Wayne Zurl's Blog
May 4, 2017
Advice For Novice Writers
For many of us writing is fun. It’s what comes afterward, the promotions and marketing, that’s too much like work. But that’s life, and something authors must do.
When you’re promoting your book, one of the best ways to let the world know that you wrote this generation’s Great American Novel is to be interviewed by someone who caters to writers and sparks an interest in readers. TV is great, but those spots don’t come along all that often. There’s radio or Internet radio as well and of course newspapers. But as a writer travelling in the social media circles frequented by other writers, you’ll more often run across bloggers looking to fill a spot on their site who are quite happy to have you answer a dozen questions about yourself and meet their fans and followers.
If you do enough interviews you’ll find that there are only so many questions these bloggers ask. You’ll often repeat your answers throughout the year. One of the great standards used by bloggers is also potentially helpful to other writers if you’ve got a good idea. I think I have. Here’s a question I’ve encountered many times:
‘What is the best piece of advice you could give someone starting out on a writing career?’
The best practical advice I can offer a new writer isn’t my original thought. I learned this reading an interview with Robert B. Parker. When asked why his books were so popular, Parker gave a simple answer, ‘Because they sound good.’ Most of my twenty-seven Sam Jenkins mystery novelettes were written for audio books and had to sound good when read by an actor. So, I knew exactly what Bob Parker meant. I apply this same principle with my full-length novels
Here’s my recommendation on how to produce a quality piece of work. When you think your story, novelette, novella, novel, or epic is finished, when you truly believe you’ve found and corrected all the typos and nits and it’s ready to sell, go back and read it ALOUD to yourself. Pretend you’re the star of your own audio book. Read it slowly and professionally as an actor would. Then, ask yourself, does it sound good? Do all the paragraphs smoothly transcend to the next? Does each sentence contain the right number of syllables? Does each word flow into the next without conflict? Or did you find yourself tongue-tied on occasion? Does it have a pleasing rhythm? Basically, does it sing to you? For a guy who doesn’t dance very well, I have a great need for rhythm in my writing. If you notice any “bumps,” go back and rewrite it. Smooth everything out. If something bothers you now, it will annoy the hell out of you in the future and someone else will notice it, too.
With that accomplished, you’re finished, right? No. Now you’re ready to hand it off to a freelance editor or proof-reader—whomever you can afford if you’re self-publishing, or to the editor assigned to you by your traditional publishing house. A second (or third) pair of eyes is essential for ANY writer.
When you’re promoting your book, one of the best ways to let the world know that you wrote this generation’s Great American Novel is to be interviewed by someone who caters to writers and sparks an interest in readers. TV is great, but those spots don’t come along all that often. There’s radio or Internet radio as well and of course newspapers. But as a writer travelling in the social media circles frequented by other writers, you’ll more often run across bloggers looking to fill a spot on their site who are quite happy to have you answer a dozen questions about yourself and meet their fans and followers.
If you do enough interviews you’ll find that there are only so many questions these bloggers ask. You’ll often repeat your answers throughout the year. One of the great standards used by bloggers is also potentially helpful to other writers if you’ve got a good idea. I think I have. Here’s a question I’ve encountered many times:
‘What is the best piece of advice you could give someone starting out on a writing career?’
The best practical advice I can offer a new writer isn’t my original thought. I learned this reading an interview with Robert B. Parker. When asked why his books were so popular, Parker gave a simple answer, ‘Because they sound good.’ Most of my twenty-seven Sam Jenkins mystery novelettes were written for audio books and had to sound good when read by an actor. So, I knew exactly what Bob Parker meant. I apply this same principle with my full-length novels
Here’s my recommendation on how to produce a quality piece of work. When you think your story, novelette, novella, novel, or epic is finished, when you truly believe you’ve found and corrected all the typos and nits and it’s ready to sell, go back and read it ALOUD to yourself. Pretend you’re the star of your own audio book. Read it slowly and professionally as an actor would. Then, ask yourself, does it sound good? Do all the paragraphs smoothly transcend to the next? Does each sentence contain the right number of syllables? Does each word flow into the next without conflict? Or did you find yourself tongue-tied on occasion? Does it have a pleasing rhythm? Basically, does it sing to you? For a guy who doesn’t dance very well, I have a great need for rhythm in my writing. If you notice any “bumps,” go back and rewrite it. Smooth everything out. If something bothers you now, it will annoy the hell out of you in the future and someone else will notice it, too.
With that accomplished, you’re finished, right? No. Now you’re ready to hand it off to a freelance editor or proof-reader—whomever you can afford if you’re self-publishing, or to the editor assigned to you by your traditional publishing house. A second (or third) pair of eyes is essential for ANY writer.
February 4, 2016
A GROUND HOG DAY INTERVIEW AT SMASHWORDS
What is a smashword anyway? I can't answer that, but there seems to be more than one. And SMASHWORDS.com posted an interview with me on their site where they sell all the electronic versions of the Sam Jenkins mysteries. Learn a little more about Sam and me, but not what smashwords means.
http://www.waynezurlbooks.net/2016/02...
http://www.waynezurlbooks.net/2016/02...
March 15, 2014
RECYCLING UNUSED SCENES FROM PUBLISHED BOOKS
Shake and Bake and Double-O Buckshot
By Wayne Zurl
This story is fabricated from an outtake which originally appeared in the award winning Sam Jenkins novel, A NEW PROSPECT. The scene was deleted prior to publication. It’s based on an actual incident which took place in New York in 1975.
At ten past five, Stanley Rose and I walked back into Prospect PD. We found Bettye Lambert sitting at her desk reading the latest Jesse Stone novel. Her blonde hair shined like a lighthouse in the mist.
I felt contented with a job well done. Stanley, the pessimist, complained all the way back from the psych ward at Blount Memorial Hospital.
“Hey,” I said to Bettye, “what are you still doing here?”
“Hey, yourself, Sammy. I’m wanted to be sure you guys were okay.”
“As Ralph Kramden said to Alice, ‘Baby, you’re the greatest.’ Thanks for waiting. We’re fine and everything went off without a hitch. The little guy who took a hostage is in a straight jacket waiting to get candled by a county shrink.”
“I’m glad,” she said, and smiled. “When I heard you tell the dispatcher you were leaving the hospital, I made a fresh pot of coffee. Want to tell me what happened?”
“Sure, and I’d love a coffee. You don’t have to get home?”
“I have to hear what happened.”
“I hope our fearless chief appreciates you,” Stan said. “Cause I was going to leave his ass at the hospital.”
Stanley dropped his 235 pounds into one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. His ebony complexion contrasted sharply with his khaki uniform shirt.
“Do I detect a note of disfavor in your voice, Sergeant Rose?” I asked.
“It’s hard enough supervising the cops here,” Stan said. “You’re gonna give me an ulcer.”
“Sam, darlin’, what have you done now?” Bettye shook her head and looked lovelier than any other desk sergeant on the planet.
“Betts, you should have seen it. Junior was pinned down behind his car. We pulled up in a hail of bullets.”
Stanley interrupted. “Anyone mind if I interject a note of reality?”
Bettye looked back at me as she poured three cups of coffee.
“Go ahead, Stanley,” I said. “I just wanted to see if she’d believe me.” I resigned myself to the truth. “You tell the story.”
Stan chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I must have snoozed through that hail of bullets. But I remember seeing Junior talking to the hostage taker through the front door. But after our ace negotiator here,” he poked his thumb at me, “talked to that Mexican in pigeon Spanish for a few minutes, the guy let his stepdaughter go.”
“You see,” I said. “He’s so judgmental. I get results.”
“After he got the results we wanted,” Stanley said, “our impatient police chief waited a whole five minutes before kicking the door in.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t really necessary to prolong things.”
“Here ya go, boss.” Bettye handed me a cup of black coffee. “And, Stanley, here’s yours, light and sweet.”
“After he kicked the door in and we entered the trailer with our guns drawn, we found the little guy hiding under the kitchen sink,” Stan said.” He was holding a cheap steak knife for protection, but he could have had a gun.”
“The wife and the stepdaughter said he had a knife. No one knew anything about a gun and we searched the place carefully. You’re so conservative.”
“Well, I’m glad everyone is safe.” Bettye said.
“They’re all not so easy,” I said.
“No, they’re not,” Stan added.
“I remember a barricaded subject incident years ago that was anything but easy. I came close to killing a cop,” I said.
“Lord have mercy,” Bettye said. “What happened?”
I looked at Stanley. “You up for a war story?”
“Sure. The coffee’s hot and I’ll be here until midnight.”
“You two remember Shake and Bake?” I asked.
“Yeah, the stuff you put on chicken,” Stan said. “I was only a kid when they ran those commercials on TV. They still make that stuff?”
Bettye shrugged. I didn’t know either.
“Sometime back in the mid-70s when I worked a sector car in New York,” I said. “We got assigned to assist the adjoining car. ‘Man with a gun,’ the dispatcher said.
‘Possible hostage situation.’”
I raised my eyebrows. It’s the kind of call every cop hates.
“It was August—ninety or better and humid. More humidity than East Tennessee ever feels.”
I thought about the typical New York late summer weather and shook my head.
“There’s nothing like Long Island humidity, except maybe Southeast Asia.”
Stanley smiled. He’d been to the Philippines during his time in the Air Force.
“We had no A/C in the cars back then. I used a thermometer once to check—a-hundred-and-twenty-degrees around our legs. Summers were as hot as hell.”
Stanley slumped down in his chair and stretched out his long legs. Bettye took a careful sip of coffee.
“Before that call we were having a typical lousy day, one job right after another, with no time to write them up or even grab a quick lunch. Then we got the call. Cars from all the surrounding sectors pulled up near the house. As soon as everyone arrived, a road sergeant and the lieutenant deployed us around the place. I carried a shotgun in our car, so my partner and I took a spot right outside the front door. Everyone else spread around to form a perimeter.”
I blew across the top of my cup to cool the steaming coffee.
“The L.T. used a bull horn to contact the guy inside, who shouted a few words out the front window each time he heard a question. This mutt sounded whacked out—in love or more probably in lust with his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.”
Bettye shook her head. Stan listened patiently.
“After everything was over and the dicks questioned the girl, we learned that the mother had already gone to work and during breakfast that morning stepdaddy told the kid he wanted to make love to her. But she told him he was crazy and wanted no part of the guy. Later, he came home from work around the time she got back from school and it became obvious he wasn’t a man capable of handling rejection. At gunpoint, he told her if she wouldn’t have him, he had no choice but to kill her and then kill himself.”
“And I once thought LA had a monopoly on head cases,” Stan, the former Los Angeles cop said.
I continued. “But as Robert Burns said about those best laid plans, the girl kicked him in the groin and ran for the front door. Jerko took a shot at her with his Winchester 30-30 and hit her in the ass on her way out.”
Bettye winced and Stanley said, “Ouch!”
“That girl was some gutsy kid. Even with a bullet hole in her cheek, she crawled behind a neighbor’s parked car and started screaming her head off. The neighbors called 9-1-1.”
I took a sip of coffee and could visualize the area where I used to work clearly.
“The first sector car pulled up and one of those cops dragged the girl to safety while his partner called for an ambulance and assistance. Those were all small sectors—crowded neighborhoods with little stores scattered here and there. Four cars and two supervisors arrived in no time.
At 5:00 p.m., Bettye switched over the phones and radio to the 9-1-1 center, but left our base station turned on. In the lobby, the radio crackled and the county dispatcher sent a Rockford PD car on a first aid case and one of our units to verify the recovery of a bicycle reported stolen days earlier. When the chatter ended, I continued my story.
“I believe the boss almost talked that crazy bastard into coming out when everything went silent. It seemed like five minutes went by with no action. Maybe it was less.”
I paused myself, trying to create a dramatic effect.
“Then we heard a shot. I didn’t know if the subject shot himself or took a shot at one of the cops.”
I shifted in my seat, pulled out the bottom desk drawer, and set my foot on it.
“The lieutenant screamed through the bull horn trying to get the shooter to answer. Our sergeant came over and lay down next to me. ‘You’ve got the apple on this one, Sam,’ he said. ‘If this asshole opens the door and doesn’t have his hands up, do what you gotta do.’”
Stanley turned on his Ebonics act. "Nice to put y’all in a po-sition like dat.”
I nodded. “Yeah. He was all heart. I lay there, next to a large bush, only thirty feet from the front door. My partner lay next to me, his revolver pointed at the house. My first two rounds were magnum double-O buck. The next two were slugs. At that range there was no question of the man surviving. I was ready. If he pointed a gun at us and wanted to do a Butch Cassidy, he’d be dead—no question in my mind.”
At that point we all took sips from our coffee cups.
“Five minutes more went by and we heard communication from most of the cops. Only one man didn’t answer the radio. That made me uneasy. Another cop, positioned closest to his assigned spot, low crawled there and couldn’t find him.
“The lieutenant called over the bullhorn again asking for the subject to talk to him. Nothing but silence all around. Another few moments and the front door started opening. I clicked off the safety, put the bead front sight at about lower mid-door, and put a little pressure on the trigger. Both my eyes were open looking down the barrel of that 870 Remington. I had already stopped my breathing.”
Stan drew his legs back and straightened in his chair. Bettye sat forward holding her cup tightly in her lap.
“Then the door opened a little more. I saw a blue shirt and a PD patch. I screamed. My partner screamed, ‘Don’t fire. Don’t fire!’ Then other cops picked up the chant. No one relaxed, but no one started shooting either.”
Stan blew out a silent breath. Bettye shook her head. My audience looked spellbound. Maybe I should enter one of those Appalachian storytelling contests.
“What happened was, the cop posted at the side door got antsy waiting for something to go down and decided to enter the house without telling anyone.”
“Bad move.” Stan said.
“About as bad as it gets,” Bettye said.
“Yep. That’s what everyone thought.”
Without giving me a chance to resume the story, Bettye asked, “What happened?”
“Inside, Officer Impatience found the subject sitting in a chair with a Model 94 Winchester in his mouth and the top half of his head splattered around the upper half of the kitchen.”
Stan shook his head.
Bettye said, “Oh, Lord have mercy.”
“After that cop cleared the doorway, we ran in to check the scene. What a mess. The house had no air conditioning, so with that temperature, fifteen minutes of fresh blood and brains on the floors and walls and ceiling, stunk to high heaven. I looked at that deranged bastard lying on the floor. My partner backed out, afraid to be sick from the stink. Two other cops came in with handkerchiefs over their noses and checked the rooms for other people or bodies—there were none. The sergeant patted my shoulder and gestured for me to get out. We’d leave it for the detectives and the M.E.”
Neither Bettye nor Stan commented.
“Outside,” I said, “I saw the L.T. reaming out the cop who went through the house. No question in my mind, that guy wanted a Bravery Medal. But he was lucky to get away with an ass-chewing. If we didn’t wear those big red shoulder patches, something easy for me to see, a blast of double-O buckshot would have ruined his whole day.”
I sipped more coffee. The temperature tasted just right.
“What about the Shake and Bake?” Bettye asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I got home a little late that night. For an hour, on the drive east, I swore I could smell the blood from that hot kitchen. You know how you smell a dry floater long after the body’s gone? I always wondered if those smells stuck to the nasal hairs.”
Stan nodded, he knew. Bettye said nothing.
“Well, Kate already had dinner ready. She made chicken that night. Chicken with the new and improved, barbeque flavor Shake and Bake. It had the same sweet smell of the spilled blood in that kitchen. I lost my appetite—she understood. Funny how some things trigger memories.”
Bettye and Stanley nodded, but still offered no comment. Some people know when it’s a time to just listen.
THE END
A NEW PROSPECT Copyright 2010, Wayne Zurl
www.waynezurlbooks.net
By Wayne Zurl
This story is fabricated from an outtake which originally appeared in the award winning Sam Jenkins novel, A NEW PROSPECT. The scene was deleted prior to publication. It’s based on an actual incident which took place in New York in 1975.
At ten past five, Stanley Rose and I walked back into Prospect PD. We found Bettye Lambert sitting at her desk reading the latest Jesse Stone novel. Her blonde hair shined like a lighthouse in the mist.
I felt contented with a job well done. Stanley, the pessimist, complained all the way back from the psych ward at Blount Memorial Hospital.
“Hey,” I said to Bettye, “what are you still doing here?”
“Hey, yourself, Sammy. I’m wanted to be sure you guys were okay.”
“As Ralph Kramden said to Alice, ‘Baby, you’re the greatest.’ Thanks for waiting. We’re fine and everything went off without a hitch. The little guy who took a hostage is in a straight jacket waiting to get candled by a county shrink.”
“I’m glad,” she said, and smiled. “When I heard you tell the dispatcher you were leaving the hospital, I made a fresh pot of coffee. Want to tell me what happened?”
“Sure, and I’d love a coffee. You don’t have to get home?”
“I have to hear what happened.”
“I hope our fearless chief appreciates you,” Stan said. “Cause I was going to leave his ass at the hospital.”
Stanley dropped his 235 pounds into one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. His ebony complexion contrasted sharply with his khaki uniform shirt.
“Do I detect a note of disfavor in your voice, Sergeant Rose?” I asked.
“It’s hard enough supervising the cops here,” Stan said. “You’re gonna give me an ulcer.”
“Sam, darlin’, what have you done now?” Bettye shook her head and looked lovelier than any other desk sergeant on the planet.
“Betts, you should have seen it. Junior was pinned down behind his car. We pulled up in a hail of bullets.”
Stanley interrupted. “Anyone mind if I interject a note of reality?”
Bettye looked back at me as she poured three cups of coffee.
“Go ahead, Stanley,” I said. “I just wanted to see if she’d believe me.” I resigned myself to the truth. “You tell the story.”
Stan chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I must have snoozed through that hail of bullets. But I remember seeing Junior talking to the hostage taker through the front door. But after our ace negotiator here,” he poked his thumb at me, “talked to that Mexican in pigeon Spanish for a few minutes, the guy let his stepdaughter go.”
“You see,” I said. “He’s so judgmental. I get results.”
“After he got the results we wanted,” Stanley said, “our impatient police chief waited a whole five minutes before kicking the door in.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t really necessary to prolong things.”
“Here ya go, boss.” Bettye handed me a cup of black coffee. “And, Stanley, here’s yours, light and sweet.”
“After he kicked the door in and we entered the trailer with our guns drawn, we found the little guy hiding under the kitchen sink,” Stan said.” He was holding a cheap steak knife for protection, but he could have had a gun.”
“The wife and the stepdaughter said he had a knife. No one knew anything about a gun and we searched the place carefully. You’re so conservative.”
“Well, I’m glad everyone is safe.” Bettye said.
“They’re all not so easy,” I said.
“No, they’re not,” Stan added.
“I remember a barricaded subject incident years ago that was anything but easy. I came close to killing a cop,” I said.
“Lord have mercy,” Bettye said. “What happened?”
I looked at Stanley. “You up for a war story?”
“Sure. The coffee’s hot and I’ll be here until midnight.”
“You two remember Shake and Bake?” I asked.
“Yeah, the stuff you put on chicken,” Stan said. “I was only a kid when they ran those commercials on TV. They still make that stuff?”
Bettye shrugged. I didn’t know either.
“Sometime back in the mid-70s when I worked a sector car in New York,” I said. “We got assigned to assist the adjoining car. ‘Man with a gun,’ the dispatcher said.
‘Possible hostage situation.’”
I raised my eyebrows. It’s the kind of call every cop hates.
“It was August—ninety or better and humid. More humidity than East Tennessee ever feels.”
I thought about the typical New York late summer weather and shook my head.
“There’s nothing like Long Island humidity, except maybe Southeast Asia.”
Stanley smiled. He’d been to the Philippines during his time in the Air Force.
“We had no A/C in the cars back then. I used a thermometer once to check—a-hundred-and-twenty-degrees around our legs. Summers were as hot as hell.”
Stanley slumped down in his chair and stretched out his long legs. Bettye took a careful sip of coffee.
“Before that call we were having a typical lousy day, one job right after another, with no time to write them up or even grab a quick lunch. Then we got the call. Cars from all the surrounding sectors pulled up near the house. As soon as everyone arrived, a road sergeant and the lieutenant deployed us around the place. I carried a shotgun in our car, so my partner and I took a spot right outside the front door. Everyone else spread around to form a perimeter.”
I blew across the top of my cup to cool the steaming coffee.
“The L.T. used a bull horn to contact the guy inside, who shouted a few words out the front window each time he heard a question. This mutt sounded whacked out—in love or more probably in lust with his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.”
Bettye shook her head. Stan listened patiently.
“After everything was over and the dicks questioned the girl, we learned that the mother had already gone to work and during breakfast that morning stepdaddy told the kid he wanted to make love to her. But she told him he was crazy and wanted no part of the guy. Later, he came home from work around the time she got back from school and it became obvious he wasn’t a man capable of handling rejection. At gunpoint, he told her if she wouldn’t have him, he had no choice but to kill her and then kill himself.”
“And I once thought LA had a monopoly on head cases,” Stan, the former Los Angeles cop said.
I continued. “But as Robert Burns said about those best laid plans, the girl kicked him in the groin and ran for the front door. Jerko took a shot at her with his Winchester 30-30 and hit her in the ass on her way out.”
Bettye winced and Stanley said, “Ouch!”
“That girl was some gutsy kid. Even with a bullet hole in her cheek, she crawled behind a neighbor’s parked car and started screaming her head off. The neighbors called 9-1-1.”
I took a sip of coffee and could visualize the area where I used to work clearly.
“The first sector car pulled up and one of those cops dragged the girl to safety while his partner called for an ambulance and assistance. Those were all small sectors—crowded neighborhoods with little stores scattered here and there. Four cars and two supervisors arrived in no time.
At 5:00 p.m., Bettye switched over the phones and radio to the 9-1-1 center, but left our base station turned on. In the lobby, the radio crackled and the county dispatcher sent a Rockford PD car on a first aid case and one of our units to verify the recovery of a bicycle reported stolen days earlier. When the chatter ended, I continued my story.
“I believe the boss almost talked that crazy bastard into coming out when everything went silent. It seemed like five minutes went by with no action. Maybe it was less.”
I paused myself, trying to create a dramatic effect.
“Then we heard a shot. I didn’t know if the subject shot himself or took a shot at one of the cops.”
I shifted in my seat, pulled out the bottom desk drawer, and set my foot on it.
“The lieutenant screamed through the bull horn trying to get the shooter to answer. Our sergeant came over and lay down next to me. ‘You’ve got the apple on this one, Sam,’ he said. ‘If this asshole opens the door and doesn’t have his hands up, do what you gotta do.’”
Stanley turned on his Ebonics act. "Nice to put y’all in a po-sition like dat.”
I nodded. “Yeah. He was all heart. I lay there, next to a large bush, only thirty feet from the front door. My partner lay next to me, his revolver pointed at the house. My first two rounds were magnum double-O buck. The next two were slugs. At that range there was no question of the man surviving. I was ready. If he pointed a gun at us and wanted to do a Butch Cassidy, he’d be dead—no question in my mind.”
At that point we all took sips from our coffee cups.
“Five minutes more went by and we heard communication from most of the cops. Only one man didn’t answer the radio. That made me uneasy. Another cop, positioned closest to his assigned spot, low crawled there and couldn’t find him.
“The lieutenant called over the bullhorn again asking for the subject to talk to him. Nothing but silence all around. Another few moments and the front door started opening. I clicked off the safety, put the bead front sight at about lower mid-door, and put a little pressure on the trigger. Both my eyes were open looking down the barrel of that 870 Remington. I had already stopped my breathing.”
Stan drew his legs back and straightened in his chair. Bettye sat forward holding her cup tightly in her lap.
“Then the door opened a little more. I saw a blue shirt and a PD patch. I screamed. My partner screamed, ‘Don’t fire. Don’t fire!’ Then other cops picked up the chant. No one relaxed, but no one started shooting either.”
Stan blew out a silent breath. Bettye shook her head. My audience looked spellbound. Maybe I should enter one of those Appalachian storytelling contests.
“What happened was, the cop posted at the side door got antsy waiting for something to go down and decided to enter the house without telling anyone.”
“Bad move.” Stan said.
“About as bad as it gets,” Bettye said.
“Yep. That’s what everyone thought.”
Without giving me a chance to resume the story, Bettye asked, “What happened?”
“Inside, Officer Impatience found the subject sitting in a chair with a Model 94 Winchester in his mouth and the top half of his head splattered around the upper half of the kitchen.”
Stan shook his head.
Bettye said, “Oh, Lord have mercy.”
“After that cop cleared the doorway, we ran in to check the scene. What a mess. The house had no air conditioning, so with that temperature, fifteen minutes of fresh blood and brains on the floors and walls and ceiling, stunk to high heaven. I looked at that deranged bastard lying on the floor. My partner backed out, afraid to be sick from the stink. Two other cops came in with handkerchiefs over their noses and checked the rooms for other people or bodies—there were none. The sergeant patted my shoulder and gestured for me to get out. We’d leave it for the detectives and the M.E.”
Neither Bettye nor Stan commented.
“Outside,” I said, “I saw the L.T. reaming out the cop who went through the house. No question in my mind, that guy wanted a Bravery Medal. But he was lucky to get away with an ass-chewing. If we didn’t wear those big red shoulder patches, something easy for me to see, a blast of double-O buckshot would have ruined his whole day.”
I sipped more coffee. The temperature tasted just right.
“What about the Shake and Bake?” Bettye asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I got home a little late that night. For an hour, on the drive east, I swore I could smell the blood from that hot kitchen. You know how you smell a dry floater long after the body’s gone? I always wondered if those smells stuck to the nasal hairs.”
Stan nodded, he knew. Bettye said nothing.
“Well, Kate already had dinner ready. She made chicken that night. Chicken with the new and improved, barbeque flavor Shake and Bake. It had the same sweet smell of the spilled blood in that kitchen. I lost my appetite—she understood. Funny how some things trigger memories.”
Bettye and Stanley nodded, but still offered no comment. Some people know when it’s a time to just listen.
THE END
A NEW PROSPECT Copyright 2010, Wayne Zurl
www.waynezurlbooks.net
ON BAD REVIEWS
ON BAD REVIEWS
By Wayne Zurl
Some people have no bedside manner. That’s certainly true of a few (or more) book reviewers.
Don’t you hate to get bombed by a blogger who has only six followers and spends most of his/her time passing judgment on throw-away diapers or kitchen appliances? You ask yourself, “Why didn’t he/she leave my book alone and pick up a Veg-O-Matic?”
How should you handle the pain of a bad review? Let’s take it by the numbers and I’ll give you my thoughts.
1-Allow the steam to escape from your ears before proceeding.
2-Get all thoughts of physical violence and verbal retribution out of your system before moving on to step three.
3-Look at the poorly worded, opinionated, juvenile, asinine, obnoxious, nasty, insensitive, grits-for-brains review, written by an obviously uneducated, mentally challenged cretin OBJECTIVELY and assess its merit. Perhaps among all the hurtful statements, something can be learned from a valid point (no matter how ill-phrased.)
4-Do not immediately click on Amazon’s comment box and write, “Oh, Yeah? I HATE YOU!”
5-If you must reply, (and there may not be a necessity to do so) you owe the reviewer (and your reputation) civility. Type in: “Thanks for your opinion,” perhaps accompanied by a short and professionally worded statement and send it on its way. Then without delay, grab a pen and paper, and for your mental wellbeing, finish your thoughts with: You moron! Up yours! What makes you think you’d know a good book/story/poem (strike out those that do not apply) if it bit you in the ass? After you’re finished, crumble up your handwritten message and throw it at the cat. Your psychotherapist will be proud of you for practicing catharsis.
My best advice (and who follows his/her own advice?): Don’t dwell on the negative thoughts of others. Most great authors have received negative criticism from someone.
My second best advice (and I like this one much better): If available, print out a photo of the reviewer and hope you see them on the street some day. Take this advice as something coming from a middle-aged kid originally from Brooklyn.
By Wayne Zurl
Some people have no bedside manner. That’s certainly true of a few (or more) book reviewers.
Don’t you hate to get bombed by a blogger who has only six followers and spends most of his/her time passing judgment on throw-away diapers or kitchen appliances? You ask yourself, “Why didn’t he/she leave my book alone and pick up a Veg-O-Matic?”
How should you handle the pain of a bad review? Let’s take it by the numbers and I’ll give you my thoughts.
1-Allow the steam to escape from your ears before proceeding.
2-Get all thoughts of physical violence and verbal retribution out of your system before moving on to step three.
3-Look at the poorly worded, opinionated, juvenile, asinine, obnoxious, nasty, insensitive, grits-for-brains review, written by an obviously uneducated, mentally challenged cretin OBJECTIVELY and assess its merit. Perhaps among all the hurtful statements, something can be learned from a valid point (no matter how ill-phrased.)
4-Do not immediately click on Amazon’s comment box and write, “Oh, Yeah? I HATE YOU!”
5-If you must reply, (and there may not be a necessity to do so) you owe the reviewer (and your reputation) civility. Type in: “Thanks for your opinion,” perhaps accompanied by a short and professionally worded statement and send it on its way. Then without delay, grab a pen and paper, and for your mental wellbeing, finish your thoughts with: You moron! Up yours! What makes you think you’d know a good book/story/poem (strike out those that do not apply) if it bit you in the ass? After you’re finished, crumble up your handwritten message and throw it at the cat. Your psychotherapist will be proud of you for practicing catharsis.
My best advice (and who follows his/her own advice?): Don’t dwell on the negative thoughts of others. Most great authors have received negative criticism from someone.
My second best advice (and I like this one much better): If available, print out a photo of the reviewer and hope you see them on the street some day. Take this advice as something coming from a middle-aged kid originally from Brooklyn.
February 4, 2014
Perfect is Boring
When I began writing police mysteries I said to myself, “Aha! This is fiction, not a documentary. I have the opportunity to make everything come out perfectly.”
I thought it would be cool to chronicle my old cases and correct any mistakes or ask the questions that never came to mind or make the clever comments I only thought of the day after. It looked like an “if only” moment—a chance for perfection.
Then it rained on my parade. The precipitation came in the form of a middle-aged man with lots of experience in publishing and some pretty good ideas. The retired editor turned book-doctor who I hired to assist me during the formative stages of A NEW PROSPECT said, “Your protagonist is perfect. He never makes a mistake. Are you nuts?”
“Huh?” I said.
“Perfect is boring,” he said. “Readers like tension. They like uncertainty. Put your character in jeopardy. Screw that perfection thing.”
“Hmm,” I replied.
I thought about the concept and remembered reading other mysteries. How many times had I said, “Jeez, a good cop would never do that?” I’d grit my teeth and wait for the ax to fall.
One of my favorite fictional cops, James Lee Burke’s Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, ALWAYS did something I knew a guy with his experience would NEVER do.
I’d tremble and say, “Oh, Dave, you know better.”
Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe knew he should never enter a spooky building alone. But he never used back-up. He never told anyone where he was going. He created the perfect opportunity for a hood to catch him snooping and hit him over the head.
It was a commonality throughout fiction. Writers knew perfect characters were boring. Characters who took risks (sometimes stupid risks) created tension. They invited conflict. And tension and conflict sold books.
I’ve experienced enough tension in my life to have had a liquor bill equal to the gross national product of a small banana republic. So, I’d rather read about a slick detective who does everything right. I’d look at that story as a description of an art form.
But that little voice inside my head would say, “Too bad, Wayne, you’re one of a VERY small minority of readers.”
Readers like tension. They love to grimace when their favorite characters foul up and put themselves into a situation which requires fancy footwork to get out from under the catastrophe.
Remember James Bond when Ian Fleming’s books were more famous than the movies? International thugs captured Bond so many times he qualified for frequent hostage points.
How about TV’s Jim Rockford? He never worked with a partner who watched his back. And Stephen J. Cannell arranged for him to be clubbed on the head so many times, his skull could have been called Land of a Thousand Concussions.
But we loved it . . . and them.
So, what’s the moral of my story? It’s simple. When we create a protagonist, we must build in a few flaws. Does he or she drink a little too much when they shouldn’t? Does getting buzzed at the wrong time make them miss a crucial clue or forget to duck when the bad guy swings a tire iron? Do they have an uncontrollable big mouth and always say the wrong thing to people with serious political clout? Do they trust the wrong person at the wrong time?
There are oodles of possibilities. All we have to do is dream up one or more to fit our protagonist’s personality and stick with it in numerous variations. Create that tension. Make your readers squeeze their eyes shut in anticipation. And always give your heroes a way to slither out from under the problem they created. You’ll have the makings of a good series of books or stories.
I thought it would be cool to chronicle my old cases and correct any mistakes or ask the questions that never came to mind or make the clever comments I only thought of the day after. It looked like an “if only” moment—a chance for perfection.
Then it rained on my parade. The precipitation came in the form of a middle-aged man with lots of experience in publishing and some pretty good ideas. The retired editor turned book-doctor who I hired to assist me during the formative stages of A NEW PROSPECT said, “Your protagonist is perfect. He never makes a mistake. Are you nuts?”
“Huh?” I said.
“Perfect is boring,” he said. “Readers like tension. They like uncertainty. Put your character in jeopardy. Screw that perfection thing.”
“Hmm,” I replied.
I thought about the concept and remembered reading other mysteries. How many times had I said, “Jeez, a good cop would never do that?” I’d grit my teeth and wait for the ax to fall.
One of my favorite fictional cops, James Lee Burke’s Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, ALWAYS did something I knew a guy with his experience would NEVER do.
I’d tremble and say, “Oh, Dave, you know better.”
Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe knew he should never enter a spooky building alone. But he never used back-up. He never told anyone where he was going. He created the perfect opportunity for a hood to catch him snooping and hit him over the head.
It was a commonality throughout fiction. Writers knew perfect characters were boring. Characters who took risks (sometimes stupid risks) created tension. They invited conflict. And tension and conflict sold books.
I’ve experienced enough tension in my life to have had a liquor bill equal to the gross national product of a small banana republic. So, I’d rather read about a slick detective who does everything right. I’d look at that story as a description of an art form.
But that little voice inside my head would say, “Too bad, Wayne, you’re one of a VERY small minority of readers.”
Readers like tension. They love to grimace when their favorite characters foul up and put themselves into a situation which requires fancy footwork to get out from under the catastrophe.
Remember James Bond when Ian Fleming’s books were more famous than the movies? International thugs captured Bond so many times he qualified for frequent hostage points.
How about TV’s Jim Rockford? He never worked with a partner who watched his back. And Stephen J. Cannell arranged for him to be clubbed on the head so many times, his skull could have been called Land of a Thousand Concussions.
But we loved it . . . and them.
So, what’s the moral of my story? It’s simple. When we create a protagonist, we must build in a few flaws. Does he or she drink a little too much when they shouldn’t? Does getting buzzed at the wrong time make them miss a crucial clue or forget to duck when the bad guy swings a tire iron? Do they have an uncontrollable big mouth and always say the wrong thing to people with serious political clout? Do they trust the wrong person at the wrong time?
There are oodles of possibilities. All we have to do is dream up one or more to fit our protagonist’s personality and stick with it in numerous variations. Create that tension. Make your readers squeeze their eyes shut in anticipation. And always give your heroes a way to slither out from under the problem they created. You’ll have the makings of a good series of books or stories.
Perfect is Boring
When I began writing police mysteries I said to myself, “Aha! This is fiction, not a documentary. I have the opportunity to make everything come out perfectly.”
I thought it would be cool to chronicle my old cases and correct any mistakes or ask the questions that never came to mind or make the clever comments I only thought of the day after. It looked like an “if only” moment—a chance for perfection.
Then it rained on my parade. The precipitation came in the form of a middle-aged man with lots of experience in publishing and some pretty good ideas. The retired editor turned book-doctor who I hired to assist me during the formative stages of A NEW PROSPECT said, “Your protagonist is perfect. He never makes a mistake. Are you nuts?”
“Huh?” I said.
“Perfect is boring,” he said. “Readers like tension. They like uncertainty. Put your character in jeopardy. Screw that perfection thing.”
“Hmm,” I replied.
I thought about the concept and remembered reading other mysteries. How many times had I said, “Jeez, a good cop would never do that?” I’d grit my teeth and wait for the ax to fall.
One of my favorite fictional cops, James Lee Burke’s Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, ALWAYS did something I knew a guy with his experience would NEVER do.
I’d tremble and say, “Oh, Dave, you know better.”
Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe knew he should never enter a spooky building alone. But he never used back-up. He never told anyone where he was going. He created the perfect opportunity for a hood to catch him snooping and hit him over the head.
It was a commonality throughout fiction. Writers knew perfect characters were boring. Characters who took risks (sometimes stupid risks) created tension. They invited conflict. And tension and conflict sold books.
I’ve experienced enough tension in my life to have had a liquor bill equal to the gross national product of a small banana republic. So, I’d rather read about a slick detective who does everything right. I’d look at that story as a description of an art form.
But that little voice inside my head would say, “Too bad, Wayne, you’re one of a VERY small minority of readers.”
Readers like tension. They love to grimace when their favorite characters foul up and put themselves into a situation which requires fancy footwork to get out from under the catastrophe.
Remember James Bond when Ian Fleming’s books were more famous than the movies? International thugs captured Bond so many times he qualified for frequent hostage points.
How about TV’s Jim Rockford? He never worked with a partner who watched his back. And Stephen J. Cannell arranged for him to be clubbed on the head so many times, his skull could have been called Land of a Thousand Concussions.
But we loved it . . . and them.
So, what’s the moral of my story? It’s simple. When we create a protagonist, we must build in a few flaws. Does he or she drink a little too much when they shouldn’t? Does getting buzzed at the wrong time make them miss a crucial clue or forget to duck when the bad guy swings a tire iron? Do they have an uncontrollable big mouth and always say the wrong thing to people with serious political clout? Do they trust the wrong person at the wrong time?
There are oodles of possibilities. All we have to do is dream up one or more to fit our protagonist’s personality and stick with it in numerous variations. Create that tension. Make your readers squeeze their eyes shut in anticipation. And always give your heroes a way to slither out from under the problem they created. You’ll have the makings of a good series of books or stories.
I thought it would be cool to chronicle my old cases and correct any mistakes or ask the questions that never came to mind or make the clever comments I only thought of the day after. It looked like an “if only” moment—a chance for perfection.
Then it rained on my parade. The precipitation came in the form of a middle-aged man with lots of experience in publishing and some pretty good ideas. The retired editor turned book-doctor who I hired to assist me during the formative stages of A NEW PROSPECT said, “Your protagonist is perfect. He never makes a mistake. Are you nuts?”
“Huh?” I said.
“Perfect is boring,” he said. “Readers like tension. They like uncertainty. Put your character in jeopardy. Screw that perfection thing.”
“Hmm,” I replied.
I thought about the concept and remembered reading other mysteries. How many times had I said, “Jeez, a good cop would never do that?” I’d grit my teeth and wait for the ax to fall.
One of my favorite fictional cops, James Lee Burke’s Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, ALWAYS did something I knew a guy with his experience would NEVER do.
I’d tremble and say, “Oh, Dave, you know better.”
Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe knew he should never enter a spooky building alone. But he never used back-up. He never told anyone where he was going. He created the perfect opportunity for a hood to catch him snooping and hit him over the head.
It was a commonality throughout fiction. Writers knew perfect characters were boring. Characters who took risks (sometimes stupid risks) created tension. They invited conflict. And tension and conflict sold books.
I’ve experienced enough tension in my life to have had a liquor bill equal to the gross national product of a small banana republic. So, I’d rather read about a slick detective who does everything right. I’d look at that story as a description of an art form.
But that little voice inside my head would say, “Too bad, Wayne, you’re one of a VERY small minority of readers.”
Readers like tension. They love to grimace when their favorite characters foul up and put themselves into a situation which requires fancy footwork to get out from under the catastrophe.
Remember James Bond when Ian Fleming’s books were more famous than the movies? International thugs captured Bond so many times he qualified for frequent hostage points.
How about TV’s Jim Rockford? He never worked with a partner who watched his back. And Stephen J. Cannell arranged for him to be clubbed on the head so many times, his skull could have been called Land of a Thousand Concussions.
But we loved it . . . and them.
So, what’s the moral of my story? It’s simple. When we create a protagonist, we must build in a few flaws. Does he or she drink a little too much when they shouldn’t? Does getting buzzed at the wrong time make them miss a crucial clue or forget to duck when the bad guy swings a tire iron? Do they have an uncontrollable big mouth and always say the wrong thing to people with serious political clout? Do they trust the wrong person at the wrong time?
There are oodles of possibilities. All we have to do is dream up one or more to fit our protagonist’s personality and stick with it in numerous variations. Create that tension. Make your readers squeeze their eyes shut in anticipation. And always give your heroes a way to slither out from under the problem they created. You’ll have the makings of a good series of books or stories.
February 2, 2014
THE LENGTH OF WHAT YOU WROTE AND OTHER THINGS THAT WILL DRIVE YOU CRAZY
My problem isn’t unique to writers. If your personality demands that you and other people get the facts straight, you might cringe when you hear blatantly incorrect statements.
As a cop, I hated to hear crimes mislabeled. Most often, I encountered misuse of the term robbery. People would greet me at the door and say, “My house was robbed.” I got tired of saying, “Sorry, ma’am, only a person can be robbed. You weren’t home when someone broke in. It’s a burglary.” They’d look at me like I just said Santa Claus was a pedophile.
Anyone can feel the pain of improper usage. As a weekend sailor, I loved my gaff rigged Long Island catboat. It was a classic, old-fashioned thing and well-meaning people would smile and say, “That’s a nice schooner.” I’d squint at them, grit my teeth and . . .
For seventeen years we shared our home with a Scottish terrier breeders might call a throwback. Bitsey’s legs were too long, her ears were too big, and her tail wasn’t docked. She looked like an old Highland farm dog. I walked her for miles. She was as cute as hell and people often stopped me and asked, “Is that a black Schnauzer?” I gave up squinting and explaining. I just growled and became known as the neighborhood eccentric.
As a writer, I’ve had four novels traditionally published. But, I’ve also written a whole bunch of shorter mysteries that were aimed at becoming one hour audio books—like the old one hour radio dramas popular before TV. In addition to seeing life as audio downloads and compact discs, they were simultaneously published as eBooks.
They’ve been moderately successful, and often reviewers say, “I loved this story, but it was too short. I don’t often read novellas.”
The squint came back. I’ve worn off an eighth-of-an-inch of tooth enamel gritting. I developed a facial tic, and if you want a tip on the stock market, buy Advil. I use truckloads to get rid of tension headaches. Obviously, I don’t handle this well.
I don’t write novellas. Fifty-five to seventy minute audio books are produced from 8,000 to 11,000 word stories which are technically novelettes.
So, how does a borderline obsessive/compulsive guy like me get the word out? Easy. Write an essay explaining the category of stories by length.
Here ya go:
The standard, generally accepted length for a flash fiction piece is 1000 words or less.
By contrast, a short-short measures 1,001 words to 2,500 words, and a traditional short story is 2,501 to 7,500 words.
A novelette runs from 7,501 words to 17,500.
A novella, 17,501 to 40,000 words.
And a novel 40,001 words and up.
I can’t find an official definition for those ponderous things over 100,000 words, but some call them epics.
Backing up to the flash fiction category, you might see things called Drabbles. They are exactly 100 words. Droubbles are exactly 200. I spent ten minutes on Google looking for what you call something exactly 300 and 400 words. I had no luck. Tribbles? Quadribbles? Who cares?
I don’t know why people try to be that specific. Someone told me it’s to test your skill and discipline. Hogwash. If it a story sounds better with 216 words, Droubbles be damned. The sound of your writing is all important.
As a cop, I hated to hear crimes mislabeled. Most often, I encountered misuse of the term robbery. People would greet me at the door and say, “My house was robbed.” I got tired of saying, “Sorry, ma’am, only a person can be robbed. You weren’t home when someone broke in. It’s a burglary.” They’d look at me like I just said Santa Claus was a pedophile.
Anyone can feel the pain of improper usage. As a weekend sailor, I loved my gaff rigged Long Island catboat. It was a classic, old-fashioned thing and well-meaning people would smile and say, “That’s a nice schooner.” I’d squint at them, grit my teeth and . . .
For seventeen years we shared our home with a Scottish terrier breeders might call a throwback. Bitsey’s legs were too long, her ears were too big, and her tail wasn’t docked. She looked like an old Highland farm dog. I walked her for miles. She was as cute as hell and people often stopped me and asked, “Is that a black Schnauzer?” I gave up squinting and explaining. I just growled and became known as the neighborhood eccentric.
As a writer, I’ve had four novels traditionally published. But, I’ve also written a whole bunch of shorter mysteries that were aimed at becoming one hour audio books—like the old one hour radio dramas popular before TV. In addition to seeing life as audio downloads and compact discs, they were simultaneously published as eBooks.
They’ve been moderately successful, and often reviewers say, “I loved this story, but it was too short. I don’t often read novellas.”
The squint came back. I’ve worn off an eighth-of-an-inch of tooth enamel gritting. I developed a facial tic, and if you want a tip on the stock market, buy Advil. I use truckloads to get rid of tension headaches. Obviously, I don’t handle this well.
I don’t write novellas. Fifty-five to seventy minute audio books are produced from 8,000 to 11,000 word stories which are technically novelettes.
So, how does a borderline obsessive/compulsive guy like me get the word out? Easy. Write an essay explaining the category of stories by length.
Here ya go:
The standard, generally accepted length for a flash fiction piece is 1000 words or less.
By contrast, a short-short measures 1,001 words to 2,500 words, and a traditional short story is 2,501 to 7,500 words.
A novelette runs from 7,501 words to 17,500.
A novella, 17,501 to 40,000 words.
And a novel 40,001 words and up.
I can’t find an official definition for those ponderous things over 100,000 words, but some call them epics.
Backing up to the flash fiction category, you might see things called Drabbles. They are exactly 100 words. Droubbles are exactly 200. I spent ten minutes on Google looking for what you call something exactly 300 and 400 words. I had no luck. Tribbles? Quadribbles? Who cares?
I don’t know why people try to be that specific. Someone told me it’s to test your skill and discipline. Hogwash. If it a story sounds better with 216 words, Droubbles be damned. The sound of your writing is all important.
August 21, 2012
LEPRECHAUN'S LAMENT receives national review
A Leprechaun's Lament reveiwed by Jennifer Kimble for US Review of Books
"Those who some see as the worst, are heroes to their families and the people they represent. Those seen as the best by others, are monsters to the people they oppose."
When routine Homeland Security funded background checks of all police department civilans take a mysterious turn, Sam Jenkins finds himself caught up in a case the likes of which he thought he hasn't seen since trading his New York detective badge for the simple life of Prospect Tennessee Police Chief. Finding one of his investigated employees murdered execution style shakes the small police department to its core, thrusting the two newly appointed sergeants into investigative police work unseen by them before. Finding dead end after dead end in their search to uncover the real identity of someone they had unquestionably worked side by side with for over 30 years is only the beginning of their problems.
The author has created quite the character in Sam Jenkins. His raw wit, flirtatious style, and penchant for police work make him someone the reader wants to hear more from. Obviously well-experienced in law enforcement, the author brings intrigue backed by accurate detail to make this a must-read for any crime/mystery lover. The small-town setting of Prospect, TN is the perfect backdrop to introduce Sam Jenkins, as he attempts to adjust to southern life filled with sweet tea, a narcissistic mayor, and a department full of good ole' boy policemen and women who have likely seen little more than moonshiners and fender-benders in their careers. Twist after twist and the introduction of a little IRA revenge makes this one a page-turner. It's a Sam Jenkins mystery, which is a good thing because it means there are more in the series to keep us in the trenches with Jenkins.
"Those who some see as the worst, are heroes to their families and the people they represent. Those seen as the best by others, are monsters to the people they oppose."
When routine Homeland Security funded background checks of all police department civilans take a mysterious turn, Sam Jenkins finds himself caught up in a case the likes of which he thought he hasn't seen since trading his New York detective badge for the simple life of Prospect Tennessee Police Chief. Finding one of his investigated employees murdered execution style shakes the small police department to its core, thrusting the two newly appointed sergeants into investigative police work unseen by them before. Finding dead end after dead end in their search to uncover the real identity of someone they had unquestionably worked side by side with for over 30 years is only the beginning of their problems.
The author has created quite the character in Sam Jenkins. His raw wit, flirtatious style, and penchant for police work make him someone the reader wants to hear more from. Obviously well-experienced in law enforcement, the author brings intrigue backed by accurate detail to make this a must-read for any crime/mystery lover. The small-town setting of Prospect, TN is the perfect backdrop to introduce Sam Jenkins, as he attempts to adjust to southern life filled with sweet tea, a narcissistic mayor, and a department full of good ole' boy policemen and women who have likely seen little more than moonshiners and fender-benders in their careers. Twist after twist and the introduction of a little IRA revenge makes this one a page-turner. It's a Sam Jenkins mystery, which is a good thing because it means there are more in the series to keep us in the trenches with Jenkins.
NEW PROSPECT Retires
...Not from publication, but from competition. Here are the battle honors that I'm a little proud of:
In addition to being named Best Mystery at the 2011 Indie Book Awards,
A NEW PROSPECT, the first full-length Sam Jenkins Mystery, was chosen as 1st Runner-Up from all Commercial Fiction entries at The 2012 Eric Hoffer Book Awards and a Finalist for a Montaigne Medal and a Finalist for the First Horizon Book Award.
In addition to being named Best Mystery at the 2011 Indie Book Awards,
A NEW PROSPECT, the first full-length Sam Jenkins Mystery, was chosen as 1st Runner-Up from all Commercial Fiction entries at The 2012 Eric Hoffer Book Awards and a Finalist for a Montaigne Medal and a Finalist for the First Horizon Book Award.
September 22, 2011
So Long, Bob and Thanks for the Memories
I just began reading SIXKILL, the last novel by the late Robert B. Parker. Less than 100 pages into the book and I know I'm going to miss him. When he died in January 2010, I wrote a short piece for thenextbigwriter.com in Parker's honor. I'd like to post it again.
So Long, Bob, and Thanks for the Memories
On January 30th three inches of snow fell. Then it rained, and the world turned to slush. Then it snowed again, only to be topped by a smoky-looking Scotch mist. Overnight temperatures glazed the landscape.
Being one of those eco-conscious schmucks, I didn’t buy any rock salt. So I sharpened my ice scraper and ate a big bowl of Wheaties the next morning.
After hours of chipping and scraping and shoveling what looked and felt like tons of shaved ice, I opened my jacket to cool off. An invisible cloud of a goat-like odor wafted upward. I hung up my tools and headed for the shower.
After remaining under the hot water long enough to resemble a hundred-and-eighty pound cooked lobster, I dried my hair and ran to the bedroom for warm clothes.
My head popped through a cable knit fisherman’s sweater and I noticed a very large man sitting in a wingback chair in the corner of the room. He scratched his mustache with an index finger as he looked at me. I knew the face.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I asked.
“You don’t lock your doors.”
“Yeah, but don’t you knock?”
“Not any more.”
“I know you, but it’s not like we’ve really met.”
“Uh-huh, you can call me Bob.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” I said. “It feels like I’ve known you for years.”
“I guess I’ve had a pretty good run.”
“You think?”
He smiled and ran a hand over his crew cut in what I guess he thought to be a gesture of modesty.
“I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry.’
“Thanks. Happens to everybody.”
“You have anything half finished?”
“Two things, actually, one in progress and one rough outline.”
I smiled. “Looking for someone to help tie up the loose ends?”
“I think Joan can handle that.”
“I thought she might.”
Bob showed me a big grin and nodded. The brown leather A-2 jacket he wore looked big enough to cover a VW beetle.
“You dedicated every book you wrote to her,” I said. “That was cool.”
“We’ve been together for a long time. Had a few rough patches, but she’s a good girl. She deserved all those dedications.”
I nodded. “End of an era, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.” He spoke with a Boston accent.
“I’ll miss Spenser and Jesse and the black guy.”
“His name’s Hawk,” he said, and frowned.
“I know. I just wanted to hear you say that.”
He smiled. “Oh, yeah, now I get it. And don’t forget Sunny.”
“Yeah, I like her, too.”
“So do I.”
I began to wonder why my guest came to visit.
“I’m honored,” I said, “but why did you, ah . . . stop by?”
“Oh, yeah, good question. I guess I wanted to see a few people before . . . you know.”
“But for what?”
“I hear you’re getting impatient. Your first book’s not selling. Time to regroup. Write a new letter and keep trying. In this business sometimes tenacity trumps talent. But you’ve got something to say. Don’t quit now.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say.”
He laughed. “Everybody starts in the same place. I like your characters, and you’ve got a good line of shit.”
“You’ve read something of mine?” I sounded surprised.
“Can’t remember where, but yeah. I liked it.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” He stood up and stretched. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“Well, thanks for the pep talk. And it was great to meet you. Should have been years ago.”
“Your welcome, and yeah, that would have been nice.” He zipped up his jacket. “And good luck.”
“Thanks again. Hey, I’ll walk out with you.”
“That’s really not necessary. I don’t do things conventionally any more.”
“Oh, yeah . . . well, take care.”
“Okay, you, too.”
He walked out of the bedroom and turned to go down the stairs. I gave him less than ten seconds and followed. The door at the bottom of the steps was closed. I didn’t feel any cold air from it having been opened. I heard my wife on the phone in the kitchen. Bob was gone.
For Robert B. Parker
September 17, 1932 ~~ January 18, 2010
“Put the most meaning in the fewest words.”
For a list of his books and other credits go to www.robertbparker.net
So Long, Bob, and Thanks for the Memories
On January 30th three inches of snow fell. Then it rained, and the world turned to slush. Then it snowed again, only to be topped by a smoky-looking Scotch mist. Overnight temperatures glazed the landscape.
Being one of those eco-conscious schmucks, I didn’t buy any rock salt. So I sharpened my ice scraper and ate a big bowl of Wheaties the next morning.
After hours of chipping and scraping and shoveling what looked and felt like tons of shaved ice, I opened my jacket to cool off. An invisible cloud of a goat-like odor wafted upward. I hung up my tools and headed for the shower.
After remaining under the hot water long enough to resemble a hundred-and-eighty pound cooked lobster, I dried my hair and ran to the bedroom for warm clothes.
My head popped through a cable knit fisherman’s sweater and I noticed a very large man sitting in a wingback chair in the corner of the room. He scratched his mustache with an index finger as he looked at me. I knew the face.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I asked.
“You don’t lock your doors.”
“Yeah, but don’t you knock?”
“Not any more.”
“I know you, but it’s not like we’ve really met.”
“Uh-huh, you can call me Bob.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” I said. “It feels like I’ve known you for years.”
“I guess I’ve had a pretty good run.”
“You think?”
He smiled and ran a hand over his crew cut in what I guess he thought to be a gesture of modesty.
“I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry.’
“Thanks. Happens to everybody.”
“You have anything half finished?”
“Two things, actually, one in progress and one rough outline.”
I smiled. “Looking for someone to help tie up the loose ends?”
“I think Joan can handle that.”
“I thought she might.”
Bob showed me a big grin and nodded. The brown leather A-2 jacket he wore looked big enough to cover a VW beetle.
“You dedicated every book you wrote to her,” I said. “That was cool.”
“We’ve been together for a long time. Had a few rough patches, but she’s a good girl. She deserved all those dedications.”
I nodded. “End of an era, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.” He spoke with a Boston accent.
“I’ll miss Spenser and Jesse and the black guy.”
“His name’s Hawk,” he said, and frowned.
“I know. I just wanted to hear you say that.”
He smiled. “Oh, yeah, now I get it. And don’t forget Sunny.”
“Yeah, I like her, too.”
“So do I.”
I began to wonder why my guest came to visit.
“I’m honored,” I said, “but why did you, ah . . . stop by?”
“Oh, yeah, good question. I guess I wanted to see a few people before . . . you know.”
“But for what?”
“I hear you’re getting impatient. Your first book’s not selling. Time to regroup. Write a new letter and keep trying. In this business sometimes tenacity trumps talent. But you’ve got something to say. Don’t quit now.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say.”
He laughed. “Everybody starts in the same place. I like your characters, and you’ve got a good line of shit.”
“You’ve read something of mine?” I sounded surprised.
“Can’t remember where, but yeah. I liked it.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” He stood up and stretched. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“Well, thanks for the pep talk. And it was great to meet you. Should have been years ago.”
“Your welcome, and yeah, that would have been nice.” He zipped up his jacket. “And good luck.”
“Thanks again. Hey, I’ll walk out with you.”
“That’s really not necessary. I don’t do things conventionally any more.”
“Oh, yeah . . . well, take care.”
“Okay, you, too.”
He walked out of the bedroom and turned to go down the stairs. I gave him less than ten seconds and followed. The door at the bottom of the steps was closed. I didn’t feel any cold air from it having been opened. I heard my wife on the phone in the kitchen. Bob was gone.
For Robert B. Parker
September 17, 1932 ~~ January 18, 2010
“Put the most meaning in the fewest words.”
For a list of his books and other credits go to www.robertbparker.net
