lying for a living

In the L.A. Weekly, Thomas Perry analyzes why suspense novels keep us glued to the page.

We go to great lengths to manage our lives in ways that will keep us from having to go through periods of uncertainty — particularly when it’s prolonged, and when the stakes are high. But in reading fiction, especially a novel, we crave this sensation of increasing tension, and the higher the stakes, the better. We love the experience of sitting somewhere in perfect safety with a book while some character serves as our surrogate in facing a world full of danger. What we’re enjoying is growing excitement, followed by a tantalizingly delayed cathartic ending. It’s a quality of all good fiction, and it’s why the reader keeps turning the pages.

He uses Pride and Prejudice to demonstrate how it works.

And he notes, “As much as they might enjoy suspense, critics tend to be a bit suspicious of it, perhaps because it seems to stimulate emotion rather than intellect: It makes readers care rather than think.”

(Via Sarah Weinman.)

This week I’m writing for Penguin USA’s blog. Today’s post is about the heroine of my new novel, Jo Beckett.

People ask me what my new novel’s about. It’s a thriller set in San Francisco, I tell them. The heroine’s Jo Beckett, a forensic psychiatrist. It’s The Dirty Secrets Club.

These people then give me a look. Dirty secrets, they say - how much do you know about that? Those years you lived near San Francisco, what kind of crazy things did you get up to?

I can’t talk them out of the look, no matter how many times I explain that novels are fiction. They nod, and say: Of course you invented the club. For the book. Sure you did.

Then, with the same expression of disbelief, they say: a forensic psychiatrist. Did you make that one up? Does the job actually exist?

Absolutely.

Read the rest of the post here.

I spent the weekend at CrimeFest, the new crime fiction festival in Bristol. I moderated a panel on women in crime fiction and spoke on another about thriller writing. Best of all was getting to meet readers, other authors, editors, and journalists — including some people I’ve only known until now through e-mail or this blog.

A few photos. Apologies for the quality of the shots… this is a writer’s blog.

The Marriott on College Green, where the conference was held.

Jeff Lindsay — a very funny guy, especially considering he writes the Dexter novels.

Ian Rankin, who — despite being introduced by Toastrix Natasha Cooper, in her best Scots burr, as “that man in a skirt” — did not arrive from Edinburgh wearing a kilt.

Me with conference director Adrian Muller, his wife Jen of Poisoned Pen Press, and Laurie R. King.

With Maxine Clark, the formidable blogger behind Petrona.

It was a wonderful time. Now we’re home and watching Bullitt. A great way to end the weekend, and to start a week where I’m off to San Francisco.

UPDATE: I’m too preoccupied with folding laundry and packing for my U.S. trip to do CrimeFest justice. For a much more thorough account of the weekend, check out Laurie R. King’s entertaining recaps.

UPDATE 2: More at Petrona.

Typo on diplomas embarrasses Ohio principal.

As well it should:

WESTLAKE, Ohio - A Cleveland-area principal says he’s embarrassed his students got proof of their “educaiton” on their high school diplomas.

Westlake High School officials misspelled “education” on the diplomas distributed last weekend. It’s been the subject of mockery on local radio.

Principal Timothy Freeman says he sent back the diplomas once to correct another error. When the diplomas came back, no one bothered to check things they thought were right the first time.

Off to Bristol. Back later, possibly with photos.

John Grisham gushes in The Onion about “This really neat literary device” he’s just discovered: “It’s this thing where, in the beginning of the story, you put in all these little ‘hints’ about stuff that’s going to happen later on. I can’t wait to try it out!”

Another thing I like is that you can put foreshadows in anywhere: in the dialogue, in the descriptions, even in the rising action. I suppose you could even plot out the whole story arc ahead of time, before you start writing, and put in the hints as you go along. Usually I just sit down and start typing, and then come up with a climax when I get to 450 pages.

I wish I had learned about this foreshadowing technique earlier. Like, in the beginning of The Partner—this story I wrote about a junior attorney who pulls off the white-collar crime of the century—I could have put in some “clues” that the guy’s lover is greedy or evil. That would have “foreshadowed” the end where she steals all his money. That would’ve been so cool!

He’s going to tell James Patterson and Patricia Cornwell all about it.

“Fashion statements may seem insignificant, but when they lead to the mainstreaming of violence — unintentionally or not — they matter. Ignorance is no longer an excuse.” — Michelle Malkin.

Thanks to Malkin’s relentless campaigning, and the threat of a boycott, Dunkin’ Donuts has withdrawn its horrifying TV ad. You saw it, right? The commercial where the thug in a balaclava pistol whips a school bus of kindergartners into eating glazed doughnuts until rainbow sprinkles pour out their noses.

Okay, no. That’s not what she means by “the mainstreaming of violence.” She’s talking about the ad where Food Network host Rachael Ray stands in front of cherry trees, urging folks to try DD’s iced coffee, wearing a snazzy gray T-shirt and a fringed paisley scarf.

Dunkin’ Donuts pulled a television spot featuring talk show host and Food Network personality Rachael Ray this weekend after a Fox news commentator associated it with terrorists.

In the ad, Ray is wearing a scarf that Michelle Malkin said in her nationally syndicated column resembled a kiffiyeh, Middle Eastern garb that is “popularized by Yasser Arafat and a regular adornment of Muslim terrorists appearing in beheading and hostage-taking videos.”

It’s also worn at some point by virtually all guys from Morocco to Dubai, and has been for at least a hundred years, not to mention that it’s popular with British soldiers and even with some American G.I.s stationed in the region. Listen. I ain’t a fan of Yasser, much less of jihadis. I would never choose to wear a keffiyeh to make a political statement. I wouldn’t wear a Mao T-shirt, either. Or a Che Guevara shirt, except the one on which his beret is replaced with a propeller beanie. But Malkin’s vitriol was a preposterous overreaction. Either that, or it was or a fearmongering stunt. Because, in the ad, Ray isn’t making a political statement, “unintentionally or not.” She is not wearing a keffiyeh. She’s wearing a silk scarf. But thanks to Malkin and the craven executives at Dunkin’ Donuts, any neckware with fringe and checks shall now be screamed at as the deadly TERRORSCARF.

Malkin is pleased: “In post-9/11 America, vigilance must never go out of style.”

Next for the eternally hypervigilant: (1) McDonald’s is boycotted for pricing Big Macs using Arabic numbers, and (2) cowboys are barred from the rodeo circuit for wearing fringed jackets and TERRORCHAPS.

(Via Andrew Sullivan, who says: “Words fail.”)

At heart, I sometimes think, I’m twelve years old. When this image appeared on the screen at the theater yesterday, I giggled with absurd, breathless anticipation, leaned toward my son, and said, “It’s been so long.”

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull exceeded my hopes. Granted, those hopes had amounted to: Please don’t suck. But, in fact, the movie is whipcracking, rocket-sledding, blow-dart-shooting fun.

Reasons: Indy. Marion! A lead-lined fridge. An awesome mushroom cloud. And a chase scene that features a motorcycle and a library. Yes: there’s hot book action. Watch me clap my little hands together with glee.

In the end, however, I had to acknowledge that twelve-years-old was a long time ago. The Husband and I left the theater laughing about how we knew the rest of the audience was much younger than we are. Every time a plot twist unfolded, we’d seen it coming for forty-five minutes. But around us a hundred middle schoolers gasped in shock.

But isn’t that what Saturday afternoon serials were supposed to be about?

I’m off to speak at a benefit for The Shooting Star Children’s Hospice. Shooting Star provides care for children and their families who are facing unimaginably difficult circumstances. The hospice offers its help for free to families, every day of the year. I’m only too happy to help them raise the funds they need.

Last night at the Gore Hotel in London, Sue Grafton received the Cartier Diamond Dagger, awarded by the Crime Writers’ Association for sustained excellence in crime writing. I’m a member of the CWA’s committee, and it was a huge kick to see my fellow Santa Barbaran pick up this award. BookTrade has the official press release, but here are a few photos from the event.

Ms. Grafton, speaking to the crowd:

Me with Ayo Onatade, who writes for Shots and Mystery Women, judges the CWA’s short story Dagger, manages the office of the high court at the House of Lords, and still finds time to attend literary events.

With David Headley of the wonderful Goldsboro Books.

With Sue Grafton, her charming husband Steven Humphrey, and my own charming husband, the Husband (also known as Paul Shreve, on the right).

Sharon Kendrick, a regular commenter on this blog, continues her run as Britain’s most articulate — and funniest — advocate for romance writing. Last night, BBC TV’s The One Show had a feature on the 100th anniversary of her publisher, Mills and Boon. With her usual panache, Sharon described the key ingredients in a successful romance novel, beginning with “A powerful, passionate, autocratic, and filthy rich hero.”

Of course the feature included the usual “Who admits to reading these books?” bit, along with some unsurprising cultural commentary. Romance novels are… unrealistic. (No kidding.) Escapist. (That’s the point of romance novels.) Slight. (Duh — by definition, frothy entertainment shouldn’t be heavy.)

Are they my thing? No. But whenever a feature on romance writing develops a sneer, or quotes a woman (as the BBC did) who says, “We don’t believe in romantic fantasy. We’re liberal feminists,” I roll my eyes. Stop sounding so stale. What is this, 1971? Quit acting like a Ms. magazine cliche and come up with a fresh critique of the genre. (It harms sheikhs and Greek tycoons, who face pressure to live up to unrealistic expectations about their romantic prowess. Or it monopolizes the world’s supply of adverbs.) Besides: frowning, ideological condescension makes me want to take to the barricades in defense of frothy entertainment. Romance novels aren’t going to undermine women’s rights, any more than Barbie is going to destroy the revolution in Iran.

But the Mills and Boon segment was merely the prelude to a glorious display of idiocy. Another guest on the show was Geri Halliwell, alias Ginger Spice. She looked great, with her red curls and frothy miniskirt, and was obviously delighted to be in the studio, judging from the manic, hedgehog-in-the-headlights gleam in her eyes. After the feature she was asked whether she read romance novels. The next minute went like this.

• Geri admits that she loves romance novels. (When she was eleven, she discovered Jackie Collins.) At this point, she crosses her legs and her filmy skirt whisks into the air, wriggling higher and higher up her thighs, until the host finally asks her to pull it down. And tack it to her knees.
• She explains that her mom has the novels in Spanish. And so she “nicked” a title and used it “when she was writing” one of her songs: “Donde esta el hombre con fuego en la sangre?” ( “Where is the man with fire in the blood?”)
• After watching a montage of (hilarious) Mills and Boon covers, she gets an intense look in her eyes and says, “Are they still going, then?” Keeping their faces heroically straight, the hosts tell her, yes — it’s Mills and Boon’s 100th anniversary. Unsaid: Yes, you twit — that’s why we’ve been talking about them here on national TV for the PAST FIVE MINUTES.

Flashing, a confession to plagiarism, and a display of ignorance that would shame a moldy head of cauliflower, all in the space of 45 seconds. You can’t beat live television.

(If you’re in the UK, you can watch the episode until May 8 here.)

On the Events page, I’ve posted some confirmed dates for my U.S. tour.

Between June 11 and June 29 I’ll be doing readings and signings in Houston (at the terrific, and terrifically supportive, bookstore Murder by the Book), San Francisco, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara (Yeah! Chaucer’s! And all of you — everybody I’m related to or went to school with or sat in traffic with on State Street — are going to be there. Yes, you are!), Phoenix, New York, Dayton, and Pittsburgh.

I’ll update the listings as I know more. I wish I could stop everywhere and sign every copy of The Dirty Secrets Club, but it’s a big country. Thanks to Dutton’s huge support, I’m hitting as many places as I possibly can.