Malice: A Forethought

By the time you read this, I’ll be on a train to Washington DC, sleep-deprived, but ready to commit (to) Malice. 

The Malice Domestic writer/fan convention celebrates the traditional mystery, giving the “Cozy” its due in a world that sometimes seems to think that the darker and more inaccessible a mystery is, the better it must be.

This year, for the first time, I’m headed down on Thursday at a reasonable hour. 

For years, Malice competed with the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Awards (the Oscars of the mystery world), which were held on Thursday night. So, if you went to the Edgars, you missed part of Malice. Unless you stayed up and took the 4am train.

I did that once, when Death in Her Face came out. I was lucky enough to get a spot in the Malice Go Round, which gives authors who’ve had books published since the previous Malice a chance to meet a few hundred readers in a sort of speed-dating for authors.

There was not enough Refresh in the world to get the red out of my eyes. I looked like a character in a paranormal. 

This year however, the Edgars were held on Wednesday night. I think there might have been some confusion about dates on the part of the hotel. It would explain two bottles of free wine on each table.

The Edgar Awards are the culminating event of Edgar Week, which kicked off Monday evening with the launch of the Mystery Writers of America Cookbook at Mysterious Bookshop. 

“Wickedly good” recipes from dozens of celebrated writers. Here are two. From left, contributors Alafair Burke and Chris Pavone, with editor Kate White, and administrative director of MWA, Margery Flax. 

And here is non-contributor me, catching some cool air and outdoor conversation with the legendary Otto Penzler, Charles Todd (contributor), Judy Bobolik, Ruth Jordan and Crimespree Cats. 

Tuesday, it was the MWA Symposium, panels of really famous writers and the Edgar nominees (some of those are the same people) with cogent insights on the craft, business and heart of writing. That’s followed each year by a cocktail party for MWA members, with agents and editors as guests. That's followed by going out and staying out late in NYC with friends you haven't seen in months!

Then the Edgars. Repeat last sentence above.

Hence, my sleep deprivation.

But I'm looking forward to Malice, especially my panel.  Although there was a frisson of anxiety about that late last week.

The moderator had to bow out suddenly, and moderating is not a job just anyone can step into. It’s not simply coming up with a few questions that fit the topic and asking each panelist the same thing, and hope interesting discussion magically occurs. Not if you do it right.

But – sigh of relief – the excellent Marcia Talley, the author of the Hannah Ives series, agreed to step in. Here’s Marcia with her Agatha for Best Short Story a few Malices ago.

Actually BIG sigh of relief. I know I'm in excellent hands. And this has not always been the case.

I’ve attended dozens of different conventions all across the country and have had largely very enjoyable panel experiences. But I've had a few bad ones, and they haunt me and can cause nervous tics to develop just upon entering a hotel ballroom. Let me give you two examples.  

Second-worst panel I was ever on, the moderator let one panelist hijack the whole show, allowing him to go on and on for about 10 minutes to each question, while the rest of us politely confined ourselves to the 3 minutes that were the alleged maximum. I was halfway into answering only my second question when the timekeeper at the back of the room held up the Time for Q&A sign.

The worst was the one in which the moderator gave us no idea what she was going to do with the topic because she liked to “wing it” and thought that was a great way to encourage spontaneity. I think it's a great way to encourage stuttering and half-considered answers that can make a person look addled. Her focus and the panel topic bore no resemblance to each other. She talked about what interested her, not what the organizers thought might appeal to the readers. In addition, she apparently paid no attention to the bio I sent her, as her introduction got my series wrong; she had confused me with another convention attendee named Sheila.

So you can see how relieved I am that at 10:00 Saturday morning, I will be with Marcia and Alice Loweecey, Sara Paretsky, Lane Stone, and Elaine Viets chatting about “Cozy Noir?: Private Eyes”.

Cozy Noir? I can’t wait to see what we do with that one. 

"Traditional mysteries" – by Malice's definition – are "...mysteries which contain no explicit sex or excessive gore or violence."  For cozies, one would certainly add “no profanity". 

My best friend Kathy once described extreme noir as "never love; never hope."

So, we have quite a spectrum here, and I started thinking about where my series would fall on that spectrum from Cozy to Noir?

I don’t write explicit sex, though you can certainly guess what might have just happened or is about to between Lauren and Peter. It never felt right to make the sex explicit. Lauren’s a lady, a lady of the 1940s, circumspect about her personal life. She’s the first person narrator. I can’t imagine her suddenly being graphic with the reader about sex. 

I don’t do gruesome violence. A couple of people have been shot on the page, and plenty of bodies have been found after the killer was through with them. But my on-page violence is more like the time Peter took the security chief of a major studio and put him headfirst into a file cabinet because the guy had put Lauren in danger, and Peter thought it was a good idea to point out to the guy that he shouldn’t ever do that again.

My series does have some profanity. Occasionally characters who are the kind of people who would swear, do. Though nobody does it very often.

However, my series’ view of the world is considerably darker than a cozy. While the killers are always caught, I'm keenly aware while I’m writing of the difference between justice and the world being put right again. People die, and the lives of those left behind will be changed forever. Those who loved the victim and those who cared about or were betrayed by the killer. And there are some recurring unsavory characters (including one based on the most dangerous gangster in LA in the mid 1940s) who will never get their just desserts.

But I hope Lauren’s wry humor keeps the tone from ever settling in too dark a place.

Speaking of a darker place…  I was going to include a picture here of me and fellow panelists at last year’s Malice.  But I was sitting right under a super-harsh florescent spotlight. Turned to the sky, it could have signaled Batman. Photoshop doesn't seem to have an option for "Make top of subject's head look normal."

Note to self: This year, pick a seat more on the noir end of the spectrum.  

Sheila York

Noir Redux

(Spoiler alert: You might want to save this for later if you haven't read the book yet—ed.)

The protagonist, if you can call him that, of LONDON BOULEVARD by Ken Bruen is named Mitchell. First name or last, it’s hard to tell, but he only goes by the one. Isn’t there some other hardboiled crime novel where the main character goes by only the one name?

I am not sure, but I am sure that Bruen is a well-read guy, as well as a real aficionado of music. And movies (like Sunset Boulevard, of course) and even American cop shows. So is Mitchell, come to think of it. He gets through about a book a day while he is doing a three year stretch in prison for beating a guy nearly to death while in an alcoholic black out. He references a host of British and Irish and American crime writers, some of which I have heard of, and many of which I haven’t. And he even references Camus: “There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.” Mitch may aspire to this existentialist transcendence, but he never does surmount fate, not even close.

And he not only references those writers, he mimics them, but not in a way that is mere imitation. He takes them and turns them into something dark and terrifying, or more dark and terrifying. And while the novel starts out as a kind of exercise in fatalism, it eventually morphs, at least partially, into a mystery. In some weird and delicious way, it is a mystery that the novel is going to turn into a mystery. It’s great stuff, and I am going to gamely try to tell you why (even though the best way to be convinced is to read it yourself).

The Mitch character has the kind of insubordination problem that Philip Marlowe does, but not the moral code. He likes to get stoned, wasted, doped up and always eventually passes out on any kind of drug or booze he can get his hands on, but the thing that really gives him a rush, puts him into the kind of ecstatic clarity of a holy monk, is violence, and the nearness of death. In this sense, he is kind of like Travis McGee. Unlike McGee, however, he is more likely to take a life than to save one.

The minute Mitch gets out of prison, you wonder how long it is going to take him to get back in. He is picked up by Norton, a thug who was the one who actually beat the guy into a coma, and who let Mitch go down for it. When an old man unwittingly drops his wallet in the line of sight of both Mitch and a ticket taker, Mitch gives it back, but tells the reader: ”I know myself pretty good. If the ticket collector hadn’t seen it, I’d have kept it.”

Right at the beginning of the first person narration, Mitch says ”you believe you’re making choices, and all you’re doing is slotting in the pieces of a pre-ordained conclusion.” Of course, if you believe you’re fated to make the same mistakes over and over again you lose hope, and give up trying, and so you do, but that is beside the point.

The real point for me was that I was convinced this was to be a tale which would hold my interest not because there was a mystery about what had happened or would happen, but because I wanted to see just how Mitch’s tale would reach its inevitable brutal conclusion. I thought I was going to merely be a witness to Mitch’s descent back into hell, or his transit from the depths of hell (prison) to a slightly higher level of it (Southeast London) and back down into the pit, or into the oblivion of death. And I had no doubt a lot of people would die along the way.

Bruen has the ability to use English in marvelously arresting ways. These were not complicated ways, but nevertheless brilliant: “The bread was fresh and crisp like an idealized childhood.” “The next morning I was deciding what to wear for extortion.” “If MY WAY was the anthem of chauvinists, DESPERADO was the rationalization of convicts.” It’s great stuff. And he’s got the same smart mouth that a lot of hard guys in crime novels do. When the warden gives him a kind of exit interview on the day of his release and tells him that repeat offenders are obsessed with jail, Mitch replies “I think you’re confusing obsession with compulsion.” And then Mitch “explained the difference to him.” Having bested the warden at verbal combat, Mitch is told by a guard that it’s not a bright idea to give the warden lip, so Mitch gives the guard some: ”What else did I have to offer?”

Mitch is a product of Southeast London, a cesspool of casual and deadly violence, and in a way he is perfectly suited for it, although not for the politer society that produces places like they were byproducts of its economic digestion. Norton immediately furnishes Mitch with an apartment, and Mitch becomes a leg breaker for an enterprising loan shark named Gant. He also hooks up with and his old friend Jeff and robs a bank, and pokes a young mugger in the eye, in a failed attempt to remove it. The fair damsel that he saved from said mugger has an Aunt who needs a handyman, and Mitch ends up fixing more than the aging actress's clogged gutters. This Gloria Swanson stand-in manipulates Mitch into bed with a still compelling sexuality, and when that begins to fail she uses money and guilt. Again, Mitch is fatalistic, this time about his chances of ever escaping her (or Southeast London).

When Mitch finds Ainsley, whom he thinks is the love of his life, Lillian Palmer (the old actress) tries to commit suicide. He goes to her bedside, feeling like a well-trained mutt, and reassures her he will never leave her: “I felt exactly like I did when the judge said ‘Three Years.’”

Still, there is the dream Mitch has of a kind of wedded bliss with Ainsley. The relationship is one of the few places where he practices compassion (he also loves his near insane sister and mourns the loss of the street peddler who sold him his daily paper. When the paper-seller is murdered by a young soccer prodigy, Mitch shoots up his legs so badly that he will never play again ). Ainsley represents everything that Mitch never let himself ever dream of having.

But Mitch gets into a beef with Gant when he turns down an offer for a leg-breaking promotion and tries to leave his employ. In short order both Norton and Ainsley are killed, and Briony commits suicide. Gant sends an evil Eastern European assassin to kill Mitch, but Lillian’s chauffeur, named Jordan, turns out to be an ally, and the duo quickly dispatch both Gant and the Slavic hit man.

And still I was thinking this is a tale in the Dreiser fashion, a tale of cruel fate, and I am waiting for Mitch to die or go back to jail, waiting for him to explode into the kind of violence he can’t seem to control, especially now that he has lost the little he had in the world.

And that is where the old worm turns. When Jordan and Lillian Palmer go out of town, Mitch discovers in one of her drawers the collar of Briony’s little dog, another apparent victim of the psychopath Gant. And everything that happened transforms magically into something else. Jordan, who had once been Palmer’s husband, has been protecting her by doing everything he can to make sure Mitch never leaves her. The Butler killed Ainsley because he was afraid Mitch would leave Palmer for her. And he killed Gant to keep Mitch from being killed, again for the great love of his life. He even killed Briony, because she was trying to take Mitch away from Southeast London. And so our “hero” kills Jordan and the faded starlet, and finally the penny drops for me too. It doesn’t matter if Mitch goes back to jail or dies, because he is already either dead or in hell.

© 2014 Mike Welch

How Much Sex is Too Much?

Today's guest is a writer of bleakly noirish tales with a bit of grim humour. Graham Wynd can be found in Dundee but would prefer you didn’t come looking. An English professor by day, Wynd grinds out darkly noir prose between trips to the local pub. Wynd’s novella of murder and obsessive love, EXTRICATE, is out now from Fox Spirit Books; the print edition also includes the novella THROW THE BONES as well as a collection of short stories. ‘The Tender Trap’ appears in EXILES: AN OUTSIDER ANTHOLOGY from Blackwitch Press and the short story ‘Kiss Like a Fist’ appears in NOIR NATION 3.

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We know what they say about us crime writers: better a bullet than a kiss. I don’t want to say that we’re puritanical, but you should see people’s faces if you suggest something like Fifty Shades of Miss Marple (though I bet the old gal had a lot more going on than we might want to guess). Across the border over in thriller territory, James Bond is getting it on. But the crime scene tape keeps those shenanigans at bay.

Mysteries tend to appeal to the intellect; our investigators might develop a patchy romance with a colleague or even a criminal, but anything between the sheets happens offstage. But I write noir. Noir is a bit different: it’s all hard men and femmes fatales, who seem destined to use that allure as a weapon. The sexy is out there in the open, but it tends to be a tease. The most we get is Chandler allowing Marlowe a brief indulgence with Mrs. Grayle: “She fell softly across my lap and I bent down over her face and began to browse on it.”

The novella Extricate which opens my collection from Fox Spirit Books features a pair who fall into what folks would now recognize as a BDSM sort of relationship. They don’t have a name for it: they’re just stunned to find a kindred soul. Of course the choices they make so they can be together are not so smart, which is noir in a nutshell: things fall apart. But things do get a bit steamy.

Is it too much? Your mileage may vary, as they say. The crimes are the main focus in the narrative, but sex is the engine that drives it. Don’t you want to peek at what’s under the hood now and then? Go on. No one’s looking.

© 2014 Graham Wynd

Lambertville Noir

The last time I ventured into the City I grabbed a handrail in the train station that was covered with City germs (or perhaps with traveler germs) and contracted a case of bronchitis that took me all winter to shake off. Nevertheless, a meeting of the New York Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America took place on Wednesday evening that I absolutely could not miss, featuring a presentation on noir films by the charming Scott Adlerberg. It was also an opportunity to hobnob with some beloved friends I hadn't seen in a while. Also a chance to dine at the Salmagundi Club, a wonderful old brownstone mansion on a stretch of Fifth Avenue that used to be very tony a hundred or so years ago. So it was worth the risk of encountering a few pathogens.

As I expected, I had a swell time. The Boeuf Bourguignon was delicious, the apple tart sublime, the friends in good health and cooking happily along with their writing careers. The presentation was entertaining and enlightening. We saw little scenes from Double Indemnity, Out of the Past, Touch of Evil, and other swell movies. Directors who came to Hollywood to get away from the Nazis were responsible for much of the bleak pessimism that informs the Noir worldview. Europeans, you know. They have this attitude. And of course Orson Welles.

Thanks to Sheila York, who shepherded me on and off the unfamiliar subway, I happily caught the 10:11 train back to the Hamilton station, only to discover that in Hamilton it was raining.

Now began the truly noir part of the evening. I can barely see to drive on a clear night, let alone when rain is falling. I think it's these glasses. Anyway, I got out of the parking deck and onto Route 295 pretty much by memory. From there I was safe enough, traveling ten miles under the speed limit in the slow lane, until I got off onto 29 and turned north for Lambertville. On 29 the rain was joined by drifting clouds of fog. By then it was after midnight. Hardly anyone was out. Deer are a constant hazard on that road, so I was looking out for them, even though I understood that if they were there I probably couldn't see them. If those puppies got in my way they would be dead meat. Then I came to a sign that said, "Road Flooded." The road wasn't blocked off, so I knew the flooding wouldn't be catastrophic, but I slowed down a little more.

I drove through puddles. For those of you who don't know that stretch of road, there is a stone wall on one side of it and a canal on the other side deep enough to swallow a Toyota with a blind old lady in it. Suddenly another car came around a curve toward me, frantically flashing its lights.

What was I to think? I didn't have my brights on, having turned them down when I saw the lights of the other car coming. I thought, there's a herd of deer on the road, or a tree down, or a wall of water. Or a policeman. But why would I fear a policeman? I was cold sober, I was not a kid, and I was doing thirty-five miles an hour on a forty-five mile an hour road. I slowed down a little more, hypervigilant, and drove on.

I had almost reached the city limits of Lambertville when the lights of another car appeared behind me. I speeded up a bit so as not to be in its way and moved to the right as soon as we reached the four-lane stretch of the highway. The other car exploded with emergency lights. A cop! He was after me! I pulled over as far as I could and fished for my paperwork while he sat in his cop car checking my license plate for wants and warrants.

"Can I see your license and registration?" And so it went. He claimed to have stopped me because he clocked me at twenty-seven miles an hour, which is too slow. "There wasn't anybody behind me," I said. "I thought it would be okay." I refrained from mentioning that I seem to be too blind to drive at night, for fear he would yank my license and force me to walk the rest of the way home.

"Driving too slow is as dangerous as driving too fast," he said. I said, "Thank you, officer." We parted cordially. I knew he was just looking for drunks and stoners.

© 2014 Kate Gallison

The Source Material Assembly Line

My friend Tim McLoughlin is the editor of Brooklyn Noir and its companion volumes. His novel, Heart of the Old Country, won Italy’s Premio Penne award, and was the basis for the motion picture The Narrows, starring Vincent D’Onofrio.

Robert Knightly

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The cliché of a writer being asked where they get their ideas, and the numerous clever responses conjured out of desperation, is legendary. My situation is a lot more pedestrian and straightforward. Although no one is ever going to accuse me of being prolific, the fiction I do turn out generally centers on crime, or on the kind of people likely to commit crimes on a pretty low rent scale.

I’ve worked in the criminal justice system for thirty years now. If I had been convicted of murdering someone that long ago in New York City I’d have since been released, so I’ve decided to go over the wall this summer and retire. But my career has certainly informed my choice of subject matter. And as I’m more inclined, in my reading and writing, toward the nickel-and-dime world than high-finance-money-laundering-type thrillers, it has suited me well.

I remember exactly where I was standing and what I was doing the first time I heard a 710.30(1)a statement, but then, who doesn’t? I was a brand new, wet behind the ears Court Officer in the arraignment part of Brooklyn Criminal Court in the bad old early eighties. I was the bridgeman, the officer who stands in front of the judge’s bench, calls the case into the record, hands the judge the pertinent paperwork, and gets out of the way. It’s just like Law and Order, except louder and with physically unattractive defendants. It was my first case, and I announced it with confidence, then prepared the next docket while the key players discussed the fate of the accused. After preliminary conversation and a plea of not guilty, the judge turned to the rail thin blonde waif of an Assistant District Attorney.

“Motions?” he asked.

“Seven-ten-thirty-one-a,” she responded.

“Go ahead.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she said, in an absolutely flat, professional tone.

“Anything else?” he inquired.

“No your honor.”

“Bail is set at one thousand dollars, cash or bond,” he said. “Next case.”

He tossed the court papers into the wire basket of finished work and looked at me expectantly. I glanced between him and the ADA, who was already reviewing a new folder, unsure what to do.

“Officer,” he prompted.

I picked up the next docket, called it in, less confidently this time, and stepped back.

It took me perhaps a half dozen cases before I realized that 710.30(1)a statements were direct quotes from defendants, usually made spontaneously at the time of their arrest. It was therefore not unusual that mixed in with the ubiquitous that’s not my gun and what weed? would be the occasional go fuck yourself or take these cuffs off and I’ll kick your ass. They are basically anything that gets blurted out during the arrest process. Arraignment in New York City Criminal Court is supposed to be conducted within twenty-four hours of arrest. In an effort to keep to that schedule, the processing of cases goes on from nine o’clock in the morning until midnight every day of the year at 120 Schermerhorn Street, just down the block from all of the shiny new condos and hotels now being raised in downtown Brooklyn.

Over the course of the three years that I worked in uniform, I listened to hundreds of 710.30(1)a statements, and came to view them as windows on the unrestrained id.

They can be chilling, as in the case of a man caught in Sunset Park disposing of the bloody remains of his pet pit bull: He farted so I stabbed him.

They can be heartbreaking when a man in East New York is arrested for robbery: I’m sorry. I was hungry. I needed the money. I got the blade on me too.

They can be embarrassing, as in a domestic violence case out of East Flatbush when a defense attorney has just told the judge that the court needs to take into account the social mores of other cultures: She doesn’t have my lunch ready for me when I go to work. I want her to do all the cleaning in the house. Today, I told her to make me breakfast and when I went downstairs she hadn’t made me breakfast. That’s how it started.

And of course, they can be hilarious. After all, if you can’t occasionally find humor in someone else’s misdeeds you have no business being a crime writer. My personal favorite was the young man arrested exiting the basement of an apartment building in Crown Heights where every washing machine and dryer in the laundry room had been vandalized. He was carrying a screwdriver, a hammer, and a pillowcase containing 250 quarters: Those are mine, I’m on my way to a PacMan tournament. The tools are to fix the machines.

This parade of tragedy and comedy occurs fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. And though the poor and anonymous comprise the majority of cases, every demographic makes an appearance. I have witnessed the arraignments of lawyers and doctors, police officers and priests, a former major league baseball player, and a judge. They are not the worst of humanity, but what they share is the airing of their worst behavior. The criminal justice system, by mandating long ago that these proceedings be open to the public, invented reality television without the TV, live and unscripted.

So if you’re looking for ideas, or trying to fine-tune that street lingo to be current to the last forty-eight hours, come down to any of the criminal courthouses. Not Supreme Court, but regular Criminal Court, where the nobodies stay, and even the superstars make that initial appearance. Enter through the smoke-stained revolving doors, their broken glass long ago replaced with Plexiglas. Pass through the magnetometers and be searched for weapons, and then step into an arraignment part and have a seat in one of the rows of church pew benches scored with decades of carved initials and expletives.

There’s a new show every three minutes.

Tim McLoughlin

Jim Fusilli's Thoughts on The Writing Life

Jim Fusilli, multi-published novelist, also serves as rock and pop music critic for The Wall Street Journal. A native of Hoboken, New Jersey, he has set many of his novels in this area, called "Narrows Gate." A graduate of St. Peter's College, Jim began his career as a journalist and has achieved acclaim in this field, as well as in fiction. His novel, "Hard City," was named Novel of the Year in 2004 by Mystery Ink.

His short stories are delightful. I love especially "Digby, Attorney at Law," which was nominated for both an Edgar and the Macavity in 2010.

As a long-time friend and admirer of Jim's fiction, I invited him to share his ideas with The Crime Writers Chronicle.

Here are a few comments on Jim's work:

• "A courageous and original writer" …The Boston Globe
• "Fusilli is simply incredible!"…Bookreporter.com
• "Jim's noir prose is peerless" …Kirkus Reviews
• "If you've ever been in love with New York City - this book is for you!" …The Washington Post

Jim's combination of professionalism and graciousness can be seen in his replies to my questions.

– Thelma Straw

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Why do you write novels?

I think the format suits my strengths as a writer: rhythm and tempo; the opportunity to develop many nuanced characters; and the use of setting, both in terms of time and place. I love how the novel promises an extended, intimate experience with readers. We can collaborate with readers and let the novel play out in their minds.

What triggers you to start a new novel - a character? a place? an idea? Other?

My novels tend to revisit the same themes – dysfunction in the family, the value of friendship, identity and alienation. So I look for setting that will encourage the exploration of these themes. With “Narrows Gate,” I had the setting well before I had developed a single character. Until they’re fully drawn, characters are function and representation. After a while, they become people who are like the rest of us: in conflict or in harmony with others who share our setting. Then the adventure begins.

How do you combine your job as journalist and fiction writer?

I plan my activities around my weekly column and other duties for The Wall Street Journal, so I set aside a good amount of time for research, interviews, concerts and performances I’ll be attending, travel, etc. After I have all the data at hand, I try to write the column in one long burst so it has the energy and excitement of the music I’m covering. The rest of my time is dedicated to my fiction.

Do you prefer to write short stories or novels? What are the factors you like in each medium?

I like both. Short stories were a challenge for me and I couldn’t find my way until I began to utilize techniques we see in other media like fast-cutting in film or the way varying motifs work independently yet coalesce in a complicated piece of music. Now I enjoy writing them, though they take an extraordinary amount of time to do well. But as I said earlier there’s something about writing a novel that’s so satisfying. Once I can see the world I’m creating in a novel and can occupy the minds of the characters as they engage it, I’m very content.

What was your best preparation as a child or student or in former jobs for your career as a novelist?

Given my themes, I suppose my childhood in Hoboken was the best preparation. My parents were loving and encouraging in their way, but our extended family was a mess and Hoboken was a dangerous and dying town. Early on I began to go off on my own and reject the conventions of the culture in which I was raised. Not in an aggressive way, but I was determined to become something different than what was expected of me.

Do you work alone, or do you have a partner, team, etc. With what kinds of people do you discuss your ideas and progress on a new book, if any?

I work alone and never discuss works-in-progress in any detail. I’ll say to my writer friends that I’m working on this or that, but I’m pretty vague about the details. I don’t believe a work of art exists until it’s done. By talking about it, you can spend all the energy that should go into the work. When I was stuck on a draft with “Narrows Gate,” I shared the manuscript with two publishing executives. I’d never done anything like that before but “Narrows Gate” was such a different project for me – a big epic that spanned decades and had several independent but ultimately interlocking storylines. I felt I need some guidance. Now that I’m working on a sequel, I’m on firm footing so I doubt anyone but my wife, agent and editor will see it before it enters the pre-publication editing process. Until I shared it with my agent, no one saw or even knew about “Road to Nowhere” except for my wife and one writer friend.

What do you say to neophyte fiction writers - if they want to write a saleable story?

I say: Don't worry about publication. Focus on doing something only you can do. Develop your craft until it raises your work to the level of art. All sorts of rubbish gets published, and it was always thus, even before self-publishing e-books was possible. Try to be great, to write something that will last. Do that and everything else follows.

Is there any novel you wish you had written? Or author you look up to?

I admire many novels, far too many to mention, and many authors I admire for their craft, vision, determination and courage. I’m not the kind of person who wishes for things, but I do read with an admiring eye and I often find myself thinking that a sentence or a phrase or even a single word was so precise and so perfect for the moment that I’m inspired to try to work at that level.

Can you share with us your writing habits - your schedule, methods, oddities, quirks, etc.

I’m very disciplined. I write every day for many hours whether I’m in my office or traveling. It’s my profession. I want to be good at it and if you have any talent, you improve by doing. You have to be relentless. There’s no other way. I can write anywhere; within reason, it doesn’t matter to me where I am. I’ll start writing in an airport, continuing writing after I board and until the cabin door is shut, resume writing at 10,000 feet and keep writing until I’m told to power down. I have a few quirks, but nothing very meaningful. I color-code my To Do list so I can keep track of my progress. That’s a quirk, I guess.

Tell us something about you as a writer we would not know otherwise!

I suppose because I’m the Journal’s rock and pop critic people might assume that I listen to music while I write my fiction. I used to, but I don’t anymore. I can pay close attention to what I’m writing, but my subconscious becomes occupied with the music and I lose that resource. Later, when I’m decompressing and the subconscious should be revealing solutions to problems with my day’s writing or suggesting where my story can go, instead it’s filled with ideas about music. I’ve wasted a writer’s valued resource.

I understand you have a new book coming out in November. Can you tell us something about it and why you wrote it?

It’s the launch of a new series. The debut novel is “Road to Nowhere.” It’s the story of a drifter who witnesses a violent crime against a young woman. He becomes involved, if only briefly and without much passion. Nothing is what it seems, though, and events intensify. When his estranged daughter is threatened, he’s drawn in and finds himself up against some powerful forces.

Though “Narrows Gate” was a success and it sent my career in a new direction, which is what I was hoping it would do, I wanted to do a series again. I like the mystery, crime and thriller communities. I thought I’d learned enough during the past few years about craft and technique to do something interesting – quick and facile and suspenseful, with a balance of violence and wry humor. We’ll see if that’s correct. The main character is mobile – people who remember “The Fugitive” and “Route 66” will recognize the technique of thrusting a character in a new setting in each story so that he becomes involved repeatedly in different worlds while still dealing with his own situation. The response within the industry has been positive to “Road to Nowhere” and the series concept, but it’s up to the readers now.

Our thanks to Jim for sharing these inspiring thoughts!

Thelma J. Straw

NoirCon 2012

It’s a chilly, rainy day here in Philadelphia, a fitting day to contemplate the Noir genre. Noir is not everyone’s cup of tea. But then, cups of tea are for the cozy readers. Noir is for the straight Scotch at one gulp readers. I have tried to write Noir novels, to no avail. The last time I tried, a reviewer wrote, “Hathaway’s latest novel can be safely read by your teenage niece or the country vicar.” Since then, I’ve given up on writing Noir, but that doesn’t prevent me from reading it and enjoying it, or — from attending Noir conventions, such as NoirCon 2012 in Philadelphia, November 8th to 11th.

Deen Kogan and Lou Boxer are a great team that always put on a wonderful show. I’ve been to two of their productions, and there was never a dull moment. This year, Lawrence Block is the winner of the “David Goodis Award.” Goodis is one of our best Noir writers, from the 1940s and 50s. Library of America has just published a collection of his works.

At the last NoirCon, many of us tried to define, “Noir.” We said things like, “Well, er, it’s about losers with, er, no futures, stumbling into criminal activities, uh, making poor life choices, er, leading to self-destruction, uh….” Others claimed it was the setting that distinguishes noir novels. They are more atmospheric than other crime novels, set in gloomy night clubs featuring used-up torch singers surrounded by swirling smoke, or abandoned warehouses, or third-rate motels. After many attempts, we settled for the French translation of Noir, which is simply — black.

Ironically, despite all the gloom and doom, I’ve never been to a conference where there was more laughter than NoirCon. So, if you’re looking for a really good time, in a dark and depressing atmosphere, sign up for NoirCon 2012.

I’ll be there — laughing.

Robin Hathaway