, picked up his coffee cup and took a long drink.
"Exactly," he said.
"But that doesn't explain why you think the President should have hired sergeants instead of generals," I said.
Matt shook his head.
"Look," he explained, "generals see the world in entirely different terms than sergeants do. They think in terms of thousands, not a dozen or so. They see big objectives and seldom take into account that it takes a lot of small steps to get to those big objectives. They make their plans, draw lines on maps, and set timetables without thinking about the fact that each of those small steps is being taken by a soldier, a squad, a platoon, a company, a battalion..."
"So?" Mick asked.
"So they don't take into account the very real human cost of achieving a goal. They don't stop to think, for example, that some guy named Tom in the West Wing is going through a divorce and might not be up to all the tasks he's been given because he's more than a little distracted. They don't stop to consider that Mary, who works on the National Security staff, just found out her mother has been diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer and is not only worried but probably exhausted."
"But surely, when they find out these things they'll take them into account," I said.
"Sure, IF they find out," Matt said. "The thing is, the men and women who work in the White House are ambitious. They're not likely to go running to the boss with their personal problems. Doing that could put the brakes on their careers."
"But..." Mick said.
"But nothing," Matt said. "That's the way the world works and the way it has worked for a long time. You show signs of weakness, signs that you're not up to the job, the people in charge start giving the good assignments to other people and you find yourself stuck in neutral while other folks move up the ladder."
"But sergeants would know these things because..." Mick said.
"Because that's what we had to do when we were sergeants. Nobody had to come to us and say they were having trouble at home. We might not know exactly what was wrong with one of our soldiers at any given moment but we'd always know when something wasn't right because we knew our troops. These were people we dealt with on a day-to-day basis. We worked alongside them. We sweated with them, laughed with them, ate and drank with them," Matt said.
"They weren't numbers on a board. They were actual human beings who, in many cases, we depended upon to keep us alive when things went pear shaped."
I nodded as it dawned on me exactly what Matt was saying. I remembered my own days as a sergeant, telling a young second lieutenant to keep his eye on a PFC and to do what he said when he said it.
When the lieutenant asked me why my reply was simple: "Because he's been here for 11 months and he's still alive. If you want to make it through this tour you'll do what the rest of us do... duck when he says duck, run when he says run, and hide when he says hide."
"I suppose that you're talking about all non-commissioned officers, not just Army sergeants like we were," Mick said.
Matt nodded.
"A Navy or Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer, a Marine Gunnery Sergeant, an Air Force Master Sergeant... yeah, any non-com from any service knows the same things we all know," he said.
The waiter came over with the check and I paid.
(I always pay... I mean, Matt and Mick don't have any actual money in their wallets.)
Later, as we were walking through Montmartre admiring the art on display Mick said something low, under his breath.
I leaned close to him while Matt wandered over to check out an artist working on a landscape.
"What?" I asked.
"I hate it when he's right," Mick said.
To read about Matt's adventures, check out "Blood Debt" on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OJCCII2
To read about Mick's adventures, check out "Jacks or Better" on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DS09W7G
Mike Billingtonhttps://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
August 30, 2017
The Rose and the Spider
A friend recently sent me a strikingly beautiful photograph: In it there is a rose, each petal a bright red battle flag boldly defying a massive concrete wall.
And there is a spider, patiently spinning its web. Unlike the rose, it does not fight the wall, does not struggle against its cold impersonality. It passes no judgments, forms no opinions: It accepts the wall’s existence and adapts to it.
Staring at that photo, as I have for hours over the past few days, I have begun to wonder if I am the spider.
Or the rose.
As a young man I was a soldier, trudging through faraway rice paddies with a rifle, a radio, and a 60-pound pack on my back. I was not sent, I volunteered for reasons that were complicated then and are even more so now.
Raised on the war stories of my parents’ generation and on Hollywood fantasies in which iron-jawed heroes fought against the enemies of freedom, democracy, and civilization itself; I thought that I was saving the world, at least part of it.
I thought that my country needed me.
I didn’t know then that wars are complex; that they are seldom – if ever – fought for reasons that have anything to do with right and wrong; with good and evil.
There are always, it seems, “other considerations” that are taken into account by those who declare war.
Considerations that those of us who swear an oath, take up arms, and go into harm’s way not once but many times are never told about.
Was I the spider?
Or the rose?
For most of my life after the Army I was a journalist. I covered murders and court cases. I witnessed a brutal civil war in Rwanda and stowed away on a mercy flight to cover a hurricane in Mexico.
I rode out other hurricanes in pick-up trucks and an SUV; lived undercover with white-power extremists, posed as a soldier to cover Desert Storm with a Florida National Guard unit, and was on hand for the invasion of Panama. I helped force one state government to stop police from illegally seizing money, vehicles, and property from people never charged with a crime and forced another state government to take its infant mortality rate seriously.
I wrote about the aftermath of a jet aircraft slamming into the ground near a small Pennsylvania town on 9/11.
I wrote, too, about the problems of the poor and the disadvantaged; about the ravages of alcoholism, drug abuse, and domestic violence.
And yet… and yet when gray men in gray suits rolled up in their fancy cars and declared that my colleagues were being laid off for reasons that had nothing to do with their abilities or willingness to risk life and limb to bring back the stories and photos our readers needed to make informed decisions I said nothing.
I simply shouldered the extra work and went on with the job.
Was I the spider?
Or the rose?
I am an old man now: A full threescore and 10. Weak now, though I once was strong; slow now, though once I was fast.
Dull now, though I once was sharp.
Older but not really wiser and so, as I gaze at that photo and page through the chapters of my life, I do not yet know if I was the spider or the rose.
My great fear is that I was the spider.
My sincere hope is that I was the rose.
https://authorcentral.amazon.com/gp/p...
And there is a spider, patiently spinning its web. Unlike the rose, it does not fight the wall, does not struggle against its cold impersonality. It passes no judgments, forms no opinions: It accepts the wall’s existence and adapts to it.
Staring at that photo, as I have for hours over the past few days, I have begun to wonder if I am the spider.
Or the rose.
As a young man I was a soldier, trudging through faraway rice paddies with a rifle, a radio, and a 60-pound pack on my back. I was not sent, I volunteered for reasons that were complicated then and are even more so now.
Raised on the war stories of my parents’ generation and on Hollywood fantasies in which iron-jawed heroes fought against the enemies of freedom, democracy, and civilization itself; I thought that I was saving the world, at least part of it.
I thought that my country needed me.
I didn’t know then that wars are complex; that they are seldom – if ever – fought for reasons that have anything to do with right and wrong; with good and evil.
There are always, it seems, “other considerations” that are taken into account by those who declare war.
Considerations that those of us who swear an oath, take up arms, and go into harm’s way not once but many times are never told about.
Was I the spider?
Or the rose?
For most of my life after the Army I was a journalist. I covered murders and court cases. I witnessed a brutal civil war in Rwanda and stowed away on a mercy flight to cover a hurricane in Mexico.
I rode out other hurricanes in pick-up trucks and an SUV; lived undercover with white-power extremists, posed as a soldier to cover Desert Storm with a Florida National Guard unit, and was on hand for the invasion of Panama. I helped force one state government to stop police from illegally seizing money, vehicles, and property from people never charged with a crime and forced another state government to take its infant mortality rate seriously.
I wrote about the aftermath of a jet aircraft slamming into the ground near a small Pennsylvania town on 9/11.
I wrote, too, about the problems of the poor and the disadvantaged; about the ravages of alcoholism, drug abuse, and domestic violence.
And yet… and yet when gray men in gray suits rolled up in their fancy cars and declared that my colleagues were being laid off for reasons that had nothing to do with their abilities or willingness to risk life and limb to bring back the stories and photos our readers needed to make informed decisions I said nothing.
I simply shouldered the extra work and went on with the job.
Was I the spider?
Or the rose?
I am an old man now: A full threescore and 10. Weak now, though I once was strong; slow now, though once I was fast.
Dull now, though I once was sharp.
Older but not really wiser and so, as I gaze at that photo and page through the chapters of my life, I do not yet know if I was the spider or the rose.
My great fear is that I was the spider.
My sincere hope is that I was the rose.
https://authorcentral.amazon.com/gp/p...
June 27, 2017
In praise of Indie authors
One of the things I like best about Indie fiction is the fact that it isn't formulaic.
This is nothing against mainstream authors who have managed to land contracts with big publishing houses. God bless them for their good fortune. That said, it's pretty clear that most of them are producing novels that are heavily influenced by market research commissioned by their publishers. Writing books according to the formulas dictated by that market research reduces the risk of publishing a novel that will not be at least moderately successful in the marketplace.
The result is a lot of books that are written by authors who follow the rules laid down by the industry.
And it shows.
The heroes and heroines - what few there are - fit certain comfortable stereotypes as do the villains. The plots tend to be predictable. That's not to say that they are "bad books," only to point out that they aren't terribly original.
That just isn't the case with Indies who are writing their stories their way. As a result, their books tend to be fresher in their approach to plot, narrative and characters. The plots, in fact, tend to be more complex, the motivations of the characters don't always fall predictably into place, and the result is an entirely different reading experience.
Let me give you one pretty good example of what I'm talking about: "Wild Concept" by C.S. Boyack is anything but formulaic.
To start with, his female protagonist Lisa Burton is beautiful, smart, loyal, strong in both mind and body, and tenacious.
She's also not human.
A highly advanced prototype robot, Lisa has been designed to look, act, and even feel emotions just like a human. As part of her field testing, she is assigned to a local police force as a detective, partnered with a veteran cop nearing retirement who is one of only two people in the Hudson P.D. that know she is a robot. Together they investigate the murders of some upscale escorts. It's a challenging case because the killer leaves virtually no clues behind as to his/her identity and uses an exotic poison to dispatch the victims.
Lisa is, at the beginning of her stint as a police detective, a cross between Sgt. Joe Friday of "Dragnet" fame and Honey West, the private eye played so sensually by Anne Francis.
(Those of you too young to remember either character can Google them...)
Along the way, however, she begins to evolve into her own unique persona and that creates an interesting problem not only for her but also for the corporation that made her. I'm not going to spoil the fun by revealing what that problem is because that would be unfair to those who haven't read the book yet and to Boyack. Suffice it to say that this "problem" becomes the backbone of the novel, giving it shape and substance.
The narrative is straightforward, smoothly written, and contains some scenes that are filled with pathos, which are - in my opinion - some of the most effective in the novel.
They are also scenes that you are not likely to read in a mainstream novel.
That's especially true when it comes to mystery novels written by established authors.
In his narrative, Boyack doesn't spend a lot of time on description, giving the reader a sense of the places that Lisa and other characters inhabit without counting every nail in the floorboards. This is a plus, in my opinion, because it gives the reader an opportunity to use his or her own imagination to fill in those details. In essence, therefore, it allows us to interact with both the story and the characters and that makes the reading experience more enjoyable. Likewise, his secondary characters are finely drawn: They are not just cardboard cutouts whose sole purpose is to fill in some dialogue for Lisa, but are nicely fleshed out.
The point is simply this: I have nothing against mainstream authors but, when given a choice, I much prefer books written by Indies because they offer me a new, often challenging, reading experience.
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
This is nothing against mainstream authors who have managed to land contracts with big publishing houses. God bless them for their good fortune. That said, it's pretty clear that most of them are producing novels that are heavily influenced by market research commissioned by their publishers. Writing books according to the formulas dictated by that market research reduces the risk of publishing a novel that will not be at least moderately successful in the marketplace.
The result is a lot of books that are written by authors who follow the rules laid down by the industry.
And it shows.
The heroes and heroines - what few there are - fit certain comfortable stereotypes as do the villains. The plots tend to be predictable. That's not to say that they are "bad books," only to point out that they aren't terribly original.
That just isn't the case with Indies who are writing their stories their way. As a result, their books tend to be fresher in their approach to plot, narrative and characters. The plots, in fact, tend to be more complex, the motivations of the characters don't always fall predictably into place, and the result is an entirely different reading experience.
Let me give you one pretty good example of what I'm talking about: "Wild Concept" by C.S. Boyack is anything but formulaic.
To start with, his female protagonist Lisa Burton is beautiful, smart, loyal, strong in both mind and body, and tenacious.
She's also not human.
A highly advanced prototype robot, Lisa has been designed to look, act, and even feel emotions just like a human. As part of her field testing, she is assigned to a local police force as a detective, partnered with a veteran cop nearing retirement who is one of only two people in the Hudson P.D. that know she is a robot. Together they investigate the murders of some upscale escorts. It's a challenging case because the killer leaves virtually no clues behind as to his/her identity and uses an exotic poison to dispatch the victims.
Lisa is, at the beginning of her stint as a police detective, a cross between Sgt. Joe Friday of "Dragnet" fame and Honey West, the private eye played so sensually by Anne Francis.
(Those of you too young to remember either character can Google them...)
Along the way, however, she begins to evolve into her own unique persona and that creates an interesting problem not only for her but also for the corporation that made her. I'm not going to spoil the fun by revealing what that problem is because that would be unfair to those who haven't read the book yet and to Boyack. Suffice it to say that this "problem" becomes the backbone of the novel, giving it shape and substance.
The narrative is straightforward, smoothly written, and contains some scenes that are filled with pathos, which are - in my opinion - some of the most effective in the novel.
They are also scenes that you are not likely to read in a mainstream novel.
That's especially true when it comes to mystery novels written by established authors.
In his narrative, Boyack doesn't spend a lot of time on description, giving the reader a sense of the places that Lisa and other characters inhabit without counting every nail in the floorboards. This is a plus, in my opinion, because it gives the reader an opportunity to use his or her own imagination to fill in those details. In essence, therefore, it allows us to interact with both the story and the characters and that makes the reading experience more enjoyable. Likewise, his secondary characters are finely drawn: They are not just cardboard cutouts whose sole purpose is to fill in some dialogue for Lisa, but are nicely fleshed out.
The point is simply this: I have nothing against mainstream authors but, when given a choice, I much prefer books written by Indies because they offer me a new, often challenging, reading experience.
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
May 7, 2017
History is a double-edged sword
History is a double-edged sword.
It can bring light to darkness by telling the story of the past with honesty, integrity, and good scholarship.
Conversely, it can be used as a weapon to further political and social agendas when those who write it choose to deliberately exclude some people from the text or, worse, spread falsehoods about them.
If you don't think that's true ask yourself why most Americans have never heard of the “Triple Nickels,” the first African-American paratroop battalion in World War II.
Or why, as another example, very few people know that the last Confederate general to surrender at the end of the Civil War was a Cherokee chief.
I was a victim of that poor scholarship when I was much younger. The history books that I was assigned to read in public school and, later, at a state university in Ohio were written to perpetuate the myth that the United States was the domain of white Christian men. As students, my classmates and I were led to believe that white men, and only white men, were responsible for the great achievements in science and industry; that they, and only they, were responsible for elevating civilization.
Did my teachers come out and say that directly.
No, they did not.
They didn’t have to do so.
Instead, the message we received as we sat in alphabetical rows in our elementary school, junior high, and senior high classrooms was clear in just about everything we were taught and everything we read. We learned that George Washington was the “Father of Our Country” and that he once prayed at Valley Forge, for example. We did not learn that he owned slaves, however.
And we certainly did not learn about Mathias Bush, the first man to sign his name to an agreement not to import British goods as a means of protesting the much-reviled Stamp Tax just prior to the Revolutionary War. Nor did we learn about Aaron Solomon, who fought in the Battle of Bunker Hill.
Why?
Because they were Jews, not Christians.
And we were never taught about the thousands of African-Americans who fought alongside white soldiers in the war for independence. The only African-American we ever learned about in those days was Crispus Attucks, who died in the Boston Massacre.
He, however, rated only a sentence or two.
My textbooks also contained no mention of the famous Tuskeegee Airmen or the Japanese-American regimental combat team that fought the Nazis in Europe and emerged as the most highly decorated unit in that theater of war. It would be, literally, years before I even heard about them.
Likewise, very few women of any race or creed were ever mentioned. Marie Curie got a nod, of course, because she did win two Nobel Prizes for her achievements in science.
There was, however, no mention of other pioneering females such as mathematician Ada King-Noel, the Countess of Lovelace, who laid the foundations for computer science in the 1830s and is credited with writing the world's very first algorithm.
Thankfully, that seems to be changing because there is a new generation of historians abroad in the United States; men and women who are determined to write articles and books that tell the stories of ALL Americans, not just those approved by increasingly jingoistic and - sadly - racist boards of education. Not surprisingly, many of these new historians are homegrown, street-level writers who have chosen to tell the stories of local people, places, and events that shed a whole new light on the American experience.
Darrell Laurant is among them and while he might chafe a bit at being called an historian he is one nonetheless. A novelist and a retired newspaper columnist, his book "Inspiration Street: Two City Blocks That Helped Change America" is a shining example of how history could be - and should be - written.
Focusing his attention on two city blocks in Lynchburg, Virginia populated primarily by African-American families, he shines a much-needed spotlight on the achievements of some of the men and women who lived there and who have - despite their accomplishments - largely been ignored in standard history textbooks.
They include Dr. R. Walter Johnson, a pioneering physician and tennis coach who helped develop the skills that Arthur Ashe and Althea Gibson would later use to become world famous; Harlem Renaissance poet Annie Spencer; and Frank Trigg, who was born a slave but overcame that and the loss of an arm to become a college president.
Laurant writes in the same easy, very accessible style that he used as a newspaper columnist. Thus, "Inspiration Street" is not a weighty tome destined to gather dust on a library shelf somewhere but a fairly short book, one that I carried around in my backpack and read while having coffee at my favorite cafe. He has a journalist's knack for putting the reader "in the moment" and a reporter's eye for detail. Reading about the remarkable men and women that grace the pages of this short history of two city blocks is, not to put too fine a point on it, "inspiring."
It’s my opinion that we desperately need some inspiration in these troubled times.
As evidence for that claim you need only look at the upsurge in attacks on Jewish synagogues, Muslim mosques, and churches of various denominations by men and women who cannot see beyond their own prejudices.
I would submit that one of the reasons they cannot do so is because they were never taught about the contributions people of different faiths and races made to this country. They have, instead, been taught that it was white Christian men who made America the land of the free, the home of the brave, and a worldwide leader in science, technology, and industry.
The result: Now that some of them are struggling, they feel disenfranchised by a system they wrongly believe was solely created by and for them and they are lashing out.
It is not just white Christians who are lashing out, however. Men and women of other races and religious traditions who have been taught the same lesson are also resorting to violence against a system they believe is rigged against them. Like their counterparts, they have not been taught about the non-white, non-Christian men and women who helped to build the United States into a world leader. As a result, they have an equally skewed version of what made America a great nation; one in which they do not feel they have a stake.
History is truly a double-edged sword.
But it shouldn’t be.
That said, perhaps it’s time that we beat that sword into a plowshare and use it to till the rich soil that is American history and unearth the contributions of all of its people.
Perhaps it’s time to, as Darrell Laurant has done, start telling the whole story of America.
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
It can bring light to darkness by telling the story of the past with honesty, integrity, and good scholarship.
Conversely, it can be used as a weapon to further political and social agendas when those who write it choose to deliberately exclude some people from the text or, worse, spread falsehoods about them.
If you don't think that's true ask yourself why most Americans have never heard of the “Triple Nickels,” the first African-American paratroop battalion in World War II.
Or why, as another example, very few people know that the last Confederate general to surrender at the end of the Civil War was a Cherokee chief.
I was a victim of that poor scholarship when I was much younger. The history books that I was assigned to read in public school and, later, at a state university in Ohio were written to perpetuate the myth that the United States was the domain of white Christian men. As students, my classmates and I were led to believe that white men, and only white men, were responsible for the great achievements in science and industry; that they, and only they, were responsible for elevating civilization.
Did my teachers come out and say that directly.
No, they did not.
They didn’t have to do so.
Instead, the message we received as we sat in alphabetical rows in our elementary school, junior high, and senior high classrooms was clear in just about everything we were taught and everything we read. We learned that George Washington was the “Father of Our Country” and that he once prayed at Valley Forge, for example. We did not learn that he owned slaves, however.
And we certainly did not learn about Mathias Bush, the first man to sign his name to an agreement not to import British goods as a means of protesting the much-reviled Stamp Tax just prior to the Revolutionary War. Nor did we learn about Aaron Solomon, who fought in the Battle of Bunker Hill.
Why?
Because they were Jews, not Christians.
And we were never taught about the thousands of African-Americans who fought alongside white soldiers in the war for independence. The only African-American we ever learned about in those days was Crispus Attucks, who died in the Boston Massacre.
He, however, rated only a sentence or two.
My textbooks also contained no mention of the famous Tuskeegee Airmen or the Japanese-American regimental combat team that fought the Nazis in Europe and emerged as the most highly decorated unit in that theater of war. It would be, literally, years before I even heard about them.
Likewise, very few women of any race or creed were ever mentioned. Marie Curie got a nod, of course, because she did win two Nobel Prizes for her achievements in science.
There was, however, no mention of other pioneering females such as mathematician Ada King-Noel, the Countess of Lovelace, who laid the foundations for computer science in the 1830s and is credited with writing the world's very first algorithm.
Thankfully, that seems to be changing because there is a new generation of historians abroad in the United States; men and women who are determined to write articles and books that tell the stories of ALL Americans, not just those approved by increasingly jingoistic and - sadly - racist boards of education. Not surprisingly, many of these new historians are homegrown, street-level writers who have chosen to tell the stories of local people, places, and events that shed a whole new light on the American experience.
Darrell Laurant is among them and while he might chafe a bit at being called an historian he is one nonetheless. A novelist and a retired newspaper columnist, his book "Inspiration Street: Two City Blocks That Helped Change America" is a shining example of how history could be - and should be - written.
Focusing his attention on two city blocks in Lynchburg, Virginia populated primarily by African-American families, he shines a much-needed spotlight on the achievements of some of the men and women who lived there and who have - despite their accomplishments - largely been ignored in standard history textbooks.
They include Dr. R. Walter Johnson, a pioneering physician and tennis coach who helped develop the skills that Arthur Ashe and Althea Gibson would later use to become world famous; Harlem Renaissance poet Annie Spencer; and Frank Trigg, who was born a slave but overcame that and the loss of an arm to become a college president.
Laurant writes in the same easy, very accessible style that he used as a newspaper columnist. Thus, "Inspiration Street" is not a weighty tome destined to gather dust on a library shelf somewhere but a fairly short book, one that I carried around in my backpack and read while having coffee at my favorite cafe. He has a journalist's knack for putting the reader "in the moment" and a reporter's eye for detail. Reading about the remarkable men and women that grace the pages of this short history of two city blocks is, not to put too fine a point on it, "inspiring."
It’s my opinion that we desperately need some inspiration in these troubled times.
As evidence for that claim you need only look at the upsurge in attacks on Jewish synagogues, Muslim mosques, and churches of various denominations by men and women who cannot see beyond their own prejudices.
I would submit that one of the reasons they cannot do so is because they were never taught about the contributions people of different faiths and races made to this country. They have, instead, been taught that it was white Christian men who made America the land of the free, the home of the brave, and a worldwide leader in science, technology, and industry.
The result: Now that some of them are struggling, they feel disenfranchised by a system they wrongly believe was solely created by and for them and they are lashing out.
It is not just white Christians who are lashing out, however. Men and women of other races and religious traditions who have been taught the same lesson are also resorting to violence against a system they believe is rigged against them. Like their counterparts, they have not been taught about the non-white, non-Christian men and women who helped to build the United States into a world leader. As a result, they have an equally skewed version of what made America a great nation; one in which they do not feel they have a stake.
History is truly a double-edged sword.
But it shouldn’t be.
That said, perhaps it’s time that we beat that sword into a plowshare and use it to till the rich soil that is American history and unearth the contributions of all of its people.
Perhaps it’s time to, as Darrell Laurant has done, start telling the whole story of America.
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
February 28, 2017
Julia or Renee?
My doorbell rang while I was sitting on my small balcony lazing away the afternoon with a cup of coffee.
(I know, I should have been doing something - anything - productive but...)
I levered myself out of my chair and walked to the door, half expecting it to be one of my neighbors with a package for me.
(The guy who delivers my mail really hates walking up all four flights of stairs to my apartment. As a result, he often drops off my orders from Amazon downstairs with a neighbor after claiming that no one answered when he rang my doorbell. I can't really blame him for that because there are days when making that climb with an armful of groceries is not as easy for me as it once was.)
Anyway, I guess that's why I was more than a little surprised to see Marcie Pantano standing outside my door.
"Can I come in? Or are we just going to stand here in your doorway?" she asked after waiting for almost a minute for me to get over my shock.
"Uh, yeah, sure, come in," I said.
She walked in, cast a look around the apartment, and then wandered into the kitchen. Pouring a cup of coffee, she walked into the front room and then out onto my balcony. Sitting down, she fixed me with the kind of look she wore back in the days when she was a reporter.
I pulled a second chair from the living room and joined her on the balcony, trying hard not to squirm under her gaze.
"I hear that you've had a couple of offers from people who say they're interested in doing a movie based on 'Corpus Delectable.' Is that true?" she asked.
I smiled.
"Well, I wouldn't call them offers," I said. "I did get a few emails from people in California and one from a guy in London expressing some interest but they're not actually offers."
She nodded.
"When were you going to tell me about them?" she asked.
"I am, after all, the main character in the book," she added.
I did squirm at that point.
"Well, Marcie..." I said before she cut me off.
"Well nothing," she said. "If there's even the possibility that 'Corpus Delectable' will some day be a movie I should be involved right from the start."
I sighed.
"Look," I said, "writers get emails like this all the time. In over 95 percent of those cases they never go beyond that. Someone reads a book, they get an idea that it could make a good movie script and they send off an email. There's no sense getting really excited about that unless something concrete develops."
She shook her head.
"Nope," she said, "not buying it."
Marcie's skepticism comes naturally, I suppose. She was once a journalist who covered the police beat and she was really very good at her job. She's now a consultant in a small Delaware beach town and the heroine (she hates being called that - she prefers the term 'protagonist') of my murder mystery "Corpus Delectable."
She took a long swallow of coffee then set the mug down on the balcony. Leaning forward, she asked: "So, if this were actually to happen, how much control would you have over casting?"
I shook my head.
"If it happens, and I'm not saying that it ever will, then the answer is 'probably none,' That's just the reality of the business," I said.
"Well, that sucks," she said.
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Well, let's just say that I've seen a few movies in which the wrong person was cast as the lead in a movie based on a mystery novel and..." her voice trailed off.
I nodded.
I've seen a few of the same movies.
"So, if I did have some input into the casting, who would you choose to play you?" I said, smiling.
"Julia Stiles or Renee Russo," she said without a moment's hesitation.
I was surprised.
"Julia Stiles? Wow, that's a surprise," I said. "I mean, she's not Italian, for one, and you definitely are and, uh..."
"And, uh... I get it," Marcie said with more than a trace of sarcasm. "She's a little young to play me. Is that what you're trying to say?"
I nodded.
"I'd agree with you if I hadn't seen her with Matt Damon in 'Jason Bourne' a few nights ago. She was made up to look older and she was terrific," Marcie said.
I nodded.
"Yeah," I said, "she did a great job in that movie."
"And Renee Russo would be perfect as me," Marcie said.
I smiled.
"I kind of had her in mind when I was writing your character," I admitted. "I didn't base your character on her, you understand, but I really enjoyed watching her in 'The Thomas Crown Affair' with Pierce Brosnan. I wanted to incorporate some of her character in that movie in you."
"Well, there you go," Marcie said.
She leaned back.
"Now, how do we make this happen?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"We don't actually 'make' anything happen," I said. "That's not how it works."
She gave me a pitying glance.
"Writers," she said. "You guys think it's all about putting words on paper. It's more than that, though. You have to go out and make things happen."
I sighed.
"I know what you're saying but I pretty much suck at marketing and things like that," I said. "For me, it really is just about the writing."
She shook her head.
"Well," she said as she stood up, "we're going to have to change that."
I stood and walked to the door with her.
"And we're going to do that how, exactly," I said.
"I'll let you know," she said, smiling. "In the meantime, why don't you try writing a script yourself?"
I stared at her.
"Yeah, yeah, I know... 'but Marcie, that's not what I do.' Well, like I said, we're going to have to change that," she said.
She smiled, stood on tiptoes to give me a peck on the cheek, and then waved goodbye as she headed down the stairs.
"Oh Lord," I said as I closed the door.
To read more about Marcie and her adventures, visit https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CLXBIC8
(I know, I should have been doing something - anything - productive but...)
I levered myself out of my chair and walked to the door, half expecting it to be one of my neighbors with a package for me.
(The guy who delivers my mail really hates walking up all four flights of stairs to my apartment. As a result, he often drops off my orders from Amazon downstairs with a neighbor after claiming that no one answered when he rang my doorbell. I can't really blame him for that because there are days when making that climb with an armful of groceries is not as easy for me as it once was.)
Anyway, I guess that's why I was more than a little surprised to see Marcie Pantano standing outside my door.
"Can I come in? Or are we just going to stand here in your doorway?" she asked after waiting for almost a minute for me to get over my shock.
"Uh, yeah, sure, come in," I said.
She walked in, cast a look around the apartment, and then wandered into the kitchen. Pouring a cup of coffee, she walked into the front room and then out onto my balcony. Sitting down, she fixed me with the kind of look she wore back in the days when she was a reporter.
I pulled a second chair from the living room and joined her on the balcony, trying hard not to squirm under her gaze.
"I hear that you've had a couple of offers from people who say they're interested in doing a movie based on 'Corpus Delectable.' Is that true?" she asked.
I smiled.
"Well, I wouldn't call them offers," I said. "I did get a few emails from people in California and one from a guy in London expressing some interest but they're not actually offers."
She nodded.
"When were you going to tell me about them?" she asked.
"I am, after all, the main character in the book," she added.
I did squirm at that point.
"Well, Marcie..." I said before she cut me off.
"Well nothing," she said. "If there's even the possibility that 'Corpus Delectable' will some day be a movie I should be involved right from the start."
I sighed.
"Look," I said, "writers get emails like this all the time. In over 95 percent of those cases they never go beyond that. Someone reads a book, they get an idea that it could make a good movie script and they send off an email. There's no sense getting really excited about that unless something concrete develops."
She shook her head.
"Nope," she said, "not buying it."
Marcie's skepticism comes naturally, I suppose. She was once a journalist who covered the police beat and she was really very good at her job. She's now a consultant in a small Delaware beach town and the heroine (she hates being called that - she prefers the term 'protagonist') of my murder mystery "Corpus Delectable."
She took a long swallow of coffee then set the mug down on the balcony. Leaning forward, she asked: "So, if this were actually to happen, how much control would you have over casting?"
I shook my head.
"If it happens, and I'm not saying that it ever will, then the answer is 'probably none,' That's just the reality of the business," I said.
"Well, that sucks," she said.
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Well, let's just say that I've seen a few movies in which the wrong person was cast as the lead in a movie based on a mystery novel and..." her voice trailed off.
I nodded.
I've seen a few of the same movies.
"So, if I did have some input into the casting, who would you choose to play you?" I said, smiling.
"Julia Stiles or Renee Russo," she said without a moment's hesitation.
I was surprised.
"Julia Stiles? Wow, that's a surprise," I said. "I mean, she's not Italian, for one, and you definitely are and, uh..."
"And, uh... I get it," Marcie said with more than a trace of sarcasm. "She's a little young to play me. Is that what you're trying to say?"
I nodded.
"I'd agree with you if I hadn't seen her with Matt Damon in 'Jason Bourne' a few nights ago. She was made up to look older and she was terrific," Marcie said.
I nodded.
"Yeah," I said, "she did a great job in that movie."
"And Renee Russo would be perfect as me," Marcie said.
I smiled.
"I kind of had her in mind when I was writing your character," I admitted. "I didn't base your character on her, you understand, but I really enjoyed watching her in 'The Thomas Crown Affair' with Pierce Brosnan. I wanted to incorporate some of her character in that movie in you."
"Well, there you go," Marcie said.
She leaned back.
"Now, how do we make this happen?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"We don't actually 'make' anything happen," I said. "That's not how it works."
She gave me a pitying glance.
"Writers," she said. "You guys think it's all about putting words on paper. It's more than that, though. You have to go out and make things happen."
I sighed.
"I know what you're saying but I pretty much suck at marketing and things like that," I said. "For me, it really is just about the writing."
She shook her head.
"Well," she said as she stood up, "we're going to have to change that."
I stood and walked to the door with her.
"And we're going to do that how, exactly," I said.
"I'll let you know," she said, smiling. "In the meantime, why don't you try writing a script yourself?"
I stared at her.
"Yeah, yeah, I know... 'but Marcie, that's not what I do.' Well, like I said, we're going to have to change that," she said.
She smiled, stood on tiptoes to give me a peck on the cheek, and then waved goodbye as she headed down the stairs.
"Oh Lord," I said as I closed the door.
To read more about Marcie and her adventures, visit https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CLXBIC8
February 9, 2017
We are not alone...
The weather outside Agnes Miro's Ohio home was downright frightful.
"I don't remember it ever being quite this bad," she said as she poured me a cup of coffee. "Maybe it's because I'm getting to be an old lady and I just can't tolerate the cold as well as I once did but winters do seem to be getting worse."
She took a seat opposite me at her kitchen table.
"I haven't seen you in quite a while," she said in a tone that was mildly reproachful.
I sighed.
"I know," I said. "I've been working on some new projects, and..."
She waved a hand at me and I shut up.
"I know, I get it," she said. "I only meant to say that I've wanted to tell you in person how pleased, and proud, I am of you and your friends in the Indie Authors Support & Discussion group for bringing out that short story collection 'You Are Not Alone' to support cancer victims."
Agnes - one of the characters in my novel "Jacks or Better" - is a cancer survivor. "You Are Not Alone" is a collection of short stories written by a group of international authors. The book was the brainchild of UK author Ian D. Moore and it has been out on Amazon for more than a year. The cool thing about it is that the proceeds from its sales are donated to MacMillan Cancer Support, an organization that provides practical medical and financial support for those fighting this terrible disease. It also pushes for better care for those with cancer.
"It was quite a project," I said. "I felt really honored to be a part of it."
Agnes nodded.
"I was surprised that so many writers volunteered to be part of it. I know that independent authors don't make a lot of money but that didn't stop them - and you - from contributing." she said.
"It gives me hope that, despite all the negative headlines and the squabbling that's going on these days, maybe there is still some good left in the world," she added.
I leaned back in my chair and sipped some coffee.
"There is hope," I said after putting my cup down. "There are so many people out there doing what they can to make the world a better place that it sometimes surprises me. Most don't do it for any recognition, any pats on the back. They just go out and do it. Politicians spend their lives trying to scare people half to death so they can get elected and then push through laws that suit their personal agendas. Meanwhile, people who really care about the rest of humanity just go quietly about their business. Nobody pays much attention to them because they aren't screaming and hollering, but they're out there doing what they can to help those in need."
Agnes smiled.
"I know," she said. "It's because those people are out there that I do have hope that, one day, we'll get our priorities straight and spend more money eradicating diseases like cancer instead of on missiles and bombers."
She sighed.
"That probably won't happen in my lifetime," she said, "but one day, maybe..."
"One day," I said. "For sure."
I leaned forward and took her hands in mine.
"Now, didn't you say something about lunch?"
To buy a copy of "You Are Not Alone" visit https://www.amazon.com/Youre-Not-Alon...
For more information about MacMillan Cancer Support visit https://www.macmillan.org.uk/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
"I don't remember it ever being quite this bad," she said as she poured me a cup of coffee. "Maybe it's because I'm getting to be an old lady and I just can't tolerate the cold as well as I once did but winters do seem to be getting worse."
She took a seat opposite me at her kitchen table.
"I haven't seen you in quite a while," she said in a tone that was mildly reproachful.
I sighed.
"I know," I said. "I've been working on some new projects, and..."
She waved a hand at me and I shut up.
"I know, I get it," she said. "I only meant to say that I've wanted to tell you in person how pleased, and proud, I am of you and your friends in the Indie Authors Support & Discussion group for bringing out that short story collection 'You Are Not Alone' to support cancer victims."
Agnes - one of the characters in my novel "Jacks or Better" - is a cancer survivor. "You Are Not Alone" is a collection of short stories written by a group of international authors. The book was the brainchild of UK author Ian D. Moore and it has been out on Amazon for more than a year. The cool thing about it is that the proceeds from its sales are donated to MacMillan Cancer Support, an organization that provides practical medical and financial support for those fighting this terrible disease. It also pushes for better care for those with cancer.
"It was quite a project," I said. "I felt really honored to be a part of it."
Agnes nodded.
"I was surprised that so many writers volunteered to be part of it. I know that independent authors don't make a lot of money but that didn't stop them - and you - from contributing." she said.
"It gives me hope that, despite all the negative headlines and the squabbling that's going on these days, maybe there is still some good left in the world," she added.
I leaned back in my chair and sipped some coffee.
"There is hope," I said after putting my cup down. "There are so many people out there doing what they can to make the world a better place that it sometimes surprises me. Most don't do it for any recognition, any pats on the back. They just go out and do it. Politicians spend their lives trying to scare people half to death so they can get elected and then push through laws that suit their personal agendas. Meanwhile, people who really care about the rest of humanity just go quietly about their business. Nobody pays much attention to them because they aren't screaming and hollering, but they're out there doing what they can to help those in need."
Agnes smiled.
"I know," she said. "It's because those people are out there that I do have hope that, one day, we'll get our priorities straight and spend more money eradicating diseases like cancer instead of on missiles and bombers."
She sighed.
"That probably won't happen in my lifetime," she said, "but one day, maybe..."
"One day," I said. "For sure."
I leaned forward and took her hands in mine.
"Now, didn't you say something about lunch?"
To buy a copy of "You Are Not Alone" visit https://www.amazon.com/Youre-Not-Alon...
For more information about MacMillan Cancer Support visit https://www.macmillan.org.uk/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
May 22, 2015
Are we too strong for American readers?
I stood in the front yard gazing at the imposing house that Elizabeth Thompson and her family call home.
"The workmen did a nice job repairing all the damage," I said.
"They did at that," Elizabeth said as she stood nearby. "It cost a fortune but it was worth it. This is our home, after all, and we fought damn hard to keep it."
Elizabeth and her family are spies for Queen Victoria and work directly for Mycroft Holmes in my Steampunk novel 'The Ashtabula Irregulars: Opening Gambit.' As you can imagine, their assignments can sometimes be dangerous. So dangerous, in fact, that in one instance they were subjected to a full-fledged assault on their Walnut Avenue home by forces under the control of a shadowy organization anxious to free the American colonies from British control. That assault had resulted in several members of the family - including Elizabeth - being wounded and significant damage to the house itself.
Elizabeth and her family had recovered from their injuries rather quickly.
The house, however, had not. It had taken months of hard work to get it repaired.
"I think we should go in and meet the others," Elizabeth said. "Josh is in the kitchen with Beverly and together they are putting together what I am quite sure will be a fabulous luncheon."
Josh Bowman, a former Buffalo soldier turned restaurant owner, and Beverly Gray, who is a part of the Thompson family in all but name - something that could change if Elizabeth's son William has anything to say about it - are both accomplished cooks. Knowing that, I had no doubt that whatever they were concocting in the kitchen would be wonderful.
Elizabeth and I walked across the lawn, mounted the steps to the porch and crossed to the doorway. Adam, a gigantic mechanical man, opened the door for us and we entered the house, walked through the living room and into the dining room.
"Everyone is here madam," Adam said.
I looked past him and saw, seated at the dining room table, seven other women who are all characters from some of my novels.
"Ladies," I said with a slight bow (well, it was 1895 after all), "it's a pleasure to see you."
"You too," said Melanie Palazzo, a reporter from my novel 'Jacks or Better.' "We have't seen much of you in the past few weeks."
I pulled out a chair for Elizabeth and then took my seat to her right.
"I've been doing some painting," I said by way of explanation.
Marcy Pantano, the heroine of my novel 'Corpus Delectable,' poked Elizabeth's daughter Dana Redwing in the ribs.
"Told you," Marcy said.
Josh and Beverly entered with trays of food. Adam followed them with more trays.
"You could feed half of my hometown of Lewes with this spread," Marcy said.
"Maybe all of my hometown of Meridian," Melanie added.
Elizabeth tapped her glass with a spoon and the table fell silent.
"I know you all have work to get back to," she said, "so let's dispense with the formalities this once and consider this a working lunch."
Heads nodded around the table.
I looked up to see eight sets of eyes focused on me.
"Okay," I said. "But I'm still not exactly sure why I'm here."
Dani Smith, a police officer and former MP from my novel 'Murder in the Rainy Season,' leaned forward.
"I'll cut right to the chase," she said. "We've been wandering through some other books by other writers and we think that maybe you wrote us to be too strong, too independent."
I was startled: So startled that I actually dropped my knife and fork.
"Too strong?" I asked.
Heads nodded around the table.
"Don't get us wrong," said Connie Barr, Melanie's editor at the Meridian Monitor. "We love that you wrote us as strong, independent women who can think for themselves and don't have to be told what to do and how to act by some guy."
She paused and took a sip of water.
"But," she said as she set her glass back on the table, "we think that you might have made us too strong for American readers."
I sat there with my mouth open for a long minute before I shook my head.
"What led you to think that?" I asked.
"Partly it was talking to other characters in some best-selling books," Dani said.
"For example," Connie said, "we talked to one woman from a really popular series of books that sold a lot of copies. She falls in love with a vampire and literally can't live without him. We talked to another woman who becomes little more than a sex slave for some guy. That's apparently the kind of women that American readers are comfortable with. They don't seem to be very comfortable with strong, independent, smart females."
"And," Melanie added, "we also wandered through a lot of other books chatting with male and female characters. Those that are best-sellers feature guys who 'take charge' of women and the heroines in those novels allow that. In some cases they actually beg for that kind of man to be a part of their lives."
Marcy shuddered dramatically.
"No thanks," she said. "I was once married to a jerk who thought he had every right to run my life even though I worked like a dog to put him through medical school. Never again."
She sighed.
"However," she said, "the reality is that most Americans - men AND women - don't really like strong female characters unless they are somehow being helped along or protected somehow by a man who is even stronger."
I shook my head.
"I don't think that's true," I said.
"Well, let's take a look at some of the most popular television shows," Marcy said. "There's the one with the smart female detective and the mystery writer. She's strong, capable and a leader BUT he's the one who has the insights that solves the cases. And he's the one who, on more than one occasion, saves her life even though she's the one with the skills and training."
"Okay," I said, "but..."
"But nothing," Dani said. "Americans just can't seem to wrap their heads around the fact that a woman can be every bit as smart, courageous and independent as a man."
"I mean you just have to take a look at the Fortune 500," Connie interjected. "How many of those corporations are run by women? So few that it's actually big news when a woman ends up running one of them. And the stories aren't about how well qualified for the job she is but about how unusual it is for a woman to get to that position."
"Then too," Melanie said, "you have to take into consideration what's going on in American politics. On the federal and state levels they're trying to pass all kinds of laws restricting women's rights. Are large numbers of women rebelling against that? No, they're not. Are large numbers of women running for office to fight against that? No, they're not. In fact large numbers of women aren't even bothering to vote. That tells you something."
I took a long drink of water.
"So are you saying that in the future I should write female characters who are what? Simpering? Whiny? Women who can't make a move without asking their husbands or boyfriends if it's okay?"
I looked around the table and saw uneasy glances pass from one woman to another.
"I can't do it," I said. "I'm sorry but I just can't."
Connie leaned forward.
"Look, we're not saying you should but what we are saying is that if you keep writing such strong female characters you're not going to sell a lot of books to Americans," she said.
"Right now most of your sales are in Canada and Europe," Melanie said. "We ran the numbers and only about ten percent of your books are bought by Americans. Heck, you sell more books in New Zealand and South Africa than you do in the United States."
"But I never started writing novels to be a best seller," I said.
Elizabeth smiled, leaned forward and touched my arm.
"We know that," she said. "After all, we're your creations. We know you as well as you know yourself, maybe better. We're just saying that... well, we're concerned that if you don't actually become a best-selling author that you'll quit writing one day. We'd hate to see that happen."
I nodded.
"I get that," I said, "but you don't ever have to worry about that. Writing, for me, isn't about making a pile of money and getting interviewed on late-night television. It's about telling stories the way I think they should be told."
I paused.
"And the way I think they should be told," I said, "is to have strong female characters who make a difference in the world because I know that they do no matter what the big publishers and the Hollywood producers say."
I looked around the table.
"They can keep their cardboard cutout characters," I added. "Me? I'd rather starve than start writing characters like the woman who becomes a sex slave or the woman who can't live without her vampire lover."
I reached out my hand and plucked a roast beef sandwich from the tray nearest me.
"If I did that I'd be betraying every strong woman in my life, and there have been many starting with my mother and my two grandmothers," I said.
Dana reached out and got a sandwich for herself.
"As long as you're okay with the fact you're probably never going to sell a lot of books to American readers," she said, "then we're okay with that."
She took a bite.
"We just wanted to make sure you are," she added.
"I am," I said. "Can someone pass me the horseradish?
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
"The workmen did a nice job repairing all the damage," I said.
"They did at that," Elizabeth said as she stood nearby. "It cost a fortune but it was worth it. This is our home, after all, and we fought damn hard to keep it."
Elizabeth and her family are spies for Queen Victoria and work directly for Mycroft Holmes in my Steampunk novel 'The Ashtabula Irregulars: Opening Gambit.' As you can imagine, their assignments can sometimes be dangerous. So dangerous, in fact, that in one instance they were subjected to a full-fledged assault on their Walnut Avenue home by forces under the control of a shadowy organization anxious to free the American colonies from British control. That assault had resulted in several members of the family - including Elizabeth - being wounded and significant damage to the house itself.
Elizabeth and her family had recovered from their injuries rather quickly.
The house, however, had not. It had taken months of hard work to get it repaired.
"I think we should go in and meet the others," Elizabeth said. "Josh is in the kitchen with Beverly and together they are putting together what I am quite sure will be a fabulous luncheon."
Josh Bowman, a former Buffalo soldier turned restaurant owner, and Beverly Gray, who is a part of the Thompson family in all but name - something that could change if Elizabeth's son William has anything to say about it - are both accomplished cooks. Knowing that, I had no doubt that whatever they were concocting in the kitchen would be wonderful.
Elizabeth and I walked across the lawn, mounted the steps to the porch and crossed to the doorway. Adam, a gigantic mechanical man, opened the door for us and we entered the house, walked through the living room and into the dining room.
"Everyone is here madam," Adam said.
I looked past him and saw, seated at the dining room table, seven other women who are all characters from some of my novels.
"Ladies," I said with a slight bow (well, it was 1895 after all), "it's a pleasure to see you."
"You too," said Melanie Palazzo, a reporter from my novel 'Jacks or Better.' "We have't seen much of you in the past few weeks."
I pulled out a chair for Elizabeth and then took my seat to her right.
"I've been doing some painting," I said by way of explanation.
Marcy Pantano, the heroine of my novel 'Corpus Delectable,' poked Elizabeth's daughter Dana Redwing in the ribs.
"Told you," Marcy said.
Josh and Beverly entered with trays of food. Adam followed them with more trays.
"You could feed half of my hometown of Lewes with this spread," Marcy said.
"Maybe all of my hometown of Meridian," Melanie added.
Elizabeth tapped her glass with a spoon and the table fell silent.
"I know you all have work to get back to," she said, "so let's dispense with the formalities this once and consider this a working lunch."
Heads nodded around the table.
I looked up to see eight sets of eyes focused on me.
"Okay," I said. "But I'm still not exactly sure why I'm here."
Dani Smith, a police officer and former MP from my novel 'Murder in the Rainy Season,' leaned forward.
"I'll cut right to the chase," she said. "We've been wandering through some other books by other writers and we think that maybe you wrote us to be too strong, too independent."
I was startled: So startled that I actually dropped my knife and fork.
"Too strong?" I asked.
Heads nodded around the table.
"Don't get us wrong," said Connie Barr, Melanie's editor at the Meridian Monitor. "We love that you wrote us as strong, independent women who can think for themselves and don't have to be told what to do and how to act by some guy."
She paused and took a sip of water.
"But," she said as she set her glass back on the table, "we think that you might have made us too strong for American readers."
I sat there with my mouth open for a long minute before I shook my head.
"What led you to think that?" I asked.
"Partly it was talking to other characters in some best-selling books," Dani said.
"For example," Connie said, "we talked to one woman from a really popular series of books that sold a lot of copies. She falls in love with a vampire and literally can't live without him. We talked to another woman who becomes little more than a sex slave for some guy. That's apparently the kind of women that American readers are comfortable with. They don't seem to be very comfortable with strong, independent, smart females."
"And," Melanie added, "we also wandered through a lot of other books chatting with male and female characters. Those that are best-sellers feature guys who 'take charge' of women and the heroines in those novels allow that. In some cases they actually beg for that kind of man to be a part of their lives."
Marcy shuddered dramatically.
"No thanks," she said. "I was once married to a jerk who thought he had every right to run my life even though I worked like a dog to put him through medical school. Never again."
She sighed.
"However," she said, "the reality is that most Americans - men AND women - don't really like strong female characters unless they are somehow being helped along or protected somehow by a man who is even stronger."
I shook my head.
"I don't think that's true," I said.
"Well, let's take a look at some of the most popular television shows," Marcy said. "There's the one with the smart female detective and the mystery writer. She's strong, capable and a leader BUT he's the one who has the insights that solves the cases. And he's the one who, on more than one occasion, saves her life even though she's the one with the skills and training."
"Okay," I said, "but..."
"But nothing," Dani said. "Americans just can't seem to wrap their heads around the fact that a woman can be every bit as smart, courageous and independent as a man."
"I mean you just have to take a look at the Fortune 500," Connie interjected. "How many of those corporations are run by women? So few that it's actually big news when a woman ends up running one of them. And the stories aren't about how well qualified for the job she is but about how unusual it is for a woman to get to that position."
"Then too," Melanie said, "you have to take into consideration what's going on in American politics. On the federal and state levels they're trying to pass all kinds of laws restricting women's rights. Are large numbers of women rebelling against that? No, they're not. Are large numbers of women running for office to fight against that? No, they're not. In fact large numbers of women aren't even bothering to vote. That tells you something."
I took a long drink of water.
"So are you saying that in the future I should write female characters who are what? Simpering? Whiny? Women who can't make a move without asking their husbands or boyfriends if it's okay?"
I looked around the table and saw uneasy glances pass from one woman to another.
"I can't do it," I said. "I'm sorry but I just can't."
Connie leaned forward.
"Look, we're not saying you should but what we are saying is that if you keep writing such strong female characters you're not going to sell a lot of books to Americans," she said.
"Right now most of your sales are in Canada and Europe," Melanie said. "We ran the numbers and only about ten percent of your books are bought by Americans. Heck, you sell more books in New Zealand and South Africa than you do in the United States."
"But I never started writing novels to be a best seller," I said.
Elizabeth smiled, leaned forward and touched my arm.
"We know that," she said. "After all, we're your creations. We know you as well as you know yourself, maybe better. We're just saying that... well, we're concerned that if you don't actually become a best-selling author that you'll quit writing one day. We'd hate to see that happen."
I nodded.
"I get that," I said, "but you don't ever have to worry about that. Writing, for me, isn't about making a pile of money and getting interviewed on late-night television. It's about telling stories the way I think they should be told."
I paused.
"And the way I think they should be told," I said, "is to have strong female characters who make a difference in the world because I know that they do no matter what the big publishers and the Hollywood producers say."
I looked around the table.
"They can keep their cardboard cutout characters," I added. "Me? I'd rather starve than start writing characters like the woman who becomes a sex slave or the woman who can't live without her vampire lover."
I reached out my hand and plucked a roast beef sandwich from the tray nearest me.
"If I did that I'd be betraying every strong woman in my life, and there have been many starting with my mother and my two grandmothers," I said.
Dana reached out and got a sandwich for herself.
"As long as you're okay with the fact you're probably never going to sell a lot of books to American readers," she said, "then we're okay with that."
She took a bite.
"We just wanted to make sure you are," she added.
"I am," I said. "Can someone pass me the horseradish?
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
April 29, 2015
'Your books ain't junk, don't treat 'em as such'
Rae-Ann Teague, she of the almost impossibly curvy body and big hair, brought a pitcher of sweet iced tea to the small balcony and set it down carefully.
"It's sun tea," she said as she poured two glasses. "You don't boil the water to make it, you just put your tea bags in the pitcher and set it outside to let the sun do the work."
I tasted it.
Good.
Really good.
"I think sun tea has a more subtle flavor than tea you make from the kettle," Rae-Ann said. "That's why, even though it takes longer to make, I think it's worth the effort."
I agreed.
"So, about effort..." she said.
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes.
I'd accepted her invitation to come to Nashville's Rolling Mill Hill neighborhood to see her new three-bedroom apartment knowing that, at some point, she was going to harangue me about something. Rae-Ann is sugar and spice: A proper Southern Belle with a master's degree in some esoteric branch of finance and accounting, she has a very sharp mind. In my mystery "Murder in the Rainy Season," she manages the business affairs of Nashville's hottest songwriter.
"What about effort?" I asked.
She leaned forward slightly.
"Just this," she said. "You spent pretty near two years workin' on 'Murder in the Rainy Season' and yet you're sellin' it for 99 cents."
She leaned back and frowned.
"What in the hell is the matter with you?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Nothing that I know of," I said a little defensively. "It's a marketing thing. People who buy eBooks seem to think that they shouldn't pay full price for them the way they would for a paperback or a hardback. I don't know why that is, but I do know that it's a fact."
I sipped some more tea.
"Besides," I said, "I think my books should be affordable. A lot of my readers are older; they're on fixed incomes. They can't afford to spend a lot of money on books. That doesn't mean they shouldn't be able to buy them."
She looked to the north, gazing at Nashville's downtown skyline for a few minutes.
"Authors," she muttered and shook her head. "Y'all are gonna be the death of me, I swear."
She drank some iced tea then set her glass down.
"You writers, y'all don't have any real idea about business or marketing, do you?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
It was a rhetorical question.
Besides, for most of us, it's true.
"Affordability is one thing but short-changin' yourself is another," Rae-Ann said. "You put a lot of work into 'Murder in the Rainy Season' and all your other books. You should be chargin' a reasonable price for them, not tryin' to unload them in some kind of literary fire sale."
"But..." I said.
"But nothin'," she said, interrupting me.
"Let's look at it this way: You dropped the prices of all seven of your books to 99 cents in February. Right?"
I nodded.
"Be honest now; have your sales gone up appreciably since then?" she asked.
I shook my head. In point of fact they had remained pretty steady despite the lower price.
She smiled.
"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you," she said. "Can you just get it through that thick Yankee skull of yours that lower prices don't guarantee higher sales figures when it comes to books?"
"But the discount stores..." I said.
She waved a hand at me impatiently.
"Look, people shop for things like microwave ovens and lawn mowers with an eye toward price because it makes a certain amount of sense to do that. I mean, why buy a chain saw for $140 when you can go to some discount place and get it for $80?" she asked.
"But books, that's a whole other thing," she said.
"How so?" I asked.
"Well, for one thing they don't cost $140 apiece," she said. "You're talking about the difference between 99 cents and, maybe $5 or even $10 at most. The savings are minimal in that instance."
"Well, a penny saved..." I said.
"Is a penny earned," she said. "But we're talkin' about pennies here, not handfuls of dollars. If you think readers aren't gonna buy your books because they cost $4.99 instead of 99 cents then you're just foolin' yourself."
She stood up and walked to the railing, leaned against it and jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
"Your books have a whole lotta 5-star and 4-star reviews so readers seem to think they're not bad, maybe even pretty good," she said.
"And when you read those reviews you see that readers also think you have somethin' to say," she added.
"What I'm sayin' is that you shouldn't be giving them away because, truth to tell, when you do you're kinda tellin' potential readers that they ain't worth nothin' more'n spit," she said.
"Well..." I said then stopped. I hadn't really thought about that.
"Look," Rae-Ann said, "when it comes to sellin' books you can't go around treatin' 'em like refrigerators or cars or things like that. Books are different. People don't buy them for the same reasons that they buy a new stove. They buy them to be entertained, to be enlightened, to take a walk with the author into a whole new place."
She sighed.
"You gotta think of books as somethin' people buy because they want to, not because they need to have a place to keep their beer cold or somethin' aimed at keepin' their food hot. When it comes to sellin' books the rules for sellin' t.v. sets don't apply," she said.
"Besides, the world is full of people who want somethin' for nothin' and because they do they wind up with a bunch of junk. Your books ain't junk so don't treat 'em as such."
I wasn't convinced but I had to admit that she'd started me thinking.
"Okay," I said. "How about this? I'll keep my books at 99 cents until mid-May. If my sales go up in a big way, I'll stay at 99 cents. If they don't, well, I'll raise the prices on them to something reasonable."
Rae-Ann smiled.
"You're on," she said. "But you gotta promise that you'll let me set the prices. I'll make 'em fair."
I nodded.
"Can we go get something to eat now?" I asked. "I've been dying for some good barbecue."
Rae-Ann laughed.
"Just like a man," she said and walked into her apartment.
"I know just the place," she said as I followed her inside.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00E06JTHA
"It's sun tea," she said as she poured two glasses. "You don't boil the water to make it, you just put your tea bags in the pitcher and set it outside to let the sun do the work."
I tasted it.
Good.
Really good.
"I think sun tea has a more subtle flavor than tea you make from the kettle," Rae-Ann said. "That's why, even though it takes longer to make, I think it's worth the effort."
I agreed.
"So, about effort..." she said.
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes.
I'd accepted her invitation to come to Nashville's Rolling Mill Hill neighborhood to see her new three-bedroom apartment knowing that, at some point, she was going to harangue me about something. Rae-Ann is sugar and spice: A proper Southern Belle with a master's degree in some esoteric branch of finance and accounting, she has a very sharp mind. In my mystery "Murder in the Rainy Season," she manages the business affairs of Nashville's hottest songwriter.
"What about effort?" I asked.
She leaned forward slightly.
"Just this," she said. "You spent pretty near two years workin' on 'Murder in the Rainy Season' and yet you're sellin' it for 99 cents."
She leaned back and frowned.
"What in the hell is the matter with you?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Nothing that I know of," I said a little defensively. "It's a marketing thing. People who buy eBooks seem to think that they shouldn't pay full price for them the way they would for a paperback or a hardback. I don't know why that is, but I do know that it's a fact."
I sipped some more tea.
"Besides," I said, "I think my books should be affordable. A lot of my readers are older; they're on fixed incomes. They can't afford to spend a lot of money on books. That doesn't mean they shouldn't be able to buy them."
She looked to the north, gazing at Nashville's downtown skyline for a few minutes.
"Authors," she muttered and shook her head. "Y'all are gonna be the death of me, I swear."
She drank some iced tea then set her glass down.
"You writers, y'all don't have any real idea about business or marketing, do you?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
It was a rhetorical question.
Besides, for most of us, it's true.
"Affordability is one thing but short-changin' yourself is another," Rae-Ann said. "You put a lot of work into 'Murder in the Rainy Season' and all your other books. You should be chargin' a reasonable price for them, not tryin' to unload them in some kind of literary fire sale."
"But..." I said.
"But nothin'," she said, interrupting me.
"Let's look at it this way: You dropped the prices of all seven of your books to 99 cents in February. Right?"
I nodded.
"Be honest now; have your sales gone up appreciably since then?" she asked.
I shook my head. In point of fact they had remained pretty steady despite the lower price.
She smiled.
"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you," she said. "Can you just get it through that thick Yankee skull of yours that lower prices don't guarantee higher sales figures when it comes to books?"
"But the discount stores..." I said.
She waved a hand at me impatiently.
"Look, people shop for things like microwave ovens and lawn mowers with an eye toward price because it makes a certain amount of sense to do that. I mean, why buy a chain saw for $140 when you can go to some discount place and get it for $80?" she asked.
"But books, that's a whole other thing," she said.
"How so?" I asked.
"Well, for one thing they don't cost $140 apiece," she said. "You're talking about the difference between 99 cents and, maybe $5 or even $10 at most. The savings are minimal in that instance."
"Well, a penny saved..." I said.
"Is a penny earned," she said. "But we're talkin' about pennies here, not handfuls of dollars. If you think readers aren't gonna buy your books because they cost $4.99 instead of 99 cents then you're just foolin' yourself."
She stood up and walked to the railing, leaned against it and jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
"Your books have a whole lotta 5-star and 4-star reviews so readers seem to think they're not bad, maybe even pretty good," she said.
"And when you read those reviews you see that readers also think you have somethin' to say," she added.
"What I'm sayin' is that you shouldn't be giving them away because, truth to tell, when you do you're kinda tellin' potential readers that they ain't worth nothin' more'n spit," she said.
"Well..." I said then stopped. I hadn't really thought about that.
"Look," Rae-Ann said, "when it comes to sellin' books you can't go around treatin' 'em like refrigerators or cars or things like that. Books are different. People don't buy them for the same reasons that they buy a new stove. They buy them to be entertained, to be enlightened, to take a walk with the author into a whole new place."
She sighed.
"You gotta think of books as somethin' people buy because they want to, not because they need to have a place to keep their beer cold or somethin' aimed at keepin' their food hot. When it comes to sellin' books the rules for sellin' t.v. sets don't apply," she said.
"Besides, the world is full of people who want somethin' for nothin' and because they do they wind up with a bunch of junk. Your books ain't junk so don't treat 'em as such."
I wasn't convinced but I had to admit that she'd started me thinking.
"Okay," I said. "How about this? I'll keep my books at 99 cents until mid-May. If my sales go up in a big way, I'll stay at 99 cents. If they don't, well, I'll raise the prices on them to something reasonable."
Rae-Ann smiled.
"You're on," she said. "But you gotta promise that you'll let me set the prices. I'll make 'em fair."
I nodded.
"Can we go get something to eat now?" I asked. "I've been dying for some good barbecue."
Rae-Ann laughed.
"Just like a man," she said and walked into her apartment.
"I know just the place," she said as I followed her inside.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00E06JTHA
April 6, 2015
My characters want to be in print...
Carla Cristoforo and Marlene Thomas were waiting for me at Dylan's, an Irish pub in - of all places - Reus, Spain when I showed up late for our lunch date.
"Get lost did you?" Marlene asked.
(She's a state Representative from my book 'The Session' and she can be a little sarcastic at times.)
Carla, a former nun turned cop from the same book, shook her head.
"He didn't get lost," she said. "He hasn't owned a watch in 50 years so I guess we should be grateful that he got here before the sun went down."
(She can also be a tad sarcastic.)
I smiled sheepishly and mumbled an apology.
"So, let's get down to business," Marlene said, her voice crisp. "I've got a budget hearing coming up in about 90 minutes and if I'm not there God only knows what those idiots from the other party will do."
Carla nodded.
"And I'm working a homicide so I can't spend all day here," she said.
"Okay, so, what's on your minds?" I asked.
Marlene glanced at Carla then back at me.
"We think you need to bring your books, at least some of them, out in paperback," she said.
I started to object but she cut me off.
"We've been doing some research and what we've found is a little disturbing," she said.
"Basically, it comes down to this: Young people - nearly 80 percent of them - are reading printed books, not eBooks," Carla said.
I was astounded and said so.
"It's true," Carla said.
"I thought these, what do you call them again?" I asked.
"Millennials," Marlene said.
"Yeah, them... I thought they were members of the Digital Generation... you know, the generation that grew up with mobile phones, laptops and tablets," I said.
"They are and they did," Marlene said, "but although that's true they seem to have this affinity for paperbacks and hardbacks. No one seems exactly sure why that is but the numbers don't lie."
I leaned back in my chair as the waitress came up and asked what we wanted for lunch. Marlene and Carla ordered salads. I opted for the pepper steak.
Once the waitress left I leaned forward and asked why we should care.
"I mean," I added, "I write books for adults, not teenagers."
Carla nodded.
"We know that but it won't be long before these teenagers become adults," she said. "I don't know about you but we'd like them to discover us when they do."
Marlene agreed.
"Look, we don't want you to get a big head about this - God knows your ego is already the size of Mount Rushmore - but we think that we're pretty interesting characters and that we have important things to say about loyalty, choices and the way government works in the real world. We want people to read us," she said.
"But," I said, "bringing my books out in paperback means they'll be more expensive and not as easily accessible as eBooks are. Those are two of the reasons I decided to publish electronically instead of on paper. People shouldn't have to get in the car and drive someplace to get one of my books. They shouldn't have to go broke buying them either."
Carla shook her head.
"You're missing the point," she said.
"As usual," Marlene added.
"What point?" I asked.
"We're not saying that you have to stop publishing eBooks," Carla said. "We're just saying that you should also make them available to those people who prefer holding a book in their hands."
The waitress materialized at our table, carefully set our plates down and disappeared again.
Marlene ate some salad and then looked at my backpack sitting on the floor next to my chair.
"How many paperbacks do you have in there?" she asked.
"Three," I said.
"So..." she said.
"So, yeah, I enjoy eBooks but there are times when I really like holding a book in my hands, especially when I'm sitting in the park and reading," I admitted.
"But," I added quickly, "I'm an old man. I was raised with paperbacks and hardbacks. I love eBooks because I can carry a bunch of them around with me, especially when I'm traveling, but there are times..."
"Exactly," Carla said.
"And it's easy to bring out paperbacks these days with print-on-demand publishing like CreateSpace and other options," Marlene said as she finished her salad.
"But..." I started to say.
"But nothing," Carla said. "We've looked at the numbers and we've followed some of the commentary about this, well I guess you'd call it a phenomenon, of Millennials reading print books. As characters in your books we're strongly suggesting that you do this."
"We can't force you," Marlene added, "but we can, let me see if I can put this delicately, make your life a living hell if you don't."
She smiled.
"How many angry women do you want in your life anyway?" she asked.
None, I thought. There have been too many angry women in my life in the past for me to want any more.
Marlene glanced at her watch.
"I've got to get moving," she said. "So, what's it going to be?"
I shifted in my seat.
"Okay, okay... I'll think about it," I said.
Carla stood up and stretched: As she did her jacket flared and I saw the 9 mm Sig in her hip holster. She looked at me and smiled.
"Think carefully," she said.
"Get the check will you?" Marlene said. "It's the least you can do for showing up late."
I nodded and they left.
The waitress appeared again and I ordered a Guinness.
I needed time to think.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DVXID0W
"Get lost did you?" Marlene asked.
(She's a state Representative from my book 'The Session' and she can be a little sarcastic at times.)
Carla, a former nun turned cop from the same book, shook her head.
"He didn't get lost," she said. "He hasn't owned a watch in 50 years so I guess we should be grateful that he got here before the sun went down."
(She can also be a tad sarcastic.)
I smiled sheepishly and mumbled an apology.
"So, let's get down to business," Marlene said, her voice crisp. "I've got a budget hearing coming up in about 90 minutes and if I'm not there God only knows what those idiots from the other party will do."
Carla nodded.
"And I'm working a homicide so I can't spend all day here," she said.
"Okay, so, what's on your minds?" I asked.
Marlene glanced at Carla then back at me.
"We think you need to bring your books, at least some of them, out in paperback," she said.
I started to object but she cut me off.
"We've been doing some research and what we've found is a little disturbing," she said.
"Basically, it comes down to this: Young people - nearly 80 percent of them - are reading printed books, not eBooks," Carla said.
I was astounded and said so.
"It's true," Carla said.
"I thought these, what do you call them again?" I asked.
"Millennials," Marlene said.
"Yeah, them... I thought they were members of the Digital Generation... you know, the generation that grew up with mobile phones, laptops and tablets," I said.
"They are and they did," Marlene said, "but although that's true they seem to have this affinity for paperbacks and hardbacks. No one seems exactly sure why that is but the numbers don't lie."
I leaned back in my chair as the waitress came up and asked what we wanted for lunch. Marlene and Carla ordered salads. I opted for the pepper steak.
Once the waitress left I leaned forward and asked why we should care.
"I mean," I added, "I write books for adults, not teenagers."
Carla nodded.
"We know that but it won't be long before these teenagers become adults," she said. "I don't know about you but we'd like them to discover us when they do."
Marlene agreed.
"Look, we don't want you to get a big head about this - God knows your ego is already the size of Mount Rushmore - but we think that we're pretty interesting characters and that we have important things to say about loyalty, choices and the way government works in the real world. We want people to read us," she said.
"But," I said, "bringing my books out in paperback means they'll be more expensive and not as easily accessible as eBooks are. Those are two of the reasons I decided to publish electronically instead of on paper. People shouldn't have to get in the car and drive someplace to get one of my books. They shouldn't have to go broke buying them either."
Carla shook her head.
"You're missing the point," she said.
"As usual," Marlene added.
"What point?" I asked.
"We're not saying that you have to stop publishing eBooks," Carla said. "We're just saying that you should also make them available to those people who prefer holding a book in their hands."
The waitress materialized at our table, carefully set our plates down and disappeared again.
Marlene ate some salad and then looked at my backpack sitting on the floor next to my chair.
"How many paperbacks do you have in there?" she asked.
"Three," I said.
"So..." she said.
"So, yeah, I enjoy eBooks but there are times when I really like holding a book in my hands, especially when I'm sitting in the park and reading," I admitted.
"But," I added quickly, "I'm an old man. I was raised with paperbacks and hardbacks. I love eBooks because I can carry a bunch of them around with me, especially when I'm traveling, but there are times..."
"Exactly," Carla said.
"And it's easy to bring out paperbacks these days with print-on-demand publishing like CreateSpace and other options," Marlene said as she finished her salad.
"But..." I started to say.
"But nothing," Carla said. "We've looked at the numbers and we've followed some of the commentary about this, well I guess you'd call it a phenomenon, of Millennials reading print books. As characters in your books we're strongly suggesting that you do this."
"We can't force you," Marlene added, "but we can, let me see if I can put this delicately, make your life a living hell if you don't."
She smiled.
"How many angry women do you want in your life anyway?" she asked.
None, I thought. There have been too many angry women in my life in the past for me to want any more.
Marlene glanced at her watch.
"I've got to get moving," she said. "So, what's it going to be?"
I shifted in my seat.
"Okay, okay... I'll think about it," I said.
Carla stood up and stretched: As she did her jacket flared and I saw the 9 mm Sig in her hip holster. She looked at me and smiled.
"Think carefully," she said.
"Get the check will you?" Marlene said. "It's the least you can do for showing up late."
I nodded and they left.
The waitress appeared again and I ordered a Guinness.
I needed time to think.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DVXID0W
March 27, 2015
Three dead men pulled up chairs and sat down...
I was doing some sketching on my terrace when three dead men pulled up chairs and sat down.
I wasn't all that surprised that they had managed to get through the locked doors on the ground floor and the one that is supposed to keep people out of my fourth floor apartment.
I mean, they're criminals after all.
I wasn't surprised that they had come to visit either: They've been complaining about one thing or another while talking to some of the other characters from my books for weeks. I knew it was only a matter of time, therefore, before they brought their complaints to me.
"Guys," I said as I put down my pad and pencil, "we've talked about this before. You can't just barge in here like this."
Jamaal Michaels, a drug dealer and killer from my book 'The Session,' looked at the pad and pencil then at me and sneered.
"It don't look like you was workin' too damn hard," he said, "so what's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that this is my home, my place," I said. "If I walked into your crib in Triple Hell uninvited you'd shoot me. That's the big deal."
He smiled.
"You got that right. I'd shoot you and then shoot you again but," he said, "you're not going to shoot us because you're more or less a good guy. I ain't. None of us are."
I had to admit that he had a point.
"So, what do you guys want?" I asked.
Casimir Keveshky, a killer from my mystery novel 'Blood Debt,' leaned back in his chair.
"We don't think you treated us fairly when you wrote us," he said. "We want you to make some revisions."
I started to speak but he raised a hand to stop me.
"And we're not the only ones," he said. "Most of us want you to treat us with a little more respect so I guess that you could consider the three of us as a delegation of sorts."
"Most of us?" I asked.
Keveshky shook his head in disgust.
"You know who I mean: Us; the villains, the crooks, the killers, the molesters... we think you painted us as really bad people and we want, you know, some revisions so people really understand who we are and why we do what we do."
I shook my head.
"Look," I said, "we've been through this before. Caz, when I wrote you I made sure to point out that you served with distinction in World War II. Jamaal, I made it a point - right at the beginning of the book - to show that you wanted neighborhood parks fixed up so kids could play basketball."
I turned to the third man, William "Weed" Cole, a killer from 'Murder in the Rainy Season.'
"And you, Weed; I pointed out that you were once a street punk who got clean of his addictions before you, well, before you started shooting people," I said.
I sighed.
"But guys, you are all really, really bad men. The books don't work if you're, you know, good guys," I added.
Jamaal shook his head.
"We ain't askin' you to make us no good guys. That ain't it man," he said. "We just want you to give people a better look at us."
"Make us, you know, more well rounded. Ain't no one a hundred percent evil," Weed added.
I stood up and walked over to the railing. Four stories below me two kids were kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the Carrer de Santa Teresa. A block away two women were walking down the narrow street; one was carrying groceries, the other talking on her cellphone.
I turned back to the three dead men.
"Look," I said, "I've known some real bad people in my life. I spent nearly a half century as a journalist and for a lot of that time I worked the night cop beat. I also volunteered for four years as a counselor inside Attica. I know that even the baddest of bad men aren't all evil. Some of the guys I knew in Attica were really good to their families, for example. Some were good soldiers who couldn't adjust to civilian life after being in combat and wound up in prison as a result."
I paused long enough to look each of them in the eye.
"But," I said, "you're not them. You each have a darkness inside you, something that makes you who you are. You're not completely evil but you have, each of you, let that darkness consume you."
Caz looked away. He had lost a son in Vietnam and couldn't make sense of that.
"Yeah," he said, his voice a little hoarse from the emotion he was feeling, "that's okay for you to say but, you know, you could have spent a little more time telling people how my son dying affected me."
I shook my head.
"No I couldn't Caz," I said, "because this isn't your story. You're important to it but these novels aren't about you, any of you. You guys have got to understand that. These books are about other people."
"Yeah, we know. They're all about the 'heroes' and 'heroines' you dreamed up," Jamaal sneered.
"But you gotta remember that we're not just 'important' to the stories," he said, his voice rising in pitch. "Without us you ain't got no goddamned stories!"
He stood up and for a second or two I thought he was going to punch me.
He didn't.
Instead he walked over to the railing and looked down.
"We're just tired of people hating us when they read your books," he said, his voice softening. "That's all. We get no respect."
I walked over to him.
"I respect you," I said. "All of you."
He looked at me, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"Listen," I said, "these aren't just mystery novels to me. They're meant to be something a little more than that."
"Yeah? What?" he asked.
"In your case," I said, "I'm trying to tell people that you can't afford in this life to let opportunities pass you by. You had a chance to go to college on a basketball scholarship but you chose not to. Instead, you stayed in the projects and started running dope. That forced you into making other bad decisions, so bad that at one point you killed a cop."
I turned to Caz and Weed.
"Caz, you let your grief overwhelm you. Weed, you were so screwed up that you were manipulated into murdering people. Don't you guys understand? I'm trying to tell people that there are consequences to the choices they make."
I stopped talking and shook my head.
"I'm trying to tell my readers that they have to think about what they do, what they say, who they vote for, what they accept as truth. You guys, you're how I'm trying to tell them that. You're right Jamaal, without you guys there aren't any stories but just as that's true, so is this: Without you being EXACTLY who you are there aren't any stories either."
They were silent for a long minute before Caz pushed back his chair and stood up.
"We gotta think about that," he said and nodded to Weed and Jamaal.
"C'mon guys, I need a beer. We need to talk about this," he said.
Without another word they left.
I sat down, picked up my pad and pencil.
I knew that, sooner or later, they'd be back.
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
I wasn't all that surprised that they had managed to get through the locked doors on the ground floor and the one that is supposed to keep people out of my fourth floor apartment.
I mean, they're criminals after all.
I wasn't surprised that they had come to visit either: They've been complaining about one thing or another while talking to some of the other characters from my books for weeks. I knew it was only a matter of time, therefore, before they brought their complaints to me.
"Guys," I said as I put down my pad and pencil, "we've talked about this before. You can't just barge in here like this."
Jamaal Michaels, a drug dealer and killer from my book 'The Session,' looked at the pad and pencil then at me and sneered.
"It don't look like you was workin' too damn hard," he said, "so what's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that this is my home, my place," I said. "If I walked into your crib in Triple Hell uninvited you'd shoot me. That's the big deal."
He smiled.
"You got that right. I'd shoot you and then shoot you again but," he said, "you're not going to shoot us because you're more or less a good guy. I ain't. None of us are."
I had to admit that he had a point.
"So, what do you guys want?" I asked.
Casimir Keveshky, a killer from my mystery novel 'Blood Debt,' leaned back in his chair.
"We don't think you treated us fairly when you wrote us," he said. "We want you to make some revisions."
I started to speak but he raised a hand to stop me.
"And we're not the only ones," he said. "Most of us want you to treat us with a little more respect so I guess that you could consider the three of us as a delegation of sorts."
"Most of us?" I asked.
Keveshky shook his head in disgust.
"You know who I mean: Us; the villains, the crooks, the killers, the molesters... we think you painted us as really bad people and we want, you know, some revisions so people really understand who we are and why we do what we do."
I shook my head.
"Look," I said, "we've been through this before. Caz, when I wrote you I made sure to point out that you served with distinction in World War II. Jamaal, I made it a point - right at the beginning of the book - to show that you wanted neighborhood parks fixed up so kids could play basketball."
I turned to the third man, William "Weed" Cole, a killer from 'Murder in the Rainy Season.'
"And you, Weed; I pointed out that you were once a street punk who got clean of his addictions before you, well, before you started shooting people," I said.
I sighed.
"But guys, you are all really, really bad men. The books don't work if you're, you know, good guys," I added.
Jamaal shook his head.
"We ain't askin' you to make us no good guys. That ain't it man," he said. "We just want you to give people a better look at us."
"Make us, you know, more well rounded. Ain't no one a hundred percent evil," Weed added.
I stood up and walked over to the railing. Four stories below me two kids were kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the Carrer de Santa Teresa. A block away two women were walking down the narrow street; one was carrying groceries, the other talking on her cellphone.
I turned back to the three dead men.
"Look," I said, "I've known some real bad people in my life. I spent nearly a half century as a journalist and for a lot of that time I worked the night cop beat. I also volunteered for four years as a counselor inside Attica. I know that even the baddest of bad men aren't all evil. Some of the guys I knew in Attica were really good to their families, for example. Some were good soldiers who couldn't adjust to civilian life after being in combat and wound up in prison as a result."
I paused long enough to look each of them in the eye.
"But," I said, "you're not them. You each have a darkness inside you, something that makes you who you are. You're not completely evil but you have, each of you, let that darkness consume you."
Caz looked away. He had lost a son in Vietnam and couldn't make sense of that.
"Yeah," he said, his voice a little hoarse from the emotion he was feeling, "that's okay for you to say but, you know, you could have spent a little more time telling people how my son dying affected me."
I shook my head.
"No I couldn't Caz," I said, "because this isn't your story. You're important to it but these novels aren't about you, any of you. You guys have got to understand that. These books are about other people."
"Yeah, we know. They're all about the 'heroes' and 'heroines' you dreamed up," Jamaal sneered.
"But you gotta remember that we're not just 'important' to the stories," he said, his voice rising in pitch. "Without us you ain't got no goddamned stories!"
He stood up and for a second or two I thought he was going to punch me.
He didn't.
Instead he walked over to the railing and looked down.
"We're just tired of people hating us when they read your books," he said, his voice softening. "That's all. We get no respect."
I walked over to him.
"I respect you," I said. "All of you."
He looked at me, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"Listen," I said, "these aren't just mystery novels to me. They're meant to be something a little more than that."
"Yeah? What?" he asked.
"In your case," I said, "I'm trying to tell people that you can't afford in this life to let opportunities pass you by. You had a chance to go to college on a basketball scholarship but you chose not to. Instead, you stayed in the projects and started running dope. That forced you into making other bad decisions, so bad that at one point you killed a cop."
I turned to Caz and Weed.
"Caz, you let your grief overwhelm you. Weed, you were so screwed up that you were manipulated into murdering people. Don't you guys understand? I'm trying to tell people that there are consequences to the choices they make."
I stopped talking and shook my head.
"I'm trying to tell my readers that they have to think about what they do, what they say, who they vote for, what they accept as truth. You guys, you're how I'm trying to tell them that. You're right Jamaal, without you guys there aren't any stories but just as that's true, so is this: Without you being EXACTLY who you are there aren't any stories either."
They were silent for a long minute before Caz pushed back his chair and stood up.
"We gotta think about that," he said and nodded to Weed and Jamaal.
"C'mon guys, I need a beer. We need to talk about this," he said.
Without another word they left.
I sat down, picked up my pad and pencil.
I knew that, sooner or later, they'd be back.
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001KCABGK
