Why I'm Loving "Game of Thrones"

This isn't a book review, per se. It's about looking at a book author to author. Once you start writing and have achieved a modest level of competence, the reading process is never the same. It's much like seeing a woman who is flawlessly made up, stripped naked of all her make-up, and what you're left with is the bones. Sometimes she's even more beautiful without all that crap on her face, and sometimes she's not. When I dislike a book, I really tend to dislike it. Because I know that it's not that hard to fix holes in a plot, and I can smell when an author is being lazy and phoning it in (which tends to happen in a long-running series), or is enamored with their status as an author and thinks that anything can pretty well fly. All of the above make me extremely intolerant and, as this blog so often attests, something of a cranky pants when it comes to writing.

However, the converse is also true. When I see an author make a decent stab at a book, even a book that has one or two major flaws, I am so willing to forgive. Because it's both incredibly easy and astonishingly hard to write a book. And when someone's passion flies off the page, I am more than willing to forgive, well, an awful lot if they care about their characters.

This brings us to the Game of Thrones series. I've just finished book 2 and have books 3 and 4 all lined up to go. Why do I love this series so much? Are there flaws? Yes, there are flaws. When George R.R. Martin's characterization is brilliant, it is really brilliant. When it is awful, then, it's pretty bad. I have hopes for Sansa Stark, but she started off ridiculously stupid in a family of very bright people, and if it hadn't been for the stunning, just jaw-dropping characterization of Tyrion Lannister, I don't know if I would have finished the book. But Tyrion is truly amazing and Sansa is improving. I don't know anything about Martin's personal life, but I'm guessing he doesn't have children, because the children in these books are both far too young and far too old, but he tells a cracking good story, so, yes, the magic is still working for me.

But what he does, and I admire this so much, is that he's fearless. He kills off people we love. He humiliates people we admire. He makes proud, decent men do ugly, awful things. He has the bastards be triumphant. For this alone he should be read by anyone who wants to write a book. Because if you become a fearless author, then your reader will always be on tenterhooks. Because you're not afraid to do anything with your characters. Which means that the person turning the page has no idea what's going to happen next.

Bravo, George! Bravo!

Must Love Dogs

Fair warning: this is a post about my dog and not a book review. I have read that book, which has its charming bits but kind of falls apart at the end, and once again I find myself wondering what makes Hollywood select one book over another to option. I had a similar reaction to the movie, but I do like Diane Lane and John Cusack a lot, so I was willing to actually see it in a theater (even though it's definitely only netflix caliber).

This is a dog post inspired by the fact that I came downstairs this morning and once again the dog's water dish was empty. Now my bedroom is an addition squatting over the garage, and we have to keep our bedroom door open because we have a cat who sees a closed door as an act of war, so I can hear anyone who comes into the kitchen. I know that several people (glares at husband, daughter, and son) came into the kitchen after I went to bed and did not check the dog's water bowl.

Which I do every time I enter the kitchen.

This is why the dogs always love me best. Love me with that adoration that only dogs can bestow, that, I will do anything for you, you r teh bomb, you are the first thing I think of when I go to sleep and the last thing I think of, kind of love. In humans this is psychotic stalkerish behavior, in dogs it's pretty normal.

The kids resent this because they know on one level they are much cuter. But they aren't consistent. Those same mommy genes that program me to know when they have a cold before they have a cold, ask them if they've eaten in the last three hours because I suspect not because they are as cranky as a bag of weasels (blood sugar issues), and always remind my daughter to bring a sweater ANY WHERE we go because the girl is half lizard are the same genes that make never forget to feed the dog and fill its water dish. Dogs are simple creatures. They really only have three speeds: affectionate, giddy, and mopey. We have a Golden and he really does get a wee bit giddy. He also gets mopey if I'm not home. But mainly he's just plain affectionate.


They can also be maddening, as when their biological imperative to chew ends up destroying the drip system, lawn chairs, and plants. I remember piling up numerous tales of chewing woe to regale my vet with, only to be told, hmmm, not that much of a chewer for its breed. NOT MUCH OF A CHEWER??????????? Then I remember the previous dog who ate through a sheet vinyl floor (so that we had charming patches of duck tape over the holes for five years as that remodel was going to happen any day), stripped the wall paper off the kitchen walls (which my husband replaced with "wainscoting," which I put in quotes because it was that sheet plastic you see in fast food restaurants), and drip system number 1. No, we didn't learn our lesson, and when it came time to think about another dog--or, to be honest, the kids and I were thinking about another dog; my husband is an unrepentant cat person, I wonder why--we broke down and got another puppy.

Bear is now over two years old and is probably the sweetest dog on the face of this earth. How sweet? Even my husband likes him. And truly, I can have the crappiest day in the world and I know there will be someone who greets me with uncomplicated adoration when I walk in the door. Just because it's me.

And because the second thing I do after dumping my purse in a random chair is to check his water dish.

And Then This Happened

Things have been unsettled for several months. I hit a horrible patch at work, my mother became ill, my kids graduated from high school and college, and I don't know what to do with my writerly self. Well, I sort of know. I have this Jane Austen pastiche that I need to self-publish. I have reached the point where it's nearly there, but the nitty-gritty details have to be dealt with. And being detail oriented at work means that being detail oriented the rest of the time is difficult. I want a break from details! But now that things are sort of stable, I need to sit down and wade through the minutia of this process.

What do I do next? I have a fabulous idea for another Mary Ryan book that I think I could pound out in three months. I have something of a passion for pirates, and I have plans to write a fantasy set in the 19th century. Swashbuckling and the Regency and swords, oh my. I've been reading up on 19th century Britain and did you know that coffee houses were your modern day equivalent of a street corner. Prostitutes plied their "wares" at coffee houses.

And part of my issue is that I edit for my job. It's very difficult to wrangle with other people's words all day and then come home and try to comb your brain for something intelligent to say. Really, all you want to do is watch HGTV reruns with the Property Brothers. Or reread Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (for the eighth time).

I'm currently reading Bill Bryson's At Home. Expect a review soon.

Book Review: The Beginner's Goodbye by Anne Tyler

I love Anne Tyler. She writes like I wish I could write, with a causal style that seems so easy and isn't, and when you actually take it apart you realize that it's not casual at all. Every word matters. And there's always a great zinger, that one sentence or phrase that ties the seemingly casual four paragraphs together with a "See? This is where I was going."

Given the demise of bookstores (who would have predicted three years ago that I would bemoaning the closure of chains!!!!), I buy actual books whenever I can. I have a bottom-basement e-reader. I use it on occasion. But even those who love readers will note that it's not the same read. It's like my job as an editor. When I really need to pick a manuscript apart, I have to print it out. The three-dimensional aspect of paper, type, and your eye/hand whatever contribute to a deeper read. I should ask my opthamologist why.

Reading for real enjoyment (or for work) needs that three-dimensional component to it. Naturally, I have read several books on my e-reader and have enjoyed them. But as I was browsing in my local bookstore the other day, I saw a copy of a book that I adored (The Paris Wife) that I had purchased as an e-book, and I loved it so much that I've decided to buy it. In hardcover. Because it was that good and I think that if I read it in hardcover, I would enjoy it even more.

Anyway, I saw that Anne Tyler was out with a new book [The Beginner's Goodbye (BG)] and I rushed to buy it. Well, I don't know if it qualifies as a book, more novella than novel, but why quibble? She is one of my favorite American authors: Breathing Lessons, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, and The Accidental Tourist are all fabulous reads, top notch. She's like the American Jane Austen, except her books aren't about unmarried women in the English countryside, they are about unhappily married couples in Baltimore. There's always a quirky aspect to her stories and I like that. Because I think most people are quirky, they just try to hide it.

Did I like it? Well, yes and no? I add the question mark because I'm still thinking about it (which I think is always a good thing, except in the case of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a book that I couldn't get out of my head because the popularity of such a mediocre book had me mulling over the vagaries of the publishing industry for weeks). The Beginner's Goodbye has a great premise (dead wife comes back to resolve on some level what had been an unhappy marriage).  Tyler always has some thoughtful observations on relationships, and what I've liked about her previous novels is that she ends her books with her characters earning a type of happiness, but it's not all wrapped up in a bow. This book's ending had a big fat ribbon around it with sparkles on the ribbon. Not only did the ending feel false, I think she could have ended it without the final chapter and it would have been a much stronger book--although even shorter.

Also, if you want to read a book that I think has very similar elements, and, in fact, feels like the same book but in its final draft, read The Accidental Tourist (TAT). In BG the protagonist suffers a stroke as a child and is paralyzed on one side. In TAT, our protagonist suffers a broken leg. Both men are almost destroyed by a death in their family, both protagonists end up with their houses being unfit for habitation and move in with their sisters, and both of these sisters, who seemed fated to spinsterhood, end up making improbable marriages. Both men work at small publishing houses that feature books in a niche market. Finally, both men end up marrying their polar opposites. Okay, BG doesn't have a dog in it, I admit. But this struck me as being essentially the same novel. At many points in this novel, I thought that the protagonist of TAT was speaking when it was Aaron of BG. I loved TAT, so it's not like I can say I don't like BG. But when I put it down (it's a two-hour read max), I wanted to pick up TAT again and savor it, because The Beginner's Goodbye felt unfinished and unrealized, and worse, a retread.

In short, it's a well written (if somewhat limited) book, but if you want to read it all fleshed out, with a fully imagined plot and some kick-ass characterizations, pick up The Accidental Tourist.

Note of Sadness

The world of writing and reading and my general cranky pants approach to life has been interrupted by one of life's real moments: the death of a family member. My mother-in-law passed away this week. She had been in failing health for many months, but I don't know if that makes it easier. Perhaps less of a surprise, yes, the but the sense of loss is the same. Someone who has filled a place in one's life is no longer there. The longer I live, the more I realize how irreplaceable people are. Their unique contribution remains unique. You fill in the hours that would have been their hours with other people, other conversations, but their unique scent doesn't fill the room and their particular voice is silent.

Not being religious people, we are all struggling how to structure her memorial in the absence of ritual. Because the thing about ritual is that there are distinct road maps. Given that neither of us are formal people, my husband and I struggled with this when we got married. My sister had a full-blown Catholic mass, which was very big on ritual and their responses scripted out. Being total pagans, my husband and I couldn't go that route, and without a traditional structure, we found that our ceremony was going to be approximately three minutes long and that included the music. We filled the time with poems that we both loved and stretched out the music, and hoped against hope that no one would miss our vows to each other if they yawned.

Similarly, we are now organizing a memorial that has no structure other than we're all terribly sad, we agree that food would be lovely, and perhaps some New Orleans jazz would be grand. Perhaps a tribute or two would be also be nice. And maybe that's enough

Time for Guest Blogger Camille Minichino!

Camille Minichino is back as my guest this go around, and I'm just going to make a little personal aside here. If it weren't for Camille and Penny Warner, I wouldn't be a published author. The mystery community is a supportive bunch, especially nurturing and encouraging, and Camille is one of the best. Anyway, Camille has a new book and a new series coming out, and she has some thoughts about that elusive title "writer." Enjoy!

I'm a (Gulp) Writer

Sometimes I wish I were a plumber. Or an electrician. Or a pastry chef. Then, at least, the next time someone asks, "What do you do?" I'll have a simple answer.

Right now, what I do most is write. But I have trouble saying "I'm a writer." Sometimes I can manage, "I write mystery novels," because having sold 17 books to publishers, and having just submitted my 18^th manuscript to my agent, I think that's a fair statement.

But "I'm a writer" carries with it a certain presumption, that if you look up "writers" on Wikipedia, you'll find my name between Herman Melville and Margaret Mitchell. The fact that I'm on the bookshelves between Ngaio Marsh and Marcia Muller helps a bit.

When I show up for a book signing, I might say, "I'm the author," so the clerk will know what to do with me. But I never say, generally speaking, "I'm AN author," or "I'm A writer," simply that I'm the one billed as the author for this evening.

The first time a reader came up to me at a conference and said, "I like your books," I thought she'd made a mistake. I lifted my badge on its lanyard and said, "I'm Camille Minichino. I don't think—"

"Yes," she said. "And I like your books."

Why such insecurity? What makes what I do an occupation or a profession, as opposed to, well, simply what I do? Salary might be one thing. I don't get a salary for writing. Now and then I get an advance or a check for royalties, but it certainly isn't what keeps me in the style to which I've become accustomed.

In fact, many people don't think writing is a business at all. I know my relatives and non-writer friends have no idea how a novel comes to be. Or that it's something they should spend their money on. They assume, with each new book, that I'll remember to give them a copy. More than one has been known to say, "Hey, I don't think I ever got a copy of that third book in the second series."

It's the same even with service providers. The receptionists in offices I frequent say, "I hear you have a new book out. I'll take one." As if they're doing me a favor, helping me offload all these copies that just pour into my house for free.

I wonder if any of these people say to their plumber clients, "Hey, my faucet is leaking. You can come over and fix it."

I'm not as ungenerous as I sound. I donate books all the time, to libraries, schools, and event hostesses. And the giveaways on blog tours (like today!) are a lot of fun, besides, hopefully, encouraging new readers to take a chance on my books.

I guess I'm looking for a little more respect! (Sorry to channel Dangerfield.)

I'm sure no disrespect is meant. I believe this is how many people think a 350-page manuscript comes into being:

1. Allot a few hours a day for a month, maybe two if it's Christmastime.

2. Make sure there's enough paper in the printer.

3. Open a blank document and start writing the title and the first page.

4. Continue writing the story for another 349 pages. (It's a lot of typing, but eventually, the pages will be filled.)

5. The end.

No wonder I don't think it's worth mentioning that "I'm a writer."

The day I received a doctorate in physics, there was great fanfare. Academics love pageantry! Robes, velvet hats with tassels, trumpets, and a grand, symbolic climbing of the stairs to the lofty stage where our professors sat.

After that, I had no trouble, saying, "I'm a physicist."

I think that's what writers need. We need a ceremony with that first book. Not just a little party with tchotchkes and cookies, but a full-fledged initiation, Trumpet Voluntary blaring.

On the other hand, one "stranger" saying, "I like your books," makes up for a lot.

********************************

Camille Minichino is a retired physicist turned writer.

As Camille Minichino, she's the author of the Periodic Table Mysteries. As Margaret Grace, she writes the Miniature Mysteries, based on her lifelong hobby. As Ada Madison, she has launched a new series, academic mysteries featuring Professor Sophie Knowles, math teacher at fictional college in Massachusetts.

Soon, every aspect of her life will be a mystery series.

Camille has also published articles for popular magazines and teaches science and writing workshops in and around the Bay Area.

Why Do I Love a Book: Part I

Look! Graphics! I have graphics!

Am I a cranky pants? As I look over the reviews I've done in the past few months without a doubt the thumbs down far outweigh the thumbs up by a considerable margin. And yet some of the books that I've "yayed" about included a deal-breaker plot issue that written by another author would have won it a world of hate, as they say. So what distinguishes these books from on another?

First, I think that non-fiction has a leg up. The bar for publishing non-fiction seems to have remained fairly static over the years (discounting, of course, the phenomena of celebrity authors, the nadir of which has been reached with the publication of Snookie's Confession of a Guidette). No publisher is clamoring for David McCullough to churn out a book every nine months. Plus, the dynamic between the non-fiction world and the reader is slightly different. The fiction author has the Herculean task of pulling you into their world and keeping you there. The non-fiction author has the slightly less Herculean task of dragging you into another world--the past, the present, the scientific, etc. It's not as personal. I was going to write that it's more clinical, but I've read some non-fiction that is so passionate about its subject that to call this writing clinical would be blasphemous. Taking the real world and making it as interesting as the world of the imagination is damn difficult. There are the limits of the subject itself, no insignificant matter. But just as there are limitations on the subject matter, the subject matter itself can be its own advertizing. Who doesn't find murder fascinating? Well, I do, so already you have me hooked and it's going to take a lot of bad writing to "kill" that initial buy in. Having said that, I do think that based on my reading career of over forty-five years comprising a fair amount of both fiction and non-fiction, that for mainstream publishing the bar for non-fiction remains high.

While the bar for fiction? Sigh, I'm not going to go on and on here as I've done in the past about what I consider the steady decline in the quality of fiction. To me it's obvious and if it's not obvious to you, consider yourself lucky.

I do consider the fiction writer's primary hurdle--where they are obligated to make their world yours--to be one of those mountains coming to Mohamed deals. The inside of my head is a very weird place with lots of baggage that can't help but migrate to the page at some point. Voice is how I tell you that my baggage is brilliant and fascinating and my neuroses let me show them to you. Characterization is what's in my baggage. Sometimes this baggage is composed of nothing but shirts whose buttons have been ripped off or they are all black or in fantastic colors, and there's a bunch of lingerie hidden in the corners. Sometimes I've got nothing but shoes and why is that? Plot is what color is my baggage. A plain brown suitcase could contain a shocking number of very revealing black bras. Or it could have stacks and stacks of maps to various countries with a gun nestling in the middle of them. I use this analogy to point out how varied all these components can be--although I will say that if you ain't got voice you got nothin'--and still have a novel work and work beautifully.

In order to make that baggage interesting enough that a reader has no problem in picking up that baggage and hauling it around for something like three hundred and fifty pages is no easy task. A book doesn't work when the outside of my suitcase is too gaudy or someone wants red lingerie instead of black, or the sight of a gun makes the reader cringe, or my voice is too damn whiny, choppy, cliche, or epithet-ridden to appeal. Then the suitcase is dropped and the journey stops right there. The sound of my baggage hitting the tarmac with a fatal thud makes my author's heart skip a wee beat.

It's the worse sound in the world.

Part II coming!