August 07, 2009

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Remembering Bill Tapply posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken Anyone lucky enough to meet Bill Tapply (William G. Tapply to library catalogers) knew he was a gentleman and a scholar. To that I would add Fine Human Being. I met Bill quite a few years ago, before I became the Mystery Maven of the Minuteman Library Network, before I started spending vacations at Bouchercons and Left Coast Crimes and Malice Domestics (Malices Domestic?) I put together a program of speakers for the library where I was working at that time and knew that Bill Tapply, author of the Brady Coyne mystery series among other books, lived in our area. Bill came to the library and spoke about writing mysteries but also about fishing, because he was a Fisherman Extraordinaire. He got it from his father, who was a renowned outdoor writer, and Bill became a columnist in Field and Stream. Heck, I knew Bill when he co-authored a romantic novel with Linda Barlow, who was in my first writers' group. Yeah, that long ago. Bill published a lot of writing about fishing and other outdoor topics, about writing mysteries, and of course all those mystery novels as well. He was still teaching and House Master at a suburban high school at that time. Not long afterward I chanced to be driving on a back road one sunny afternoon and spotted Bill standing on the shore of Ice House Pond, scoping out the fishing possibilities. Stopping to chat, I learned that he was quitting teaching to write full time. Bill is one of the few writers I know who have managed to make a full-time career of it, and he was amazingly generous in teaching others with similar aspirations. Over the years I bumped into him at conferences, library talks, and at an inn tavern in Hancock, New Hampshire, near his beloved Chickadee Farm, where he ran writers' workshops with his wife Vicki Stiefel and rotating guest presenters. Sometimes my friend Katherine Hall Page was there, but on that occasion he was with his writing buddy Phil Craig (Philip R. Craig to library catalogers). Bill's Brady Coyne lives and works in the Boston area and Phil's J. W. Jackson on Martha's Vineyard, but it was a sure bet that any of their books included a fishing expedition. Nor was it a big surprise when Brady and J. W. got together for a few adventures in books co-authored by the pair of writers. And of course, Brady and J. W. went fishing. So we all knew what a blow it was to Bill when Phil died two years ago. There would be no more jointly authored adventures, no more fishing trips to the Vineyard or wherever. Bill grieved as any really close friend would. We were all worried when Bill was diagnosed with leukemia. He was teaching at Clark University in Worcester at the time, running workshops with Vicki at Chickadee Farm, posting on DorothyL and other web venues. That all had to stop, of course, as Bill and his family struggled with the diagnosis and the often devastating therapies for cancer. Cancer is a bitch, but I thought Bill had beaten it. After the requisite period of hospitalization, weakness, and baldness, he rallied and picked up his old life. It was with real relief that the mystery community learned Bill would be teaching again at Clark this fall semester, would be attending and speaking at Crime Bake in November. Bill was back. Death came in on Sandburg's little cat feet, stealing Bill's health and his life from an infection that just overwhelmed his body. He was with Vicki and their children at the farm while close friends waited for the bad and final news. A week ago, it came. The last time I saw Bill, a year and a half ago, he would be speaking at the DeCordova Museum in Lincoln, MA, on writing mysteries, with Katherine Hall Page and Katherine Lasky. I arrived early and was sitting on the steps in the lovely spring evening when Bill came, sat down next to me, and we chatted for a few minutes. His death has been devastating for the mystery community and especially for his family and close friends. My deepest condolences to all of them, and I leave you with one final, perhaps comforting thought. I happen to believe in an Afterlife, and I know Bill and Phil have gone fishin'.
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WHO KNOWS WHERE THE TIME GOES Posted by Sheila Connolly and the hard-working Sarah Atwell A lot of people think writers have an easy life. You get to sit around in your grubbiest clothes and peck away at your laptop or scribble on a pad. You can help yourself to coffee or tea and food whenever you feel like it. You can sit back and just read a book (someone else's), secure in the knowledge that it is a business-related activity and no one can accuse you of goofing off. You can stop whenever you want to, to run errands or play with the cat or paint your nails. And you don't have to answer to an unreasonable boss or make nice to a bunch of weird colleagues. Sounds perfect, doesn't it? Actually most of that is true, and it is a good lifestyle, if you can afford it (it really helps to have a spouse or partner who brings home a steady paycheck and has health insurance). But (you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you?) sometimes you wonder if maybe some of the sniping is accurate, and you're not doing enough, so you start taking on more and more. I n the beginning it was all about the writing. You couldn't wait to get back to stringing words together. Your characters were screaming in your head, and you had to get them down on paper. Your plots were unfolding like a budding rose (hey, you can cut out the flowery prose when you edit, right?). You gave no thought to deadlines, or page length, or word count–you just wanted to get it written. When you finished (the first time around), you felt a weird mix of elation and post-partum depression. Enjoy it, all you new writers, because whether you realize it or not, these are the good old days of your writing career. Once that first glow has subsided (look! I wrote a book!), if you decide you want to get it published, you enter a whole different phase: querying. You send it out to a bazillion agents and editors, and you get the predictable rejections. Of course it's a bad book–it's your first. Of course those rejections hurt–that's your baby they're criticizing, or worse, dismissing with a crappy form letter. You suck it up and work even harder at your writing. But I don't want to talk about how to query or how to deal with rejection; no, I want to point out that all this querying and revising and re-querying takes time–time that you aren't spending writing. Say you are one of the lucky few who signs with a good agent, who sells your book to a major publisher publisher. Joy! Celebration! Then you read the fine print on your contract. You have now committed to writing a series of books. Okay, you can write a book or two a year, no problem. But what you don't realize is that there will be edits. Plural. Your editor wants a shot at it, and comes back with a bunch of suggestions, and that means rewriting, maybe more than once. When s/he's happy, then the copy editor gets hold of it. More revisions, although they may be smaller ones, but there are lots of little nit-picky ones. Then you get galleys to proof. Maybe you love the red-pencil process, polishing your prose every step of the way. But. It. Takes. Time. Now you've massaged and honed and polished your first book, and everybody at your publisher's is happy, and you have a pub date. Then you're supposed to publicize the book. Say what? You're a writer, not a marketer, an ad agency, a salesperson. What do you know about publicity? And if you look on the internet or ask your new writer buddies, none of them agree on what works best. So you go out and create a website and a newsletter and a blog, and appearance on thirty-seven other blogs; you attend conferences; you make bookmarks and postcards and creative gift baskets and ship them all over the place; you set up booksignings everywhere within an eight-hour drive. Guess what: more time sucked away from your writing. You can see where this is going–but I'm not done yet. Mostly you've been carried along by adrenaline so far, and it's all new, and it's all fun. But there's another piece. No doubt you've joined whatever local organizations (or even virtual ones) you can find in your genre. This is a wonderful thing, because they provide a built-in support system, and a wonderful network for exchanging information, and maybe even some people who will buy your books because they know you and like you. All good. But! These organizations are run by volunteers, and somebody along the way is going to ask you to volunteer, for the newsletter or the website or the contest or the conference. You should do this, because it's a way of paying back that supportive community you've become part of. But it takes time. What began, however many years earlier, as a heady thrill as you set down words and watch them grow into a book, has now become a full-time business. Okay, you still don't have to get dressed up and commute, but you find you're working at least as much as if you had a regular day job. Writing is your job. Don't kid yourself: it's a good job, but it's still a job. It is very important to learn how to prioritize–and learn when to say no. Only you can decide how much you can handle, how much time you can give each part of the job. You're going to be torn in six different directions, and you have to keep your eye on your goal: publish and sell your books, so that other people can enjoy them and you can keep on writing them. It's not easy, but you have to remember: it's still all about the writing. Hang on to that first thrill, and...

Lorraine Bartlett

Five women, five weekdays, many surprises.

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