What I’ve Learned from Watching TV

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The best thing about reading all of my co-bloggers’ entries is that I learn something new about them every week. Last week, it was that Marian (like me) can’t write sex scenes. And the week before that, it was that Rhonda loves television, seemingly, as much as I do. I almost wept with joy. Because I don’t know if it’s the same where you live, but I seem to reside in an area where television is both disdained and deplored.

I consider myself pretty well-read and educated, yet I love television and feel that some of my most important life lessons have come from watching the tube. And my all-time favorite show? “The Brady Bunch.” God forbid there is a marathon on TV Land, because I’ll drop everything. I drop Bradyisms into conversation with regularity.

Let me share a few of the things I’ve learned.

At a recent dinner party, one of our friend’s sons threw a ball and knocked over a vase. My reaction? To exclaim, “Mom always said, ‘Don’t play ball in the house!’” a classic line that was uttered by Bobby to Peter after Carol had admonished the boys about horseplay in the Brady split level. Most of the partygoers nodded in agreement; they knew that the Brady’s had this gem and many others. What could be more true after all? I also learned some wicked cool cheers from one of the cheerleading episodes. Who, after a glass of wine or two, hasn’t gotten up in the middle of the living room, shouting “F-F-F-I-L, L-L-L-M-O, O-O-O-R-E, FILLMORE JUNIOR HIGH!” just like Greg’s girlfriend?

Just me? I don’t believe you. Come on. Come clean. It feels good.

Other things I learned:

Never wait for the man to ask your hand in marriage. For an example, see Sam the Butcher’s courtship of Alice. Fortunately, my husband proposed with a bit more expediency than Sam, who at the end of the series, was still courting Alice, bringing her ground round as a romantic gesture of his love. Alice? Still single.

If you see an idol in Hawaii, DON’T PICK IT UP! Otherwise, you’ll lose the surfing contest, have a tarantula crawl up your leg while in bed, or misplace the important architecture blueprints. It’s just not worth. You can buy an idol at the local giftshop that probably doesn’t have a hex on it or will bring a pox on your family.

If you don’t have a boyfriend, don’t pretend that you have one, and especially, don’t give him the pretend name of “George Glass.” Everyone will see right through it, no pun intended. And then you’ll just look pathetic. (That means you, Jan.) Do it the old-fashioned way and pretend you can’t do your French homework so that the cute guy in your French class will come over and help you. It worked for me. (I can’t speak a word of French, by the way, despite a French major and a French-teacher husband.)

If you want to make a lot of money, not work very hard, and take a lot of vacations, become an architect. Did anyone work less than Mike Brady? Sure, he talked about the Anderson account incessantly, but I never did see him actually work on the Anderson account. Those Andersons must be pretty ticked off by now…and have limited shelter options if their architecture needs were left up to Mike Brady.

And I learned that family is all you need, love and understanding solve every problem, and all the words to the Davey Jones’ song, “Girl.” I challenge you to top that with something that you learned from reading a newspaper. Can’t come up with anything? I didn’t think so.

Maggie Barbieri

What’s Next?

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Sometimes trying to think up what to write on a blog is daunting. You’d think a writer wouldn’t have a bit of trouble coming up with something. Unfortunately, it isn’t always that easy. This week has been filled with the piddly things that take away from what I’d really like to be doing–working on my own novel, of course.

Instead I’ve made trips to the bank–twice for the church. No, I’m not the treasurer, nobody in my right mind would let me take care of figuring out the church’s finances–but I am the church clerk which means I’m the second signer on all the checks.

Ever so often, the treasurer has me sign about a hundred checks so they’d be ready when she pays the bills. While I’m doing that, I’ve often thought how marvelous it would be if I were autographing my books instead.

Having said what I did about the church finances, I also must admit to finishing with my income taxes. Yes, I do them myself. These wonderful program to do your taxes on the computer have made it almost like a game. (I did say “almost”.) My biggest problem with math has always been adding (even with a calculator), but the computer takes care of all that.

I’ve also been to the grocery store, done the laundry, written a newsletter I get paid to do, attended a meeting, got my hair cut, done some promotion on the Internet, read a zillion emails (almost an addiction), and started packing for Epicon. Yeah! I can hardly wait.

Oh yes, I’m also busy with a ghost writing project that’s taking a lot of time. Not really something I would write on my own, but rather fascinating just the same. And yes, I do get paid for doing it–actually much more of a sure thing than what comes in from my own writing.

And by the way, the virtual book tour I’ve been on has paid off–at least the Amazon numbers for Smell of Death are far lower than any of the rest of my books, except for Deadly Omen which continues to do well. Lower numbers means the books are selling–at least one or two.

So, now that I’ve bored you with what a mystery writer does when she’s not working on her own mystery, I’ll sign off until next week.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

How Shall I Kill Thee?
Let Me Count the Ways

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If you’re tired of death by bullets (and I still like a good Glock 9mm to do the trick), there are lots of other options. You might consider the more high-tech thallium or stick to the old-fashioned, but still effective, stiletto.

Murder can be accomplished in lots of ways. Personally, I’m intrigued by spontaneous human combustion. Years ago I read a great Scottish mystery where the victim dies ostensibly under those circumstances. Of course the killer has manipulated the situation so that it appears that the body burned of its own accord. I wish I could remember the author or title. Help please??

Since Evelyn David knocked off her first victim, we’ve gotten quite adept at new and interesting ways to commit murder. Should it trouble me that my favorite bedtime reading is Murder and Mayhem: A Doctor Answers Medical and Forensic Questions for Mystery Writers (D.P. Lyle, M.D., St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2003)? On the other hand, I’m a firm believer in the 50-page rule. Somebody’s got to be dead in the first 50 pages or generally speaking, I’ve moved on. Heck, in Murder Off the Books and the forthcoming sequel, Murder Takes the Cake, somebody dies in the first paragraph. Now that’s how to get the show on the road!

I enjoy, probably more than I should, discovering new ways to commit murder. But here’s a word to the wise. Remember that your Internet research is fair game for the prosecution should you decide to use your murder skills in real life (elimination of the spouse who leaves dirty clothes on the floor or the neighbor with the windchimes on the porch). I came across a news story recently about a woman who was on trial for murdering her husband. Chief among the evidence arrayed against her were her Google searches for “instant poisons”, “undetectable poisons”, and “fatal digoxin doses.” And then apparently the coup de grace was her search for “how to commit murder.”

Sometimes you don’t really want to kill – just maim slightly. A wound that permits your injured hero or heroine to still be healthy enough to foil the bad guys. I spent hours trying to find a gunshot wound that wouldn’t require major surgery so that one of our characters could be released from the hospital within six hours. Of course, when I was writing that scene, I had other worries. Even with the correct wound, who could guess how long the hero would sit in the Emergency Room waiting to see a doctor?

But then I remembered – this is fiction. I can move our hero to the front of the line, have him see a brilliant doctor with a wonderful bedside manner without filling out 30 pages of financial information, and get his bullet wound repaired with a liberal application of Crazy Glue.

Okay, I know. Fiction does have limits and your plot has to be believable. Some of what I just wrote will have to be deleted; probably everything except the bit about the Crazy Glue.

Evelyn David

http://www.evelyndavid.com/

Deleted Scenes

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Award-winning investigative reporter–and now Agatha nominee–Hank Phillippi Ryan is currently on the air at Boston’s NBC affiliate, where she’s broken big stories for the past 22 years. Along with her 24 EMMYs, Hank’s won dozens of other journalism honors. She’s been a legislative aide in the United States Senate (working on the Freedom of Information Act) and worked at Rolling Stone Magazine with Hunter S. Thompson. Her first mysteries, Prime Time and Face Time, were best sellers. Air Time and Drive Time are coming soon from MIRA. And this just in: Prime Time is an AGATHA nominee for Best First Mystery.

Thirty (or so) years ago, when I was just starting as a TV reporter, my first news director (think Lou Grant) gave me some advice that baffled me at the time. He said, “The hardest part about writing a news story is deciding what to leave out.”

I was such a newbie, I thought the hardest part about writing a news story was—well, everything. But as I began to learn my craft, I realized he was right. You don’t have to “empty your notebook” into your story. You don’t have to tell everything you know.

And now, writing mysteries, isn’t it the same?

When I finished the first draft of Prime Time, I joyfully took the floppy disk with my dear first novel on it to the Kinko’s down the block from Channel 7. “Could you print this for me?” I asked. I lowered my eyes, then looked modestly back up at the copy kid. “It’s my novel.”

“Sure, lady,” he said. Not that impressed. But I was—exultant—that soon I would soon see my very first manuscript printed out on actual paper.

Two hours later, I returned as instructed. This time the kid said, “Oh, you’re the one with the novel.” “Yes,” I replied, fluttering my eyelashes, wondering if maybe he had a sister or mom who would eventually love it.

He bent down under the counter, and pulled out a ream box of paper. “Oh, thanks,” I said, and turned toward the cash register.

“Hang on,” he replied. He leaned back down under the counter, and pulled out another ream box of paper. “Here’s the rest of it,” he said, placing it on the counter. “Guess your book’s pretty long.”

I had neglected to number the pages. But, turned out, it was 723. Seven hundred and twenty three pages.

And that meant Four. Hundred. Pages. Had to go.

Which brings us back to my news director. He was right again. I had to decide which of my precious words to leave out. More on that in a minute.

Last night, my husband and I watched a pretty good movie on DVD. When it was over, I clicked to the deleted scenes. “Why do you always want to watch the deleted scenes?” Jonathan asked. “They’re deleted.”

But you know why. Those deleted scenes—and the reasons the director gives for cutting them—are a little private seminar-on-the-couch on how to decide what to leave out. It works for movies, it works for our mysteries.

For instance. One scene by itself was perfectly good. But the director explained it had to be cut because it would slow the action.

In my head, I rewound, and played that part of the movie back including the deleted scene. He was right. It would have dragged.

He moved on to another very well-acted scene, where two characters slowly learned more about each other. I don’t think I imagined the regret I heard in his voice, as he described how tough it was to inform the actors that this emotional and well-shot scene was going to hit the cutting room floor. But, his analysis showed, nothing was really learned. The plot wasn’t advanced. Sorry, guys. Cut.

Finally, he showed a scene near the end. It took place in a living room, where a phone call brought good news that a missing father was coming home, and the viewer saw that his son had been born in his absence. It was sweet and touching.

Nope. It pulled the punch, the director said. How much better, he explained, to pick up the action with the father arriving home. To have the viewer see the baby—for the first time—at the same time the father did. Yes, of course. Much better.

Deleted scenes. The director loved them when he shot them. But—even more– he loved what was left without them.

Of course, part of the difficulty with cutting is fear. Fear you’re going to ruin something. Fear you’ll never be able to put together words so nicely again. Fear you’ll cut the wrong thing.

But you’re the director in your mystery, right? You yell ‘action!’ every time you begin to write. And the characters (sometimes) do what you say. Part of the fun of cutting is seeing the sleek, fast-paced page-turner that emerges–as you begin to compile your own reel of deleted scenes.

It’s your power. Your strength. Decide which words to leave out. Do it. You’ll never miss them.

Hank Phillippi Ryan
http://www.hankphillippiryan.com/

Where Are My TV Shows?

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Ever since I was old enough to understand that those tiny people in the box were telling me stories, I’ve been hooked on television. And each year since I was about five years old, I’ve had a couple of favorite programs; my shows. Something I looked forward to each week, my little escape from a not-so-glittery reality.

My brother and I used to watch Dark Shadows, hiding behind a blanket on the sofa, knee socks tied around our necks to prevent vampire bites and drinking cold sweet tea in goblets – to mimic Barnabas’s brandy snifters

For my shows I’ve given up much and suffered mightily: I’ve done chores early so I could watch the original Cinderella; rushed through homework so I could see the Big Valley; fought bloody battles with my sibling for control of the tv remote (and before that the tv knob) so I could watch Here Come the Brides and Emergency; skipped high school play practice to watch the movie Sybil; developed 24-hour illnesses so I wouldn’t miss a minute of a Cagney & Lacey marathon; considered changing my major in college so I wouldn’t miss Ryan’s Hope; and warned people I would not be answering the phone or door or tolerating any conversation whatsoever during my Wednesday night episode of The West Wing.

And today? I love Medium when I can find it and remember the day it’s airing. Where has all the excitement gone? I mostly channel surf now. Remember the thrill of getting the Fall Preview edition of TV Guide? I’d pick out my new shows for the year by pouring over the blurbs and photos. Then I’d fix my tv watching schedule with the skill of an air traffic controller – my old favorites plus four or five new ones that I would sample. If I didn’t like the new ones, there was always time to give the second stringers an audition.

Not any more. New shows come and go within the first couple of airings. The older shows don’t stick to any discernable schedule. And if you miss an original episode because of breaking news, weather advisories, or power outages? Don’t count on seeing it during the summer reruns. Reruns are scattered during the regular season and the summer has morphed into a reality-tv nightmare.

I admit it. I love dramas and light romantic comedies. I’m not entertained by watching people eat fresh cow tumors or some other stomach-churning oddity. I don’t like watching people being ridiculed by other people. I want the good guys and gals to win; the evildoers to get their just rewards; and the hero and heroine to ride off into the sunset at the end.

Where are my tv shows?

Evelyn David

Sex Sells (but that doesn’t mean I’m going to write about it)

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To start, more spoilers: Alison and Crawford do have a relationship that involves sex. I just don’t think about it—or write about it very much. I have had some interesting feedback from interesting sources (that means you, MOM) about why my books are so chaste. About why I don’t include explicit sex. About why, in “Murder 101,” after only meeting a few days earlier, Alison and Crawford didn’t jump into bed thereby acknowledging and putting a name to their lust.

The answer’s simple: I grew up Catholic and I have to live in this world.

Let me explain. Point #1: Catholicism. I, like Marian, had a very religious upbringing but of the Catholic variety. There were nuns, priests, virgins, guilt, more guilt, and CYO basketball. That’s it. Nothing else. When we weren’t going to church, or trying to make up sins to confess at the tender age of eight lest the priest get the impression that we thought we were perfect (god forbid), or playing basketball, we were thinking about one of those things. Because to think about anything else—including and mostly SEX—was a mortal sin. And we all know what you got from that: a big, black blemish on your soul. That was your first-class, one-way ticket to HELL. I’m sure that there are many people out there who grew up in a similar fashion who have led productive lives and written erotica even but the message that was given to me—“Virgins RULE!” (one that I have now embraced given that I have a teenage daughter)—was taken to heart. I have matured somewhat since that time, but the idea of writing about what goes on in one’s bedroom—even if the “one” is a fictional character—is anathema to me.

Point #2: living in this world. I have two children—one not even a “tween” and one a full-fledged teen—and a husband. I live in a very small town which is, technically, not even a town—it’s a village. The ‘town’ is where we go to do the really exciting stuff. I shop locally, worship just an eighth of a mile from my house, am a member of the PTA, and try to lead a relatively upstanding life. Could you imagine the looks I might get if I walked into the local gift shop, half of the town having just read something I had written that included the words “throbbing member” (and I’m not talking about those of us who get worked up at Booster Club meetings) and trying to purchase a hostess gift? I can’t.

After the publication of my first novel I ventured down to the local ball field to watch my husband play softball. His teammates consist of a bunch of mostly forty-something dads, all of whom I know. One of them—we’ll call him “Bob” because that’s his real name—asked me why Alison and Crawford hadn’t consummated their relationship at the end of “Murder 101.” At this point in time, I was hard at work on “Extracurricular Activities” and nearing the point where my two main characters might have to steam things up a bit.

“I have trouble writing sex scenes,” I said, rather bravely I thought.

He thought for a moment. “We could help you!” he said, motioning toward the rag-tag group of softball players, some practically in traction after playing the first inning. I had a hard time envisioning any of these hurting puppies in flagrante delicto, never mind just making it to their cars to drive home. “We could write them for you!”

A couple of the other dads looked in his direction. One mentioned that with his dislocated finger, he wouldn’t be able to pick up a pencil or type on a keyboard. Another mentioned that his leg hurt so much that the only thing he’d be doing would be begging his wife to rub Ben-Gay on it. Another mentioned that after that night’s game, he was retiring from softball entirely. (They have a hard time staying ‘on topic.’ Especially when balls are flying around. Baseballs, that is.)

One of the other teammates finally spoke up with some helpful information. “Yeah, we could help her. She’d then have some of the shortest sex scenes known to literature in her book.” He looked at me, an eyebrow raised pointedly. I immediately regretted that I had entered into the conversation and felt sorry for his wife.

I gave it my best shot. I really did. But I kept thinking that the readership of the novels I and my fellow “Stilettos” are writing aren’t buying them for sheet burning, hang from the chandeliers sex. (Please tell me I’m right.)

My dear friend, Annie, mathematician and preschool teacher extraordinaire, has kindly read every one of my manuscripts before I ship them off to my editor. She could see where things were going—Alison and Crawford were getting hot and heavy and the inevitable was to occur. Her husband, raised in a more “open” environment, kept encouraging me to let loose and write some torrid sex scenes. I did my best, but my best kept ending up with Alison and Crawford having case after case of coitus interruptus. I couldn’t see the job through. I asked Annie if she was disappointed, having just read my second manuscript.

She looked at me, relief crossing her face. “Not at all. I didn’t know how I was going to look at you if you had written some explicit sex scenes. I just don’t want to know you like that.”

And hopefully, dear readers, you don’t either.

Book Launch

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My book launch for Smell of Death was Saturday. I live in California but during the winter you never know what the weather might be like. We’ve had plenty of sunny days since the beginning of the year, but this wasn’t one of them.

That was the first of the problems. Three storms in a row rolled in since Wednesday, with Saturday’s forecasted as the “biggie.” The weather wasn’t the only problem.

My major publicity was in our local weekly newspaper which comes out on Thursday–mine didn’t show up in my mailbox until Saturday morning. I have no idea if the rest of the deliveries were as late.

First we stopped at our local coffee and sandwich ship, Coffee Etc., where the owner had graciously agreed to bake cookies for the event. (I don’t bake anymore–it’s one of the things I’ve given up in my old age, like ironing.) Wow! She’d made a tray of the most beautiful cookies–two kinds–lemon (tasted like eating lemonade) and chocolate chip with raspberry drizzled over the top. Also yummy.

We took them and my books, table, etc. to the Visitor’s Center. We also manned the Visitor’s Center for the afternoon. Which is fun, because people stop by to find out if they can get to the giant Sequoias from here. You can, but yesterday you couldn’t get far without chains because along with the rain came lots of snow at the higher elevations.

The launch was scheduled for one, so we had plenty of time to set up. We also visited with the editor of the local paper who had the morning shift for the Visitor’s Center. She ended up staying through most of the afternoon because interesting people stopped by–not necessarily to buy books.

However, six of my fans displayed their loyalty by coming despite the foul weather and bought books. (I’ve done worse at book store signings.) While we were there we met a lovely woman from Oklahoma and her sister who had recently recovered from brain surgery. The gal from Oklahoma lived in Moscow, Russia, for a year and told some fascinating stories.

One of my granddaughter’s highschool teachers and a friend stopped in and the teacher assured me Jessica’s boyfriend was wonderful. (We already knew that.)

One of my fans who always buys any new book I’ve written dashed in for a minute and stayed for a half hour as she brought me up to date on General Hospital (the soap).

All-in-all, we had a good time, sold a few books, and ate lots of delicious cookies.

Marilyn
http://www.fictionforyou.com/

Let’s Talk About Sex

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Charlaine Harris, who writes the hysterical Southern vampire mystery series, swears that her books took off once she started putting sex into them.

Oy! I went to an Orthodox Jewish Day School through sixth grade (substitute Rabbis for nuns, keep the rules, and you get the picture). Try as I might to construct a love scene that involves nudity, I’m convinced that I will get struck by a lightning bolt at the first sign of heavy breathing.

Hey, I like sex – but even writing that sentence has me checking to see if Rabbi D is clucking over my lost soul.

Here’s the problem. My characters are two middle-aged adults who have been around the block a few times. At some point (should it be in Book 2? Hold out for Book 3?), they’re going to go steady, get lavaliered, maybe even get pinned, or the 40-something equivalent. In any case, there’s a point in an adult relationship that would suggest that somebody is getting some. So practically speaking, sex needs to be part of the Mac Sullivan-Rachel Brenner equation. Plus, circling back to Charlaine Harris, sex sells. What to do?

When I first started writing fiction, I described a love scene to my husband. I could see him trying to figure out how to phrase the question. Despite years of marriage and four kids, he thought he knew me, but perhaps, there was still a surprise to be had. Finally, he decided the direct approach was best. “Are you writing smut?” “No,” I answered indignantly. “I subcontracted it out.”

I suppose we could just have constant “fade to black” moments in our books, much like the Doris Day movies of the 1950s. It was a time when Hollywood was still peddling the idea that a “good” 30-something woman (Virginal Doris was 35 in Pillow Talk) would wait for a diamond on her left hand before any kiss would be permitted. Forget about any tongue involvement in those encounters. Kisses that ended up with the heroine actually sleeping with the hero, after the obligatory “fade to black,” still were not much more than a peck on the lips. Even I could have written those “sex scenes.”

We haven’t put it in the acknowledgements, but the Southern half of Evelyn David has agreed to write all steamy scenes. We don’t like to call it smut. We prefer to think of it as romance. Besides, she’s not worried at all about stray lightning bolts.

On the other hand, the Southern half is a Southern Baptist. Sex scenes don’t bother her a bit, but she is appalled at foul language. Put a damn in a sentence and she worries that her Mom will be disappointed in her. Me? I know words and combinations that would make a fleet of sailors blush. I don’t worry a bit if the good Rabbi will think I need to say any special prayers.

We’re finishing Murder Takes the Cake, the sequel to Murder Off the Books. Here’s a spoiler so don’t read the next sentence if you want to be surprised…but on page 98, there is a kiss. More of the Doris/Rock variety, but hey, there are 250 more pages before the exciting conclusion. A lot can happen between the sheets (of paper, that is). I’m making no promises, but I’m checking out rubber tires to sling around my waist…to ward off lightning bolts.

Evelyn David

My Write of Passage

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Cynthia Smith, author of Noblesse Oblige, is our guest blogger today.

Deep in the being of every non-fiction writer lies the longing to be a novelist.

So after seven non-fiction books that did fairly well (which means if I depended upon royalties alone to make a living I’d be flipping burgers at McDonald’s) – I decided to write fiction. Since I have long been a mystery book addict (I read 3 a week. My library charges after 7 days so I have to read fast) I decided to write a mystery. Heeding the lore that one should write about what one knows, I had 3 protagonists: me, my best friend in college and her 70-year-old Jewish grandmother who solved the mystery like a Yiddish Miss Marple. I sent the manuscript to an agent who read it over a weekend and phoned me on Monday to say “I loved it but I’ll never be able to sell it.” Why? “Because all the editors are 12-years-old and will never identify with your characters. You need a contemporary voice.”

Fast forward to my visit to London sitting on a train to Salisbury, seated alone in a compartment with an upper class young woman who wasted her window-seat position that I coveted as she wrote feverishly in a legal pad. “I’m on my way to see my solicitor because I’m getting divorced and he told me to write down what I want from my bastard of a husband.” Who asked her? But I find people tell me things. Perhaps because my simpatica look indicates I can help them. And I do. And did. That’s where I got the idea to create a protagonist who is a sort of private eye but more – she is a Private Resolver. Her name is Emma Rhodes.

Unlike the current female private eyes who live on takeout and cut their own hair with cuticle scissors, Emma is RICH: she dresses in designer clothes, has 3 homes all over the world because she demands $20,000 for two weeks work with a guarantee of success.

She is everything I would have loved to be at her age: gorgeous, an IQ of 165, sexually free, wealthy and above all a size 8. I starred her in three novellas and gave it to my agent from whom I received a phone call weeks later.

“Berkley Crime division of Penguin Putnam is interested. But there’s a small problem.” Oi veh, they probably want me to turn her into a transvestite. “She asked if you could extend them into three full-length novels.” My one-word-answer was “When?” And so I got a three-book contract, later extended to five-books.

The fun was creating the supporting cast – necessary in a series. Abba Levitar, a colonel in the Israeli Mossad intelligence agency who was Emma’s best friend and helper, and lover Superintendent Caleb Franklin of Scotland Yard, a gorgeous Cambridge-educated black man who I modeled after the hunk who bedded Jane Tennant in PRIME SUSPECT. Abba became my outlet for profanity since my agent told me foul language would not suit ladylike Emma. Where do I get Israeli curses? I don’t use the Internet for research; I like to network until I find a live source. I found a visiting Israeli rabbi and told him I’m a writer who needed Israeli curse words. It’s amazing how the word “writer” opens doors and mouths. “Kuze mach.” He replied instantly. “I wrote diligently. “What does that mean?” I asked. “It means the pussy of your mother.” I nearly fell off the chair. “Is that Hebrew?” I asked. ”No – of course not. It’s Arabic. We do not curse in Hebrew – that is the language of the Bible!”

Cynthia Smith
Author of NOBLESSE OBLIGE
Published by Busted Flush Press
Available from the following bookstores:
Murder on the Beach, Delray Beach Florida
Murder By The Book, Houston, Texas
The book will also be available though other online, chain and independent booksellers.

News Junkie

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I admit it. I’m addicted to news. I listen to NPR in my office and car. I listen to CNN at home. It’s the background noise of my life.

I get antsy when I don’t have access to either. I feel disconnected, unplugged from the world. Camping trips are really hard. What if a war breaks out? What if there’s a mad cow loose somewhere? What if a politician flubs a speech? Or a dictator resigns? Or a Vice President shoots something besides birds? I need to know—immediately.

But I’m picky. Not just any news show will do. I need my CNN and NPR fixes. Fox won’t do. Neither will MSNBC. Give me Diane Rehms treating every guest with respect and allowing them the time to answer her questions. Or Anderson Cooper, hip deep in the New Orleans floodwaters or standing outside the Sago Mine, giving us his view on the latest disaster. For something lighter, give me All Things Considered, In This I Believe, and The Car Talk Guys.

I think my obsession with CNN started about the time of the first Gulf War. I was fascinated by the minute-to-minute coverage that CNN was providing. Remember the CNN reporters broadcasting from their room while the bombs were dropping? Talk about reality tv – that was incredible. During the second Gulf War, I traveled through the desert with the embedded reporters. Sometimes I left the television on while I fell asleep, the sounds of real war playing in my ears – all with a five second satellite delay.

I know exactly when my NPR addiction started. The O.J. Simpson trial. I was doing a lot of driving for my day job during that year. I ended up hearing most of the trial through my car radio thanks to NPR. Kato Kalin? Judge Ito? Marsha Clark? I learned so much about creating bigger-than-life characters from that trial. And the murders of Nicole and Ron? I cried with Ron Goldman’s father. I felt Nicole’s sister’s anger. I listened to the testimony like I was a juror. It began as a real who-dun-it and by the end? By the end the mystery was how the justice system ever manages to work.

At night when I write, I like to have the television on. Maybe it’s a hold-over from my school days when I did my homework in front of the set. But these days it’s not returns of Gilligan’s Island or the Love Boat that keeps me company. It’s news. I need it. I crave it.

BlueRay is in. Hillary is in trouble. An explosion in Texas may increase gasoline prices by ten cents a gallon. Bush is in Africa – I hope he doesn’t do any more dancing. And hey, did you know that a beagle was the top dog at the Westminster dog show? Should have been a wolfhound.

These things are important, people!

Tune in.

Evelyn