Publishing Malpractice

I've written here before about the murder mystery book club I joined a little over a year ago at my local independent bookstore. They tend to pick books outside my usually noirish taste--lots of cozy-adjacent recent novels heavily featuring cats, recipes, or sometimes both--but they're a fun group, and many months I get exposed to a solid read I wouldn't otherwise have encountered.

Then there are the other months.

This month we read a novel that I won't specifically identify, because I'm not here to call out a particular author by name for things that are not entirely their fault. I will say that it was published within the last five years; that it's the first in what is currently a three-book series; and that the author's professional background is heavily emphasized in the promotional materials as contributing to the subject matter in the book. It was also published by an imprint of one of the major publishing houses. Let's call it, oh, Bimon and Booster.

Toward the end of the book, we encounter something like the following paragraph. I've changed the character names and some of the details here to avoid identifying the book specifically, but the structure of the paragraph was exactly this:

Velma said, "We know Shaggy is supposed to have left the manor house at three in the morning, and that Fred and Daphne claimed to see him on the ocean road at four. But we also know that can't be true, because the fog that night would have prevented them from being able to identify the Mystery Machine," Velma said.

For those of you keeping score at home, that's two instances of the same dialogue tag identifying the speaker in a single paragraph. Not to get too technical with my lingo, but this is what we in the biz call Bad Writing. And in terms of my patience with the book, it's what we call the Final Straw. 

Now, of course, any writer might produce a paragraph like this, in the heat of composing a rough draft. That's what rough drafts are for, and heaven knows mine are full of stupid errors. What's astonishing to me is that this survived not only the writer's own revision process (assuming there was one), but also the entire editorial system at a major publishing house. You would assume a book like this went through, at a minimum, a developmental edit and a line edit, to say nothing of any input there might have been from the writer's agent. And yet there that ugly second tag sits, something everyone in that chain should be ashamed of.

I think of the great editors I've worked with--folks like Barb Goffman, Michael Bracken, Rusty Barnes, and Josh Pachter. Not one of them would have missed that second tag. So what the hell is going on with the editors at Bimon and Booster? I can think of some explanations. Probably the editorial budget has been slashed in recent years, and the remaining editors are simply overworked to the point of missing things. Possibly they're relying on AI to do some (most?) of the work, with predictably embarrassing results. Or, maybe, they just don't care. "They" here should be understood to be the number crunchers at the publishers. After all, their algorithms had no doubt already told them the book would sell, based on title, subgenre, cover design, the author's background, and comparable books--meaning recent bestsellers the novel, in places, shamelessly apes. With financial success more or less guaranteed, why bother making it good?

If it was just this one mistake, I wouldn't be writing about it. By the time I hit this paragraph, though, I was already seething. The entire book is rife with this kind of clumsy prose; there's not a scrap of dialogue that sounds like the way people actually talk. The characters are all paper-thin. The central heroine is annoying (though not as annoying as her obligatory "wacky" sidekick), and, despite repeated claims that she's brilliant, doesn't actually do a single thing that contributes to solving the mystery (not that the solution, when revealed, makes any sense). The plot doesn't hold up to the barest scrutiny in terms of logic or causality. Characters move around randomly, having the same conversations over and over again every time they encounter each other. The author either ignores or doesn't understand one of the most fundamental pieces of writing wisdom: to show, not tell. Even the much-vaunted professional background that's supposed to distinguish the book because of the author's specialized knowledge is employed only very briefly, and in a completely unconvincing way.

If you've ever seen Tommy Wiseau's movie The Room, which has become an object of cult obsession as possibly the least competent piece of filmmaking ever threaded into a projector, you have a pretty good idea of the level of narrative ability I'm talking about here.

Reading the book, I was repeatedly reminded of Gun in Cheek, the hilarious 1982 volume in which Bill Pronzini (himself a first-rank writer and superb stylist) dissects some of the worst mystery fiction of the Golden Age (highly recommended reading, by the way). Pronzini, though, was talking about decades-old novels and stories that were largely recognized as disposable trash when they were published, mostly being churned out by pulp writers desperately trying to produce enough work to feed themselves at (if they were lucky) a penny a word. By contrast, this is a brand-new book from a top-of-the-line publisher, heavily promoted, accompanied by bafflingly positive reviews, and successful enough to justify at least two sequels (I wouldn't be shocked to hear there's going to be a Netflix adaptation). None of that prevents it from being every bit as bad as Pronzini's targets.

Pronzini's book made me laugh out loud, a lot (again, it's worth seeking out, as is the sequel, Son of Gun in Cheek, and Six Gun in Cheek, which similarly savages terrible Westerns). This book made me actively angry. I know a lot of great writers who will likely never have the opportunity to be published by a major house or get this kind of promotion. You could argue that's because they write primarily short stories, and the market today doesn't value short fiction. But that market was, to a large degree, created by the major publishers, and by the readers they've trained to have such a narrow, impoverished understanding of what crime fiction is and can be.

The fact that bad books get published is nothing new, of course. But am I alone in thinking there seem to be an awful lot of them these days?

So I'm angry on behalf of the skilled writers who are shunted aside in favor of books like this. I'm angry on behalf of readers who get mediocre work shoved down their throats. But I'm also angry on behalf of the writer of this book, because they do, on some level, have potential. I can imagine a world where an agent or developmental editor reads this book and gives it back with a detailed explanation of the many problems, encouraging the writer to start over and gradually helping them produce polished, readable work. We all start out writing badly; there's no way around this. If you get lucky, work hard, and have the right people helping you, you get better before your work ever appears before the public.

This writer wasn't lucky, and certainly didn't have the right people helping. Because of that, it's all too easy to imagine some future heir of Pronzini, in a couple of decades, absolutely eviscerating this novel as an example of all the worst elements of crime fiction in the first half of this century.

So--are you noticing anything like this in the new books you're reading?

AND NOW, THE NEWS

Having spent several paragraphs bemoaning the output of another writer, it might seem the height of hubris for me to now promote a little of my own work, but here we go with a handful of new publications.

The new issue of the excellent online zine Yellow Mama includes my story "Things That Never Happened in a Place that Doesn't Exist." Any resemblance between this story and recent news items about powerful men committing terrible acts with no consequences is not entirely coincidental.

Recent days brought the welcome news that a new owner is reviving Down & Out Books, and I hope that venture will prove successful. In the meantime, other publishers continue to bring back some of the anthologies D&O published, under snazzy new covers. If you missed any of these, don't let them get past you again--every one of them is filled with powerhouse authors richly deserving of your time and attention.

Crimson Gate Books has the new edition of PROHIBITION PEEPERS: PRIVATE EYES DURING THE NOBLE EXPERIMENT, edited by Michael Bracken. In my story, "Getting Away Clean," the junior partner in a PI firm takes on his first big case, tracking down a crew of blackmailers working in the orbit of one of the country's most powerful bootleggers.

Open Road Media is publishing the revived HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN: CRIME FICTION INSPIRED BY THE SONGS OF THE BEATLES, from editor Josh Pachter. My contribution is "Baby, You're a Rich Man," in which a powerful family's fixer sets out to deliver a huge ransom and uncovers a devious plot.

Also from Open Road and editor Josh Pachter is the reanimated FRIEND OF THE DEVIL: CRIME FICTION INSPIRED BY THE SONGS OF THE GRATEFUL DEAD. For this one, I came up with "The Music Never Stopped," about a pair of drug dealers who come to a serious misunderstanding while attending a music festival.

And on one final note, my collection CRIME SCENES just celebrated six months in the world. While it hasn't leapt to the top of the NYT bestseller lists, I have gotten a lot of gratifying reactions from readers, and positive reviews in places like Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Thrilling Detective, and Crime Fiction Lover. Doesn't it sound like it would make a swell holiday gift for the two or three dozen people closest to your heart?

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

As this column goes up, the US is a little over a week away from what might reasonably be described as the most important midterm election in our history. Polls are predicting massive wins for the Democrats--but, as is often observed, polls don't vote. You can count on Donald Trump and his pathetic gang of lickspittle grifters to do everything they can, legal or not, to suppress the vote, challenge and deny the results, and ultimately fail to abide by them, possibly even refusing to seat the new Congress. The more overwhelming their defeat, the more difficult it will be for them to make such attempts. Every vote is important, even if you live in a place where the local outcome is not in doubt. This may be our last opportunity to turn back the hatred, division, greed and stupidity which have made the last decade of American life so miserable. In short--GET OUT THERE AND VOTE!

Some Stats on Willingness to Commit a Crime

Some readers know that for several years, this mystery writer was disguised as a bank manager.  (Ha!  Do I look like one in this recent photo?)

Yes, I managed a branch in one of the biggest metropolitan areas (8 million) in the Western World.  This involved meeting a lot of interesting people who would not regularly come into your social circle - people like bank robbers and con artists.

And just as I was disguised as a bank manager, these criminals were disguised as average, everyday people.  Yes, I got pretty good at determining who might be less than honest in their business dealings.

Lots of stories there.  However, today I want to talk about something specific - that being the stats on how many of the population have the potential to join this minority population. (Note this research is approximately 20 years old. I fear it may be too optimistic for today.)

Here they are, as per my training and later teaching in college:

75% of people will be honest on a handshake.

20% of people may try to cheat you if they think they can get away with it.  (In banking terms, we say you need their signature to hold them to their word.) 

And 5% of people will try to cheat you, even if you have their signature.

I've always found this fascinating.  Like many people in that 75%, honour - integrity - is important to me, and I was taught that cheating is dishonorable.  (That's how I see it.  Others may see it differently.) I don't cheat, even when there is little to no chance of being caught. I would find it hard to live with myself.

This is the ultimate test, of course.  Do you cheat if you think there is little chance of being caught? 

The 5% of people - often sociopaths - are something I take for granted now, after years in banking.  They will do what they like if it is in their favour, without much care as to how it hurts other people.  They are perhaps the least interesting of the criminal class, from the point of view of this writer.  Our laws and prison penalties are necessary to manage their behaviour.  The stick as opposed to the carrot, so to speak.

What I find fascinating is the 20%.  On a mild level, I can use the example of people who will park in handicap spots when they aren't handicapped, because they think they can get away with it.  Also, people who might cheat on exams or essays.  I have heard someone who might fit into this category say, "I like to see if I can beat the system."   

It's this 20% that I find most interesting to write about.  People who would normally not take the risk of doing something against the law, but - occasionally if they think they could get away with it - might, if the gain is great.  Again - speaking as a mystery author - this category is where the most interesting murders take place.

I am fascinated by motivation.  What would convince someone to murder another person, when I wouldn't, given the same situation?  What would push them over the edge?

Now, there are always exceptions.  I expect a parent - even one basically honest and in the 75% - would be compelled to act against someone who threatened their children.  These situations could push most anyone over the edge.

But murder for monetary gain?  That is a very interesting motivation for a mystery writer, and I'm no exception.

Um...caveat here.  I murder people regularly in my books for monetary gain (thank you for that nice publisher advance!) But only in books.  Honest.

Melodie Campbell can honestly say she's never murdered anyone, except on paper.  After 22 books and 60 short stories, that's a lot of crime!  Pizza Wars is her latest madcap comedy, available on Amazon from Gemma Books (Boston.)

Monster In My Mind

When Halloween rolled around in 1975, I was in sixth grade and still making friends at the new school my parents had transferred me and my brothers to earlier that fall. We had long been public school kids, but when I graduated fifth grade, my parents suddenly decided to move all three of their sons to the Catholic school across the street. This would be my academic home for the next three years. After years of dressing in street clothes to go to school, I now wore a hideous blue-plaid uniform daily. And I had to mind my manners in the presence of nuns.

Halloween that year fell on a Friday, which is a school day, which is why I feel certain the events I’m about to describe took place on that Saturday, the first of November.

I’d been invited to a classmate’s home for a Halloween party. No costumes, just fun, food, frivolity.

My new friend Christopher lived on the other side of town, the nice side. And as my mother drove me to his home in the car, we passed the town’s nature center, which was dominated by a giant pond that was the site of the town’s annual trout-fishing contest. The pond was enveloped by several acres of woods that thinned out at one point and opened upon a baseball diamond.

Traffic slowed as we approached the baseball field.

Police officers spoke to each driver in turn, peeked into the cars, asked a few questions, then waved us on.

The baseball field itself was crawling with cops. State troopers and plainclothes officers in windbreakers. The ones in blue windbreakers marched along the edge of the woods with German shepherds on leashes. Radios squawked, and everyone spoke loudly to be heard over the sound of the helicopter whirling overhead.

I asked my mother what was going on. She had no clue.

When we reached Christopher’s house, she told me to wait in the car while she spoke with a few other moms who had congregated on the porch to consult with Christopher’s mom, who we kids called Mrs. C.

The council of moms took their sweet time. Heads nodding. Hands gesturing.

When Mom came back, she popped the car lock and told me to get out.

“It’s okay,” she said, “You’re going to play in the backyard and inside.”

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“But the police—”

“It’s okay,” she reassured me. “They’re looking for somebody. He was working in somebody’s house over here. Then he ran away, and they’re looking for him.”

I was what, eleven years old? That year I had begun methodically reading adult mystery novels. My imagination and my capacity for anxiety exercised themselves nightly as I gobbled up these books. (A story I have partially related here.)

Mom was being vague intentionally, I’m sure, but I did not have to be a Baker Street Irregular to know that if this many cops and dogs were looking for this person, he was no saint.

I couldn’t tell you what we kids did for fun that afternoon. It was Halloween, for Pete’s sake. We didn’t need a campfire or the cover of darkness with which to embroider our ghost stories. We had the perfect, homegrown plot points to fashion a far more terrifying tale.

Even as we played, we traded bits and pieces we’d gleaned from our moms as we were dropped off.

Here is what the adults had told us: The object of the quarry was a man who showed up to work as a house painter at one of the homes in the area. He’d erected a ladder outside some lady’s home and commenced painting. When she returned from running errands, she was startled to find him inside the house, rifling through her possessions. Surprised by her sudden entrance, he bolted. His description matched that of someone police were already looking for crimes we kids could not comprehend.

Nevertheless, we tried.

He was a robber!

He did bad things to people!

He was a murderer!

No—he was not actually human, but half-man, half-monster!

Moreover, we felt certain that he could not have committed these heinous crimes in New Jersey, where we lived and which was, as everyone knew, an oasis of tranquility. No—he must have done these bad things across the river in New York City. Where else?

Would they catch him?

He had fled into the woods. Maybe he was too far gone to be stopped now. Maybe the dogs would not pick up his scent. God knows what he would do if the cops didn’t find him in time! What if it got dark and he was still on the loose? Did his monster side come out at night?

By the time Mrs. C called us inside to eat, our minds were inflamed with dark tales of the fugitive’s past.

The house smelled delicious. They had a real-life fireplace, something I’d always been curious about. The decor was autumnal and wonderful.

As I shoveled spoonfuls of mac and cheese and franks and beans into my mouth, Chris’s mom explained the afternoon activities. Before things had gone awry, she had planned a grand scavenger hunt.

Her original party plan called for each of us kids to split into teams of two and wander the neighborhood, knocking on doors to ask homeowners if they could provide us with any of the innocuous items on a long list Mrs. C had probably copied out of a book of kids’ games.

But now, in light of the current neighborhood situation, she thought it was best if we worked the neighborhood in larger groups, led by Christopher’s older siblings.

Chris was the youngest of six. His was a family of Brady Bunch proportions. There were more than enough big kids to go around in that household. We would be fine.

I’ve since learned that I have the ability to magnify minuscule details until they occupy a space in my mind as big as a locomotive. Something Mrs. C said had captured my attention.

It grew and grew and grew.

Terror seized me.

Then I did what nervous kids have always done when they became anxious. I barfed into my lap. Quietly, you understand. Delicately. And quickly, probably fluttering an oversized orange Halloween napkin as camouflage for my sudden action.

Then I sat trembling in my seat, afraid that someone would find me out. I might have been content to sit there for all eternity, and never get up.

When I was finally outed, Mrs. C was more than kind. In that family, she was no stranger to barf. She whisked me to a bathroom, where I changed into a pair of Christopher’s jeans. (What a slender fellow he must have been, relative to me! I can still feel the denim digging into my hips.) My clothes descended to the basement for a wash.

And off we went on the scavenger hunt. It was as safe as safe can be, though in retrospect I wonder if the people who answered those doors wondered at the wisdom of sending gaggles of little kids around the neighborhood that afternoon in the company of high schoolers.

I had never been on a scavenger hunt before then or since. Here’s what I can tell you. The list they gave us was not written in stone. More like a suggestion, really. When the list commanded us to extort a stale dinner roll from a neighbor, we felt certain a toasted slice of bread would do nicely instead.

Sometime late in the afternoon, we learned that the police manhunt had concluded with success. A great evil had been plucked out of our midst. It was just another cool fall evening in the suburbs of Jersey again.

When she arrived to pick me up, my mortified mother was presented with my washed and dried wardrobe, and an all-too-compassionate story shared by Mrs. C.

“Well, with everything that was going on,” she told my mom. “Can you blame the poor boy? He must have felt terrified.”

And for years after, that was the explanation my mother trotted out when the memory of that messed-up Halloween was dredged up. A bad man who did bad things to women—my parents always employed that phraseology—had spread terror throughout the borough. And in his quaking heart, Joe did what he always did when he got a case of the jitters. And who could blame him, really?

Christopher and I went on to high school and college together. We worked in Manhattan as young creatives, and saw each other often. And when the spirit moved him, he regaled acquaintances—usually women to whom I was attracted—with the tale of that creepy Halloween.

Only, his story differed from his mother’s on one point. Gleefully, he told people that Little Joey barfed not because a rampaging murderer was on the loose but because he was a little Italian American kid whose belly knew only the taste of lasagna and manicotti, and rebelled when pumped with the likes of American fare such as mac and cheese.

But you know what?

They were all wrong. Mrs. C, my mom, even Christopher.

No. After fifty-one years, let the facts be admitted to a candid world:

It was not the ax murderer in the ’hood that did me in. Nor was it the copious amount of American food on tap that afternoon.

Friends, what really struck terror into my heart was the soon-to-be-launched scavenger hunt. I did not know what that was, and it frightened me to no end.

I did not understand why they wanted me to knock on doors and ask complete strangers for things such as six inches of kite twine, a rubber ball, and a tarnished penny.

Why would I want these things? For what purpose? I didn’t need them! Why would I bother people I did not know in order to get them?

A murderer I could stomach. Surely, they would get him in the end. But the thing that lurked in my mind was far more terrible. I could not stomach the thought of making strangers go out of their way for me. It was bad enough knocking on peoples’ doors for candy each year, but at least the culture had paved the way for such intrusions.

My constitution drew the line at a scavenger hunt.

It was all too much, and it still is. Happy Halloween.

* * * 

See you next time!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

joedenise.com

Robert Altman and The Sisters of Mercy

Last week my husband and I watched McCabe and Mrs. Miller - first time for him (and he really loved it), probably second or third time for me.

I first saw it in 1972 or 1973, not sure which. Not long after I got off the streets and got legal. So when I saw it, it punched a hole in my gut for so many reasons. The Leonard Cohen soundtrack especially: I went straight out and bought that album and played it over and over again.  Especially The Stranger Song:

 

It′s true that all the men you knew were dealers
Who said they were through with dealing
Every time you gave them shelter
I know that kind of man, it's hard to hold the hand of anyone
Who is reaching for the sky just to surrender...

He was just some Joseph looking for a manger
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger

And (back then) I realized that yes, that was exactly what my life had been for a very, very, very long time – and was probably instrumental in finally, a year later, dumping my "Joseph looking for a manger". Because that was him. And I didn't want that kind of man or that kind of life any more.

But enough of that meandering down very old paths, I want to talk about the dynamics of McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Meet wandering gambler McCabe (played by Warren Beatty) who comes to what is barely a town (Presbyterian Church) in the wooded mountains of Washington State.  He gambles, drinks, and opens up its first whorehouse, but he has no idea how to run it. Not that he'll admit that when he's confronted by Mrs. Miller (Julie Christie) telling him to hire her as the madam because she knows what she's doing:

"What do you do when one girl fancies another? How do you know when a girl really has her monthly or is just taking days off? What about when they don't get their monthlies? Cause they don't. What do you do then? I suppose you know all about seeing to that? An what about the customers? Who's gonna skin 'em back and inspect 'em? You gonna to do that? If you don't, this town will be clapped up inside of two weeks, if it's not already. What about when business is slow? You just gonna let the girls sit around on their bums? I'll tell you something, Mr. McCabe, when a good whore gets time to sit around and think, four out of five times she'll turn to religion 'cause that's what they was born with. And when that happens, you find yourself fillin' the bloody church down there, instead of your own pockets. Now, I haven't got a lot of time to sit around and talk to a man who's too dumb to see a good proposition when it's put to him. Do we make a deal or don't we? Well?"  

No, McCabe doesn't know how to do any of that, he didn't even know about any of that, so he hires her.  She also handles the bookkeeping because McCabe's arithmetic is about as good as his grasp of the business. Any business.  

The result is, instead of damp tents by a muddy road, Mrs. Miller gets the whorehouse built, complete with a bathhouse and regular inspections for all, girls AND their clients. It is hugely popular, the men of Presbyterian Church are clean and fairly happy, and word spreads throughout the territory. 

Basically, it's the women – the "sisters of mercy" - who literally clean up the town.* 

*I will bet money that Altman's fictional town was based on Pendleton, Oregon, who back in the 1800s was a mining town with lots of Chinese workers, bars, and whorehouses, much of it (literally) underground.  

"Discover the secrets of Pendleton’s Underground tunnels"

The truth is, antihero McCabe is a Dunning Kruger idiot, who knows he's the sharpest card in the deck, babbles bullshit, and can never admit he's wrong about anything. (Sounds terribly familiar, doesn't it?)  The only thing he's really good at is gambling.  And drinking. And going along with anything that might make him look good. Including being mistaken for "Pudgy" McCabe—a supposedly dangerous man who once killed someone named Bill Roundtree.  

And then there's the stuff he says that's supposed to prove him smarter than the average bear.  One line he repeats over and over is 

"If a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his ass so much, follow me?"

That kind of patter works with the men of Presbyterian Church, sort of, but it cuts no ice with Mrs. Miller, nor with the mining company that wants to take over his businesses, and especially not with the gunslingers they send after him when McCabe stupidly refuses to sell his "businesses" for the whopping price of $5,500 (worth the equivalent of $150,000 in today's money).  

Sigh...  We've seen one too many McCabes (social media and television have a lot to answer for) but it is a brilliant performance, probably Beatty's best.  

BTW, the sisters of mercy like McCabe - but they don't count on him.  They count on Mrs. Miller, who does indeed know what she's doing.  And that dynamic reminded me of 3 Women, which I've blogged about before. One thing about Altman, he knew how to write and direct women.  Pinkie, Millie, and Willie are each unique, strange, powerful.  Edgar thought he had all the power, but he never had a chance.  Same with McCabe. 

Mrs. Miller, Lily, Kate, Alma, Ida... they all know how to survive in a man's world. Stay alert. Stay aware. Know the difference between nice guys like Cowboy (an unbelievably young Keith Carradine) and most of the townsmen... and stone cold killers like Butler, Kid, and Breed.  McCabe doesn't, and doesn't think he has to. 

    John McCabe: I know what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing.

    Constance Miller: What's he [Butler] carrying around that bloody blunderbuss with him for?

    John McCabe: I don't know. Maybe he come up here to hunt possum.

Much later, McCabe says, "I just don't want to get killed."  

Well, nobody does, my friend.  But in a world of cutthroat businessmen and guns for hire... you have to pay attention and just once in a while, believe the sisters of mercy, not your own bullshit.  

As one reviewer put it on IMDB, "the next time someone tells you that Clint Eastwood reinvented the western with his masterpiece Unforgiven, remember: 21 years before, Altman had experimented and succeeded on that with his McCabe & Mrs. Miller."

"Robert Altman has made a dozen films that can be called great in one way or another, but one of them is perfect, and that one is McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971)." - Roger Ebert.

I agree.

Advice for Writers Events

Recently our own Joseph Walker posed an interesting question on the Short Mystery Fiction Society list:

 In a few weeks I'm going to have a table at a local author event in my town. Specifically, I'll be one of 25 authors in the parking lot of the (awesome, btw) local indie bookstore, for four hours.

 I've certainly heard many horror stories from writers about attending such events and selling no books, or just one or two. So, any advice? How do I make the most out of this? I'll have about 20 copies of my collection, and I've got a little banner to display on the table and bookmarks to give out. What else can I do?

I thought it was a great question, and of particular interest to me because I will be at a similar event next month.  Joe got many responses and with his permission and that of the other writers, I am sharing some with you.

Chris Dreith: Since it's going to be held outside, have a patio umbrella or a tent constructed over your table. If it's an umbrella, make sure it's a bright color. They are a hassle to set up, but make sure it's weighted at the base so it won't blow over.

 If it's a tent, bring something to hang from it, like a colorful flag, ribbons, or even a wind chime. Print the cover of your book on a sheet to hang behind you. Make yours different. (Don't forget to bring tools. Stapler, plastic ties, cords, carabiners, whatever you need.)

Bring heavy items to hold down papers, etc if it is windy. These items could also be used as conversation starters. Maybe a heavy brass dog holding down a K9 book or a piece of granite for a mountain based mystery. 

 Position your table so it is in the shade, but also you and possible buyers are also in the shade.

If you need to stay seated, bring a tall stool to park on so you are at more eye level with people who pass by. 

Get away from the back of the table often to view it from the passerby's viewpoint. Keep it clean and organized (that shows pride in your work).

If you have someone seated at your table with you, don't spend your time talking with them. It's off-putting to try to get the salesperson's (in this case, the authors) attention if they are deep in conversation with someone else seating behind the 'barrier' table.

Wear something comfortable for the weather but make it unique and memorable. Top hat? Colorful vest? Print the cover of your book on a T-shirt. 

Wear a name tag.

Smile. Look folks in the eye. Talk to them. You don't have to ask the same opening questions that everyone else does. (What do you like to read?) Take into consideration the person's facial expression and body language. For example, you might find something different to say to a young parent pushing a baby carriage and another kid stuck in a backpack compared to an older person pushing a cart carrying a poodle with a bow.

 Have a bag ready for trash. Keep your table and space around it clean.

 You can have the cover of your book printed on candy wrappers. (Contact me for info). A friend of mine prints a cookie recipe on a card with her book cover on the opposite side, puts said cookie and card in a clear bag with a ribbon to close the top. I somehow don't see you doing that (she has help from her daughter's Girl Scout troop. LOL) but if you do decide to bring any type of food, make sure it is approved by the organizers.

Make sure your swag is unique enough to keep. 

Understand what your goal is. If it is to sell many books, you will need to cause enough of a stir that folks will buy from you instead of wandering around to buy from someone else or going into the bookstore. Maybe reduce the price of your books  (slightly) than what the bookstore charges? Offer a 2 for 1? Offer to appear at a local bookclub for free (they don't need to know you might not charge anyway). Cause some action. 

If your goal is to get known, consider printing up a calendar of where you might be appearing. A library, a zoom presentation, etc. Have a sign up sheet for your newsletter.

Susan Oleksiw: The tables I’ve seen (and done myself) that have the most traffic (if not the most sales) have a table cloth, candy, and even flowers—something to draw people in and give them something to ask about or look at before they remember it’s about books and writing. You can even invite people to sign up for your newsletter or enter their name in a jar for the chance to win one of your books (a freebie!). 

Linda Kay Hardie: Stay alert and interested. Engage with the folks walking by. Like, "Hi, what do you like to read?" or "Hi, we're all local authors, signing and selling our books," or "Hi, this is my collection of short mystery [or crime, whatever] stories. Would you like a free bookmark?"   

Many people don't know what's going on, no matter how much publicity the authors and the bookstore have done.

 Chat with anyone who slows down. If they stop at your table, hand them your book. Tell them a funny [or strange or interesting] anecdote about how you came to write/publish one of the stories. 

 If they answer your question about what they like to read, pitch one of your stories. "You like westerns? My story in here called [title] is a western murder mystery set in Pahrump, Nevada."

 And this time of year: "Books make great gifts. It's not too early. Do you know a reluctant reader? Short stories are good because they're quick to read." And then pitch. If their teen grandson doesn't read much, mention a story he might like ("Thieves use video games to plan a bank robbery."). Or granddaughter. Or brother-in-law.

Kristen Gibson: Try to take a few minutes before the event to meet the bookstore staff and other authors, chat or ask visitors about their interests to see if it matches something you've written or even another author's at the event-others may then be encouraged to send someone your way.  

Bobbi Chukran: Make sure they know you’re local. Put a little sign on your table “Signed Copies by Local Author.”

Steve Liskow:  I prefer to join events with no more than five or six other authors (preferably in different genres so there's less competition) but that's no guarantee. Last month, I was at an outside event with 80 (yes) authors and sold eight books. 

I  have my bio and author picture in a picture frame.

I wouldn't have candy or flowers because your books aren't cozy or children's books. It's the wrong tone.

Since you're going to be outside for four hours, wear a hat and bring sunglasses. Bring a few hard candies or a protein bar, and maybe a water bottle. 

When you arrive, be sure to find out  where the bathroom is.

You should have a chip reader and Venmo or PayPal on your phone. Also bring lots of dollar bills for change. I price my books at a dollar amount including tax so nobody has to deal with coins. 

Noreen M. Cedeño: I have been at events where authors displayed a QR code leading to purchase links with the URL to their website listed beneath the code. A certain percentage of people will take a photo of the link or will use the QR code to buy the book online. I was surprised by the number of people who pulled out their phones for the QR code.  

 All you have to do is print a sheet of paper with your QR code and website link and place it on the table (or in a clear plastic flyer stand if you have one). 

Kevin R. Tipple: If you are doing the QR code thing, have something that announces your actual internet link. Many of us do not QR anything.

 James H. Lewis: I found at my last event that keeping people at my table who were NOT buying my books created interest in others. ("If there’s someone always at his table, his books must be interesting.") 

 

James M. Jackson: Before things start, get to know a bunch of authors placed near you, so when you ask what people like to read, and it isn't something you write, you can point them in the right direction -- some authors will get the idea and point people your way (also you get to know someone to watch your table when you have to use the facilities). 

I rarely sit down, except to inscribe a book. It's easier to engage people if you are standing at their level. If I can catch their eye, I have permission to speak.

 

Dave Zeltserman: Bring your Edgar Award nomination certificate. It will be a good conversation starter and should attract some attention.

 Be friendly, talk to people, but don't be pushy.

 Teresa Inge:  I keep small swag bags on my table, bookmarks, a table runner with my logo, and my books on a table top book rack from Amazon. I also keep my table items simple since it’s just easier for me. One note, sometimes anthologies and short stories are a hard sell but I never let that deter me. I have a standard response when readers tell me they either don’t like or have never read a short story. I let them know with short stories they can read a couple in one setting, get to know the characters and outcome, and discover new authors that they might have never read before! They usually buy from me but I think it’s also a connection between the author and reader. 

 Judy Penz Sheluk: Sometimes you'll sell a lot of books. Sometimes you'll sell none. As long as you've made connections with readers, networked with other authors, consider it a success. You never know where a chance meeting will lead. Case in point. Many moons ago, starting out, I did Word on the Street (huge event) in downtown Toronto. It took me 90 minutes to get there (no train service on Saturdays from the town I lived in at the time). Paid $35 for parking. Sold 1 book where my profit was about $10. But the author next to me was Nate Hendley, who later became a multiple award-winning true crime author. I won't say we became friends, but we made a connection that lasted. Fast forward 8 years and Nate offered to blurb my true crime coming out later this month. 

John A. Tures: 1) Bookmarks are great. I designed my own! Make sure you have that QR code on them, and that it works.

 2) For my table display, since I am writing about a fictional third-party movement, I display political ties and buttons. I have patrons come over just to check it out, for politics interests and because it's unique. Having something different does catch peoples' eyes,

 3) Just tell yourself "I am here to sell three books, finding three devoted fans." Your chances of selling 10 are better that way. If you tell yourself "I won't be happy unless I sell at least six," you'll be lucky to sell 1-2.

 4) Keep track of their contact info, with their permission. It's good for selling sequels.

 5) I ask about taking selfies with buyers. I get a lot of takers. But I'm a shameless extrovert.

 6) As always, remember why you're doing it all. My wife, who has stuck with me throughout this, and is very supportive of my writing and a great helper, is now mostly wheelchair-bound. I hope to make enough from sales to take her on one last vacation abroad, before it's too late. So each time I pack up my 2004 Chrysler at 6am with a load of boxes of books, I remember what it's all for, let her sleep in, and do my best to make some readers happy too in the process.

MB Dabney: It doesn't hurt to have a bowl of candy. But always tell kids they must ask their parents before they can have any.

Roger Johns: (1) try to get a position on what will be to the customers' right, as they approach the selling area. Most people are right handed and tend to look to their right as they enter a space, so you're likelier to engage readers from a position on their right, as they approach. And near the door—it's a natural stopping point—where you'll have a chance to engage them, before they've made their purchase decisions.

 (2) Have a short, interesting pitch you can deliver while you’ve got their attention, and a closer to help them decide in your favor, if they haven’t made a decision by the time you sense the contact is coming to an end, such as: “If you have a friend/loved one who reads ——-, an autographed book makes a great gift”. 

 (3) Don’t sign your books with the same signature you use to sign your checks. And if they want the book inscribed to a particular recipient, ask how the name is spelled, before you write it in the book.  Bring a narrow point Sharpie, breath mints, and hand sanitizer. Consume liquids sparingly. 

 (4) Some folks like to talk to authors, but don’t buy books, so if a long talker is keeping others from approaching you, have a polite way to move them along.

 Robert Lopresti: Does all this good advice make you want to join the Short Mystery Fiction Society? It's free!  Click here to sign up.  And when you get up to a certain level of popularity, you can do  this at author events:

That's a Question

 

Last week, the local university’s library had an open house of its special collections. My traveling companion and I attended. It felt nice to act erudite and sophisticated without writing a big donor’s check for the privilege.

The library displayed a series of illuminated manuscripts. I couldn’t read a word. Sadly, I’ve let my classical Latin lapse. But I did enjoy looking at the vivid colors and intricate designs on the page. At the end of one line, I noticed a small mark, resembling a Spanish tilde. The docent explained that the medieval writer used this squiggle to indicate a question.

Feeling erudite and sophisticated, I nodded. Of course I knew that. When I got home, I looked it up. I immediately fell down a rabbit hole. 

As punctuation, the question mark has one of the more straightforward histories. We all know what a question is. In her 1932 lecture, “Poetry and Grammar,” Gertrude Stein certainly believed this. “A question is a question, anybody can know that a question is a question and so why add to it the question mark when it is already there…Therefore I never could bring myself to use a question mark. I always found it positively revolting…”

While I admire Stein’s passion, “revolting” seems a strong word for a punctuation mark. The sentence also overlooks a central debate in all things punctuation. Who is the mark intended to benefit? The question mark began, according to grammarian David Crystal, as a way of giving preachers a useful graphic cue about when to adopt a questioning tone of voice during a public reading.

We know that early written text was frequently unspaced. Scriptura continua reflected the way people speak—we don’t normally pause between words. But this mashup made reading challenging, so marks that separated words gradually emerged. Dots, slashes, and spaces began to appear. Reader marks followed. Some grammarians believe that our system of punctuation has its roots in ancient Egypt and the chief librarian of Alexandria.

Virtual Manuscript Library-Switzerland, Wikimedia Commons

On the specific origin of the question mark, most experts look to the Romans and their European heirs. In the 8^th Century, King Charlemagne invited the English scholar, Alcuin of York, to join his court. Grammarians credit him with creating the punctus interrogativus, or interrogative point. The mark signaled that an oral reader should add inflection to the end of the sentence. (The half note before tamen in the third line is a punctus interrogativus)

In 1582 Richard Mulcaster published The Elementarie, a stab at standardizing English writing. On the matter of the question mark, he wrote,

Interrogation: two points one aboue another, whereof the vpper is sometime croked which both in writing and reading teacheth us, that a question is asked there, where it is set. 

The short explanation reveals that English speakers still struggled in the 16^th Century to settle on what to call this inflection mark. They tried out “asker,” “erotreme,” “mark of interrogation,” “quaestio,” “interrogative point,” and “question stop,” before settling on the term “question mark.” Crystal cites the OED for authority that we didn’t finally agree on this term until the dawn of the Twentieth Century.

Grammarians also wandered a bit before settling on the question mark’s shape. Sources vary on how we arrived at the present form. Some suggest that the curved body mimics the bend of a cat’s tail when a feline becomes inquisitive.¹  While the cat-tail tale makes a good story for a Halloween blog, it lacks real academic support. Alcuin of York deployed the tilde shape, the outside end rising slightly like a lightning bolt. (a good design for prompting readers to employ an upward inflection.) Others wrote the word quaestio at the end of the sentence to signify a question. Over time, quaestio got reduced to a “q” above the “o.” Draw it out on a piece of paper. The shape is not far from a modern question mark.

Printers also may have influenced the design of our current interrogatory symbol. The theory goes like this. Most of the early printed publications were Bibles and other religious texts. Generally, they don’t contain many questions. Therefore, the number of question marks in a printer’s inventory of type was relatively small. When plays began to be published, the need increased. Plays are often full of questions. 

Think Shakespeare. "To be or not to be?" 

English grammar and spelling remained fluid. Printers improvised. Some flipped a semicolon to extend their stock of moveable type.

Finally, writers and grammarians puzzled through when to use a question mark. Although Gertrude Stein may think the question is obvious, rhetorical questions, in particular, pose an issue. What to do when someone is using the question form but not really asking a question? We’ve all likely experienced times when we’re simultaneously asked and told.

“You’re doing the dishes, aren’t you”

Can a question not be a question? And if it isn’t, how should it be punctuated?

In 1962, an American advertiser, Martin K. Speckter, proposed the interrobang (or interabang) as the solution, a punctuation symbol combining the question mark and the exclamation point. ‽ The interrobang was intended to indicate questions for which no answer was expected, or questions posed with excitement or disbelief. (Rejected names for the interrobang included ‘exclarogative’ and ‘consternation mark.’ After a flurry of interest, the symbol faded. As writers we’re back to the classical toolbox of punctuation marks. The question of how to properly punctuate these sentences remains.

How do you think we should handle them?

Do you have a punctuation mark you find positively revolting? 

Until next time.

-----------------------

1. Thanks to the Burbank Leader and Wikipedia for this feline tidbit.

Anyone up for horseshoes and hand grenades?

When something is called a simple truth, it isn’t always a contradiction in terms.  Some truths are simple.  If you jump from the top of a mature oak tree without a means for arresting the fall, you will hit the ground.  Irrefutable. However, the underlying mechanism involved in this event is gravity, and there is nothing simple about a fundamental force of nature. Ask any physicist.

I’ll go out on a limb of that oak tree and propose there is no truth that is simple, for the simple reason that a truth itself is nearly impossible to establish absolutely in all its particulars for every observer assembled for the task.

I’ll creep further out on the limb, testing its tethering to the trunk, and propose that mystery stories, in all their dazzling variety and genre distorting forms, are all essentially about people seeking the truth, in competition with other people and circumstances aligned in opposition.

Truth has always been under threat, yet today is a time of particular advantage for the powers of concealment and obfuscation.  There is a cultural trend of people “speaking their truth.”  This is a triumph of solipsism, since it affords deference to the notion that everyone’s version of reality is equally valid.  It’s also in direct contravention of Daniel Patrick Monihan’s maxim that “Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not his own facts.”  If one abandons Moynihan’s proscription, then there’s really no point in trying to understand anything.  In such a world, we would have no use for people like Sam Spade or V.I. Warshawski. 

I spent many years in close enough proximity to the media, often thoroughly involved in the matter being reported upon.  In all these cases, I never observed the story to be 100% accurate.  And none of these slight variations (some not so slight) would I attribute to malicious intent.  The principal culprit was time.  It just wasn’t possible for any reporter, editor or factchecker to pin down every nuance and particular with total precision in the time required to get the story written/published/distributed.   The majority of these imperfections were incidental, though not all.  Journalism has its share of sloppy performers, but by and large, they strive for an accurate and dispassionate recording.

Still, biases have a way of creeping in.  This is always true for everybody.  They’re often manifest in how information is interpreted.  One of the wonders of language, and the cognitive process overall, is the bounty of ways one can express any given thought or observation.  Within these multitudes, there’s little chance that something can be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

What can be agreed upon is that everyone try to get close.  For this endeavor to work, we rely heavily on cynics, skeptics and imperturbable analytics.  Their counterparties are those committed to deceit, duplicity and guile, people actively striving to obscure the truth.  These folks are the bread and butter of the genre we celebrate, and thus indispensable.  What’s more interesting to me, however, are those who have decided the truth is their truth, a conclusion arrived at usually through a tortured, circuitous psychological voyage. 

They don’t have to be patently delusional.  There are plenty of historical heroes who simply understood something the rest of humanity considered absurd.  Though sometimes they are, they just don’t know it.  When this condition inhabits a brilliant or powerful mind, or a collective of capable people, things get really interesting. 

The action and adventure in the mystery genre are fun, though the appeal wanes over time.  What endures for me is the effort involved in uncovering the truth, however approximate it might be.  This dynamic achieves its fullest expression with the unreliable narrator, though any narrator’s reliability is also suspect for the reasons outlined above.  My favorite books are those that relish ambiguity and uncertainty while still managing to arrive at a satisfying conclusion. 

We know that massive social and political movements can be premised on monstruous untruths.  It’s unsettling to contemplate.  At least we have mysteries and their adjacent narratives, where in one messy entanglement someone was able to get close to something resembling a true thing.