PROPER CARE AND FEEDING OF AUTHORS by Bad Girl

Here’s part one of the series (reprinted with permission):

What NOT to ask an author… (especially a Crime Writer who knows at least twenty ways to kill you and not get caught)

There is nothing I love better than meeting readers, both those who already know my writing, and those who are new to my books.   But recently, I was asked to talk about those things that are touchy for an author.  So here goes…a short list of No-Nos!

1.  Do not ask an author how many books she has sold.

Trust me, don’t ask this.

Really, you don’t want to.  It wouldn’t help you anyway.

Because honestly, I’ll lie.

I’m amazed that complete strangers regularly ask this.  Would you ask a lawyer how much money he makes?

Because here’s the bottom line: most of us make about a buck for every book sold, whether paperback, trade paperback or ebook.  Sometimes, it’s less than that.  (Yes, we were shocked too, when we found out.)  So by asking how many books we’ve sold, you can pretty well figure out our income.  And frankly, I don’t want you to.  You see, I write comedies, and it would depress both of us.

Also:  our royalty statements are at least six months behind (at least mine are.)  We don’t KNOW how many books we’ve sold to date on new releases.  Which is probably a good thing for our egos, if we want to keep writing.

 2. Do not ask an author to read your manuscript and critique it for free.

Yikes! 

So many times, I’ve been asked to do this, in a public place, with people overhearing.  Sometimes, by people who don’t even have the decency to buy one’s own book first!

Why this is bad:

First: I am in a place that has been booked for me to sell my books and meet with readers. That’s what I’m there for.  You are taking precious time away from me and my readers.  Believe me, my publisher won’t be happy about this.  Ditto, the bookseller!

Second: Every hour I spend critiquing an aspiring author’s book is an hour I can’t spend working on my own books and marketing them.  Like most novelists, I have a day job.  That means every hour I have to work on my fiction is precious.  Most of us do critique – for a fee.  And many of us teach fiction writing at colleges. 

I’m happy to critique my college students’ work.  I’m getting paid (mind you, meagerly) to do so.  And that’s what I always recommend:  take a college course in writing.  You’ll get great info on how to become a better writer, and also valuable critiquing of your own work.

 3. Do not ask an author to introduce you to her publisher or agent.

Want to see me cringe?

Similar to number 2 above, this puts the author in a very awkward position.  You are in fact asking for an endorsement.  If the author hasn’t read your book, she cannot possibly give it (an honest endorsement.)

Second: You are asking the author to put HER reputation on the line for you.  Do you have the sort of close relationship that makes this worthwhile for her?

4.  Do not ask an author: where do you get your ideas?

Okay, be honest.  You thought I was going to lead with this one.

Actually, you can ask me this.  I’ll probably answer something fun and ridiculous, like:

From Ebay. 

Or: From my magic idea jar.

Or: They come to me on the toilet.  You should spend more time there.

Because the truth is, we don’t know exactly.  After teaching over 1000 fiction writing students at Sheridan College, I have discovered something: some students are bubbling over with ideas.  Others – the ones who won’t make it – have to struggle for plots.  It seems to be a gift and a curse, to have the sort of brain that constantly makes up things.

I’ve been doing it since I was four.  My parents called it lying.  That was so short-sighted of them.

Opening to THE GODDAUGHTER’S REVENGE (Orca Books)

    Okay, I admit it. I would rather be the proud possessor of a rare gemstone than a lakefront condo with parking. Yes, I know this makes me weird. Young women today are supposed to crave the security of owning their own home

     But I say this. Real estate, shmeel estate. You can’t hold an address in your hand. It doesn’t flash and sparkle with the intensity of a thousand night stars, or lure you away from the straight and narrow like a siren from some Greek odyssey.
     Let’s face it. Nobody has ever gone to jail for smuggling a one bedroom plus den out of the country. 

     However, make that a 10-carat cyan blue topaz with a past as long as your arm, and I’d do almost anything to possess it.
    But don’t tell the police.

 

Melodie Campbell got her start writing comedy.  She has nine awards for fiction, over 200 publications and was a finalist for the 2012 Derringer, and both the 2012 and 2013 Arthur Ellis awards. She is the Executive Director of Crime Writers of Canada.

FLYING THE FRIENDLY SKIES... by Bad Girl (reprinted from The Sage)

This post is particularly timely, as I just got off a plane.  That will be another column (a painful one) but for now, I'll lead with this.

I love England.  But I hate getting there.

One of the worst things about going to England (worse than the food) is that there are only two ways to get there, and both involve traveling over large bodies of water in which there are no visible lifeguard chairs.

The first way involves being awfully close to that vast expanse of water.  Almost within arms-reach of it, you could say, for several days at a time.  Bearing the Titanic in mind, I prefer to think that water is best mixed with scotch.  So I usually opt for the second way: via British Scareways. Ha ha!  Just kidding.

Of course I mean British Airways, and what could possibly be scary about flying 30,000 feet over Iceland and Greenland in the middle of winter, in something called an Air Bus?  (Does a Greyhound Bus suddenly sprout wings?  Like a street car might decide to become a submarine?  Who thinks up these names?)

Pass the scotch.

And why is the pilot always young enough to still have an acne problem? It does something to your confidence.  Sort of like finding out the surgeon who is about to take out your appendix paid his way through med school last year by working in a butcher shop.

I always like it when the Flight Attendant takes over the mike. It’s so comforting.  First she shows you how to slip the little oxygen mask over your mouth and nose, so that you’ll be breathing perfectly when you hit the ground at 700 miles per hour.  Then she shows you how to strap on the orange inflatable vest, and points to the emergency exits with their built-in slides, in case we have to land on water.

Not that I want to alarm anyone, but I’m fairly sure there are no landing strips on the Atlantic Ocean.  And I have it on good authority that Air Busses (the flying kind) weren’t designed to double as boats. 

But what the heck: it’s a comfort to know that when we crash-land in the middle of the ocean, we’ll still be breathing oxygen, wearing fancy floatation devices, be pickled in scotch, and in perfect physical condition for the sharks to eat.

That’s thinking ahead.

Melodie Campbell writes funny books.  You can buy The Goddaughter mob caper series at Chapters/Indigo, Barnes&Noble and Amazon.

CHARIOTS OF THE GUYS...more car humour by BAD GIRL (reprinted with permission)

One of the things I hate even more than high school reunions is buying a new car.  It’s not that I don’t like cars.  I am really quite fond of them. Especially in winter.  What I don’t like is the buying process.  There is something inherently different about men and women when they go looking at cars in a dealership.  You even have to wonder if they are members of the same species.

Husband (reverently caressing cold metal with both hands):  “Look at this beauty!  4.0 litre, five speed, Recarro seats, mag wheels, racing suspension, electric moon roof, power mulcher, moog synthesizer, ballistic missile launcher…”

Wife:  “It’s red.  I hate red.”

This basic lack of communication goes right back to the way men and women look at ‘things’.  Amazingly, they can be looking at the same thing and see something entirely different.  Men, for instance, will look at a car as if it is something beyond a box with four wheels that moves forward and backward.  To them, it is not merely a car.  Nope.  It is the culmination of adolescent dreams, the elusive mistress of middle age, the Ben Hur of all chariots.  Me, I’m more concerned with whether it will get me to the shopping mall and back without falling into a million pieces.  Which is why we had this misunderstanding at the dealership last weekend:

Me:  “This car has two seats.”

He (enthusiastically checking the interior):  “Yes!  Aren’t they great?”

Me:  “I’m not denying they are very nice seats.  Beautiful, in fact.  But there are four of us.”

He (looking irritably at the kids):  “They’re young.  They’ve got legs.”

Kid One:  “But Dad…where are we all going to sit when we have to drive someplace?”

He (aghast):  Good Gad, you’re not actually expect me to drive this car on the road?  The paint might get chipped.”

Then he did what all men have been programmed to do from the beginning of time.  He kicked the tire.  I’ve often wondered about this practice.  And I expect Ben Hur’s wife pondered the very same thing two thousand year ago, when good ole Ben whacked the wheel of that Roman chariot with his leather sandal.  Exactly what purpose does this serve?

I’ll never understand it.  But as far as I can see, all of this started about forty thousand years ago when Urgh the slightly-brighter-than-normal Neanderthal invented the wheel.  Irma, his loyal wife, stood on the sidelines shaking her head, while Urgh enthusiastically painted on racing stripes.  “Argh urf org grunt bfff bfff,” she said (loosely translated to, “Oh dinosaur droppings, not another blasted toy.  When will this ever end.”)  And of course, it hasn’t yet.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY more silly stuff by Bad Girl

What is it about men, and the lure of “The One That Got Away?”  

All sportsmen seem to have a full repertoire of standard tales about “The Game They Didn’t Win” or “The Fish They Didn’t Catch.”  Anglo-Saxon men will wiggle and squirm when reminded of their victories in a public setting. <Shrug.  ‘It was nothing.’>  But bring up a personal Dunkirk, and watch the enthusiasm (and the story) grow to mythical proportions.

Fishermen are the worst.  I never met a fisherman who didn’t know a bigger fish.  Now I admit that sitting for hours in a tin boat in the hot sun with a bunch of decaying worms for company, waiting for Moby Dick to swim by, is not my idea of a banner way to spend a summer afternoon.  I mean, what are you going to DO with Moby, if you ever catch him?  The poor thing has been swilling acid rain for YEARS.  More likely, he’ll be thrown back into the fetid muck, knowing he has been personally rejected.  What a label to hang on a fish.

There must be a special lure about a prize not won, because I’ve heard men talk this way about women.

Bill (dreaming): I knew this girl in 1986…she was perfect. Beautiful, smart, understanding, good cook, played a great round of golf – everything I dreamed of.”

Ted (drooling): So what happened?”

Bill (sniveling into his beer): Some guy MARRIED her.”

Women don’t talk like this.  You never hear women boast about ‘the dress the got away in 1992’.

Betty (reminiscing):  Remember that terrific sale at the Buffalo outlet mall?  And you almost had that genuine copy of a fake Ralph Lauren for ten bucks, but that fat woman in purple snatched it out of your hands?

Marge (sighing):  It might even have fit me. 

Nobody, however, can come close to the story telling ability and sheer heart-stopping drama of seasoned golfers.  By Seasoned, I don’t mean spiced.  I mean the ability to stand frowning into space on the 14^th tee for hours, contemplating a shot, as if it might actually make a difference.  I can only conclude that years of wearing polyester pants in tootie-fruitie colours does something to a person. 

For one thing, they can no longer talk in a normal tone of voice.  Ever hear two of them drone on about how the almost bogeyed their golf cart on the sixteenth, or their twelve iron on the seventh?

Bill (in Official Pro Golf Tournament whisper):  Remember that par five in Toledo back in ’81 when I would have birdied with the eight iron on the 4^th, but that seventeen mile an hour wind came out of the south-east and I sliced it just a bit to the left?

Ted (equally hushed):  Sure do, Bill.  (frowning into the hot sun.)  Are you sure that wasn’t ’82?

I tell only one story about the one who got away.  He was six feet tall and Irish, and he took me golfing.  Every time I took a swing at the ball and missed, he convulsed into a snickering heap.  Whenever I swung and made contact, he dissolved into a howling mass and writhed about on the grass.

I would have smashed him over the head with my golf club, but he got away.