Guest post at Romancing the Blog

I've got a guest post up at Romancing the Blog entitled Who's the Book Daddy? The essay--on plagiarism and our very own literary DNA detector, Google Books--didn't come out quite the way I wanted it to, but its been awhile since I've tried to write anything coherent.

The Year of the Second Novel: a Guest Blog by Christine Fletcher

Christine Fletcher has the distinction of being one of the few people I’ve actually met in person after years of interacting on this blog. A wonderful woman (who allowed me to use WAL*MART as an excuse for my egregious lateness), she also has the distinction of having visited my store back in those days of my anonymity. I can still remember the Boss Lady telling me how I’d just missed this great author by ten minutes as she pointed out the newly signed copies of Tallulah Falls.

It is with great pleasure that I post Christine’s guest blog today and I hope you enjoy her thoughts on writing, life and the second novel.

~*~

The Year of the Second Novel

My first young adult novel, Tallulah Falls, debuted in May 2006. Around the same time, my agent negotiated a deal for my second book. I was so giddy, I practically floated. After twelve years of writing, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d finally gained the summit…and the view was mighty fine.

I soon discovered what every author finds out: publication, exciting as it is, is only the first peak. Ahead: the entire Himalayan range. Oxygen! Quick!

First, there was the mysterious world of book promotion. Promotion involves a whole set of skills radically different from writing, different even from agent searches and conference schmoozing and other steps on the road to publishing. Let’s just say it’s been a steep learning curve, and I’m still hauling my keister up it. Readings, contests, meeting local booksellers,* mailing postcards, visiting schools, blogging, keeping up the website and MySpace page that are now de rigueur for authors…

…and, all the while, writing the second book.

The thing about second novels is, they come with deadlines. First novels don’t. Except for the author, nobody cares if a first novel ever sees the light of day. That’s the challenge: knowing the world is indifferent, and slogging through to the end anyway.

The challenge of the second novel is making it better than the first, and writing it faster. It took me almost four years to complete Tallulah Falls. For the second book, I had one year. I also had two day jobs, and Tallulah to promote. Not to mention a boyfriend, a house, friends, family, pets…

I quit my teaching job. At the veterinary practice, where I’m blessed with a boss who loves books, I was able to consolidate my hours into two days a week. Housework became an early, and enduring, casualty. When I’m preoccupied, I can subsist indefinitely on cheese popcorn and Dublin Mudslide ice cream; fortunately for both of us, my sweetie took over the cooking. The veggies on my plate were like love notes: Eat this, it’s good for you.

Preoccupation became my constant mental state. Novel writing is a bit like inhabiting a waking dream. After spending five consecutive days in the world of my book, re-entering the living, breathing reality of clients and patients was always a shock. Bits of my life fell away: dinners out, coffee with friends. As did every belief about what I needed in order to write well.

I used to say, If I don’t get a good start early in the morning, the entire day is shot. And: I can’t be distracted with errands and chores—it breaks the flow. Cue fluttering of hands.

Funny how quickly you can get over yourself when faced with a deadline. My hands stopped fluttering and started typing. I wrote in the mornings, the afternoons, and late at night after I got home from work. In between, I did errands and chores and all that real life stuff because—and this sounds obvious except it wasn’t—real life doesn’t give a crap about deadlines.

Maybe that’s why this year, the year of the second novel, I started feeling like a real writer. You’d think this feeling would have bloomed when Tallulah Falls was accepted for publication. Or the first time I held the actual book, with its gorgeous, haunting cover.

Nope. I felt most amazingly fortunate, but under the excitement lay doubt—maybe, maybe it was all a fluke.

There were days, this past year, when I’d sit at my computer, not a word to be found in the desert that used to be my brain, except a repeating chorus of self-reproach: What on earth made you believe you could actually write this thing? Then, eventually, the words would start coming, and the sentences, and the pages. I lived in the characters’ skins, saw through their eyes, fell in love with them. I tried to tell their stories well, so they’d come to life for readers the way they had for me. The way Tallulah had come to life, out in the world. I found that putting myself in front of strangers had an unexpected side effect: I was enjoying myself tremendously. Connecting with booksellers and readers has been a blast, the best reward of publication by far. Who would have guessed?

Oh, and the deadline? Three hundred seventy-six pages, delivered on time. The book (tentatively titled Ten Cents a Dance) will be published in April, 2008. Meanwhile, Tallulah Falls has just come out in paperback (with a brand-new, equally gorgeous cover), and I’m working on ideas for a third novel. I know a little better what’s ahead, now. More peaks, lots of hard climbing.

I can’t wait to see the view.


*Thanks to our lovely hostess who, back in her days of anonymity, gave me stellar advice on how to approach that wily species, the bookseller, in its native habitat.

~*~


Thank you, Christine.

If you’re interested in learning more about Tallulah Falls or Ten Cents a Dance you can visit Christine’s website.

Super Sonic

I'm going to try to put something up about the program later today between classes, but I just wanted to give you a visual of what the Denver Institute is like:

(Click to enlarge)

Yep, that's the continental divide in Wyoming. What makes this picture appropriate is not that we are a divided class.

Oh, no.

It's that this picture was taken at 80 miles an hour by my co-pilot as we worked our way through 400 miles of Wyoming country side. It's very representative of the speed of the course and the breadth of the topics.

Although it should be mentioned that the Institute is a lot more interesting than Wyoming. (Sorry, Wyoming, but you've got nothing there!) There are days when I feel like my head might explode.

In other news, check out the guest posts by Andrew Beierle and Rosina Lippi for wit, wisdom and a chance to win a free books. Next week means more authors.

Be Careful What You Wish For: a Guest Blog By Rosina Lippi

Rosina Lippi’s first novel, Homestead, won the Pen/Hemingway award for literature and was nominated for the Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction in 2001. She went on to publish the Wilderness saga under the pen name Sara Donati, garnering fans world wide. Her newest novel, Tied to the Tracks, hit the shelves on July 3rd in trade paperback. She left a successful career in academia to write fulltime—a dream many writers have—and what follows is an essay on the what happens when you get exactly what you wish for.

~*~

Just about twenty years ago I got a PhD in linguistics at Princeton. It was a big deal. That fall I started as an assistant professor on the tenure track at the University of Michigan. There were only three jobs in my area of specialization in the whole country that year, so getting that job - the cream of a very small crop - was a big deal.

I worked my rear off at UM. I taught, I advised, I directed dissertations, I sat on committees, I published. And published. Then tenure review came along. The turn-down rate in the humanities (at that time) was about 80%. I got tenure. Huge deal.

Twelve years after I got my PhD and started on an academic track, I walked away. I gave up tenure, I resigned all my responsibilities, and I said my farewells. A lot of hard won big deals, but I made a conscious decision to simply stop.

Here's what I was giving up: a regular salary; job security; a really good benefits package; the social stuff that goes along with the title and the rank. But I was also giving up the excruciating politics, the infighting, the jockeying for position, the cultural snobbery, the endless committee meetings about (believe it or not) things as trivial as whether THE should be capitalized in a title.

I gave up the good parts of teaching. Watching the face of an eighteen year old as a completely revolutionary concept takes hold. The students who asked really hard questions that made me think in new directions. The funny ones. The ones who had beat terrible odds and horrendous personal histories but never tried to cash in on those experiences. The kids you reached.

So sure, there are things I left behind reluctantly. But it was my decision, and I left academia to write full time. I just had no idea what it would be like.

Someone who has been in prison for thirty years is so habituated that they find it hard to function in a world without the prison day routine. Sound like a stretch? I was in one academic setting or another as a teacher or student from age five to age forty-four. My
year began in September and was divided by semesters; my day was divided into fifty minute class segments.

But all that was gone. No structure at all, beyond a far-off publisher's deadline. Freedom.

Terror.

For at least a year I woke up regularly in a panic. What was I teaching today? Who was I supposed to advise? Had I prepared the lecture? Adrenaline pumping, I would jump out of bed and then remember that I was done with all that. I could work this morning or go for a walk; if I wanted to write in the cool of the night I didn't have to worry about getting up the next morning. My time became endlessly flexible.

It sounds great, doesn't it? But here's the fly in that otherwise enticingly fragrant ointment: motivation. If you write full time, the only pressure to keep on schedule is what you can inflict on yourself. You can go for days, weeks, months failing to get anything
written, but nobody knocks on the door to read you the riot act. Nobody even KNOWS unless you tell them.

You may yearn for somebody to impose structure (where is Sister Maria Terese when I need her?) but it's all up to you. Of course, when a scene is giving you terrible trouble, it turns out that the bathrooms haven't been cleaned, or you need to call about the newspaper delivery, or the dogs are in need of a bath or you really have to get that review written or the deepest, darkest sinkhole: when did I last check email? Or: Let's have a look at traffic to the website.

It takes a huge amount of self discipline to stay seated with your eyes on the page. Self discipline sometimes just isn't enough but somehow or another, you've got to muddle through. Every book seems harder than the last, but never mind: the mortgage calls. Now you have to pick between the two extremes: *just do it* or *the corn also grows while the farmer sleeps*.

I gave up the stress of a university setting, but stress is a universal in abundant supply. Am I happier now than I was as a professor trying to find time to write?

I think so. I look at the line of novels out there with my name (or my penname) on them and I know I've somehow managed to keep writing, even through the most difficult times. There's a real sense of satisfaction and renewed hope every time a new book comes out (Tied to the Tracks in trade paper is just a couple days away as I write this). Sometimes I am nostalgic for academia, but on the whole, I'm better off where I am now. I am fortunate to be in a position that allows me to write full time. Hundreds -- maybe thousands – of people would give just about anything to have the same opportunity. I am very aware of my good fortune, but I am also reminded daily of that old chestnut:

Be careful what you wish for. You may just get it.

~*~

Thank you, Rosina, for taking time out of you schedule to guest blog here today.

She’s graciously offered up a signed copy of Tied to the Tracks—which Booklist calls “an effervescent tale of a trio of offbeat Yankee filmmakers plunked down deep in the heart of Dixie”—to be given away to a randomly chosen commenter on this blog (to be chosen on Monday).

I’ve often wondered how writers are able to muster the self-discipline necessary to accomplish a finished novel, and I would love to hear from those of you who write. What gets you to the computer? What keeps you there?

Maybe I’ll be able apply them to getting a regular blog out while I’m here.

Freaks ’R’ Us: Inhabiting Alien Characters

Author Andrew W. M. Beierle’s 2002 Lambda award winning novel, The Winter of Our Discotheque, had aging star Dallas Eden playing fairy godfather to Tony Alexamenos’s young ingénue. In his new novel, First Person Plural, his characters are a unique set of conjoined twins that have their own set of personalities and problems, one is straight and one is gay, but they share the same torso and legs.

And you thought you had sibling problems…

In the first post of what will be an ongoing series of guest posts by different authors on writing, Andrew discusses what it's like to find commonality between writer and character as well as the difficulties in writing about conjoined twins.

Thanks for joining us today, Andrew.

Freaks ’R’ Us: Inhabiting Alien Characters
By Andrew W. M. Beierle

When I first told a friend about the theme of my new novel, First Person Plural—an exploration of the private lives of conjoined twins, one gay and one straight, who share a single body—he expressed concern for my mental health.

It was not that he thought I was insane for attempting to tackle such bizarre content. Rather, knowing how deeply writers need to immerse themselves in their characters, even to identify with them, he thought the process just might drive me crazy.

“I’m worried about you spending two years in the company of such freaks,” he said.

Despite the fact that two years turned into five, I’ve emerged as sane as when the journey began in 2000 with my short story “La Vie Sexuelle des Monstres” (“The Sex Life of Monsters”), a reference to a 1904 study of the romantic adventures of Italian brothers Giovanni and Giacomo Tocci, upon whom my characters, Owen and Porter Jamison were based, in part.

An extremely rare set of conjoined twins of the type dicephalus (literally “two-headed”), Owen and Porter are separate individuals from their necks up but share a single body. As children, they’re seen as a single entity—Owenandporter, or more often, Porterandowen. As they grow to adulthood, their differences become more pronounced: Porter is outgoing and charismatic while Owen is cerebral and artistic. When Porter becomes a high school jock hero, complete with cheerleader girlfriend, a greater distinction emerges, as Owen gradually comes to realize that he’s gay.

Porter’s unease with his brother’s sexuality leaves Owen feeling increasingly alienated from his twin, especially when Porter falls in love and Owen becomes the unwilling third side of a complicated love triangle. And when Owen finally begins to explore his own desires, the rift grows deeper.

Contrary to my friend’s concerns, it has been neither difficult nor unpleasant spending time with Owen and Porter (or, for that matter, crazy-making). In fact, of all the characters I have ever created, I feel closest to them for the very reason that they are so unusual, so unlike me or anyone I know.

My interest in writing about the alien, the “other,” was sparked largely by three novels: Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn, in which a mother ingests a variety of drugs and toxic substances during pregnancy to produce offspring who will populate the family-owned sideshow; Mrs. Caliban, by Rachel Ingalls, which depicts a love affair between a lonely married woman and a sea monster; and The Giant’s House, by Elizabeth McCracken, a romance between a meek librarian and a very tall young man.

In First Person Plural, I wanted to use my two-headed protagonists as a metaphor for the alienation I felt as a gay man. Despite the progress gay people have made since I came out at the age of eighteen in 1969, I remained constantly aware of feeling different. And I felt that no matter how hard I tried to fit in (short of going back into the closet), I would always remain as obviously different as if I . . . well, had two heads. Voilá.

We’ve all been told in creative writing seminars that we need to know our characters intimately. What makes them happy or sad. What motivates them. What scares them.

All that is well and good, but when we try to bring them alive on the page for our readers, we tend to focus on externals, on descriptions: what color hair or eyes they have, whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, plain or pretty. We attempt to demonstrate personality through specific characteristics or through the choices they make: What size shoe they wear, what flavor ice cream they prefer. Mac or PC? Lefty or righty? Boxers or briefs?

Many times, our principal characters most closely resemble ourselves. While it is not unheard of, it is somewhat unusual for a man to write from a female protagonist’s perspective, or vice versa. And we tend to base lesser characters on people we know—parents, siblings, friends, and lovers (or ex-lovers, oh yes, ex-lovers are a favorite species). We adopt the personality templates whole, only the names are changed to protect the innocent (or to protect us from lawsuits by the guilty).

But how do we convincingly inhabit alien characters? How did I get into the heads (pun fully intended) of Owen and Porter?

In some ways, my methods were not out of the ordinary. Calling to mind my personal discomfort at hearing other people eat—the slurping of soup or crunching of cereal drives me from the dining room—I imagined what it must have been like for Owen to listen to Porter, whose head was always tangential to his own, chew his Lifesavers instead of letting them dissolve silently in his mouth. I thought about what it would be like for Owen to get razor burn from Porter’s stubble when his brother first began to grow a beard. And at night, lying alone in my bed, I imagined what it would be like to have another person sleeping not beside me but, in a way, inside me, his half of our body inert while I remained alert and restless.

One night I realized I had developed the habit of crossing my ankles over one another and interlocking my big toes. Somehow, it subconsciously gave me a sense of security, of self-containment, of completeness, that did not exist when my feet were not intertwined. I realized that quirk might serve as a powerful connection between Owen and Porter, especially when they were younger—a way for one to let the other one know he was there for him. At that moment I realized I had become, if not Owen and Porter then at least one of them.

While I did not set out to write a “message” novel, it is my fervent hope that straight people who read First Person Plural may find something in the character of Owen with which they identify, some hope or habit they recognize as their own, and thereby come to understand that we are not so different, any of us, under the skin, behind the labels, beneath the armor we each don daily to protect ourselves and to conform.

As Rosemarie Garland Thomson, an Emory University faculty member and author of Extraordinary Bodies, writes, “People who are visually different have always provoked the imagination of their fellow human beings. The extraordinary body is fundamental to the narratives by which we make sense of ourselves and our world.”

You can read more about First Person Plural at http://andrewbeierle.com/. For the record, Porter wears boxers; Owen prefers briefs. They alternate.




Thank you again, Andrew, for generously agreeing to kick off the guest blogging here at Bookseller Chick.

If you have any questions for the author or would like to learn more about his body of work, please leave your comment below. On Saturday one commenter will be chosen at random to receive a copy of First Person Plural before its release date on August 28th.*

*To be sent out after my trip to Denver is over.

Guest Blogger Stephanie Gayle on Writing a Novel on Southern Discomfort

Way back in May, Stephanie Gayle was kind enough to drop me an email regarding her first book, My Summer of Southern Discomfort, and ask about the possibility of guest blogging. As I do with all possible guest bloggers, my first question was about the topic of the book:

Today is Monday. The calls do not come as before. Weeks elapse between them, and when I answer the phone there is no overlap of voices, only my mother's. She spends much of the conversation avoiding mention of the pink elephant trumpeting in the middle of the room.

The pink elephant would be my defection to Georgia. When I telephoned with the news of my imminent relocation my father asked, "Georgia, as in the Republic of Georgia by the Black Sea, or Georgia as in the Peach State?" He hoped I meant the former because that Georgia promised unique opportunities to advance the democratic cause of justice. What could Georgia, former land of the Confederacy, offer?

Convicting arsonists and thieves in Macon, Georgia, was never Harvard Law grad Natalie Goldberg's dream. The pay is abysmal, the work is exhausting, and the humidity is hell for a woman with curly hair. But when a steamy romance with her high-powered New York boss went bad, Natalie jumped at the first job offered, packed her bags, and headed south.

Natalie's leftist Yankee background brands her a conspicuous outsider in this insular community. Her father, a famous civil rights lawyer, refuses to accept her career change—or talk to her. Her best friend begs her to come back home, and Natalie keeps thinking she sees her former lover everywhere.

But Natalie's not completely alone. There are a garden-obsessed neighbor, a former beauty queen–turned–defense attorney, and a handsome colleague who has a nervous tic whenever she gets near. And then there's a capital case that has her eating antacids by the truckload.

Yep, it's going to be one heckuva long, hot summer. . . .

Oh my, I thought, this should be good. A thought obviously echoed by Booklist who called Stephanie's novel a "finely crafted debut novel, Gayle evinces a superb mastery of character development, rendering Natalie's various crises of faith with empathic authenticity, endearing humor, and enviable grace."

Needless to say, I took Stephanie up on her guest blogging offer as well as the opportunity to let y'all (and myself) ask her questions about the novel and her Harvard novel writing class for a chance to win an Advanced Reader Copy of My Summer of Southern Discomfort before it is released next week.

Thank you for joining us today, Stephanie.

***

Linsey has invited me to tell you a story about how I wrote my first book, My Summer of Southern Discomfort.

Actually, to be super specific it's my second book. I wrote my first book in college. It lives in my closet because it's not fit for anyone to read but my mother (who still asks me when I'm going to publish it. "Never, Mom. Never.")

I began writing My Summer of Southern Discomfort for a class I was taking at Harvard called "Writing the Novel." That sounds like a joke, but it isn't. Most people in the class were a lot further along in writing their novel, whereas I hadn't begun mine until just before class began. That led to me begging to go last for chapter submissions.

Writing the first part in a workshop setting proved helpful.

I began the narrative with Natalie Goldberg, an order obsessed overachiever whose life has undergone radical changes lately. When I told my classmates I intended it as a three-person narrative they said, "Don't do it. We like Natalie. Stick with Natalie." I listened. Good thing.

I knew Natalie would be a lawyer. I love law, but never wanted to, you know, go to law school and practice. I got to practice through Natalie, who prosecutes a capital case. In writing the book I read a lot about Georgia criminal law and the death penalty. It was fascinating, depressing stuff. After one tough week of looking at bullet injury photos and reading descriptions of how the electric chair kills you (precisely) I resolved to title my next novel 1000 Fuzzy Kittens. That sounded like happier subject material.

My writing instructor urged us to create plot outlines, maps, guides to our books. I may have created one, but I didn't follow it. My writing is always running after my characters.

I love tension and conflict. Poor Natalie. Just when she's start having a good day I'd rain down more troubles on her. That said, some of the easiest, best writing (I think) comes in the conversations she has with people she's feuding with: her partner, Ben, or her father.

It took my nine months to complete the first draft. I kept a KitchenAid timer on my desk. I get restless in my room. I'll stop typing, stretch, or go into my closet and sort clothes, or dance around. I realized this "time" was not "writing time." So I put an hour on the timer and every time I stopped writing I hit pause. When I began writing again I'd hit start. An honest hour of writing was often two hours real time. I spent another few months working on the second and third drafts. Between drafts the manuscript sat in my closet. All told it was three years between beginning the manuscript and selling it.

The best part of selling the book? Only two people had read my completed first draft. So hearing my agent, and editor, who had read the final version say, "I love Natalie" was wonderful. Not that getting paid wasn't nice. My best friend immediately asked, "Can you quit your job?" I thought for a second and said, "Nope. Health insurance. I need health insurance." Practical-minded Natalie would have been so proud of me.

Tele-Commute Blogging

Hey all, I've got a guest blog called "Bookstore Breakup"* up over at Romancing the Blog. It's the first of what will be a monthly commitment. For those of you have no love for the Romance section, worry not, this post applies to anyone who has ever had to breakup with their bookstore.

I'll be back later with an actual column for this blog as well.

Enjoy.


*Now with a link that actually works! I really need to remember not to post before coffee.

Genre-bending with Marta Acosta

Marta Acosta is the author of the Happy Hour at Casa Dracula and its follow-up, Midnight Brunch (released last month). Both books use humor and sharp writing to move beyond the usual vampire novel to become something more. She’s a frequent commenter here at Bookseller Chick and also runs her own blog full of insightful comments, parodies of new or coming soon books, and great links.

The following is an essay she wrote just for this blog on the trials and tribulations of bridging the genre/literature divide:

There is a deep divide between genre readers and literary fiction readers. Literary fiction readers have filled that divide with water and added some alligators for fun. Genre fiction fans are happy to stand on their side shrieking, "Borrring!" and throwing rocks. Anyone who attempts to cross back and forth is likely to be knocked out with a rock and gnawed on by gators.

You see them bloodied and crawling around in the muck, weakly claiming that genre novels can be literary, and literary novels can fall into genre categories.

Because I grew up feral in the wilds of the public library, I never learned the rules about books. No human explained that literary fiction was superior and distinct from genre fiction; no one cautioned me against the acute boredom of a thick literary tome. I consumed science fiction, mysteries, literary novels, stories about animals, gothics, biographies, contemporary fiction, and how-to books. Just as I learned to follow the trail of a new hardback through the stacks, I also learned that there were good books and terrible books in every section.

Off I went to college and I was shocked to learn that commercial fiction were tacky, genre books were laughable. I hid my love of sci-fi and fantasy like dirty polyester sheets. My fellow creative writing students and I wrote short stories about tragedy and anguish. We had wonderful vocabularies and were skilled with a thesaurus. Our stories had important symbolism. We wrote in present-tense, third person, and we read our fiction aloud in flat, disaffected voices so that the words were paramount. We accepted the brutal criticism of our peers and professors. We were dedicated to improving our skills.

Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I had doubts. I loved clean, concise prose, but it never fit comfortably. Sometimes I would see "bad" writing -- florid, violet, quilted, curlicued -- and it made my heart zing.

I once took a seminar in British theatre and our professor asked a student from Shreveport what he had thought about a drawing room comedy that we'd seen. The student, far more mature than the rest of us, calmly gazed at the professor and then drawled, "As a virile young black man, I could not relate." We all laughed, but his words keep coming back to me over the years. He made no apology for not relating.

After college, I returned to my feral reading habits, enjoying whatever struck my mood. When I finally returned to writing, I discovered the divided camps. I'm not as compliant now as when I was young. I won't declare loyalty for one side over the other. So I'm in the moat with other uncommitted authors. We dodge the flying rocks and use them to keep those gators at bay.

The majority of people on either side relate to their worlds; they've got no motivation to create common ground. I keep hoping that people with influence will see how ridiculous this ditch is and call in a crew to fill it. With time, others might be tempted to explore beyond their comfort zones and who knows what exciting things will happen then.

Some genre-bending novels for your consideration:

The Yiddish Policeman's Union: Pulitzer Prize-winner Michael Chabon' new novel is both a fantasy and a crime novel. What if Alaska had been given as a homeland to the Jewish people?

To Say Nothing of the Dog: Connie Willis's sci-fi homage to P.G. Wodehouse and Jerome K. Jerome. Time travel, Victoriana, and mishaps.

The Road: Cormac McCarthy envisions a post-apocalyptic world -- it's literary, but with cannibals!

American Gods: Neil Gaiman's novel is a road trip gone bad, an exploration of American identity and landscape, and a supernatural thriller.

Tree of Hands: Ruth Rendell's books transcend the mystery genre. This story about mental illness and child abduction is creepy, dark, and beautifully written.

What genre-bending books can you think of?

Guest Blogger: Jennifer Estep and Things that go bump in the night

BS Chick: I know what you’re thinking, a day late and a candy bar short, chickie. Halloween was yesterday! Oh, how wrong you are. The Day of the Dead falls over the first two days of November so I’m totally in the clear, and therefore forgiven for my inability to properly plan these things without factoring in life (and a whooooole lotta book boxes). So, give a warm welcome to Jennifer Estep, who talks about the scariest thing of all: real life.

Jennifer Estep: I don’t like to read scary books. Don’t like to watch scary movies either. By scary, I mean traditional horror by the likes of Stephen King, Clive Barker, and others. Or movies like “Child’s Play” or “Nightmare on Elm Street.”

Now, give me a steamy paranormal romance about sexy vampires, and I’m in.

Shape-shifting werewolves searching for their soul mates? Totally cool.

Epic fantasy? I’m so there.

Serial killers? Sure.

Heist books and spy thrillers and mysteries? Love ‘em all.

But true ghosts and goblins and blood-sucking ghouls who eat people’s brains? Not so much. And don’t even get me started on aliens. Shudder.

So why don’t I like scary books when I’ll read just about everything else? My reason is this – there are plenty of scary things in the world already. Things that are real. Things that could actually happen. Today. When I sit down to read, I want to escape. I want to go to an entertaining world where the good guys win, people have terrific sex all the time, and everyone gets exactly what she deserves. Or some version thereof.

I just don’t want to read about psychiatric experiments gone bad and cursed souls being tortured for all eternity and rabid dogs who want to rip out my throat. I have enough to worry about without wondering whether my old stuffed animals are actually maniacal puppets who are going to invade my brain when I go to sleep. Hmm. Now that I think about it, their beady little eyes seem to follow me wherever I go …

But sometimes, the scary stuff sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Like Kiss Me While I Sleep by Linda Howard. I read this about two years ago. It’s about a rogue CIA assassin who uncovers a scheme to release a deadly strain of bird flu on the world. It was an entertaining read, although I found the plot a little far-fetched. Bird flu. Yeah right. Like that could ever happen.

Then, a couple weeks later, I start hearing that word again – on CNN. Then, on the evening news. Then, people in my hometown are talking about it. And doing drills to prepare for it. Now, everybody knows what bird flu is – and Howard’s book doesn’t seem so far-fetched any more. And that makes it scarier than anything that Stephen King could ever write. At least, to me.

Some people like being scared. They love the feel of goose bumps rippling up and down their skin. Love the adrenaline rush. The heart palpitations. The sweaty palms. Some of them even like to scream. I’m just not one of those people. I like romance and action and adventure – not being scared out of my mind.

For me, Halloween isn’t about chills and thrills and things that go bump in the night. It’s about something much more important – candy. Hershey kisses and M&Ms and Snickers, oh my! And lollipops and gummy bears and everything else that’s sugar-filled and oh-so-bad for me.

But wait. I’ve just had a thought. An idea for a book. How about a novel where there’s no more Halloween candy? There’s none left. It’s all been eaten. It’s all gone. Every last M&M. Every last Hershey kiss. Every last bit of Godiva. Gone. Forever.

No more candy? Now that would be really scary.

Jennifer Estep is an award-winning journalist. Her first book, Karma Girl, will be released in May by Berkley Books. It’s about a newspaper reporter who exposes the secret identities of comic-book superheroes – until she falls for one. It’s not the least bit scary – unless you have an aversion to spandex.

Guest Blogger: Marta Acosta and her Scary Things

BS Chick: Marta Acosta is the author of Happy Hour at Casa Dracula and a long-time contributor to the comments on this blog. She is still afraid of dolls.

Scary Things by Marta Acosta

When I was five, my parents gave me a lavish gift: a life-size doll with long brown hair and glittery blue glass eyes. I was not a girly-girl, so while I was impressed with this doll, I was not enamored of it. One cold winter night, when it was propped by the fireplace, my father told me that it was a witch and would come alive at night and “get” me. My dear father based his child-rearing techniques on lessons he had learned when he joined the Merchant Marines at 15 and later became a paratrooper. Perhaps these institutions were not the best source for information on raising a daughter.

He saw that I was afraid, so he told me to walk to the doll and touch it. You know, the old face your fears, jump out of the plane, land behind enemy lines, and attack approach to life. I refused, which annoyed him. He demanded that I touch the spooky doll, whose eyes seemed to stare at me. Fear beat obedience, and I began shrieking. That’s when my mother came in and restored order. In my father’s defense, he protected me against all actual dangers, but had no tolerance for fear of imaginary dangers.

I gave away the expensive doll at the first opportunity, but I can still remember how blandly malevolent and alive she looked in the flickering light of the fireplace.

By the time I was ten, my fear of things that go bump in the night was a source of great amusement to my brothers. They were horror movie fans, and when they came back from some new gorefest, they would follow me around the house and reciting the tales of terror in excruciating detail. I tried not to listen, but the images they described are still as vivid to me as if I’d seen the movies myself.

I was able to read mildly scary books and watch mildly scary television shows. But I kept all the lights on, checked the locks on the doors, and made sure that someone was around if things became too real. And the line between real and imaginary blurred late at night.

Why do some people enjoy entertainment that makes their hearts pound? The theory is that humans get an adrenaline rush from perceived danger and find the quick hormonal jolt pleasurable. Some of us, however, don’t leave the scary story in the book or on the movie screen. We look out of our windows and see a movement in the bushes. We wake in the night, hear an unidentifiable sound, and assume that it must have a supernatural origin, even when we are the most hardened of skeptics. We toss the sheets over our heads and hope that a headless demon, animated doll monster, or angry poltergeist doesn’t attack.

Little known fact: sheets can protect you against the depredations of supernatural monsters. There is some dispute whether low thread-count sheets work as well as high-thread count sheets.

Logic, reason, high-thread count sheets cannot convince us emotionally that there is no danger when we’ve just made the mistake of reading a really spooky novel. And I wonder if maybe the wiring in our noggins is different, and that is why the imagined danger is as unpleasantly frightening as actual danger.

I wonder, too, if bad wiring might explain why some of us take so much pleasure in reading, because the “reality” of the stories is heightened for us. Or maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better about being a pathetic scaredy cat.

Where do you draw the line between pleasurable fright and awful fear? Do you watch re-runs of “The X-Files,” but start tensing up at the first da-da, da-das of the “Jaws” theme? Do you devour Stephen King books, but refuse to go on extreme rides at the amusement park? And what happens when you take on more than you can bear? Do you have secret fears, like a terror of clowns, or rat-phobia? Inquiring minds want to know.

Guest Blog: Fear and the Other F-Word by Jackie Kessler

BS Chick: Remember when I said there would be guest bloggers? Behold, I did not lie! Bonus points as well since this one written by the lovely Jackie (her book is coming out really, really soon) Kessler on such topics as sex and death makes a perfect SB Day entry. Read on, if you dare, to learn about sex, drugs and succubi. Well, maybe not the drugs…

Jackie Kessler: Fear and the Other F-Word

Want to know the appeal of horror? Sex and death.

You know the scene: a group of horny teenagers pair off to Do the Deed…and then a homicidal maniac or supernatural entity (usually wearing a spiffy mask of some sort) Does Them In, one by one. In a variety of creative ways. In horror, sex equals death.

Talk about killing the afterglow.

Let’s face it: there’s something fascinating about the combination of kinkiness and killing. (Fiction, people. We’re talking fiction here. I am in no way advocating sex crimes, snuff films, or Pee Wee Herman getting his public jollies watching Nurse Nancy.)

Taken separately, murder and lust are über powerful. There’s a kind of catharsis that comes over us when we read about the serial killer stalking his victim—sort of a “thank God it’s that poor slob getting chopped into itsy pieces and not me” thing. And I don’t have to explain the release we get when we read a really (really, really, REALLY) good (hot, steamy, it’s romance I swear) sex scene. (Preferably one in which the hero looks like Matt Damon. Dipped in chocolate.) But like Amazon.com says, some things are “better together”—and in this case, kink and killing is the ultimate winning combination. Hey, a climax isn’t called a “little death” for nothing.

Sex and death, baby. Terror is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Fear is another word for foreplay.

We know this, deep inside. Forget about those bad boys Momma warned us about—give us dangerous men. Evil men. Better yet, evil that’s man-shaped. (Yum.) We do so love those paranormal romances. What turns us on as much as that mesmerizing monster, the lover that we know is going to fill us, thrill us…and maybe kill us? (Well, kill some other chick. And that’s cool, as long as we get to watch.) There are tons of sexy slayers out there on the shelves, creatures that seduce us with words and lips and teeth. Supernatural paramours in all their sizzling, otherworldly glory.

But you know, we gals don’t always have to be the ones that get wooed by the wicked. We can be pretty damn evil too. And we can enjoy every second of that seduction. Women’s Lib, fantasy-style.

Move over, male vampires. Here comes the Era of the Succubus.

I hear some of you saying, “Suck you what? Can you DO that?”

Okay, Demonology 101: according to legend, a succubus is a female demon that visits sleeping men and seduces them in their dreams, sucking out their life energy in the process. (Read: an explanation for wet dreams where yet again, it’s the woman’s fault. Insert Fall of Man Parable Here.)

In other words, a succubus is a powerful woman (cough, demon) who isn’t afraid to take what she wants. As many times as she wants it. And she won’t quit until she’s satisfied. Yeah, so chances are that means when she’s done, her lover sort of died. Shrug. Hazards of the job. The succubus is all about sex.

And death, of course. But this time, it’s the guys who get seduced, the guys who fall into bed with the wrong woman, the ultimate Femme Fatale who’s going to claim his soul.

Hey, the guys ain’t complaining. At least they’re going to die happy.

--

Jackie Kessler is the author of HELL’S BELLES (Kensington/Zebra Books, January 2, 2007), a humorous paranormal romance about a succubus who runs away from Hell, hides on Earth as an exotic dancer, and learns the hard way about true love. Sex, strippers, and demons—what’s not to like? Read the first chapter on Jackie’s website: Jackie Kessler - Paranormal Romance Author.

Guest Blogger: David de Beer and the (Gradually Changing) Bookstore Environment

BS Chick: Mr. David de Beer was nice enough to wander on over here from Miss Snark's and offer up his thoughts as a former bookseller in the trenches. Here's his take on bookselling and book readers.


Before I started in the bookstore, I was naive enough to think I was well read—that I knew books. That delusion got shattered on the very first day, within the first three hours when my uniform response to all the authors that people asked for was a pointed “Huh?”

I learned though, and after six years I could rattle off titles from dozens of authors. Most importantly, I had acquired the most essential skill for helping the customer to find a book – recognizing the exact book, written by the desired author, based on what was a warbled accounting of the plot. It would go like this:

“Yeah, it’s this story about this guy who goes to Africa and looks for a goldmine.”

Check. Narrowing the list down...

“And the mine belonged to this witch, or queen, or something.”

The book in question was King Solomon’s Mines. One delighted customer, and me relieved that I had guessed correctly.

At the end of the day, it matters little that you have actually read the book. The most important part is recognizing the author the customer is asking for, and knowing whether you have it in stock and what else you can recommend along similar lines.

Truth to tell, you don’t have to read Patricia Cornwell to know which similar authors to recommend. It’s simple – let the customers do the work for you. All you need, is to actually pay attention: What do people who buy a lot of Cornwell also like to buy and read? I built up a whole fan club for Mandasue Heller via Martina Cole fans like this.

The bookshop is the one exception the 1st commandment of retail which is “Location! Location! Location!” Bookshops take longer to get running, but people will drive the extra mile when they take a fancy to a store. Some of my customers came all the way from the other side of the city, for the sole reason to buy books. Many of them never took notice of the other businesses around.

Book customers don’t like change, but they respond to it – if you change something in a dramatic manner, even if is for the better, they grumble and complain. They like their complacency. On the other hand, if you start the changes in a gradual manner and slowly work it in, they respond to it, and some never even notice, or they only notice after a few months, looking around and saying: “Did you put up a new shelf?” It’s been there for a year, I moved your section there, bit by bit.

People often asked me whether I was worried about e-books replacing print books. No, I wasn’t. I think e-books are fabulous, and will continue to thrive, but they will never threaten the print book.

It’s because the most defining trait of the book customer I can point to is possessiveness – they want to own the book, feel it in their hands. This trait extends to “their” character, which JK Rowling, etc, were so gracious as to provide. It extends to “their” authors, not being allowed to write anything except what the customer wants (ah! but see the gradual change principle above! In the last years, more and more people were complaining about buying the new Stephen King book because “there’s nothing else, so I’ll just stick to King, and hope it isn’t as big a disappointment as the previous one.”

To writers I can say – beware complacency. Yes, people buy your books so long as you keep writing the same old, same old. But they are just as prone to drop you like a sack of hot potatoes when somebody new catches their interest. Why? Because every book you write is exactly the same as the previous one.

Book customers don’t like change, but they do want it, and they do respond to it. Gradually.

Guest Blogger: Lisa Hunter and Thinking Outside the Box

BS Chick: Lisa Hunter is the author of the upcoming book, The Intrepid Art Collector: The Beginner’s Guide to Finding, Buying, and Appreciating Art on a Budget, and runs a blog by the same name. She has long been in a contributor to the comments on this site, and as with Jean, I'm glad she can bring another look at the nonfiction side of the book market to us.

A Non-Fiction Author’s View of Bookstore Events
by Lisa Hunter


I always considered myself a writer -- until I became an author.

We non-fiction authors (even those of us who actually write our own books) don’t fit neatly into the bookselling world. We often have to promote our books in non-book venues instead. This was a big surprise to me.

When I was outlining my proposal for The Intrepid Art Collector: The Beginner’s Guide to Finding, Buying, and Appreciating Art on a Budget, I envisioned readings at the type of indie bookstores I spend so much time (and money) in myself. It seemed like a natural match: people who like books usually like art too, but might not have a lot of money or experience in the art market. That’s exactly who my book is for.

Apparently, I was naïve. A friend with publishing experience warned me not to expect any bookstore events at all for The Intrepid Art Collector. “Bookstores are only interested in fiction authors,” she told me dismissively. “You should look for other venues.”

Chastened, I reworked my marketing plan to emphasize events at galleries, museums, and art fairs. Those were relatively easy to arrange. I simply emailed the organizers and said basically: “Gee, you have all these people who are interested in buying art, and I have this book that tells them how to do it…” Done deal. I also set up a blog (http://www.howtobuyart.blogspot.com/) where new collectors could email me their art-buying questions and get same-day answers.

The bookstore component of my marketing plan was reduced to a single sentence: “I’d be happy to do in-store events as well.” To avoid looking clueless to potential publishers, I had cut the sections about why bookstore customers in resort towns, artsy neighborhoods and affluent suburbs might be interested in The Intrepid Art Collector.

My husband, who’s also a non-fiction author, promotes his books – Crafty Screenwriting and Crafty TV Writing -- in non-bookstore venues too. It’s funny: he’ll stand up in front of 200 people at a film festival event, or happily host a writing conference panel, but is terrified by the thought of a bookstore signing. What if no one comes?

Somehow, we’ve both internalized the view that bookstore audiences only want novelists.

Thus I felt a mix of surprise, delight, and terror when my publicists told me I had two readings at superstores. Instead of my usual lecture concerns (What do I say? What do I wear? – not necessarily in that order), I had a new worry: How do I avoid talking to a roomful of empty chairs?

Here, though, non-fiction authors may have an advantage. Publicity is much easier when you can describe your book in a nutshell (“It’s about how to buy original art without getting ripped off”), rather than fumbling to explain a complex narrative (“Um, it’s a literary coming-of-age about a girl named Kate who finds herself suddenly orphaned…”)

We’ll see whether that actually helps draw people to my readings. If it does, I might dust off my earlier marketing plan about doing indie bookstore events. After all, even though I’m not a novelist, I wrote my book for readers. Why not go where the readers are? Is that such a crazy idea?

Guest Blogger: Maya Reynolds and Writing Off Reactions

BS Chick: Maya Reynolds recently sold her first novel to NAL, does the speaking circuit and still finds time to run an ever informative blog, so I was delighted when she offered to guest blog here. Here's her take on writing, responses and reactions, which seems to reinforce my Mama's advice, "When you walk into a room immediately identify all possible exits. You never know when you'll need to get the hell out of there."

"Coming Out As A Writer" by Maya Reynolds

He says that he is often asked about things he rarely worries about: the covers to his books or movie rights. He tries to move the conversation to the actual craft of writing by asking, "Tell me about YOUR book." The response is always the same: "Oh, I haven't written it yet."

I’ve had that experience over and over. It used to be that, when people asked me how to find an agent or publisher, I’d ask questions about the genre of their manuscript or the type of agent they were looking for. These days--wiser and more cynical--I ask, “Do you have a finished manuscript?”

Frequently, the person making the inquiry is taken aback. "Can't I just send my idea?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, you need a finished manuscript first."

This is the point in the conversation I dread. About half of them then say,
"I could give you my idea, you could write it, and we could split the profits 50/50."

This is the also the moment when I seek a distraction that will permit me to escape. I'll say something like, "Gosh, don't those appetizers look good,” or “Oh, there’s that best-seller I’ve been wanting to read.” Once the other person turns his head, I’m outta there.

What I really want to do is say, "Hey! Writers WRITE. That's what they do. That's why they're called writers."

But I never do. I just smile and nod and look for a good place to hide.

Guest Blogger: Jean Zimmerman and the Un-Tour

BS Chick: Jean is the first of the guest bloggers for the week, and the author of Women of the House, a book (that I desperately want to read) on the life of Margaret Hardenbroeck, a she-merchant in 1600s New Amsterdam. Both she and her historical subject have proven that sometimes it comes down to sisters doin' it for themselves. It's great to have you here at the blog.

“We Have An Author In the Store”
by Jean Zimmerman

Tuesday, the first of August. On this hottest day of the summer of 2006, I spent most of the morning painting the deck railings. At 11 I came inside and sat at my desk. I looked at the phone. No calls.

It was my pub date. Shouldn’t I be at Elaine’s? Shouldn’t there be a fete of some kind? Telegrams of congratulations? (Do telegrams still even exist?) If a book falls in a forest, does it make a sound?

Welcome to the world of a mid-list, middle-aged, not to say middling author. I was putting out my fourth book, The Women of the House: How a Colonial She-Merchant Built a Mansion, a Fortune, and a Dynasty, a work of narrative non-fiction, a popular (I hoped it would be popular) history of four women in a Colonial-era New York family.

From my experience with my previous three books, I thought I had faced up to the Brave New World of post-millennial publishing – a world of limited p.r. budgets, cautious publishers and a brutally Malthusian marketplace. For most of us, the author tour was a thing of the past.

I loved my book. I wanted so much for it to succeed. What could I do to help it along? A phrase from Pound ran through my mind. Go, dumb-born book…

From the start I had been closely involved with the marketing and pubcity efforts made by Harcourt, my publisher, which had the best of intentions regarding my book but was crunched like any publisher in America. This, I decided, was the first responsibility of the Brave New World author – to be actively engaged, not passive, not sit-back-and-let-folks-do-their-job. My team at Harcourt, one of the last independent publishers, was great, and I liked and respected all of them. I swore that in this case, at least, there was going to be an “I” in team. They exhibited a characteristic of all true professionals – they were so good they encouraged me to be part of their process. Together we came up with lists of groups to target that might both welcome me as a speaker and buy my books. Yet as my pub date passed quietly, so, so quietly, I resolved that I would do more on my own to help my book succeed.

The day after my book pubbed, I began a bookstore blitzkrieg near my home in Westchester County – a self-designed, under-the-radar author’s tour, actually an “un-tour.”

At a local Barnes & Noble I skirted the discounted books, looking vainly among the new releases, new nonfiction, new hardcovers, new history. The clerk took a long time fiddling around with her computer terminal. “I guess we don’t have any copies,” she said finally. Nor did the next Barnes & Noble I visited. “Hmn,” he said, “It looks like none of our area stores ordered any copies.”

The landscape changed at Borders, which I expected. The Women of the House had been chosen by Borders as an Original Voice selection for August and September, a national program that was reserved usually for new and emerging writers, and to me it seemed a stroke of great good fortune that I had been invited into this coterie. The Borders store had the book displayed in five different spots, including the Original Voices case at the very front of the store, over a red tag with a witty review. I introduced myself at the information desk, signed stock, and inquired about participating in some kind of store event in the future. Another Borders store I visited also gave WOTH star billing. The floor clerk was a history buff himself, he said, and couldn’t wait to read the book.

Then that night it was back to another Barnes and Noble, a big one at a gigantic area mall. The store seemed to have every book in the world except The Women of the House. Once again, a search turned up zero copies in stock, with zero plans to order any. The clerk helpfully checked every area store. No copies would be on hand, as far as he knew – anywhere.

What was going on? How could I expect WOTH to sell if it had no presence in the country’s biggest bookstore chain? From my editor, I knew that Barnes and Noble had committed to ordering a good quantity. I sent her an email. “I am so happy about Borders!” I said. “But what about B & N? Where is my book? I’m invisible!” My editor swore she’d get to the bottom of it.

I spent a wretched weekend. Then, on Monday, the worm turned. I opened an email from my agent that forwarded a lucid explanation from a marketing exec at Harcourt for what she termed my book’s “choppy distribution path.” Barnes and Noble, it seemed, had stumbled in getting my book into the stores. But the good news far outweighed the bad. The company was eager to compensate for its error. Not only did it confirm its store order of just over 2,000 copies, to be shipped immediately, it would feature The Women of the House on the front tables of its top 200 stores in the major urban markets for two weeks, beginning the last week in August. The company made good on its offer pronto, and now I saw my book displayed along all the other current titles when I walked in the door of many B & N’s.

My first thought was, Cool! The falling through the cracks incident had actually worked out to my favor! My second thought was: what would have happened if I hadn’t done my un-tour of bookstores? The same old precept was rammed home once again. Ya gotta do it yourself. It’s a simple lesson, but a hard one for authors. It’s something we do all the time when we write books. Why not when we sell them?

With The Women of the House out for seven weeks, I am still cold- calling the chains. I’m growing accustomed to the person behind the information desk speaking into her mike, beckoning the manager: “We have an author in the store.” At first I thought the phrase sounded like a Ripley’s Believe It or Not, as though the clerk was saying, “We have an alien in the store.” But now, after my never-ending un-tour has continued, it sounds more natural.

I have found that store personnel I meet will go out of their way to reshelve my book to face front. They tell me it does make a difference for an author to come in; that they will remember to recommend the book to patrons. Store managers may not always have to time to meet with authors, but when they do they just might see a fit between your work and the readers who shop at their store, and work with you to set up a book talk or a session with a reading group. It’s never a pre-determined thing, what is going to happen when you drop in unannounced at the superstores. But more will happen than if you stayed home.

Fanatics Unite! (from a guest blogger)

In the last couple weeks, I’ve learned about Aquaman fans, notebook collectors, people obsessed with Jamba Juice, and so-called “case fanatics” who’ve been following – and trying to solve – the murder case of JonBenet Ramsey for years.

I don’t go looking for these passionate fanatics, but I do notice them – probably more than most people do. See, I spent the last three years zig-zagging the country while working on a book about passionate fanatics called WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? Among other people, I studied pigeon racers and Barbie collectors and furries and Grobanites, which are middle-aged women who are over-the-top in love with the singer Josh Groban.

When people ask why I was interested in the topic (which, I’ve since learned, is merely a polite way of asking, “Why the hell would you want to hang out with such weirdos?”), I tell them it’s because I don’t have an obsession-passion-call-it-what-you-will thing.

My official research has ended, the book is out, but I’m still fascinated by the fascinations of others. And as I give media interviews, I realize other people are as well. The radio shows I’ve been on are jammed with callers eager to talk about the quirky fanatics they know: the geologist who doesn’t like anything younger than 25 million years, the Oakland Raiders fan with the specially made dental crown, the guy who loves Frisbee golf so much he even plays in the snow. Everyone I speak with (and I mean everyone) has a story of some “crazy” obsessive in their life.

So… Bookseller Chick asked me: What is it about fanaticism that captures our attention? Why are books like mine or the Orchid Thief or The Big Year or Confederates in the Attic still being published to receptive audiences?

I’ve got four theories:

1. Because there are an endless supply of fascinations out there, and the variety itself can boggle the mind. Get on Meetup.com, and you’ll find groups organized around beekeeping, cake decorating, dumpster diving, Elvis, flashlights, graffiti, juggling, magic, poi, pugs, robotics, roller coasters, scrapbooks, skyscrapers, yo-yos, Ukrainian eggs and hundreds of other interests. The endless variety of these groups, and the secret insider language and rituals they develop, are mystifying and entertaining to those on the outside.

2. Because these fanatical groups help us better understand who we are as individuals. An added bonus: classifying someone as a “weirdo” helps us feel better about ourselves. Social psychologists call this the theory of social comparison. According to this theory, how we feel about ourselves is largely based upon who we compare ourselves to. When we see someone dressed in a Stormtrooper costume, or dusting off their display of 5,000 Hot Wheels, or wearing a Cheesehead to a football game, it’s easy for those of us who don’t share the fascination to ridicule it, and in so doing, slightly elevate our own self-conception. (Sorry. But it’s true. I know from personal experience.)

3. No one thinks that they are fanatical. Several months ago, I sat transfixed as a friend unraveled two hour’s worth of details about The Sound of Music and all its stars and where it was filmed and how and why the movie had affected her so much. This woman, who’s highly educated, speaks several languages and grew up abroad, was so over-the-top in love with The Sound of Music that she’d attend Sound of Music sing-alongs. The event attracts fans dressed in lederhosen and nun habits and Nazi uniforms, all of whom watch the movie on a big screen and, as the name suggests, sing along.

“But I’m not a fanatic,” she assured me. “I’m not like most of the people who go to the sing-along.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“They dress up,” she said. “I would never do that.”

As this friend nicely illustrates -- we never view ourselves as “crazy." That’s why it’s fun to read about others who are.

4. Finally, I think books about fanatics (particularly narrative nonfiction books) continue to sell for the same reason all good stories sell: Because they lift the veil on some aspect of the human condition, and in so doing, help readers understand their own world a little better.

So….. here’s my invitation: I truly believe we all have some kind of micro-interest with which we express the quirky, colorful sides of ourselves. Post a comment confessing to your own fanatical passion and the poster who demonstrates the most colorful, unusual or obsessive fascination will win a free signed copy of my book, WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?

--Shari Caudron

Links and Lessons: Reading Lists, Success, and Food Tasting (Oh Joy!)

The sun is out, the air is warm, and I have a Mother’s Day Brunch to get to, but I thought I’d share a few things first:

• Found via Big A Little a, Slayground has compiled several children’s reading lists featuring themes like strong women, school settings, books for young boys, and fairy tales retold. Since y’all seem to like lists, I thought you would be interested.


• Conversational Reading has a great column (with links to other columns) about pushy publicists (found via Booksquare).


• Mapletree7 of Book of the Day is doing her own survey of the best books of the last 25 years because she feels we bloggers we snubbed. Given that y’all have been so delightfully responsive about the midlist authors, I say head on over and help her out.


• Because they are contrary as well as Smart Bitches, the ladies at Smart Bitches Love Trashy Novels have decided to come up with the list of the worst books in the last 25 years. It appears to be focused on, but not limited to, romance fiction.


• The list of Midlist, it grows daily, but even better, I’ve heard back from the first round of authors I contacted. Success! In the coming days and weeks we’ll be having interviews or guestblogs or something wacky and crazy, I’m sure. But to kick this author crazed event off, we have this little teaser from Maria V. Snyder, the author of Poison Study, on how to be a food taster:

How to Become a Food Taster in 5 Easy Steps:

1. Amass a file folder full of technical articles on tasting. Having a husband who is an expert in “tasting” and has a degree in engineering helps. Just show appropriate interest to husband and wait.

2. Read and digest technical articles (more than you thought possible). Titles range from the intriguing, “Learning and Speaking the Language of Flavor,” to the scientific, “The Flavor-Fusion Illusion; The Psychology of Flavor,” to the fun, waist-expanding, “How to be a Knowledgeable and Discriminating Ice Cream Gourmet.” At the end of this step, you will know more about the tongue than you really wanted to know (trust me!).

3. Learn about the appropriate tasting methods. Tasting is not just about the flavor, it’s a complex mixture of sensory data. The smell, how food feels in the mouth or “mouthfeel,” and even how it looks are all important. Or you can use the classic 11-year-old boy quick, “If it smells good, it’ll taste good,” test for unknown edibles.

4. Practice methods learned in step three using chocolate (Why use anything else?). Examine the chocolate. Is it smooth? Does it give a nice clean snap when broken in half? Free of that white stuff (i.e. bloom)? Smell it. Put a piece in your mouth. Let it melt and coat your tongue. Swallow a little bit to cover the back of your tongue. How does it feel in your mouth? How does it taste? Gritty? Bitter? Fruity? Sweet? After you swallow it note the aftertaste. Make notes (or not, depends on your ability to remember). Drink some room temperature water to cleanse the palate. Repeat analysis with different chocolates as many times as needed (if questioned, tell others with a haughty air, that you’re eating chocolate for science). After sampling, compare and determine the best one. How? The best one will be the chocolate you liked the most.

5. Use these methods on all kinds of food and impress friends and relatives. And if you encounter any “off” flavors, “strange” smells, or “unusual” tastes in your meal, review your recent history. Fired anyone? Cut someone off on the highway? Forgot to send your mother flowers on Mother’s Day? If the answer is “yes” to any or all questions, throw food away and don’t feed it to your dog (unless you’re looking to get a new dog).

Good things to know if you ever find yourself the forced foodtaster for a dictator. Are you intrigued enough about these points to learn more about her book? Will this help?

About to be executed for murder, Yelena is offered an extraordinary reprieve. She'll eat the best meals, have rooms in the palace--and risk assassination by anyone trying to kill the Commander of ixia. And so Yelena chooses to become a food taster. But the chief of security, leaving nothing to chance, deliberately feeds her Butterfly Dust--and only by appearing for her daily antidote will she delay the agonizing death from the poison. As Yelena tries to escape her new dilemma, disasters keep mounting. Rebels plot to seize ixia and Yelena develops magical powers she can't control. Her life is threatened again and choices must be made. But this time the outcomes aren't so clear...


Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers! Hope you get some nice cards, some warm hugs, and bit o' the sparkly.

Guest Blogs and Questionable Appearances

Just wanted to let you know that I have a guest blog up at Buzz, Balls & Hype. The wonderful Robert Gray of Fresh Eyes offered me the chance last week--thank you, thank you, thank you--but I had no idea when it would debut (can blogs debut?). If you've got time to kill, go check out my thoughts on chains in 500 words or less, and laugh at the fact that I forgot to hit the talking points of who I was and where to find me, forcing MJ or Bob to tack on the information to the title.

Talking points. Sheesh. I'd never make it as an author.

In other news, the Written Nerd's blog on bookstore cleanliness got me thinking about bookseller appearance. How do you identify a bookseller in your local store? Are you okay with them wearing jeans and a tee shirt, or do you expect slacks and a button-down? Do you care at all as long as they don't smell or do you expect a professional appearance to go with a professional demeanor?

Just wondering.

And since it continues to be a tight race, please go vote in the poll.