Comic Con!

On Saturday, I got a peek at the biggest, strangest, most mind-bending convention ever. I’ve attended two Star Trek conventions (yep, once I even went in costume) so I sort of knew what to expect. But Comic Con in New York City was on a level I couldn’t imagine, with outrageously amazing costumes.

I signed and gave away free copies of THE APPRENTICE, and one of the ladies waiting in line was a 50-ish woman wearing an enormous orange “Angry Bird” costume made of voluminous felt. It was warm in the convention hall, and she was sweating but good-humored about the whole thing because “My kids made me do it,” she said.

Later I walked around the hall, and here are some of the cool sights I encountered:

A very sexy pair! What you can’t see are the red contact lenses in the guy’s eyes — his irises were blood-red.


I’m not entirely sure who this character is with me. Anyone know?


Scary kid!


Ghostbusters! I later saw all four of them buying hotdogs at the food stall. Missed getting a good shot of that, unfortunately.


Neptune!


Blue people, red people, every color people walking around the hall.

And outside the Javits Center, walking on the streets of NYC, the show continued. Weirdly dressed characters were everywhere, hailing taxicabs, strolling into restaurants. The funny thing about NYC? Nobody gave them a second glance.

When writers don’t deliver

(This blog post first appeared at Crime Fiction Collective. Here it is again for those who may have missed it.)

It’s every aspiring author’s dream. A publisher offers you a big contract for your next book, the deal gets announced to the press, and you receive a check as an advance payment. Now all you have to do is finish writing the manuscript, send it to your editor, and presto! You’re a published author.

Or not. Because a lot can go wrong between signing the contract and your book’s appearance in stores. I was reminded of just how often things do go wrong when I recently came across this article :

A New York publisher this week filed lawsuits against several prominent writers who failed to deliver books for which they received hefty contractual advances, records show.

The Penguin Group’s New York State Supreme Court breach of contract/unjust enrichment complaints include copies of book contracts signed by the respective defendants.

Among the five authors mentioned in the article are Prozac Nation author Elizabeth Wurtzel, who signed a $100,000 deal in 2003 to write “a book for teenagers to help them cope with depression,” and blogger Ana Marie Cox, who signed a $325,000 contract in 2006 for a humorous book about political activists.

I don’t know the particular circumstances of these authors. Perhaps personal issues — a divorce, a severe illness, or unremitting depression — kept them from delivering the promised manuscripts. Perhaps they did in fact deliver the manuscripts, which were deemed unsatisfactory by the publisher and rejected.

Or perhaps they suffered from an all-too common writer’s malady: crisis of confidence. I know all about it, because twenty-five years ago, it almost derailed my budding writing career.

I had just sold my first romantic thriller, Call After Midnight, to Harlequin Intrigue. The book sold well and was nominated for a Rita award. Although I didn’t sign a contract for the next book, my editor anxiously waited for my second novel. And she waited. And waited.

Two years later, all I had to show her were partials of various abandoned novels, stories that started off well enough, but within fifty pages had run out of steam. I just couldn’t finish that second book. The months went by and my panic grew. This wasn’t just writer’s block; this was a full-stop career block. I was doomed to join the crowded ranks of one-book wonders.

I don’t remember how I got past those dark months. What I do remember were the calls from the editor, the sound of disappointment in her voice when I told her I still didn’t have anything. Eventually the calls between us stopped, leaving editorial silence, a sign that my publisher had at last given up on me. But I hadn’t given up on myself, so I kept writing.

What saved me in the end was this: I finally gave myself permission to write badly. I decided it didn’t matter if what I wrote was unpublishable, as long as I just kept writing. Up till then, I had abandoned at least three different story ideas within the first hundred pages, because all I could see were the flaws, and I got discouraged. Then I’d get seduced by a different story idea, a brighter, shinier premise on the other side of the fence. And I’d go chasing after that new premise until it too started to show its flaws. I couldn’t finish a single book because I wanted it to be absolutely perfect, from beginning to end. From the very first draft. Which is like expecting your child to speak four foreign languages and play Bach on the piano at age five.

Children don’t start off perfect, and neither do manuscripts.

At last I pulled out one of my earlier attempts, a story about a woman doctor being sued for a case of malpractice that is, in truth, a murder. The hero is the plaintiff’s attorney, whose goal is to destroy her career. It had been months since I’d looked at the story, and suddenly I saw new possibilities. I resumed writing it. This time, I didn’t stop to edit, I didn’t stop to think: “oh, this part sucks.” I stuck to my mantra: Just keep writing. And I did, all the way to the end.

The result was a first draft that was full of inconsistencies and mid-story plot shifts and characters who kept changing. But at least I had a first draft. I had a beginning, a middle, and an end. I had something to fix, and I did. In 1990, Under The Knife was finally published — three years after my first novel.

In the past twenty-five years, I’ve written twenty-four novels. I’ve never forgotten those depressing, desperate months when I couldn’t finish a book. Over the years, the writing hasn’t gotten any easier; it’s hard work, and it always will be. I’ve learned that I simply have to forge ahead, no matter how awful my writing seems, or how outlandish my plot. Because here’s my second mantra: I can fix this. I might need five or even ten re-writes, but eventually I’ll make that story work and I’ll turn in that manuscript as promised.

Publishers want writers they can count on, writers who are both reliable and consistent. They’ll usually give the author a certain amount of leeway if unavoidable crises pop up, such as serious illness or a death in the family, but eventually the contract has to be honored… or else.

And that’s what separates the professionals from the amateurs. The professional always delivers.

Writing the slam-bam thriller climax

How does a writer come up with a thriller climax that truly thrills? Here was my advice over at ITW’s website:

On the surface, writing the thriller climax seems easy. You just put your hero in danger and throw in some bad guys chasing him in a spooky locale. Hero gets cornered, death seems imminent, and he either saves himself or gets saved by the cavalry. A big-stakes action scene should do the trick and get readers’ hearts racing, right?

Not necessarily. An effective thriller climax isn’t all about action, which can in truth be pretty boring. I first came to this insight while watching a James Bond film, and realized that the car chase was going on too long and I wanted to get on with the plot. The scene itself wasn’t revealing anything to me except crashed cars and broken bodies, and since you already knew the hero would survive, I wasn’t feeling particularly thrilled.

So what does make a climax thrilling? Tension. This is not merely action; it’s the fear and adrenaline that precedes the horrible thing you know is coming. The longer you can draw out that tension, the longer you sustain that sense of imminent jeopardy, the more thrilling the scene. I think of it as slowly blowing up a balloon bigger and bigger, waiting for it to pop. One trick I use is to have several crises building at once, involving multiple characters. Intercut between these scenes. Leave each scene with a mini-cliffhanger or a question begging to be answered. Don’t get to the blood-and-guts too soon, or the balloon will pop and you’ll lose that tension.

The Big Reveal makes the climax even more thrilling. It’s the surprise that your hero never saw coming, the shock that makes a reader suck in a startled gasp. In my medical thriller HARVEST, after a desperate struggle, the heroine is strapped to an operating room table, about to be sliced open. She’s reached what you think is her darkest moment … until the surgeon walks in. He’s not just any villain; he’s the man she loves. It’s not the action or the violence that a reader will remember; it’s that heart-stopping moment of ultimate betrayal. Give your Big Reveal an emotional punch, and the climax will be far more powerful. It can also be your way to explain parts of the mystery that are otherwise unknown to the hero/reader. Not a stilted “as you know, Mr. Bond” conversation, but a dropping of clues through dialogue or a sudden insight on the hero’s part.

The Rescue wraps up the action. It can mean either self-rescue by the plucky hero or a rescue by outside agents. My own preference is to not draw this out. Make the rescue happen, make it quick, and end the scene in another page or two. The tension’s now gone, so don’t linger too long over your spent balloon. Move on to the final scenes.