A New Year's present

Those of you who get the newsletter already know this, but there’s now an excerpt from THE ART OF DETECTION THE ART OF DETECTIONon the web site, along with the cover art for the book and for the new short story, “Cat’s Paw”. I’ll be posting more on THE ART OF DETECTION later in the spring, photos of sites from the story and of course reviews when they come in, but it’s so dreary and rainy here on the Central Coast, I wanted to offer something to cheer up the dregs of 2005.

I hope you all had a good Christmas, or are having a good Hanukkah. I’ve spent the past few days dashing in and out the door in my raincoat, acting in my new role as chief chauffeur--airport runs every couple of days, doctors’ appointments—five in three days, involving two different patients. And on the way back from the airport on Monday, my faithful Land Rover wheezed and apologetically died on the freeway, although it chose a place and time that were remarkably convenient for the purpose, it being the first gap in rain for days, and the spot having a shoulder, unlike the frightening stretch of curvy road with no shoulders that lay just a couple miles further on. For the last three years I’ve been trying to decide if it is better to hang onto a car whose foibles I know, ten years and 140,000 miles on, or to trade in for a new one that might or might not be more dependable. As I am now the main transport engineer in a house full of aging people, maybe a vehicle that works would be a good idea…

But I like my Land Rover. The new models are ugly, looking more like minivans than something deserving of Africa, and although a lot of things have gone wrong with the thing, and every problem costs a lot to fix, this is the first time it's actually refused to soldier on.

Yeah, yeah, I know--if it were an American car I'd be cursing it as a piece of junk with the first blown fuse, but because I have this soft place for the English...

In any case, the fuel pump is replaced, the rental car is but a memory, I have another two runs to physicians today, and I'm supposed to start a book next week. Life trundles on.

Happy New Year to you all, and I hope you enjoy meeting Kate Martinelli again after all these years.

Seasonal greetings

Two bits of news to tuck under your Christmas tree or Hanukkah bush.

One, following the example of JK Rowling, sometime after Christmas I’m going to post the first chapter of THE ART OF DETECTION on the web site. If you get the newsletter, you’ll know when.

And second, as of the first of the year, I’m going to try a monthly “Ask LRK” feature on this blog. From time to time, people send in comments that are actually unrelated to what’s going on in the blog at the time, and although I often make note of them with the idea of talking about them some time, they generally get lost in the shuffle.

In this age of electronic communication, I realize how frustrating it can be when someone is off the grid, as it were, and since I can only be reached by snail mail, it makes a job of it. So this way, once a month, I’ll try to respond to electronic queries, and we’ll see how that goes. To make it easy, let’s just say the first of the month will be Ask Laurie Day, and I’ll either deal with everything over the next few days, or if there are a lot of questions, I’ll pick and choose what I think everyone will be interested in.

So note your questions, and send them the first of the new year.

As for the solstice holidays, I bring to your attention the words of Thomas Jefferson, writing in 1798 at the passage of the Sedition Act):

“A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles.”

Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, and an enlightened Solstice to us all.

Touching on TOUCHSTONE

The problem with writing a book around characters is that eventually, they have to have something to do. TOUCHSTONE’s protagonist is very clear to me, and has been for the eighteen months that I’ve been thinking about the book. I know his character, his history, his setting, but the events in which I shall immerse him are still very, shall we say, fluid. In the gaps between other forms of busyness, from Christmas shopping to organizing the 2007 Edgars panels, I pick up various books on England in the Twenties and try to find his political home.

The Twenties were a between-time, with the Great War taking a step back in people’s minds and the events leading up to the Second War nothing more than a twinkle in their instigator’s eyes.

O JERUSALEM was about the period in Palestine, now Israel, when the British were in control and beginning to make the decisions that would lead to what we see in that part of the world today. Writing THE GAME, although it takes place in 1924, I had in mind the conflict going on there now, repetition of a cycle of Afghan conquest and resistance that the British knew all too well, the Russians encountered in their foray south, and our own dear President imagines he can overcome.

So TOUCHSTONE needs a political home, needs to reverberate (in my own mind, if no one else’s) in today’s world and with today’s events. I am narrowing down the Twenties events I want to use, but it’s highly irritating, that a suspense novel can’t just be about the people, but has to have a story line as well…

Pinter’s Nobel (2)

The more authority a person has, the greater the impact of his or her passing by. Young singers tossed into huge fame take a while to realize the consequences of their every act; Bill Gates took a long time before he woke up to his money and began to commit some of it to good causes.

The greater the fame, the larger the footprint.

Again, excerpts from Pinter’s Nobel speech follow. Listen not only to the man’s outrage, the howl of his shame and the agony of his excoriated conscience, but listen to the words, the sheer power of his words:



What has happened to our moral sensibility? Did we ever have any? What do these words mean? Do they refer to a term very rarely employed these days – conscience? A conscience to do not only with our own acts but to do with our shared responsibility in the acts of others? Is all this dead?
. . .

The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of international law. The invasion was an arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies upon lies and gross manipulation of the media and therefore of the public; an act intended to consolidate American military and economic control of the Middle East masquerading – as a last resort – all other justifications having failed to justify themselves – as liberation. A formidable assertion of military force responsible for the death and mutilation of thousands and thousands of innocent people.
. . .

When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimetre and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never-ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror – for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us.

Pinter's Nobel

The following is an excerpt from Harold Pinter’s acceptance speech at the Nobel Prizes, as an illustration of how one can make use of fame:


I was present at a meeting at the US embassy in London in the late 1980s.

The United States Congress was about to decide whether to give more money to the Contras in their campaign against the state of Nicaragua. I was a member of a delegation speaking on behalf of Nicaragua but the most important member of this delegation was a Father John Metcalf. The leader of the US body was Raymond Seitz (then number two to the ambassador, later ambassador himself). Father Metcalf said: 'Sir, I am in charge of a parish in the north of Nicaragua. My parishioners built a school, a health centre, a cultural centre. We have lived in peace. A few months ago a Contra force attacked the parish. They destroyed everything: the school, the health centre, the cultural centre. They raped nurses and teachers, slaughtered doctors, in the most brutal manner. They behaved like savages. Please demand that the US government withdraw its support from this shocking terrorist activity.'

Raymond Seitz had a very good reputation as a rational, responsible and highly sophisticated man. He was greatly respected in diplomatic circles. He listened, paused and then spoke with some gravity. 'Father,' he said, 'let me tell you something. In war, innocent people always suffer.' There was a frozen silence. We stared at him. He did not flinch.

Innocent people, indeed, always suffer.

Finally somebody said: 'But in this case “innocent people” were the victims of a gruesome atrocity subsidised by your government, one among many. If Congress allows the Contras more money further atrocities of this kind will take place. Is this not the case? Is your government not therefore guilty of supporting acts of murder and destruction upon the citizens of a sovereign state?'

Seitz was imperturbable. 'I don't agree that the facts as presented support your assertions,' he said.

As we were leaving the Embassy a US aide told me that he enjoyed my plays. I did not reply.

Fame

There is an interesting discussion about fame in the writing world going on over at the new blog site, Contemporary Nomad (and thanks to the ever-excellent Sarah Weinman at Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind for bringing the site to my attention.)

I’m comfortable with my own mild level of fame. I get recognized at conventions, but because I don’t encourage the local paper to do pieces on me, I can go to the nearby mall or grocery store without a lot of nudges and looks (although I do make sure that I’m wearing clean clothes and have my hair under control before I venture any further than the local small grocers.) And it’s gratifying to be able to go into any bookstore, even the chains that are staffed by fourteen year-olds, and generally get no further than, “My name is Laurie King and I’m a writer—“ before the person behind the counter begins nodding with enthusiasm, or at least recognition, and says, “Of course, I know your books, how can I help you?”

There are, however, drawbacks, even to mild levels of fame. As mentioned, I need to check my shirt before I get into the car, to make sure there aren’t too many splotches of tomato sauce from cooking last night’s dinner (the shirt having been recycled because I’m in the middle of a book and forgot to put the laundry into the dryer, so the shirts there have taken on that rich mildew smell that means another round through the Hot cycle.) And when some idiot cuts me off while I’m driving, I keep my upraised finger below the level of the windows and mutter my curses instead of shouting them.

Basically, my level of fame has a civilizing effect, encouraging me to behave in the way I should anyway.

And then there are the other times, when you would really rather be invisible, and feel like you’ve just encountered an ex-boyfriend when you were at your worst possible moment, surrounded with hysterical and filthy children, in frumpy clothes and hair unwashed for five days.

I was at my gut doctor’s a couple of months ago, part of a cycle of trying to find out what a problem was that over the course of the year had me trooping through the offices of the ENT, an endocrinologist, an internal medical doctor (rather begging the question, aren’t they all internal medicine doctors?), and eventually this gastroenterologist, who thought I might have acid reflux from a pill prescribed by one of the other doctors for a condition that didn’t actually exist but might have, so try this and oops, yes, severe thrush in the mouth and throat and a year’s worth of gut problems might indeed be a side effect…

…but I digress. The gut lady, or gastroenterologist, finished with her various exams, handed me yet another prescription, and then launched into what was clearly a well-rehearsed spiel on the absolute necessity of a colonoscopy for everyone over the age of fifty, regardless of family history, the considerable discomfort it entails, and the devastating lack of dignity in any procedure involving lying with your butt in the air while a team of people in white coats sticks instruments inside. I returned her volley with some pointed questions about hazards, benefits, and alternatives, since I’d been through this with my general doctor not very long before, and she hunkered down against her clipboard, searching for the convincing argument.

Then her face brightened, and she stepped up again with what she clearly thought would be the clincher:

“And besides, all the women down in X-Ray are real fans of yours.”

And in case you're wondering? No, I haven't made that appointment yet.

Chickpeas and Beekeepers

Okay, so I’m 53 years old and just the other day realized why garbanzo beans are also known as “chickpeas.” I was picking over some French lentils and found this larger pale object nestled among the dark green dots, and suddenly noticed that it is precisely the shape of a neatly tucked-together chicken ready for the oven—a roaster sized for a doll house.

So, when precisely does finally one know all these obvious things?

****
Even before the last exchange of posts, I didn’t want to use this blog as a forum for hawking books, but with The Giving Season coming up, I should mention that if you have someone on your list who would love a copy of the hardback BEEKEEPER’S APPRENTICE, but you can’t justify the price of a first edition ($350? $500??), the original hardback is actually still available—it’s the twelfth or fifteenth printing, but everything’s pretty much the same. St. Martin’s Press has been really great, keeping the hardback in print for going on twelve years now, and I like to encourage them to make it available for a while longer.

And if you want it signed and shipped to you, my local (independent) bookseller at Crossroads Books can arrange that for you, if you phone (831.728.4139) or drop him a line (waarden@sbcglobal.net.) Tell him Laurie sent you.

Never mind...

Thank you Chris, and Mr or Ms Bookworm, for remindimg me that I'd asked for feedback concerning the comment. I thought Chris's remarks referred to my post, not my comment on the comment on the post, which now has a post of its own to comment on....

I really shouldn't do this before I have my coffee in the morning.

Web etiquette

I’ve only been doing this blogging thing since February, and without a doubt there are niceties of behavior of which I am not aware. However, can I ask for feedback on the following comment:

Chris said (concerning my post last week about ARCs) “Not keen on the ‘advert.’ It’s presumptious. Not the done thing to use someone else’s web site without permission…”

So I’m asking about web etiquette here. Certainly it’s not the done thing to use the CONTENTS of someone’s site without ACKNOWLEDGMENT, but are we forbidden mere reference to another’s post? I had rather assumed the rules went along the lines of scholarly debate in print journals, with reference and refutation. Or are we to treat the contents of a blog as a private letter, only to be used with the express permission of the author?

And second, did anyone else take my posting as being an “advert”? It was a criticism, certainly, of those who receive free ARCs from the publisher and turn around and sell them for profit, but I did not think I was presuming to ask anyone to buy one of my books who wouldn’t be buying it anyway.

I’d appreciate some response to Chris’s remarks.

Polite response, of course.

Thanks, Laurie.

The ARC

I’ve been thinking about ARCs lately, after my publisher very generously upped their order of the things for my own purposes. And then Sarah has been talking about the subject over at the great communal blog Galleycat, too(the Dec 2 posting), prompting this post of mine.

ARC, for those not conversant with the ins and outs of this odd industry, stands for Advanced Reading Copy, known also as bound galleys. These are in effect a paperback version of an upcoming hardback, complete with all the errors of the proof pages (“galleys”), which are sent to reviewers and buyers some months before the publication date. After all, if the publisher wants the title reviewed before publication, and if it is to be on the bookseller’s shelf on the sale date and not a couple of months later, they need to give buyers and reviewers lead time. The number of ARCs varies wildly, of course, but printing two to three thousand of them for a bestselling author is about the usual.

Now, the ARC nearly always clearly says on the front of it, “Not for resale.” Nonetheless, ARCs are sold, by the hundreds, in antiquarian booksellers, by collectors, and (practically as soon as they hit the mail room) on eBay.

Even the most mild-mannered of publicists tear their hair the practice. A lot of writers refuse to autograph the things. I personally never mind signing them for the booksellers who received them in the first place, since usually that bookseller hung onto the ARC because they love my writing; however, it does trouble me when a collector presents me with a stack of them that are clearly intended for resale.

As Sarah points out, the problem is, how many sold ARCs translate into unsold hardbacks? Devoted collectors will buy both, but how many readers have the means to do that? If one of my readers reader shells out $40 for a flimsy and uncorrected paperback version of the upcoming $25 THE ART OF DETECTION because he or she just can’t wait to read it, is s/he then going to buy the hardback anyway in May, for the definitive punctuation, the pleasure of a beautiful book, and the ability to lend it to countless friends before it falls apart? I’d like to think so, but I have my doubts.

Thing is, I make my living out of selling books, not selling ARCs. My publisher has been very generous in their willingness to print bound galleys, because it’s the most effective way to promote the book before publication. But ARCs cost them money, and sold ARCs are a hole in the pocket.

A $25 hardback brings the writer between ten and fifteen percent of the cover price. Every ARC sold in place of a hardback takes $2.50 to $3.75 out of my bank account. This is not a lot of money if we’re talking a dozen ARCs, but if we’re talking hundreds, that hurts.

Then there are the long term effects. Numbers are all in the publishing world, and as eBay and the like grow and make the selling of ARCs ever easier, how does that affect my own numbers of books sold? If your local Borders normally orders twenty copies of the new Laurie King, but last time only sold eighteen because two people bought ARCs and decided to wait until the paperback comes out, then next time that Borders is only going to order eighteen. Multiply that times the number of stores across the country…

And of course, the bestseller lists. If I have a book that hits the number sixteen slot on the New York Times extended list, I can’t help agonizing over how many more sold during publication week would have brought it to number fifteen, at which point it would have become an official, bona fide, “New York Times bestseller.” A silly distinction, perhaps, but that phrase attached to an author’s name or stamped on the cover of a book makes a huge difference in the eyes of the publishing world.

If, say, one in ten of the publisher’s ARCs end up being sold to readers who then did not buy the hardback when it came out, would those two or three hundred lost sales have nudged the book that one step further into prominence?

Readers don’t think about these things—and why would they? The point is having the story out, and who wants to wait until May if you can lay your hands on a copy of THE ART OF DETECTION in February? It is, of course, immensely gratifying that people care enough for my books that they’re willing to pay twice the price for even a pale imitation of the final product. However…

Writers like me can only afford to write if our books sell. Publishers can only afford to publish writers whose books sell. And booksellers can only afford to pay the rent on their spaces if their books sell.

I’m not going to tell you not to buy an ARC. I’m not even going to ask you not to sell one, because after all, it’s only taking advantage of a publishing house, right?

But I will ask you to think about the writer. This is a tricky business; writers disappear every day. So if you buy an ARC—mine, someone else’s, it matters not—please, buy the hardback when it comes out, too. And if you didn’t really like the book, or just didn’t care for it enough to own the real thing, or even if you just have no room on your shelf, buy it anyway, and donate it to your local library. It’s tax deductible, they’ll love you, and the glow of Doing the Right Thing will spill over into the rest of your day.