Soapbox Stilettos: The Reading Habits of Men vs. Women

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The topic we picked to dish about this month on our Soapbox couldn’t come at a more timely moment. Not long after we selected it, Jonathan Franzen appeared on the cover of TIME Magazine, and Jennifer Weiner and Jodi Picoult spoke out on the unevenness of book reviews when it comes to fiction written by men vs. fiction written by women. So here’s the question we debated: why do you think (some) men are afraid to pick up books written by women? Especially novels labeled “chick lit,” “women’s fiction,” “cozy,” or “romance.” Why doesn’t it seem a problem for women to read books by male authors and female authors?

Maggie: There is this perception that anything labeled “women’s fiction,” “cozy,” or “chick lit” will only appeal to a very small segment of the population: women who like that “kind of thing.” Most of these books are about people and relationships, however, and some of your coziest of the cozies delve into some serious and gruesome stuff (see my second book, Extracurricular Activities, where the most deserving villains end up without their hands and feet). Men like escapist literature just as much as women, I believe. Honestly, though, what man is going to pick up a book that has a pair of high heels and a martini glass on the cover? I think the way many women writers are marketed contributes to the idea that only women can read those (OUR) books. I can’t think of a more female-centered book than Wally Lamb’s first, She’s Come Undone, which I consider a literary gem. Had it been written by a woman, it would have been marketed in a completely different way and reached a much smaller audience, in my humble opinion, of course. I think more men would read books that fall squarely into the “chick lit” category if the books were packaged and marketed in such a way to make them be reflective of what they are: stories about people and their lives.

Susan: I have to agree with Maggie that there are often serious issues underlying fiction dismissed as “women’s” or “cozies,” only the packaging usually belies that. Where mysteries are concerned, those softer covers, often with tea cups or cats, are frequently made fun of by those who write darker stuff. I remember one author of serial killer stories in particular who regularly belittled cozy fiction in his talks. I’ve written both dark mysteries and light mysteries, and I actually found doing humor harder than serious stuff. My amateur sleuth novels were all packaged with candy-colored covers, and I didn’t mind at all that they were marketed to romance fans as well as mystery. My debut in women’s fiction, The Cougar Club, has a hot pink cover with a handbag on it. I would venture to say a man would have to be very sure of himself to buy such a book and read it in public! I buy books written by both sexes without thinking twice, and it would take a pretty freaky cover to turn me off. There’s definitely a double standard, but that’s life as we know it.

Evelyn: People do judge a book by its cover. Men are no exception. Just as we wouldn’t pick up a book featuring a guy wearing camouflage holding a gun, most men won’t pick up a book with a woman in an antebellum dress holding a bouquet of roses. The cover is a large and colorful but clear message about who the book is written for—and who the author is.

Susan: A guy friend of mine once emailed to say, “I was reading Blue Blood on the subway and got a lot of strange looks.” I applauded him for being so brave since Blue Blood has a typically chick lit cover that’s bright yellow with cartoonish women’s legs on it. Which has me wondering if electronic readers will begin to change the book buying habits of men at all because no one can see what you’re reading. Hmm.

Rachel: I don’t think men are “afraid” to pick up women’s fiction. I think the presumed topics in those novels just don’t interest them, and that’s fair. Just a few weeks ago, a guy friend who read an ARC of my new book, Dead Lift, said he didn’t expect to like it as much as Final Approach because, where the first novel was set around skydiving, this one is set (partially) in a spa. The interesting thing is that he did end up liking the story despite its more feminine setting. This is where I think men and women differ. Women are more likely to pick up books that are more “manly” if there’s a good mystery driving the plot. But what man wants to be caught with a book that has a pink, sparkly high heel shoe on the front? Final Approach was originally edited by a male author of many romance novels. He published them under a female pseudonym. I wonder how many women are writing as men.

Misa: Raise your hand if you know the gender of Harper Lee. Uh-huh. It’s a book that’s highly recognized by men and women, but how many men think Harper’s a man? Okay, this isn’t really a reason, but I’m just saying.

Rachel: It might be the case that men assume novels written by women will deal primarily with women’s themes or that they will be softer novels. In many cases, I’d agree that’s true. When I think about books by male authors, though, none come to mind that were predominantly driven by “guy themes.” Male protagonists seem more career-driven with relationships on the periphery, and that’s okay with me. I suppose a man picking up a book with a female protagonist may tire of her endless pursuit for dates, preoccupation with her weight, or frustrations with her in-laws. The unfortunate thing is that many books by female authors do not focus on these things. We all have to keep an open mind, folks. There’s something out there for all of us to read.

Evelyn: We’re generalizing here, but it’s a pretty safe generalization. Men don’t want to talk about emotions, theirs or anyone else’s. They certainly don’t want to read about them.

Misa: Men show a huge lack of interest about personal introspection, family, and/or domestic elements in their book choices. We’re still ingrained with the age old gender differences, and reading choices reflect that. Women acknowledge that fiction can give guidance or solace but with men…not so much. They keep emotion bottled up. Books written by women tend to have more emotion built in and for a man to read such a book would, by association, mean he has those emotions, too, and he just doesn’t, right?

Evelyn: We believe that men who do read fiction are drawn to themes, more likely than not, written by other men, such as Westerns, military themes (think Tom Clancy and The Hunt for Red October), and adventure.

Misa: Men read angst-ridden books in which the struggle to overcome some catastrophic circumstance is at the core of the plot. Don’t women write this type of novel? Sure, as long as there’s emotional growth woven in. Ah, emotion, there’s that word again. Men only like adventure and triumphing over adversity just as women only like romance and love. God, it’s great to be a stereotype, isn’t it?!

So what do YOU think? We’d like to hear your thoughts on the subject, too!

A Very Private Grave

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A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE
Book 1, The Monastery Murders

by Donna Fletcher Crow

Chapter 1
Felicity flung her history book against the wall. She wasn’t studying for the priesthood to learn about ancient saints. She wanted to bring justice to this screwed-up world. Children were starving in Africa, war was ravaging the Middle East, women everywhere were treated as inferiors. Even here in England—

She stopped her internal rant when she realized the crash of her book had obscured the knock at her door. Reluctantly she picked up the book, noting with satisfaction the smudge it had left on the wall, and went into the hall. Her groan wasn’t entirely internal when she made out the black cassock and grey scapular of her caller through the glass panel of the door. She couldn’t have been in less of a mood to see one of the long-faced monks who ran the College of the Transfiguration which she had chosen to attend in a moment of temporary insanity. She jerked the door open with a bang.

(Felicity’s annoyance changes to delight when she discovers that her visitor is Father Dominic, her favorite monk, whom she had thought was still on pilgrimage. They visit over tea— taken black by Fr. Dominic since it’s Ash Wednesday, a fast day for the community— and before he leaves he gives her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, which she sticks in her pocket, disciplining herself to return to her reading before indulging in the pleasure of what is sure to be Fr. Dominic’s latest poetic offering, a passion they share.)

Two hours later the insistent ringing of the community bell called her back from her reading just in time to fling a long black cassock on over her shetland sweater and dash across the street and up the hill to the Community grounds. Her long legs carried her the distance in under three minutes— she had timed it once. Once inside the high stone wall enclosing the Community she slowed her pace. It never failed. No matter how irritated she became with all the ancient ritual and nonsense of the place, there was something about the storybook quality of it all that got through to her in her quieter moments.

The spicy scent of incense met her at the door of the church. She dipped her finger in the bowl of holy water and turned to share it with the brother just behind her. Shy Br. Matthew extended a plump finger without meeting her eyes. They each crossed themselves and slipped into their seats in the choir.

“Miserere mei, Deus. . .” The choir and cantors had practiced for weeks to be able to sing Psalm 51 to the haunting melody composed by Allegri. The words ascended to the vaulted ceiling; the echoes reverberated. Candles flickered in the shadowed corners. She had been here for six months— long enough for the uniqueness of it all to have palled to boredom— but somehow there was a fascination she couldn’t define. “Mystery,” the monks would tell her. And she could do no better.

What was the right term to describe how she was living? Counter-cultural existence? Alternate lifestyle? She pondered for a moment, then smiled. Parallel universe. That was it. She was definitely living in a parallel universe. The rest of the world was out there, going about its everyday life, with no idea that this world existed alongside of it.

It was a wonderful, cozy, secretive feeling as she thought of bankers and shopkeepers rushing home after a busy day, mothers preparing dinner for hungry school children, farmers milking their cows— all over this little green island the workaday world hummed along to the pace of modern life. And here she was on a verdant hillside in Yorkshire living a life hardly anyone knew even existed. Harry Potter. It was a very Harry Potter experience.

She forced her attention back to the penitential service with its weighty readings, somber plainchant responses, and minor key music set against purple vestments. Only when they came to the blessing of the ashes did she realize Fr. Dominic wasn’t in his usual place. Her disappointment was sharp. He had definitely said he was to do the imposition of the ashes and she had felt receiving the ashen cross on her forehead from that dear man would give the ancient ritual added meaning. Instead, Fr. Antony, one of the secular priests who lectured at the college, not even one of the monastic community, stood to hold the small pot of palm ashes while Fr. Anselm, the Superior of the Community, blessed them with holy water and incense.

Felicity knelt at the altar rail, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The ashes were cold, a sooty mark of grief, gritty on her forehead.

“Amen,” she responded automatically.

She was back in her seat, turning ahead to the final hymn, “Forty Days and Forty Nights,” when she heard the soft slapping of sandals on the stone floor. Oh, there’s Fr. Dominic. She relaxed at the thought, putting away her worries that he had been taken suddenly ill. But her relief was short-lived when Fr. Clement, the Principal of the college, and Jonathan Breen, a scholar making a retreat at the monastery, slipped to the altar for their ashes.

The final notes of the postlude were still echoing high overhead when Felicity rose from her seat and hurried outside. Dinner, a vegetarian Lenten meal, would start in the refectory almost immediately and it wouldn’t do to be late. If she hurried, though, she could just dash back to her flat and pick up a book of Latin poetry for Fr. Dominic. She had a new volume of Horace, and she knew Fr. D loved the Roman’s half Stoic, half Epicurean philosophy. He would have time to enjoy what he called his “guilty pleasure” while he recuperated from his indisposition.

She bounded up the single flight of stairs, flung open her door and came to a sudden halt. “Oh!” The cry was knocked from her like a punch in the stomach. She couldn’t believe it. She backed against the wall, closing her eyes in the hope that all would right itself when she opened them. It didn’t. The entire flat had been turned upside down.

Felicity stood frozen for perhaps a full minute, trying to take it all in: books pulled from shelves, drawers pulled from her desk, cushions flung from chairs. Hardly breathing, she rushed into her kitchen, bath, bedroom— all chaos— sheets and duvet ripped from her bed, clothes pulled from her wardrobe. She picked her way through scattered papers, dumped files, ripped letters. Dimly she registered that her computer and CD player were still there. Oh, and there was the Horace book still by her bed. She pulled her purse from under a pile of clothes. Empty. But its contents lay nearby. Credit cards and money still there.

Not robbery. So then, what? Why?

Was this an anti-women-clergy thing? Had she underestimated the extent of the resentment? Or was it an anti-American thing? The American president was widely unpopular in England. Had he done something to trigger an anti-American demonstration? Felicity would be the last to know. She never turned on the news.

Well, whatever it was, she would show them. If someone in the college thought they could scare her off by flinging a few books around she’d give them something new to think about. She stormed out, slamming her door hard enough to rattle the glass pane and strode up the hill at twice the speed she had run down it. Not for nothing her years of rigorous exercise at the ballet barre. When she reached the monastery grounds she keyed in the numbers on the security lock with angry jabs and barely waited for the high, black iron gates to swing open before she was speeding up the graveled walk.

Felicity’s long blond braid thumped against her back as she charged onward, her mind seething. If those self-righteous prigs who posed as her fellow students thought they could put her off with some sophomoric trick—

She approached the college building, practicing the speech she would deliver to all assembled for dinner in the refectory: “Now listen up, you lot! If you think you can push me around just because your skirts are longer than mine. . .”

She punched a clenched-fist gesture toward her imaginary cassock-clad audience, then saw the Horace book still clutched in her hand. Oh, yes. First things first. She would have missed the opening prayer anyway. She would just run by Father D’s room— then she would tell them.

She hurried on up the path beyond the college to the monastery, ran her swipe card through the lock, and was halfway down the hall before the door clicked shut behind her. She had only been to Dominic’s room once before, to collect a poetry book he was anxious to share with her, but she would have had no trouble locating it, even had the door not been standing ajar.

She pushed it wider, preparing to step in. “Father D— ” she stopped at the sight of a man in a black cassock standing there praying. He jerked around at the sound of her voice and she recognized Fr. Antony, her church history lecturer.

She took a step backward when she saw the look of horror on his sheet-white face. “Felicity. Don’t come in.” He held up a hand to stop her and she saw it was covered with blood.

“Father D! Is he hemorrhaging?” She lunged forward, then stopped at the sight before her.

The whole room seemed covered in blood. Bright red splotches on the pristine white walls and bedding, on the open pages of a prayer book, on the statue of Our Lord, forming lurid stigmata on the hands extended in mercy. . .

And in the center of the floor, in a pool of red, his battered head all but unrecognizable— her beloved Father Dominic. The smell of fresh blood clogged her nostrils. Gorge rose in her throat.

“Felicity— ” Fr. Antony extended his reddened hands to her in a pleading gesture.

“No!” She screamed, wielding her Latin book as a shield against the blood, a red haze of shock and horror clouding her vision.

She couldn’t believe Antony’s face could get even whiter. “Felicity, wait. Listen—”

She dimly registered his words, but the voice in her head shouted with far greater force. No! It can’t be. It’s a mistake. She was in the wrong room. Must be. She shook her head against the nightmare she had seen yet couldn’t accept what she had seen. Blackness rolled toward her.

She staggered backward into the hall and slumped to the floor as the room spun before her. She closed her eyes against the darkness as her mind reeled, groping for a coherent thought. How could this be?

Only a short time ago she had been reveling in the peace of this remote holy place. Where could such violence have come from? How was it possible here? In a place of prayer? To a holy man. Why?

If Fr. Dominic wasn’t safe who could be?

And even as the questions tumbled, half-formed through her head, even as her mind denied the act her eyes saw, she knew she had to find an explanation. How could she continue studying— believing in— purpose and justice if such senseless irrationality reigned free?

Focusing on the questions gave her strength to get her feet under her again.

Antony was still standing dazed in the gore-splattered room looking as though he could collapse in the middle of the pool of blood. Felicity grabbed his arm, jerked him into the corridor, and shoved him against the wall where he stayed, leaning heavily. He held his hands before his face as if not accepting they were his own. “When he missed mass I came to check on him. . . I felt for a pulse— ”

“We must get help!” Felicity looked wildly around.

“Yes, of course.” Her energy seemed to hearten Antony. He pushed himself forward unsteadily. “Forgive me, I feel so stupid. It was the horror. I— we must tell the Superior. He’ll call the police.”

“Police? You mean an ambulance.” Felicity started toward the room again. Yes, that was it— how could she have dithered so when Father D needed help. “He’s lost so much blood, but maybe—”

“No!” Antony gripped her shoulder with more strength than she realized he was capable of. “Don’t go in there again, Felicity. It’s useless.”

She knew. She had seen the blood.

* * *

“With a bludgeoned body in Chapter 1, and a pair of intrepid amateur sleuths, A Very Private Grave qualifies as a traditional mystery. But this is no mere formulaic whodunit: it is a Knickerbocker Glory of a thriller. At its centre is a sweeping, page-turning quest – in the steps of St. Cuthbert – through the atmospherically-depicted North of England, served up with dollops of Church history and lashings of romance. In this novel, Donna Fletcher Crow has created her own niche within the genre of clerical mysteries.” – Kate Charles, author of Deep Waters

Author Bio

Donna Fletcher Crow is the author of 35 books, mostly novels dealing with British history. The award-winning GLASTONBURY, The Novel of Christian England is her best-known work, an Arthurian grail search epic covering 15 centuries of English history. A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE, book 1 in the Monastery Murders series is her reentry into publishing after a 10 year hiatus. THE SHADOW OF REALITY, first in the Elizabeth & Richard Mysteries, a romantic intrigue, is available in Ebook format. Donna and her husband have 4 adult children and 10 grandchildren. She is an enthusiastic gardener and you can see pictures of her garden, watch the trailer for A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE, and read her international blog at http://www.donnafletchercrow.com/

The Ninth Anniversary of 9/11

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We are approaching the ninth anniversary of September 11th, when close to 3000 people in New York City, Pennsylvania, and the District of Columbia died. After nine years, not much has changed at “Ground Zero”—we still have a gaping hole in the ground and people arguing about what should and should not be there and in the surrounding area. Not much has changed in the world, either. We still have men and women going overseas to fight, defend, and protect, many of them losing life and limb to do so. Regardless of our personal political leanings, I think we can all agree on those statements.

I went to visit my sister in Savannah a few weeks ago. She lives in a suburb which is populated mostly by military personnel and their families. She has told me that many of their friends serve in the Armed Forces, but I didn’t give it much thought until my mom, child #1, and I headed to the Savannah airport for our trip home, not a care in the world as we wended our way through the airport. (A post for another time: why is it that my gate is always the farthest from the entrance of the airport?) We passed many men and women in military garb and when we got to our gate, sat beside a family—a dad in camo, a young mother, a little girl, and a teeny-tiny baby who we came to learn was a week old. Very soon, it dawned on us that they weren’t waiting for someone to arrive, they were waiting for him to leave. As he held the baby in his hands, staring at her face, seemingly imprinting her image on his brain, we turned to face the other way, not wanting to intrude on what was a very private moment between a man, his wife, and their two children. I don’t know how long he’ll be away, but I do know that he left a very sad family behind. I also know that he will, most likely, miss the second child’s infancy. How old will she be when he returns? Will she be walking? Talking? I don’t know, but I pray that his time overseas will be short as well as safe.

He was just one of many who were departing that day. Another young girl—and I swear, these young mothers look to be barely out of their teens, but I think that’s a function of seeing them through my middle-aged lens—held a nine-month old who was rambunctious and active as they stood by the window waiting until her husband’s plane was completely out of sight before leaving the airport. Another man left behind five children and a sobbing wife. I consider myself to be pretty sensitive but realized I hadn’t given too much thought to the sacrifices that are made every day in the name of freedom. Seeing these families drove the point home.

We are close to a family who have a very personal connection to 9/11. Recently, their youngest son—just a toddler when our families became friends—enlisted in the Marine Corps on his eighteenth birthday. We were all stunned, to say the least. In our groovy village, populated by the last-remaining hippies and a new generation of artistic types, this type of action is virtually unheard of. He leaves next year for basic training and after that, deployment. To me, he still looks like the little tow-headed toddler I met when my oldest was just weeks old but he’s a man by the military’s standards and old enough to make his own decisions as to what to do with his life.

It’s naïve to think that we will ever live in a world where an armed force won’t be necessary so until that time, I think the best we can do is support our troops and pray that they come home sooner rather than later to see the children they left behind and kiss the husbands, wives, and partners who kept down the home front in their absence.

And please take a moment this weekend to remember our fellow citizens who perished on that awful, awful day.

Maggie Barbieri

Perils of a Big Family

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Everyone knows I have a really big family. Not only is mine big, so is my sister’s. She had one less child than I did with 4, but those four have managed to produce 15 with three step kids thrown in there, and then there’s the great grands which I won’t even attempt to count. She hasn’t caught up with me yet.

This June I received so many graduation announcements–middle school, high school, and two Masters degrees. And then there are all the birthdays–I only send birthday greetings to my own children and grandchildren now. (For those that are on Facebook, at least I can say Happy Birthday.) I’ll not even mention Christmas. My sis and I quit giving each other birthday and Christmas gifts long ago when this whole family thing got out of hand.

We are called upon to help out a lot too–we’ve raised a grandson and granddaughter, have another adult grandson living with us. Last week, a grandson called and asked his grandpa if he could come up to the school and help with back-to-school night, cooking hamburgers. He put on his apron and took off.

Sadness and worries abound too. Then there are the illnesses and accidents. Fortunately, we’re a praying family, so people can be assured of many prayers.

We have our share of drama: marriages in trouble, babies arriving without a marriage, teens in trouble, and so on. (My husband says that’s why I watch the soap General Hospital, because they have more problems than our family does.)

Right now, one of my sister’s granddaughters has put herself in peril. She’s 19 with some disabilities, physical and mental. The girl met some older man on Facebook who lived in the big city she lives in and he came and took her to his house. Her brother figured out where and went and brought her back. The guy got her again. A girlfriend went there and took her home. She left again.

Her parents are distraught. It is taking a toll on the mother’s already bad health though she manages to work every day. They’ve gone to the police, but because she’s over 18 and they are not her legal guardians–merely her parents–she can do what she wants.

From what we’ve heard the man has told her that she’s being cheated out of her social security money by her parents. Impossible, since she’s not getting any and never has. Of course she’s unhappy about other things, she thinks her parents are preventing her from going to college and getting a job. Maybe they are, I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been overprotective. She finished high school, but got a special ed. diploma. I’m not around her all that much, but almost every time I have been, she’s had a recent seizure or has had one at whatever event we’re attending including last year’s family reunion.

Of course this young woman is in peril–she has no idea.

Not sure where I’m going with this, I think I just needed to get it out in the open.

On the plus side, I love my family–all of them. Most of the time, things move along well and I get to hear about their accomplishments, the sports the grandkids are excelling in, the dancing competitions, how much they love school, and on and on.

We’ll get through this crisis, we’ve done so with all the others.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

I write because I can be sure there’ll be a happy ending.

I Love Old Movies

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I’m a sucker for old movies. I don’t need Technicolor or over-the-top special effects to produce a four-hanky sob-fest. Thank goodness for Turner Classic Movies. Their movie vault is filled with black-and-white, sudsy films that make me turn to goo.

Recently I watched Journey for Margaret, a heart-warming World War II flick with Robert Young and Margaret O’Brien in her motion picture debut. Released in 1942, it was the early days of America’s involvement in the War, and the story centers on a hardened newspaper reporter’s efforts to bring two orphans to the States. When he is forced to choose only one, your heart breaks for the little boy he must leave behind.

I also watched an absolutely silly, inane , but ultimately very sweet movie, A Date with Judy, released in 1948 with Jane Powell and a very young, waist-no-bigger-than-a-wasp, Elizabeth Taylor. This was the post-war equivalent of Beverly Hills 90210, but with actors with actual talent. Amazing to think that Liz Taylor and Robert Stack get secondary billing because they’re not the “stars” of the film. But as ridiculous as the plot in this film is – and trust me, any film with Xavier Cugat, a Chihuahua, and Carmen Miranda as the B-storyline is dumb – nonetheless, I actually cared whether Judy and Oogie (Jane Powell and Scotty Beckett) reunite and whether Carol and Stephen (Taylor and Stack) can overcome his prejudice against family wealth.

It’s funny that I can wax rhapsodic about these two movies, which is in stark contrast to the movie reviews I’ve been hearing from Rhonda, the Southern half of Evelyn David. She recently spent hard-earned bucks on two new blockbusters, and walked away disappointed in both. It wasn’t the acting. Rhonda assures me that George Clooney is still wonderful eye candy and Angelina Jolie has all the right stuff to be a convincing double (triple?) agent.

But at the end of both movies, she didn’t care what happened to George or Angelina’s characters. Without offering too much of a spoiler for either film, let’s just say that there was no Disney happy ending for anybody – and Rhonda wasn’t invested enough to be concerned.

Whether it’s a 1940s teen movie, a 2010 blockbuster, or the dog-eared copies of old favorite mysteries and books we’ve read and re-read, it always comes down to character. Does the audience identify with the fictitious people of screen or page? If not, then whether or not the protagonist lives to see another day or dies a noble death is quickly discarded into the “who cares” pile. All the fantastic car crashes and outrageous stunts can’t save a movie where you barely remember the main character’s name after the first fifteen minutes.

Watching these films, re-reading old favorite mysteries where I remember whodunnit on the first page and it doesn’t minimize the pleasure one iota, makes me take my own writing apart, sentence-by-sentence. I want my readers to care about Mac Sullivan, Rachel Brenner, most especially about Whiskey the Dog. I want readers to wonder if Mac can overcome 50+ years of commitment-phobia; I want to make sure that readers empathize with newly-divorced Rachel as she awkwardly re-enters the social scene; while at the same time, I want to baffle and surprise the reader with a mystery that is sophisticated and smart. Tall order, indeed.

But isn’t that what I signed up for when I listed mystery writer on my resume?

Stiletto Faithful, please share with me your favorite movie and why it has such lasting appeal.

Marian aka the Northern half of Evelyn David

Walking Naked Through the Mall

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by Susan McBride

My good buddy Maggie Barbieri emailed the other day to say she’d had a dream about walking naked through the mall, and her husband had very astutely remarked, “You must be feeling vulnerable.” Which got me to thinking that as a writer in today’s instantly-connected society, I feel like I’m walking naked through the mall just about everyday!

I often say to my husband, “Someday, I just want to write and not worry about the other stuff.” Because I do worry, way too much. But that’s how it goes these days when you’re still building a career and haven’t quite reached the New York Times bestsellers list (and, perhaps, even after you have). When I daydream, I imagine doing nothing but composing more novels and enjoying my real-life without so many other frantic items on my to-do list. And the only instance when I’d feel especially vulnerable would be the release date for my latest opus, when I wonder how my readers will react.

In days of yore (okay, like ten years ago), everyone seemed to be reading their daily newspapers and most people depended on those for book reviews. Not today. The new daily paper is the Internet, for me and for a lot of other people around the planet. So turning on the computer, booting up, and getting online is what slapping open newsprint with our cereal used to be.

There are tons of web sites and blogs offering information and opinions. It’s almost scary how quickly “news” appears. Folks can pick up a book and review it within minutes after they’ve turned the last page. Interviews and articles can pop up within 24-hours and can remain cached for years and years and years.

So what makes me even more nervous than having to speak in front of 300 people at a fundraiser or appear on a local TV segment is my presence everyday on the Web. And it’s not just about seeing negative reviews (although that’s never pretty, and I’d love to tell the mean reviewers who ruin things for everyone by spilling plot points to go to–well, you get my drift).

I’m one of those “foot in mouth” people who speaks from the hip (and the heart). I don’t work from a script. What you see is what you get, and I know that–in the past–my bluntness has upset a few people. I tend toward sarcasm, and not everyone likes or gets that kind of humor. So every time I post on Facebook or write a blog entry (like this!), I hold my breath and hope that no one sends me hate mail.

I even debate whether or not to comment on posts at the various blogs I like to visit throughout the day. I’ve seen name-calling and flame wars in some comment sections that scorched my eyebrows. It’s gotten nasty out there, and often I decide to keep my opinion to myself, if only for my own peace of mind. I don’t think they make flak vests yet to wear when you’re online, ones that deflect angry rhetoric rather than bullets. Until they do, I’m going to try to stay out of conflict. I do love words, but I want to use them to tell stories, not to argue with someone I’ve never met face to face.

Even emails can make me nervous, especially the ones that come through my web site and seem to be waiting in my in-box every morning. Opening these are like tearing through wrapping paper on Christmas gifts. What will I get? Pearls? Or coal? A lovely note from a mystery fan who wonders if I’ll be writing any more Debutante Dropout books? (Sadly, no, I won’t be, not in the near future anyway.) Or a newly-divorced woman over-forty who discovered The Cougar Club and wants to say “thank you” because it hit the right spot? (Man, I love those!) Or an invitation to speak, a message from a childhood friend, an inquiry about foreign rights? (Thank heavens for web sites! Lots of wonderful gigs, friendships, and even business connections come to pass because of it.)

Or will it be a list of typos from my backlist mysteries (how I wish I could correct those after my books are in print, but I can’t)? Or might the message be like a finger shaken at me, describing something that made someone mad (say, a reader didn’t appreciate the opinion of a character so I emailed back to explain, “I’m sorry this struck you wrong, but I can’t control everything the characters in my books say or do. Sometimes, despite my best intentions, they act in a way I don’t expect. But the way they feel doesn’t necessarily reflect how everyone feels in the book, or how I feel for that matter. Please remember that”). Sigh.

Whatever I do online, I always get a little pang in my heart as I hit “comment” or “send.” I hope I said the right thing, what I meant to say, and I worry that maybe someone will take something the wrong way. Oy. Much as I appreciate the Internet for the ease with which I can grab information and/or communicate, it still makes me a wee bit uneasy. I often feel like I’m walking naked through the mall when I’m on the Web, just as I do when a new book I’ve written is out in bookstores (and on e-readers!), completely out of my hands.

So I’m wondering, what makes you feel most vulnerable? I’d love to hear some of your “walking naked through the mall” moments, if you’re willing to share!

It’s Not Me, It’s You

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Like most writers, I’ve had my share of bad reviews. I’ve also had more than my share of glowing raves. Early in my career, there was so little attention to my work that the good reviews could make my day. And the bad ones could send me to bed. Over the years, after having experienced the full range of dizzying highs and crushing lows the writing life can offer, I have found more balance. Like a kayaker in big water, I stay centered and keep on paddling – rain or shine.

A few years ago, I read a book called The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. It changed my life. One of the agreements, maybe the most important for me was: Don’t take anything personally. No matter what anybody does or says to you, even if they should go so far as to walk up to you and put a bullet in your head, has anything whatsoever to do with you or who you are. It’s all about them, about their thoughts, ideas, prejudice, and view of the world. If people say they love you, it’s about them. If people say they hate you, well, that’s about them, too. If you learn and internalize this (which – PS – is not easy), it can be very illuminating – and freeing.

Most people only deal with this on a small scale. You have your friends, family, neighbors, business associates, and random encounters with strangers. Most of us know that some people are going to like us, and some people are not. Likewise, we won’t like everyone we encounter. Maybe your coworker reminds you of someone who bullied you in high school; you dislike her without even knowing why. That’s about you. Maybe you think your friend is cheap and it makes you angry. Another person might admire her for her frugality. It’s all about the opinions we bring to the table.

As a writer, I am fortunate that my novels have found a large number of readers. And, guess what? Some people love my books. And some people don’t. Some of those people keep their opinions to themselves, some of them post on the bookseller sites, write their opinions on Facebook, send me personal emails, or write reviews in major national magazines and newspapers. Luckily, most of the people who do this, have at least something nice to say about my books. But not always.

If you’re true to yourself, as a person, as a writer – if you don’t chase trends or seek to please, you are likely to attract at least some negativity. I have found this to be true in my personal and professional life. Of course, it’s never a good day when someone says something negative about your work, but you tuck in and keep paddling.

When I sit down at my keyboard to work on my novel, I am my truest and most centered self. I don’t seek to please; just to tell the best story I can, to the best of my ability. I know some people are going to love it, and some are not. The world is impossibly complicated, and opinions vary wildly. So no matter what reviewers write about my books, I try to remember that it’s about them as much as it is about me.

Lisa Unger

________________

Lisa Unger is an award winning New York Times, USA Today and international bestselling author. Her novels have been published in over 26 countries around the world.

She was born in New Haven, Connecticut (1970) but grew up in the Netherlands, England and New Jersey. A graduate of the New School for Social Research, Lisa spent many years living and working in New York City. She then left a career in publicity to pursue her dream of becoming a full-time author. She now lives in Florida with her husband and daughter.

Her writing has been hailed as “masterful” (St. Petersburg Times), “sensational” (Publishers Weekly) and “sophisticated” (New York Daily News) with “gripping narrative and evocative, muscular prose” (Associated Press).

Buy Fragile at:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Borders
IndieBound

The Other Guys

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I had been anxiously awaiting the opening of the movie “The Other Guys” and when it did open on August 6, Jim and I were the first on line for the first show. The movie had everything I enjoy in a film experience: things that blow up, a storyline that is being held together by CrazyGlue and duct tape, bathroom jokes, cops, and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (who I would love to have play Fred Wyatt in the film version of any one of the Murder 101 books). Oh, and Will Ferrell. And did I mention bathroom humor?

So basically, the story surrounds a precinct in Manhattan where there are the cool cops and the “other guys”—or those guys who do the paperwork, or take on cases that none of the other cops really want to get involved with. Hilarity ensues.

That got me thinking about all of the other guys and girls that exist in the world and to whom no one pays attention. In every family, there is always someone who will cry “Mom always liked you better!” and some for whom that statement is true. Then there are the kids who Mom didn’t know even existed (especially in those huge Irish-Catholic families where everyone is named Mikey, Jimmy, Patty, Matty, Luke, and Meg, or some combination of shortened saint names). In the world today, and especially the world of entertainment, there exists a whole culture of “other guys” and this post is designed to pay homage to those forgotten people.

Who are these people? Let’s find out:

1) The two who aren’t Bono or the Edge: We all know that my favorite band, U2, has four members. I dare you to name the other two. (Answer: Larry Mullen and Adam Clayton) Good. Now what instruments do they play? (Here’s a hint: Bono doesn’t play anything and the Edge plays guitar. Figure it out.) I wonder how Larry and Adam feel, playing the shadows—literally! look at their videos—behind charismatic Bono and enigmatic The Edge. Must be hard. At least when they’re not cashing their paychecks.

2) The one who isn’t Harpo, Chico, or Groucho: My husband is a huge Marx Brothers’ fan and can probably answer this question. Like all families, there’s always a forgotten child, the one that Mom didn’t like best. So you’ve got the guy who won’t shut up and the guy who never opens his mouth, and the other one. There’s one beyond that. Who the heck is he and what role did he play? I can never remember.

3) The one who isn’t Zsa Zsa or Ava: I love the Gabor sisters. With wild abandon, they wear diamonds, marry princes, speak with indecipherable accents, and act badly in television shows and movies. They are famous for hardly anything, kind of like retro-Kardashians. There were three of them, but only two are remembered. Oh, poor Magda Gabor, the lost Gabor sister. Did she not wear enough diamonds? Did she bypass roles alongside Eddie Albert? Will we never know the talent and beauty that was Magda Gabor?

4) Jan Brady: And of course, no list of “other guys” would be complete without middle Brady sister, Jan. She’s the one who cried “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” at the thought of all of the attention her flat-ironed haired sister received. Jan was the original other guy. Everyone remembered popular Marcia and adorable Cindy, but Jan was often forgotten. Even George Glass—her imaginary boyfriend, had a tendency to forget Jan and the things that were important to her.

Who did I miss, Stiletto faithful? Are there “other guys” who you remember that I’ve forgotten? Weigh in, please.

Oh, and is it really September? How the heck did that happen?

Maggie Barbieri

August Highs and Lows

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August is my birthday month. I’m at an age where I’d just as soon forget birthdays, but since I’m getting so old, my kids seem to think it’s remarkable and we should all celebrate. So that’s what we did and we all had fun. We had dinner with two of our daughters and their husbands and my youngest granddaughter, who is 17. I was thrilled that she decided to stick around to celebrate with her grandma.

I got a new computer at the beginning of the month and of course had a guru transfer everything from one to the other. Of course not everything transferred–I have 3 old versions of Word Perfect filled with files as well as my Word files. We managed to find them finally.

What didn’t come through were all my addresses in my address book. I now have Outlook where I had Outlook Express before. It may be a better mail program, but it certainly is confusing. Not only did I lose addresses, but I lost all my groups which I’m still working on.

The guru spent 4 hours at our house the first day and after I played with the computer and found out what all else was wrong or I couldn’t find, he came back for another 3. Thanks to Mozy, an offline back-up service, I restored some missing stuff.

And this all ties back to my age–I’m getting far too old to keep learning all this complicated stuff. Had a big promo weekend that was great fun. Headed to the coast where I participated in a library’s book and and craft fair, saw old friends, made new ones, stayed in the Santa Maria hotel where movie stars and politicians stayed in the hotel’s first years–still a fabulous place. We headed down the coast to our kids’ house and before the birthday celebration, went to the movies, out to eat, and I was the “cultural” speaker for a women’s group. No one fell asleep and they laughed a lot, so I think I was happy. Of course that was part of the highs.

Another low was losing my Internet connection on the little Acer computer I take with me on trips. I did something wrong–think I can fix it, but the whole weekend away I was unable to get on the Net and do things I needed to do.

Another high, headed up to the mountains and spoke to a writers group connected to the Willow Bridge Bookstore about working with small presses, and the changes going on in the publishing industry right now. I love that bookstore and I always see old friends there and make new ones.

Received the cover for my new Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery, Invisible Path, and also the galleys which I’ve corrected and sent back.

So, though August has been a bit bumpy, I lived through it. Now, it’s on to September and new adventures which will include promoting Invisible Path.

Marilyn

Haven’t We Done This Before?

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Jennifer Aniston, 41, with no serious partner in sight, said that “Women are realizing more and more that you don’t have to settle, they don’t have to fiddle with a man to have that child. They are realizing if it’s that time in their life and they want this part they can do it with or without that [a male partner].”

Bill O’Reilly, Fox News favorite rabble-rouser, of course, scenting big ratings by taking on a popular actress, worked himself into a lather and boldly declared, “She’s throwing a message out to 12-year-olds and 13-year-olds that, ‘Hey you don’t need a guy. You don’t need a dad.’ That is destructive to our society.”

We’ve got the worst economy in decades, we’re in two wars, and global warming may melt the ice cap and flood downtown Cincinnati – but the glib comment of an actress hawking her newest film, a romantic comedy where she ends up with the father of her baby – yeah, that’s what is destroying our society.

Of course, we’ve been to this rodeo before. Back in 1992, Vice President Dan Quayle picked a fight with fictional news reporter Murphy Brown, who was pregnant and unmarried. “[I]t doesn’t help matters when primetime TV has Murphy Brown — a character who supposedly epitomizes today’s intelligent, highly paid, professional woman — mocking the importance of fathers, by bearing a child alone, and calling it just another ‘lifestyle choice.’”

I thankfully am married to the best father on earth. We take our parenting seriously, and have never been worried about gender roles in how we parent. Similarly, I was blessed to have been raised by the best father on earth who thought I was the bees knees (his words, not mine), and from whom I learned what was important in picking a mate. So I’m not minimizing for a millisecond that Dads play a vital role in raising healthy, strong, independent children.

But when I think of all those children languishing in foster care, in limbo in orphanages around the world, and I think of all those adults who long to be parents – then no, Mr. Reilly, I’m not worried if a single adult male or female, or a gay couple, choose to open their hearts and homes to children who need at the minimum one caring parent, if not two. And I’m not even going to insist that those outside of traditional marriages must adopt rather than birth their family. That’s not my concern and it’s not their sole responsibility to offer homes to children in need.

Let’s not be trapped in a time warp created by 1950s television. Perhaps the Anderson family from “Father Knows Best,” was composed of working Dad, stay-at-home Mom, and three adorable children….but that was a fantasy even then. Heck, I knew from the get-go that my family was different from what I saw on the small screen – my mother worked full-time; my dad never wore cardigans; and my sister’s father was not mine. My parents argued, loudly at times, unlike the fictional Andersons – and yet, I know now that I couldn’t have had a better set of parents.

What children need are caring parents who are committed to loving and raising strong, healthy kids. How that family is created is less my concern than that the adults are fully engaged in the hardest job on earth – parenting.

What none of us need are actors and pundits using false arguments about real issues to drive up ratings.

What say you Stilletto Faithful?

Marian aka the Northern Half of Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/

Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Drops the Ball by Evelyn David, coming Spring 2011