July 5, 2020

Signs

Whenever things get really bad in my life—really bad—I receive a sign that lets me know I’m not alone.

The first time I remember this happening was in 2001. My then-husband and I had gotten into a fight. He walked out and didn’t return. When I woke up the next morning, my wedding ring had somehow slipped off my pregnancy-swollen finger, and a page from a photograph album was lying on the floor of our bedroom. It held a card someone had sent my husband years earlier. The card read, “please remember the good times.”

I didn’t yet know that my husband had driven to an old house and committed suicide immediately after our fight.

The next message came twelve years later. I’d finally worked up the courage to enter a serious relationship, my first since Jay’s suicide. Steve and I had been together four years when I found out he was cheating, courting a woman half his age, promising her he’d leave me if she would take him (she didn’t; at 20, she had fantastic instincts).

My world grew dark and lonely after Steve and I broke up. It stayed that way until one early morning, pre-sunrise. I was walking my dog. Ahead, I spotted a glowing circle on the ground, a child’s flashlight left on even though the city had been asleep for hours. I picked up the lantern and brought it home.

My personal darkness began receding that day.

Three years later, I was forced back into a job that strangled me. I’d had a year off to write full time, gotten a taste of the creative, passion-filled life, but I couldn’t make a financial go of it, not as a single mom. I mourned on my walk to work my first day back, kicking my feet. One punt unearthed a small glass globe, a marble-sized earth. I lifted it up the sun.

I held the whole world in my hand.

All three of these messages were hopeful, empowering. Remember the good times. Find the light. Know your worth. Then came the fall of 2016. I was walking my dog again, deep in my head, imagining a bright future. We were about to have our first female president of the United States.

Something caught my eye just ahead, something bright embedded in the dirt.

I reached for it.

It was a tiny helmet.

The two years after the election leveled me. Racism, sexism, heterosexism, and ableism were winning on the world stage, and (unsurprisingly) they were terrible sports about it. Fear and Fox News were in charge, and they gloated at our pain.

The political and the personal merged when I finally screwed up the courage to confront my mom, dad, and sister about our toxic family secrets—alcoholism, drugs, sexual abuse, protecting my father from the consequences of his behaviors. I'd been pushing off that meeting for years, but then the unaddressed behaviors and pain began showing up in the next generation, as they always do (we deal with our problems, or our problems deal with us). I had to speak up.

“Nobody has done anything unforgivable,” I said, my voice shaking as I spoke the words I’d rehearsed a hundred times on the drive over, “and we've all played our part, but it's time to come clean because these secrets are hurting the people we love.”

They were not able to hear it.

Not only have I not seen the three of them since, but when I reach out to my mom every few months asking her to visit a counselor with me, she attacks, constructing elaborate lies to make sense of why she feels betrayed. The simple answer—because I told—demands too much accountability from her, so this woman who was my biggest champion, who until that family meeting I had spoken to every week for 46 years, my mother, calls me evil in very personal ways, each with enough fleck of truth that I can’t function for days after.

My family destruction didn’t happen in a vacuum. The 2016 United States election was a mammoth hairy hand ripping the blanket off the world's ugliness, forcing us all to either claim our stories and march toward the light or double down in our darkness. And so it is that one of my closest friends (and one of the world's best moms) finds herself fighting for parenting rights in a system that doesn't recognize non-biological lesbian mothers; my husband is confronting his own false family narrative as his father was discovered, alive but weak, on the floor of his hoarding home; so many of my friends are sharing their stories of being sexually assaulted that it seems as though there isn’t one of us who escaped.

The news shows us all writhing in this painful reality that we think cannot possibly get worse.

And then it does.

The latest sign reached me the month before the midterms. It was the first message I’d received since the tiny helmet.

I found myself in San Francisco teaching an editing workshop held the day the nation discovered that Brett Kavanaugh was being confirmed as Supreme Court justice, despite (or possibly because of?) credible accusations of sexual assault leveled against him, despite lying under oath, and despite throwing a pitch-perfect entitlement tantrum during his job interview for "one of nine people in the nation who should never, under any circumstances, throw a pitch-perfect entitlement tantrum.”

My hopelessness couldn't even.

At the end of this depressing day, I saw a woman lean over to one of the workshop organizers. She asked if she could make an announcement. The organizer nodded. That woman, Dr. Ellen Kirschman, stood, turned to the room of 50, and said, her voice shaking, "I stand with Dr. Blasey Ford. I haven’t told anyone but my husband this, but five decades ago, I was raped by two men. My story will be published on the Psychology Today blog, and I’d be honored if you’d read it and share it."

Then she fell back into her seat.

Some other announcements were made, I'm not sure what. The workshop ended. We all rushed toward Ellen, hugged her. But then something happened, something I still cannot fully explain. Ellen’s integrity and her story had unleashed something. We began to talk—really talk, in a vulnerable, sacred way—to cry, to laugh too loud, to take jubilant photos together. Looking back, I believe we were holding an impromptu funeral for the stories and shame we'd been carrying that had never been ours. If that funeral had a banner, it would be Fuck This Shit, Finally and Forever.

In that space, as we handed our shame back to its true owners (here, I think you dropped this) and claimed our own stories in its stead, we grew dangerous and grand.

In this safe and kick-ass circle of women and community, I realized I was holding the next sign, the first since the helmet, gifted to me by a friend earlier in the workshop.

“I found this on a walk," she’d said, sliding it over. "I was going to keep it because it reminded me of my mom, but something told me I needed to give it to you."

It was a miniature of the Eiffel Tower.

The tower built celebrate the centennial of the French Revolution.

I was familiar with the history. Leading up to the revolution, the government was being mismanaged by its unqualified leaders, the environment was so ill-used that crops were failing, the Catholic church was abusing its power. The working class was paying an unfair burden in body, thought, and money, while the very wealthy paid little. Women were treated as passive citizens, entirely dependent on the whims of men.

Massive inequalities and discrimination drove people to a breaking point. They began to come together in the cafes, kitchens, and corners, sharing their stories. From this community rose a revolution.

It’s a good sign.

This article first appeared in Shattering Glass: A Nasty Woman Press Anthology, available wherever books are sold.

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April 29, 2020

The Definitive How-to Bouchercon Guide (Works for all Writing Conferences)

Bouchercon is THE world mystery convention, held every fall and attended by thousands. Yesterday, I TBTB'd about the first Bouchercon I attended in 2006. I was overwhelmed by all the famous writers

I could reach out and touch (sorry, Harlan Coben*, but I think we both knew what was going to happen when you "dropped your napkin"), by what I felt like were many missed opportunities (my first book was out and I had no idea what to do with that information), and by a general sense of being Wood-Eye on the edge of the dance floor.

Fast forward eight years.

This November 13-16, I'll be attending my fourth Bouchercon. I look forward to connecting with what now has become my tribe, a group of readers and writers so generous, so funny, and so smart that I am literally willing to pay to hang out with them. But remembering my first Bouchercon, and how intimidated I felt, got me to thinking that maybe there needs to be a definitive guide to attending B'con for all the newbies out there. (By "got me to thinking," I mean that writer and freelance editor Jim Thomsen sent me the following questions and asked me to blog my answers.) The guide below applies equally well to every writing conference I've ever attended, across genres.

1. Are all authors similarly open to being approached by any new person at Bouchercon? Or are some there primarily to meet up with their established friends, and can be approached only at certain times or in certain situations? My opinion is that if a writer wanted to meet up with their friends, they'd skip the conference and meet up with their friends. Any writer who is in a public space at a writing conference is approachable. That said, the general DBaD (don't be a dick) rule that applies in life also applies in B'con--don't interrupt conversations or meals, respect people's space, watch for body language to know when the conversation is over, make meaningful conversation. Looking for a natural way to introduce yourself? Buy one of their books and ask to have it signed (not necessary but always appreciated).

2. As awesome as the programming is, how much of the real lasting connection is forged at night? I've made lifelong friends by being on a panel with them (I'm looking at you, Catriona McPherson, Johnny Shaw, and Marcus Sakey) but never by watching a panel. All the other connections I've made by volunteering for the con, attending smaller and more interactive things (as opposed to panels--check the program for these opportunities), and definitely, definitely, definitely at the bar at night. A weird truism is that the more writers in a hotel, the smaller the bar, so save seats and you'll be the most popular guy in the room.

3. What would be some examples of ways to NOT approach an author you admire? See Harlan Coben example in intro paragraph above.

4. What should I realistically budget for drinks each evening, assuming I'm there to forge connections and need to grease those wheels with what's behind the bar? Your personality will forge the connections, trust me. If you are open to it, you will find your people at B'con, and they won't expect you to buy them drinks. Unless your people are cheap, like me, and then they will smuggle a bottle of wine into the bar and share it with you.

5. Is there a rock-star hierarchy among crime writers, or is everybody equally real and approachable? Interestingly, and I swear this is true, the more famous the writer, the more approachable and kind they are. You will not meet a more generous person than Lee Child, for example, unless it's William Kent Krueger. In fact, I'd like to see them both battle for the city of Nice, Lee-zilla against Kent-ra style. If we could get Charlaine Harris-dan in there for sex appeal, that is a show I would watch. But yeah. Famous crime writers are ridiculously nice people.

6. The books question from your FB page: How many books should you be prepared to take home? What's the smart way to prepare luggage for the literary haul? I'd look at the list of authors attending, calculate which of their books you'd like signed, and add in ten more to account for the free ones you'll get in your swag bag and a couple left on the exchange table. The hotel will be able to ship them all back home for you, media-rate, which should be much cheaper than packing an extra suitcase on a flight.

7. If I want to go all day and most of the night and pretend I'm not middle-aged and in Olympic athlete condition, what's the smart way to ensure I can go the distance each day? Naps, and a deal with the devil for which you'll pay later.

8. I'm bringing business cards. Are there any other "smart" giveaway items you'd recommend as icebreakers? I like a handshake, to be looked in the eye, and a couple minutes of intelligent, real conversation. I throw away business cards, but a real connection stays with me.

9. What, in your opinion, defines a successful Bouchercon experience? One word: refueling. If I leave feeling inspired to read and to write, which I always do, it's a successful conference (to be fair, it takes me a week to recover enough to tap into the inspiration; I'm an introvert, so hanging with this many people is wonderfully exhausting). Look, writers and passionate readers are one click off of regular people, in the best possible way. If you're lucky, you might run across one a week. To be immersed with thousands of them for a long weekend? It's like coming home.

*I have never met Mr. Coben, and I don't condone unauthorized touching of mystery writers. That said, Linda Joffe Hull, you can grab my ass any time. It's in the contract.

**I'm 80% of the way there. Sooooooo close! You can help put me over the top. Great prizes are available at all pledge levels (chocolate, books, secret tchotchkes, members-only access), so please check out my Kickstarter campaign, which has one week to go, all or nothing: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1675834533/the-catalain-book-of-secrets

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April 25, 2020

My Next Book

Holy CATS am I an unreliable blogger. I see it’s been a couple months. I’ve mostly been busy trying to figure out new things to fight with my husband about. We ran through the old stuff a couple weeks into quarantine. For real, though, I’m growing sick of myself, and this desperation has driven me to reach out to you, via my blog. What are you up to? What’s the best TV show you’ve seen lately, the kindest thing a neighbor has done, the weirdest food you’ve eaten and/or ordered online?

I ordered a case of turkey gravy two days ago. A. Case. And I have no turkey in the house. I’m calling the gravy meat wine, and I have no regrets.

Book news: Unspeakable Things has sold over 100K copies since January! Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. It’s such a personal project, and my 20th book in a real “below the radar” writing career (hahaha that's the professional author way of saying I once received a $1.29 royalty check), and so to have it reach so many people is incredibly affirming.

Bloodline, my next small-town suspense novel, releases December. You can read the description here. Also, if you like creepy, I encourage you to check out Jennifer Hillier’s Little Secrets. I couldn't turn the pages fast enough on this fabulous new release. If you’re more in the mood for a cozy, Golden Era mystery, you can’t beat Erica Ruth Neubauer’s Murder at the Mena House.

I also have three new books in the works: one inspired by the "satanic panic" that swept the US in the mid80s and hit (trigger alert: this following link goes to a New York Times article dealing with the sexual abuse of children) Jordan, Minnesota, particularly hard (it will have a 14-year-old protagonist; the themes of children who are not believed and communities that collectively look away are still haunting me), another featuring a character from Unspeakable Things all grown up (it’s a serial killer thriller), and a third a retelling of the Medusa myth centered around female fury. That last one will be in the vein of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of Avalon. I’ll keep you updated on all three projects, and you can sign up for my newsletter if you'd like more regular updates.

Be well!

p.s. If you’re looking for the Unspeakable Things epilogue, it lives here.
p.s.s. I just opened an online creative writing school, classes available to all. Check it out here.
p.s.s.s. If you are a woman interested in signing up for my At-home Yoga, Writing, and Meditation Retreat May 16-20, you can find out more here.

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