Rainbows, Waterfalls, Whales, Lava & Broken Aircraft

At the risk of making all you readers of the Stiff jealous, I decided to share my well needed journey to the Hawaiian Islands and a few of the highlights we had along the way. Two weeks ago, while Jennie Bentley was taking liberties with embarrassing moments, I was enjoying life with the BW (Beautiful Wife.) Speaking of broken aircraft, things started out quickly. We arrived in Denver to find our flight to Kona delayed with a broken collision avoidance system. 5 hours later with a new module and CAS antenna, we were winging our way to paradise. The very next day, we boarded a Hughs helicopter with the doors off and chattering our way over the lava fields to see Kiluea erupting. In case you don't know, the Big Island is made of 3 volcanos, Mauna Loa, Mauna Kea and Kiluea, with the last one being the active volcano.


Linda and I with Pilot Joyce and Jack

Yes, having the doors off created a breezy trip and a little scary at first, but the scary stuff happened a little later. So, we found ourselves winging our way to the volcano with nothing between us and a thousand foot drop but a standard lap belt. Things were going pretty good. It was windy, cool and wild. We flew straight to the spot where Kiluea is pouring lava into the ocean with great fury. Steam boiled out of the ocean and we even got a glimpse of the RED lava.





Next we found out the hard way that you shouldn’t get in the way of Mother Nature. Jack found that out too. Who is Jack, you ask? Jack (pictured above) is a guy that built his dream home in a subdivision on the southern slope of Kiluea. We landed the helicopter in front of Jack's house and took a hike Jack.



Jack's house looks nice and peaceful, however, if you could pan back a bit, you'd see that this little oasis is surrounded by miles of lava. Some time ago, Kiluea threw the residents of Jack's subdivision a curve ball and lava started spewing from a new vent, sending countless tons of molten lava right through the subdivision, destroying all the homes except Jack's. As beautiful as it looks, Jack is cut off from the world; no utilities, no road and a 3 1/2 mile hike across the razor sharp lava fields to where he parks his car to go to town for supplies. His home has a small generator to power his television, a few lights and his satellite dish and small bottles of propane gas to cook with.

The end of the road for Jack

After spending 20 minutes on the ground with Jack, we hopped back into the Hugh's helicopter while Joyce revved it up. Just when the rotors started spinning, a buzzer sounded and Joyce wound it down. Three tries later, she announced that it was here first day in this chopper (something I really didn't need to know) and we were grounded with a broken helicopter. I got out and asked Jack for a pair of jumper cables and just as quick he replied that he had cables, but his car was 3 1/2 miles away. I asked him what was for dinner. As linda and I prepared ourselves for a long walk, Steve came to the rescue. Steve was another helicopter pilot with a working chopper and he took us on the rest of our tour. Steve showed us a few sky vents where the crust had broken and you could see molten lava flowing beneath.

The caldera of Kiluea. Madam Pele's home.

The Rift Zone

After a nice landing, Steve dropped us off and picked up the passengers he left at Jack's house for the rest of their trip. Linda and I headed for the end of the road. Lava recently covered Highway 130 45 minutes south of Hilo. When the trade winds shift to blow the VOG (hazardous volcanic atmosphere out to sea the viewing area opens and you can drive a mile or so across a makeshift one lane road laid over the lava flow to a parking area then hike a half mile to the viewing area where the lava flows into the sea. After the sun sets, the view is spectacular with 2000 degree lave violently clashing with the cold ocean spewing steam and glowing lava chunks a hundred feet in the air. Unfortunately, with my little camera, I couldn't get a decent picture.

That dark 3 hour drive on winding steep mist covered roads back to the Kohala Coast was a bit nervewracking, but we did make it back to the Hapuna Prince Resort where we planned another thing we had to do before leaving for Maui.

The Hapuna Prince

A few days later, we headed for the Kona Airport to find some grafitti, Hawaiian style.

Sometimes you wonder where traditions begin. Many traditions help to form who we are and others become memories of times gone by. Here on the Big Island of Hawaii, there are many traditions. Hawaiians are proud of their heritage and keep up with the traditions so as not to lose touch with who they are as a people. Of course there are Luaus’ and Hula, and then there’s Madam Pele.

I’m really not sure if you’d call it tradition or superstition, but of course you NEVER bring home lava. There are all kinds of stories about bad luck following those people whoo have dared to bring home a chunk of lava in their suitcases. There are many stories of people mailing the lava back to Volcano’s State Park to try to stem the tide of bad luck.

But this blog is about a tradition that must have been started by tourists visiting the island and it’s been going on for years. For miles (roughly 15 miles) along the stretch of Highway 19 near the Kona Airport, there is what can only be described as Hawaiian Graffiti. I can only imagine that once, long ago, some savvy traveler noticed the slate of midnight black lava that covers the landscape. No doubt they had visions of chalkboards from their school days. They probably saw the plentiful water worn white coral that splashes up with the waves on some of the black sand beaches and got an idea. An idea to memorialize their visit to the Big Island and leave their mark. You will find all kinds of messages; love, death, words of wit and just plain names and initials. There are many memorials built to loved ones who have passed.

Of course there are no rules other than common sense, but etiquette says not to disturb the messages others have taken the time and effort to build. And I’ll tell you, it is a chore to bring coral from the sea in enough quantity and then either stoop and build or try to sit gently on the razor sharp lava to complete your works of art.

Way back in 2000, nine years ago, I happened to be on a business trip with two environmental consultants and good friends, Simon Wakin and Pam Hesterberg. We had business on every island and I didn’t have my wife Linda with me. SO, being the romantic type, I noticed all these messages and thought how cool it would be to leave a message for Linda and take a picture. So, with my friends at my side (they were off the official payroll as consultants and you can only ask friends to help you toil away like that), we found a lot of loose coral and a nice clean slate on the Pa Hoi Hoi (smooth lava) and went to work. I took pictures and my wife loved me. In the biblical sense.

Two years later, Linda and I returned and hunted for her memorial. With a relatively fresh memory it wasn’t hard to find though we were rather shocked to see it intact after two years. Okay, so here it is 2009; nine years after it was built and seven year after the last time I saw it. Memories were dim of location, but we had to find out. Could this delicate message have withstood seven years of wind, rain and tourism?

A few days ago, Linda and I left the Hapuna Prince Resort and headed south on Highway 19. I called my friends Simon and Pam hoping they could refresh my memory of where we had built it. There are few landmarks to use as reference as Simon reminded me. Pam only knew it was near the airport. SO we drove, as slowly as I could considering traffic. With the speed limit of 55 MPH, those messages are just blurs. My eyes were occupied with the road and my wife’s eyes are not as good as they were. For near fifteen miles we searched and then, some visual stimulus hit me. I slowed the car and made the statement, “It’s right in here. I’m sure of it.”



Well, the first pass by we missed it, so I turned around and went back, this time parking on the side of the road and the half mile stretch of smooth lava. It took about ten minutes and I saw it. The “L” was a little disheveled and the “A” had fallen asunder, but there it was. Linda’s Big Island memorial. We took a half hour for some well needed maintenance and viola, my beautiful wife’s memorial is ready for another ten years or more.



We took another thirty minutes to work on another project. No, we didn’t build a memorial to our children, Kelly, Kristen and Kaitlin. We worked on a tribute to the hard work I’ve been doing the past four years. You’ll have to see it below.





A few days later, the next surprise came along. We went to the Kona Airport for our flight on Pacific Wings to Maui. Now I knew I booked a small plane, but I wasn't prepared for just how small. We got dropped off at the "Air Tours" section of the airport where we sat outside with our luggage until a small plane sputtered up. The pilot jumped out, started weighing us and our luggage. Then told us to drag the luggage at the chain link fince gate where we waited for the pilot to punch in the code to let us in. No TSA, no metal detectors, no xray. The plane was a Cessana Caravan. Reminded me of a Dodge Caravan. Kind of road like one too, especially in the unexpected 40 knot winds.



I have to tell you, when we rounded Haleakala on Maui, we hit the winds and the plane dropped 30 to 50 feet in a micro-second. I watched as the pilot wrestled the yoke as the wings diped and the plane bounced all the way to the runway. Quite the experience.

Instead of boring you with the details of Maui, I'll leave you with pictures of whales, dolphins, snorkling, sunsets, rainbows and two happy people.

Scenes from our 3 whale watching excursions.

Spinner Dolphins off the coast of Lanai, from above in our 28 foot raft and below with my cheap underwater disposable camera.





Some of my snorkling pictures. The turtle was off the coast of the Big Island.









Rainbows, sunsets, the gorgeous wife and I and me on top of Haleakula Volcano on Maui. BTW, the ride up is one of the greatest elevation changes you can take an automobile on. It goes from 0 feet to over 10,000 feet. Pikes peak for example goes from 8,000 feet to 12,500 or so. Only about 5,ooo foot change.




And I'll leave you with a little self promotion. This trip really was "A REASON FOR LIVING."

Your First Draft Doesn't Have to Suck

by L.J. Sellers


Many writers think a first draft of a novel has to be crappy. Anne Lamott in her nonfiction book about writing, Bird by Bird, has a chapter called Shitty First Drafts. A recent Murderati blog post was titled, “Your first draft is always going to suck.”

I respectfully disagree. Of course, no first draft is publishable as is, but it doesn’t have to suck either. There’s no reason a novelist can’t craft a readable first draft that needs only minor revisions in the second round. Every writer has his/her own style, but my personal belief is that if you start your journey with a good road map and a tangible destination, you won’t get lost.

In other words, I believe I write decent first drafts. Which saves me a lot of time and trouble. How do I do it? With a lot of advance planning. These ideas may only be workable for crime fiction, but here’s how I craft a great first draft without any gaping holes or illogical twists:

1. Create an outline. Once I have a basic story idea (comprised of an exciting incident, major plot developments, and overview ending), I start filling in the details. I structure my outline by days (Tuesday, Wed., etc.), then outline the basic events/scenes that happen on each day, noting which POV the section will be told from. For police procedurals (and most mysteries), in which everything happens in a very short period of time, this seems essential. Some people (like Stephen King) tell you not to outline, that it ruins creativity. Again, I disagree. So I fill in as much detail as I can at this point, especially for the first ten chapters and/or plot developments.

2. Write out the story logic. In a mystery/suspense novel, much of what happens before and during the story timeline is off page — actions by the perpetrators that the detective and reader learn of after the fact. Many of these events and/or motives are not revealed until the end of the story. I worry that I won’t be able to convey to readers how and why it all happened. So I map it out—all the connections, events, and motivations that take place on and off the page. Bad guy Bob knows bad guy Ray from prison. Bob meets young girl at homeless shelter. Young girl tells Bob about the money she found . . .

3. Beef up the outline. As I write the first 50 pages or so, new ideas come to me and I fill in the rest of outline as I go along. I continue adding to the outline, and by about the middle of the story, I have it completed.

4. Create a timeline. A lot happens in my stories, which usually take place in about six to ten days. I keep the timeline filled in as I write the story. This way I can always look at my timeline and know exactly when an important event took place (Monday, 8 a.m.: Jackson interrogates Gorman in the jail). It’s much faster to check the timeline than scroll through a 350-page Word document. The timeline also keeps me from writing an impossible number of events into a 24-hour day.

5. Keep an idea/problem journal. I constantly get ideas for other parts of the story or realize things I need to change, so I enter these notes into a Word file as I think of them. (Ryan needs to see Lexa earlier in the story, where?). I keep this file open as I write. Some ideas never get used, but some prove to be crucial. Eventually, all the problems get resolved as well. I use the Notebook layout feature in Word for this so I can keep the outline, timeline, notes, problems, and evidence all in the same file, using different tabs. I love this feature.

6. Keep an evidence file. This idea won’t apply to romance novels, but for crime stories, it’s useful. I make note of every piece of evidence that I introduce and every idea I get for evidence that I want to introduce. I refer to this file regularly as I write, so that I’m sure to process and/or explain all the evidence before the story ends. In my first novel (The Sex Club) , a pair of orange panties didn’t make it into the file or the wrap up, and sure enough, a book club discussion leader asked me who they belonged to.

7. Update my character database. It took me a few stories to finally put all my character information into one database, but it was a worthwhile effort. Now, as I write, I enter each character name (even throwaway people who never come up again) into the database, including their function, any physical description, or any other information such as phone number, address, type of car, or favorite music. Now, when I need to know what I named someone earlier in the story or in a previous novel, it’s right there in my Excel database (Zeke Palmers; morgue assistant; short, with gray ponytail). For information about how to set up a file like this, see How to Create a Character Database.

As a general rule, I like to get the whole story down on the page before I do much rewriting, but I’ve learned to stop at 50 pages for two reasons. One, I like to go back and polish the first chunk of the story in case an agent or editor asks to see it. Two, I usually give this first chunk to a few beta readers to see if I’m on the right track. So far, I have been.

Do your first drafts suck? What’s the worst problem you’ve encountered in a first draft?

L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist, editor, novelist, and occasional standup comic based in Eugene, Oregon. She is the author of the highly praised mystery/suspense novel, The Sex Club, and has a second Detective Jackson story, Secrets to Die For, coming out in September. When not plotting murders, Sellers enjoys cycling through the Willamette Valley, hanging out with her extended family, and editing fiction manuscripts.

Contests, Pitches, and Queries

by Joyce

This past week, I came across two interesting contests.

On Nathan Bransford's blog, he hosted an Agent for a Day contest. Throughout the day, he posted 50 queries. Readers of the blog were invited to pretend they were agents and either reject or request the manuscript using the comment section. In the mix, Nathan included two queries of books that were to be published soon, and one query from a published book of an NYT bestselling author to see how many of the faux agents could pick them out.

I didn't participate, but I did read through many of the queries and comments, and I picked out the NYT bestseller, but only because I read the book. The comments were interesting. Some people took the time to come up with actual rejection letters, and others gave queriers pointers on how to improve their queries. Although it was only a small sample of what agents do for a living, I think it opened a lot of eyes. One thing I learned is that when agents say "it's not for me" that's exactly what they mean. Even though there were many good queries, and many books that sounded interesting, I would have rejected most of them. They just didn't "do it" for me.

If anyone is interested in trying it out, I believe the Agent for a Day contest is open until Saturday. Even if you don't participate, read some of the queries and comments. You'll probably find as I did, that the pitch is what's most important in a query. After I read a few, I skipped over any introductions, bios, etc., to get to the meat of the letter. Something to keep in mind for anyone crafting a query. Put the pitch first and it damn well better be a good one!

On the Query Tracker blog, agent Joanna Stampfel-Volpe offered to read one-sentence pitches. The winner gets his or her full manuscript read by Joanna. I have a feeling she might be regretting that offer right now as they had over 300 submissions in a four hour time period. And I'll admit--one of the pitches was mine. I couldn't resist boiling down a whole book into one sentence.

These are both good sites for anyone who is going to the Pennwriters Conference (or any conference, for that matter) next month. Even if you don't have a pitch session scheduled, you never know when you might need that one sentence pitch, or even a 30 second pitch you can use while you're chatting with the agent in the bar and waiting for the margaritas to arrive.

How many of you have short pitches ready for those occasions? How short can you get your pitch? Anyone want to give it a shot?

The Day in Pictures

by Annette Dashofy

I thought I'd share some of the photographs I took to document my day last Thursday. Many of you may have watched the news footage of the memorial service for Pittsburgh's fallen heroes, but these are snapshots from a simple volunteer on the street.

My Citizen's Police Academy Alumni group was told to meet at 8AM at Heinz Field. I wasn't entirely sure what I was going to be doing. Turns out, we were directing the incoming police vehicles from all across the country into different parking lots according to whether they were just going to the service at the Petersen's Event Center or whether they were going to one of the graveside services, as well.

This is one of the lots early on.

There were an incredible number of motorcycles, too. At one point, two officers with less dressy uniforms, obviously from a smaller department checked out the bikes and where they were from and I overheard one say to the other, "Even THEY have a motorcycle!"

Motorcycle envy?

This is the Allegheny County Police Memorial with three wreaths and pictures of our heroes: Stephen Mayhle, Paul Sciullo II, and Eric Kelly.

This is part of the line of police vehicles coming into the Heinz Field parking lot.

Once our job was done, the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police provided a bus to take us to the memorial service. We made it out of the parking lot ahead of everyone else and were feeling quiet pleased with ourselves for getting onto the highway and into Oakland before the roads were closed to traffic. We slipped into the lanes that were being barracaded for the processional and buzzed past miles of traffic gridlock.

Then the bus broke down. In the middle of the procession route. We debated about pushing it, but eventually we abandoned ship once the driver assured us a tow truck was in route.

This is the last we saw of that bus:

We made our way on foot up the long climb to the Petersen. It was a lovely day for a walk. Once there, we settled in to watch officers from all across the US and Canada arrive. They hiked up the same hill we did.

Once they arrived, they started filling in the steps in front of the Petersen.

These guys were with the New Jersey State Police and were SHARP in their pale blue dress uniforms.

More officers and more officers made their way up the hill and up the steps.

Then came three riderless horses:

All officers stood at attention and saluted as the hearses carrying the heroes drove past.

This was my view from inside. Not the close-ups provided by the TV crews, but an awe inspiring overview of the police brotherhood.

I was grateful for the chance to help and to be part of such a day. And I pray we never have to experience anything like it again.

Seeking Buried Treasure

By Martha Reed

I’ve written before that my family decided to sell its summer cottage and the sale went through on April 1st, no joke. It’s kind of sad that a huge piece of my past is gone but I’m a mature adult, and I’ve learned that there comes a time when you have to take a real look at a particular situation, make the best decision you can and move on. A divorce lawyer friend of mine who has seen a lot of extreme decision-making says: ‘sometimes you just have to staunch the bleeding’ and I think he’s right.

So last summer while everyone else was going through the cottage packing up ragged quilts and chipped china candlesticks of course I was going through the damp musty old bookshelves in the back room searching for gems and treasure. I did find one or two early Dorothy L. Sayers and Baroness Orczy and one crumbling leather-bound Mary Roberts Rinehart. After I had gone through them all and filled two paper shopping bags I still managed to cram another half dozen into my suitcase in a desperate attempt to leave no friend behind rather like a bookworm Navy SEAL. Some of the books were so old and sun faded I couldn’t even read the titles printed in faint gilt along their spines but there was something priceless and wonderful about their binding that caught my eye so that when they called out to me to save them I smuggled them to safety, too.

I’ve been working my way through these books all winter long and it has been a real eye-opener. Modern-day readers simply wouldn’t put up with the pacing of some of these old classics – there’s no ‘ooomph’ to them; no car chases, no sex. One of them had a train wreck in it and because I’ve never ridden on a train I didn’t figure out what was actually happening for three pages and then had to backtrack to find out why one of the main characters suddenly caught fire. Others have narrative voices so slow and measured its sounds almost like a funereal cadence which tells me worlds not only about the way writers thought and wrote but also how their readers lived and read and conversed in the time between the two great World Wars. People must have had hours of leisure time and the desire to read literate critical opinions and not merely process data disguised as prose like we do today. The narrative voice was chummier, too, and not nearly so removed and invisible as our current modern third person omniscient viewpoint.

I’d love to see an example of the fiction from a hundred years from now.

One of the gems I discovered was a small volume of discourse from A. Conan Doyle titled THROUGH THE MAGIC DOOR. In this calm little volume the creator of Sherlock Holmes and the inimitable Dr. Watson makes himself comfortable on his green settee and critically discusses the books he could see on his bookshelf and why he liked each one of them. It’s a friendly, warm, measured conversation and tremendously soothing to the overactive modern mind. Of course, some of the opinions expressed are shockingly chauvinistic for our modern ears – for example, I’m on page 187 and he’s only mentioned women authors twice so far: a minor tip of the hat to the Bronte sisters and one passing reference to Jane Austen but if you can keep Conan Doyle’s masculine society in context there is a lot of insight and humor to treasure, like this:



“I confess to having a strong belief in the critical discernment of the public. I do not think that good work is often overlooked. Literature, like water, finds its true level. … Sheridan said that if all the fleas in his bed had been unanimous, they could have pushed him out of it. I do not think that any unanimity of critics ever pushed a good book out of literature.”

-- A. Conan Doyle, Through The Magic Door, 1908.

DOGS AND CATS

by Gina Sestak

Well, it's official. The First Family has finally acquired a dog.

It took the Obamas awhile to get around to choosing Bo and, in the end, they got their pet the way most of us do -- because somebody (Ted Kennedy) gave them a dog.

Have you ever actually gone out and acquired a particular type of animal after mulling the options for months? I haven't. Pets have always come to me by other means.

This was also true of the cats and dogs my family had when I was a child. My father found our first cat, Tinkerbelle. This was during one of his layoffs from Westinghouse, when he was working nights as a janitor at Churchhill Valley Country Club. She was a young stray who came scrounging for food at the kitchen door, so he brought her home.

The two cats I have now originally came to my mother as strays. She took them in. When she died, I got them -- kind of an inheritance, the kind that costs money (food, vet bills, etc.).

Dusty has been the most trouble by far. He came to live with me first, while my mother was still alive. He was a nasty, hostile cat, a cat who bit and yowled constantly. I responded with a threat -- every time he meowed, I would take it to mean, "Pet me," and I would hold him down and pet him at least 100 strokes. Lo and behold, he did mean, "Pet me!" He started to act friendly and would even purr, something my mother claimed he never did.

Then he broke a hole through a weak spot in my basement door and escaped. He was gone for weeks. My mother would ask, "How's Dusty?" and I would lie and say, "He's fine." He finally got picked up by animal control, apparently heading for her house, and I had to bail him out.

Taffy was the nice one. He stayed at my mother's home while she was hospitalized, awaiting her return. My brother Joe, with his wife and daughter, who lived a few blocks from my mother, would go over every day to check on her house and feed Taffy. I brought him to my house after my mother died.

He purrs and acts friendly, but I suspect he sees me as the monster who kidnapped him and took him from his real home. They both do.

Anyway, how did you get your pets? Does anybody out there have a Portuguese water dog? Have you ever used your pet as a character in your writing? I used Dusty for a recent class assignment at Pittsburgh Filmmakers -- it was a "moving stills" project, which means that I had to take a series of still photos, then show them in sequence as a movie. Dusty Seeks Enlightenment features Dusty with various religious items -- from a rosary to Kokopele, angels to goddess statues. It came out rather weird.

It's a Good Friday

by Lisa Curry

Ah, spring in Pittsburgh – there’s nothing like it. Sunday was a sunny 70 degrees. Monday afternoon the flurries started to fly. Tuesday morning we had snow on the ground and accidents all over the highways due to hazardously icy road conditions.

Winter that wants to hang on forever makes me hate living in Pittsburgh at this time of year. But coincidentally, this week also brings a reason to love living in Pittsburgh: Good Friday as a paid holiday – something many ’Burghers take for granted.

After graduating from college in 1985, I moved from Western Pennsylvania to Atlanta. My first clue that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, should have been when I told my coworker, Barbara, I was giving up beer for Lent.

“Lint?” Barbara said. “What the heck is lint?”

Lent might be a Catholic observance, but where I came from, everybody – Catholic, Protestant or otherwise – had at least heard of it. Then I read somewhere that in Pennsylvania, 42% of the population was Catholic, whereas in Georgia, only 8% of the population was Catholic.

But I was still shocked to learn that nobody down there gets Good Friday off work – or even entertains the notion that Good Friday ought to be a paid holiday. Confederate Memorial Day, maybe. Good Friday, nosirreeebob.

Alas, when I boomeranged back to Western Pennsylvania 5 years later, I went to work for what I think might have been the only company in Pittsburgh that didn’t give Good Friday off as a paid holiday. We were a business-to-business catalog sales company with customers around the country, and our CEO, while from the Northeast, knew darn well that people in other regions were at work spending their companies’ money on Good Friday, and we were darn well going to be at work taking their orders that day. Even those of us who just made the catalogs and didn’t take the orders from them.

When you think about it, that never-ending dry spell between New Year’s Day on January 1 and Memorial Day on the last Monday in May is a really depressingly long time to go without a day off.

That’s why I’m grateful to now finally work for a company that gives its employees Good Friday off as a paid holiday. My boss, the owner of the company, is a Pittsburgh native, and the company started out as a local graphic design agency. Until recently, I’m not sure he even realized the rest of the world doesn’t have Good Friday off. But the company has grown, and now we have clients all over the country. Two of our biggest accounts are huge corporations based in California and Tennessee, whose employees are hard at work today, conducting business as usual. That makes me wonder how much longer our Good Friday holidays might last.

But while we have it, I’m going to savor it. Today I’m going to lounge around in my jammies drinking coffee for a while, hang out with my kids and husband, who also has the day off (and always has, lucky dog), and maybe do some Easter basket shopping a little later on.

Are you off work today, and if so, what are you going to do with your Good Friday?

Networking, Conferences, and Agendas. Oh, my!

Please welcome my dear friend and guest blogger, Paula Matter, to Working Stiffs. Paula, as a past Pennwriters Conference Coordinator, has been holding my hand and keeping me sane during this past year. She’s also a darned fine crime writer. Welcome, Paula.—Annette

By Paula Matter

A friend attended a conference in NYC recently. I asked her to say hello to an agent I know and like. The agent responded, "That's Paula. Networking without even being here." That led me to consider the importance of networking. Which led me to start thinking of the conferences I will attend this year. Due to the economy, I won't be going to nearly as many as usual. One big event I'll be missing out on is Bouchercon. I simply can't justify the expense.

Last year was a different story. I was in better shape financially, and it was only a five hour drive to Baltimore.

2008 was my fifth Bouchercon, and I had an agenda. I attended as a reader. At each panel, instead of scribbling notes on the craft of writing, or promotion, or marketing, I wrote down names and/or titles. If panelists or moderators were funny, I jotted down their names. If they made a particularly profound comment, their name went on my list. One author, outside in Smoker's Paradise, simply smiled at me and his name was added.

I'd then make a beeline for the book room after each panel, or in the one case, after my cigarette. I learned buying lots of books in spurts didn't hurt my credit card, and I went back to the same two booksellers each time.

A highlight for me was meeting a new-to-me author. Her books, and how she switches POV in them, intrigued me. I saw her in the book room after her panel and I asked her about it. What a delightful woman. I bought her paperback right then and there. Later, passing her in a hallway, she was just as delightful when she stopped and we chatted some more. I took a chance and bought her hardcover.

I lied earlier. See above about the cigarette scenario happening once. It occurred again later that same day when, quite exhausted, I was debating whether to go take a nap, or attend another panel. I stepped outside for a smoke to help me decide. Hush, all you non-smokers who have no idea what I'm talking about. I initiated a conversation with an author whose name I knew, but had never read. The chat with this genuinely (keyword there) kind man is still too special to share, but know this: Instead of taking a nap, I went to the book room and bought one of his books. I would've bought more, but I had to eat that night and put gas in the car for the trip home. Once my credit card balance comes back down, I'll be buying more of his books.

Another author annoyed me this year. Again. The first time was during a panel a few Bouchercons ago when she, seated three seats from me in the audience, proceeded to snack on potato chips. Very crunchy potato chips. For that one act of rudeness, I've never bought this woman's books. Last year in Baltimore she practically sat on my lap due to an overcrowded room. I made nice and restrained myself from kicking her.

Which reminds me of a kick-ass writer I know and adore. Many years ago, S.J. Rozan, one of the smartest women I know, when attempting to assuage my concern (fear, actually) about being on a panel, told me "Just be yourself. And be nice to everyone." At the time I thought, "Pick one because I sure as hell can't do both." I should've known she'd be right.

I had a chance encounter with a very pleasant woman. Resting my poor feet, I sat on one of those couches in the hall between the book room and the conference rooms. Another tired attendee plopped herself down, smiled and said hello. I responded in kind. She thanked me for not being rude. Because of my obvious puzzled expression, she explained how she'd tried earlier to strike up a conversation with a stranger, and was snubbed. We agreed it was shameful that impoliteness has nearly become the norm. She and I chatted for several minutes about books and writers. When she asked if I was a writer, I hesitated then admitted that I was. Before I knew it, I was telling her about my writing. (She asked. I swear she started it!) She wrote down my name and said she'd be looking for my book when the time came. I laughed. She then told me what bookstore she works in. So, um, S.J., thanks.

Continuing with kick-ass writers, another woman I enjoy reading was gracious when I greeted her in the hallway. Later I realized I had interrupted an interview, and I apologized. She was just as gracious in her response. I'll continue buying her books.

Some pros have it, and some don't. The latter won't miss my money. I won't bother schlepping all the way to NYC, or Pittsburgh, or Baltimore to buy their books. And I also will never badmouth them in public. Or in private. But I hope they know who they are.

For the rest of you, I hope to see you at your next booksigning.

Paula Matter is a member of MWA, PWA, Backspace, and Pennwriters. Her short crime fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. She hates writing bios, so will stop here.

A Dark Day in Pittsburgh

By Annette Dashofy


It’s been a very dark week in Pittsburgh. On Saturday morning, those of us who thought we were part of a relatively safe city learned there is no such thing.

In case you somehow managed to miss the news, three Pittsburgh Police officers were gunned down in the quiet neighborhood of Stanton Heights while responding to a domestic dispute call. The gunman, aware that his mother had phoned the police, armed himself with an AK-47, a long rifle, and a handgun and opened fire as the officers entered the house. A third officer who lived nearby and was returning home from his shift, came to their aid and was also shot and killed.

I don’t live in the city, but I spend a lot of time there. Since taking the Citizens’ Police Academy, I have felt a strong bond with the Pittsburgh Police. When I watched the news on Saturday, I felt sick. Heartbroken.

There have been mixed reports on one detail that struck a nerve and put me into a cold sweat. When the mother called 911 to ask the police to come to home and remove her son, the dispatcher asked her if there were guns in the house. At first, the report was she responded there were not. A later conflicting report stated that she did say her son had weapons inside. Either way, there’s some doubt as to whether the responding officers knew.

The day I went on my ride-along, one of our calls was for a domestic dispute. The mother wanted the officer to talk to her son and ask him to leave. The officer I was with asked her if there were weapons in the house.

She said there were not.

At the time, a little voice (call it fear, call it self-preservation) in my head wondered whether she should be believed. Would a mother, even one who was afraid of her son and wanted him gone, admit that he had guns?

So, I was there, entering an apartment right behind a Pittsburgh Police officer during a mother/son domestic dispute. Thankfully, in our case, the end results were much more peaceful.

But these brave men and women never know what they’re going to face. Times are tough. People are losing their jobs. Stress is at an all time high. All across the country, madness ensues.

Getting back to Pittsburgh…

We’ve never ever lost three officers in one day before. This is all horribly new to us. Many of us want to do something to show our support and our grief. Memorials have been set up and continue to grow at Police Headquarters, at the Zone 5 station, and even in front of that house in Stanton Heights. However a lot of us are at a loss as to what we can do.

On Monday, I received a phone call asking if I would be free to volunteer to help with color coding cars for the families for the memorial service tomorrow. As a Citizens’ Police Academy Alumni, I can do something that a police officer might ordinarily be doing, freeing that officer so he can attend the services of his fallen comrades. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so honored. Or humbled. It’s a miniscule thing, this offering of my time for a few hours, but it lets me feel that I’m contributing in some small way.

I don’t think any of my fellow CPA grads expected to be called into duty in quite this way. I hope we never have to do it again.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of Officers Paul Sciullo III, Stephen Mayhle, and Eric Kelly. And to all the men and women in blue across this nation, who put their lives in harm’s way each and every day. You are all heroes.

Work for Hire

by Kathryn Miller Haines

There’s been an interesting discussion on the Pittsburgh Sisters in Crime list lately that I thought I’d drag over to working stiffs (can you tell I’m on deadline?). The issue is work for hire: would you be willing to take on a work-fire-hire contract with a publisher for a novel or series? It’s another interesting way a writer can break into the biz, or diversify themselves once they’re already in it. The basic scenario works like this: a publisher likes your writing but maybe doesn’t find the book you’re currently shopping the right fit for them. You, however, possess a skill level and/or background that would make you a good fit for a series they want to launch and need a writer for. So they audition you and the next thing you know, you have a contract.

It’s been a fascinating discussion so far, which is why I thought I’d bring it out into the open. There’s a time when I think I would’ve been against doing this primarily because I didn’t think I had the chops to write an idea that wasn’t initially mine, but I think I’ve changed my opinion. As writers we’re often musing about what the next big thing is that we can sell; isn’t it refreshing to have the publisher come to you and say, “here it is – the thing we can sell. Now write it!” And I find that the more I write, the easier it becomes to become passionate and excited about what I’m working on, even if the idea didn't come from me.

So what do you think? Would you do work-for-hire writing? Are you doing it now?

And now for a little blatant self promotion. My marvelous friend David White created a book trailer for Winter in June, the third Rosie Winter Mystery (coming out in…well June of course). Hope you enjoy it!

A Reason for Dying... of Embarrassment!

by Jennie Bentley

As promised, I'm back. Our own Wilfred Bereswill is in Hawaii with his beautiful wife, enjoying what is undoubtedly a well-deserved vacation. And while he's gone, he's appointed me to fill in. Bwa-ha-ha-ha! Little does he know what I have in store for you!

Without further ado, let's get down to brass tacks.

Some of you may remember this, from Will's post about himself last year sometime:

"It's a long story, but I was captured on a cruise by a group of women on a scavenger hunt. They told me it would only take a minute. An hour later, I was in a short sundress that wouldn't zip up the back with makeup and a bow in my hair. The other four dudes looked exactly like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire, which is why I won the beauty contest."

He swore that there existed no video footage of the event, but guess what...?

That's right: with Will out of the way, I would like to take the opportunity to show y'all that never-to-be forgotten performance. Here it is, in all its glory. Or maybe that should be, here's Will, in all his glory...





So there you have it. Here's the link - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7q4SJ5rG5s - in case you'd like to bookmark it and watch it again, and again, and again.

And I happen to think Will deserves a little something for that. So why don't y'all go here and order a copy of Will's book, A Reason for Dying, to pay the man back for that incredible show.

Don't you think it's the least you can do?

Free at last, Lord, I’m free at last...

by Jennie Bentley

It’s been ten years since I had my last steady job. The kind with set hours and a weekly or biweekly paycheck. That all changed exactly ten years ago today, when my first child was born. (Happy Birthday, Finn!) I worked at the Nashville Convention and Visitors Bureau at the time, and I was at my desk right up until 5 o’clock on April 2nd, 1999. Two hours later, while I was getting ready to go out to dinner with my husband—April 2nd happens to be our wedding anniversary, as well—my water broke. Instead of going to dinner, we went to the hospital. And that was the end of my life as I knew it. I went from one kind of indentured servitude to another.

This isn’t going to be about the joy of having children, though. Even if I adore my kids—most of the time—and wouldn’t trade them for anything. Except maybe a million dollar advance on my next book.

I didn’t rejoin the work force after I gave birth, but stayed home with the little tyke, and four years later, with his brother as well. I’m still there. At home. Both kids are in elementary school now, and somewhere along the way, I got my real estate license. I bought and sold—and renovated—a few houses over the next few years, and then, of course, came the book contract. Three books in a series of home renovation mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime. Book 1, Fatal Fixer-Upper, came out last November. Book 2, Spackled and Spooked, will hit stores in August. And book 3, as yet untitled, is scheduled for release in just over a year, May 2010. I sent the manuscript to my editor last week. She’ll have revisions, and there’ll be copy edits and line edits and all sorts of things to deal with, but as of right now, I’m free as a bird.

No job.

No contract.

No demands.

No requirements to produce this, that, or the other.

I can write whatever I damn well please, with no concerns about whether my editor will approve of it or not. Because I don’t have an editor anymore.

Gulp.

It’s a mixed bag. On one hand, it’s scary. Will they offer another contract? Did the first book do well enough that they’ll want to take a chance on more? (I think so, but after the bad news from the publishing industry lately, who knows?) Will they wait to see how book 2 does before they decide? Will I have to wait six months for them to come through? Or will I go back to being a contract-less writer? Free as a bird, but with no commitment as to work or income?

On the other hand, the sky’s the limit. I can write what I want. Any kind of book in any genre. Hell, I don’t have to write anything at all if I don’t want to!

It’s a beautiful, scary, wonderful, worrisome kind of feeling. And a whole lot of fun, as I try to decide what I want to work on next. There’s a whole world out there full of stories begging to be told. And a whole head-full back here, of characters clamoring for their chance to be heard.

So what about you? If you were going to scrap what you’re working on right now and start something new, what would you write about? More of the same, or something different? A new story with a new character, or one with someone you already know and like? Same genre or different? Any brilliant story ideas bouncing around in your brain that you’d like to share?

I’ll be back here on Monday, by the way. Wilfred the Author has jetted off to beautiful Hawaii with his lovely wife, and he has asked me to fill in.

Bwa-ha-ha-ha! (cue evil laughter)

He already wrote A Reason for Dying—after Monday, he’ll have A Reason for Dying... of embarrassment!

That’s all I can say for now, but you’ll want to be here on Monday, I promise. You’ll kick yourself if you miss the denouement. See you then!

A Little of This, A Little of That

by Joyce

Because I've been working so hard on my WIP, I don't have much of a topic today. Hence the title of this blog post.

On just about every blog I read, there have been posts over the past week on writer's block and what to do about it. It's a strange concept for me, because I've never suffered from it. At least not the kind where I can't write at all. I'm usually able to come up with something even if it's not what I want.

I think some people confuse writer's block with just plain, old getting stuck. I get stuck a lot. A plot point isn't going the way I wanted it to. A scene isn't working. You know what I mean. That's not writer's block. That's just part of the process. When that happens, and I'm not sure what to do next, I go and do something else. Walk through the yard, go shopping, clean the house.

One of the things that works for me is to take my laptop to another room. I was struggling with a chapter last week and as soon as I moved into the sunroom, suddenly it all came together.

Another big topics on blogs recently was the queryfail thing on Twitter. I'm not on Twitter, so I only know what I've heard second hand. Apparently quite a few agents posted bits and pieces of query letters and allegedly made fun of them. The letter writers were understandably upset. On Wednesday, Jessica Faust had an "agentfail" on her blog to let writers gripe about what bugs them about agents.

I haven't watched the show since about, oh, 1980 something, but The Guiding Light will be going off the air after 72 years. Can you believe it? 72 years? Nothing lasts 72 years!

I told you this post would be all over the place. Now it's your turn. Do you ever get writer's block? What's your "cure?"

Have you followed the queryfail thing? What's your take on that?

And any Guiding Light watchers? Will you be sorry to see it go?

Thank you, Miss Tiano

by Annette Dashofy

We’ve all had teachers in our lives who made a huge impact on us. I can name several of my favorites without even straining my brain. I’ve even encountered a few of them in more recent years and thanked them. You’d think I’d given them a barrel of gold.

But it’s occurred to me that there were teachers in my life who I did not like at the time. I resented their prodding and their insistence that I practice and study subjects that didn’t interest or excite me.

Oh, sure, I adored my English teachers and my literature teachers and my history teachers.

Math? Algebra? Not so much. I still say I’m a writer because I like words a lot more than I like numbers.

But the one teacher I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is Miss Tiano. She was ancient when I had her in high school, so odds are she’s no longer with us. Or maybe she just SEEMED ancient to my teen-aged mind. I just remember that she had a sour expression, white hair, and wore moo-moos.

And despite my best efforts against it, she taught me to type.

It was on an IBM Selectric monster machine. No delete key. I was neither fast nor accurate.

Back then, I wrote stories. Novels, really. In long hand. In notebooks. Honestly, I think the reason I never attempted to publish anything at the time was because that meant I’d have to type it. I hated typing.

Fast forward thirty some years and here I sit, fingers on the keyboard for hours and hours and hours. I’m much faster now. Accuracy can only be attributed to my backspace and delete keys.

The reason I’ve been pondering all this lately is because my computer illiterate hubby (who wants nothing to do with cyberspace and thus remains nameless in my posts) has decided he probably ought to learn to use email. People send him messages that he can’t retrieve without my help. I’ve tried to teach him the basics. How to turn the PC on. How to log in to his email account. Where to click to open a message or to reply to one…

Then we get stuck. Hubby can’t type. He never met Miss Tiano. He hunts and hunts and pecks and hunts. I watch him try to compose a message and my fingers itch. Usually he gives up and tells me what he wants to say. I’m his email ghost writer.

There is simply no way I could teach him the keyboard. asdfjkl; It makes no sense to him. I don’t even have to think about it. I think of a word, my fingers type it.

I am extremely grateful to that gray-haired, sour-faced woman who pounded typing into my brain all those years ago.

Thank you, Miss Tiano, wherever you are.