I’m smack in the middle of final preparations for Bouchercon this coming weekend. Bouchercon is the foremost convention for mystery fans in the United States. HarperCollins (my publisher) is hosting the opening ceremonies and holding a signing for their authors, and I’ll also be appearing on a panel on Thursday afternoon: It’s a Dark and Twisty Book, with Clair Lamb, Christopher Farnsworth, Alex Marwood, Ivy Pochoda, and Gregg Hurwitz. This is my first time at Boucher, so I'm both hugely excited and pacing myself.
Which is as good a segue as any for a quick Larcenous entry about keeping momentum in our writing. Fellow panelist Gregg Hurwitz is an expert at propelling his novels along without sacrificing speed and energy.
If you're going to Bouchercon, come by the panel or find me wandering around (I'll be the scruffy guy downing the quad espressos) and say hello! I’d love to meet you!
In this month's issue of The Big Thrill (the online magazine from International Thriller Writers), author Anthony Franze shines the industry spotlight on literary agent Lisa Erbach Vance. Lisa and I met at ITW's 2013 ThrillerFest conference, held each July in midtown Manhattan. We were both attending the conference's "PitchFest" afternoon, which is essentially speed dating with agents. I was there to get some practice pitching my nearly-completed book, and it was my astoundingly good fortune that Lisa had also chosen to cast her net that year. She's been a dream of an agent, and I'm honored to call myself one of her clients. If you're curious about the daily life of a (very expert, and very busy) literary agent, and how to attract the interest of same, click here for the full profile: http://www.thebigthrill.org/2014/09/industry-spotlight-literary-agent-lisa-erbach-vance/
In the modern thriller, we often find action dominating scenes and sometimes whole chapters. Action may have a different rhythm on the page, to help the reader follow and appreciate each moment.
Lee Child's series featuring the hero Jack Reacher is hugely popular, and one of the reasons is that his action scenes crackle. We'll look at a short example from BAD LUCK AND TROUBLE for tips on how to make each moment pack a punch.
From Lee Child's BAD LUCK AND TROUBLE, read in LIG Ep8:
Reacher put Dixon’s Ford in gear. Checked north, checked south. Hit the gas and turned the wheel and slammed into the lot. Ignored the worn circular path and aimed straight for the center of the space.
Straight for the bag man, accelerating, front wheels spraying gravel. The bag man froze.
Ten feet before hitting him head-on Reacher did three things. He twitched the wheel. He stamped on the brake. And he opened his door. The car slewed right and the front wheels washed onto the loose stones and the door swung out through a moving arc and caught the guy like a full on punch. It smacked him solidly from his waist up to his face. He went over backward and the car stopped dead and Reacher leaned down and grabbed the vinyl duffel left-handed from the floor. Pitched it into the passenger seat and hit the gas and slammed his door shut and pulled a tight U-turn inside the slow Mercedes. Roared back out of the lot and bounced over the curb onto Highland. In the mirror he saw dust in the air and confusion and the bag man flat on his back and two guys running. Ten yards later he was behind the bulk of the wax museum. Then he was through the light, back onto Hollywood Boulevard. Twelve seconds, beginning to end.
I heard a saying when I was a kid that stuck with me: To a dog, everything is forever. You leave for work each morning, and they are devastated. You return home, and it's like the second coming. Sorrow and joy are absolutes.
In this post we'll look at Robert Crais's book SUSPECT, and the contrast between complex human feelings and conflicts, and the primal emotions felt by his canine protagonist. Both are powerful methods of forming a connection with readers.
I'm settling in at home after an overstuffed summer -- the perfect time to read a mystery set in a warm (if occasionally sinister) country village. Since her debut ten years ago, Louise Penny has quickly become recognized a modern master of the small town whodunit. "Cozy" mysteries have a lot to offer writers and readers of thrillers. The pace and focus of cozies allow more time for buried secrets, an emphasis on character eccentricities over action, and rich settings.
This week I’m in New York for Thrillerfest, the
annual convention for writers and fans of the thriller genre. It’s a busy
time, with classes on writing technique, interviews with leading authors, and
approximately six dozen cocktail receptions hosted by publishing houses.
Per day. But I wanted to post at least one video while in NYC (even if it
means staying up very late to have the Grand Hyatt ballroom lobby as a fun
background.)
I had no trouble choosing the author for this
episode. I’ve been a fan of Lawrence Block, whose various series range
from hardboiled to humorous, since I started reading fiction for
grown-ups. To keep this post from going all night, let's focus on just
one of Block's strengths: Conversational tangents that keep the dialogue
light and snappy, while also revealing bits of character and situation.
The excerpt I read in the video is included at the bottom of the post.
From Lawrence Block’s A DROP OF THE HARD STUFF, read in LiG Episode 5: “It’s not surprising if you never
heard of him, because he was very small-time, and it’s no surprise you didn’t
hear about the homicide.If there was
anything in the papers, I didn’t see it myself.”
He was frowning in concentration.“Jack, Jack, Jack. Did he have a sobriquet?”
“Come again?”
“A nickname, for Christ’s sake.And don’t tell me you didn’t know the word.”
“I knew it,” I said.“I’ve come across it in print, but I’m not
sure I ever heard anyone say it before.I certainly never heard anyone say it in Poogan’s.”
“It’s a perfectly fine word.And it’s not exactly the same as a
nickname.Take Charles Lindbergh.His nickname was Lindy –“
“As in hop,” I suggested.
“—and his sobriquet was the Lone
Eagle.George Herman Ruth, nickname was
Babe, sobriquet was the Sultan of Swat.Al Capone—“
“I get the idea.”
“I just wanted to keep on saying it,
Matthew.Sobriquet.I know from reading, and I don’t think I ever heard it before, and I know for certain I
never said it before.I wonder if I’m pronouncing it correctly.”
“I’m the wrong person to ask.”
“I’ll look it up,” he said, and
picked up his glass and put it down without drinking.“High-Low Jack,” he said.“Wasn’t that his fucking sobriquet?Isn’t that what they called him?”
We’re the tail end of our family trip to Ireland, and squeezing in one
last visit to a favorite place – the Roisin Dubh pub and music venue in Galway. The pub is a lot bigger than the last time I
saw it, but just as great a spot to find a pint and a song. And to unravel a mystery or two.
Continuing with Irish thriller writers, I’ve been reading If I Never See You Again by Niamh
O’Connor, Dublin crime writer and journalist.
O’Connor creates immediate empathy for her protagonist, detective
superintendent Jo Birmingham. Jo is
juggling departmental pressure and disrespect from colleagues, children
(teenage and infant), money troubles, and a marriage running what looks like
its final lap. If it weren’t for the
serial killer running amok in her district, she’d have nothing to look forward
to at all. For writers aiming to raise
the stakes for their own heroes and heroines – especially in realistic
circumstances – O’Connor offers great examples.
I picked up my copy of O’Connor’s novel at Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop on
Middle Street, which offers some of the best browsing in Ireland. Drop by and pick up something to enjoy over
your pint.
While on vacation in western Ireland -- after too many years since my
last visit – I’m taking the opportunity to read some mystery novels by Irish
authors I haven’t read before.It’s been
a joy.And recording the blog “on
location” makes me think I should focus my reading list on thriller writers
from prime holiday spots, just to have an excuse to visit.Here we’re on the beautiful and rugged Burren
in County Clare, and I’ll steal some time from the blog to have a look around
with you.
But first we’ll talk about A Death
in Summer, by Benjamin Black, the pen name of famed author John
Banville.Banville won the Booker Prize
for his novel The Sea, and he is a
master of lyrical prose and sharply defined imagery.Here we’ll look at how his descriptions help
to underline the emotions and situation of his protagonist.
This is the first post in which I’ve read directly from the page, and
unfortunately the wind gusting off the sea likes to interrupt me.It’s Murphy’s Law (Murphy being an Irish
name, of course…) So I’ve included the text of Black’s scene below, so that you may read along with me and enjoy
his words for yourself.
From
Benjamin Black’s A DEATH IN SUMMER, read in LiG Episode 3:
She came forward until she was standing before him.She was not small for her age, yet the top of
her head barely reached the level of his diaphragm.He caught her child’s smell; it was like the
smell of day-old bread.Her hair was a
deep gleaming black, like her mother’s.“Would you like to see my room?” she asked.
“Your room?”
“Yes.You said you came in to see the house, so you
should see the upstairs, too.”He tried
to think of a way of declining this invitation but could not.She was a strangely compelling
personage.She put her right hand in his
left.“Come along,” she said briskly,
“this way.”
She led him across the room and
opened the door.She had to use both
hands to turn the great brass doorknob.In the hall she took him by the hand again and together they climbed the
stairs.Yes, that was what he felt like:
the misunderstood ogre, monstrous and lumbering but harmless at heart.
“How did you know who I was?” she
asked. “Have you seen me before?”
“No, no.But your mother told me your name and I
thought you could not be anyone else.”
“So you know maman quite well, then?”
He thought about this for a moment
before answering; somehow she compelled serious consideration.“No, not very well,” he said. “We had lunch
together.”
“Oh, did you,” she said, without
emphasis.“I suppose you met her when
Daddy died, since you’re a doctor.Did
you try to save his life?”
Her hand was dry and cool and bony,
and he thought of a fledgling fallen from the nest, but this was a fallen
fledgling that would no doubt survive.“No,” he said, “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“What other kinds of doctor are
there?”
She was leading him now across a
broad landing spread with a Turkish rug in various shades of red from rust to
blood-bright.
“Oh, all sorts,” he said.
This answer she seemed to find
sufficient.
Her room was absurdly large, a great
square space painted white all over, with a white ceiling and a spotless white
carpet and even a white cover on the small narrow bed.It was alarmingly tidy not a toy or an
article of clothing in sight, and not a single picture on the walls.It might have been the cell of a deeply
devotional but incongruously well-to-do anchorite.It made Quirke shiver.The only splash of color was in the single
tall sash window opposite the door that gave onto Iveagh Gardens, a rectangle
of blue and gold and lavish greens suspended in the midst of all that blank
whiteness like a painting by Douanier Rousseau.“I spend a lot of time here,” the child said. “Do you like it?”
