Who Do You Wanna Be

by Dave White


"I wanna be Don Mattingly!"

"Well, then I can be Dave Winfield!"

Remember playing baseball when you were a kid? You always wanted to be the best player, and you wanted to pretend you were the best player on your favorite pro team.

Sometimes, when I'm cruising the crime blogs or reading blurbs, I see a mention of what a person wants to be.

I want to be Dennis Lehane.

The next Michael Connelly!

Something along those lines.

I don't get why that's an author's goal. I don't get why they want to be someone else.

I wish my name could be said in the same breath as those the authors I mentioned above. But I do not want to be them. My goal is to be Dave White. I want to have books that resonate on their own. I want to be my own man. I'm not out to try and write like someone else. I'm trying to write like me.

I want to be the best I can be. And I tend to like authors who strike out on their own.

If you're an aspiring writer, you should want to be the best you CAN be. Don't try to be Lee Child. Don't try to be Lehane or Crumley or Lippman or anyone else. Be yourself. Write the book you want to read.

Odds are that's going to make you put out something that hasn't been done before. You're going to have a voice. You're going to look at scenes from a different angle.

It's okay to have idols, mentors, and inspirations... but at some point people leave those behind and strike out on their own.

At some point you have to be yourself. And, if you ask me what my goal is as a writer, that is what I want to be.

Dave White.

Setimental Journey

by
John McFetridge

I’m a sentimental guy. I’m not ashamed to admit it.

In fiction I think sentiment, like a laugh, has to be earned. You have to feel it.

Years ago George Lucas said it was easy to make a movie audience cry; show them a puppy, then kill the puppy.

But as you move away from killing puppies sentiment gets a lot tougher, as George certainly knows.

Last week there was an article in the National Post newspaper in Canada by Robert Fulford about this kind of thing. He was complaining that Up in the Air is getting too much praise (I haven’t seen the movie).

Fulford said that Up in the Air was a “concensus movie” like Terms of Endearment, Dances With Wolves and Titanic and that these kinds of movies, “stand as monuments to the cinema of reassurance, glib and complacent, so heart-warming that they choke off every possibility of authentic feeling... that has always been a major source of Hollywood success.”

Fulford also mentions the book, Up in the Air, by Walter Kirn and points out the different professions of the main character in the book and the movie. In the book he’s a business coach doing “Brand Reconstruction,” trying to rescue a chain of Mexican restaurants that’s been wrecked by an E. Coli outbreak in its spiced meat, but that’s too pro-business for Hollywood. The giant multi-nationals that make Hollywood movies only ever make anti-business movies (glib, complacent, reassuring, heart-warming anti-business movies) .

But Fulford offers one line from the book that made me go online and buy it. The female lead is described in the book as having reached the age, “when working women first taste success and realize they’ve been conned.”

That line rings true to me and the people I know and it’s an uncomfortable truth, not reassuring or heart-warming at all.

The opposite of what Fulford says Up in the Air the movie does: “The movie congratulates all of us on the superior emotional wisdom we presumably brought to the theatre, then sends us home thinking exactly what we thought when we arrived.”
When I was younger people talked about writing as something that would, “make people think,” and I don’t think they meant, “make people think what they already thought was right,” but that does seem to be most writing. Well, it’s hard to write anything, let alone anything that might be uncomfortable.

These days every kind of superior emotional wisdom is being reassured from the most cynical to the most pollyanna. You think people are greedy and selfish beyond all repair and the human race is doomed? There’s a whole section over here. You think you’re different from everyone else, if only they’d see that? We got ‘em right here. It’s all the terrorists fault, here you go, no wait, it’s because the west destroyed their lives – whatever you want, we got it.

I’m old enough to remember when All in the Family first aired and people freaked out – often because they really did have some Archie Bunker in them. Or maybe because they had a little more Meathead in them and it suddenly looked silly (looking back on it now I can see where Meathead had more in common with Archie than he wanted to admit and I’m not surprised at the current state of my boomer generation).

Bob Dylan has been mentioned on this blog a few times and there’s another guy who wrote some uncomfortable truths, some lines that weren’t very reassuring and didn’t congratulate us on our superior emotional wisdom. In the middle of the peace and love and everyone is beautiful era people were singing along with the words, “You got a lotta nerve/To say you got a helping hand to lend/You just want to be on/The side that's winning,” and “When you know as well as me/You'd rather see me paralyzed.”

Wow, paralyzed. Not, “never see me again,” no, “see me paralyzed.”

So, maybe this is why I’ve always been drawn to the pulps and the stuff on the margins, the stuff not trying to be “concensus.” I like the stories that show me characters and doesn’t try to manipulate me into liking them too much, stories that earn the sentimentality.

A good example of what I mean are the stories in the Wal-Mart I Love You flash fiction challenge. Those stories were filled with sentiment and were heartfelt but they didn’t go for easy morals, no “puppy killing.” When the challenge was first announced with the website The People of Wal-Mart as an inspiration I probably wasn’t alone worrying that the tsories would be making fun of the weirdos in those pictures.

I shouldn’t have been worried. If there’s one genre in the writing world these days that earns its sentiment it’s crime fiction.

On the other hand, I do worry about the future of books sometimes. As usual, The Onion nails it:



Adults Go Wild Over Latest In Children's Picture Book Series

Lights, Camera, Dissatisfaction

By Jay Stringer

Mike wrote recently about film adaptations. Well, okay, it was a blog he was stuck with thanks to the evil genius Weddle. Since that blog inspired this one, I’ll let them fight over who gets the credit.

Film versions, who needs ‘em, eh?

Well, we all do, it seems. But Why? Being a paid up card carrying geek, I spent a lot of my life so far talking about film adaptations; dream casting, the scripts I’d write, what Tim Burton messed up, who was the best Marlowe….the list goes on.

It seems to be an important aspect of literature, both comics and novels, to keep one eye on the silver screen.

I think last year was a watershed for me. I’ll take you back a little farther to make the point though, about 18 months ago I was talking to friend who shared my love of the comic book opus WATCHMEN. “I’m so nervous about the film,” he said, “what if they mess it up?”

I realised for the first time that I wasn’t nervous about the film. Moreover, I wasn’t particularly excited. I didn’t feel the brining need to see the book adapted into a film like so many of my friends seemed to. And it takes us back to that quote that always gets given to whichever 40’s author is cool at any given moment, that the filmmakers cannot damage the book, because “it’s right there on the shelf.” I had my WATCHMEN. It was perfect in its true form and I didn’t need it in any other.

Then the film came and went and did nothing to change my mind. I still have the story in it’s natural, perfect form, full of subtlety and craft and intelligence. I don’t need a two-dimensional film version, any more than I need a novelisation or a concept album.

I’m still not totally immune. I saw THE DARK KNIGHT in the theatres as many times as the rest of you. I was drawn into the fun of SHERLOCK HOLMES this week. I love to be knocked out by the occasional concept album adaptation. But I’m not obsessed with the concept like I once was. I don’t indulge in dream casting. I don’t look at the books on my shelf hoping they someday get taken seriously as films. Because I already have the stories the way they are meant to be. I’m past stressing over who gets cast in GREEN LANTERN or how badly Clive Owen would butcher Marlowe.

A book is a book. A comic is a comic. An album is an album. So why is it hard wired into us to want a film version?

From the point of view of the writer, there is a very practical reason, the chance to put a little extra food on the table. So that’s understandable.

But for the rest of us? Where does this come from?

Is it because Cinema was such an important cultural language in the twentieth century? If that’s the answer, what’s next? And what will films want to be adapted into in the years to come?

Flash, Holmes, Podcast

By Steve Weddle

Jay Stringer and I just hung up -- or 'clicked off' (What do we say anymore? And why do we still say 'dial' a phone number when we just press buttons in the post-rotary days?) -- from the Skypes for our second DSD podcast.

The iTunes shoppe page for the podcast is here. You can download individual episodes or subscribe to the whole run. The second show will be up mid-week after Jay works his evil magic to make me sound like an over-caffeinated lemur.

Future episodes will include publishing news of the week, interviews, reviews, and audio stories.

In this second episode, John McFetridge reads his short story "Santa in a Red Dress."

Jay and I discuss blogs worth reading, the Sherlock Holmes movie (along with a review from Scott D. Parker), and flash fiction. I have a few thoughts about flash fiction and I'd like to know what you think.

1. Flash Fiction owes its popularity to the fact that most people can't follow a single thought for more than thirty seconds. Or eight seconds. Like in that movie where the dude is a rodeo rider and rapper. Or maybe that was EIGHT MILES. Something. Eight something. Eight Days a Week. Beatles. Rock Band. Hey, the Wii is open. Time for a quick bike ride around Wii island.

2. Flash Fiction works much better on the Innerwebs than it does in print. As Jay and I were discussing on the podcast, when his grandpa and I were growing up, we read ink-on-paper magazines. You might have heard about a shepherd boy who threw a rock and cracked open jars full of old copies of LIFE and US WEEKLY. Now flash fiction challenges such as this one and this one and this one allow readers and writers to get glimpses of talent they didn't know existed. When we relied on print mags for our fiction, the flash fiction might have gotten lost between stories, if you could find it at all. A 400-page collection of 200 flash pieces? Not likely.

3. Flash Fiction is much easier to find now. I remember some collections of flash fiction that I used when I taught literature. You could give it to the college students and start a good discussion on character and setting and so forth. Very helpful, since you could read the piece in class and not have to rely on college students actually having done the work. We only had a few choices back when I was teaching. The monks took a long time to illustrate the scrolls scrolls we used. Now, using the community I mentioned above in Idiotic Point The First, finding flash fiction is easier.

4. OK. Let's think about this one for a second. You put a story up on the Innerwebs, chances are you aren't going to get paid $10,000 for it. I remember reading something Garrison Keillor wrote about a story he'd done in The New Yorker, a story had gotten him $10,000 or so. Most online magazines now are run by folks who love what they do and love the stories they work with. They're not doing this for the money, because, well, there ain't none. And the print mags? Did another one die today? I didn't check. So we rely on the online magazines to provide us with great fiction. The writers don't get paid. The editors don't get paid. So, from a writer's point of view, if you're trying to get noticed and share some of your work, does it make sense to spend your time writing a 7,000-word story for one magazine or writing 10 stories of 700 words for various sites? Personally, it depends on what the story is. I've got longer stuff out there because that what it takes to tell the story. I've got shorter stuff out there because I wanted to have fun with something and maybe try out something new. A new character. A wacky idea. Take a chance, you know? But do you think writers are spending more time writing flash because they don't want to spend their "free time" -- time off from paid jobs, doing something for which they don't get paid -- writing for free? Dunno. Maybe some folks work like this.

5. Flash Fiction is great for writers because you can focus on a particular scene or character in something under 1,000 words. You get that done, maybe it's a chapter in a novel. Maybe it's a character study for a novella. Flash Fiction helps writers test out a new voice or fresh idea, as I mentioned a second ago (I remind you because the TV news tells me you have a short attention span. Remember? I already mentioned that.) and, wait, where was I? Oh, yeah. So you take this little, tight piece you've worked on and build it into something more, something bigger. Like you've made an appetizer and want to work it into a larger meal. Or you've painted your study and now want to carry that color scheme throughout the rest of the house.

So what do you think about Flash Fiction? What purpose does it serve? Do you think writers waste their time on these smaller pieces? Or do you think this helps readers and writers?

Walk It Off

by Mike Knowles

I mentioned before about how every book I have ever written has started out in a blue notebook that I bought at Walmart. My first book was in a blue notebook and after I found out I had to write two more I went back and cleaned the place out. The book is perfect for writing. It isn’t bound with those metal rings that get all bent and flat when you carry it around in a bag (or, in my case, a satchel or man purse). There are around 360 pages in the book so I never run out of room. And, it can go anywhere. Firing up my laptop to write requires far more stuff to carry and the setup wastes what little time I have. When I finish writing in the blue book, I start typing. This is where the first of many edits get done. So far it has been a good system. The blue notebook has never failed me–that is until a few weeks back.

I don’t think the blue notebook has any special powers, I am just a creature of habit (If you don’t know that already, you must have missed the crazy adherence to using a blue notebook in the previous paragraph. You must be scrolling down screen for someone else’s blog. I recommend McFetridge–if you’re going to blow me off at least do it for another Canadian). I eat the same breakfast, snack, lunch, and dinner pretty much everyday. I walk my dog twice a day at the exact same time. I work out on a very specific schedule. And I write twice a day everyday in a blue notebook. When I am on task, I get about 2, 000 words done in a day. For the kind of books I write, it means a book can be done in super rough form in about a month.

Since October I have been writing in a blue notebook twice a day everyday, but, as it stands, there is no book. I gave up in early December.

It all started with an idea I had in my head for a while that I wanted to turn into a book. In the summer, I started researching like a fiend. Unfortunately, the topic I chose was something that didn’t exactly make research easy. I read dozens of books, spent countless hours on the internet, I even found other non-fiction writers to give me some first hand information.

With the research done, I started writing. I thought about the book constantly. I put the time in everyday. Nothing changed from the way I wrote other books, except of course that NOTHING CAME OUT! I sat everyday for hours and sometimes only got 250 words to show for it. I kept researching and trying to push forward. I refused to admit defeat. I applied a sort of literary "Walk it off" perspective. I wouldn’t let the lack of ideas stop me from staying in the game. But in December, the game was called.

The book ended for a few reasons:

1.The book was based on a good idea, but an idea isn’t enough. An idea should be a link in a chain, but if you’re not careful it can end up being a rope just long enough to hang yourself. Some ideas don’t have a full length book in them. No matter how hard you try, you can’t stretch one idea. Dinner can be the same way. If I’m hungry and I come up with the idea that Mexican would be good, there needs to be more to it than that. Without other ideas expanding my initial thought, I’ll end up eating plan tortilla’s while I stand over the counter (it’s happened more than once).

2. The book was supposed to span twenty years. I like stories like that, but to write them you have to keep in mind the difference in the two time periods. Life in the 80's is nothing like life today. For instance, in the eighties my dad had hair now not so much. It donned on me at about 15, 000 words that there were a bunch of anomalies in the story, and there were plenty of nights spent fixing all of my mistakes.

3. The final reason is simple. One night, I suddenly realized that the story I was writing sounded so good to me because it was exactly like a book I loved that became a movie I loved. All of the scribbles in the blue notebook felt suddenly unoriginal and that shook me loose. There was no more walking it off. Game over.

Now you may be saying to yourself. What was the book on? What was the book he felt like he was copying. I’m not saying. The reason is simple. There is an off chance the blue notebook is still going to work. I may be able to come back to it in a year or two and turn it into something.

And that right there is how deep the idea of walking it off is burned into me. Even when I say I gave up, I don’t mean it. The game has to start again sometime.

"The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle" - A Review

Note: It's in the last hour of the first day of a new decade and, frankly, I'm still in my New Year's daze. I ain't got nothing new right now. However, since I'm still in a Sherlock Holmes mood and I have a column to prepare, I am going to post here a little blog I wrote in December 2008 about "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle" with minor edits. I have a word or two about the Jeremy Brett episode at the end.

Personal note: I'd like to thank all the readers for this group blog. It's an ongoing experiment and one that continues to entertain me. I hope you continue to be entertained in 2010.

Congrats to fellow DSDer Steve Weddle. His story, "Missed Flight," is the first weekly story of the year at Beat to a Pulp. I've read it once. I'm going to read it again.

Now, my take on The Blue Carbuncle from December 2008.

Of all the Sherlock Holmes stories, I have read three over and over. The novel The Hounds of the Baskervilles continues to entertain me. “A Scandal in Bohemia” is unique because Holmes is outwitted by a woman. But it is the sole Christmas story, “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” that I have read more than any other Holmes story.

I re-read it again this Christmas season, as I do most years, and enjoyed it as much as I always have. This time, however, I read it as a writer. I am no Sherlockian scholar by any means but I did observe a couple of interesting tidbits. I assume you’ve all read the story so there will be spoilers throughout.

The most obvious facet of the story is so obvious, it can be missed: the structure. Arthur Conan Doyle always gives the reader, in the form of Watson, all the facts of the case. Two days after Christmas, Watson stops by Baker Street “with the intention of wishing [Holmes] the compliments of the season.” The detective has been examining a hat and, after retelling how the hat came into his possession, beckons Watson to play detective. “Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?” I think Doyle puts this scene at the front of the story not only to propel the case forward but also to offer his readers more insight into the world first consulting detective. “Blue Carbuncle” was the seventh short story published and there might have been a few folks who were not attuned to Holmes’ ways.

The hat wasn’t the only thing brought to Baker Street. It also came with a goose. Holmes released the goose to the policeman who found both items but the story really gets moving when that same policeman returns to 221B with the blue carbuncle in his hand, the very same gem recently stolen from the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Now, Holmes’s little mental exercise pays dividends as he and Watson now must find the owner and trace the path of the carbuncle and exonerate an innocent man.

It is the path that I noted in this re-reading. Holmes and Watson follow the trail of the gemstone: from goose to the club from which it was given to Henry Baker (the hat’s owner) to the reseller to the lady who fattens geese for sale. What fascinated me was the logical progression. Nothing was coincidence, something I struggle with in my own writing. Oh, I think, I need Guy and Girl to meet so they’ll rob a bank together. I’ll just have them talking aloud at a street corner, they’ll hear each other, and then… Yeah. Not believable. Even train of thought and action in “Blue Carbuncle” is consistent and rational.

Doyle’s word choices in this story are also of note. They’re subtle but say a good deal about how Doyle sees his creation. On the first page, Doyle writes, “…he [Holmes] jerked his thumb in the direction of the hat…” It’s the word “jerked” that striking. Not motioned or pointed but jerked. Doyle’s showing us Holmes brain had already moved on past the problem of the hat—something that probably took seconds for him—until Watson arrived. Once he has an audience, Holmes frankly, shows off. I think he needs to demonstrate his prowess. How else can you explain all the times when he doesn’t even let Watson in on his plans?

I also appreciated how Doyle’s word choices allowed the readers to fill in the blanks. With space limited in a short story, Doyle didn’t have time to go on and on describing things. Watson noticing the ice crystals forming on the windows of 221B Baker Street allows the readers to create their own mental picture of what Victorian London at Christmas time. Undoubtedly, we almost all think of Dickens and Scrooge and you probably wouldn’t be far off. A little later, Doyle writes “…and the breath of the passers-by flew out into smoke like so many pistol shots.” Now, if that isn’t a great way to describe seeing people’s breath on a cold night, I don’t know what is. And then there is the use of the word “ejaculated” to describe a vocal utterance. Never understood that one.

As I turn my own writing attention to short stories, it is nice to return to a familiar and loved tale and dig deeper into what makes it a great story. It’s Holmes and Watson to be sure as well as the Victorian setting. The story itself, however, is the key. It’s a page-turner with few pages. The action propels you forward until you reach the end and Holmes’ Christmas pardon to the culprit. Doyle may have grown to dislike his creation but the man can still tell a good story.

------

Back in 2010 now. Last week, I watched the Jeremy Brett version of "The Blue Carbuncle" filmed in the late 80s. Interestingly, the robbery of the jewel was the first thing we viewers saw. It wasn't until five or so minutes into the episode that Holmes and Watson show up on screen as they examine the hat. I have to say that some of the mystery evaporates when we see the actual robbery. One of the greatest pleasures in reading Holmes's tales is his reconstruction of the crime. Having seen the crime played out (albeit without all the actors on the stage), it took something away from this story. This is, of course, an ironic thing for me to say for it makes me appear to be a traditionalist. I am the same guy who loves the new film for all of its non-traditional elements. Go figure.

2010

By Russel D McLean

2010.

Its here. The bells rang at midnight. Jools Holland's annual Hootenany on the Beeb likely had some great music (and probably a few guests where you think, what the hell is that? But its all part and parcel of his eclectic new years mix), some awkward interviews with celebrities who just want to keep drinking and ended with some boogie-woogie. Edinburgh either had an amazing street party or gave up because of the weather. Inverness made the best of scuppered celebration plans And across the world, we wake up in a new decade. Some of us with hangovers. Some of us still suffering from end of year colds*.

2010.



It seemed so futuristic. I mean, when I watched Roy Scheider lead that US/USSR team of astronauts out to Europa I was thinking, "all of this seems so far away - I'll be an old man when this happens."

I'm thirty years old.

There are no space flights. There are no monoliths.

But the future still seems exciting and full of possibility.

2010.

I make no predictions. I just look forward to whatever happens.

And I want to say thank you to all the new friends I have made in this decade, the ones who have helped me personally and professionally. You know who you are. And you know why I am thanking you.

And I want to say a big thank you to my friends here at DSD for making me feel finally like I'm part of a gang. A good gang. Not a knife wielding one. And especially to the readers. I hope you'll all come with me into the new decade with as much enthusiasm and joy.

And a special thank you from all the DSD gang to Rob Kitchin at View from the Blue House for making us one of his blogs of the year. We're still the new kids on the block, but we're incredibly honoured. We'll try and keep up the standards this year as well.

2010.

Its here.

So let's make it a good one.

*at the time of writing, none of this had happened, of course, and I was merely speculating on various new yearly celebrations and their outcomes - whatever yours was, I hope it was a good 'un.