Cliff Jumping

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"Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failures, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat."
-- Teddy Roosevelt

This is one of the best quotes of all time. Roosevelt had it right on the money. You must take chances in order to succeed in life. You must give in to your impulses every once in a while, trust your gut, know your own soul. You need to ignore the fact that the drop off the cliff is mighty, and jump anyway.

I had the opportunity to discuss my views on cliff jumping with three people recently. One is my husband, who jumped off a very, very high cliff indeed to start his own consulting firm at the first of the year. I don't think I've ever been so proud as I was when he told me he'd made the decision. It's a risk, certainly. But there is no reward in this life without risk.

Second is an author who is a bit of a cliff jumper herself, albeit one who likes to have knowledge of how far the fall might be. And the third is a friend who needed to be shoved, kicking and screaming, right on off the edge. Between the three of them, I engaged in several days worth of fascinating discussions about how fear can inhibit your growth, as a writer, as a person, as a lover and friend. It affirmed what I've always believed - Fear is the most dangerous part of life.

Allow me one of my earnest moments. I've never let fear get in my way. I would so much rather fail, to put it all out there and fall flat on my face, than never try at all. Better to have loved and lost, right? That's my personal credo.

Because, you see, I am a cliff jumper. And I want everyone to jump right along with me.

My darling husband reminds me, at times, that not everyone wants to be a cliff jumper. He says, "Honey, some of us like to walk to the edge, look over and ascertain how far the drop is."

Where's the fun in that?

I hold to the belief that if you look at how far you might fall, you'll back away from that edge and never jump.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not flighty about all this, rushing about succumbing to frivolous impulses. I'm just willing to take chances to further my career, my life and my soul. I never want to look back and say, man, I wish I'd done that. I want to do it. I want to run screaming along the beach and dive off mountains. I want to shoot for the brass ring with my career, and pray that somewhere along the way, the ring turns golden. I want to put my heart on the line, to give myself wholly and completely to my loved ones, even knowing that there's a chance my precious heart will get trampled.

I want a lot of things, and they aren't the kind of items you can buy in the store.

Nike has the slogan that you've heard all of us here at Murderati talk about. "Just Do It" embodies the life of a professional writer. "Ass in Chair," "Just Do It," "Work the Purple..." You've heard those phrases here. And I subscribe to all of them. We've gotten into this racket for a reason - we love to tell stories. We love to have that psychic interaction with a stranger, to affect their being through our words. We love to share our world with our fellow writers, with the readers and booksellers we meet on tour, with the editorial and agent teams we interact with at our houses. This business is one of communication, and if you're not willing to lay it on the line, you're going to have a hard time.

I believe in honesty, in open lines of communication, in taking chances. I believe fear will cripple your psyche. I believe that if you want to be a writer, you need to polish and submit, and that there are no excuses for not. I believe that if you're an established writer, you have a contract with everyone involved in your career to meet your deadlines and put your writing first. I believe that if you love someone, you tell them. It's as simple as that.

There is another quote that I believe in wholeheartedly. I've shared it here before, but this is so apropos to this particular post that I wanted to share it again.

"When you are content to be simply yourself and don't compare or compete, everybody will respect you."
-- Lao Tzu

So what about you? Have you jumped off any cliffs lately???

News About THE COLD ROOM (formerly Edge of Black)

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THE COLD ROOM RELEASES FEBRUARY 23, 2010!

(From the JT Ellison Newsletter)

There's a saying the French use:

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

It roughly translates to: the more things change, the more they stay the same. And if there's one thing I've learned about the publishing industry, it's that change happens. A lot!

With that in mind, I have some very exciting news. We are making some major changes to Book Four in the Taylor Jackson series.

First, there's a redesign, inside and out. We'll have new cover art soon. The release date has moved as well. As always, the book will be available in stores the Tuesday before that day. The new official release date is March 1, 2010. It will be available on Tuesday, February 23.

But the biggest news of all is a title change.

Formerly known as Edge of Black, Book Four is now...

THE COLD ROOM

He Can Only Truly Love Her Once Her Heart Stops


Homicide Detective Taylor Jackson thinks she's seen it all in Nashville—from the Southern Strangler to the Snow White Killer. But she's never seen anything as perverse as the Conductor. Once his victim is captured, he contains her in a glass coffin, slowly starving her to death. Only then does he give in to his attraction.

When he's finished, he creatively disposes of the body by reenacting scenes from famous paintings. And it seems similar macabre works are being displayed in Europe. Taylor teams up with her fiancé, FBI profiler Dr. John Baldwin, and a New Scotland Yard detective named James "Memphis" Highsmythe, a haunted man who only has eyes for Taylor, to put an end to the Conductor's art collection.

Has the killer gone international with his craft? Or are there dueling artists, competing to create the ultimate masterpiece?

I hope you will accept my apologies. I know it's frustrating to have to wait a few extra months for the book to come out. But I promise, it will be worth it. And don't worry if you've already pre-ordered the book - you don't have to change a thing.

This also means that I won't be touring this fall. My schedule is always full, though, as you can see in the right column. I will be at SIBA and at Bouchercon, and I am thrilled to be participating in the Southern Festival of Books here in Nashville. I hope to see many of you there.

In the meantime, please keep tuning in at JTEllison.com. We'll be debuting a new website in the coming weeks, a one-stop shop for the books, my blog, podcasts and interviews, contests, and of course, wine tips!

I'll drop y'all another line for our regularly scheduled quarterly missive in July, and debut the cover art for THE COLD ROOM.

Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful, safe and book-soaked summer!

Of Vampires and Jumpers

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I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say that for writers, life can sometimes seem like a series of vignettes, a compilation of observations that we distill into experiences and memories that propel our work. I’d even postulate that crime fiction writers get a wealth of inspiration from the everyday life going on around us – let’s face it, there is no desert when it comes to crime as inspiration. Just look at your evening news, the majority of lead stories are crime related. If it bleeds, it leads.

I know this is true for me. And over Christmas, I had an experience that shaped my view, sparked an idea, and gave me creative sustenance. I just wasn’t happy about it.

Hubby and I were heading to my parents, and their house is on an island. There are two bridges over to beachside, and we were heading toward the South Causeway, a relatively new structure that allows for large-mast ships to pass through on their journey along the Indialantic waterway. The North Causeway is still a charming drawbridge, the South is mammoth by comparison.

As we reached the base of the bridge, there were cop cars littering the road, and they were directing people to turn away. There have been some terrible accidents on the bridge – the speed limit is much too high, so the first thought was bad smash-up. But I saw a few people walking around at the top and realized, no. It was worse. It was a jumper.

Now, this bridge is big enough to do some serious damage if you went over unwittingly. About four stories high. Not a guaranteed death, but you’d get hurt. Badly.

I was horrified at my immediate reaction. We must pull over. I need to see this. I can work this into a story. I need to assimilate the scene, burn the images into my mental retinas. Before I knew it, I was vocalizing my thoughts. I told hubby we needed to stop. I heard myself giving him directions into the local library parking lot, which sits at the base of the bridge. There was already a group of people doing the same thing. But things got worse. I sickened myself when I realized I had my camera. In my bag, at my feet. And as the car stopped moving, it was in my hand.

A familiar sense of detachment flooded me. I got out of the car, and snapped a few shots, telling myself that if I were a photographer and this were my daily job, I wouldn’t have two seconds of hesitation about taking pictures. I’m simply documenting at this point, a purely dispassionate observer. I am not rooting for this man to jump. I am not glorying in his pain. I am not wondering what it would look like if he actually lets go of the railing he seems to be clinging to as if he really doesn’t want to be doing this. My mind can make all of those images and words for me. I am absorbing.

I am being a vampire.

I’ve seen some pretty nasty things. My research has taken me into darkness. I’ve been at a stabbing scene, seen the results of teenage head versus .44 magnum in a suicide, viewed autopsy photos and crime scene photos. But nothing could have ever prepared me for a group of people, gathered at the base of a very big bridge, all yelling one collective word. “JUMP!”

That’s right. While I’m mantra muttering Don’t Do It under my breath, the redneck assholes who were partaking in an afternoon of someone else’s misfortunes are wrapped in their superiority cloaks, screaming at this poor soul to kill himself.

But what did I look like to them? I’m the one with my camera in the air.

I felt a bit like a naturalist. On the Discovery Channel, you wonder how the videographers and photographers and announcers do it. There’s always the story of the lion pride, and the cub that’s gotten lost. We usually see the happy ending, the cub is reunited with his pride. But the tension I feel leading up to that moment is overwhelming. How many times did the cub not make it? When does reality intrude on the entertainment value?

If the documentarians are true to their work, they know there’s nothing they can do to put the cub back on the road to safety. They can’t interfere; it’s nature’s way. But how do they watch, and record, and voice-over while the hyenas strike?

I always tell myself, as I turn off the show before I find out what happens, that it’s happening right now, all over the world. The weak are being preyed upon by the strong. The naturalists know that if they weren’t there to document the process, it would happen regardless. That’s how I justified my actions at the bridge. If we hadn’t stopped for a soda and had been five minutes earlier, we would have driven by and never known the difference. But since we were there, I felt compelled to, at the very least, give the man’s story some credence. I told hubby if he did jump, at least I could find a way to mention it so he wasn’t lost in utter obscurity, didn’t become just another statistic.

He came down. He lived. I didn’t know that until the next day, when a brief mention in the newspaper handled the situation with surprising delicacy. I’m paraphrasing… Police closed the north Causeway for nearly an hour yesterday as they talked with a despondent man... Despondent. What a perfect word to describe the situation.

You may be surprised by that last bit. Yes, we left. I didn’t want to see what happened. I certainly didn’t want to see him go over. I was testing fate by even stopping and taking pictures. I was lucky that he didn’t let go while I was there.

This nameless, faceless stranger has been grafted into my next book; I’ve got a scene with a jumper. I intend to mine it for every detail I can, answer all the unanswered questions, glorify and inflate the situation to fictional proportions. And I have my memories and pictures to thank for guiding me. All’s well that ends well, right?

If I just weren’t thinking about what drove him to that bridge in the first place...