The Thriller

It's been a bit of a surreal weekend.

As most of you have heard by now, THE COLD ROOM was named 2010's Best Paperback Original by the International Thriller Writers Saturday night. I was overwhelmed at the nomination - and up against two very good friends, Shane Gericke and Rob Browne, both incredibly fine writers. I was a bag of nerves going into the conference too: I've never been nominated for anything, and I put a lot of unnecessary pressure on myself because I was really nervous about the whole thing.

Well, someone divine knew I needed to stop fretting, because Tuesday morning I woke with a whoppingly (soppingly?) bad cold. I was shocked they let me on the plane Wednesday, actually. I had to cancel all my Wednesday plans, and suck it up when I woke Thursday for my Craftfest class with Erica Spindler and felt exactly like hell. I had left my sparkle in the room. (Sorry, Erica, for being so scattered and blech!)

I made it through the day, but at the big cocktail party Thursday night, my voice started to go. By Friday, I had none. By Saturday, it was even worse - I was feeling okay, but mute. So the divine Toni McGee Causey moderated my panel for me.

Now, this was strangely prophetic on several levels. First, because of my nervous state, I told Randy I'd been praying for laryngitis so if I did win, I couldn't get up in front of all those people and speak, thus making a fool out of myself. Second, because in the new book, WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE, Taylor is suffering from hysterical aphonia. She has no voice. I joked to my publisher that I was simply starting the marketing early.

And third, when I got choked up and started to cry on stage, I was able to mask it.

Yes, I cried. I am such a girl. I get overly emotional all the time, and this was no exception. To be honored by your peers, to be told your book was the best of the year, was utterly overwhelming.

But that's wasn't the only magic happening in New York Saturday night. Many of you know that John Sandford was my direct inspiration to start my writing career. I was reading the PREY series and three books in had this epiphany: I wanted to write a female Lucas Davenport. And so I did. Of course, Taylor is very different from Davenport on many levels, but I absolutely took the idea of a cop who was half rock star, half hero from those books. John's novel was up for best novel, and lo and behold, he won. Which meant things like this were happening Sunday and Monday:

Publishers Marketplace:

Sandford and Ellison Top ITW Thriller Awards

I really can't put into words what reading that headline did to me. Affirmation of my chosen career, a reward for the many hours of labor spent toiling away, the knowledge that I've done something only one other woman in our field has accomplished... (two - truth be told, they are a writing team) all combined with winning the award with my heroes in the room.... it was priceless.

And yes, I say heroes, because it wasn't just John there. Diana Gabaldon, my favorite author, was there too! When she congratulated me, I about melted into the floor.

But it was even more than that. ITW has been a part of my writing life from day one. I will never forget how excited I was when I got my deal just in time to add PUBLISHED AUTHOR to my name badge at that first, mythical Thrillerfest in Phoenix. To be honored by the very organization that has been nurturing my career from day one... well, you get the idea. 

My acceptance speech managed to thank my darling husband Randy (though I shouldn't have started with him, I got choked up immediately), my amazing agent Scott Miller, my incredible publishers Mira Books, my former editor Linda McFall, and the whole of ITW.

But let me take this moment to thank you. Because you read the books, bought the books, and gave me a career. Because you share the books with your mom and dad, your sister and brother and friends. Because you request the books be housed in your library, and tell your favorite bookseller that they need to carry the titles. Because each and every day, you reach out to me: here at the blog, on Twitter and Facebook, through email. Because of you, I am inspired. I have a writing career. And that's the most beautiful thing of all.

With love,

JT

A Review of the Levenger Soul Skin for Moleskine

Anyone who knows me knows my love of office products. I truly picked the best of all possible careers, because instead of worrying about shoes and clothes and makeup, I get to read the Levenger catalogue, read the Quo Vadis blog, surf The Daily Planner, collect pens, finger the finest Clairefontaine notebooks, and channel my inner Hemingway in my Moleskine. I read blogs about products and pens, have an insatiable curiosity about what other authors use… I’m hopelessly addicted.

Right now, I’m using a Clairefontaine notebook as my workbook for the novel I’m working on. That’s it right there.  

To my right is my brand new Soul Skin for Moleskine, from Levenger. (A little worse for wear - you'll see why below)

Last but not least, by brand new Lamy fountain pen.

Excellent products, all.

But this post is a shoutout to Levenger. I am a firm believer in writers having the best tools at their disposal. If you’re a gamer, you’re going to want the top of the line, right? That’s how we are with office products. They must be utilitarian and beautiful, and Levenger fits the bill on all counts.

Last week, I ordered a monogrammed Soul Skin. I didn't like the True Writer ballpoint that came with it - it was too short for my hand, so I sent it back and got a Lamy Safari fountain pen. All arrived in record time, as always, looking pristine and perfect in their gift boxes. I didn’t waste any time breaking them in.

I am in love with this cover. So much so that I bought a second one for my husband. The Ravello leather of the Soul Skin is ridiculously soft – I’ve actually caught myself petting it absently while reading. The pen loop lock works great, and it just plain looks sophisticated and elegant. The Lamy fountain pen is perfect for me-lightweight, good grip, nice ink laydown. I’m definitely a fan.

So this morning, my husband and I decided to run out for breakfast before settling in to work. I grabbed my Moleskine, now housed in its week old Soul Skin. I had an idea I wanted to explore, not a huge stretch, considering. But as we walked to the car, a fawn came crashing into the neighbors yard. I’m talking brand new, brightly spotted, no more than a week old. It was about the size of my neighbor’s miniature collie. I set my notebook on the top of the car and grabbed my iPhone to take pictures. Hilarity ensued, and fear, as Bambi scampered around, lost and scared. We finally got her cornered—we were trying to make sure she didn’t set out for the road—and she bounded off into the woods. What a blessing!

Randy and I got back in the car and drove off.

You know where this is going, right? Two miles later I realized I didn’t have my notebook. Oh………. Bad words. Very bad words. Not only was the Moleskine in the brand new case, which housed my brand new pen, but the notes themselves represent two years of ideas. Not something I want to lose.

We at least knew it had to be somewhere on the way out. We retraced our steps and found it a mile in, scattered across the road like rubbish. The Moleskine had come out of the cover, the pen had come out of the loops. All three were about three feet apart. I grabbed them all and got back in the car to examine everything.

A car had driven over the Soul Skin. But it was totally intact, only minimally scratched, on the back corner and the bottom binding, and has a warp in the top left corner in the exact shape of a radial. I think if I put it under something heavy, that might eventually smooth out. The scratches are barely noticeable.

The Moleskine itself was fine, it had fallen open to the first blank page as if desperate for a story.

The pen took the brunt of it, though. The top and bottom are scratched a bit, and the cap along the clip is scratched. It went from brand-new to well-loved in a heartbeat. It still writes like a dream, though the ink blotted on the first go round.

But if you consider, all of these things survived relatively unscathed after being flung from the top of a car at 45 miles an hour? I can’t give a better endorsement.

Thanks, Levenger!

Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

Ragged Claws by exoskeletoncabaret

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky,
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats,
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michaelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle upon the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the windowpanes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michaelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin,
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse.

For I have known them already, known them all-
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,
I know the voices dying with a dying fall,
Beneath the music from a farther room.
     So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling ton he wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all,
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare,
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie around a table, or wrap about a shawl.
     And how should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
   Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep... tired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball,
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say, "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all," --
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say, "That is not what I meant, at all."
   "That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and dooryards and sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worthwhile
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning towards the window, should say:
    "That is not it, at all,
   That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous,
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves,
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea,
By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed, red and brown,
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

So who's hotter - Lee Child or Steve Berry?

Now Available in Paperback!

FIRST THRILLS: High-Octane Stories from the Hottest Thriller Authors

FIRST THRILLS includes never-before-published stories by New York Times bestselling authors Lee Child, Stephen Coonts, Jeffrey Deaver, Heather Graham, Gregg Hurwitz, John Lescroart, John Lutz (with Lise E. Baker), Alex Kava (with Deb Carlin), Michael Palmer (with Daniel James Palmer), Karin Slaughter, and Wendi Corsi Staub.

The collection also serves as an introduction to a new generation of thriller authors, including Sean Michael Bailey, Ken Bruen, Ryan Brown, Bill Cameron, Rebecca Cantrell, Karen Dionne, JT Ellison, Theo Gangi, Rip Gerber, CJ Lyons, Grant McKenzie, Marc Paoletti, Cynthia Robinson, and Kelli Stanley.

"Hands down one of the best short story collections you’re ever likely to read.”—Booklist, starred review

Also available June 7 as 4 mini e-books for just $2.99!

All proceeds from the sales of FIRST THRILLS have been donated by the authors to support ITW's efforts to promote and elevate the thriller genre.

Plus: TWO FREE STORIES!

CLICK HERE to read "The Thief" by Gregg Hurwitz
CLICK HERE to read "Children's Day" by Kelli Stanley

Leave a comment here to be entered to win a copy of this awesome short story collection!

(contest ends June 7)

We Interrupt This Deadline To Ask A Very Important Question

WHAT THE HELL IS CRAWLING UP MY WALL???????