James Hayman on WHERE YOU WRITE

JAN: A native New Yorker, Jim Hayman spent nearly thirty years working for Madison Ave's ad agencies before moving to Portland, Maine. There he decided to follow in the footsteps of some other former madmen like James Patterson and Stuart Woods and begin a new career writing thrillers. His debut novel is The Cutting.

“Bookstores have been looking for a writer of popular fiction who can reliably produce a bestseller. James Hayman…has invented a cop with sophisticated tastes. If your summer reading includes a psychological thriller, this one’s for you.”-Mandy Twaddell, Providence Journal

JAN: I met Jim via email when I helped line him up as a panelist for the New England Crime Bake mystery conference this November (14th, 15th, 16th at the Dedham Hilton outside Boston, mark your calendars). I'm thrilled to introduce you to his writer's insight today.

JAMES HAYMAN: A Writer Retreats.

“Where do you write?”

I’m sure most writers have been asked that question. I know I have more times than I can count. At least once at every public event and private gathering I’ve attended since my first suspense thriller, The Cutting, leapt its way onto bookstore shelves at the end of June. (Author’s Note: Okay, leapt is a bit hyperbolic. But, as a writer of stories involving sex, violence, murder and mayhem, I do like action verbs, and “leapt its way” seems more appealing than the more sedate, though possibly more accurate, “found its way” or the more passive, but definitely more accurate, “appeared.”)

Anyway, for me, the short answer to the question of where I write is: Not At Home. A lot of people who know where I live find that puzzling.

Thanks to a couple of decades spent churning out detergent, car and army recruiting commercials for the likes of Procter & Gamble, Lincoln/Mercury, and the US Army, home for me is now a beautiful light-filled house set on the rocky coast of Maine. From its many windows I can watch the waves crashing onto the shore and gaze at a series of islands receding into the distance across the water.

Sounds idyllic, right?

It is.

Sounds like the perfect writer’s retreat, right?

It ought to be.

So, that’s where you wrote The Cutting, right?

“Uhh, well, no. Not exactly.”

Turns out, that for me at least, the perfect writer’s retreat only works perfectly as long as my mind is in gear, the plot is unfolding as planned, and my characters are behaving exactly as I want them. In other words, when I’m writing the easy parts.

However, when I get to one of those places where I’m not quite sure what Mike McCabe, my hero, and Maggie, his partner, ought to be doing next. Or exactly how bitchy I ought to be making McCabe’s ex-wife Sandy. Or how graphically I should describe the next slaying or autopsy, well, then what seems to be the perfect writer’s retreat unfortunately morphs into the perfect place for procrastination.

It’s the place where I can stop writing for any of a million reasons. All valid, all rational, all stupid.

“Gee, shouldn’t I be checking my emails?”

“Gee, shouldn’t I be checking that stock I bought last week and see if it’s recovering yet from its precipitous fall?”

“Gee, I’m almost out of clean underwear. Shouldn’t I be washing a load?”

Annie Dillard, a writer whose work I admire, once described the perfect place to write fiction as a small cinderblock cell without windows, without telephone and without Internet access. A place where one’s imagination can stay in its imaginary world because there are no other choices.

My choice of the perfect writing place isn’t as extreme as Dillard’s. I chose a fifth floor carrel in the library of a nearby university. Once there I can’t log on to the Internet because I’m not a registered as either a student or a teacher. I can’t stop for a snack because there are no snacks to be had. I can’t even go to the bathroom without lugging my laptop with me.
Yes, I miss the view of the waves and the islands, but my carrel is ideal. Without it I wouldn’t get the next book done.

To learn more about Jim Hayman or his terrific debut book, The Cutting, check him out at http://www.jameshaymanthrillers.com/

On Hangovers

“I feel like I have a hangover, without all the happy memories and mystery bruises."”

Ellen DeGeneres

JAN: When I was a full-time reporter, I'd have days when I'd work an eleven hour day to meet my deadline on a takeout on, say, say downtown development, the power of the bank lobby, or some other wide-ranging topic that required a lot of steamlining and double-checking. I noticed that even though I'd come to work the next day, I was entirely useless. My brain was fried. I had a writing hangover.

It made me wonder about those proclamations by scientists that we really only use ten percent of our brains. It felt like I'd actually used up my brain, and now it had to rest.

I mention that because I recently had to work a crazy schedule to get my latest book, Teaser, to my publisher to meet my deadline. (that's the twice extended deadline, not the first one.) Okay, I worked weekends and late hours the final two weeks, but everyone who writes seems to do that. That was almost a month ago, and I still don't feel like writing.

Luckly, my next project, which is non-fiction, requires a lot of upfront research. This allows me to spend my days reading and writing lists, which feels like luxury.

But I'm wondering. Have the rest of you experienced writing hangovers, or am I just a writing wimp?

ROBERTA: oh definitely! Big hangover here! I wonder if some of it doesn't have to do with our over-connectedness too. There was an essay in the New York Times style section this Sunday about a guy forcing himself to take a day off from email, phones, etc every week. And another essay in MORE magazine about a woman taking a month-long email hiatus. We're not just writing books, we're writing email constantly. And blogs. And reading listservs. And planning conferences and promotions. No wonder our poor brains are tired.

I went to see a movie about a New York man and his psychoanalyst in January. After the show, the author came out to answer questions. Someone asked if being a writer impinged on his real life. I thought it was a silly question until I heard him talk about how he's always in the process of observing and cataloging events to use in his fiction. Yes of course you're tired! Take a brain vacation--you deserve it!

HALLIE: I just turned a revision of "Baby, Baby" in to my editor and I confess, for me it doesn't feel like hangover so much as postpartum depression. I mean you work on a manuscript practically 7 days a week for (in this case) nearly two years, and then COLD TURKEY.
And I'm not someone who writes feverishly at the end. I can't handle the stress of it. I'm nearly always ready before I need to be and spend the last few days/week polishing.

Now, literally two days after, I'm ready to be thinking about the next novel but not no how ready to be writing it. Fortunately I have the book reviewing gig and some freelance magazine work which make a perfect palate cleanser (is this, in hangover terms, "the hair of the dog" cure?)

RO: Jeez, I'm still so new at this that I'm still indulging and haven't experienced the hangover yet. Maybe this is comparable...I worked so long and hard on my presentation for the Philadelphia Flower Show that once it was over I felt as if I was 10 lbs lighter. (It went well but I felt so much pressure that I'm glad it's done. If I don't use Powerpoint for another year that's okay with me.)

HANK: Hmm. No hangover here, either. (Maybe I'm not working hard enough.) I'm like Ro (hurray!). I'm so focused on what I have to get done, and so thrilled when it works, that I'm dancing around when it's over. Like the storm clouds of responsibility and looming performance have lifted. (And we're the newbies, too, I guess.)

I'm also so used to working, you know, that when I'm finished, I feel as if I must be forgetting something. When I turned in the synopsis for Drive Time, my brain was still churning about it. And I'd literally stop and remember--wait, that's already submitted. You did it. And then I'd do a little hip wiggle (I was generally alone, thankfully, at those times) and go on to whatever I was supposed to do next.

People always say--you've got to stop. Hmm. I'd worry if there were nothing.

But! At my office, at the station, my producer and I do have a sign that we post on our door from time to time. Generally after we've aired a big story. It says:

** Sorry, we're closed. Brains FULL.**

ON THE ROAD

Zippy the Pinhead: You mean we have no idea what will happen next? Or when? Or why?
His pal: That's pretty much it, yeah.
Zippy: Cool.
***Bill Griffith, cartoonist


Hallie is gallivanting through the olive groves and vineyards (and boutiques) of Italy. Jan is leading a group of teenagers through the jungles (jungles?) of the Dominican Republic and Ro is in Tanzania helping a village build a library. Do we have a jet-setting group or what?

And as for me—I’m here in Boston—but doing a big take off of my own. And I can't wait to show you the photos! (See below!)

Prime Time, my first novel is now in bookstores. (I’ll dare to say it one more time—RT Book Reviews gave it a top pick, and called it “a perfect combination of mystery and romance.”)

And launch week was—well, you know they always talk about once-in-a-lifetime experiences? This was one. And it’s still happening.

Tuesday morning—launch day—I got up at the crack of dawn to appear on the Breakfast Club on WODS radio. (A fast-paced and hilarious morning show that plays all the oldies.) Dale Dorman and his wacky colleagues (they love to be called that) made it a great time. And provided coffee, luckily. I didn’t know what to expect—and that’s what happened.

The first question? They asked me to explicate and explain the lyrics of the sixties anthem Walk Away Renee. Okay, talk about random! But it was fun—and I’m pretty good at sixties song lyrics. Thank goodness.
But we also talked about Prime Time—and Dale had clearly read it—what a treat! But then it was back to music—they’d read somewhere that I was vice president of the national Beatles Fan Club (when I was 14, for gosh sake). So with that, they asked me to sing Rocky Raccoon! These guys are unstoppable. My incredibly bad singing voice aside, Rocky Raccoon? No problem. (All together now: Rocky came in, stinking of gin, only to find Gideon’s Bible…)

That afternoon—it was off to Borders in Boston’s Back Bay. Would it rain and keep the lunchtime shoppers in their offices and away from the store? Would the place be empty and I’d wind up chatting with myself?
Hurray. No. In fact, the place was so full of people, the Borders crew had to bring in extra chairs. And what a terrific group—many many many folks I didn’t know—and some wonderfully familiar pals: YA series author Marley Gibson, NEC-RWA mogul Katy Cooper—well, it was great.
And I signed and signed.
And look at the display of Prime Time.
Thanks Borders. You, um, rock.
Tuesday ended with a cocktail bash and signing at the ultra-chic and very elegant Ralph Lauren boutique on Newbury Street. (If you’ve been there, you know how fabulous it is. Three floors, filled with the most fantastic…well, you know.)

Anyway—it was packed and hilarious…champagne and beef tenderloin and white wine and crab cakes. And many friends, colleagues, and members of the press.
Here’s the inimitable Bill Brett (author of the amazing book of Boston faces called All One Family), taking my photo for the Boston Globe. (Where it appeared the next day in a very lovely article by Carol Beggy.)

And here’s (from right) author Becky Motew ( of the wonderfully funny Coupon Girl), fashion mavens from “Dressing Well” Mary Lou Andre and June Tartar, and the extraordinary Hope Denekamp from Kneerim and Williams Agency, whose expertise guided me through unfamiliar territory when Prime Time was in its earliest of stages.

And again, I signed and signed.

I’ve got so many more photos of that signing on the way—its was absolutely SRO--and I’ll show you all the good ones at some point—but the party photographer still has them all! We sold lots and lots of books on launch day—and I’m already getting some incredibly enthusiastic reaction.
Wine and champagne as a sales tool. Remember it.

And then the next day: an event with the incomparable Kate Mattes of Kate’s Mystery Books!


She hosted a bustling and convivial reading—it was lively and full of old friends and new friends (Hi Pat from DL! Thank you so much for coming) and fellow authors. Here’s my independent editor Francesca Coltrera and her husband Andrew Cornell and the two Emmas---and my husband.
Here’s how it looked as I read from Prime Time. In the audience—Vinnie O’Neil, winner of last year’s Malice Domestic contest for Murder in Exile, who came all the way from Rhode Island to share the fun.

Friday: Borders in Braintree where they set up a special display of Prime Time with the amazing Claire Cook’s latest Life’s a Beach.
Saturday: Barnes & Noble in Burlington--where I signed for three hours! The B & N gang was was wonderful. See all those books stacked on the metal cart? All gone… And there wasn't even wine.
Lots more wonderful singings and readings and appearances coming up…but you get the, um, picture. I’ll put more on my website…

But I know this is not a typical week in the life of a mystery author. And I'm so grateful for everyone who made this work. Who came to these signings. It was --as I said--once in a lifetime. And now it's back to the computer.

But let me say--each time I sign a book, and hand it over to the strangers who have just pulled out their wallet to BUY Prime Time, pages unread, author untested, just taking my word for it that it’s worthwhile and it’ll be a good companion on beach or airplane or pillow—I think—they’re taking off too. Just as I am. On a journey into the unknown.

Prime Time. My first novel. So far, so good.

Now back to our usual programming.

(and thank you to my darling husband Jonathan for the wonderful photography...)