Yesterday, in honor of International Women’s Day, Facebook held a 24-hour live event. Public figures and leaders from around the world went Live on Facebook using the hashtag #SheMeansBusiness to bring attention to inspiring women and women-operated businesses. I joined other authors from Penguin Random House and women around the world to speak about the women in my life who inspire me. The video is now up on my Facebook author page. You can click over to watch it, and click the #SheMeansBusiness hashtag to watch other videos.
During this festive season, whether you celebrate Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, the Winter Solstice, the Summer Solstice, Boxing Day, Hogmanay, Saturnalia, all of the above, or merely waking up in the morning, please be sure to enjoy that great holiday tradition: Die Hard.
Yes, it’s the best action movie ever made. Yes, it’s a Christmas movie. Yes, because of this movie, my son once went to an Ugly Christmas Sweater Party wearing a gray sweatshirt on which he’d scrawled, “NOW I HAVE A MACHINE GUN HO-HO-HO,” which prompted someone to tell me I was a disgusting mother.
If you’re a thriller writer, watch Die Hard to see how it’s done. If you’re not, watch it to enjoy the story, the dialogue, the gutsy snark of Bruce Willis, and the gleaming, urbane menace of Alan Rickman.
Posted in Culture, Life
Tagged Die Hard
What happens when a thriller writer texts with a close friend about exercise and home repairs? If the thriller writer is me, and the friend is another writer whose home has a concrete basement with a drain in the center of the floor, this.
I love having buddies who speak my language.
And I presume that the relevant national security and law enforcement agencies are crawling through my friend’s neighborhood, searching for a basement window where Heisenberg is bouncing in and out of sight.
CHIRPY VOICE: Hi! This is Ashley with consumer promotions!
ME: (Thinking… Ashley sounds suspiciously like a recording.)
ASHLEY: How are you today?
ME: I’m hanging upside down on a hook in a meat packing plant.
ASHLEY: Great! You’re eligible to win a Caribbean vacation!
ME: They’re coming for you next, Ashley.
ASHLEY: It’s exciting! Let’s get started!
And I went back to my coffee. Now people in Starbucks are giving me the side eye.
On Elm Street in Dallas, where afternoon traffic speeds toward a triple underpass, the asphalt is painted with an X. No one’s sure who put it there after the street was resurfaced. It’s probably several millimeters off the actual location it marks. It’s unadorned, and so deeply portentous that my head spun when I saw it. Because it marks the spot outside the Texas School Book Depository where American history turned. At 12:30 p.m. on November 22, 1963.
I went to Dallas to do book research. I went to the Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza to visit a site, and revisit a tragedy, that tore through the country and the heart of the Sixties. I was curious, and wanted to pay my respects to the legacy of John F. Kennedy. I found myself unexpectedly overcome by the weight and presence of the assassination. Approaching the sixth floor corner where Oswald set up his sniper’s nest is a visceral experience. The corner is now sealed off with Plexiglas. The museum points out that this preserves a crime scene. That’s putting it mildly.
As an American, the story has always transfixed me. As a writer, I expected to be fascinated by the details, and perhaps to squirrel some away for use in my next book. I wasn’t prepared to get punched in the gut emotionally. And in this hyper-heated election season, I became acutely conscious that political passions can erupt with devastating consequences. Democracy depends on every citizen working to promote the legal, peaceful transfer of power. We can’t forget that. If we do, we’re doomed.
But that’s the thing about research: the unexpected happens. If you open yourself up to where you are, you learn so much more than you ever imagined possible.
Rest in peace, Mr. President.
Posted in Life
Tagged JFK, Kennedy
It’s spring, and in the Texas Hill Country, the bluebonnets are in bloom.
It’s a good day to remember to stop and smell the flowers.
It’s that time of year. Ask me questions. I’ll answer.
Ask about the writing process, or whether it’s true I snort coffee straight from the bag before I sit down at the keyboard. Ask about my novels, or my characters. About plot and structure and dialogue and research. Or how I feel about talent, inspiration, and luck. About the secret tunnels under the Vatican, and about that thing that has built a nest in the attic. What the hell is it?
I’ll be here all week.