Hallie on writing setting from her mind's eye

HALLIE EPHRON: One of the pitfalls of being me is that people assume that I know something about writing screenplays. Let me assure you (as I do them), I do not. 

My parents were screenwriters. My sisters, too. But my favorite things to write are setting and internal dialogue (narrator's thoughts)... none of which show up in a screenplay. In a screenplay it's mostly dialogue and (brief) suggestions on the staging and character affect.  

I love to write setting in combination with internal dialogue, neither of which show up much in a screenplay.

Moving the reader through the setting with the characters usually requires research. The writers has go GO somewhere and take notes, record sounds, take pictures, talking to locals. Research, if it's an historical setting. A ton of world building if it's fantasy.

But there's a special pleasure (and ease) writing a story that is set in in A PLACE FROM YOUR OWN PAST.  Possibly a place that no longer exists the way it was then.

I did this In "Night Night, Sleep Tight" which takes place Beverly Hills in the early 60's when I was growing up there. The THERE/there no longer exists except in my memory, so that's where I went to find the details I needed.

In one of the opening chapters, Deirdre reluctantly driving back to her childhood home to deal with her wayward father. Along the way she's flooded with memories, just as I was writing this since I'd taken that drive (decades ago) a gajillion times: Sunset Boulevard, from the San Diego Freeway to Beverly Hills. 

I remember every curve. Every stoplight...
**

Deirdre crossed into the left lane and accelerated. Power surged and her Mercedes SL automatically downshifted and shot forward, hugging the road as she pushed it around a bend. She braked into the curves and accelerated coming out, weaving between cars on the winding four-lane road. 

Forty, forty-five, fifty. The end of her crutch slid across the passenger seat, the cuff banging against the door.

The car drifted into the right lane coming around a tight curve and she had to slam on the brakes behind a red bus that straddled both lanes and poked along at twenty miles an hour, idling just outside walled estates. STARLINE TOURS was painted in slanting white script across the back.

Deirdre tapped the horn and crept along behind the bus, past pink stucco walls that surrounded the estate where Jayne Mansfield had supposedly once lived. 

It had been a big deal when the actress died, had to have been at least twenty years ago. And still tourists lined up to gawp at her wall. Breasts the size of watermelons and death in a grisly car accident (early news reports spawned the myth that she’d been decapitated)—those were achievements that merited lasting celebrity in Hollywood. 

That, or kill someone. 

It was the same old, same old, real talent ripening into stardom and then festering into notoriety. Deirdre sympathized with Jayne Mansfield’s children, though, who must have gone through their lives enduring the ghoulish curiosity of strangers.

Buses like the one belching exhaust in front of her now used to pull up in front of her own parents’ house, passengers glued to the windows. Most writers, unless they married Jayne Mansfield, did not merit stars on celebrity road maps. And in the flats between Sunset and Santa Monica where her father lived, notables were TV (not movie) actors, writers (not producers), and agents, all tucked in like plump raisins among the nouveau riche noncelebrity types who’d moved to Beverly Hills, so they’d say, because of the public schools. 

You had to live north of Sunset to score neighbors like Katharine Hepburn or Gregory Peck. Move up even farther, into the canyons to an ultramodern, super-expensive home to find neighbors like Frank Sinatra and Fred Astaire.

Arthur Unger had earned his spot on the celebrity bus tour through an act of bravery that had lasted all of thirty seconds. It had been at a poolside party to celebrate the end of filming of Dark Waters, an action-packed saga with a plot recycled from an early Errol Flynn movie. 

Fox Pearson, the up-and-coming actor featured in the film, either jumped, fell, or was pushed into the pool. Sadly for him, no one noticed as the cast on the broken leg he’d suffered a week earlier doing his own stunts in the movie’s finale dragged him to the bottom of the deep end. Might as well have gone in with his foot stuck in a bucket of concrete.

A paparazzo had been on hand to immortalize Arthur shucking his shoes and jacket and diving in. Fox Pearson’s final stunt, along with its fortuitous synchronicity with the movie’s title, earned more headlines for the dead actor than any of his roles. Suddenly he was the second coming (and going) of James Dean, a talent that blazed bright and then . . . cue slow drum roll against a setting sun . . . sank below a watery horizon.

(Yes, I really did used to sit in our front window and wave at the tour busses.)

I have no idea how you'd write this as a screenplay. There's not a single line of dialogue, precious little action, and a ton of setting and internal dialogue. 

Flashbacks? Voice over?? Beats me.

Are there mental journeys that you can take with details of places that are long gone but still vivid in your mind's eye? To the corner store? To the drive-in movie, local dive bar, swimming hole, lover's lane, fabulous view???

On Book Clubs

LUCY BURDETTE: Though my hometown book club is on hiatus, we had a lot of wonderful discussions over the years. For a while, we decided that the hostess would choose the book and also provide dinner to other members. My turn came when we discussed Carlos Eire’s WAITING FOR SNOW IN HAVANA. I made an elaborate Cuban meal, including pork roast with black beans and baked bananas. Funny how I remember the details of the food better than the details of the book (although it was an excellent memoir.)
As a writer, I love book clubs even more, and I’ve had some fabulous visits with groups over the course of three cozy mystery series. Luckily for me, these often involved food. (Fudge pie anyone? Or how about the onerous task of judging molasses cookies?) The latest was a book group in Connecticut that was reading AN APPETITE FOR MURDER. The hostess created a Key West-themed meal, including decorations and Hemingway cocktails. Oh how I wished I’d been there in person, rather than by FaceTime! (You can read that whole story here.)  

But this book club photo has to take the cake—these girls are from northern Germany, so far north they are almost to Denmark, and their teacher sent me their questions about the book and I answered by email.

Over to you Reds. Do you belong to a book group or club? What’s your favorite book club story as a writer?

RHYS BOWEN: Unfortunately I don't have time to belong to a book club. I do belong to a hiking group and we find ourselves discussing books we've read as we hike--so I suppose it is an itinerant book club. I have led book club discussions at Book Passage bookstore. I've been a guest a many book clubs, lately more via Skype than in person, and I've

photo from Wikipedia

sent discussion questions to many more. I'm afraid I find being a guest in person rather awkward. Nobody can say what they really thought of the book with me sitting there, and I know from my experience as a facilitator at Book Passage that members are super critical. One session I led was on Edgar winners and my book club members didn't like any of them. Gleefully they pointed out flaws in Michael Connelly and Jan Burke etc. So I'm always thinking that they really hate my book and are just being polite.


 

My favorite book club memory? Would have to be the first book club for my first Constable Evans book, when I realized that ten people, sitting around me, had all read my book!

 




HALLIE EPHRON: I don't belong to a book club, either. I have barely time to read what I have to for my own work. 

I love going to book groups, or even Skyping. Better in person because there's always good food. A dear friend had me talk about "Night Night, Sleep Tight" to her book group - and she made food from the '60s when the book's set. Quiche! Pigs in a blanket! Just needed some Sara Lee cheesecake. It was lovely. Thanks, Nathalie!

 

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I, sigh, belonged to a book club once. It took up a LOT of time, and I didn't really love it...except for one fabulous discussion we had about Bel Canto, which was unforgettable. (And shows you how long ago it was...)  I left the book club for two reasons: One, when my turn to pick the book came, I chose Edith Wharton's Custom of the Country, which I adore. NOBODY else liked it, and they proceeded to rip it to shreds.

And when I started writing PRIME TIME, so than I had NO more time.

I adore going to bookclubs, and I love it in person way more than Skype. It is SUCH a treat to be in a place where people have read my books, I so agree!  And yes, there is that element of knowing no one is going to criticize--but hey, what's so bad about that?  Nice and polite is good, right? Just, as they say, spell my name right.

Oh, sorry, one more thing. I always learn something at book clubs. For instance: One woman talked about how I have different characters leading different scenes. I said yes, it's multiple point of view. 

She had NEVER heard that phrase, nor did she understand it. When I explained it, I absolutely saw the light dawn in her eyes.
"You should teach people about that," she said.
But from then on, I realized that people do not see the world in the same way we do. And that is such an important thing for a writer to remember.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: No book club for me, either, although I volunteer at our small local library, and the spontaneous conversations about reading are wonderful (and informative!) I do enjoy speaking to book clubs  especially since Skype has made it so easy to do from home. I recently chatted with my mother's book club in upstate New York, and had a great time. (Although talk about not wanting to say anything bad...imagine if you have both the author AND her mother listening!)

Best book club experience was early on, when I went in person to the book club hosted by one of the teachers at Ross's school. Book club was also Fancy Desserts and Wine Club, and we all had a wonderful, caloric time. After the discussion had ended, one of the members said to me, "That was terrific! It's the first time we ever actually talked about the book!"

LUCY: How about you Red readers--do you belong to a book club?

What we wrote: @HallieEphron costuming for invisibility

 
HALLIE EPHRON: I'm writing, yes I am. Really I am. But I'm not ready to share. So instead here's one of my favorite passages from NIGHT NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT.

SETUP: Deirdre Unger, a young woman whose semi-famous father has just been murdered, has to go to Beverly Hills City Hall but she doesn't want the press to recognize her. So, glamorous movie star Bunny Nichol (think: Joan Collins) who is also Deirdre's best friend's mother, dresses her for invisibility.

(BTW I set this scene in my mother's dressing room which had mirrors on facing walls and little crystal sconces and smelled of orange blossoms from her Elizabeth Arden skin cream. Her closets were filled with full-skirted shirtwaists, boxy suits, and chiffon cocktail cocktail dresses. And rows of high-heeled shoes.)

***

Bunny swept her arms like a conductor silencing the instruments. “Magic,” she said, gazing out in front of her, eyes unfocused, as if watching the word hover before her. “It’s all about misdirection. Make the audience attend to what you want them to see. What will be compelling enough to divert their attention or, in our case, make them tune out—that is the trick.”

Delicately Bunny tapped her chin with long red fingernails and stared at Deirdre in the mirror. She opened one closet door, then another, and another, finally emerging with a half-dozen garments slung over her arm. None of them were cocktail dresses. “Stand up straight. And, please, would you take off that appalling top. It’s making my teeth itch.”

Obediently Deirdre pulled off Henry’s Harley T-shirt and stood there in her bra and drawstring pants.

“Hmmm.” Bunny held up what looked like a gray cotton mechanic’s jumpsuit and squinted. She pursed her lips in disapproval and dropped it on the floor. A pale purple sweatshirt minidress with a hood met the same fate. A black-and-gold floor-length African dashiki joined the pile. Next she held up what looked like a stewardess uniform—navy pencil skirt and tailored jacket. “Maybe,” she said, and set it aside.

Finally Bunny considered a simple shirtwaist dress, starched and pressed gray cotton with an A-line skirt, white snaps up the front, a white collar, and short white-cuffed sleeves. She held the dress under Deirdre’s chin, narrowing her eyes as she gazed into the mirror. Then she broke into a smile. “Perfect, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Fifteen minutes later Deirdre was seated at the makeup table, wearing the dress with a pair of saggy white opaque tights and orthopedic nurse’s shoes. She’d stuffed the toe of one shoe with Kleenex to keep it from falling off her smaller foot. Bunny tucked Deirdre’s hair into a hairnet and secured it with a hairpin. She applied a foundation much darker than Deirdre’s natural skin tone and brushed powder over it, then created hollows beneath Deirdre’s eyes with dark eye shadow. Finally she gave Deirdre a pair of glasses with black plastic frames.

Deirdre put the glasses on. The lenses were clear.

“Up,” Bunny commanded.

Deirdre leaned on her crutch and rose to her feet.

“Stoop,” Bunny said.

Deirdre hunched over.

“Not that much. Just kind of roll your shoulders stick your head out. Think turtle.”

Deirdre adjusted her stance. The mousy woman gazing back at her from the mirror looked like a Latina version of Ruth Buzzi’s bag lady from Laugh-In. She started to laugh. “This is ridiculous. It will never work.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” a man’s voice called from Bunny’s bedroom.

“You don’t think it’s going to work?” Bunny said to Deirdre. “Watch this.” She handed Deirdre her crutch and led her into the bedroom, then threw open the door to the hall. Out on the landing stood the young man Deirdre had seen earlier. He was barefoot and wearing jeans and a stretched-out black T-shirt.

“What’s up with you?” Joelen said.

“I . . . what? Why are you two looking at me like I did something?” he said.

“It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re not doing,” Joelen said, pushing past Deirdre.

“What are you talking about?” The man looked from Joelen to Bunny.

“See?” Bunny said, turning to Deirdre. “Not a single glance your way. It’s as if you’re wallpaper. I’d say the disguise is working.”

So think like a mystery writer! How would you dress a character to HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT!

What We're Writing: @HallieEphron, the sister who didn't

HALLIE EPHRON: It's What We're Writing week again, and (bowing) thank you, thank you, I get to kick off the festivities. I am working on a new book but it's still very much in flux so I'm keeping it under wraps. Instead I'm offering up part of an essay I wrote about having sisters who write. I wrote it to celebrate the publication of my somewhat autobiographical novel Night Night, Sleep Tight in which the protagonist who really is the virtual me has no sisters.  

*** Whenever I get together with my sisters and reminisce about something that happened when we were growing up, one of them will pipe up, “It wasn’t like that.” Another will pile on: “And you weren’t there.”

And maybe I wasn’t. Memory is like that. Photos in family albums morph into memories, while events that weren’t seared into consciousness fade.

For years I sat back and didn’t write while my sisters did, and it’s always illuminating when one of them writes about a time when I was there.

My older sister Delia’s first book, the huge bestseller How to Eat Like a Child, has a chapter on “How to torture your sister.” In it she reveals techniques that she and I practiced on our younger sister, Amy. (“I’ve got to tell you something. You’re adopted!”) Delia would go on to write Hanging Up, miraculously finding humor in our screenwriter father’s bouts of alcohol-soaked self-pity. 

My oldest sister Nora, who inspired a generation of women to feel bad about their necks and who wrote and directed some of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks’ best films, gave me a moment on the page as the "good" daughter (“to distinguish her from me,” the protagonist explains) in Heartburn, her painfully funny autobiographical novel about the breakup of her marriage to Carl Bernstein.

Then there’s the time I nearly killed Amy. She immortalized it in her first novel, Cool Shades. She couldn’t pedal her tricycle fast enough to keep up with my two-wheeler, so I tied my bike to her trike. Soon we were flying along. Near the corner, I hit the brakes. But tricycles have no brakes, so Amy kept on going until the rope snapped and she flew off, skidding face-first across the macadam. Reading her book brought back the full horror of that moment when I realized what I’d done.

I've gotten used to being written about, and whenever one of my sisters publishes something (as in just about every other week), I brace for another cringe-worthy episode from my life to get aired. 

For years I couldn't fight back. I didn't write.

Then, one day I got a call from a freelance writer. She wanted to write a magazine piece about me. “You’re the sister who doesn’t write,” she said, like “the fourth Brontë sister.” Which sounded unappealing, not just because the fourth Brontë sister died young of tuberculosis.

Then it struck me: the longer I waited to write, the less material there would be to claim as my own.

I told that freelancer that if anyone was going to write about me not writing it was going to be me.

***
After telling that freelance thanks, but no thanks, I started where most writers start, essays about my own personal experience. I piled page on top of page, thinking maybe I was writing a book. But when I read it, I knew that while the words were fine, and some of the sentences were lovely, the story was circling the drain. I had no idea that characters need arcs, that there had to be stakes, and the story had to go somewhere.

I tucked that unfinished manuscript away. When I pulled it out about three years ago, I was surprised to find that it didn't smell as bad as I thought it would. In fact, pieces of it are in Night Night. (The episode where Deirdre gets nabbed for shoplifting at J. J. Newberry's really happened. Sadly none of my sisters were involved so I missed an opportunity to humiliate one of them.)

Which leads me one of my hard and fast WRITING RULES. Save everything you write because today's garbage is tomorrow's compost. Which is a corollary to my other WRITING RULE: Just hold your nose and write.

Pearls, pearls, pearls! An ETSY success... and SEEING REDS

Today we're adding a new feature: Seeing Reds: At the bottom of our Sunday post a list of events where you can find your favorite Reds...
 
HALLIEEPHRON: When I saw the cover of my new book, I knew what I needed for my book events. Pearls. PINK pearls, to be precise. I imagined a long, double-strand, lustrous and glowing against the little black dress which, of course, I had to buy to go with it.

My search took me to ETSY where I spotted these pearls at WhitePearlGem. They looked gorgeous and were priced at WELL under $100.

The shop said they specialized in custom orders, so I sent a copy of the book cover and wrote a note that began:

I'm a mystery author going on tour with a new book that has pink pearls on the cover...

Back came an answer from Sharon Knowles in Tennessee:

“Those are 10mm South Sea Shell Pearls in pink with cotton knotting (you can tell because the knots are too big).”

Sharon made me this knockout hand-knotted (so if I break it I won’t lose the pearls) necklace of said South Sea Shell Pearls -- man-made from the dust of real pearls, seven layers painted on top of a real sea shell bead.

Here’s me wearing them at my book launch.

Sharon designs and makes all WhitePearlGem’s jewelry. When she says she takes “customer service” seriously, she is not kidding. And aside from her wonderful pearl jewelry, she’s a fan of mystery novels.

And, because turnabout is fair play, here's Sharon with her copy of

my book and wearing a gorgeous necklace of her own design.

SHARON KNOWLES: I cut my I teeth on Erle Stanley Gardner, then Rex Stout and Nero Wolfe, I fell in love with Archie in my 20's, but I moved on because he wasn't getting any older!

I thought when I retired, I would sew and make quilts. My machine collects dust and I don't even hem pants. I play with beads and its wonderful. I started a hobby to occupy me while I take care of my 85-year-old mother, and my hobby turned into a profitable business. Who would have thought?

I talk to loads of women on Etsy looking for help with events and weddings. I solve problems. It's a big change from caring for the dying.

HALLIE: I know custom orders are your speciality. What’s your most challenging custom order?

SHARON: That's easy. Had a Lady send me photos of a "mauve dress" and wanted a match for her sons wedding. Every time, photos of the dress, a different color! Mauve is very hard to photograph. She also, sent me a photo of a $650 necklace she had seen in a dress shop.

She said the end result, was better than the original. Total cost $110.00 for the set.

HALLIE: How did you get into the pearl business?

SHARON: I have been a stock broker, a private trader, and when my daughter was born I wanted to stay home so I traded on-line from home. When she was four I opened a small day care.

Then I took a break for 2 years, till boredom set in and a friend convinced me to go to work with her cleaning houses. I ended up starting my own company and stayed with that for 5-6 years. Then I went to work as a private-duty nurse for about 6 years.

I started a shop on Etsy in 2008 and opened the Pearl shop in 2012 -- I wanted to focus on Pearls. Etsy had almost no Pearls then, and nothing hand knotted.

HALLIE: Why pearls?

SHARON: I wanted to own Pearls. Good pearls are expensive or can be.

I have always been good at research from my days of trading stocks for a living. So I studied and researched and learned about Pearls. I learned how to hand knot and how to buy good pearls, instead of junk. I figured out how to go directly to the source. I have a regular supplier in China for quality pearls whom I have used for almost 15 years.

HALLIE: Thank you Sharon. Your story is so inspiring! And did I mention: I LOVE MY PEARLS!

So Reds... How about you? Do you love pearls, or are diamonds your best friends? Dreaming here, of course... 

SEEING REDS: Where you can find us

HallieTuesday 3/31 @7:30 Melrose MA Public Library
Thursday 4/2 @7 PM BookEnds in Winchester MA
Saturday 4/4 @2 PM Brookline MA Public Library with Roseanne Montillo
Monday 4/6 @7 PM Weymouth MA Public Library
Tuesday 4/7 @6:30 PM Buttonwood Books Cohasset MA with Holly Robinson
Wednesday 4/8 @7:30 PM Sweetser Lecture Series Wakefield MA
Thursday 4/9 @7 PM RJ Julia Madison CT
Friday 4/10 @12:15 PM Bank Square Books in Mystic CT

Hank
Monday, 4/6 @7 PM Brookline Booksmith interviewing Michael Sears, Brookline MA
Tuesday 4/ 7 @7 PM Newton Free Library Newton MA
Thursday 4/9 @7:30 AM Habitat for Humanity North Central MA "Women Build" Breakfast, Keynote Speaker Sterling MA
Saturday 4/11 Maynard Library Book Festival with Archer Mayor and Norton Juster
Sunday 4/12 @9:30  AM, Lyceum at First Parish Church, Bedford MA  Keynote Speaker

Rhys
Wednesday 4/8, Belmont Library, Belmont, CA

Tale from the OUT file: An encounter with Synanon

HALLIE EPHRON: Hey kids, it's that time again: WHAT WE'RE WRITING week.

Mostly at the moment I'm dealing with a book launch (3/24 Night Night, Sleep Tight!) and still basking in a starred PW review: "Old Hollywood glamour, scandals, and lies infuse this captivating thriller set in 1985." All righty!

If you're curious about the new book, and I hope you are desperately so, there's an excerpt in Facebook -- a generous first three chapters.

Today I'm reviving another outtake from Night Night. Its OUT file is longer than the book. That's because the book began life as a quasi memoir about growing up in Beverly Hills and it took me forever to find the story and peel away the bits that didn't work. I'm hoping its OUT file will be the gift that keeps giving.

Here's one bit that got peeled away: channeling memories from 1964 when I was sixteen and going to weekly “games” in the San Fernando Valley run by Synanon, the drug rehabilitation commune founded by charismatic Charles Deidrich. They called their technique for breaking down the defenses of drug addicts “attack therapy,” and their star pupils ran games for “straights” (non addicts) which included a fair number of idealistic teenagers from well to do homes. That's where I came in.

I used my experiences as the basis for this scene in which two teenagers reminisce about what happened twenty years earlier at their first Synanon game.

A Memory of Synanon

      "Remember our first game?" Joelen asked.

      "I do," Susan said. "It was right in here. All there was in the room was a circle of folding chairs."

      "And not enough of them."

      "Never enough."

      Susan's group had filed in, only to find that several people had nowhere to sit. Turned out that was deliberate, just another part of the manipulative "game." How people reacted -- who offered to share or stand, express hurt or outrage -- was, in fact, very revealing.

      It was just one of the many ways that Raoul, the charismatic young Latino and former drug addict from Synanon, manipulated the group. She could still see him, sitting there, superior and smug, a petty tyrant surveying his serfs as he gazed around the circle at the rest of them, many of them tender young straights like Susan and Joelen from left-leaning, comfortable families.

      "What are you thinking?" Joelen said, jolting Susan from her reverie. "I recognize that look."

      "Do you?" Susan said.

      Joelen gave her a knowing smile. "I didn't used to know what it was but now I'd call it contempt."

      "I was remembering Raoul."

      "Good old Raoul."

      "He ran that first game, didn't he?"

      "He goes, 'Who wants to start?' And I'm like, such an idiot." Joelen waved her hand. "Pick me, pick me!"

      Susan hadn't remembered that -- she'd only remembered how uncomfortable she'd felt, worried that someone would make her go first. But now it came back to her, how Joelen had jumped right in, fearless as always, and blurted out how unhappy she was. Her father was dead. She hated school. Her mother's boyfriend was a creep. 

      When she told them that her mother was an actress they were merciless. Poor little rich girl!

      "Remember that bitch?" Joelen said. "The one who said she was a receptionist in some plastic surgeon's office? Said I reminded her of the snotty women who came sailing into their office with their daughters in tow for mother-daughter nose jobs. I had my issues, but until that moment I'd never had a problem with my nose."

      Susan remembered that moment vividly. Something about Joelen had touched a nerve in that woman. She came uncorked, releasing all the vitriol she must have stored up being polite, day after day, to patients for whom she had only contempt. She was beyond mean, and of course it had had nothing whatsoever to do with Joelen.

      Still, with Raoul egging her on, the woman soon had Joelen in tears. The group quickly moved from Joelen's wealth to her body, honing in like a pack of feral dogs. 

       Do you always dress like that? the woman had asked. Joelen wore a loose fitting butterfly blouse with fluttery elbow-length sleeves.

      What are you hiding in there? one of the men asked, and everyone snickered.

      Does your body make you uncomfortable? Raoul said, because it sure looks like you're hiding in there. What are you afraid of?

      Joelen had folded her arms in front of her. Cleavage bunched up in the V-neck of her blouse. Her look said, Stop looking at me. All of you.

      Even now, with the meanness twenty years in the past, Joelen's eyes brimmed with tears. "He said I craved attention. That's why I made myself look like a slut."

       Joelen had screamed back at him that she was not a slut. Why would he say that? But that was the trap he must have hoped she'd fall into. He came back at her with something like What’s it like letting other people's judgments control you? What’s it like to live that lie every day?

      "But you know, he was right," Joelen said. "Remember, he asked me what I was thinking about myself, right then at that moment."

      It was a moment Susan would never forget.

      "I hate you," Joelen whispered, echoing the words she'd said at the time.

      But no, Raoul couldn't leave it at that. He'd had to pin Joelen to the wall. Say it again. Say it so we can hear you. He wasn't satisfied until Joelen's face was red, her eye makeup smeared down her face, snot running from her nose, and she'd worked herself up to the point that she was hitting herself and screaming I hate you hate I hate you I hate you! You're fat. You're pathetic. You're dumb. You're ugly.

      "I couldn't stand it," Susan said. "They were being so awful. I was desperate to get out of there. But I couldn't leave you there. You needed someone on your side. Remember what happened next? He said you were beautiful."

      Sitting next to Joelen that night, Susan had felt the heat rolling off her body. Yes, she was a crybaby, Joelen admitted. A loser. Fat. A slob. Yes, she was beautiful. At that point she'd have said anything Raoul wanted her to say.

      That was how "the game" worked. They were experts at tearing you apart but way out of their depth when it came to stitching you back together.

I stopped going to games after a rumor went around that one of the straights had gone home and tried to kill herself.

So what sketchy activities did everyone else get up to in their teens?

Hallie writes a prequel: PHOTOPLAY

DEBORAH CROMBIE: It's a very special day for us here on JRW when we get to feature one of our own! Hallie Ephron has a terrific new novel coming out March 24th. (I got to read it early, lucky me!) And today, just to whet our appetites, she's releasing a short story set in the same time and place and featuring some of the same characters. Here's Hallie to tell us about it.

HALLIE EPHRON: By the time I finish writing a novel, usually I’ve put the characters through so much grief and turmoil that a sequel would be cruel and unusual punishment. Just for instance, ninety-two year old Mina Yetner goes through trial by fire (several times) in THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN. I imagine Mina going on without me, her final years unfurling in messy episodes, not acts, blissfully free of drama and suspense.   

But when I finished NIGHT NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT (which comes out in March) I realized there was more story to tell. Not what happens after the novels ends, but what went on before.  And out “popped” (if only) a longish short story, PHOTOPLAY: A STORY OF SUSPENSE which goes on sale today.  

The main characters from NIGHT NIGHT are in PHOTOPLAY:  movie star Elenor “Bunny” Nichol; her hunky Argentine lover, “Tito” Acevedo; her 15-year-old daughter Joelen (Joe-Ellen). Plus her daughter’s best friend Deirdre Unger.  

A professional photographer (the consummate Hollywood inside outsider), Duane Foley, is the narrator. The pictures that he’s hired to take at Bunny’s glamorous party are supposed to reflect Bunny and her guests at their best and most beautiful, the kind of pictures that ran in movie magazines like “Photoplay,” publications that were virtual PR machines for the stars. 

At the party, Duane’s camera gets an eyeful. But it’s not all what he or his host bargained for. 

Writing the story, I mined my own memories of what it was like to grow up in Beverly Hills in the 60s, the daughter of Hollywood screenwriters. I recreated the kind of parties my parents used to throw (laughter, music, a haze of cigarette smoke, and too much booze) and upgraded the guest list to include A-list players like Doris Day and Rock Hudson. I took the Beverly Hills house I grew up in, moved it from “the flats” to north of Sunset, and tripled its size.   

At the party, Bunny allows Joelen and Deirdre to dress up and answer the door, just the way my parents did. But the girls stay up far past the time when they’re supposed to have turned into pumpkins, and they indulge in cocktails far more potent than Shirley Temples. 

In the party’s aftermath, neither of them will be the same.   

NO SPOILERS! I worked hard to make sure that PHOTOPLAY doesn't spoil any of the surprises in NIGHT NIGHT. But if you read the story you'll have a few insights into the novel that other readers won't.   

The e-story PHOTOPLAY (HarperCollins/Witness Impulse) is available starting today for $1.99:

AMAZON 

ITUNES/APPLE

BARNES & NOBLE

KOBO

INDIEBOUND

BOOKSAMILLION

GOOGLE PLAY  HARPERCOLLINS
 
 
DEBS: Hallie, when I read NIGHT NIGHT, I couldn't get enough of the slightly seedy glamor of Hollywood in the 60s, so I'm buying PHOTOPLAY right this minute. And I love the photo of the house you grew up in. Can you tell us a bit more about it in the comments?

Sometimes the author is the last to know...

HALLIE EPHRON: I try not to Google myself. Really I do. I've learned the hard way that there's plenty of stuff "out there" that I do not need to step in. But between Night Night, Sleep Tight coming out in March and a story "Photoplay" with the same characters about to come out, I succumbed to the Google's siren song. 

I discovered, among other things, that someone is selling an audio version of my last book, There Was an Old Woman.

Audio?? Having a book made into an audiobook is old hat for many authors, but for me it's been an unfulfilled dream. 

At first I assumed it wasn't real. You'd order your audiobook and get a paperback, or maybe a CD packet with empty slots. Or it would be pirated.

But upon inspection, it turned out that the publisher was Harper Audio, and the CDs were on sale at Amazon, B&N, as well as the publisher's web site. The narrator Nan McNamara is a real, super-talented actress and voiceover artist. She also voiced one of my all-time favorites, the classic The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins.

I emailed my editor with the subject line:
AUDIOBOOK? ME: GOBSMACKED!

She wrote back, very apologetic. I love my editor. She immediately sent copies and I had a listen. There is something weird and wonderful about hearing your words read by aloud someone else. And something delicious about a genuinely auspicious surprise.

But the best was yet to come. At around the time I found out I had an audiobook, There Was an Old Woman hit the New York Times best seller list. It happened the week before Christmas when, as we all know, no one in publishing goes to the office or looks at email. And like the proverbial tree falling in the forest, I never heard a rumble. 

It wasn't until a week into January that I found out. My phone rang late in the afternoon. Caller ID said it was my editor. She never calls, so I knew right away it was either really bad news or really good news. There is no news better than: "Your book was on the New York Times best seller list," and "There's time to get it on the cover of your new book!"

So a month ago, I didn't know I'd ever be able to say this, but here goes!

For one randomly drawn commenter, today I'm giving away an audiobook of the New York Times best seller There Was an Old Woman!

So I hope you all will forgive me for succumbing today to blatant self promotion, but can I just add: Whoo whoo!

What we're writing: Hallie's presses RESTART... again

Here we go again: What We're Writing Week Day 1

HALLIE EPHRON: Sometimes it feels as if I'm writing more when I'm not working on a book than when I am. Advance Readers Copies (ARCs) have just come out for NIGHT NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT, and in the run-up to the book launch in March I'm churning out non-books -- magazine pieces, PR pieces, pieces for which I hope to find a home.

Last time it was my turn on "What we're writing" -- 7(!) weeks ago -- I moaned and groaned about the short story I was trying to write. It's going to be a standalone, a sort of teaser for the new book. And I complained about how hard it is for me to write short. (Not so when I crochet... I started crocheting a blanket and ended up with a pillow.) All in the name of building momentum for the novel.

Back then I posted what **I thought** would be the opening of the story. Now that opening is slumbering peacefully in my OUT file along with vast swaths of that version of the short story which I finished. 

Now called PHOTOPLAY, the story is still about a glamorous party Hollywood party in 1963. It’s still about an infamous murder. But I changed the narrator and made it so much better.

And can I just say THIS is why we have writing friends. Hank came to my rescue when I realized that what I'd written was working, sort of, which didn't feel good enough. She suggested: why not make the narrator a character who's not in the book. Someone who can be an observer rather than a player.

And Voila, sleazy paparazzo Duane Foley was born. Here's the old and the new openings side by side. It's not that the new one is so much better than the old, but trust me, it's a much stronger opening to a more compelling story. And hopefully it will leave readers DYING to read the book.

The best thing about a short story is that when you press RESTART, the do-over involves ditching far fewer words than when you decide to start over halfway into a novel. And I didn't ditch it all. I saved that "receding chorus line of sparkling crystal, wall-mounted sconces." 

Because some of my darlings I just can't bear to murder.

Is RESTART a dirty word in your vocabulary, or just another day at the office?

Hallie walks the short story tightrope

HALLIE EPHRON: It's that time again! What We're Writing Week and I'm first up.

My new book, Night Night, Sleep Tight, comes out in March. It's

done, "in the can" as it were. Only galleys remain to be edited.

I'm so happy with the cover. You're seeing it first. Glamorous, yes? I may have to buy myself a strand of fat pink pearls to celebrate the launch. (Almost as much fun as the green-glass swan I scored off eBay to celebrate the publication of Never Tell a Lie.)

Now I'm wrestling with a short story that will come out just before. And can I just say, writing a short story -- any short story -- is excruciating. I mean, it's so short! So little time to futz around. No cover for flabby plotting.

And this one is doubly hard because it's also a lead-in to my novel. It tells some of the back story from the viewpoint of a Joelen (pronounced Joe-Ellen) Nichols, the daughter of glamorous movie star Elenor "Bunny" Nichols.

So, here's the setup. It's 1963 and two fifteen-year-old girls -- a movie star's daughter and her daughter's best friend -- get all dressed up and hang out at a glamorous Hollywood party, only to get caught up in its tragic aftermath. Anyone who reads the short story will be privy to insights that people who only read the novel won't. Tricky: to intrigue and tease without giving anything away that will spoil the novel, and at the same time to create a satisfying standalone reading experience.

I'm still struggling with the ending, so I'll just give you a taste of the beginning:

   Throwing a party was a production for Joelen Nichol's mother, actress Elenor Nichols, and getting dressed was its first act. Joelen and her best friend, Deirdre Unger, sat on the plush white carpet watching Bunny (Elenor liked everyone including her daughter and legions of fans, to call her that) eye her own reflection in the full-length mirrors mounted on the sliding closet doors in her dressing room.
    The wall behind Bunny was mirrored, too, so she was presented with an infinitely repeating version of herself, silky black hair skinned back and the porcelain skin on her famous face shiny with skin cream, flanked by a receding chorus line of sparkling crystal, wall-mounted sconces.
    With a grand gesture, Bunny swept her arm out and slid open one of the closet doors. Then she stood for a few moments, tapping a lacquered nail against her chin, assessing the row of gowns. She performed even when her audience was just a pair of fifteen-year-olds.
    "What to wear, what to wear? Not too glitzy. It's just a party." She smiled--just the mouth, no eye crinkle."Even if it is one of my famously fabulous parties." From downstairs came the clink of plates, or maybe silverware, as caterers prepared for the onslaught.
   In the mirror, Joelen saw Deirdre had her hand over her mouth as if she were trying not to crack up. Joelen caught Deirdre's eye and gave her a warning head shake. Bunny never did comedy.
    "What about this old thing?" Bunny reached into the closet and pulled out a blue chiffon dress. The skirt swirled and Chanel No. 5 wafted from it as she whipped around to face Joelen and Deirdre. "Too demure? Or -- "
    Bunny broke off, startled at what sounded like something small and solid smacking into a a pane of glass. Bunny's gaze traveled toward the partly open door to the adjoining bedroom where the sound came from. Her smile broadened, this time reaching her eyes, and her pale cheeks flushed.
    She turned her attention back to the dress."Or maybe a bit clichéd? Right?" She nodded, agreeing with herself. "We are not Princess Grace."
    Chaste and regal Bunny was not. Most often, she was compared to Ava Gardner--not surprising since Bunny had shot from chorus girl to rising star after she captured the attention of Gardner's ex, Howard Hughes, who liked his women dark, sultry, and shapely.

So am I the only one who finds short stories a challenge? We have so much less rope to hang ourselves with than in a novel.