Ever notice how time is relative? I don’t mean Einstein relativity, or Stephen Hawking’s musings on the universe. I mean how it is subjective and personal and relative to you and what you’re doing.
I took a look at the date of my last posting, and had one of those animated eyes-bulging, double-take moments. It’s been two weeks … TWO WEEKS!
On one hand, it seems longer than two weeks, because so much has happened. On the other hand, tempus fugit, and flew fast. See … that’s what I mean. Relative and subjective.
Now, before describing why and how I’ve been Time’s fool (to quote Willie S.), I am hereby undertaking an official pledge to keep up with my own blog every week. Here’s hoping the old man with the sickle won’t be chasing after me, horror-movie style. 🙂 So what has caused my chronological conundrum? Well, on August 1st, we celebrated a launch party. And quite a fete it was … Bourbon and Branch, the famed and fabulous speakeasy in San Francisco, provided the setting and the most delicious cocktails this side of Harry’s Bar in Venice, circa 1932. And yes, even absinthe was served!
On the menu were two delicious drinks, invented for the event: the Roman Noir (an amarna/mint/honey confection, dark, slightly bitter and delicious), and the Nox Dormienda (dreamy, white, frothy, with citrus and elderflower and an orchid on top). The setting was the library, complete with secret door and amazing ambiance. And I’m proud to say that Bourbon and Branch just won the Best of the Bay award from the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Diane Kudisch of the San Francisco Mystery Bookstore was my indefatigable and wonderful bookseller … another Best of the Bay award-winner! So we all had reason to celebrate, and celebrate we did.
But the most important ingredient of all — that which makes a party a wonderful, memorable time — the people. I really can’t tell you how good it felt to be surrounded by so many friends and colleagues from all the strands of my life … the writing community to comic store buddies to SF State. And I had the chance to meet new friends, because guests brought other guests!
Local writer-friends from MWA and SinC and ITW and out-of-town friends participating in the RWA conference … my agent, friends from Red Room (the best space for writers!) … I could fill up this blog with a list of my wonderful, generous and beautiful guests. Which included, by the way, a contingent of talented Romans dressed in costume, from the Legio X Fretensis. My beautiful, funny, smart and unique mother was there, of course, and she brought her friends, one of whom drove 250 miles from Fortuna to come. The joint was jumping. I’m posting a few pictures here … these and many more will soon be up on a new page of my website, a kind of photo scrap book of past events. Hey, with my small house, I need to electronically store my memories! 🙂
I really felt like George Bailey (at the end, not the beginning). 🙂 I just wish I’d had more time to talk to everyone for longer. And I’m immeasurably grateful to everyone for coming to the party! I’m writing an article about it … it was such a special event for me — a career launch as as well as a book launch — that I need to give it some more thought and time. More details when done.
The next day was my first book store signing/reading at the terrific M is for Mystery, which was absolutely wonderful. People actually came! I’ve heard all the stories from the road, and I’m fully expecting to encounter an audience of none for some upcoming event, but I was elated to meet some interesting and terrific readers my first time around. And I picked up a Certificate of Honor from the City and County of San Francisco, signed by our mayor, in recognition of Roman Noir. So my new genre has been officially recognized by my beloved, shimmering jewel of a city. 🙂 Sunday, a week ago today, I spent the morning with dear friend Jordan Dane, who’d flown out for RWA (and had come to the party). Then I came home and collapsed, exhausted but happy. The last week has been a return to normalcy, of a kind. Day job. Box dinners. Trying to catch up with all the myriad book stuff I’m behind in, now that Nox is officially and truly out in the world. I’m still behind, but am diligently trying. And writing my WIP.
Thursday night I also had the great fun of guesting on a library panel in Morgan Hill with Terri Thayer and Penny Warner, and getting to see Becky LeVine and Beth Proudfoot again (we’d met at my first-ever conference — No Crime Unpublished — last June).
Yesterday was a MWA NorCal meeting at John’s Grill, where we were able to hear scintillating stories from legendary female private investigator Sandra Sutherland.
And that brings me to today. Still with too much to do and not enough time to do it in, but I’m adjusting to the new normal, and hoping that Time will be kind. And not in such a damn hurry! Next week: A small and long overdue post on Nora Prentiss. I’ll be in Seattle for a signing at the fabulous Seattle Mystery Bookshop on the August 22nd, too.
Party photos: Bourbon and Branch library, around the bar, Romans!, the uber-talented and wonderful Jordan Dane and sensational Simon Wood, two of the most talented and beautiful and nicest women in the biz, Michelle Gagnon and Heather Graham, and the Czar of Noir, Eddie Muller, looking like a million bucks in white (not black). 🙂
I’ve got fond memories of Casey Kasem. (And no, your eyes don’t deceive you–that’s not a picture of Casey.)
Gilda is my favorite film noir, so for book-launch good luck I’m adding photos of Rita as Gilda. Gotta sneak a little film noir in, and it did get your attention … 😉 And thank you, Rita. You can still make an audience hold its breath.
Those Casey memories were not only with the Top 40 Countdown, of course, but as the voice of Shaggy Rogers (yes, Shaggy had a last name … I’m not sure if “Doo” is Scooby’s last name or not) and Robin in various incarnations, most notably the Super Friends. God, those toys were cool. That Super Friends’ Hall of Justice … the only thing I didn’t like about the SFs were those annoying twins. Worse than Snapper Carr in the Silver Age Justice League. Jimmy Olsen clones just never cut it for me … though I will now officially confess a fondness for the old red-headed photographer himself. Shhh … don’t spread it around, it ruins the noir cred.
Speaking of noir, I’ve got a long-delayed blog on a film noir coming up after August 1st, when things get back to the new normal. Right now, I’m all-consumed with the launch of my book, and just didn’t want to write about a man who frames himself for his own murder. Call me superstitious.
Anyway, I’m thinking of Casey because I’ve been running through my own series of countdowns. Last Friday, the 18th, my book was officially released into the world, alive and kicking. More stock is coming into Amazon by August 31st, and I’m grateful to them for posting a notice to that effect. Barnes and Noble had it in stock for a couple of days last week, and have run out already.
This bodes well for demand, but I very much wish the supply chain was easier … distribution can be a challenge for a small press. I am eternally grateful to those readers who have already ordered it from various sources, and those who are waiting patiently. In all sincerity, I can’t thank you enough. It’s a scary world out there when you’re a debut author … and my biggest goal is to simply be read (and hopefully liked, of course). 🙂 So back to the countdown … this week, I’m counting down to my official launch date, August 1st. This is the date of my launch party, hosted by the phenomenal San Francisco speakeasy Bourbon and Branch. Think a gorgeous ’20s bar, custom cocktails (the Nox Dormienda and the Roman Noir), Roman soldiers in costume, prizes and a lot of fun. The San Francisco Mystery Bookstore very kindly agreed to be my bookseller for the event. My goal is really to send Nox off to boarding school with the best karma possible, and I’m lucky to have so many friends in town for the RWA conference and attending the party. My other goal is to try to avoid incriminating photos.
And Saturday, August 2nd, the party continues at M is for Mystery in San Mateo, California … at my first reading/signing/Q&A.
Fortunately, many of my friends have been through this already, so I learned a few tips:
Check your teeth for spinach. Make sure your fly is zipped. Bring kleenix. Musical instruments help (I’m bringing my harmonica).
Yeah, I’m nervous … what if no one shows up? I can talk to myself (hey, I’m a Gemini!) but I run out of questions pretty quickly. So if you’re around at 2 PM, stop in and say hello!
August is going to be busy … I’ve got a number of events and a signing tour jog up to my home state, Washington, at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop and in Portland at Murder by the Book. Plus, I’m finishing up a new novel. But as soon as I can peel myself off the ceiling, where I’ve been floating, I’ll be back on the noir track.
And in the meantime, watch Gilda. It’s as good as you remember.
Three days until NOX DORMIENDA is released into the wild!
And I’m taking a blog tour to celebrate … first stop the fabulous Jungle Red Writers, where the gorgeous and wonderful Hank Phillippi Ryan is my hostess.
Tomorrow I’ll be hanging out with my favorite Working Stiffs, and on Friday visiting the BookBitch, where you can win a bunch of terrific thrillers … I’m thrilled to have my own book included in their company. 🙂
More blogs to come soon …
So for now, I’ll leave you with a little about Thrillerfest … and it was so great, so glamorous, so amazing, that I still feel like Leslie Ann Warren in the TV version of Cinderella I grew up with. 🙂
Everything from January 17, 2007 (my publishing news date) until now seems like a blur … particularly the last few days in The City, which clicked by like the proverbial NY minute.
Thrillerfest … the generosity and support ITW has given its Debut Authors is, well, incredible. I mean it. Telling Liz Berry and Kathleen Antrim how I felt about it made me get choked up.
Talking about James M. Cain with the father of the modern thriller, David Morrell. Thanking the wonderful James Rollins and Gayle Lynds and Vicki Hinze for their generous blurbs about NOX. Spending some time with the amazing, warm and wonderful Hank Phillippi Ryan. Sharing a drink with one of my favorite Brits, David Hewson. Getting a chance to thank Lee Child for his mentorship of the program, and M.J Rose for her marketing advice to us, and Joe Moore for being the best web editor around. Sharing a panel with Lynn Sholes and David Liss and Laura Joh Rowland and Doug Abrams and William Martin and Christine Kling.
And hooking up with old friends and Facebook friends and Alaska Bouchercon buddies … I could fill this entire blog with nothing but names of the wonderful people who are a part of this industry. The very BEST thing about being a writer. 🙂 Meeting Meredith Anthony, charming and hilarious, and the dashing Craig Reed … taking an overpriced town car (and loving it) to Borders, to see friends and writers Laura Benedict, Michelle Gagnon, Laura Caldwell, Alex Sokoloff, Tim Maleeny, JT Ellison, Shane Gericke, and Mario Acevedo and hear Lee Child’s wit in introducing them all.
Hanging out with the wonderful Brent Ghelfi and his gorgeous and wonderful wife Lisa; chatting with the terrific and talented Allison Brennan; sitting at my signing post with the amazing R.L. Stine (and now I know what the R.L. stands for!)
You see what I mean?
Amongst all the specialness was the Debut Author bonding … both with this year’s “class” and next year’s. These guys are my colleagues, my team, a close-knit group of classmates. And already I can’t wait for the reunions. 🙂
Speaking of media, that was a little dreamlike, too. I did a video interview with Wilda Williams, fiction editor of Library Journal, after the Debut Author breakfast. Hung out with Maria Schneider, the fabu editor of Writer’s Digest, in the bar after the banquet (here’s a link to a WD newsletter with a picture of me and Raffi Yassayan, fellow debut writer and all-around adorable man). Hooked up with the amazing Jeff Ayres, LJ reviewer and media guru.
So before I start floating off of the floor again, I’d better close … thanks for reading, and I hope you can join me on one or more locations for the blog tour!
You remember that hourglass in the Wizard of Oz, with Margaret Hamilton in green, cackling behind it?
Well, I’m watching it trickle away madly, to two dates of major importance, at least to me: July 18th, my official debut date, and August 1st, the day of my launch party at Bourbon and Branch, the famed and fabulous San Francisco speakeasy. It’ll be continued the next day–all good parties always run over–at M is for Mystery in San Mateo, CA.
And before these two events, I’ve got Thrillerfest in just a few days … my first conference in the Big Apple! I’m on a panel on Saturday, July 12 (Real or Imagined: Historical Thrillers), and am one of the ITW Debut Authors this year — things will be very busy, but it shouldn’t be any other way in NYC.
All this is one way of saying that my life is now in overdrive, and I haven’t been able to write a proper blog. So here are a couple of links to other places where I’ve been talking lately:
There are more guest blogs on the way, but I do promise to come back as soon as I can and write about a juicy noir.
I’ve also got an article in the current issue of Mystery Scene. And it’s an absolute honor to be there and in the above magazines and e-zines, so I hope you check them out.
Last week I mentioned that a book debut was a little like temporary insanity … what I didn’t know is that I was actually making a prophecy.
In short, dear readers, insanity in the form of the most improbable series of coincidences since the plot of Murder on the Orient Express struck my household on Sunday.
Now, I don’t normally like to write about my life blah-blah-blah stuff. Writing in the Dark is, at its heart, supposed to be about noir with a dash of history and esoterica thrown in for good measure. However, the events of Sunday afternoon were so bizarre as to warrant their own blog post. After all, if not to chronicle life’s strangeness — and truth is, indeed, far weirder than fiction — what else is a blog for? Noir will return next week, when I resume my top ten countdown (with the truly strange and wonderful Nora Prentiss! Stay tuned!). For now, I’ll share a little noirishness of my own …
Sunday afternoon I was type-type-typing away, trying to finish a chapter of my work in progress … when I hear some noises that alarmed me, opened the door of our very small, 1941-built San Francisco home, and found my loved one in a state of consternation. Make that great consternation.
First, a little architectural background. San Francisco houses of the district in which we live were usually built with the living space on an upper floor and a garage below. A substantial (for this city) backyard appends the rear. Our house is virtually unchanged from 1941 — the garage is still a garage and storage area, not an extra living space. One day, when I’m not trying to launch a new career, we’ll add an extra bedroom or library downstairs. For now, however, our living space is very small, very crowded (especially with a 70 pound Springer Spaniel) and (at this point in time) messy.
It’s called “debut book syndrome,” and it happens to the best of homes.
Anyway, we like things old-fashioned, and I am, after all, currently writing about 1940, so hey–our house is like built-in research.
Anyway, back to Sunday. The consternation was because: A. Said Springer Spaniel evidently had a medical emergency … in the nature of a urinary tract demonstration. This was brought to our attention by the fact that the living room futon was beyond salvation.
B. At exactly the same time as the dog was tracking pee in the hallway, the cat was hissing and howling outside the door that leads from the hallway downstairs to the garage. And said cat chased a large mouse or small rat under the door, into our house and into the bedroom.
Well, let’s just say I didn’t get that chapter finished on Sunday. We spent four or five hours trying to clear out the bedroom so that we could find the rat. In the meantime, we also had to make sure the dog was all right, take him out every fifteen minutes, and haul a very, very wet and heavy futon mattress downstairs.
We combed the bedroom looking for the rat, finding it at one point, but then poof! he seemed to disappear under the bed. Fearing the worst, we examined the box springs … not there, thank God. But that meant … no, it couldn’t be … one of the eight foot tall bookcases. Maybe he was behind it.
So we stripped that bookcase, dear readers, removing all the precious books until we ran out of room, boxes and bags. We carefully moved the bookcase, and … no rat.
By then it was time to take a break, and we were faced with:
A. Having to stay in a motel for at least one night B. Obviously missing work the next day C. Dismantling 2 (two) more bookcases … same size
We were in the Slough of Despond, the Pit of Despair, feeling like noir protagonists (you-know-what on page one). And that, my friends, is when the clouds cleared, if only for a moment, when the magical sound of the Ice Cream man rolled down our street, signaling “Don’t worry!”
There’s something magical about the Ice Cream man, and no more so than when your dog has ruined your futon and there’s a rat in your bedroom.
After a delicious Fudgsicle and Blue Bunny Chocolate Sundae Bar, we resumed our daunting and gargantuan task. We started to clear the room of everything, examining each bag and box to make sure there wasn’t a rat in it before we moved it to another spot in the house. And, lo! I peered into a bag of books, lifting it off the floor … and I immediately dropped it again, because Mr. Rat was tucked next to a hardback of What Charles Dickens Ate and Jane Austen Wore or something similar.
I stood over that bag like my cat. Loved One cleared the path between the rat and freedom, flinging open the guilty door which led to the basement and the back yard.
Faster than you can say “Fudgsicle” I rolled up the top of that bag (thankfully, it was double-bagged), tucked it under my arm, and performed a 50 yard Rat Dash to the backyard, where Mr. Rat was able to scamper and hop through the grass and up and over the neighbor’s fence, from which (we surmise) he had emerged earlier. The cat chased him again, but couldn’t be bothered to go over the fence herself. There are limits to Sunday work for cats, or they contact the union.
The literary Rat thus lived to read someone else’s library. I immediately fixed the doorway so that, should the universe ever attempt to repeat this insanity, the rat would be forced to make a U-turn.
We were able to stay home that night, though the next day was spent in trying to achieve equilibrium: finding clothes, locating books, rearranging furniture, buying another couch, and of course, getting antibiotics for the dog.
The moral, dear readers, is that something good actually came out of this rather tortuous adventure. We are now in the middle of a late Spring cleaning, foisted upon us by an uninvited guest, and have a great head start in a home improvement project … despite the impending book launch.
And think about how amazingly lucky we were … first, to have seen the rat getting chased, and thus be able to do something about it, and secondly, to have found it in a bag.
So here is my Year of the Rat challenge to you: what seemingly horrible event has resulted in something positive for you? When have your best laid plans gone awry, and yet you later discover that that was a good thing? And what has been your equivalent of “The Ice Cream Man” — that one, shining moment that seems (in retrospect) to have turned everything around? Share your stories … it’s the Year of the Rat!
So here it is … tomorrow will be a month before my book comes out. Book Debut, by the way, is a euphemism for insanity.
I plan to work my madness out publicly in various forums, so if you’re the scientific observer type, just stay tuned. 😉
Before I launch into the actual theme of this week’s post, let me interrupt for station identification and tell you about some floor wax (remember that stuff?) … seriously, good news last week for me: Nox Dormienda is in this month’s issue of Writer’s Digest as a Notable Debut (pg. 23, so my mother tells me). Last week was also my birthday, and this was a wonderful present.
Also, I’ll be announcing soon some guest-blogging spots I’ll be doing leading up to the July 18th release. Come by and leave me messages so I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself. Writers have too many voices in their heads as it is.
So today, let’s talk about Rosalind Russell.
Huh? You heard right. Once in a while, I like to deviate from my normal noirishness to discuss different genres and performers from the classic Hollywood era. I dabble in Westerns, flirt with Dramas, dance with Comedy, and duet with Musicals. And Sunday, if you missed it, Patti Lupone won the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Musical for her portrayal of Mama Rose in Gypsy.
Now, Gypsy happens to be my favorite American musical. Sure, I love Sweeney Todd, a noir if there ever was one, but Gypsy is on the noir end of things, too, and much easier on the viscera. Besides, Gypsy Rose Lee wrote The G-String Murders (some say it was ghost-written), which in turn was made into a film called Lady of Burlesque starring noir queen Barbara Stanwyck. So there you go — not even six degrees of Double Indemnity. So what does Rosalind Russell have to do with this? Well, for me, Roz was the ultimate Mama Rose. If you don’t know the plot of Gypsy, it’s simple: stage mother Rose Hovik mercilessly pushes child sensation Baby June toward stardom, sacrificing everything and everyone to success on a failing vaudeville circuit. Said Baby June (the real life June Havoc, best role Gentleman’s Agreement) up and left Mama, and Mama coaxes her plainer sister Louise into taking it off at a strip club. Voila! Gypsy Rose Lee is born.
Of course, it’s the music (Jule Styne and Stephen Sondheim), dancing (Jerome Robbins) and book (Arthur Laurents) that make the musical. Plus, the acting chops of a good actress portraying a truly complex and challenging character. And it so happens that everyone who has played Mama Rose on Broadway has, indeed, won a Tony.
Ethel Merman (the orginator)? Check. Angela Lansbury? Check. Tyne Daly? Check. Bette Midler won an Emmy for her terrific interpretation (made for TV). Bernadette Peters? Check. And now, Patti.
Not to take anything away from Diva Lupone, but from what I’ve seen of her performance (and most of the other stage productions), I still prefer the woman who couldn’t sing but was a hell of an actress: Rosalind Russell (in the film Gypsy, 1961).
(A digression: I saw Patti in a Sondheim produced production of Sweeney Todd in San Francisco (she played Mrs. Lovett), from the second row. The woman has amazing lung power. And George Hearn is not only brilliant, but a humble and wonderful man. Back to the blog.)
My problem with Patti is that she is charismatic but cold. And Rosalind Russell, in the first few seconds of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” can make me get teary-eyed. So here’s to Rosalind, born June 2, 1907, consummate actress and under appreciated talent. She won five Golden Globes (one for Gypsy) was nominated for an Oscar four times (and should have won) and is best-remembered today for embodying Auntie Mame, both in the film and on Broadway. But make no mistake: this lady played everything.
Hildy Johhson, His Girl Friday (1940), going toe-to-toe with Cary Grant in probably the best comedy ever made. The unglamorous nag Sylvia Fowler in the classic The Women (1939). Mourning Becomes Electra. Night Must Fall. Sister Kenny. Picnic. The Trouble with Angels. And, in one of her last roles, the sleuth Mrs. Pollifax. And countless other films, big and little, all of which were enlivened by her intelligence, her talent and her presence.
So if you get a chance, check out what a great actress can do without a great voice. You’ll be left applauding Rose–and Ros–at the end of the film. As Auntie Mame proclaimed, “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!” Rosalind Russell, in her charity work, her humanity, her legacy and her talent … fed us all.
So after the events of Friday — and those terrific Cosmos (in honor of the Sex and the City premiere) at the Edison — I slept like a baby, and woke up on Saturday ready for more BEA and my signing.
And despite Culver Studios across the street, I didn’t murmur “Rosebud.”
We drove down Venice Boulevard — I resolutely refuse to travel on gargantuan freeways if I can help it … past the incredible Helms Bakery building, a landmark of LA Deco from 1931, complete with an amazingly beautiful roof-top neon sign … past the Angelus-Rosedale Cemetery, with its time-worn, individual monuments. Among the notables interred here: Dooley Wilson, Anna May Wong, Hattie McDaniel, Jessie Benton Fremont, horror director Todd Browning, and Everett Sloane, who portrayed Mr. Bernstein in Citizen Kane.
“Rosebud,” indeed. Yet another reason to slow down and actually experience the history of a city, especially one as richly fabled as Los Angeles. We arrived at BEA, and I put a little time in behind the MWA booth, giving away copies of our short story anthology edited by Michael Connelly, The Blue Religion. Again, the booth was buzzing, due to Margery’s brilliant set-up of the booth environment and a constant stream of great authors like Harry Hunsicker and Patricia Smiley. I happily reunited with friend and LCC panel mate Ken Kuhlken(The Vagabond Virgins), and before I knew it, it was time to go see James Rollins (The Judas Strain), who was signing at the autograph area.
James bestowed me with a fantastic blurb for Nox Dormienda— in fact, he was my first blurb, ever, and let me tell you — it’s a frightening thing to ask authors whom you revere to read your book, just on the possibility that they may like it. It’s a process that can be painful and terrifying.
For the record, I never met nor previously corresponded with any of the generous and wonderful authors who blurbed Nox Dormienda, so this was my first chance to thank Jim in person. By the time I reached the autograph area, they’d already shut off the line, because Jim was to sign for half an hour only. Fortunately, the crowd moved fast enough to add a few more people. I was able to thank him and give him a hug (though not my mother’s apple pie, unfortunately — when she read the blurb, she wanted to bake him one). And I got a signed copy of The Last Oracle, which I can’t wait to read! (Jim also wrote the novelization of Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull!)
Next, we trekked over to the other hall, wandered around collecting more books and book bags, and visited good friend and author Laura Caldwell (The Good Liar), who was signing in the plush and comfortable Harlequin/Mira booth. After chatting, I found myself surrounded by two half-naked — make that more like 85% naked — angels, characters from a video game/movie/book promo. This sort of thing is what happens at BEA, so I just went with it. After seizing the photo op, I handed the angels my requested business cards … one went into a bejeweled bra, the other into a jockstrap. These, I believe, are the most exotic places any of my business cards have been … so far!
Back to the MWA booth, passing a sign for Kirk Cameron (in one booth) and Alan Thicke (in another) and a long, long line at St. Martin’s, where Alec Baldwin was sitting, signing marketing materials. Seriously — no book, but he seemed to be taking time to really talk to people. Even from a distance, he was intense.
Then I had the good fortune to run into friend and Noir Czar Eddie Muller, which is always a special treat, because he’s one of the busiest people I know.
When I got back “home” to the West Hall, Margery’s husband Steve and Harry were discussing the prospect of getting Hugh Hefner’s book. Steve managed to get a picture with the Hefmeister, despite the size and rabid temperament of Mr. Playboy’s bodyguards. Pal Bill Cameron (Chasing Smoke) came by to check in with me, and soon it was time for my signing. I was thrilled … people actually wanted my book! The brilliant and delightful Penny Warner was sitting next to me, giving away copies of The Nancy Drew Handbook (an indispensable tome if ever there was one!), and we were both busy until we ran out. I only had thirty ARCS with me, so I distributed them very quickly, and was utterly delighted to meet some readers, bookstore owners and librarians.
In the meantime, I had realized that a tall, dark man had taken Ken’s seat to my right. His back was to me, but then I realized that Andrew Peterson — who the day before had signed and distributed over a hundred copies of his first thriller, First to Kill at the Dorchester booth — was mouthing the words, “Lee Child.” And so I turned, and realized that the tall, dark man was also handsome, urbane and witty, and of course was, indeed, best-selling author Lee Child (Nothing to Lose).
Lee is the ITW sponsor of the Debut Author Program, and will be introducing all of this year’s debs (myself included) at the Debut Author Breakfast at Thrillerfest next month. So we chatted, and I had the opportunity of thanking him for his incredible support. As I told Lee, joining the program was the single most valuable thing I did as a first-time author … it’s been an amazing education, a wonderful network, and a treasure-trove of friendships.
Then Elizabeth Evans and Amy Burkhardt, two of the stellar agents with my stellar agency, Reece Halsey North, came by. Kimberley Cameron, my wonderful, wonderful agent, was at the Paris branch, so Elizabeth and Amy were down at BEA. I am so thankful to be represented by Reece Halsey North … it really is “writer’s heaven.” 🙂
Eddie came by, and so did Denise Hamilton and Cara Black, whom I only had a chance to hug goodbye, because it was time for Saturday’s main event: William Shatner.
We discovered he was scheduled the day before … and fortunately, my significant other waited in line — actually started the line — at the St. Martin’s booth, while I was signing. BEA Tip #274: bring family members with you.
Why was meeting Shatner so important to me? Am I a closet Trekkie? Do I own more than one Star Trek toy? OK, I’m a semi-trekkie, but only for the original show. And that wasn’t the reason why William Shatner was on my must see list. I had to skip Leonard Nimoy because of the timing, and as much as I adore Nimoy, Shatner would always be my first choice. Why?
Public figures can become icons for a variety of reasons. But only a few become true symbols. I realized this after Princess Diana was killed. Her death felt like losing a family member, and I struggled to make sense of this to myself. I came to the conclusion that, to me and millions of women my age, just a bit younger than Diana, she was a symbol, a sort of ideal self, the ultimate woman of my generation.
We were mourning ourselves, as much as Diana.
With Shatner, I was facing the ultimate paternal figure. The strong, always positive, uber-leader James Tiberius Kirk. I greatly admire Shatner’s work with animals, as well as his personal tenacity and humor and strength in adversity. In fact, those characteristics are what enables him to so easily reach that symbolic status. He’s been kicked, he’s been ridiculed, he’s been adored and worshiped. Still, he perseveres, under his own terms. To paraphrase one of the quotes on his new autobiography, Up Till Now:“It’s Bill Shatner’s world. He just lets us live in it.”
So when I say it was like meeting God, maybe you’ll get what I mean.
The St. Martin’s people passed out the books early, and gave away free audio books, too. Publishing professionals came by, murmuring about how they’ve always wanted to meet Shatner, can I get in, can so-and-so introduce me. And we stood and waited, while the line grew.
At least I had a chance to chat with Ivory Madison, CEO and Founder of the amazing writer’s site Red Room, while we were waiting. Ivory has authored the definitive relaunch of DC’s The Huntress, is supremely multi-talented and an absolutely wonderful person. Red Room is a joy to be a part of, a true community. And of course, she immediately understood why I was standing in line!
My feet were killing me, but before I quite realized it, there he was. A literal hush fell over the crowd, and all you could hear were the clicks and whirs of cell phones taking snapshots of Captain Kirk. Steve was standing in front of me, and shook Shatner’s hand. We backed up, with me in front. I’d decided that I had to give him something. I feel like he’s given me a great deal. Courage. Tenacity. Entertainment. Positivism. Determination. Strength. So the only thing that seemed appropriate was to give him a copy of my book … after all, that’s why I was at BEA.
Shatner set the rules for the signing, since the St. Martin’s people weren’t exactly on top of things. One of the booth handlers brought over someone from the booth across the way, a rock musician I hadn’t heard of, to have Shatner sign a book for him. You could feel the frenzy of the crowd behind us, eerily still and quiet.
The man himself exudes charisma and an ultimate alpha quality. Truly. It’s quite intimidating, and almost frightening. Almost Old Testament, if you know what I mean.
Shatner asked me how long we’d been waiting. He was jovial and chatty, but wanted to have the signing proceed like a well-oiled machine … like the Enterprise.
So then it was me. I could feel the weight of the 250+ crowd behind me, the swarm of people around us, not waiting in line, but trying to get pictures. When he saw I had two books in my hand, a St. Martin’s marketing rep tried to tell me that Shatner was only signing copies of the autobiography, which I knew. I replied that what I was holding was my first book, a gift for Mr. Shatner. In all honesty, I don’t remember what else I said. It was hard to get words out, rather like the first time I was in Europe and staring at St. Peter’s Square. Shatner said “Put it there,” interrupting any objections from the booth man. So I put my book where he said to put it — next to him, on his left — and I thanked him, and he said, quite kindly, “You’re welcome,” and I tried to say something about how I felt and hoped I didn’t sound like an idiot. I couldn’t say much. I remember he asked my name, and at the end, when I left, he turned toward me and gave me that particular Shatner wink — you’ve seen it a million times, he crinkles one side of his face.
I waited for my group, and none of us were exactly sure what had just happened. Our feet were killing us, we were hungry — it was after 3:30, and we hadn’t eaten lunch. So we walked back to the West Hall, managed to find a table in one of the dining areas, and ate and talked until we felt something resembling normalcy.
Back to the MWA table, to collect my books, say so long. By this time, I was wobbly. Really, really tired, not used to the heat in LA, not used to signing books, not used to meeting symbols. So I had to unfortunately miss out on a helicopter tour of LA I was going to take with Julie Compton (Tell No Lies), another friend from the ITW debut authors, courtesy of pilot and writer Andrew Peterson. But alas — the spirit was willing, the post Shatner-signing flesh was weak.
After a small dinner at the excellent Italian bistro Novecento in Culver City, I watched a Val Lewton documentary on TCM … and of course the films it discussed had mostly been made in the studio across the street.
The next day, we thought about going back. But you really can’t, not after a Saturday like that. So we didn’t rush, enjoyed a Sunday morning in Culver City and flew home to San Francisco later in the afternoon. Did I really give a copy of Nox Dormienda to William Shatner? Yeah. I guess I did!
I’m back from BEA (BookExpo America), and — while not yet fully recovered — am at least ready to post about it.
I’m not sure that it’s something from which one can recover. An event that large (even though the numbers were low this year), that chaotic, that carnival-like in its showmanship and chutzpah — yet demonstrating a strange serendipity — is actually quite an individualized experience. My BEA will be different from all other BEAs, if only because of the sheer number of choices available. Nimoy or Shatner was probably the toughest, but that was day two … tomorrow’s post. So where to begin? Culver City, I suppose. I stayed at the Culver Hotel, once owned by John Wayne, who, legend has it, won it in a poker game from Charlie Chaplin. This pairing strikes me as highly unlikely … rather like Michael Moore playing poker with Bill O’Reilly, but you know what they say — that’s Hollywood, or rather Culver City, the “Heart of Studio Land.”
Three studios once populated the landscape, and Sony is still located in Culver. More significantly for me, the Hotel is immediately across the street from the old Ince/Selznick/RKO/Desilu studios, where films like Gone With the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Rebecca, and Citizen Kane were filmed. They are now the Culver Studios, and are still busy. If you’ve ever seen a Selznick movie, you’ll remember the opening shot of a colonial mansion, sometimes confused with Tara, that prefaced all of his productions. I woke up to that mansion every day, looking down and to the west from my sixth floor room. That’s a magic kind of film history, and the Culver Hotel is a gorgeous, beautiful, wonderful and wondrous place to stay, with an exceptional staff of welcoming and helpful people.
Plus, I really loved the old elevator … an original from 1924, when the hotel opened.
Across the street is a newly-built Pacific Theater complex, designed to look Art Deco, and done so well that it fooled me from a distance. So at least somewhere there are architects and developers with souls, who remember what beautiful building design looks like. Friday dawned early and orange in LA, and fellow debut author Andrew Peterson and I entered the huge complex together, first paying our respects outside to the enormous sign for James Patterson. Mr. Patterson was helping bring in the crowds, and I’m looking forward to seeing him in a slightly more cozy environment at Thrillerfest next month.
The Expo feels like a world’s fair, an amusement park, a circus, a conference and a business meeting. And depending on what you were there for, it could be all of the above.
People in elephant costumes, people in pirate costumes, people in practically no costume or clothes at all. People with signs, people with free cookies, people with free lip gloss, all wanting your attention, all wanting to call your attention to something, usually a book. And then there were the free books. Books in every subject, hardbacks, paperbacks, magazines. People passing them out, people piling them on garbage cans because they couldn’t stuff them into one of the gazillion free book bags that were handed out along with the — yes, I said it — FREE BOOKS.
It was insanity. A woman walked around in zealot robes, carrying a sign that read “The Rapture is Coming … and it’s only 12.99.” The flip side said, “It is Written … but you can also get the audio rights.”
That’s BEA, Los Angeles-style.
I checked in at the MWA (Mystery Writers of America) booth, where I was volunteering and where I’d be signing on Saturday. The MWA relies on an organizational goddess based in New York named Margery Flax … Margery had planned everything to the proverbial t and the booth was hopping with excitement. Brad Meltzer (a wonderful writer and guy) was dishing out books like hotcakes, and the joint was jumping!
I hung around for a bit, greeting colleagues, and then wandered off to meet Dionne Warwick, who was signing free copies of her new children’s book Say a Little Prayer (complete with bonus CD). I grew up with Dionne, and have always appreciated the fact that she made San Jose a glamorous place when I lived there in elementary school.
Next was Diahann Carroll. OK, by now I was in pure fan mode … I grew up with Julia, and absolutely adore this woman. She is as sweet, generous and open as she is gorgeous, and signed ARCS of her forthcoming autobiography, The Legs are the Last to Go. We even got a chance to chat about new author syndrome, and she wished me a heartfelt good luck on my book. Wow! I checked back with MWA to remind myself that I was still an industry professional, and ran into the wonderful David Morrell (founder of ITW (International Thriller Writers), author of First Blood and countless other best-sellers) and his talented, terrific daughter Sarie. As an ITW member (and participant in the ITW Debut Authors Program), I had to thank David for the amazing friendships, opportunities, and education I’ve received. Soon, a group of us were talking in the giant lobby, and I had a chance to meet uber-talented writer Denise Hamilton (Los Angeles Noir) and walk back to MWA with her.
By this time I was getting kind of woozy, and it was still morning. I headed back to the autograph area [and I need to interrupt myself to explain that authors signed one of two ways: in a specific autograph area, where lines were roped off, and in exhibitor booths, where people could could a little closer]. Now, it so happens that my mother is from Harvey, Illinois. And she grew up in a working-class neighborhood with a little boy named Tommy Dreesen, who grew up to become the wonderful, talented and very funny comedian (and great golfer!) Tom Dreesen. Tom is one of the last links to the Rat Pack, having worked as Sinatra’s opening act for the last fourteen years of The Voice’s life. Before that, Tom worked for Sammy Davis, Jr. And before that, he and Tim Reid (Venus Fly Trap on WKRP in Cincinnati and acclaimed director) had toured as Americans first (and only) biracial comedy team.
Tom, Tim and Ron Rapoport (the Chicago Sports columnist) have co-authored a book about this experience, called Tim and Tom: An American Comedy in Black and White. The book debuts from the University of Chicago press in September, and is as much a thoughtful, poignant look at racism in America as it is autobiographical reminiscence.
Naturally, when my mom found out Tom was going to be at BEA, she asked me to go see him (they’ve stayed in touch periodically). So when I said, “I’m Patsy Geniusz’ daughter!” Tom actually knew who I was, told Tim and Ron that he used to borrow Mom’s papers occasionally, and was just an absolute sweetheart — he’s such a kind, generous man. I gave him a copy of my book, and he signed mine, “For Kelli, who is as beautiful as her mom.” Something I’ll treasure forever!!
By now, my head was spinning, so we tried to scare up some food, but the food court lines were gigantic. Fortunately, we met up with pal and amazing thriller writer Robert Gregory Browne (Kiss Her Goodbye), who helped us fight for chairs (chairs were in shorter supply than tables, and harder to come by than parking at a Toys R Us during Christmas). We managed to score some low-fat muffins and frappucino for our efforts, and were joined by another BFF, Bill Cameron (Lost Dog and the forthcoming Chasing Smoke). These are two of my favorite guys on the planet, and their company was much more refreshing than the Starbucks food. We all wandered into the main exhibit area, where we split up, Rob and Bill to another publisher area, I to wait in line for Billie Jean King. Yeah, the lady I watched demolish Bobby Riggs in straight sets, who gave courage to every little girl I knew, was there signing copies of her ARC, Pressure is a Privilege. I got a chance to thank her and tell her she’s a real Wonder Woman. Plus, she’s got a great laugh!
After this, we squeezed into the end of the line for Barbara Walters who was a late addition, and signing free copies of her best-seller Audition. Got a chance to thank Barbara for her inspiration, too. She’s quite beautiful in person, with amazing skin and bone structure, and a very gracious benevolence. Can’t believe she’s 78!
Once outside, I thought I heard a voice call my name, figured it was the angels, and it turned out I was right … it was Cara Black, the supremely talented author of the Aime Leduc series, good friend, wonderful, wonderful person and fellow San Francisco resident. We caught up on some of the BEA craziness.
After this, I headed back to the hotel and collapsed, finally locating real food at the Culver, and then headed back to downtown LA and into the trendy and fun bar, The Edison. The place looks like a Buffy set … I half-expected Angel to walk down the stairs. This was an MWA hosted bar, and I had a blast drinking Cosmos and chatting with Margery and husband Steve, friend and Lambda nominee Neil Plakcy (Mahu Surfer) and another great friend, Laura Caldwell (The Good Liar).
Back to the hotel, through the strange, apocalyptic streets of downtown Los Angeles. Back to the Culver, to the Selznick mansion, to the kindly and generous ghosts of the Culver Hotel.
Thus endeth Day I. Childhood icons, my mom’s childhood chum. What a day! More tomorrow.
This weekend, I was faced with preparing for BookExpo America, for which I am traveling to Los Angeles this week (I’ll be signing and giving away advanced reading copies of my book at the Mystery Writers of America booth). But I also had some fun on Saturday: I traveled to the East Bay, to see a double feature of The Killers (one of the all-time great noirs) and Eddie Muller’s neo-noir short classic, The Grand Inquisitor.
To make the package even more irresistible, the movies were screened at a fantastic theater: the Cerrito, a restored 1937 deco masterpiece in downtown El Cerrito. Saved from the greedy, amoral hands of developers by the Friends of the Cerrito Theater, a grass-roots non-profit, and later purchased by the city itself, the Cerrito is a Speakeasy Theater … and as anyone who knows me can attest, I can’t resist anything calling itself a speakeasy.
What it means in this context is that film-goers have the option of lounging in comfortable couches and armchairs, snuggling and eating delicious pizza or salad or nachos with a big bowl of buttered popcorn. You can even get a bottle or glass of wine or beer, and make it date night–in fact, one of the best packages is “The Cheap Date,” a $35 deal which includes two admissions, a medium pizza with three toppings (home-tossed and delicious!) a big bowl of popcorn and a bottle of wine or two large beers. As they say in Kansas (or should, anyway) — that ain’t hay.
The Cerrito is a model of what can be done to make historic theaters viable business venues, whether for time-worn classics or today’s (mostly forgettable) fare. Of course, it depends on the spirit of the community, and I take my hat off to the can-do citizens of El Cerrito. Now, I reviewed The Grand Inquisitor back in January, the day after its debut at Noir City. And as great as it was on first showing, the film, like fine wine, only improves with another sip.
Eddie Muller is the most modest genius I know. And I don’t use the word lightly. The man has just finished a run with the Thrillpeddlers’ production of a lost Noel Coward play (also reviewed in Writing in the Dark), writes brilliant fiction (The Distance, Shadow Boxer), classic non-fiction (Dark City: The Lost World of Film Noir) and knows more about film noir than anyone, with the possible exception of Bertrand Tavernier, though I’d still bet on Eddie for the Jeopardy championship.
In fact, Eddie has just returned from a trip to Paris, where he was feted by the French and where he screened The Grand Inquisitor (the audience included Tavernier). The Distance was recently published in France as Mister Boxe, and Lire magazine called it the Thriller of the Year. His film was also shown three times as part of the prestigious San Francisco International Film Festival. So yeah — I don’t speak lightly. Eddie is not just the Czar of Noir (founder and President of the Film Noir Foundation) … he’s its Leonardo da Vinci.
If you get a chance to see The Grand Inquisitor, don’t miss it. Just to take one element of the twenty-minute film (other than the outstanding acting by screen goddess Marsha Hunt and newcomer Leah Dashe): the mise-en-scene and art direction (please forgive the lack of accents) is amazing. On my first viewing, I was so awestruck by Marsha’s incredible performance (and Eddie’s pacing and framing), that I hadn’t realized subtle clues adding to the film’s mystery and claustrophobic atmosphere … notice the pill bottles here and there in the opening shot’s of Lulu’s bedroom. Notice the dense, smoke-filled, shut-in feeling of the house. Notice the stacks of newspapers, unread, that fill the space behind Marsha as she sits in her chair.
Small things can add up to greatness, and The Grand Inquisitor is one great movie. To make matters even more chilling, Eddie’s short story (published in the sublime anthology A Hell of a Woman, edited by Megan Abbott) upon which the film is based, is, in turn, based on some actual non-fiction discoveries he made while prowling through bookstores. Names have been changed to protect the possibly guilty.
What would you do if you think you may have found the Zodiac killer’s notebooks? See The Grand Inquisitor for a possible answer. The second half of the evening was filled with magnificent views of a young Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner in The Killers (1946), beautifully directed by Robert Siodmak. The flash back structure of this film makes it a detective story within a noir tale of greed and lust and amour fou.
Siodmak’s camera lingers lovingly on the drop-dead beauty of his stars (and neither ever looked better) … in a memorable shot from the first meeting of Lancaster (The Swede) and Gardner (Kitty) , a burning lamp filament juts phallically between them, glowing violently … and it is the raw, animal charisma of these two that drives the film forward. It’s almost like watching a nature show.
The casting of pudgy, middle-aged Albert Dekker (Big Jim) as Ava’s other love interest makes their relationship feel physically and morally wrong, as if it’s a crime against biology. Other careful casting enriches the minor roles:William Conrad and noir favorite Charles McGraw play the eponymous hired hitmen, Jack Lambert enlivens Dum-Dum, Vince Barnett portrays Charleston, the star-gazing thief, and Queenie Smith gives a touching, memorable turn as the maid. Sam Levene, so memorable in Brute Force, another Lancaster noir classic, and as the victim in Crossfire, makes a likable, believable cop. Virginia Christine, whom you may remember as Maxwell House’s Mrs. Olsen, is the good girl. Even Edmund O’Brien, who often overacts, delivers the goods as the insurance investigator.
This is a film to be savored–like 70-year old Scotch. If you get a chance to see it on the big screen, do … and Eddie reported the good news that the film has been restored by the studio, which bodes well for a future release.
Walking out of the theater–and the movies played to a full house–I overheard a group of people talk excitedly about how wonderful The Killers was. So move over, Indiana. We love you, too, but when cinema can compel new generations of movie-goers to laugh, cry, bite their fingernails or applaud after sixty years, that’s a real box-office winner.
Next: I’ll be at BEA next weekend, and will attempt to blog if I don’t get lost in all the hullabaloo!
Some people think of westerns as Clayton Moore in a skyblue jump suit, and Jay Silverheels suffering through endless “kemo sabe” lines.
But that’s nonsense. Sure, there were a lot of “oaters” (as they were called), produced by low-budget hacks to cash in on the post WWII cowboy craze. But the genre–as plentiful on the new medium of television as cigarette commercials and Arthur Godfrey–also deepened and matured in the late ’40s and ’50s, following a course similar–and complementary to–the traditional “film noir cycle” you might hear a lot of critics talk about.
The country may have been in denial about the social, cultural and political upheavals caused by WWII and the aftermath of the Cold War (how else does one explain Pat Boone?) … but noir, early on, tackled adult subjects, and even when the most courageous, outspoken (and in many cases, the most talented) directors were blacklisted, gleanings of self-exploration are evident in many genre films of the period–particularly westerns, like those directed by Anthony Mann (also a fine noir filmmaker) and starring Jimmy Stewart.
So I’m breaking away from the traditional urban setting for a week to talk about one western in particular–one of the best ever made, and one that boasts some noir characteristics (and actors).
Late in his career, John Ford–who by all accounts was not a kemo sabe to work with, but one of the most influential and brilliant directors of all time–revisited his favorite genre and his favorite actor, and filmed The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962).
The film is actually a mystery–a story told in flashback, explaining why an aged, prominent politician and Senator–played by Jimmy Stewart–and his wife (Vera Miles, most famous for Psycho), return to Shinbone, a small town in the southwest, for the funeral of a man whom no one remembers except for his companion, friend and hired hand, Pompey (the always moving Woody Strode) … and who will be buried as a pauper by the county.
The relationship of the elderly Ransom Stoddard (Stewart) and his wife Hallie seems uncomfortable … and almost immediately, after a buggy ride out to a burned out house surrounded by cactus roses, we’re led to believe that this couple had been, once a upon a time, a triangle: there had been another man, the dead man, Tom Doniphon.
Newspaper men coax the story–actually, demand the story–from Stewart, who also ensures that the miserly undertaker buries Tom with his boots and spurs.
The flashback begins with the fresh-from-law school Ransom (makeup helps the 53 year old Stewart and so does the black and white photography) getting hijacked on the stage coach by a sadistic psychopath named Liberty Valance (played brilliantly by Lee Marvin, and reminiscent of his turn in The Big Heat). (Trivia buffs will note that Lee Van Cleef, later to come to prominence as “Angel Eyes” in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, portrays one of Valance’s two sidekicks.)
Rance (and his law books) are torn to shreds by Valance, and he’s left to die. The first time we see Tom Doniphon (John Wayne, in one of his best roles), he’s carting the wounded Rance to Shinbone and the arms of the pretty but illiterate girl who works in the only hash house in town. Cue the triangle.
The main theme revolves around the educated representative of the future and civilization (Rance), who refuses to carry a gun, and tries to fight for justice with law, versus the strong man who represents the past and keeps himself to himself (Tom), a man of action, but who–until now–has not done anything to halt Valance’s crimes, even though he is the only person in the territory who is capable of it. And then there’s Hallie, torn between what she knows and what she thinks she wants. But the relationship is really not about these three people, nor is the movie. The film, like all great cinema, can be read on many levels. Ultimately, it’s about sacrifice, and entrapment and force and civilization and what role force has in creating–and destroying civilization. And happiness. It’s about that, too.
It’s a mystery, it’s a political commentary, it’s philosophy wrapped up in a cowboy suit. Along with The Searchers, it’s the best film Wayne made, and one of the best Ford (4 time Best Director Oscar winner) ever made. And keep in mind he directed films like The Grapes of Wrath, The Informer, How Green Was My Valley and The Quiet Man). Co-starring some of the best character actors in the business–Andy Devine, Woody Strode, John Qualen, Jeanette Nolan (she’s Gloria Graham’s “sister under the mink” in The Big Heat), John Carradine–in addition to a really hammy Edmund O’Brien doing a Thomas Mitchell impression (see Stagecoach, also a Ford film and the one that catapulted John Wayne to fame, for how O’Brien’s character should have registered), The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance demonstrates the same dark heart, irony and ambivalence–and questioning probe of society and its values–as many noirs. In a strange way, it reminds me of the Ursula LeGuin short story, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” As the newspaper man responds, when finding the answer to the title question: “No, sir. This is the West, sir. When legend becomes fact, print the legend.”
Who shot Liberty Valance? The answer is: maybe we all did.
