What makes a great town?

Spent most of the week in Gonzales, Louisiana. This is a town that most of us would pass by on our way from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. Flat country, not much to look at, but none the less, Gonzales is a great little town.

Went to lunch on Tuesday with some business acquaintances to a place called Brew Bacher's. Had a fried shrimp po' boy that was out of this world. Mike's daughter plays on the local high school softball team and most of the team was there. Beautiful girls, and they all stopped by to say hi. That's the memory that lingers. Everybody knew everybody and how they all came by our table for introductions. In no time flat I was an accepted member of the community. I can't remember anyone's name, but loved that they stopped by.

The two guys I worked with were Gonzales natives. Their office is next door to the high school where they both graduated some twenty plus years ago. They went off to college, of course, but came back.

Bought a King Cake at a local bakery to share with the guys.

Went to another place on Thursday called Sno's and had their Shrimp Helen. Lightly breaded and fried shrimp smothered in etouffe sauce, sprinkled with lump crab. Wow. I'd go back in a heartbeat. And they claim Sno's is "all right". More than "all right" by me.

So I ate well this week, but that's not what this post is about. I live in a mid-sized community in Florida where no one knows his neighbor, and all the high school graduates can barely wait to get out of town. We don't have a bakery, and our best restaurants are national chains. We're all transients, on our way from birth to death with a short, or maybe not so short, stopover in Florida along the way.

That's why we don't know our neighbors. The folks who lived across the street when we moved in here have all moved away. There are a couple of new people in the area, but they keep to themselves. So do we. The few people we know in the community are through my wife's work, since my job is more of a national scope rather than local.

I didn't realize how much I missed being a part of this type of community until I happened upon Gonzales, Louisiana. This town is a treasure. Not for its museums, not for its scenic beauty, not even for its restaurants. It has something far more important going for it. At the heart of Gonzales are some truly terrific people, people who were born there, grew up there, and came back to help their town get along.

To them, Gonzales is more than a place to make a living, it's a place to live.

So if you happen to find yourself traveling along I-10 westbound out of New Orleans, or eastbound out of Baton Rouge, stop by Gonzales and say hi. If you're feeling peckish, search out Brew Bacher's or Sno's for a bite. And when you do, watch the people around you. I'll be mighty surprised if you don't see people stopping by the tables to engage in some friendly small talk. It's common there, and that's what makes Gonzales special.

Daytona 500

Wow, what an event. Thirty cars rushing around a two and a half mile track reaching speeds over two hundred miles per. Bumper to bumper, fender to fender, tires screaming and a half million spectators watching them roar around the track on a brilliant blue afternoon.

First impression was the rush of people. Five hundred thousand extremely well behaved fans converged on this small patch of Florida real estate. People lined up everywhere; for shuttle buses, for souvenirs, for snacks, for the restrooms… But everyone that I saw was polite, mindful of others, and had respect for the event. Not something you see every day. I know, I’ve been to Disney World.

At the hot dog stand, a kid leaned toward me and asked, “Who would like to win?” “Dale Earnhardt, Jr.” I replied, “he’s had his share of bad luck, and he’s due for a change.”

“Not a bad choice,” he said, “not bad.” That day was the tenth anniversary of the death of Dale Earnhardt, Sr.

We had terrific seats, right at the end of pit row and in front across from a big screen where we could watch the dueling on the back side of the track.

The air itself blew in fresh from the south. Born far in the north, even a visit to the tropics could only take a little of the glacial sting out of the air. As the breeze climbed up the stands, it carried the scents of the race. Scorched brakes registered the low notes, blue tire smoke came in with an acrid sharpness, and exhaust fumes smelling like lighter fluid swirled among the spectators. The faint aroma of charcoal fires, carried from the infield where the travel trailers were parked, sizzled with burgers and steaks.

When the pace car left the field, everyone stood to watch the race begin. All across the stands, fans raised their fists with three fingers extended in tribute to DE, Sr. The car he drove, the car he died in, wore the number 3. And the fans did not forget.

There are no Porches at Daytona. No Ferraris, no McLarens, no Renaults. This is all about American muscle. Oh, a handful of Toyotas made valiant efforts, but none managed higher than fourth. The top three spots went to Fords. The Fords, the Dodges, and the Chevys owned the track.

As the engines started, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the noise. Louder than a jet roaring down a runway, the combined decibels from thirty unmuffled super engines married to the whine of thirty straining turbochargers was an experience in itself. I could feel the power of it vibrate within my chest as the main body of cars raced by.

The story of the day, though, belonged to young Trevor Bayne. A rookie who celebrated his twentieth birthday the day before the race, took first place in his first ever Daytona attempt. It was only his second NASCAR event. What a day for Trevor.

The only negative was the logistics in getting from the parking lot to the speedway and back again. It took over an hour to negotiate. And a big raspberry is blown to the Daytona police force, who forced traffic out of the city by way of indirect routes. They closed my path homeward, even though there was no logical reason to do so. Their decision caused an additional hour of wasted time trying to get home. Next year, I’ll work out a better way to get in and out of the city.

So you just wrote a best seller

What makes a best seller? The short answer is, “Nobody knows.” Why do people buy one book and pass on another? Maybe the cover is attractive, maybe the first page is compelling, maybe, maybe, maybe. In actual fact, if anyone knew the formula for a best seller, J K Rowling wouldn’t have endured fourteen (some sources say twelve) rejections before finding a publisher to take on her Harry Potter series.

So what does that mean for writers? Whether you are self published, work with an indie, or a major house, you need to know the market for your book. When writing, keep in mind who you’re writing for. Oh, we can always fall back on that “I’m writing for myself. I don’t care if anyone else likes it or not.” Fine, in that case, why not just keep a diary and save yourself the struggle of landing a publishing contract?

If you want to get published, consider your audience. That’s still something of a black art as far as I can tell. Even the publishers aren’t completely sure of who will buy your book, and they are the experts, right?

I started with genre. Genre wise, I am a mystery/suspense writer with a style that falls somewhere between Randy Wayne White and John D. MacDonald, with a slight dose of Tim Dorsey thrown in for humor. While I’m not arrogant enough to consider myself at their level (yet), a lot of elements are similar enough for classification purposes.

Okay, I’ve got a handle on who I am as a writer. But who would buy my book once it’s out there? Sisters in Crime http://www.sistersincrime.org/ recently published a study on mystery reader demographics. According to their study, 70% of mystery buyers are women, and 70% of mystery buyers are over 45 years old.

Ouch! My book is a bit more male centric. Did I cut myself off of the largest market segment? Not necessarily, my beta readers were female, and they enjoyed the read. They also offered major suggestions, which I took to heart. I wanted the story to appeal to the ladies as well as the men.

How do I reach the mystery buying public? The Sisters in Crime study claims that 19% get their books at libraries. Maybe I should consider donating some books to libraries, maybe try to do a talk or two over there? 11% of mysteries are acquired through book clubs. This bears a little research as well. Maybe try to get a review and a recommendation from Mystery Guild or Mystery Readers?

SIC claims that 39% are store bought. How to get on the shelves at Barnes and Noble? Talk to some store managers, see if they allow signings, see if they have a shelf for local writers. Unless you are working with a big publishing house, I think that getting onto the shelves nationwide will be a tough battle. Except for the local stores, it may be better to save your energy for activities with a greater payback percentage.

Another interesting tidbit from the SIC study is that 35% are purchased in the South. Good for me, I live in the South. So I need to reach out to women over 45 who live in the South. I travel quite a bit, so dropping in on libraries, book clubs, book stores, and book fairs is a possibility. Locating them and finagling my way in will take some work, but may be worth the effort.

What this all boils down to is work. Stretch yourself. Do some research. Reach out to people in different areas and see if they are willing to work with you. Don’t take no too easily, but don’t push to the point of being obnoxious. Think of non-traditional ways to get the word out. In return, remember others who, like you, are struggling with the same issues, and lend them a helping hand along the way.

Literary Suspense

Is there such a thing? I just read two suspense novels by accomplished authors, and was less impressed by the storyline than by the prose. By nature, I am a mystery/thriller fan, and am wondering about this subset of the genre.

Both authors are positioned on the mystery/thriller bookstore shelves. In the first, I found what is perhaps the most eloquent one line description of a character's action I've ever read. In the second, the emotions swirl in a prosaic kaleidoscope as the story progresses to its ultimate conclusion.

At some level, all stories have drama. But in most mystery/thriller stories, plot by far is the focus. In the "literary suspense" stories, the prose slows the pacing and allows the reader to live inside the character's heads.

Your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated. Start the discussion by leaving a comment.

Morning Visitors

Was enjoying my morning coffee, looking over the backyard. It's spring in Central Florida, the nectarine tree is blooming and the orange tree is in the early stages of budding new blossoms.

My backyard ends with a thick tangle of underbrush. I don't live in the country, but there is plenty of cover. Cardinals, blue jays, woodpeckers, quail, squirrels, rabbits, gopher turtles, and a host of other wildlife are frequent visitors to our back yard.

The small animals attract their share of predators. I've seen hawks, owls, fox, and even a bobcat makes an occasional visit.

But this morning, two coyotes passed through the back yard. They've been around before, but haven't been spotted for a couple of years.

Our two dogs went berserk when they saw the coyotes. When the barking started, the coyotes stopped and looked toward the house. After a moment, the lead animal continued into the wooded area and soon was out of sight. The second one waited a moment longer, and limped off. Interesting enough, he didn't limp into the yard, only on his way out.

The limp was on the right foreleg, plainly visible from the house. I wondered about the coyote's intentions. Many animals feign injury to draw a predator away from their nests, but this is the first time I saw an animal feign an injury in hopes of luring an animal into a trap.

The coyote obviously hoped our dogs would give chase. Our dogs are 20 pound bichons, no match for the coyotes. If they had been outside when the coyotes came, one or both of them would have been easy prey.

Looks like I'll have to keep a close eye on the dogs.

O, to be an Author

Here's another poem. This one was written a few years ago, when my first novel was on sub, garnering rejection after rejection from agents.

I thought the sweaty palms were bad
Until the butterflies went mad
And raced their engines in the pit
Of my ample stomach, then they quit.

I hoped they weren’t gone for good
For I that moment, understood
The ups and downs, excitement, nerves,
This fast ride through slow endless curves
Were all a part of what it takes
To be an author, goodness sakes.

The letter held with aching hope
Was from an agent. The envelope
Contained the answer that I sought,
But alas, I found that it was not.

Your work is fine but not for me,
I suggest you find an agency
That can deliver what you seek
Just stay away from me, you freak.

I stood there in the setting sun,
And thought about my work undone.
More novels, poems, and stories rage
To be born upon a printed page.
Tomorrow brings the mail once more
With a better batch of news, I’m sure.

So You Want to be an Author?

I've read a lot of posts about the writing process, but not much about the life of a writer. Actually, a writer's life is great fun, we sit around the computer, drink a lot of scotch - or wine if the writer's a female, and tell jokes to one another.

For relaxation, we hie ourselves to the French Riviera or the Swiss Alps and regale each other with tales of woe about how badly our publishers treat us while we reach for another bite of caviar.

NOT!

Typically, there are times of writing frenzy. Our muse stands behind our chairs, whip in hand, goading us forward until the story is complete. During that period, our lives are solitary, alone with notes and thoughts. Our characters keep us company and we guide their antics along as best we can. Sometimes, they take off on tangents that have to be clipped later.

Then comes the editing. Grammar errors, spelling errors, structural errors, plot holes, character inconsistencies, time line problems, red herrings all have to be excised. For me, that's the hardest part.

Then the research begins. What do the settings really look like, smell like, feel like? I had one character stop to buy a new car, and before the story was done, that car line was taken out of business, so every reference to it had to change.

If it's a period piece, are the characters wearing the right clothes? In one scene set during WWII, I had Eva Peron dancing in a Dior gown, straight from Paris. Unh-uh. During the war, most fashion houses either closed or were moved to Berlin by the Germans. So the gown had to come from Berlin.

Then the story is complete, right? Not yet. The story has to be examined for consistency, redundancy, and every scene has to have a purpose. Many lovely scenes have been deleted not because they were poorly written, but because they were not necessary. I have two great songs sitting on my hard drive that I had to cut from DOG ISLAND because they just didn't fit. During this phase you have to be your own worst critic. If you aren't, there are thousands sitting on the sidelines waiting to chop your work to bits.

Then comes the final phase, which I call "Taking it up a notch". Where can there be more conflict, drama, turmoil, problems? In the genre I write, there can never, well almost never, be enough problems to work through. Don't make it too easy for your MC to achieve his goal.

Now your manuscript is ready for submission, but that is a topic for a whole other post.