On Writing — Reader’s Expectations: To Meet Them Or Not Meet Them

Authors live and die by the reviews. I have been blessed by the attention over the years.  And I thank the highly educated, overworked and often underpaid reviewers who help keep writers afloat.  In my couple of decades I have never argued with or complained about a review. I don’t intend to do that now. But a very recent book review of the second in my new novella series about a forensic accountant touches, perhaps inadvertently, on the topic of authors writing in a different style and or a different genre — meaning he or she is likely not to meet the expectations of a reader familiar with writers most popular or previously accepted work.

This happens to many writers. Some never leave the pattern of their original success. From the readers’ point of view, I understand. It is much like one of those moments when you  expected a Coke and were shocked, even disgusted at the taste of iced tea, though under normal circumstances you like iced tea as well. It was the shock of the unexpected.

 So I’d like to clarify my soon-to-be released novella, The Black Tortoise. For those who followed the more popular Shanahan series, the Peter Strand series is entirely different.  Shanahan is an older man,  former Army sergeant, who came to terms with life and with who he is a long time ago.  The stories are standard book-length and often quirky. They take the tough P.I. approach. The Shanahans are more likely to have violence and, by sheer length, accommodate a more complicated plot.  Peter Stand, introduced in The Blue Dragon, is a young Chinese American, dealing with personal identity as he attempts to solve much more conventional mysteries (almost cozies, puzzles to challenge the reader to find the murder before the book ends) in a quick-easy-to-read style. The Strand series is part of Orca Publishers “Rapid Reads” program designed for the reader who wants a quick read on the flight from Phoenix to New York. Or for a younger reader who identifies with a protagonist still coming to terms with himself and the world around him.

Now, in my world, I can enjoy American Psycho and “Midsomer Murders,” but I would hate to have to watch one when I was expecting the other.

My first real brush with this phenomenon as a writer was when Good To the Last Kiss was released by London’s Severn House.  Compared to the Shanahans, this is a dark book indeed. People I knew and loved, not to mention most critics, didn't want to talk about it.   It hasn’t sold well. Yet I consider it to be my best. I suspect it never got to the readers who might have liked it because my previous books kept me off their radar. On the other hand, this is my problem. I’m not the only one who has to deal with this kind of thing. Writers are finding ways to keep from being completely pigeon-holed. Another book, also one of my favorites, is Mascara: Death In The Tenderloin, a transgender mystery. It was also too different.  Most publishers shy away from books by authors who venture too from the expected.  As have other stubborn writers, I published it myself.  I’ve not gotten rich, but I’m so happy I wrote what my soul was telling me to write because part of being a genuine writer is taking that risk.

Please, read the Shanahans. Perhaps there is a reason why many consider these books the best of what I do (did).  But if you are adventurous, consider reading some of my non-Shanahan work as well.

The inspiration for this post was a negative review from a highly respected source.  The fact is every word in that review was correct, which is why I found it worth comment because it also pointed out the expectation game. While I am working on a new P.I. set in Palm Springs, and a little more in the Shanahan tradition, I’m also working on other mysteries that wander pretty far outside the box.

                                                                                                

Commentary — Reading, Writing And Reality

When I was a kid, sometime after first grade, my best friend and I used to go down to his basement where he had a box of presidents. Thirty-four of them at the time.  Each, from Washington to Eisenhower, was rendered realistically in white plastic and stood no more than six inches high.  He also had a bunch of model cars — maybe more than a dozen conveniently in proportion to our presidents. We’d each choose our gang as you might choose a softball team among friends and neighbors. We’d choose automobiles the same way. And then we’d engage in some sort of adventure, careening under chairs and behind boxes as if we were writing and directing a film. Of the presidents, I chose Franklin Pierce first. He was my main character for no other reason than I thought he was the best looking of the lot. My friend chose Jefferson. My friend may have had more profound reasoning. Pierce was not one of the best, historically. I also chose a Lincoln for my main car (my father always drove a Ford) and for my friend, whose father drove a Plymouth) a Chrysler Imperial. Hours would pass as some sort of drama would unfold. What possible scenarios were created escapes me now.

Poster by Mark Stevenson

My friend was also involved in sports and though he would pick me first to be on his team in neighborhood basketball games even though we all knew I’d still be there for the last pick. (I was that bad.) I eventually disengaged when it came to athletic competitions.  Even so, our fictional adventures continued.  We would go down to the crick (a very small creek) with crawdads and frogs and, with a few additional friends, recreate the adventures of Robin Hood.  My friend was Robin and I was either Friar Tuck or Little John because this happened during my prolonged chubby phase — a phase that has come back to haunt me in my golden years. I preferred Little John.  I wasn’t all that religious, even then.  We would use stripped branches from fallen trees as staffs and dowel rods (for a nickel from the local hardware) as swords. There were also woody, willowy weeds that with some kitchen yarn could be used as a bow and, broken in the right place, as arrows. Our dramas were improvisational but could last from noon to nightfall. I’m sure there were kids our age all over the country doing some version of this.

My chubby phase also contributed to the next step in creating alternate worlds. In the mid-grades of elementary school, my friend and I participated in the annual talent show by writing our own Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton skits.  Even without Alice and Trixie, the performances were a huge success. Our classmates preferred our often slapstick comedy to the accordion players and tap dancers.  We wrote the skits, rehearsed them. and improvised during performances. I was Ralph because of my previously referenced girth and my friend did a spectacularly goofy Norton, especially considering he was also excellent as Robin Hood.

My good friend and I eventually went in separate directions. Initially sports won out for him.  There was nothing he wasn’t good at. Football in his younger years, and later as a successful photographer and father.  I kicked about — the Army and jobs in communications mostly – but never really gave up imaginary worlds and the desire to share them. I acted a bit in community and small theater while holding down sometimes fascinating day jobs.  I wrote plays.  One, “Death In Bloom,” saw the stage. I helped start an alternative newspaper, which is still going 25 years later and, at forty, began writing mysteries. It took awhile, but I found something that enabled me to invest serious energy in made-up stories.

The best part about being a novelist is I can engage in my adventure while at a desk, in the shower, or putting together the evening meal. At any time, or any place I can enter my world, and when I grow tired of it I can leave it — most of the time. The worst thing is that my nature has grown a bit anti-social. With the exception of my brothers and a few close friends, meeting with other people is anxiety producing.  I absolutely hate the telephone.  I have a thousand reasons, but mostly because of its untimely, unknowing, persistent rudeness, interrupting my fictional world or my adult make-believe.

What has happened, of course, is that I’ve become even more selfish in perhaps the true meaning of the word. What many around me do not understand is that now, at this stage of my obsession, I’m always writing. If I’m up walking around, if I’m shaving, if I’m watching TV…. I might be in the midst of committing a murder or finally solving it. It’s not just happening when I sit in front of my computer. In fact, if I’m typing, I’m probably just emptying my head of what I’ve already created.

Anyway, next month, Ed Norton, AKA Robin Hood, AKA Thomas Jefferson is coming to visit. I have seen him since sixth grade, but not often at all and certainly not recently. We’ve both entered our seventh decade of life, he probably with grandchildren, perhaps great grand children and me with a few now dusty books as offspring. I’m not complaining.  Actually I’m in the middle of three novellas. I go to sleep lately, looking for a way to save the life of my protagonist’s best friend in one of my books. I suspect I did the same thing down at the crick a few dozen years ago.  Or, more likely, visa versa.

On Writing — Fiction As History

The Early Shanahan novels

Occasionally I receive comments from people who have read some of the early books in my Shanahan mystery series.   These notes usually come from people who live or have lived in Indianapolis. Rarely are the comments about the plot, though critics at the time were complimentary. Some are about the main characters – Deets Shanahan and his love, Maureen.  But most of the sentiment is about bringing back memories. The 11 novels in the series set in Indianapolis cover 25 years in the life of the Circle City beginning with The Stone Veil in 1980. History is an unforeseen, but happy consequence of fiction.

I haven’t been the only one.  In fact I wasn’t the first one or necessarily the most prolific.  The acclaimed Michael Z. Lewin not only originated the first series featuring a fictional Indianapolis P.I., but is also credited with popularizing the idea of a regional P.I. series. Many others followed.  My Deets Shanahan character also came after Lewin’s Albert Samson.

Michael Z. Lewin

Lewin and I are roughly the same vintage. However he began writing younger in his life.  Counting his Leroy Powder cop series, Lewin has used Indianapolis as a setting for 11 crime novels with a history going back to 1971 with his first Samson novel, Ask The Right Question, among those being re-released as I write.

Re-released

I have inadvertently been part of recording this city’s history when, as its first editor, I helped found NUVO Newsweekly, the longest serving alternative newspaper in the city’s history. Long after I was gone it continues to chronicle my hometown and is a powerful, on-going historical reference. However, I would suggest that fiction could go beyond the news as a historical document in many ways by creating the mood, the ambiance and an in-depth characterization of its neighborhoods, restaurants, transportation and particularly its inhabitants.

There are those, of course, who dismiss genre fiction, including the P.I. novel as something less than respectable. The Shanahan mysteries are definitely genre fiction, as are the Samson novels. We gain a sense of the place in time in a way that may not be academic, but in a fluid, experiential way.

Rant– No Unsolicited Manuscripts, No Exceptions

I am now qualified to glorify the old days and cast aspersions on the new ones. My first statement is both. At the drugstore soda fountain at 21^st and Drexel on Indianapolis’ East side, they served an ice cream flavor called raspberry salad. Raspberry ice cream and nuts. No doubt, the nuts made it a salad. It was delicious. It doesn’t exist today and Wikipedia has no listing for it as an ice cream flavor like chocolate or orange sherbet. A few silly salads with raspberries in it is all.

Now I was victim of old folks like me when I was a kid.  You could go to a movie for a nickel, they said a penny would actually buy something.  And I have my own memories from my childhood.  You could buy a pack of cigarettes, or a loaf of bread or a gallon of gas and have change back from a quarter. None of that really means anything, except for the raspberry salad, of course. 

But what I’m really angry about is that someone could write a book and send it to a publisher.  If you were unknown, your manuscript would be tossed in a slush pile and might not be read right away if you were an unknown.  But there was a good chance your book would get a look at some point; and if they didn't want it, you’d get a letter of rejection.  I have many such letters.  I even have one from The New Yorker rejecting a poem I submitted.  I am grateful they sent a letter, but perhaps more appreciative that they decided not to embarrass me by printing the poem.

The writing community had a name for sending an unsolicited manuscript to a publisher. It was an “over-the-transom” submission.   And it was usually done without an agent. None of that happens anymore now that publishing is in the hands of half a dozen big corporations.

I’ve been dealing with that for the last couple of years. On the other hand, let me start my rant with what really upset me. I’ll get back to the big five publishers and their mimics among the so-called independents.

A few months back, I had a germ of an idea for a story. It seemed to write itself. Oddly though, it came out as a stage play. That’s not entirely silly because that’s how I started writing (and acting)— skits in grade school and plays in high school and college as well as community theatre.  All that happened before I started writing mysteries or helped start an alternative newspaper.

So when I finished my play I decided to send it to a major non-profit theatre company in San Francisco where I had lived for 25 years.  I knew no one at the theatre company, only that it was highly regarded. So I sent a note to the artistic director asking for the appropriate contact.

“We are not allowed to accept unsolicited material,” the director replied, suggesting that they only accept material from those professionally represented (an agent). The phrase “we are not allowed” is bogus from the start. At best, “unwilling” is the word. It also bothered me that a non-profit organization would shut down a member of the community, forcing a writer to go through a for-profit entity to even have a chance for consideration. As many in the book world know, finding an agent is more difficult than finding a publisher.

I replied:

I'm sure this is policy and not necessarily of your making, but the agent requirement is counter-creative and counter community interest.  I'm 71…and have represented myself with Penguin, St. Martin's Press as well as Canadian and London publishers.  It's a bit late for me to find an agent who will take on someone who hasn't a promising future because there's not much of a future left. I think that forced representation (or anyone) is deeply unfair. Again, I'm sure this isn't your doing, so I'm harboring no ill feelings toward you; but policy makers should be reminded how soulfully barren that policy is. It really has no place in the arts.

The theatre company is not alone. I have two novels I’d like to send out, but after the big five closed submissions to non-agented writers, the emerging independents, some of them showing a tremendous spirit and supporting new and old voices embodied a bit of hope that the publishing world was more than James Patterson and the William Morris Agency. However, even many of enterprising newcomers seem to be closing the gates.

“No unsolicited manuscripts.  No exceptions.”

Don’t get me wrong. Over the last 30 or so years, in addition to seeing 18 of my novels published, I’ve accumulated a number of rejection slips. Some, though certainly not all, are variations of form letters.  But the likelihood is that my query, synopsis or a paragraph or two of the submitted manuscript were read or skimmed before the decision was made to reject it. And even if the rejection contained an observation I disagreed with, I did not resent the publisher’s decision, or comments for that matter. That truly is the publisher’s business. What happened was that someone gave it a few minutes and then responded. That’s all any of us are entitled to.

 In the case of the theater company mentioned above it’s a little worse. We have a community–based, nonprofit (tax and grant supported) organization acting like a Monsanto or G.E.   Regarding the book publishers, sadly, the highly spirited folks who set up new, vibrant publishing companies aren’t any different from the big five conglomerate publishers. They are, in too many cases, following in the big guys’ icy footsteps.

“No unsolicited manuscripts.  No exceptions.”

Now it’s true:  I am getting old and grumpy.  It might also be true that my skills, such as they were, are slipping. My days may be numbered, or over.  Then again the play, which prompted this rant, is about getting old and grumpy and irrelevant. And one’s advanced age and history should suggest some level of competence, at least enough for the work to warrant a quick glance.

On Writing – Ramblings

I read a story the other day about a meeting in 1922 between James Joyce and Marcel Proust — two members of literary royalty and authors of the often-compared classic novels many consider the best of the 20th Century, Ulysses and In Search of Lost Time.

Though the recollections of their only and very historic meeting vary a bit from one witness to another, a general truth emerged. They had nothing to say to each other.

Mr. Proust

It’s not surprising to me.  One of the writers I admire, Truman Capote, never failed to deliver truly elegant prose. I believe I’ve read all of his work, certainly most of it. And while I don’t put myself in that league (nor would anyone else), I wouldn’t have chosen him for a lunch companion any more than he would have chosen his arch enemy Gore Vidal. Unfortunately, having witnessed him in person as well as watched a few interviews on television, I prefer the beauty of his prose to his presence. And given my status in the world, no doubt he would wonder why I was in the same room.

On the other hand, I would have enjoyed a conversation with another of my favorite writers, Paul Bowles, not because he is an author, though.  Here is a bright, observant man who lived half a century in Morocco.  I would have liked to learn more about what he thought about that part of the world and what perspective he could provide on world affairs as Eastern and Western cultures appear to clash.

I suspect Joyce and Proust, unless they shared some passion such as gardening or sausage making, would not spend a lot of time with each other. Would we expect them to share exchanging writing tips?

Mr. Joyce

“Marcel, I think you should use less description and more action verbs.”

“You could be a little more cheerful, Jimmy.”

Many observers were interested in what these contemporaries thought of each other. They are both credited with revolutionizing the novel. Both created at least one interminable book, which few have actually read and a style some critics of the time found unintelligible. What would these two giants discuss? 

Again, I’m not surprised they had nothing, or at least very little, to say to each other.    

For me, writing is a solitary undertaking not a gang-related activity. For better or worse, I have no doubt absorbed lessons in the craft, or the art, by simply reading.  But aside from Elmore Leonard’s funny and elementary advice (Essentially, Don’t write what people don’t want to read.), my contention is one must learn by doing.  Then again, the Parisian moveable feast attendees – Stein, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Baldwin and others – might disagree.

Comments, agreeable or disagreeable (though hopefully civil) are welcome.  Also, if you could sit down with an author – dead or alive — who would it be? And why if you have the time.

On Writing – Short San Francisco Mysteries And Shameless Self Promotion

New Release – Pre-Order

Even before my Shanahan series came to an end, I was investigating, experimenting and completing shorter mysteries. The standard mystery novel is somewhere between 60,000 and 100,000 words.  Short stories probably average around 5,000 words. The novella, or short novel, usually comes in around 20,000 allowing, in my opinion, the writer to develop both substantial character and plot development without fluff.

I’ve written two of these novellas for the Lang-Paladino series — Death In The Tenderloin and Death In The Haight.  More recently I participated in Canadian publisher Orca’s Rapid Reads program, easy-to-read short novels. I think of the series of books by popular authors as the perfect read for that flight from Denver to New York or while you under the covers for bedtime but can’t afford to stay up all night. The first novella, The Blue Dragon, received a genuinely warm welcome.  Here is what an early reviewer had to say about the book and the program:

"What an incredible beginning to a new mystery series by Ronald Tierney...This cover art also provides a capsule view of the multi-dimensions of the novella and becomes more meaningful as the reader progresses through each chapter...[This was] my first introduction to “Rapid Reads” and I am enthralled not only by the individual title selection experience but also for the incredible discovery of this reading series...(LibraryThing Early Reviewer 2015-08-23)

Now, we’re ready for book two, The BlackTortoise: When a low-key forensic accountant with a private investigator’s license is asked to investigate a San Francisco-based nonprofit arts organization, he meets a cast of quirky characters who all seem to be hiding a secret. There is evidence of a probable fraud, but when fraud leads to murder, the reluctant P.I. is drawn deeper into the murky waters of a criminal undertaking and shocking personal revelations.

   
The Black Tortoise, now available for pre-order, is the second novella featuring Asian American private eye Peter Strand. The Blue Dragon is available in paperback and digital. Both books are part of Orca Publishing’s Rapid Reads series.

If You Haven’t Already, Binge On Bosch

I’ve read most of Michael Connelly’s books. I haven’t reviewed them here because he gets a giant’s share of crime writing attention as it is.  Deservedly so.  I did praise the film, Lincoln Lawyer on this blog. I loved the book, but I was shocked at how much I liked the movie. I wasn’t a Matthew McConaughey fan, but his incredibly believable portrayal of the too easily compromised attorney was more than convincing. There was a sense of gritty reality to both the book and film that came across.  Magic.  I bought it all.  When the folderol exploded for Amazon’s Bosch series based on Connelly’s books, I was curious, but not impatient to see it. In promotional footage I saw brief flashes of Titus Welliver who would be Bosch and I thought “naaaah.”

Titus Welliver And Jamie Hector

I had been wrong about McConaughey.  And now I have to admit I was wrong about Welliver. So wrong. He is good, walking a thin line between being foolishly human and holding fast to his principles. I binged on the bookseller-gone wild’s bold entrance into programming. The day before the Bosch binge, I watched a big-budget crime-action film with a major star as the driving force.  I found myself predicting every scene, what was going to happen before it happened, and the whole point of the film – revenge – when the super hero killed off a whole contingent of bad guys single-handedly.  All we needed to know about the characters is the bad guys were bad guys, the good guy was not only always right, but he could dodge bullets and deal deathly blows to a well-timed onslaught of attackers.  He must have killed 20 bad guys. With Bosch, I had a sense we were dealing with believable people in dramatic but believable situations.

I guess loving superheroes is as valid as anything else.  We are talking fiction. I certainly don’t mind stylistic approaches to crime cinema.  Sin City is a favorite. Blade Runner is at the top of my favorites list. But if a movie wants to reflect the moment, I need to be convinced the moment really exists. I don’t want to know what’s happening next and I certainly don’t want cardboard characters being shot like targets at a gun range.

Bosch's Boss, Amy Aquino

The Bosch series avoids the pitfalls.  The cinematography is by Eric Allen Edward, who gets L.A. just right, and the actors, especially cops portrayed by Amy Aquino, Jamie Hector and Lance Reddick, bring this often underplayed realism to a suspenseful story-line.  The story or stories were developed by Eric Overmyer who, I think, smartly decided not to do the obvious, simply put each of Connelly’s books on screen, but instead decided to use an amalgamation of some of Connelly’s books for each season.  Also smart was having Connelly himself close by for the writing and production. I’m told that writers are often on the lowest rung of hell in Hollywood. This should help right this wrong way ship.

For those unfamiliar with Connelly’s most popular protagonist, the first season sets up police homicide detective Hieronymus (Harry) Bosch as he searches for a serial killer. The story echoes or perhaps pays homage to the darker turn by author James Ellroy, The Black Dahlia. Whatever the intent, it works well, giving us the background necessary to understand Harry’s underlying bitterness.


Season two is a little slower than one, providing a bit more backstory and depth of character. It is also not as gritty and tough as “The Wire.” Understandable. This isn’t front-line Baltimore. These are L.A. stories being told. They are as much about the soft life in the bedroom as the tough life on the streets.  I’ve only visited Los Angeles — or as some might call it, ‘a whole bunch of suburbs in search of a city. A few days here and there on business and visiting friends.  After 20 episodes of Bosch, I feel like I’ve lived there. And now I do, sort of.  I’m a couple of hours east in Palm Springs.


Amazon says it is definite: There will be a season three. When is it going to be available? No one seems to know, but those more in the know than I suggest a premier in early 2017.


If you binge and need some refreshments as the hours go by, remember Bosch orders beer.  Flat Tire.  But we’ll spend most of our time in Southern California. It’s hot. Lemonade will do.