I (Heart) Tom Selleck--Again

In the eighties, I was a big fan of Tom Selleck and his hit T.V. show, Magnum P.I.  What wasn't there to love? 

For the youngsters reading this, the show ran from 1980 to 1988 and was about Thomas Magnum, a private investigator in Oahu, Hawaii. He lived in the guest house of "Robin's Nest," a gorgeous beachfront estate, at the invitation of its owner--never-seen bestselling author Robin Masters. Magnum drove Masters' Ferrari, played with Masters' two Doberman Pinschers, wore Hawaiian shirts, cavorted with a couple of his Vietnam vet buddies, and traded barbs with the estate's majordomo, a supercilious Brit named Higgins. Need I mention that Magnum was witty and smooth and HOT and that women were always falling all over him? Oh, and he got the bad guys.

 Magnum P.I. was fun. It was cotton candy.

Wikipedia tells me that Selleck was born in 1945. When Magnum P.I. first went on the air he was thirty-five.

Fast forward twenty years or so. Selleck is now the producer and star of several movies about Jesse Stone, a character in a series of novels by Robert B. Parker.  Stone is a former detective in the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division who's let go because of a drinking problem and is hired as the police chief in the small town of Paradise, Massachusetts. 

There's much to love about these movies. Jesse Stone is a much darker character than Magnum. His delivery of Parker's sparse dialogue, so simple on the page, takes on a winsome yet world-weary quality. To lines of dialogue like: "I will" and "You can" and "Call me Jesse," Selleck gives a certain something that's plain yet right. Parker himself said that Selleck had "nailed" Jesse Stone.

Need I mention that Jesse Stone is HOT and that women are always falling all over him? Oh, and he gets the bad guys.

What I also love about these movies is that Selleck shows his age. He has lines on his face and he's a little thick around the middle.  And the other actors on the show--the supporting cast is terrific--look like real people. Also to admire (for gals of a certain age), the women Jesse cavorts with are age appropriate. There was a very young D.A. in one of the early movies, but she was quickly killed off. ;-)

The plots are engrossing. There are some ongoing story lines involving the tiny police department, the town, the city council, and the police and hoods of nearby Boston. It's fun to see Stone with his big city cop background collide with the small tourist town machine.  It's a mature series of movies. Refreshingly different from the flash-bang glittery Botox silcone stuff that's usually on.

I hadn't seen Selleck on T.V. for awhile. I don't watch much network TV.  I found the Jesse Stone movies via Netflix's recommended: "movies you might like."  And I do.  The Jesse Stone movies have made me (heart) Selleck all over again. My husband loves the movies too. If you to watch something great, rent these flicks.  Here they are in order:

Stone Cold (2005)
Jesse Stone: Night Passage (2006) a prequel to Stone Cold
Jesse Stone: Death In Paradise (2006)
Jesse Stone: Sea Change (2007)
Jesse Stone: Thin Ice (2009) 
Jesse Stone: No Remorse (2010)
Jesse Stone: Innocents Lost (2010)

An Artsy, Wordsy Weekend

It was a wonderful spring weekend full of creativity and friends. 

It kicked off on Friday afternoon with a visit to a terrific and moving photography show at LA Artcore Brewery Annex (650A S. Avenue 21, L.A. 90031). The show is titled: Quiet Heroes/Over 80 and the photographer is Barry Shaffer. Barry has been a dentist for over thirty years (he's my dentist!) and has transitioned his longtime photography hobby into something spectacular with this show.

With Quiet Heroes/Over Eighty, Barry set out to meet some of Los Angeles' oldest residents and document their lives. His subjects are almost all from other countries and many from backgrounds of war and conflict. The photos, all black and white, were taken in the subjects' homes using natural light. Barry sought to achieve intimacy seldom found in photographic portraiture. The exhibit is a celebration of humanity, wisdom, and our country's history of immigration and assimilation, exemplified by Los Angeles. 

The photographs and the subjects' stories are remarkable. Below, Barry and I are in front of two of his photographs.

See the show if you can. It's terrific and moving. Days later, I'm still reflecting on the subjects' images and words. The show continues until May 2. Go to Barry's site to learn more about the project:

http://overeighty.barryshafferphotography.com/

Friday night was the always fun pre-party for the L.A. Times Festival of Books at the Mystery Bookstore.  I spent Saturday at the festival on the UCLA campus (my alma mater).  I took a bunch of photos. Here's one with the awesome women of mystery I shared my signing time with at the Mystery Bookstore's booth. 

L to R: Cara Black, Alafair Burke, Karin Slaughter, me, and Kelli Stanley.

You can see all my festival photos here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=166588&id=565919000&l=9364736dc9

Will Write for $$$

I was with a group of friends, all accomplished professionals with good jobs. I was the only professional writer there. The conversation turned to books and authors. One friend asked, “Do writers write for money?” Another opined, “It’s an art. Writers don’t write for money.”

All eyes then turned on me and someone asked, “Do they?”

I felt like sarcastically responding, “Writers write purely for the love of it, just like when Mommy and Daddy love each other very much and, after a while, a stork delivers a baby to the house, or when the Tooth Fairy snatches lost teeth from beneath your pillow and…” You get the idea.

The truth, as usual, is more complicated.

The physician’s oath begins, “First, do no harm.” The writer’s should begin, “First, write for the love of writing.” Writers have to love writing because doing it well--writing something that others want to read--is hard work. Writing a book, sustaining a reader’s interest through 70,000 to 100,000 words (on average) is very hard work. That’s not counting the tens of thousands of words that will be jettisoned during the process, as rewriting that book is as important as cranking out the first draft.

Of course, one can write a book without passion for the craft of writing and storytelling. And one can write a book without any talent for writing. The problem is, all that becomes apparent in the work. Readers can not be fooled. Readers know the real thing.

So how can this sublime, creative, beautiful process be compatible with doing it for money? Well, Virginia, writers have the same basic needs as everyone else: food, shelter, safety. After the basics are taken care of, a few pats on the head for self esteem are also welcome.

The pressure to maintain a roof over the scribe and his or her family can be a tremendous motivation to keep churning out the words. At the Left Coast Crime conference in L.A. earlier this year, I heard Michael Connelly discuss having difficulty keeping his motivation going. Robert Crais quipped, “Michael, buy a bigger house.”

That night with my friends, I curbed my sarcastic impulse and instead related my favorite story about writers writing for money.

Mario Puzo had published several novels that were critically acclaimed but that hadn’t paid very well. He was married with five kids, working as a government clerk, and under financial pressure. He decided to turn out a book that would appeal to the masses and make a lot of money. During stints working in pulp journalism, he’d collected anecdotes about La Cosa Nostra. In the 1960s, the Mafia was just entering the public’s awareness and its inner workings were mysterious. Puzo’s book, The Godfather, published in 1969, was on the New York Times bestseller list for 67 weeks and was the basis of the three Godfather movies made by Francis Ford Coppola. Puzo didn’t just write a bestseller, he launched an entire goodfellas genre.

Do writers write for money? What do you think?

On Becoming an Adult Orphan

A friend who'd lost his father years ago, recently lost his mother. He told me, "I'm an orphan."

"Orphan" conjures images of scruffy waifs in drafty, moldering institutions, not middle-aged people with spouses, homes, and children. Having never known a parent is shattering. Losing a parent too young is shattering. Losing a parent at the "appropriate" time, when you're well into adulthood and after mom or dad has enjoyed a long life is... shattering.

This is not a cheerful topic. Aging and dying parents have become an epidemic among friends in my age group. But we are the lucky ones, having had our parents for so long. They are lucky too, experiencing the natural order of life and outliving their children.  Still, a parent’s decline and death rends to the core. 

Recently, I was at the gym when an acquaintance received news that his father had died, not unexpectedly. Still, he looked broken. He was a big, strong man, yet I glimpsed the boy he'd been.

I know how he felt.  One wonders, "Who am I now?"

Ten years ago, I’d received similar news. Mine came via a phone call from my aunt. She delivered her message in the plain-spoken, direct manner of the rural north Texas plains where both sides of my family are from. She said, “Your father is dead.”

The news was not unexpected. My father’s last months were a twilight nightmare. At last, the nightmare was over.  So when my aunt’s call came, it was a blessing and yet…

I hung up the phone and moved to an easy chair where I rarely sit. That day, I sat there with both feet on the ground and my arms resting on the chair arms. The solidity of the big old chair was comforting. I sat there for a long time and thought of my father. The most resonant memories were the most mundane. As a child, holding his hand that seemed impossibly big and strong. Climbing astride his shoulders and seeing the world from so high up. Racing in the yard where I could never catch him unless he let me. 

Decades later, I sat beside his hospital bed where his body, which had seemed so tall and invincible had atrophied.  I held that same hand that, beneath the weathered skin, was still big.  I whispered into his ear. I wasn't sure he understood or even heard, but I thought that maybe my voice, my presence might make some neurons fire. Whether he heard my words or not, I needed to say them, even though there had been little left unsaid between me and my dad while he was still standing.  We'd certainly had our differences. 
 
"Your father is dead."  Who am I now? I stepped into a role that was new to me—fatherless daughter.

As I drove home from the gym the day my acquaintance had heard about his father's passing, I looked at the puffy clouds moving across the sky. Although ethereal, clouds seem capable of holding our hopes, dreams, and memories, our grief and prayers. I'll tell my gym pal that the human heart is stronger than it sometimes seems. He'll be able to look for his dad there. That's where I look for mine and that's where I always find him--big, tall, and fast.

Permission To Keep Your Day Job

The other day, I was listening to a popular psychologist's radio show. I often agree with her, but that day, she gave a female caller what I thought was bad advice.

The caller was a single woman who was between jobs and living off savings. She was about to look for another job in sales, which she hates but it pays well. She felt stuck. She'd always done the safe thing career-wise and had never pursued her true passions: writing and photography. She was afraid of failure but more importantly, she was afraid of running out of money.

The radio host pronounced, "You're an artist. You will never be happy unless you fulfill your destiny." She advised the caller to immediately start writing and taking pictures and sending them around. "Sell your house, get a small apartment, and eventually you'll earn enough money to live." The shrink poo-pooed the caller's concerns about running out of money again imploring, "You're an artist."

I agree that the caller should follow her muse, but worrying about keeping a roof over my head never did much for my creativity. Earning a wage and pursuing your creative aspirations are not mutually exclusive.

The lifestyle of a full-time writer is very appealing. It was many years after I published my first book before I was able to make that transition. True, there are writers who rolled the dice and quit their day jobs when that first book was just a crazy glimmer in their eyes, but the vast majority started by balancing working for a living and building a writing career, book by book, reader by reader.

Some of the “roll the dice” tales have back stories. Some writers have gainfully employed spouses, or maybe cashed out of highly successful other careers, or perhaps don’t mind living like the Unabomber.

It takes months and even years to knock out that book that finally gets published.  If you earn a six figure advance for it, my hat's off.  The advance will probably be much less, tough to live on, and who knows if this new career's going to stick?

In the early years of my writing career, I was single without a spouse to fall back on. My modest investment portfolio would have been blown through in a few years if I had to live on it. When I was younger, I spent many years scraping by. I didn't like it then. I sure as hell wouldn't like it now.

Here's the great thing about writing. You can write books even if you can set aside just an hour a day as long as you write consistently.

Which is what I did. I rose at 4:30 a.m. and wrote before I went to work. At night, I took creative writing classes. I wrote on weekends. I was inspired by the book: Do What You Love, the Money Will Follow, by Marsha Sinetar.

I wrote and published three novels while working full-time. I was able to pare my job back to part-time and then published another four novels. It took me fifteen years to finally let go of the last of my day job.

Here’s a secret: I often found that day job to be a comfort when the writing wasn’t going well. Facing long stretches of time with just you and that blank page can be daunting. There’s a lot of pressure in trying to make a decent living as a writer.

So, my advice to the female caller who pines to be a writer/photographer is to find another job and carve out consistent time to follow your muse. Being able to work in your pajamas is fun, but no wine before its time. Until then, paychecks are good and compatible with creativity.

Conference Schedule with Palm Trees

Have no time to write something pithy, meaningful, yada yada... So, here's my schedule for Left Coast Crime and the Tuscon Festival of Books both happening this week and a cool photo I took of my favorite palm trees in Pasadena.

The palms are arranged in two groups along the side of the wonderfully renovated Pasadena Convention Center. I took the photo after the rain had stopped on a stormy late afternoon.  It was snapped on my BlackBerry Storm cell phone, which I usually have in hand. I think it takes great photos.

If you love crime fiction and non-fiction, come out to the Left Coast Crime conference, which this year is being held at the Omni Hotel in downtown L.A.  I'm moderating a panel this Thursday, March 11, at 3:30 called, "Your Roots are Showing."  It's a discussion between two crime writers who are native Los Angelenos (me and my friend Eric Stone) and two who are from elsewhere but who have lived in and written about the city (P.A. Brown  and Robert Ellis).

On Saturday, March 13, at 8:30 a.m. (I know, yikes!), come see me discuss "Love and Death" with a fabu group of women writers including: Susan Slater, Erica Spindler, Linda O. Johnson, and Sophie Littlefield.

Sunday, March 14, I'll be at the Tucson Festival of Books. At 1:00, I'm delighted to be on a panel with Richard Lange and Thomas Perry discussing "L.A. Noir." I'll have a signing at the festival at 2:30. Then I'll be signing at the festival booth of the wonderful Clues Unlimited bookstore in Tucson at 3:30.

If you're going to be around any of these events, please stop by and say hi!

It's All About The S-T-O-R-Y

It happened again. I was at a social event, chatting with an aquaintance, a woman who knows I write crime novels, and she began, "I have a great idea for your next book."

I said, "I'm intrigued. Tell me more."

She said, "I was at my hairdresser and she has women in her shop as old as ninety and as young as her little four-year-old granddaughter. All the stories they tell and the wonderful lives they've led... I thought that would be just perfect for your next book."

I'm thinking, She's never read one of my rather gritty crime thrillers. I've discussed writing with this woman before and I know she'd like to write fiction. So, I said, "I think that's a great topic for you to write about. Think up a ticking time bomb. Something that happens to a couple of the women. Something life-altering. A story."

She gave me a blank look.  Story.  That's the rub, isn't it?

I have a rather crusty friend, a former law enforcement guy who's been around the writing biz, putting out novels and screenplays, for decades. He loves to give advice. More than once over lunch, he's turned his steely gaze on me and said, "Never forget, it's all about the S-T-O-R-Y."

I've been around this block a few times myself and have to agree. And this is especially true when it comes to writing mystery and suspense fiction. Of course characters count. Of course the quality of the writing counts. But what really keeps readers turning the pages is the story.

But, you counter, if I don't care about the characters, I don't care about finishing the book. True. But those characters have to be doing something that reveals their essence that propels the reader to care about them. They don't exist in a vacuum, or just in a beauty shop.

Think about the authors who are accused of having wooden characters and flat prose but who can tell a rip-roaring page-turner. Tom Clancy and John Grisham come to mind. Contrast them with authors who pen gorgeous character studies, as perfect as tiny jeweled boxes, such as... Hmm... I can't think of any . Can you?

Yes, we must love the characters, above all, but they must do something, act out some sort of drama to interest us, to move us, even to scare us, on the page as in life, no?