Bryant Park, etc.

It’s over.  As predicted I was a wreck.  Snarling at First Reader. Had no caffeine before boarding the bus.

Once in got some caffeine.  Still snarling.  Finally met up with the others at Coliseum Books.  I’d never met the other writers before.  Cynthia Baxter, Carol Goodman, Laura Lippmam and Gammy Singer, the moderator. They were all friendly and charming.  I had no idea Laura was so tall.  I also met Lindsey Benoit, my publicist.  Also lovely.

We trooped over to the Bryant Park venue.  I was still shaky.  First Reader had gone on ahead to get a seat.  It was hot.  But the setting was beautiful.  There was a very big crowd. We took our seats and we were off.  I made sure I wasn’t the first to be asked a question by not sitting at either end.  I didn’t have to knock anyone over to accomplish this.

Once I was into it I was fine.  Why can’t I remember this?  It all went well.  Everyone was smart and articulate.  There were questions from the audience and then it was over.  We all signed books for people and the store.

Even though it would be considered a success I was so happy to have it over.

And now I can dread July 13th at Borders.  This is worse because I’ll be alone.  And I’ll have to read from the book.

What if no one comes?

Interviews, etc.

It’s starting.  Yesterday I had to have my picture taken for the local paper.  It was hell.  I’m completely unphotogenic.  I’ve twice had pros, who do authors, take my picture and it took rolls and rolls and rolls of film to get one.

This photo will go with an interview that will appear on page 2 of this paper.  The interview is in two hours.  I’m meeting the writer at a cafe that has gelato so that’s a plus.  I know the writer so that’s another plus.  I think.  I’ve never been interviewed by someone I know.

At any rate, this is great exposure for me and I’m delighted that the paper wanted to do this.  So I’m not complaining even if it seems I am.  As always, what I’m trying to do is show what it’s like to have a book published if you’re in my league and not a star.

Speaking of stars, I read in the paper today that big name crime writers are getting gigs at casinos.  Now that I wouldn’t mind as I love to gamble.  Who am I kidding?  I’d be terrified to speak in front of 1200 people as Janet Evanovich did.  And just to ward off the comments I’m not knocking Evanovich for doing this.  I wish I had her smarts about these things. And, of course, I wish I had her sales!

Wednesday the 28th I’m appearing on a panel in Bryant Park in New York with Cynthia Baxter, Carol Goodman and Laura Lippman.  Gammy Singer is the moderator.  I’ve never met any of these writers.  I’ve exchanged email with some.  And I’m very honored to have been asked to appear with them.  But right now, as I sit and think about this, I’d rather be dead.

It scares me.  Simple as that.  You’d think after all this time, having gone on book tours, I’d be over that.  But I’m not and probably never will be.  It’s a fact of my life.

Some writers love this sort of thing.  I mean really, really love it.  I know there has to be some who feel the way I do, but I never seem to meet them.

I won’t even go into the Borders reading that’s coming up in July.  Not now I won’t.

So why do I do these things if I hate them?  Because I’m asked to.  I want to be cooperative and if the publicity person thinks it’s worth doing I have to believe her.  And btw, this new one is great.  Her name is Lindsey Benoit, in case anyone reading this is ever lucky enough to work with her.  I’ll actually meet her on the 28th.

This isn’t a reading we’re doing.  We’re answering questions posed by the moderator and then some from the audience.  Here are my fears:  what if I don’t know how to answer?; what if I sound stupid?; what if my mind goes blank? what if no one from the audience asks me a question?  Ah, see.  I’m of two minds.

Believe me, if I wasn’t asked to do this or other events I’d be mad.  I’d feel left out.  Abandoned. Dissed.

Still, I’d rather stay in my room.

Checking In

The Guilt Meter says I’m doing very well.  In the first week I’d be guilty in the morning (that’s when I write) and fine in the afternoon.  On Friday I went to the movies, but I often do that when I’m writing so guilt didn’t register.

This week no guilt.  A feeling of freedom.

But I’m still in the game because my new book is about to come out and I’ve been getting reviews both print and online.  So far all have been good.  And I’ll be making a few appearances, readings and panels, etc.  I’ll list them when I feel strong about working on the code.  Right now anyone who wishes to see them can go to my website.

The big surpise is that I don’t seem to have enough time to do everything I have to do and want to do.  How is that possible?  I did these same things before and wrote, too.  It’s one of those things that doesn’t add up or make sense. 

I’ve done a lot of reading but still haven’t caught up with email.   And my addiction to buying books has been arrested for the time being, I think.  I only have one book coming.  Hate that.

Quote

"My task...is to make you hear, to make you feel - and, above all, to make you see. That is all, and it is everything."

Joseph Conrad

Decision and Guilt

Okay, I lied.  I didn’t go back to work on June 5th.  Or 6th.  Or today.  I made a decision over the weekend that I was going to take the summer off.  I’ve been wanting a whole summer for decades.

Maybe if I were on a roll with this book I’d keep going now.  But I’m not.  And as I’ve said ad nauseum, no one is waiting for this novel.

But what to do about the guilt?  I feel it in my gut.  If this is going to continue I’m going to have to write.  And I really don’t want to now.  If I have to go back to writing the book will suffer. 

I’ve published 19 novels.  I should get points for that.  I know Ed McBain published over a hundred (I think) wrote from 9 to 6 and never took off a day. I don’t think he did.  The McBain historians are welcome to correct me.  But even if I’m off by this or that, the man still wrote and published all the time. 

I’m not comparing myself to him in anyway, how could I?  I’m just using him as an example of someone who wrote and wrote and here I am having published 19 and thinking I need a vacation.

It’s not so much need as want.  But what fun is it going to be with a fist in my stomach?  I’m hoping this will go away.  I want to spend a lot of time reading.  And if it ever stops raining I want to lie in my hammock to do that.

Also, I’ll be able to stay up for the Yankee games if they run late.  I’ll be able to do a lot of things I can’t do when I’m on my writing schedule.  Not feeling the way I do today, however.

I’ll just have to wait and see.  Maybe I’ll ease into this thing.

I fully intend to start writing again after Labor Day.  Go back to work like everybody else.

I’ll continue to post here about things that have to do with writing.  And I’ll try not to whine about my guilt.

"A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."

Thomas Mann

Death

I was listening to the author of The Book Thief on the radio this morning and it started me thinking.  Not about death because I think of that daily.  But rather that I make death happen all the time.  We in the crime field do it constantly.

I kill people a lot.  And I do it cavalierly. I hit some keys and it’s done.  I murder someone.  That character is dead. 

I read about it all the time, too.  Death.  It’s not hard for me to read.  Or write.  And yet I fear it.  So what are we all doing, we crime writers?  We dispatch people like we’re tossing away a candy wrapper.  It doesn’t mean anything to me. 

I’m always amazed by people who say “I can’t read Z kind of book because it’s too upsetting.  Murders and all.”  They’re talking about fiction.  I never get upset or frightened by death in a movie because I know it’s a movie.

But I do get upset by the idea of death.  Mostly my own.  Many friends have died over the years and that was hard.  It wasn’t fiction and I felt it.  Still, the idea of my own death can give me chills.

And yet I write about it.  Not my own, of course.  But death in all it’s guises.  Nothing is off limits for me to write.  Or read.  Except the graphic death of an animal or a child.  Don’t want to write that either.  Won’t. I’ve written about a child found dead, but I don’t want to go much beyond that.

Nothing scares me more than knowing I’m going to die.  Yet I’ve chosen a genre that relies on death.  When I’m writing a murder scene I never think about my own death.  Perhaps I use this as a technique to keep death away from me.  It’s very convoluted if that’s what I’m doing.  And stupid.

Because I’m going to die.  No matter what I do.  No matter how many times I joke and say I’m not going.  I’m going.  And so are all the crime writers in the world.  I think we’re all very strange.

Circumstances

Last Monday I finished the chapter I was working on.  That was the last time I wrote anything. 

This week I’m not writing either.  I have a lot of reasons…things I’m doing and having a birthday.  You see, this not having a contract leaves me pretty free to do what I want.

I’ll start again on June 5th.  Yeah, I will.  Even if I don’t feel like it.

Quote

"Writing fiction has developed in me an abiding respect for the unknown in a human lifetime and a sense of where to look for the threads, how to follow, how to connect, find in the thick of the tangle what clear line persists."

Eudora Welty

As Time Goes By

That’s what it feels like today. 

Last week I did pretty well with this thing I’m writing.  But, of course, as predicted, by this Monday I hated it.

I wrote a paragraph that day.  Nothing Tuesday. Another page today.  I feel stuck.  My mind is all over the place except on the novel.  Instead of writing a book I’m buying books. From everywhere. Especially England.  I know this is an addiction because there’s no way I will ever read them all.  But it isn’t the reading, is it?  Although I read plenty of them.  It’s in the ordering, the arriving, the opening, the smelling of the book, the reading of the quotes, the dedication, the first line.

The above almost sounds like a drug addiction.  I don’t know this first hand, but it seems that drug addiction has rituals unlike drinking.  Yes, drinking has some, but not like shooting up.  At least it’s not that way in what I read.  The drugs, I mean.  Heroin.  My heroin is books.

But I’m supposed to be writing one.  Today I feel that I’d be happy if I never wrote another word.  Maybe I won’t.