Tempus Fugit

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I had coffee last week with Todd Strasser, a prolific author of a gazillion wonderful books that kids of all ages adore. Like any two authors who meet, we swapped war stories (writers block survival tips, reviews that pierce the soul, clever ideas for how to commit [fictional] murder without being caught — frogs are involved). We then talked a little about how hard it is to remain focused and how to fight those distractions that take us out of the stories we’re writing.

Knowing that admitting a problem is the first step to dealing with it, I then made a confession. Checking to be sure that I wasn’t overheard, I mumbled my dirty little secret. “I’m a free cell addict.”

For those unfamiliar with the games feature on their computers, it’s an ostensibly straightforward solitaire game that sucks you in with its simplicity until you realize you’ve just played 12 games in a row and nobody has been fictionally killed in at least an hour.

His face lit up in recognition of a fellow traveler. He checked my credentials. Did I let the computer randomly pick the games or did I hand select which ones I took on?

Here was a real pro. He promised to send me a list of the 100 toughest games; he’d found a web site that ranked them. I was set for life – or at least three books!

The seventeenth century English poet Edward Young warned “Procrastination is the thief of time.” On the other hand, Young was just penning rhymes about the execution of Lady Jane Grey. He wasn’t trying to figure out a method for Queen Mary to murder Ms. Jane without detection – or how Mac Sullivan and Rachel Brenner could trip up Mary before she killed again. Of course, another fabulous procrastination technique is Wikipedia where you learn incredibly useful information that you never previously knew – like who the heck is Edward Young and what did he have against an innocent game of free cell.

Frankly, I suspect that if Ed Young felt the need to make grand pronouncements about the folly of procrastination, then he probably had quite a few secret vices of his own to kill time when the iambic pentameter wasn’t flowing like water.

I always marvel at the author who explains, in her New York Times bestseller interview, that she got this inspiration for a book and the words just seemed to appear in full paragraphs on her computer screen. She wrote the entire draft in a single sitting of 67 days and never even checked a thesaurus because each word was perfect the first time around.

But I always identify with the writer who confesses that it took her three years and seven drafts to finish the stupid book and every word was like pulling teeth without Novocain.

Which is why I play Free Cell. I make little deals with myself when I’m working on a book: If I write two paragraphs, then I can take a break and play a quick game. Ask me how many games I’ve played since starting this blog.

I know there are other fine ways to procrastinate. Believe me, when I’m really looking to kill time instead of victims, I’ve been known to take down all the curtains in the house and wash them. My husband can tell from the bare windows as he pulls into the driveway that I’ve hit a brick wall in the plot. But it could have been worse. I know one author who surfs E-bay to avoid writing. He recently bought himself a bison head instead of finishing chapter three.

Tempus fugit indeed.

Evelyn David

The Book Matchmaker

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Sally MacPherson, an independent bookstore owner from Portland, Oregon guest blogs today.

Hi, I’m Sally the book matchmaker. Thanks, Stiletto Gang, for asking me to guest blog! Hmmm. What to say….

Hey, I’m a bookseller. Maybe I should talk about selling books. Better yet, I think I’ll talk about buying books. Recently I came across a survey of where people buy books. The percentage of books purchased in grocery stores was 3%. That’s not too surprising; lots of grocery chains now stock books.

But then I saw this: The percentage of books purchased from independent bookstores was…wait for it now…also 3%. Wow. That number floored me. Chain bookstores accounted for more than 30% of sales, and the Internet rang up another 20%.

So, who cares? Well, the most immediate benefit to shopping at a local independent store is that the money stays local, as opposed to being sent to corporate headquarters. More important to me as a reader is that I don’t want to see my reading choices shrink as books get squeezed through an increasingly narrow consumer channel. If the majority of books are sold through chains such as Barnes & Noble and Costco, those vendors will have a whopping huge say in what is published. And that scares the pants off me – as a bookseller AND as a reader – and it should give pause to anyone who is or wants to be a writer.

Why? Isn’t it better for writers to have lots of places their books can be sold, including drug stores and grocery stores? Certainly, there are some positives to that distribution model. But in most cases the people making those book-buying decisions are not booksellers and aren’t likely to buy with an eye to nurturing new talent or even to satisfying specific local tastes. They will be attracted to the sure bets – the John Grishams and Stephen Kings of the world. And they aren’t likely to sit on books that don’t sell quickly.

At our store we labor over publishers’ catalogs, thinking of individual customers and our neighborhood as a whole, and selecting books that we think will strike a chord with our customers—even if it’s a chord of disagreement. And when customers come into the store looking for something to read, we can tell them about specific books—why we bought them and why they resonate with us. New authors have a better chance of building an audience when their books are sold with the zeal of a passionate bookseller than they do with a stack of books at Costco, a grocery store, or a large bookstore chain

When a customer comes into our store, my goal isn’t to pitch the latest bestseller from a rainmaker author, or to sell a book that the publisher has frontloaded with incentive discounts. It’s to find out what makes those customers tick, and then find the books that will resonate with them. And then to do it again and again as they come back. I love introducing new authors to receptive readers and watching those authors build a following.

After pondering this, I decided to revisit my own buying habits. For instance, lately I’ve gotten in the habit of buying music on-line through iTunes. But I’ve come to understand that, just like I don’t want to see independent bookstores disappear, I also want independent music stores to stick around. So, last weekend I treated myself to a mini spree at a local independent music store.

And then I needed some parts to fix my toilet. Typically I would head to the large chain store selling hardware / automotive / plumbing / groceries / furniture / clothing / music / whatever. This time I found a local independent hardware store and got what I needed there. And I had a great shopping experience.

So now I’m rethinking everything I buy—not just books and music and “parts,” but also food and clothes and coffee and pet supplies and everything else. Because I’ve realized that where you buy something makes as much of a statement about what you believe and support as what you buy.

Sally MacPherson

My Jonquils Are Blooming!

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My jonquils are blooming and I’m thinking spring! In Oklahoma it’s generally accepted that after Easter you can start your spring planting without too much worry of another hard freeze damaging young plants.

I don’t plant vegetables although each year I consider planting some tomatoes. There is nothing better in this world than a home grown tomato. But I never get past the thinking stage, mostly because my parents plant a garden and usually supply me with all the tomatoes I can use.

What I like to plant are flowers—flowers that don’t require lots of attention. My backyard has perennials: purple wisteria, blue hydrangeas, shrub roses, climbing roses, peonies, Rose of Sharons, and other varieties of hibiscus. I love lilies—all kinds. I like tulips and irises too, but if I plant them the moles and gophers act like I’ve invited them to an all-you-can-eat underground buffet.

Although the area where I live is known for beautiful azaleas—the town has an azalea festival in the spring—the soil in my yard is not acidic enough to sustain them. I’ve tried and failed at least a half dozen times to get some established, but eventually they’ve all turned brown and made me feel guilty for their untimely demise. I should never have brought them home with me—they might have had a full life somewhere else. But I look across the road and see the azaleas in full bloom, and once more consider buying a plant or two.

I’m partial to pansies and petunias and other colorful annuals. They are fun and instantly brighten up my yard. Last weekend I visited a local nursery and forced myself not to buy anything yet. I need to get the flowerbeds ready first.

Yesterday, I mowed my yard for the first time this year. I had a nice crop of henbit to mow, not much bermuda grass. My lawn mower started without much trouble—a miracle in itself after its long winter hiatus. The ground was wet—too wet to do much more than mow and then maybe some raking.

Maybe next Saturday, I’ll get to dig up the beds and buy some plants. I’ll have to be smart about it, not just buy everything that looks pretty. Believe me, I’ve done that before and regretted it. Nothing worse than lugging home twenty odd potted plants that you need to get into the ground right away, then running out of daylight or good weather or energy…or inspiration to get them planted.

Spring is the time for new beginnings, both for gardeners and writers. Besides my gardening ambitions, my co-author and I are starting a new short story and plotting a new mystery.

I need new gardening gloves—and maybe a new keyboard for my computer.

Here’s to Spring!

Evelyn

Eco-Wars

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I live in a village that many consider to be “crunchy”—a term that encompasses our liberal leanings, our “green” ways, the number of writers and artists who dwell here. We got this way after being the settling place for many a communist in the 1920s, and a summer vacation spot for actors and actresses over the years, including—according to local legend—Jackie Gleason. These days, we’re a mix of the old and the new, but the leftover hippy vibe that permeated the village for so many years still resonates with many of us.

To wit: my friend, Eileen, who I met as a gawky nine-year-old in Mrs. Darken’s Fourth Grade class, visited one Fall Saturday to see her son’s high school football team taken on our team. As we sat in the sun-drenched stands, she looked around, surveyed the crowd, and asked, “Does anybody dye their hair in this town?” I reached up self-consciously to my own grey-streaked mop and stammered, “well…yes…no…some do…” She looked down at my feet, shod in Dansko clogs. “And what’s with the clogs? Do you have to wear them in order to buy a house in this town?” Again, I was dumbfounded. “Uh, no,” I said, this time a little more defiantly. But looking around, I couldn’t dispute that we Village denizens embrace a vibe not found in the neighboring towns of Westchester County.

Which leads me to my new car. I had been driving a station wagon for the last several years and got nauseous every time I went to fill it up with gas. Because, as time went on, I realized I was getting a mere seventeen miles to the gallon. It wasn’t the amount of money I was spending that bothered me, it was the amount of environment I was abusing that was the crux of the problem. And I knew it was just a matter of time before the thousands of Prius-driving Villagers began pelting me with stones. Because they take their grey hair, their clogs, and their green-ness very seriously. So I started thinking about buying a new car. Five years or so ago, I noticed a man in town driving an adorable little car; he had whizzed by me in what I later found out was a Mini Cooper. I did a little research and found out that yes, four people could fit comfortably in one of these; they got more than thirty miles to the gallon; they had a good safety record; and I could fit several bags of groceries in the almost non-existent trunk. I thought about this car as my station wagon up and died a few months ago, leaving a plume of white smoke in its wake.

Let me, at this juncture, tell you how flexible and reasonable I am. My conversation with my husband went as follows:

Me: “We need to buy a new car. I want something smaller that gets better gas mileage.”Him: “Let’s get something practical. How about a Honda Civic?”

Me: “Absolutely not.”Him: “How about a Toyota Camry.”Me: “What? Are you kidding?”

Him: (getting exasperated) “How about a Prius?”

Me: “We’re getting a Mini Cooper.”

He was slightly flabbergasted, a tad reluctant. But I won him over with my impassioned arguments about the environment, our carbon footprint, our commitment to the earth. (And the fact that I told him that at my age, there was no way I was putting my flabby middle-aged behind in anything but a fun, little sports car. Grey hair? Yes. Practicality? No way.)

Suffice it to say that we have a brand-new, Mini Cooper Clubman (a new, slightly larger model than the traditional Mini) in our driveway. I can’t get the keys out of my husband’s hot little hands.

Now I’m feeling great about myself. If I drive correctly, I can get up to forty miles a gallon on the highway. The car is compact and easy to park—not to mention the most adorable car I’ve ever driven. I fill up at the gas station with far less regularity than before. I’m delighted with myself and honestly, feeling a bit smug when I pile my two kids, my dog, my daughter’s violin, my son’s lacrosse stick, and four bags of grocery into the car. Who needs a minivan or an SUV? Not me. I’m RESPONSIBLE. I CARE ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT. I don’t have to tell anyone. They can just tell. It’s the classic case of “show, don’t tell,” right?

I went to a small, local grocery store the other day, proud of myself and my commitment to the environment. I got out, took out my reusable grocery bags and looked around, wondering why nobody in the parking lot was giving me kudos for being so responsible. How about some props, people? As I slammed the trunk shut, a little, teenie-weenie car came motoring toward me, driven by the man who I had seen driving the original Mini Cooper lo those many years ago. But now?He was driving a SmartCar.

I slumped a bit against the Mini Cooper. “Foiled again,” I thought. What’s next? A bicycle built for two? There was no way I could keep up.

Nothing like a six-foot three man in a car with no back seat to ruin your feeling of bonhomie over your wonderfully green ways. I guess you could say that I had gotten my eco-comeuppance.

What’s a Succesful Writer?

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This is what I wrote for last week, and just didn’t get it posted.

Wow, what a busy week–as usual. I’m working on a ghost writing project which is taking a lot of my time. I’m also judging the fiction part of a writing contest–something I really like to do.

In between I’ve given two classes on Planning for Emergencies for people who are administrators of licensed care facilities in California. I’ve been teaching and organizing continuing education for this industry for over fourteen years. Many of you may not know that for over twenty years my husband and I had a licensed care facility in our home and cared for six women with developmental disabilities. We both loved doing this. Our women were like family. Then our own family life became so complicated, we knew it was time to retire.

I’ve continued with the education part of the business because I truly care for the people who are doing this important job. (Also it brings in a little cash which helps pay for all the trips I go on.)

Of course my writing is of utmost importance to me–and of course, promoting what I’ve already written. Saturday I was fortunate to have been asked by the Writers of Kern (Bakersfield chapter of California Writers Club) to come and talk to them about What is Most Important in a Mystery, Plot or Character? Of course the answer is both are important. I love talking about mystery writing and this was a great group.

Also speaking was Mike Russo of Russo’s Books. He talked about the state of the book business–which isn’t so hot right now. He encouraged everyone to support their independent bookstores. Steve Mettee, publisher of Quill Driver Books, told everyone what it took to be a successful writer.

I’m not sure what being a succesful writer means. If it means making lots of money, than I’m not one. However, if being a successful writer means enjoying what I do, getting to meet lots of wonderful people and doing fun things and going to new places, then I am most certainly successful.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Down Memory Lane

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I’ve been thinking about my sixth grade graduation. Yes, I know it’s been a couple of years, but it’s been on my mind recently. I can clearly picture that sunny June day. At our all-girls parochial school, the graduation attire was a white dress. It was the first time I wore heels, which were essentially my Mary Janes without the straps. It was long before pantyhose were invented, and even longer before I needed control-top pantyhose. So my solution that day was to keep up my first nylons with garters.

Unfortunately that decision didn’t take into account that 11-year old girls still like to run around, so I spent an inordinate amount of time that day chasing my friends – and stopping frequently to haul my hose back up my skinny legs. It was also the first time I’d had my hair “done,” but it would be three more years before I would be allowed to wear lipstick.

In that same memory photo are two other girls in white dresses: my best friends in grade school. There was Rhonalee, who always had a perfect ponytail of long straight hair, which was the diametric opposite of my curly mop, and Sarah, who was as petite as I was not.

Graduation day ended and we drifted apart as we entered a larger, less insulated world of different public schools. Decades passed and sixth grade graduation was all just a sweet memory until I found a surprise in my e-mailbox last week. The subject line: “Are you the same…” was intriguing. And there, thanks to the power of Google, was Sarah, asking if I were the same person who went to parochial school with her. She had found my nonfiction web site and looking at my photo she thought she caught a glimpse of her former classmate.

The prompt for her search? It was February 22, my birthday. She remembered that we used to get the day off from school, back when George Washington’s birthday was a Federal holiday. Something that sadly changed in 1971 when the powers that be decided we would celebrate President’s Day on the third Monday in February (needless to say I was annoyed at that decision).

Anyway, Sarah and I have been trading e-mails, catching up on the intervening decades. We’ve lived very different – and yet very similar – lives. We both have been married forever and we each have four kids. We both have struggled with career goals, aging parents, and the grief of losing a sibling. She’s planning for the holidays with her family – me too. But she lives in Northern Israel and that fact alone changes some of her daily life. I’ve known war from a distance; her children have all served in the army. We both want peace, here, there, everywhere.

On that sunny morning in June, those many years ago, we couldn’t have known the paths we each would take. We also never envisioned that we could meet again in cyberspace. Back then, lost friendships were mourned and then forgotten. But through the remarkable power of the Internet, an idea as foreign as the concept of adulthood to those young girls in white dresses, we are able to revisit our pasts and talk about our futures.

To that I can only add — l’chaim!

Evelyn David

I Love Books!!

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Our guest blogger today is Tina Jordan, senior editor/book reviewer for Entertainment Weekly.

I love books. As a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly—one who writes book reviews and edits book features—I’m immersed in the publishing world, and my office is inundated with galleys and books. My house, too is full of books—great teetering piles in places, in fact, since we ran out of bookshelf space long ago. Books are often found crammed between couch cushions, beneath the ottomans, under the desk in the study. I’m no highbrow snob, either. Heck, on the right day, I like Emily Griffin as much as John Updike. And yet, the older I get (let’s just say an important birthday is looming) the harder it seems to be to find books to swoon over. The ones that keep me up late turning the pages. The ones that lkeep me glued to the couch, ignoring my family for hours on end (if one of my teenagers gallops into the room, I look up a trifle resentfully and say, “Yes?”).

So why is that? Why is it that I don’t find as much that utterly, completely thrills me, that sends me over the edge? I don’t think I’m jaded or cynical. I don’t deplore the state of publishing or wring my hands over the quality of what’s written today. Sure, I like a lot of what I read. Sometimes I like it a lot. And I know exactly which book last made me weak in the knees: the new Elizabeth George novel, Careless in Red, coming out in May. For those of you who haven’t read her mysteries, well, I could write an entire column about her. Suffice it to say her books are intelligent, complex, and deeply, hugely satisfying. Reading one is like realizing that I’m ravenous, I haven’t eaten in days, and I can’t gulp down the pages fast enough.

So when the galley for Careless in Red arrived at my office, I felt a frisson of excitement. Like all Elizabeth Georges, it is enormous, an absolute doorstopper; I started reading that night when I got on my train in Grand Central, nearly missed my stop 40 minutes later, and, once home headed straight up to the bedroom, followed by a gaggle of dachshunds and kids. When I finally had some peace, I dove back in. I put it down, reluctantly, a little after midnight (can’t stay up as late as I used to!), and picked it up the next morning around six when I made some coffee. It was a Saturday, and I put all the usual weekend fun—laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping—on hold, raptly turning the pages, occasionally sipping some cooling coffee. By the time the girls were up I’d finished, closing the galley with a happy sigh. That was two weeks ago, and Careless in Red is still vivid, some of its passages imprinted in my mind. George’s Scotland Yard characters, so familiar to me after many books, are old friends by now, so I ache for Thomas Lynley, whose wife was murdered, and Barbara Havers, as scraggly and socially inept as ever.

Who knows why I find fewer Careless in Reds than I used to? If this were a proper essay, I’d have mulled this over and come up with all kinds of smart reasons. But I do a lot less smart reasoning than I used to. No, I’ve decided there’s nothing to do but savor those special books when I DO find them. Right now, the new Benjamin Black is at the top of my nightstand stack, beckoning me. Right underneath is the new Jesse Kellerman. Then there’s a novel that looked good, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming. All of them look terrific. (But no dutiful plowing-through for me—if I detest a book, I just toss it aside.) It’s likely I’ll enjoy all three of those novels. And maybe—if I’m really, really lucky—one of them will tickle that elusive place in my brain, and, addict that I am, I’ll be consumed by a book once again.

Tina Jordan

After “The End”

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“The End.”

The sense of euphoria lasted about 24 hours after the Northern half of Evelyn David typed those magic words. She claimed it was her turn since I’d typed them for Murder Off the Books.

What my family and friends all refer to as “The Book” is done. Our manuscript for Murder Takes the Cake is finished!

Hurrah!

Now it’s time for the nitty-gritty part of writing—self editing and formatting the manuscript.

Yea! Not!

We’re in a dash to slash passive verbs, count the dots in ellipses, and conduct a head count of all our plot bunnies. We need to objectively examine each scene and decide if it’s necessary. Does it add to the plot; provide an important clue or red herring; give depth to a character? Or, as we sometimes discover, is a scene just useless padding, words that increase the page count without offering any other added value.

We also need to prepare the manuscript in the right format. That means literally going through every sentence to be sure that we have doubled-spaced after each period, question mark, and exclamation point. Why not just use the search and replace function? Because sometimes a sentence is enclosed within quotation marks, so a double space after a period doesn’t belong. As the Northern half often says, Oy!

This is not the fun part for me. This is like cleaning the kitchen after cooking and enjoying an elaborate feast. It has to be done, but it’s not fun.

Both halves of Evelyn David have reread “The Book” from start to finish at least four times over the past couple of days. The Northern half’s husband was the first to read the full draft. He gave it a thumbs-up and advised us on our hard liquor choices for the book. We needed an expensive malt whiskey for our plot. I didn’t have a clue. Me? I’m a connoisseur of wine coolers. Smirnoff’s Green Apple Bite is my alcoholic beverage of choice. For some reason I haven’t been able to envision a scene where “Mac Sullivan,” a retired D.C. police detective orders a Green Apple Bite.

We’ll read “The Book” a dozen times more before we show it to a couple of eagle-eyed friends for proof-reading. Tonight, I’m hoping to get through about 5 chapters before giving my eyes a rest from the computer screen, then I’ll pass the book (electronically) back to the New York half. We’ll continue to work off of one copy now that we’re in the home stretch.

As I told a group at the Will Rogers Public Library in Claremore, Oklahoma on Monday night, writing a book is like riding a bicycle. By the time you’re coasting down the hill, enjoying two full minutes of the wind blowing your hair and reveling in your well-deserved sense of accomplishment, you forget the long days of pedaling up the slope. You forget the excruciating leg cramps, the painful blisters, the heat of the sun beating down on your head, the sharp rocks in your shoes, the multiple flat tires, and …. Well you get the idea.

Anyone for a bike ride?

Evelyn David

T.M.I (too much information)

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Sorry about the repeat blog entry last week. I was down for the count with what we will politely call a prolonged case of “gastro-intestinal disturbance.” You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t have to go into graphic detail, do I? No…because we share the same sensibility, I’m sure, about things that go on the boudoir and the toilette. No need to elaborate.

So, what’s going on today’s world? In the last week, I have had to run the gauntlet with my kids on topics related to prostitution, infidelity, and the mother of them all—three-ways. Our new governor—inaugurated after the old governor admitted to soliciting a prostitute—assures us that he’s not “having an affair right now.” Whew! That’s good, right? Maybe now he has time to deal with the one gazillion dollar deficit the New York State budget is facing instead of what to eat at the continental breakfast buffet at the Upper West Side hotel that he admittedly has taken his paramours to.

I consider myself your garden variety prude. I don’t talk about bodily functions, sex, how much money I make, or anything I consider “private” in public. Some of my friends might dispute this contention, but believe me, I try not to. Sometimes, it’s unavoidable. I will not use the more common word for “gastro-intestinal disturbance” in mixed company. (Unless it can get me out of a three-hour nuptial mass for a couple I know will be divorced before my check clears or an extended stint of watching someone else’s home videos.) I just don’t think it’s right. But I’ll laugh heartily at a naughty joke, have been known to cuss every now and again, and enjoy certain déclassé reality television shows, like Rock of Love. But the fourth wall, so to speak, has come down in America and we’re becoming a class of divulgers, a population of people who think that everyone needs to know everything all the time. Is it “Larry King Syndrome”? Or the “Jerry Springeritization” of America? (I’m trademarking those, by the way.) I’m just not sure.

Let’s think back to a simpler time. Do you remember when Jimmy Carter said that he “lusted in his heart” and the country nearly shut down for a week? People were gouging their own eyes out to think that our President looked at women and—gasp!—thought about them in a lustful way. God, I miss Jimmy Carter. This week alone, we learned that former Governor Spitzer likes it au naturel (and frankly, who doesn’t?), Dina McGreevey may have had sex with another man while her husband watched (and if your husband is gay, I say you get a pass on that one), and that you can book a one, two, three, or four “diamond” woman on-line (by the way, it’s all the same woman, you moron johns out there) with your credit card. Who knew? But more importantly: who wanted to know?

It’s titillation overload, and I, for one, am tired of it. I’m thinking that a moratorium on all things licentious and lascivious is in order but how does one go about instituting that? In the world of twenty-four hours cable news, I am afraid it’s going to get worse and worse as time goes by. And if I’m so sick and tired of this, I imagine others must be as well.

I was talking with my friend, Carol, about this yesterday and she reminded of something that I should have been thinking about all along: the children in this equation. Can you imagine being an adolescent or a teen and having the details of your father or mother’s sex life splashed across the front of every tabloid? I can’t. The most embarrassing thing I remember is my mother starring as a Carmen Miranda-type singer in the annual church variety show, belting out “The Girl from Ipanema” (ah, good times). I can’t even begin to comprehend being in one of the most turbulent periods of life—and let’s admit it, anything from about eleven to twenty years old qualifies—and having all of these intensely personal details about your family brought forth on a daily basis. This, as you are undergoing emotional, physical, and hormonal changes while trying to deal with the challenges of socialization in middle or high school. It’s just not fair.

Let’s put this stuff away, people. Please. Let’s do it for children. Yours, mine, and theirs.

Irish Wolfhound on the Prowl

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I hate to fly, as I confessed here on February 18. Despite this phobia, or maybe because of it, I’ve always wanted to skip “across the pond” aboard the Concorde. I may not believe in the physics of flying, but anything that would shorten the time I had to spend in an airplane sounded good to me.

Unfortunately they grounded the SST in 2003. Still, there are other hypersonic possibilities on the horizon – and last week I got itchy for one of them to be rolled out for the regular public. I’m talking about NASA’s Scramjet. It cruises at Mach 7, seven times the speed of sound. That makes the Concorde look like a Model-T Ford. At 2km per second, it could fly from New York to Tokyo in under an hour. I could probably handle that.

And why, you might ask, do I want to go to Tokyo? Some delectable sushi perhaps?

Nope, even better. Last week we sold the Japanese rights to Murder Off the Books! Great advance, great press run, and can’t you just imagine the book tour – assuming the Scramjet is ready for me?

The foreign rights of a couple of my nonfiction books were sold to Pakistani publishers. I wasn’t surprised that my book, The Baffled Parent’s Guide to Sibling Rivalry, sparked international interest. Cain and Abel’s sorry tale explains why parents worldwide, from the beginning of time, have been trying to figure out how to keep their kids from figuratively, if not literally, killing each other. Hopefully, my book is the perfect antidote to prepubescent familial warfare.

The most recent statistics I could find on Japanese publishing were in a Publishers Weekly article from 1998. Foreign works account for only about 8 percent of all new Japanese titles each year. What I found especially interesting is that while the percentage of foreign titles hasn’t changed much in the last 30 years, the type of books has. In the 60’s, Japanese publishers primarily imported literature and philosophy titles. Today, the emphasis is on commercial titles, mainly mysteries and thrillers. How exciting that Japanese readers can discover the sleuthing team of Mac Sullivan, Rachel Brenner, and of course, Whiskey!

So, until the Scramjet can get me to Tokyo in under an hour, I’m thrilled that our Irish wolfhound will be visiting the Far East.

Arigato gozaimasu to our new friends in Japan, from your pals in America, Evelyn David.