Books

Back when I was president of the SoCal chapter of the Mystery Writers of America, some aspiring writers got upset with me for refusing to refer to them as “pre-published” instead. I think it’s a ridiculous term, a lame attempt at empowerment that makes me want to “pre-vomit.” Should we also calling aspiring screenwriters “pre-produced?” Midlist authors “pre-bestselling authors?” Are horny guys “pre-laid?”

I recently expressed that view again on Dorothyl, the mailing list for mystery fans and authors. I’m sure I’m about to get slammed again, accused of being a heart-less, successful author who is unsympathetic to the plight of struggling, unpublished writers.

And to them I say, “Hey, I was an aspiring writer for a lot of years…I wasn’t born with a book contract and a TV gig.”

The term “pre-published” is bullshit, a silly empowerment exercise that only makes whoever is using it look even more amateurish and desperate.

Writing doesn’t guarantee publication. And just because you write, that doesn’t mean you are any good at it. And as hard as it is for struggling writers to accept, you aren’t a professional writer until you’re published and paid for your work (or, in the case of screenwriters, until you’ve actually sold a screenplay).

Granted, there are a lot of professional writers who aren’t any good. I may be one of them. But the fact remains, they are authors. Those who aren’t published and paid for their work are not. They are aspiring authors/aspiring writers.

Someone who needs to call themselves “pre-published” for their self-esteem is more likely to become “self-published” than anything else…

the blog Something Positive reports that Anne Rice wasn’t too pleased by the reader reviews of BLOOD CANTICLE on Amazon… so she fired back with spirited defense of her own work. I had to check this out for myself. And it’s true… (I’m assuming, perhaps stupidly, that Amazon has confirmed its actually Rice)…

Here’s some of what she wrote…

Seldom do I really answer those who criticize my work. In fact, the entire development of my career has been fueled by my ability to ignore denigrating and trivializing criticism as I realize my dreams and my goals. However there is something compelling about Amazon’s willingness to publish just about anything, and the sheer outrageous stupidity of many things you’ve said here that actually touches my proletarian and Democratic soul. Also I use and enjoy Amazon and I do read the reviews of other people’s books in many fields. In sum, I believe in what happens here. And so, I speak.

She also is anything but modest when it comes to her own work…

Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem…

I leave it to readers to discover how this complex and intricate novel establishes itself within a unique, if not unrivalled series of books…

And she doesn’t take kindly to people who differ with her high regard for her own work.

Now, if it doesn’t appeal to you, fine. You don’t enjoy it? Read somebody else. But your stupid arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies. I’ll never challenge your democratic freedom to do so, and yes, I’m answering you, but for what it’s worth, be assured of the utter contempt I feel for you, especially those of you.

If you don’t think every word is in perfect place, or that her writing is great art, she’s willing to offer you a refund.

If any of you want to say anything about all this by all means Email me at Anneobrienrice@mac.com. And if you want your money back for the book, send it to 1239 First Street, New Orleans, La, 70130. I’m not a coward about my real name or where I live.

While I think it’s gutsy to offer a personal refund to any unsatisfied reader, I don’t think she did herself any favors by responding to her critics. If anything, she paints a rather unflattering picture of herself that’s more damaging than any negative review.

Nick Hornby wrote about Dennis Lehane’s PRAYERS FOR RAIN in the latest issue of The Believer… and explained why he doesn’t like series novels:

I have a need to believe that the events described therein are definitive, that they really matter to the characters. In other words, if 1987 turned out to be a real bitch of a year for Winston Smith, then I don’t want to be wasting my time reading about what happened to him back in 1984…

…Angie Gennaro, who is involved both professionally and romantically with Patrick Kenzie, asks whether she can shave off his stubble — stubble that he has grown to cover scars. “I considered it,” Kenzie tells us. “Three years with protective facial hair. Three years hiding the damage delivered on the worst night of my life…” Hang on a moment. The worst night of your life was three years ago? So what am I reading now? The fourth worst night of your life?

I spent yesterday down in Irvine at the annual MEN OF MYSTERY event… which draws 500+ women to meet 60 male mystery authors. It’s a banquet style setting. Ten “readers/fans” get to sit with an author at each table for the day. There are usually two keynote speakers and a big mass signing session at mid-day. The keynote speakers in past years have included James Patterson, T. Jefferson Parker, Robert Crais, John Lescroart, Joseph Wambaugh, Michael Connelly and yours truly. It’s always a great opportunity to meet enthusiastic readers and catch-up with old friends. For readers, the “table talks” with the author they happen to be sitting with is a great opportunity to learn about writing and breaking into the business. Among the authors there this year were Gregg Hurwitz, Matt Witten, DP Lyle, Tod Goldberg, Rick Copp, Thomas Perry, Bill Fitzhugh, Alan Russell, Nathan Walpow, Bob Levinson, Steve Brewer, Christopher Rice, John Morgan Wilson, and Steve Martini.

As usual, I had a terrific time and I highly recommend the event to any mystery fans who happen to be in the area for next year’s event (you don’t have to be a woman to attend).

But now I’m gonna say something that’s probably going to get me in a lot of trouble. Among the 60 authors were a number of “self-published” mystery writers. To be honest, I think it was a mistake to invite them as “authors” and a disservice to the people at their table. The only advice those authors could give about writing was describing how to write a check to iUniverse or PublishAmerica. And in most cases, their novels are excreble (at least the few pages I read of each wandering through the book room)… so any advice they could give on crafting a novel is, well, best ignored. I can understand inviting those authors if the point of the conference was navigating the world of self-publishing and vanity presses…but otherwise, I think the ten readers/fans at each of their tables got cheated.

There’s one particularly irritating and astonishingly talentless self-published writer who has inexplicably managed to worm his way onto a few panels at mystery conferences in recent years… and there are more than a few of us who can’t stand being in the same room with him. There’s one major author who has had the unfortunate experience of having to sit next to this blowhard at mass signings because of where their last names fall in alphabetical order. This major author would rather flee the room and not sign books… and has done just that … than sit next to this guy. We, of course, love ribbing the major author about his misfortune.

On writer Ed Gorman’s blog, he writes about the upcoming reprint of two of Vin Packer’s vintage Gold Medal thrillers. I thought the way he described Packer’s characters was eloquent…and entertaining in its own right.

What unites the two types of Packer books is what the people of both worlds have in common–secrets. Terrible secrets. Secrets that eat at them like a feverish disease. Secrets that will ultimately destoy them–they’ll explode if these secrets are revealed; they’ll implode when they reach the point where they can no longer drag themselves through another day of the masquerade.

The secrets can be sexual, financial, social, criminal. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that they’re hiding out inside themselves, trying to cauterize their wounds with drink, drugs in the later books, sex, vengeance, rage. Of course, these spiritual sedatives produce nothing more than further–and sometimes fatal–alienation.

I also learned something I didn’t know before: hardboiled Vin Packer was actually the pseudonym of a woman — Marijane Meaker.