Alafair Burke

I Don't Want to Grow Up...So Why Must My Characters?

2010-02-16T05:33:00.000-08:00

A pop psychologist coined the phrase Peter Pan Syndrome to describe men who want to remain boys. If there's a female version of the syndrome, I suppose I probably suffer from it.

Don't get me wrong. I like to think I've matured in the ways that matter. I confront my problems. I deal with people directly. I don't lie to my parents even when the truth is uncomfortable. And when I want to lose weight, I do it sensibly - not like that popcorn and pickle diet I tried my sophomore year.

There are perks that have come with age as well. I have a real car instead of that oxidized baby-blue Chevy Chevette POS I used to share with my sisters. I no longer work at Benetton. I can stay up late whenever I want.

But, deep down, inside, where it really counts? I don't want to grow up. I still dance in my living room, stomp in snow piles, and break out into the occasional handstand. Last Thursday, I ate pudding for lunch an hour before teaching the search incident to arrest doctrine to my crim pro students.

The world changes around me, but I'm still the same oddball interacting with it.

I used to be a choir geek obssessed with

These days, my inner choir geek watches America Idol and Glee, and, although I no longer tape posters to my walls -- honestly? I'd love for just one day (maybe week) to be

Am I alone in feeling that external time passes far more quickly than our internal clocks can possibly register? I don't think so.

My mother told me when I turned thirty that she still looks in the mirror and expects to see her thirty-year-old self. These guys? I know they don't define themselves through biological age.

So what's my point? If, at heart, most of us don't want to grow up -- and don't really acknowledge that we have -- why must our fictional characters age on the same clock as those of us stuck in the real world? My husband always tell me to face the music: the only alternative to aging is death. But why must that be true for the characters who live through our words?

One of my favorite writers once told me that his biggest writing regret was that he'd given his beloved series character a year of birth. By doing so, he forever locked his character in the continuum of time, and inevitably that character will face the realities of grey hair and back pain. And we've all experienced that as readers, haven't we? We watch as our favorite protagonists reach their seventh and eighth decades but suspend disbelief as they continue to kick in doors, crack heads, and score with the ladies.

My good pal Kinsey Millhone, on the other hand, gets to stay in her thirties. But to keep Kinsey from aging in real time, author Sue Grafton created a time capsule, freezing the alphabet series forever in the 1980's. With no computers or cell phones, Kinsey's world falls further into the distance from the present with each new book.

But why must a writer have to choose between youth and the present? Having celebrated its twentieth anniversary, The Simpsons is now the longest-running prime time show in TV history. But Bart's not a middle manager in an office park, Lisa's not contemplating her biological clock, Homer and Marge are still ambiguously middle aged, and Maggie's still working on her pacifier. But the world around the family changes. For example, in an early flashback, Homer was into Steve Miller's The Joker.

More recently, we learned that Homer spent college in a 1990's Kurt Cobain-like state.

My Ellie Hatcher series is (hopefully) still in its inchoate stages at the third novel.* Although I could always change my mind, my plan is to pull a Simpsons,** always setting the books in the present, but having only a short period of time supposedly pass between books. The year will change. So will the cultural references. But the people in Ellie Hatcher's world get to stay young.

If I'm lucky enough to enjoy a long-running series, I fully expect to receive emails complaining about "continuity problems," but I plan to find a polite way to tell the haters to suck it. If it's intentional, it's not a problem. I pride myself on the authenticity of my work, but who says fictional characters have to age like the rest of us?

I'd love to hear comments: What have other series authors done to tackle the age issue? And would you think less of a series if the protaganist got to experience a changing external world without having to age like the rest of us?

*B-ish (because it's a footnote) SP: 212, the third novel in the series, is out March 23. Read awesome reviews here and here. Watch my low-budget, home-made video trailer, set to one of the aforementioned pop idols, here.

** A lesson on knowing your audience: I unleashed my the-Simpsons-don't-age observation at a book event, and it turned out that no one in the audience -- I mean no one -- had ever seen a single episode of the Simpsons. They looked at me like a child who ate pudding for lunch.

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More Good News

2010-02-09T07:11:00.000-08:00

With each book, I cross my fingers and hold my breath as I wait for the influential Publishers Weekly review. I'm delighted to report that 212 has PW's stamp of approval:

Burke’s third white-knuckle thriller finds NYPD Det. Ellie Hatcher (after Angel’s Tip) and her partner, J.J. Rogan, investigating the murder of NYU student Megan Gunther, who’s the target of threatening posts on a college gossip Web site. The death of bodyguard Robert “Robo” Mancini, whose bullet-ridden corpse turns up in a swanky new building, the 212, built by Sam Sparks, the high-powered Manhattan real-estate developer Robo worked for, ups the ante. When Sam makes it clear that the police won’t have access to any company records, Ellie’s interest is piqued. As she and J.J. try to piece together Megan’s life, they discover a link between the student and a recently murdered real estate agent. With her usual tenacity, Ellie pursues leads that put both her career and her life at risk. Burke expertly weaves real-life headlines into her plot—particularly the Craig’s List Killer and the slew of recent political scandals—without ever sacrificing originality.

Literary Look-Alikes: Who are the Doppelgangers?

2010-02-01T07:17:00.000-08:00

In honor of Doppelganger Week, I blog today over at Murderati about Literary Look-Alikes. Harlan Coben, Laura Lippman, Barry Eisler, Andrew Gross, and more... who are their doppelgangers? I hope you'll stop by Murderati and add your comments.

First Reviews of 212! So far, so good...

2010-01-26T05:26:00.000-08:00

Even when I'm finished writing a book, it doesn't immediately feel "real." The story has a beginning, middle, and that all-important end, but I've lived with the ideas and characters so long in my head that those pages still feel like they belong only to me. Even as the edits are made, the title is finalized, and blurbs are landed, the book is like a house still under construction - exciting, full of potential, but still a figment of the imagination.

But then something wonderful happens. Other people -- human beings who aren't related to me or work for my publisher -- read it, and the book finally becomes real by creating a story in the minds of readers. And those first readers, for better or worse, are called reviewers.

I'm pleased to say that the early reviews of 212 have been fantastic:

“The latest installment of ... Burke's Ellie Hatcher series is a fast-paced thriller featuring an appealingly current angle, dynamic characters, and a spiderweb of possibilities she manages to leave tied up neatly. Strongly recommended.” - Library Journal

“Burke skillfully portrays her protagonist’s relationships—with victims’ families and persons of interest; with her partner; with her female boss, Liuetentant Robin Tucker; and, especially with ADA Max Donovan.... Up-to-the-minute, action-packed crime fiction.” - Booklist

"212 is one heck of a thrill ride... An intense story that will keep you reading way past your bedtime. And when it's over, it will leave you begging for more." — Lori's Reading Corner.

Many of you have been supporting me and my work for years by reading and even spreading the word to your friends and family. I'm so thankful for your continued interest in my books, but, piggie that I am, I have the nerve to ask you to help Team Alafair once again. If you will be purchasing 212 (and I hope you will), please pre-order from your preferred bookseller. Pre-orders are a sign of reader interest: The more pre-orders, the higher the "buzz." It's rough out there, folks. Your support means the world to me.

You can pre-order 212 at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Borders, or your favorite indie. As always, if you order through one of the bookstores on the 212 tour, I look forward to inscribing and signing your books personally. Lean more about 212 here.

Author Bios: What's Missing from the Back Inside Flap?

2010-01-19T06:22:00.000-08:00

I promise this next sentence is an honest intro to today's post, not just BSP: This weekend I officially joined the board of directors of Mystery Writers of America and became President of the New York chapter. (Pause for applause.)

In preparation for the annual MWA board funfest (aka orientation day), the unparalleled Margery Flax requested a biography to distribute to fellow board members. I sent her the usual jacket copy:

A formal deputy district attorney in Portland, Oregon, Alafair Burke now teaches criminal law at Hofstra Law School and lives in New York City. A graduate of Stanford Law School, she is the author of the Samantha Kincaid series, which includes the novels Judgment Calls, Missing Justice, and Close Case. Most recently, she published Angel's Tip, her second thriller featuring Ellie Hatcher.

Her response was polite, quick, and resoundingly clear, something like, "Are you sure that's all you want to include? This is usually a longer fun one, only for internal board distribution."

In other words, Yawn, Snore, Zzzz....

I can take a hint, so I gave it another try. Borrowing in part from my website, I allowed myself thirty minutes to hammer out something that would give those who hadn't met me yet some sense of who I am and where I've been. Margery's assurance that this was purely internal was freeing.

After I submitted my specially-designated "MWA board bio," I couldn't stop thinking about the sterileness of those book jacket author bios, scrubbed clean of all personality. As writers, we're committed to exploring the human stories that lurk beneath the superficial, but when asked to describe ourselves: Yawn, snore, zzzz.....

I've spoken a few times during author appearances about a hypothetical world in which books (like the law school exams I grade as a professor) would be published anonymously, their authors known only by a randomly assigned number that readers could use to "identify" the authors they consistently enjoyed. After all, what separates reading from television and film is the active role of our mind's eye. To read books without knowing an author's age, gender, race, religion, region, education, attractiveness, or work experience might truly unleash our imaginations.

Despite my musings about a utopia of anonymous publishing, I've come to realize why publishers emphasize (and readers desire) personal information about authors. The most delightful unexpected benefit of writing has been meeting some of my favorite authors. I already read these folks religiously before I met them, but I'll admit that I read them differently -- and more richly -- now. I recognize the wry winks in Laura Lippman's most leisurely paragraphs. I hear Michael Connelly's quiet voice in Bosch. I think I really know what Lisa Unger means when she writes on Ridley Jones's behalf that she's a "dork." And those short, little, maddeningly frustrating sentences from Lee Child are now sexy as hell.

But I didn't get any of that from the book jackets.

As the traditional print media and personal appearance opportunities for authors to introduce themselves to readers continue to dry up, many of us have taken to the Web. We do that not only to get our names out there, but also because we recognize that readers are more likely to experience our written work as intended if they come to it with a sense of who we are. (For example, an online reviewer once dissed a line of Ellie Hatcher's, something like "kicking it old school." The fact that it's corny to talk that way is of course precisely why she'd say such a thing. And if the reader "got" Ellie or anything about my work, he'd know that's -- ahem -- just how we roll.)

So as we're knocking ourselves out to convey our souls to readers, maybe we should take another look at book jacket bios. The publishers are going to type something beneath that favorite photo: It may as well be interesting. And so, even though Margery promised to keep this unsanitized bio a secret, I've decided to blast it out to the world:

Alafair Burke is the author of six novels in two series, one featuring NYPD Detective Ellie Hatcher, the other with Portland prosecutor Samantha Kincaid. Although reviewers have described both characters as “feisty,” Alafair might accidentally spill a drink on anyone who invokes that word to describe her or anyone she cares about.

Alafair grew up in Wichita, Kansas, whose greatest contribution to her childhood was a serial killer called BTK. Nothing warps a young mind quite like daily reports involving the word, bind, torture, and kill.

From Kansas, Alafair dreamed of fleeing west. Fearing their daughter might fall prey to a 1980’s version of the Manson Family (um, Nelson?), her parents prohibited her from attending school in California. Ironically, she ended up at Reed College, where the bookstore sold shirts that read "Atheism, Communism, Free Love," and Alafair found herself (lovingly) nicknamed Nancy Reagan and The Cheerleader.

From Reed, Alafair went to the decidedly less hippy-ish Stanford Law School. Although she went with dreams of becoming an entertainment lawyer so she could make deals at the Palm and score seats at the Oscars, she eventually realized she had watched "The Player" one too many times, and instead decided to pursue criminal law because she was obsessed with the Unabomber.

Most of Alafair’s legal practice was as a prosecutor in Portland, Oregon, where she infamously managed to tally up a net loss on prison time imposed during her prosecutorial career. (Help spring two exonerated people from prison to put a guy called the Happy Face Killer behind bars, and it really ruins your numbers.) As hard as it is for her to believe, she is now a professor at Hofstra Law School.

When Alafair is not teaching classes or writing, she enjoys rotting her brain. She runs to an iPod playlist with three continuous hours of spaz music (think "It Takes Two" by DJ Rob Bass, "Smooth Criminal" by Alien Art Farm, and "Planet Claire" by the B-52's). She insists that Duran Duran, the Psychedelic Furs, and the Cure hold up just as well as the so-called classics. She watches way too much television, usually on cable. She wants Tina Fey to be her BFF. She likes to drink wine and cook.

She discloses TMI on the Interwebs, blogging regularly at Murderati and logging teenage-territory hours on Facebook. She will golf at the drop of a hat even though she’s bad at it.

Most importantly, Alafair loves her husband, Sean, and their French bulldog, The Duffer. She also loves her parents, but if you ask her about them, she’ll ask you about yours.

What do you think? Should all authors let loose on their jacket flaps? Would it affect that crucial decision of whether to purchase? Would it change how we read? If you're a writer, what should your author bio REALLY say? And if you're a reader, what would you like to know about some of your favorite writers?

Edgar Award Nominations

2010-01-16T21:56:00.000-08:00

This week the Mystery Writers of America will announce the nominations for this year's Edgar Awards, the Oscars of the crime fiction world. This weekend, I had the pleasure of joining the board of MWA. I took the opportunity to ask incoming, outgoing, and recurring members of the Board to recognize the works they would most like to see nominated for an Edgar Award this year. What do you think? What novels, debuts, paperback originals, short stories, true crime books, plays, TV shows, or movies would you like to see recognized this year?

Update: The nominations are posted here. I had no new works out in 2009, so for once I can simply celebrate the nominees without a milligram of resentful pouting. Congratulations!

Recurring Dreams

2010-01-08T05:49:00.000-08:00

I just woke up in my New Orleans hotel room from a dream in which another writer told me that I was horrible on the book tour circuit and had alienated a bookseller so much that he'd taken to the Internet to spread the word about my awfulness. Instead of heeding the other writer's warning, I proceeded to argue with her. My editor finally had to step in to say I was ruining her party. When I looked online, it turned out the warning had been true. The manager of a Borders in Michigan had filled the interwebs with his anti-Alafair rants.

Now, to be clear: the writer in my dream was not anyone I know. I made her up. Ditto with the bookstore manager. Same with the gorgeous house that served as backdrop to the party. And yet it was all so vivid. I can picture the writer. Still feel my seething hatred as she gloated at my promotional failures. The negative postings about me were fully formed sentences that my subconscious apparently wrote before I read them on that computer screen in my dream.

So I woke up thinking about dreams.

I have friends who insist they don't dream, but apparently sleep researchers say we all dream. Some of us just don't remember. I'm not one of those people. In my dreams, I live entire days and months that feel in some ways more real to me than my waking life. I wake up, like today, angry or hurt about things that never happened. I'll confess that I've felt love in dreams only to wake up and realize the people I loved don't even exist. I've had dreams that I've finished writing a kickass novel, then open my eyes to reflect on what was really just a bunch of nonsense.

And sometimes I believe these dreams have to mean something.

I mentioned I'm in New Orleans. What I didn't tell you is that, two hours from now, I'm presenting an academic paper in front of a large conference of law professors. Or that last night at the bar a professor friend shared some concerns about an essay I'm currently writing. Is it pure coincidence that I dreamed my work was scorned and ridiculed? As Harry Bosch says, "There are no coincidences."

Carl Jung would agree. How, other than through a collective unconscious, can we all share so many of the same dream images? In my post-dream online perusing this morning, I came not across anti-Alafair rantings from a Borders manager (thank God!), but a blog post purporting to compile the ten most common dreams.

I searched for mine and found them all: chases, paralysis (those two often go together), being late or lost (often I've started school again but didn't prepare), and, the worst and most common of all, the falling out of the teeth.

Supposedly these are all signs of stress, indications that we feel we've lost control of something in our lives. The link is a little too literal for my preferences. Wouldn't it be terrific if a sense of insecurity or chaos made us dream we were eating a room full of french fries or sipping wine at a villa in Tuscany? Much more fun than broken teeth and unplanned public nudity.

So how do you dream? Do you remember your dreams? Do your dreams feel real or fantastical? What are your most frequent recurring dreams and what do you think they mean?

Happy New Year

2009-12-31T06:02:00.001-08:00

As 2009 comes to a close, I hope you are welcoming in the new year with friends and family, with happiness, and in safety and comfort. I know this was a hard year for many, but do hope that this weekend will be a time to celebrate what we value most in our lives and to create optimism about an even brighter future.

It has been more than a year since my last book, Angel's Tip, was first published in hardback, and yet so many of you stay in touch with me, personally and online. Your kind words, both to me and in your efforts to spread the word about my books, mean the world to me. Knowing that you are there - with faith that the next book will be worth the wait - helps me be a better writer. I can't thank you enough for your support.

As we enter 2010, I am eager to see 212 hit shelves on March 23. I'm also happy to announce that my website has been updated with information about the book, including a look at the jacket. I think the publisher did a terrific job and hope you agree.

Hopefully I will have a chance to see many of you in person this year. I will be posting an events calendar soon, so stay tuned. In the meantime, be well and happy tonight. My husband and I will spend the weekend with dear friends and the Duffer in East Hampton. At midnight, I will get two sets of kisses: one to mark the beginning of 2010, and the other to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary.

Happy New Year, friends.

2009 Favorites on Screen (Big and Small)

2009-12-24T06:02:00.000-08:00

My friends over at Crimespree Magazine* recently asked me to compile a list of favorite TV shows and films of 2009, whether current to the year or viewed on DVD. My number of visits to the theater this year was in the single digits, and some were wasted on duds like Men Who Stare at Goats (waste of George Clooney) and 2012 (waste of John Cusack), so the list is dominated by TV shows.

Nevertheless, I thought I’d share an expanded list here in the hopes of learning about your favorites as well. Maybe my list will change after I finally see The Hurt Locker, Inglorious Basterds, An Education, Zombieland, and all the other films I missed, but here’s where the tally stands today.

Dexter – In the event you’re still catching up on DVD, DVR, hulu, or on-demand,** I won’t spoil the fun by mentioning the scene that pushed this to the ultra tippy top of my list, but John Lithgow was deliciously, disturbingly evil, and the show’s writers have proven they will take risks to ensure that every season surprises and surpasses.

Up - As much as I've loved other animated features, this is the first one that made me laugh, sob, and wish (and momentarily believe) that the chubby little cubscout was a real, live boy so I could adopt him. Extra points for bringing back the wonderful Ed Asner.

Up in the Air - It's pure coincidence that my two favorite films of the year both involve the word Up. This is the kind of movie they just don't make any more: good, solid, simple grown-up story telling. George Clooney has never seemed so real. (Can I adopt him, too, but in a different way?)

30 Rock - I cherish my twenty-four-ish minutes each week with the folks at TGS. Tina Fey recently told Entertainment Weekly that, other than her choice to have a child, asking Alec Baldwin to take the role of Jack Donaghy was her best decision. I've never met her daughter, but I have to think she's at best at close second. Incidentally, I want to adopt Tina Fey, too, to be my BFF. In my dreams, we write a TV pilot together. "Want to go to there."

Glee - The dry humor of Jane Lynch and the earnestness of high school chorus geeks, wrapped together in one big snarky, happy bundle. It's as if the TV gods came together to create a show specifically for me. I love the show so much I based my criminal law students' final exam on a heist pulled off by Mr. Shuester, Rachel, Flnn & Quinn. Poor Sue Sylvester perished after taking a hit to the noggin with a Cheerios trophy. Now if only the actual show could incorporate a mystery arc.

Battlestar Galactica - I was slow to come to this series because I still tell myself I don't like sci-fi. Well, if loving this is wrong, I don't want to be right. We watched the entire series in a matter of months and
now wish we could lobotomize the BSG-parts of our brains so we could experience it all over again. (Special shout-out to friend and author Lisa Unger for finally getting me on the BSG train.)

The Hangover – I must have a sixteen-year-old boy hiding among my multiple Sybil-esque personalities, because I swear I could not stop laughing when I saw this movie. Granted, I can no longer remember why I was giggling so incessantly, but I also can’t remember why I had so much fun on that one spring break, but I’m nevertheless convinced I enjoyed myself.

The Shield – The series finale was simultaneously shocking and unflinchingly human. This show consistently proved how well the medium of television can explore character. Never seen it? You don’t know what you’re missing. Start with Season 1 on DVD.

Fantastic Mr. Fox - This was the most creative work I've seen in a long time. The adaptation of the classic books to a contemporary film, the visual choices, the familiar Wes Anderson vibe in a new medium: I loved it all. Added bonus: Another win in the George Clooney column (officially getting him out of my mental doghouse for that horrible Goats movie).

Lost – Polar bears, time travel, numerology, the mystical Jacob? It really is enough to make even a writer’s head hurt. But that image of Juliet peering up at Sawyer, managing to say, "I love you, James. I love you so much," was enough to remind even the craftiest, puzzle-solving viewer that the secrets of the island don’t ultimately matter. The show is about people. (Check out the video from 2:42 if you have any doubts.)

Tie: Modern Family or Community. Too soon to tell here, but I’m cautiously optimistic that one of these two new sit-coms will eventually fill the gaping hole left in my comedic existence since the demise of the sublime Arrested Development.

There you go, just in time for some last-minute DVD purchases for the holidays.

So, come on, let me have it: What did I miss?

*Crimespree is the Entertainment Weekly of the crime fiction scene. If you’re a ‘Rati reader, you’ll probably love it. Find out more here.

** When did we start living in the future?

Duffer is famous

2009-12-17T05:33:00.000-08:00

Although I've gotten used to the idea of the Duffer having his own adoring fans, I believe he's now officially famous.

I was interviewed recently by French Bulldog Village, a terrific rescue, placement, and adoption organization. The topic? Duffer, Duffer, Duffer! The life of a frenchie and his crime-writing person: Read the interview here.

Favorite TV, movies, and DVDs of 2009

2009-12-16T14:04:00.000-08:00

Those of you who are signed up for my mailing list will soon be receiving my annual holiday newsletter, complete with some of the funniest and best gifts I came across during this year's online shopping spree. (If you're not on the mailing list, you can sign up here.)

In the meantime, I thought you might be interested in another "tops" list I recently compiled. The good people at Crimespree asked me to write about my top 5 TV shows, films, or DVDs this year. You can read my thoughts here.

Cutest Little Musician in the World

2009-12-11T06:59:00.000-08:00

This one's got absolutely nothing to do with writing, reading, or me, but I just can't stand the thought of anyone who knows me going through the day without seeing this.

Forgive the Tiger Talk

2009-12-11T06:56:00.000-08:00

I wrote this last week for Murderati:

Unless you’ve been in a stuffing-induced food coma since Thanksgiving, you’ve probably heard that Tiger Woods was in the news lately for more than just his game. Given my obsessions with golf, celebrities, and secrets, I can’t resist sharing a few random thoughts I had on the matter.

When the story (insert virtual air quotes for those of you disgusted by the news coverage) first broke, I tried to convince myself I had high-minded reasons for following it. At first, I feared for Tiger's well-being after the initial reports of serious injuries. Then as a former domestic violence prosecutor, I wondered whether Florida law enforcement was seriously considering investigating Tiger's wife as some reports suggested.

But there's also the voyeurism. We all know (I hope) that we don’t really know celebrities, only the public images that publicists and managers have carefully crafted for us. But despite that cognitive understanding, consistent and prolonged exposure to those public faces sometimes creates sticky impressions of familiarity. After more than two decades of nightly Letterman monologues, I confess that David Letterman seemed like a known quantity. And after countless golf tournaments and Nike ads, so did Tiger.

Now I know.

But I’ve been thinking less about Tiger than about his women.

Rachel Uchitel, the woman first named by the National Enquirer, has seen more than an average person’s media coverage, as photographs online track her journey from grieving 9-11 widow to healing new bride to red-velvet-rope vixen.

Who is the woman behind all of these faces?

And then there's Tiger's wife, Elin Nordegren, who went from swimsuit model to au pair to marriage and motherhood.

I've seen countless images of her biting her nails at the 18th green, smiling at her husband, and holding the babies, but I've never heard her voice. Who would have suspected that quiet, smiling, waif of a woman had it in her to (allegedly) take a pitching wedge to the windows of a Cadillac Escalade?

My guess is she'll stand by her man, at least in the short-term, but we'll all be wondering whether it's out of love or savviness. With Tiger struggling to hold onto his commercial endorsements, reporters claim Elin's out to revise her pre-nup. Ten years of marriage no longer required. 55 million dollars instead of 20. Perhaps clauses that penalize further "transgressions"?* Jewelry, candy, and flowers just aren't going to cut it.

We love to fret about the public fascination with celebrity scandals, but I have to confess that I get it. When I was a prosecutor, my daily work let me peer behind the facade to reveal the secrets people carry. Celebrity scandals satisfy that same itch - the realization (and validation) that everyone makes mistakes, no one is what he seems, and we all have multiple personas. That perfect son, husband, and father might be an insatiable dog on his trips to Vegas. That scantily clad hostess at the nightclub might have lost someone she loved to tragedy. And that quiet wife in the background might just be a hundred solid pounds of fortitude.

Thanks for tolerating my Tiger talk. Is anyone else willing to out themselves as a celebrity watcher? What seemingly superficial stories have kept you riveted and why?

*I found no comfort in the company I was keeping by following this story when I learned the following (pathetic) tidbit: After Tiger's public admission of "transgressions," online searches for the definition of that word topped Google's search list.

The Ultimate Crime Playlist

2009-11-23T11:36:00.000-08:00

Over at Murderati today, I'm blogging about the ultimate crime-related playlist. I Fought the Law by the Clash. I Shot the Sheriff - Marley, natch. Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues.

Stop by the comments section and add your suggestions.

A New York memory

2009-11-20T12:15:00.000-08:00

One of my finest memories since moving to New York City was on Valentine's Day 2005. Despite (or was it because of?) the gray misty day, the then-boyfriend/now-husband and I rode our bicycles through Central Park to take in the full scope of The Gates, all 7,503 vinyl panels. Thanks to the ribbons of saffron popping across the otherwise dreary park paths, a place that had long ago become familiar was transformed - still known, but new again. Different. Magical.

As we pedaled down the west side of the park, we spotted an impressive Maybach coming our way. My husband, who works at the Metropolitan Museum, recognized the car that had been shuttling the artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude around the neighborhood.

As the Maybach passed, we yelled "bravo" and blew kisses, rising from our bicycle seats like two exclamation points. The back window of the Mayback slowly lowered. We caught a glimpse of a camera filming inside. Then we saw a shock of pinkish red hair. Jeanne-Claude waved appreciately. As the window closed, I swore I saw her blow us a kiss.

This morning I learned that Jeanne-Claude passed away from complications following a ruptured brain aneurysm. RIP, Jeanne-Claude, and thank you for a wonderful Valentine's Day memory.

The Faces of Evil

2009-11-13T05:35:00.000-08:00

Thanks to some truly memorable writing by a guy called Thomas Harris, and some wicked good acting by a dude called Anthony Hopkins, many of us picture this guy when we think “serial killer.”

Or if we take our models from the real world, we might conjure up images of these fellows.

The paradigmatic “serial killer,” as we tend to use that term, is, by definition, both evil and genius. We know he is evil because he not only takes life, but does so repeatedly and often methodically. We know he must be genius because he is able to get away with his acts, repeatedly and methodically. Ted Bundy convinced grown women to get in a car with him. Charles Manson controlled his own cult. The Zodiac Killer was never caught. And Hannibal Lecter? Well, he managed to outwit even Clarice Starling. How wiley is that?

But I spent some time last week thinking about our fascination with the particular type of romanticized evil epitomized by the pop culture figure of the serial killer. My thoughts were first sparked by this season’s insanely delicious performance by John Lithgow on Dexter, based on the groundbreaking novels by Jeff Lindsay. Dexter himself was a terrific twist on the usual serial killer depiction: He only kills people who deserve it. And, in some ways, the killer portrayed by Lithgow checks off all the usual boxes: methodical, intelligent, manipulative – check, check, and check.

Except ... he’s also married. And he sings loudly and earnestly at church. And he wears goofy shirts. And he gets angry when a new acquaintance lingers too long near his dead sister’s ashes. And he totally wigs out when he hits a deer with his creepy kidnapper van. And he looks like this.

Not wiley. Not genius. Just a little off. And kind of dorky.

I was also thinking about serial killers when I dusted off an old war story for my criminal law students this week. When I was a young Deputy District Attorney in Portland, I prosecuted a guy called Sebastian Shaw. The facts? He threw an onion at his sister with such force that it, in her words to the police, "exploded." (No offense to my siblings, but you all did way worse to me, and I never called the cops.)

In all honesty, I might have only pushed the necessary papers on the case had it not been for persistent phone calls from a friend of the defendant’s family (coincidentally, a writer you’ve probably heard of). She warned me and anyone who would listen that Shaw was dangerous. We had to do something. To the best of my recollection, Shaw was convicted of assault and received what was probably a typical sentence for the crime of injuring another person.

I moved on to the next case (or hundreds) and never thought of it again until the First Assistant called several months later, asking for information about a guy called Sebastian Shaw. "Oh yeah," I said, "the exploding onion case." I could tell from the First Assistant’s response that my levity was misplaced. (I know. It probably still is.)

You see, Shaw had been stopped by police in a car that happened to have the following items in the trunk: a blindfold, plastic zip ties, duct tape, mace, a knife, a lead weight in the end of a sock, ski masks, latex gloves, and pornographic magazines. That’s all the police needed to know to conclude that Shaw was up to no good. But it wasn’t proof beyond a reasonable doubt.

Fortunately, Shaw smoked. And littered. After he flicked a cigarette butt to the ground outside a grocery store, police linked him through DNA evidence to a rape and two unsolved murders. The last time I checked, Shaw claimed to have killed ten or fifteen people, and law enforcement continued to connect him to bodies.

It wasn’t until after he’d been identified as a serial rapist and murderer that all the stories started to come together. The threat to his roommate’s life during an argument about the dishes. The eerie statements that had gotten him suspended from his cable company job. The outburst at his co-workers when he was a security guard. And don’t forget about the exploding onion.

All that time, all those stories. Apparently his family suspected something was deeply wrong. But I imagine that, to the people who had only superficial encounters with him, Sebastian Shaw seemed sad. Bizarre. Pathetic. Lonely. A loser.

Not evil. Not wiley. Not genius.

Now police in Cleveland have found eleven bodies in the home of this man, who had lived with his stepmother and did not drive. Sad. Pathetic. Not wiley or genius.

All of these stories were bouncing against each other in the pinball machine I call my brain when I asked my Facebook pals what I should blog about. I got some great suggestions that I may use later, but one stood out when my friend, Steve, said, “How about the banality of evil?”

It shouldn’t have taken Steve’s suggestion for me to tie John Lithgow to Sebastian Shaw to Anthony Sowell in Cleveland. I grew up in Wichita, Kansas, terrified of a murderer who called himself BTK. Bind. Torture. Kill. Thirty years without capture. Evil. Wiley. Genius.

But then they caught him because he was stupid enough to send police a CD-rom initialized with his full name. In his job enforcing low-level code violations in his tiny little town, he was known to measure grass with a ruler. Not wiley. Not genius. Just a sad loser. But still evil to the core.

So if evil doesn’t usually come in a super-smart, fava-bean eating package, why are we so fascinated with the prevailing paradigm? Maybe it’s simply because characters like Hannibal Lecter make for much better fiction than overweight landscaping police. But I suspect our preferences run deeper. We want to believe that evil is both recognizable and rare, not the nondescript guy in the next office.

If you’re fascinated by real-life serial killers, which ones fascinate you and why? And, as a reader (and perhaps writer), how do you respond to fictional portrayals of evil? Which ones stick with you?

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T09:23:00.001-07:00

It's that time of year when I indulge my inner dork and dress the Duffer up for Halloween. This year, I let Duffer choose his own costume at the store for spoiled dogs. My husband doesn't believe me, but, I swear, this was the one Duffer sniffed most enthusiastically. Happy Halloween!

Book Reviews, Served with a Healthy Side of Snark

2009-10-31T09:16:00.000-07:00

When writers say they don’t read book reviews, they’re usually referring to their own. Not me. Whether I should or not, I do read reviews of my own books. I don’t, however, read book reviews generally. I peruse the New York Times Sunday Book Review, as well as the book sections of the magazines to which I subscribe. I also find myself really enjoying Huffington Post's new book section. But I wouldn’t say I make a point to have my finger on the pulse of critical response.

Perhaps the casualness of my book review browsing explains why I spotted a common thread among three reviews I happened to read last week. My brow first furrowed when Entertainment Weekly panned Michael Connelly’s Nine Dragons as a novel that “read like it had been scribbled during a red-eye from Los Angeles to Hong Kong.” Those were some hard words to handle, coming as they did from my pop-culture bible about my crime-writing God. Apparently also for book blogger Sarah Weinman, who tweeted, "What bug crawled up [the reviewer's] butt?" Can’t we all just get along?

It turns out the reviewers were just firing up their keyboards. The following Monday came Janet Maslin’s review of Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. Maslin treats Ehrenreich’s thesis as “the makings of a tight, incisive essay,” then dismisses the admittedly “short book” as still “padded with cheap shots, easy examples, research recycled from her earlier books and caustic reportorial stalking,” with a central point “that’s as obvious on this book’s last page as it was on the first.”

But Michiko Kakutani wasn’t going to let her colleague take the week’s prize for creative dissing. Her review of Jonathan Lethem’s Chronic City is so scathing I felt myself wincing with every new phrase. Just a few? “Tedious, overstuffed.” “Insipid, cartoon version.” “Sorely tries the reader’s patience.” “The characters turns out to be an annoying and tiresome lot.” And finally, “lame and unsatisfying.”

Yikes.

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t yet another writer railing against a bad review. Nor is it a claim that reviewers should only review books they enjoy. Nor is it a general indictment of the enterprise of reviewing. Nor am I claiming that the above reviewers were inaccurate.

Instead, I find myself asking questions: If a reviewer concludes that a book stinks, what is the appropriate tone for the resulting review? Does the reviewer do enough by saying the book is (to their mind) bad, or does colorful condemnation help make the point? Do scathing one-liners make for more effective -- or at least more readable -- reviews, or are they just unnecessary snark?

I ask because it seems to me the few bad reviews I read (hopefully not mine, fingers crossed) seem to be getting snarkier. Maybe I’m wrong about that. Like I said, I don’t scour book reviews, so my sample size is woefully unscientific. And if you listen to Brad Meltzer, stinging reviews are nothing new.

But it would make sense if reviewers were getting meaner. With newspapers struggling generally, and book reviews taking a disproportionate hit, reviewers and their editors might reason that readers would rather see blood shed on the page. And if their main competitors are websites and blogs, well… let’s just say there’s no shortage of churlish comments online.

Author who read a bad review? Or reviewer who read a bad book?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Are reviews getting snarkier? Should they? And, best of all, what are some of the harshest reviews you’ve ever read (or received)?

I’ll start. (1) Maybe. (2) Honestly not sure. (I know, I’m very decisive today.) (3) The Independent (UK) on my debut novel, Judgment Calls: “Does the name Burke ring any bells? Why, it's James Lee's daughter and she's written a legal thriller about as thrilling as a trip to the dentist. Dull as ditchwater, in fact. She's a former assistant DA in Portland, and if I was [sic] her, I'd have stuck to the day job. Me, I'll stick to her daddy's books.” Nice.

Turning 40 and Missing Bouchercon

2009-10-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

October 16 is significant to many people, I’m sure, for a variety of reasons. Odds being what they are, someone reading this is probably having an anniversary. Or a birthday. Or a new book published.

According to the handy dandy Interwebs, this Friday will mark a number of important historical events: the guillotining of Marie Antoinette in 1793, the births of Oscar Wilde and Eugene O’Neill, n 1854 and 1888, respectively, the beginning of the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, and the launch of Ross Perot's infomercial in 1992.

But I have my eye on October 16 for two reasons. First, it’s the Friday of Bouchercon weekend, the annual mystery conference that draws writers, editors, readers, and other mystery fans from around the country. There’s no shortage of terrific programming for the weekend, and Friday is chock full of good stuff: 2009 Anthony nominees for short story, like Sean Chercover and Jane Cleland, discuss their work; panels on setting, plotting, and noir (oh my!); talk of police procedurals, PI novels, series characters, and women in the genre; and, of course, Michael Koryta’s interview of guest of honor (and god of writing) Michael Connelly.

So much for a photo with both Michaels at the same time

I think I just felt a tear roll down my right cheek. Why? Because I won’t be in Indianapolis. Nope, no Bouchercon for me this year. Why not? Because the second reason I’ve been eyeballing the approach of October 16, 2009, is that it marks the fortieth anniversary of my birth. I believe that makes it my fortieth birthday.

When I first realized last winter that Bouchercon fell on my birthday, I assumed I’d go. Given the timing of the annual conference, I’ve had Bouchercon birthdays before. I spent my 33rd at that memorable hotel in Las Vegas. My editor took me off-site to see Tom Jones where I was not the only birthday girl, but was apparently the only one who held on to her lingerie.

But as early 2009 whizzed by and my travel plans went left unmade, I realized I was procrastinating for a reason. I was trying to guess how I’d feel on the big day. I was imagining my own future state of mind. Stupid idea. Speculating about the future is risky. Understanding one’s current mood and its relationship to external factors is also imprecise. Throwing the two together was…well, stupid.

Several months ago, past-me imagined future-me on October 16, 2009, and did not like what she saw: Me wandering around alone at Bouchercon; sitting at my signing table, saying goodbye to the last person in my modest line as the crowd waiting to see the author next to me tried to mask its pity; sobbing into my martini at the bar as I realized I was officially half way to eighty, well over a third of the way to dead.

Bummer, huh?

Turns out past-me sucks at both remembering the past and predicting the future.

As Bouchercon approaches, I find myself recalling not those past moments of humble pie (almost) every rookie writer experiences at Bouchercon -- meandering around with a hotel map and a conference brochure as the seasoned vets exchange enthusiastic and kissy welcomes and hold court at the bar. Instead, my mind is flooded with good memories of friendships formed and a love of writing shared: the Reacher Creature parties; that amazing panel in 2006 with Ken Bruen, Laura Lippman, and fellow Ratis, Cornelia Read and Zoe Sharp; the night these guys became my pals and we smiled like people in a toothpaste ad:

Bouchercon Chicago with Ben Rehder, James Born, and Barry Eisler

And, although October 16 is still a few days off, it looks like past-me also got the future wrong. I don’t feel like crap about 40 after all. I have an amazing husband and two kickass jobs. I get love from good friends and my awesome dog. I ran twenty-five miles last week, which I couldn’t do when I was 30. Or 20. And I live (and get to write about) the coolest city in the world.

If I cried at the Bouchercon bar about entering a fifth decade of this life I've got, I’d deserve to get my butt kicked.

Yet for reasons I had months ago, I won’t be in Indianapolis. I’ll be having a different kind of fun: that husband and a few of the good friends I mentioned will be hanging out at a beach house, frying a turkey. Today’s me predicts Friday-me will have a fabulous time.

But I’ll miss you folks who are going to Bouchercon. I hope you’ll use the comments to remember the past or predict the future. What are some of your favorite Bouchercon memories or most anticipated Bouchercon events? Feel free to throw in some birthday chat as well. You never know…Friday-me might need the encouragement after all.

Sex, Lies, and Band-Aids: Why Ensign and Polanski Should Have Pulled a Letterman

2009-10-03T12:37:00.001-07:00

Today I blog at Huffington Post about the extortion attempt against David Letterman, Letterman's decision to turn to the authorities, and potential lessons for the likes of Senator John Ensign and Roman Polanski. An excerpt:

"If David Letterman had to be blackmailed over past sexual misconduct, he could not have chosen a better time. His on-air disclosure of the "terrible things" he'd done, and the subsequent threats he faced from a would-be extortionist, came four days after Roman Polanski's arrest on a three-decade-old warrant and mere hours before the front-page of the New York Times front-page story revealed additional details about the "aid" Senator John Ensign gave to his mistress's husband.

Letterman reportedly makes "well over" thirty million dollars a year. Even if we round down, the blackmail demand was less than seven percent of his annual salary, the equivalent of about twenty-seven hundred dollars for a man who makes forty grand: not a bad price for silence.

But Letterman, despite whatever idiotic (or worse?) things he may have done with women on his staff, was wise enough to realize that silence isn't permanent and peace of mind can't be bought."

Read the complete piece here. I'm still earning Huffington Post's love, so I hope you'll take the time to click on the story, become a fan of my blogs for them, or post a comment on Huffington Post in response.

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I Don't Usually Like Mysteries But...

2009-10-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of year – about six months out from the next publication date - when the conversations around Team Burke become dominated by marketing talk. Some authors thrive on marketing, speaking openly about the “brand” they are trying to create, the value they place in their “product,” the placement of their product in the “market.”

I’m not one of those writers.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no precious, anti-commerce, purist hippie. I like four-star dining and fancy shoes way too much to try to pull off any kind of starving artist persona. I’m all for the selling of the books.

My only complaint is that the rest of Team Burke – editor, publicist, marketing people, special online marketing people, the whole lot of them – look across the table at me as if I might be of some use. As if I might actually know how to get my books into the hands of the people who might enjoy them. As if I might know how to get those same people to then carry the book to a cash register. As if I have the remotest clue about why anyone likes what she likes, or buys what she buys.

If I knew any of that, I’d be the genius who came up with this:

Or perhaps this:

Plenty of sales there to support a woman’s restaurant and shoe preferences, without having to type out all those pesky words.

I do try, though. I make suggestions. Some of them actually go into the plan. Luckily, I enjoy some of the biggest parts of the plan – the touring, the facebooking, the blogging. In my academic life, I’m lucky if ten other academics read my writing, so talking with people who read my books is heaven as far as I’m concerned.

But, this time around, Team Burke has added a new layer to the usual plan: “We want to get 212 to people who don’t usually read crime fiction.”

Say what?

"So many people here love your books even though they don’t usually like mysteries or thrillers."

Read that previous sentence again. There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don’t know where to start.

Okay, I’ll start here.

1. Who the heck doesn’t like mysteries and thrillers?

Given that you’re reading this particular website, my guess is you’re not one of these people. Well, whoever they are, I don’t know whether to loathe or pity them. I guess it depends on whether they think they’re too good for the genre or just don’t know what they’re missing.

There’s no question, though, that these people exist. My pilates trainer just told me that she loved The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, even though she didn’t “usually like mysteries.”

"You don't usually like what?"

I’m sorry. I don’t understand.

Which brings me to…

2. WHY would anyone not like mysteries and thrillers?

To get some insight into this phenomenon, I did what anyone seeking to conduct serious empirical research would do: I Googled.

An initial observation: The quantitative data support the claim that there are actually people who claim they don’t like crime fiction, as evidenced by the number of results for the following searches:

23,100 "don't like thrillers"
667 "don't like mysteries"
22,400 "don't read mysteries"
6,190 "don't read thrillers"

On the qualitative side, I did find some explanations for these dislikes in my casual perusal of the search results (okay, not very scientific – whatevs):

Too much violence and death
Too suspenseful
Too improbable
Too predictable
Not enough character development
Bad writing

Now, that first reason is defensible, I suppose. If someone doesn’t like to think about the bad things that happen to people, well – first of all, they should never spend time with me. And they might justifiably stay away from the mystery shelves.

The second one? I won’t even pretend to understand.

"The suspense is making my eyes wide!"

And the rest? They strike me as complaints that there’s too many bad books in the genre. But there are bad books in all genres. There are bad books pawned off as so-called “literary” fiction. There are bad books. Don’t read them. Read good ones instead.

3. Now here’s where it gets interesting: Why does a person who doesn’t usually read mysteries or thrillers suddenly decide to like a mystery or thriller?

Back to the Google data:
12,300 “don’t usually like mysteries”
38,500 “don’t usually read mysteries”
22,700 "don't usually read thrillers”
2,040 "don't usually like thrillers"

And almost always, these phrases are followed by the word “but:”

“but this one kept me on the edge of my seat.” I’m sorry, but if you want your books to put you on the edge of your seat, we're your people.

“but this book was so warped, convoluted, I just couldn't help but be entranced.” Um…warped and convoluted? We are totally your people. (P.S. Kudos, Christopher Rice. That’s a review to be proud of!)

Here are some more typical buts (shame on you if you just snickered): but this one was very entertaining, but this book is awesome, but this one is killer, but I absolutely love this one.

Do you see a trend? Basically, people don’t usually like crime fiction, but then sometimes they suddenly like crime fiction. And if you think all these “buts” are for Michael Chabon and Stieg Larsson, you’ve got another thing coming. People who think they don’t like crime fiction like Jonathon Kellerman, Michael Connelly, Alexander McCall Smith, and James Patterson. That’s some pretty genre-y genre fiction (and I mean that in the very best way as a person who loves the genre).

4. And, on the more personal side, why does a person who doesn’t usually like mysteries or thrillers like my books?

As I understand it, my new fans at the publishing house are young people living their lives in Manhattan, just like the characters in my Ellie Hatcher series. The books reflect their reality. The characters sound like them, watch the same TV shows, and share the same worries.

That’s all well and good, but these new readers of mine got the book for free from their employer. If they saw it on the mystery table at Barnes & Noble, would they even pick it up, let alone buy it?

5. Now, here’s the question for group discussion:

How do you get a person who thinks he or she “doesn’t like” mysteries and thrillers to give a book a try? Must it be a personal recommendation from a friend: “Trust me, it’s good”? Does it have to be the water-cooler book of the season? Must it appeal to some other interest?

Why does the non-genre reader read a book in the genre?

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Creating a Culture of Innocence: Lessons from Hofstra and Duke

2009-09-24T12:47:00.001-07:00

Today I blog at Huffington Post about the false rape allegations against five men on the Hofstra campus and contrast the case to the charges against Duke lacrosse players in 2006. An excerpt:

"Both accusations turned out to be false. Both cases were eventually dismissed. The Hofstra defendants spent three nights in jail before prosecutors dismissed charges. The Duke defendants spent nearly a year under indictment and reportedly millions of dollars in legal fees before charges were dismissed.

"Why the difference? The apparent credibility of the accusers? The relative strength of the exculpatory evidence? I doubt it. The difference between three days and twelve months lived under the long shadow of accusation was simply luck of the draw. The Hofstra defendants drew one set of prosecutors, and the Duke defendants got Mike Nifong."

I should disclose that I am on the faculty of Hofstra Law School, but have no personal knowledge of any of the people involved. Instead, I write about the case from the perspective of a former prosecutor and argue that prosecutors should create a culture of innocence. Read the complete piece here. I'm still earning Huffington Post's love, so I hope you'll take the time to click on the story, become a fan of my blogs for them, or post a comment in response.

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Laura Lippman Podcast

2009-09-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

I was fortunate enough to be able to introduce the talented and prolific Laura Lippmann at this month's meeting of the New York chapter of Mystery Writers of America. The podcast of her fabulous talk -- about money! -- is online here.

Best American Mystery Stories 2009

2009-09-19T09:51:00.000-07:00

I am delighted to announce that my short story, Winning, was selected for this year's anthology of The Best American Mystery Stories. Editor Jeffery Deaver calls the story "clever and moving," a variation on the police procedural form, which he dubs "a reverse procedural."

The collection also includes contributions from Michael Connelly, Alice Munro, Joyce Carol Oates, Tom Bissell, James Lee Burke, Nic Pizzolatto, and David Corbett, among others, all so talented. Featuring "gritty tales told with panache," Booklist calls this a "must-read for anybody who cares about crime stories." (Hey, that's us!)

You can purchase the collection (trade paperback price, about the cost of a movie) here, here, here, or at your local indie.

Murder on the Yale Campus

2009-09-17T14:39:00.000-07:00

Today I blog at Huffington Post about the murder of Annie Le on the Yale campus. As sensational as the reporting is likely to get, the case is actually a reminder that most crimes don't stem from the random violence we fear most. Crime hits close to home... and work.

The piece compares and contrasts Le's murder with other high-profile crimes, such as the kidnappings of Jaycee Dugard and Elizabeth Smart and the murder of actress Adrienne Shelly.

This is my first time blogging for Huffington Post, so I hope you'll take the time to click on the story or even post a comment in response. I don't want them to regret making space for a law professor-slash-novelist who thinks she has something important to say. (That's right, I'm begging for blog hits so I can continue to write for free. Nuts, I know!)