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Hey Folks!

Today I am very lucky to have an interview with Howard Shrier.  I've met Howard a few times via crime related things (writing about them, not committing them... at least not yet) and he's a pretty awesome guy and a damn fine writer. Here are Howard's answers to the many deep, meaningful, probing, and insightful questions I asked him.  (For those who don't have time to read the whole interview, Howard's lucky number is 6, his favourite colour is blue, and he's a sucker for Butter Pecan ice cream).

And now, heeeeeere's Howard Shrier:



1. What can you tell me about your current work in progress?

The book I just finished is Boston Cream, the third in the Jonah Geller series. Still recovering from

post-concussion syndrome, Jonah goes to Boston in search of a missing surgical resident, and winds up in the middle of a murderous conspiracy involving some of Boston’s wealthiest, most powerful people. While I wait to hear from my publishers at Random House, which should be any day, I’m starting research on book four, which is mainly set in Montreal.


2. Name one living and one dead writer whom you were influenced by/whom you emulate. Tell me why.




The dead one is easy: Ross Macdonald. He was the first great detective writer I discovered, quite by accident, when my grandparents cleared out their house of thirty-five years to prepare for a yard sale. I was in my early twenties and with one of his books, plucked from a pile in between customers, began my life-long affair with crime fiction. I demolished every one of his books, went back to Hammett and Chandler, came back to Macdonald and sought him out in California in 1980, as he was the only living author of this great American triumvirate of the private eye novel.




All three influenced me in my choice to write first-person private eye books, but in many ways I consider Macdonald the best. Chandler is the more romantic writer, but it was Macdonald who brought his literary talents and keen insight to bear on the danger and treachery not of mobsters or gangs or police, but of the family, which so far has been more my territory. My voyage to meet him in Santa Barbara, when he was already afflicted by Alzheimer’s disease, was documented in this article I wrote for Concordia University Magazine when he died a few years later.



My favourite living writer is Elmore Leonard, and has been since I discovered his work in 1985. Westerns and all. Yet I don’t write at all in his style, at least not in the Geller series, which is first person. A smart, secular urban Jew isn’t really in Leonard’s palette, and my characters will always in some way be more naïve than his. For style, tone, personality, I’d have to say a bridge of Robert B. Parker and Robert Crais with a twist of Jewish humour. But I treasure Leonard for his uniqueness. He owes nothing to any crime writer who came before him. He simply took the ethos and characters from his Westerns, set them loose in the cities, and created his own world of crime from scratch.



3. How close – give a fraction or a percentage if you want – is Jonah Geller to you?



He is very close to me emotionally: we are both secular, urban Jews with a world view that mixes cynicism with hope. I think we share a sense of humour. I’d say we both have older siblings who are domineering.



Physically, he is miles away: he is six feet tall and one eighty five when in shape. He is a martial artist with a full head of hair. Those who know me will chuckle at that contrast.



4. Name two LIVING famous people (with whom you have no relation or connection) that you’d enjoy having dinner with. Tell me why or what you’d like to discuss with them.


I’ve been fortunate to meet Elmore Leonard before, so I won’t include him. My first choice would be Steve Earle, the singer-songwriter. Talented, productive, political, driven, a raconteur and survivor of many marriages: I think dinner with him would be fascinating. The other might be Sam Shepard, whose plays I devoured as a theatre student; Tom Waits, if I thought I could get a straight answer out of him; Bob Dylan, for a thousand reasons, and if he didn’t mumble his way through it. Dennis Lehane has been very warm and funny at conferences. And if I wanted to laugh all night until it hurt, I’d invite Mark Billingham, the British comic turned crime writer.






5. Worst memory of school (any grade/level).

Like Jonah, I was a very indifferent student in high school and CEGEP (Grades 12 and 13 in Quebec), so I’d say grades nine through 13 were painful. I hadn’t yet found my stride. It was only when I started writing that I began taking life seriously. Fortunately, I found a guidance counsellor at Concordia University who showed me how creative writing and journalism combined could earn me a degree, and it changed my life. I did as well at school as people always suspected I could and found a way out of those teenaged doldrums.



6. The one thing you wish you had known before getting your first book published...?




That no matter how many awards you win or great reviews you get, book sales in Canada won’t support a growing family. I knew I’d earn a lot less at fiction than I did as a corporate writer. How much less was a shock. I also wish I’d known how much the industry was going to change under my feet, how much the onus of promoting books would shift from publisher to author and how the recession would shake so many good people loose from the industry.



7. Who is (are) your favourite minor/supporting character(s), from your own work?



Dante Ryan is my favourite so far. I always feel like he raises the energy when he’s in the room. Because my books have shifted from city to city most other supporting players, for the most part, appear in one book only. I have a special fondness for Gabriel Cross, the Mohawk ironworker in High Chicago; Jonah’s office neighbour, the PR legend Eddie Solomon; Laura Silver, the targeted mother in Buffalo Jump; and Amy Farber, also from Buffalo Jump, a lovely woman who distributes Canadian meds to a circle of fiftyish friends to help pay for her own arthritis prescriptions.



8. Strangest thing a fan/reader has ever said or done to you (online, at a signing, whatever...)

I’ve been lucky so far; all my fan encounters have been very positive. There was, however, one fellow whose manuscript I was asked to evaluate for a miserably small free. I gave him a thorough and professional assessment which he didn’t like. He then posted a poisonous article about Jonah Geller on the net, demeaning the book and Jonah’s actions on a streetcar in the first chapter of Buffalo Jump, which anyone can read on my web site. I happen to love that scene and so do most readers. That was certainly the weirdest thing to happen to me so far, and may it stay that way. Sadly, it put me off evaluating manuscripts, which I generally like doing. Since then I have only done it through U of T’s School of Continuing Studies, where I teach writing courses. Including one week-long workshop in early July, which is still open for registration.



9. Titles. How hard are they to come up with? How important are they to the overall success of the book? Other thoughts on titles...?



I love book titles and am always thinking of them. When I hear a song, a snatch of conversation, a quote from the New or Old Testament, there is often a second where I consider, is that a good title? Is it copyrighted? Has it been used before? I often search the Library of Congress, amazon.ca and other sites to find out if potential titles have been used, and if so, when and in what media. Sometimes I am devastated to find out a great title has been taken. Poisonville, which I wanted for the name of an e-book I’m launching this summer, had been dormant for more than seventy years, since Dashiell Hammett used it in the book Red Harvest. I had gone through dozens of titles easily before coming up with it. A few days after I submitted the draft to my agent, someone got it first. I saw it in a review and nearly choked. So Poisonville was out and the search was on again.

On the other hand, once I came up with Buffalo Jump for my first novel, High Chicago and Boston Cream both followed easily. Book Four, however, may not follow that two word format. There are a few that I’m still juggling.

10.  What was or is the hardest thing(s) for you to write.



A: Like Raymond Chandler, I believe the best scenes often involve two people working each other across a desk or table. But when there are three or more characters in the room, I find it gets tricky. Keeping the flow going without having any people drop out for significant time… that’s when I feel I have to switch hats to a degree, from storyteller to playwright, which is not as comfortable a territory for me.

11. What is on your writing “wishlist”? You know, that project you began in 1987 but more or less abandoned, or the project where you say if "I ever have time, I’d like to write..." ?


I spent five years as a writer at what was then called the Addiction Research Foundation, and is now part of the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. I learned a lot in those years and have always wanted to write a somewhat creepy, Gothic novel about a murder at a treatment centre for addicts. I took a writing course with Peter Robinson nearly twenty years ago–so long ago, he only had two Banks novels out–and that’s what I worked on. I have four chapters and an outline somewhere. If I wind up on a desert island that has power, I just might get it done.

You can find Howard's books on Amazon. 

Sample of Dead Light District - Chapter Four

Saturday, July 18,  10:33 AM






“I’ll have scrambled eggs, home fries, and white toast, please,” I said. I was famished, and a greasy, starchy breakfast would surely hit the spot.


“I’ll have steak and eggs, medium rare steak and eggs over-easy, please, a side order of bacon, home-fries, and an order of rye toast without butter,” said Lindsey.


Oh yeah, like it’s the butter that made the meal fattening.


“I see you’re feeling very Hindu this morning,” I said.


Lindsey’s real name is Lakshmi. Although she was born in Sri Lanka and raised by devout Hindu parents, she is about as Canuck as they come—bring on the beef and bacon.


“I need protein,” she said. “I’ve been working out. Pilates. You should try it.”


“Exercise? What, are you trying to kill me?” I said.


“Would you two please whisper?” Jessica mumbled. “I’m hungover and you’re giving me a headache. Just bring me a coffee please.” Jessica’s normally bright blue eyes were today a mottled shade of watery red, rimmed by dark circles.


A bitter old waitress in a navy polyester uniform and crooked hairnet silently took our orders and shuffled away without giving any indication that she’d heard our requests at all.


I was sitting in the Danforth Café, which really should be renamed ‘Hardened Arteries Eatery’. ‘Café’ just has too much of a positive connotation for a place that hadn’t had a facelift since its grand opening, back in the days when fire was discovered. I was with Jessica and Lindsey, my two best friends, and in Lindsey’s case, my future sister-in-law. Jessica, Lakshmi/Lindsey and I had all known each other since we were teenyboppers. Our friendship is solid, which is why we can get away with saying anything at all to one another.


Lindsey is my brother’s girlfriend. She and Shane finally became a serious couple around two years ago—about a decade later than they should have. They had flirted and teased each other as teens but were both too young, too shy, and too stupid to do anything about it. Then, in early adulthood, the timing had just never been right – one was travelling, the other was in school, one was single, the other wasn’t, et cetera, et cetera.


Finally, a couple of years ago, at a party involving the lethal combination of a bit too much alcohol plus the sledgehammer subtlety of yours truly, Shane and Lindsey had gotten together at last. Now we were all placing bets on when the wedding would be. Any time I mentioned the nuptials, Lindsey magically shut me up by describing in minute detail the horrific tulle and taffeta, puffed-sleeved, pastel-coloured abomination she wanted the bridesmaids to wear.


Well, okay, then, why don’t you just elope? You’d have my blessing.


Lindsey, Jessica and I try to do brunch at least two or three weekends a month. It’s the ritual and conversation that matters, not the food. Good thing too, because it looked like today’s special was Culinary Armageddon.


“So, you’re looking for a Hispanic goddess who was lured into a life of selling her body, and who has now disappeared?” said Lindsey, handing Mary Carmen’s photo back to me.


I nodded. “Yup. What should I call this one? The Case of the Missing Hooker seems too obvious,” I said.


“The Hooker in Hiding?” suggested Jessica. “The Vanishing Vixen? The Wayward Streetwalker? No, wait, The Streetwalker Who Walked Away?”


“No, no, Jessica, you gotta have the Mexican angle in there,” Lindsey said. “Latino something.”


“It’s Latina, not Latino. O endings are for boys and A endings are for girls. Don’t you know anything?” I said.


Not surprisingly, they both ignored me.


Lindsey shrugged. “Whatever. She truly is gorgeous. I wonder why she didn’t go into modelling or something?”


Jessica picked up the photo. “Yeah, she could almost make me switch teams... and after last night’s date, that’s becoming a more distinct possibility.”


“Honey, you’d strike out with the chicks too,” I said.


“Why are we still friends?”


“What a shame she ended up hooking,” Lindsey said. “What a waste.”


“How the hell do you plan to start looking for her?” Jessica asked. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”


“What makes you think I know? Missing persons cases are tough. I’ll chase down every lead Candace gave me and then I’ll pray or consult a Ouija board or buy a lucky rabbit’s foot,” I said.


“Yeah, the furry little paw was certainly lucky for the rabbit it came from,” Jessica said.


“Is that woman going to bring our food anytime soon? I’m going to die of starvation.” Lindsey was craning her neck around to see if she could spot our unfriendly server.


Jessica sighed. “Who cares about food? I need a lot more caffeine. My head feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire.”


For the next hour we did a fair imitation of Sex and the City. Jessica filled us in on her night out and the reason for this morning’s hangover.


“So, he was a dud?” Lindsey asked Jessica.


“I had to get drunk to keep myself amused. He kept telling the same stories over and over. I couldn’t stop yawning. I dug my fingernails into my palms to keep from falling asleep.”


“Safe to assume then that you didn’t get laid,” I said.


“There’s no way in hell I would have slept with him. Not even with someone else’s pussy.”


“What a charming image,” Lindsey said.


“Well, Sasha, it’ll be interesting to see who gets out of the desert first—you or me,” Jessica said.


“Don’t remind me. It’s been so long since I’ve had my muffin buttered that I think I’ve forgotten how to have sex.”


The unsmiling ‘waitron’ eventually showed up with our food, all of which was either cold and gelatinous or burned to a crisp. I’m sure it takes a special talent to serve food with both ends of the temperature continuum on one plate. Lindsey and I picked at our meals while the three of us talked about men and dating and sex and fashions, then we discussed men and dating and food, after which we chatted about men and sex and shopping. At one point someone mentioned diets and working out, but those veins of conversation were mercifully short lived. Robo Waitress came by with coffee refills, and I dumped four sugars into my cup to make it almost drinkable.


Jessica asked if she could have her coffee served intravenously. The acid-faced server didn’t even pretend to smile.


After a while, I tuned out the girl talk. My mind had started racing. I’d been trying to come up with a plan, and a few—probably not very good—ideas had come to me. I was anxious to finish brunch and get cracking on the Case of the ... what? We still hadn’t come up with a good handle for this one.


Link to Dead Light District on Amazon

Sample - 3rd Chapter - Dead Light District

Friday,  10:52 PM



Candace had given me a recent photo of Mary Carmen. It was just a head and shoulders shot, but it was a clear, eight-by-ten colour picture of her facing the camera. She was a true head-turner, breathtakingly beautiful: her thickly lashed, deeply set, dusky emerald eyes were absolutely hypnotic.


“She’s a looker, all right, but I ain’t seen her,” said a man in a faded brown maintenance worker’s uniform.


I was traipsing around The Grand Hotel on Jarvis Street, showing Mary Carmen’s photo to every hotel employee I came across. The Grand Hotel reminded me of a quotation from that oh-so-pithy porcine puppet: Miss Piggy. She once said that you never want to stay in a hotel called The Uptowne Royal Olde King George the 5th Regal Châteaux and Suites, or something like that. Her theory was that the longer the hotel name, the greater the disappointment. A good hotel, Miss Piggy claimed, had one name. The Grand Hotel lived up to its mono-moniker: it was classy, bordering on ostentatious, and yet its location was incongruent with its personality. The much hoped for gentrification of this ’hood was still in the embryonic stage.


Jarvis Street is one of Toronto’s seedier areas, home to pawn shops, porn shops, and sketchy diners where one could more easily get a cap of meth than a cup of joe. The street was a favourite of the city’s destitute, drug-addicted, and downtrodden people. It wasn’t altogether surprising to see an abandoned syringe or a soiled condom lying in a saliva and graffiti covered boarded-up doorway. There were panhandlers on any corner that didn’t have a hooker or two trolling whatever cars slowed down in passing. There were dealers and transvestites on the alert to purvey whatever other vices were in demand.


Then, of course, peppered between vacant store fronts and boarded up buildings, there were the charities, religious institutions, and government-funded social services all hoping to rid Toronto of one social blemish at a time.


If you build it, they will come.


The Lighthouse offered hope and rehab to drug addicts; St. Paul’s Mission offered beds for the homeless; The Salvation Army doled out warm meals to those who usually foraged through garbage bins for their three daily squares. Yet, two blocks up from Jarvis Street’s worst stretch stood one of Toronto’s finest hotels, with in-room Jacuzzis, room service delivered on sterling silver trays, and complimentary Egyptian cotton robes and slippers.


The contrasts weren’t lost on me. Obviously nobody had yet told the area’s winos that urban renewal was on the menu.


Knockout that she was, if anyone had seen Mary Carmen, they would certainly have remembered her. But the doormen showed no signs of recognition— ditto the bartenders, waitresses and parking lot employees. Either the staff of The Grand were all involved in an elaborate conspiracy of silence, or they were all very forgetful and possibly visually impaired, or Mary Carmen had never actually been here.


At the front desk, a pimply girl with a bosom that surely must have caused backaches was very helpful and forthcoming, especially after I dropped a fifty-dollar bill in her hand.


“No one checked in. The room was held with a credit card—”


“Name on the card was Candace Curtis, right?” I broke in. “American Express?”


Candace had told me that all hotel room bookings were made under her own name, and guaranteed with her corporate credit card. She later billed the clients for the room, and the, um, extras.


“Yes, that’s right. If people cancel before 6:00 PM then there’s no charge. But if they don’t call to cancel, we hold the room for them, assuming it’ll be a late check in. As far as we’re concerned, the room is sold for that night, whether they show up or not.”


“And you’re sure no one checked in?”


“Yeah. They never came. The file note says ‘no show’ but on the credit card it just goes through like a normal check in.”


“Well, thanks for your help.”


Another fifty dollars got the housekeeping staff to confirm what the desk clerk had said. They were convinced the room had not been occupied at all, and the day shift workers were glad the next day to have one less suite to vacuum and one less bed to change.


Well, I was only a few hours into this case and was already fronting cash that I could hardly spare. I had discussed money with Candace before agreeing to take on her case. She hadn’t even batted an eye when I told her my rates, and that all expenses would have to be covered by her. I immediately wished I had padded my hourly fees. Clients with generous budgets were rare, second only in rarity to clients who paid their bills in full and on time, and didn’t pay me with a bum cheque.


I took a walk along Jarvis, then crossed over to Church Street, and then doubled back to Sherbourne Street. Toronto’s sex trade was contained almost entirely on these three streets, especially Jarvis. I approached hookers on every corner, but few would even look at me, much less talk to me. I suspected I’d have to refine my approach if I was going to pursue this angle.


After batting zero, I decided to call it a night. It was now well past midnight, and I was tired. I had no desire to hang around the neighbourhood once the bars closed for the night and the nocturnal vices and the flesh trade were out in full force.


Stay tuned for the next sample chapter, coming soon!

Link to Dead Light District on Amazon

Sample from Dead Light District - 2nd Chapter

Mary Carmen



¡Puta madre! I think to myself. How in the name of Dios did this monster find me? Where is Dave? What the hell is going on? This cannot be happening to me.


The bastardo stretched his arm way back and then swung his fist forward muy rápido and it slammed into my face and made my ears ring. I could taste the blood of where my teeth cut into my cheeks.


“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to find you? Are you fucking stupid? You dumb fucking Spic whore,” he said.


“I’m sorry,” I say. “Lo siento. I was scared, please, don’t hurt me again,” I pleaded with him.


I knew it was no good. He used to hitted me and harmed me and hurted me before, and the more I cried, the more I winced in pain, the more I tried to shrink myself into a little ball, the more turned on the bastardo got and the harder his fists on my face was.


“You had no right to run away, bitch. I paid a shitload for you, you useless fucking slut. Your ass is mine, got it? Nobody bails on me. You hear that? Nobody.”


What could I say?


I whimpered and said I was sorry. I made promises to return to him. I asked him to forgive me. All these things, while the pendejo was smacking me around.


¡Dios mío! ¡Jesus Cristo!


He slapped me across the face again, harder. The posts on the back of my earrings digged into my skin. I didn’t taste any new blood because it mixed with the salty taste of the tears running down my face.


“Take your fucking clothes off now, bitch,” he said.


He pulled me by the hair over to the bed and shoved me down. I wasn’t close enough to the bed and slipped down the edge of it onto the floor. The hard corner of the box spring digged into my back.


“Let me help you get undressed, you fucking whore.”


He pulled out his knife, and cut all of my clothes right off of me.

More to come... stay tuned...

Link to Dead Light District on Amazon

Sample from DEAD LIGHT DISTRICT - first chapter

Friday, July 17, 8:57 PM



“So these women get paid to have sex with men?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. 

“Sasha, I know it sounds bad, but it’s not what you think,” said Candace, the expertly coiffed, perfectly groomed madam of the first bordello I’ve ever been inside. I hoped it would also be the last. She seemed matter-of-factly businesslike, almost imperious, sitting there with her legs gracefully crossed at the ankles, absently fingering a thin gold chain as she spoke. Her confident body language was not at all surprising, given that she used her body to make a living. The well-appointed room told me that her confidence was not without merit.


“Sounds to me like it’s degrading, exploitative, unsafe, and a whole bunch of other things,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t want to be judgemental, but I can’t get my head around this.”


“Maybe if you talk to some of my girls, you’ll get a better sense of things. They’re in control. It’s the men who are being used. The girls have a lifestyle here with me that they could never have on the street. For many of them, working here is the only thing that saved their self-respect.”


Never say never, but it was unlikely I would ever get around to seeing things from Candace’s point of view.


“Perhaps for now we should just agree to disagree,” I said. “You might as well tell me why you called me today, since I’m here, anyway. By the way, how did you get my name?”


“Let’s just say we have a client in common. For obvious reasons, I can’t tell you his name. I mentioned to him the other day that Mary Carmen, one of my girls, is missing. We haven’t seen her in just over a week, and no one has heard from her. Our mutual acquaintance suggested I contact you, since, clearly, I can’t go to the police.”


I understood why she wanted to handle things unofficially, but the fact that we shared a client got my curiosity engine going. I’m really stubborn and insatiably curious, two important characteristics for a successful private investigator. I would find out sooner than later which of my clients enjoyed time with Candace’s ‘employees’, but for now I let it go.


“What are the details of the last time you or one of the other girls here saw the missing person?” I asked.


“Last Thursday night. Mary Carmen was here for her regular shift. She usually works Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. She’s slated for the peak hours, from 6:00 PM to 2:00 AM.” Candace was so nonchalant about this that she could have been discussing the cashiers’ schedules at Walmart. “We had a request for an outcall. Terra was on the phones. She said the caller was quite specific about what he wanted. Latina, at least five foot eight, green eyes, long black hair. Mary Carmen came to mind before I even looked at my database.”


“You have a database of hookers?”


A stunning, petite brunette in a black satin bustier and fishnet stockings strutted into the room, grabbed a bottle of single malt scotch and two Baccarat glasses, smiled at us, and sashayed away without saying a word.


Candace paid no mind and kept talking. “Please, don’t call them hookers. Most of the girls use the term intimacy consultant, though some call themselves relaxation therapists. I know they’re euphemisms, but they’re important to the girls’ self esteem.”


“Consultants. Right. Got it.”


I felt as if I were on the set of a Peter Bogdanovich meets Ron Jeremy film and half expected someone to click one of those black things and shout, “Hot, Wet Conslutants, take two! Lights, camera, action!”


“Yes, I have everything on my database. Before I tell you more about it, I should offer you a drink. Do you care for ice wine?”


Does a bear shit in the woods? I absolutely love ice wine and don’t get to love it nearly often enough. At

fifty-plus dollars for a 375-millilitre bottle, it’s way out of my budget. Of course, since she was offering, I cheerfully said yes and hoped she’d pour it into a giant tankard.


While Candace was getting our drinks, I took a better look around the room. It was understatedly elegant. The drawing room—since in my mind that’s what it should have been called—was bigger than the whole first floor of the house I share with my dad, Jack, and my brother, Shane.


Candace had clearly spared no expense on even the most minor details. The coasters were marble, the ashtray was granite, and there was a sterling silver Dunhill lighter beside it. The sofas were the softest leather any cow had ever produced. The sculptures and artwork were all authentic Canadiana originals—something I had learned a lot about on my last case. There was an ebony grand piano in the corner, polished to within an inch of its life (if such could be said about an inanimate object), and there were fresh flowers in every brightly-hued Murano glass vase. The walls were painted in the warmest and richest shade of claret Benjamin Moore had to offer, and the carpet was so plush I thought it would swallow me. Oh yeah, classy joint.


I felt out of place in my faded Levis, amethyst tank top and pewter-toned gladiator sandals. At least I’d recently had a pedicure, so all ten little piggies—painted as they were in Mauve Magic—looked really cute.


Candace returned bearing a tray of goodies. She set the platter of flatbreads and artisan cheeses on the coffee table. She then handed me a flute of chilled ice wine and sat down next to me.


“You simply must try this St. Antoine Brie. It’s made in Northern Quebec and tastes fantastic with this wine.”


I spread a healthy gooey blob on a cream cracker. Delish.


“Cheers,” she said as she clinked my glass. “To doing business with Sasha Jackson Investigations.”


I took a sip of the liquid gold nectar before replying. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Give me some more details before I decide. What’s on the database?”


“Hmmm. Well... prostitution is a business, and maybe even a science. It’s certainly a service-oriented industry where knowing clients’ preferences and catering to their whims results in loyalty and excellent word of mouth.”


“Kind of like the baristas at Starbucks knowing how you like your non-fat, decaf, extra foam cappuccino with cinnamon, right?” I think this is the first time anyone has ever made an analogy between prostitution and take-out coffee. Venti, VD, Visa.


“In a way, yes. I have things grouped by the physical characteristics of the girls, and by the educations, the professions, and the hobbies of the men. I have clients sorted by fetish, by lingerie preferences—”


I had to ask, “Lingerie for him or her?”


“Both. They’re also sorted by role-playing, and by musical tastes. It’s all about finding a match, and combining the right ingredients in order to produce a spectacular session.”


I hoped my face remained expressionless, but more likely I was blushing with embarrassment. As if right on cue, we heard some ecstatic moans, and the snapping sounds of a whip coming from the bedroom above us. I visualized the fishnet-clad brunette standing behind an espresso machine with a cup of steamed milk in one hand, a cat-o’-nine tails in the other. Purr... snap... who’s your daddy?


Candace continued, “Believe it or not, this is as much for the girls as it is for the men. When my employees are paired with someone they actually like and enjoy being with, and they get paid for it... well, that’s hardly considered work.”


“Again, I don’t want to seem judgemental, but would you suggest this as a career choice for your daughter if you had one?”


“Probably not. But these girls fell into the life one way or another, and since they’re hooking anyway, they may as well do it here. I hire only the very best and I treat them very, very well. I pay top dollar, I give them regular shifts, and I have a high-calibre client roster, not a bunch of dirtbags from the street.”


“Uh huh.”


“Some of the guys take them out for dinner first. Occasionally, they bring the girls gifts. My workers get paid a flat hourly rate no matter what they do during their shift, and they get to use nice, clean, safe rooms here.”


“How many bedrooms do you have?”


“Six. This building is zoned for commercial purposes, and I have it registered as a bed and breakfast, with common rooms on the first floor. The third floor has been converted to an office and a small apartment where I live.”


I suppose, in some weird way, the bed and breakfast claim was loosely true. Sort of. Kind of. More or less.


“Do any of the girls live here too?”


“No. They use the rooms during their shifts. It gets cleaned and changed when they’re done, and at the end of their shifts they go home.”


“You have a housekeeping staff?”


“No. I have a contract with a cleaning company.”


“Would they be able to give me any insights?”


“I don’t think so. They keep pretty much to themselves. They just get the job done and get on their way.”


“How well do you know them?”


“Not well. They have four or five women who sort of rotate. They come twice a day, do the basic cleaning, take the dirty laundry out, and bring in clean linens.”


“I see. You mentioned that the missing girl went on an outcall?”


“Yes. About one-third of the clients prefer to take the girl to a hotel. Clients seem to think it’s more anonymous that way. Whatever, it’s their money, and to me it’s just another transaction, another service we provide.”


“Uh huh.”


“Many of the girls enjoy the hotel bookings. They say it’s like a mini working vacation, although others prefer to stay here on site. They say they’re more comfortable here,” she said.


“That’s a fine bit of spin-doctoring, Candace, but in the end, a strange man sticks his penis into her and fucks her.”


“That’s true. But if you think about it, who’s really getting fucked, Sasha? The guys who pay hundreds of dollars to buy a few hours of intimacy? The guys who naively believe the girls who tell them they’re virile, and sexy, and dynamite in the sack? The smitten puppy dogs who come back every week, bringing flowers and jewellery? Or the guys who really believe the girls find them attractive and fascinating? Give me a break. The guys are getting fucked, but they’re just too dumb to know it.”


Ouch! I didn’t have an answer for that.


I still had an almost full glass of ambrosia, so I decided to string the conversation along as long as I had vino.


“Okay, well, why don’t you tell me more about the missing girl?”


“Mary Carmen is a sweetheart, and I’ve been worried sick about her since last week. Let’s see; she’s twenty-two, she’s from Mexico—somewhere in the North. She’s gorgeous— an unparalleled combination of ethnicity and good genes. Her background is indigenous, think of an Aztec goddess. She has these amazing green eyes, high cheekbones, caramel skin. She’s got a body to die for: tall and slim, quite graceful, really. I can easily picture her on a runway. Her English isn’t the best, but despite that, you immediately get a sense of how warm and kind she is, and she seems to have a good sense of humour. What else do you want to know?”


“Where does she live? What’s her social insurance number? Her date of birth? Where did she go when you sent her out on that call? Who was her client?”


“I have to protect my clients.”


“Then I won’t be able to help you.” Yummy noble rot or not, I set down my drink and made like I was about to leave. My job is hard enough as it is without having to play by someone else’s rules.


I’ve only been an investigator for about a year and a bit, and it’s a more challenging and dangerous job than I ever imagined. I got into sleuthing when I gave up on singing. There are days when the music biz in Toronto seems a more solid and stable profession than private investigating. And, there are times I really miss performing, although some would say that’s exactly what my current job entails.


Despite what it says in the private-eye textbooks, real life sleuthing is neither scientific nor predictable. I’ve been shot at accidentally on purpose; I’ve sat atop rotting food scraps in a dumpster in the pouring rain; I’ve chased and been chased by angry, errant spouses; I’ve uncovered an art fraud ring; and I’ve done a number of boring, routine background corporate checks that almost turned me into a battery-operated robot. Or a zombie.


I never know what’s on the horizon.


As unpredictable as my job is, though, I can’t say I ever expected to be employed by a madam in a bordello, and I’ve never gone looking for a disappeared hooker.


Missing persons is probably my least favourite gig among the myriad cases that fall into my lap. Okay, maybe not exactly myriad. How do you start looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found? Or worse, what if the missing person doesn’t think of herself as missing, but just decided to walk away? There’s no law that says an adult has to stick around. There’s no law that says you can’t leave without saying goodbye.


On one hand, looking for someone is a challenge; on the other hand, missing person cases could make me prematurely grey, and could frustrate me into indulging in any number of irresistibly tempting coping strategies, such as martinis, wine, single malts, or any sweet concoction with a paper umbrella stuck in it.


Candace said, “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know, but only as you need to know it.”


To which I replied, “And how will you know what I need to know when half the time I myself don’t even know what I need to know until after I know it?”


Good thing I’d only had one glass of ice wine because that sentence would have made a lot less sense if I’d been a bit further into my cups.


“I can tell you where she went and when. If you need to know with whom, I’ll eventually tell you that too, but only if it’s germane. I just want to be sure Mary Carmen’s okay. She may have called it quits, and I’d be okay with that. I feel a sense of responsibility for my girls. If anything happened to them because of a job I arranged, I’d feel terrible.”


“I can see your point,” I said.


I wondered how culpable she’d feel if any of her girls got a sexually transmitted disease.


“Mary Carmen might have just decided she’s had enough. That’s happened before. Girls have just walked away from working here, from the life. Others have decided to do exotic dancing instead, some go back to their old pimps, some get messed up on drugs.... Longevity is not one of the hallmarks of this industry. Neither is loyalty. There may be perfectly innocent reasons for why she’s gone, but I want to be sure.”


It struck me as odd to say ‘innocent’ in any sentence discussing a prostitute, much less one who was missing.


.... more to come....

Link for Dead Light District on Amazon Kindle

He Got Into My Pants!

Hey folks, Sasha here, talking with Lindsey about men and sex and dating.  There is always so much to say on all of those subjects!  And, you never forget the first time a guy gets into your pants...

SASHA: Everyone knows that chicks worry about their weight and body image, right?


LINDSEY: Even the ones who pretend not to.  I punish myself after eating at KFC.  An hour at the gym for every drumstick...


SASHA:  I've heard some guys say they're self conscious about their weight too, and I always say not to worry.


LINDSEY:  I like a guy with a little bit of meat on him.


SASHA:  Beefy is good.  Just about every chick I know thinks so.


LINDSEY:  You don't want to feel fat or look fat next to a skinny guy.  Even if it's just his natural body type, a guy who's really lean can make you feel like a cow.


SASHA: Totally!  One of my worst experiences with that was the first night I slept with James. 


LINDSEY:  You dated him just after high school, didn't you?


SASHA: Yeah... The first time we slept together was one of those weekends when I had the house to myself.  We'd been dating for a while and I finally decided to bring him back to my place to do the nasty...


LINDSEY: And...?  What does this have to do with making you feel fat?


SASHA: We threw our clothes on the floor and had a wild, wonderful night.  We didn't bother to set the alarm, and the next morning James woke up late for work.  He pulled on his shirt and grabbed jeans from the floor.


LINDSEY: You still leave your clothes on the floor.


SASHA: Yeah, I know.  Anyhow, in his rush to get dressed and run out the door, he pulled on my jeans by mistake.  Normally, I wouldn't care about that, but they were rather loose on him.


LINDSEY: That's really not what I thought you meant when you said he got into your pants...


SASHA: I tried his on, just to see, and I really had to suck in my tummy. 


LINDSEY: That sucks.

Bloody Words 2011

It looks like plans are coming along smoothly for this year’s Bloody Words conference. The Bloody Gang has switched things up a bit this year: the conference will be held in Victoria, BC instead of Toronto. That should make things interesting and will perhaps bring some new attendees, whether authors, industry personnel, or fans. 


The Bloody weekend kicks off with the Arthur Ellis awards dinner on Thursday night. These awards are given to excellence in Canadian Crime Writing. The name of the award comes from the pseudonym of Canada’s last official hangman. 


Following the awesome awards party kick-off, there are many great events scheduled for the weekend. Michael Slade will be making people shiver with a blood curdling 1940s radio play and Ghost Walk (there are many angry and unsettled spirits and phantoms in Victoria... it is God’s waiting room, after all).  


The conference has some awesome guests on deck. This year’s International Guest of Honour is Tess Gerritson, author of some kick-ass medical thrillers. The Special Guest of Honour is BC’s own William Deverell, a proud Arthur Ellis winner, who will be receiving a lifetime achievement award for his contribution to Canadian crime writing. 


Bloody Words also runs the Bony Pete short story contest. This year’s winner will be published online in Monday Magazine (an alternative Victoria, BC newspaper).  


The murderous hoe-down has many other good things on deck as well: They’ll have a discussion on The Future of Publishing, a Canadian Mystery Trivia Game, a CSI Victoria workshop, a Social Media workshop, chances to meet with agents, manuscript evaluations and more.  
It’s very, very cool that we have Bloody Words. It is the only Canadian Mystery Conference and I’m glad we have it. It really does give authors and fans a chance to connect, it gives a boost to new and aspiring writers, and it gets people talking about Malice and Maple Syrup.  


Knock ’em dead!

The Meth Lab, Contractors, House from Hell, and Sasha's Next Case

As some of you may know, I live in a house from hell.  It was cursed from the moment I moved in, if not long before then.  


First of all, it turned out that the house next door to mine was a meth lab.  No one in the neighbourhood suspected a thing... until the fire.  The fire happened 2 months after I moved in here.  It was 4:00 on Friday the 13th of March.  I heard screams and smashing glass, and saw flames, so I called 911.  The dude who was cooking meth ran out of the house wearing just his shorts.  He was on fire and skin was falling off him.  


Meth Dude was airlifted to a special burn victim unit in a New York hospital.  Last I heard, he was on parole awaiting the trial. 


The cops said to me at the time that if I hadn't called 911 when I did, that there were enough explosives in the meth lab to have taken out 6 or 8 houses in the vicinity.  The fire fighters and cops kept my end of teh street closed off until 3:00 pm Sunday.


Not surprisingly, the owners of the meth lab (not the dude cooking the meth) walked away from the house.  The bank now owns it, and they - along with lawyers and insurance companies - have been fighting over who's going to pay to fix it up.


It's been over two years now since the fire, and the repairs/de-contamination of the Meth House are still not done. 
(Plot idea #1)


Then, I found out that the house I had bought had been part of a mortgage fraud, a while before I bought it.  In Sept. 2007 the house sold for $160,000.  Five days later, it sold for $320,000.  The buyer who paid $320K bailed on the mortgage, and in March 2008, the bank foreclosed the mortgage and became the owner of the house.
(Plot idea #2)


Several months later, Mr. W ended up buying the house from the bank for market value.  Mr. W bought the place as a "fixer-upper".  He lived a few blocks away, and worked on this house on weekends.  Eventually, he was offered a job out of town, so he hired a contractor to finish the renovations for him.


The contractor, Mr. S. was either lacking in competence or lacking in integrity, or both. The house looked great, all shiny and new.  However, there were several "behind the scenes" problems with the home, none of which were visible when I had the home inspection. (Home inspections are supposed to be non-invasive, so they don't get to knock down plaster and see what's underneath.) 


Long story short, Mr. S. did a fly by night and was nowhere to be found when the problems became aparent.  There were many issues, and the contractor was only one of the several people involved with the renos and sale of the house who fucked up big time.  On the one hand, Mr. S did the shoddy work, but since he did not work for me (he had been hired by the guy I bought the house from), I didn't really have a lot of recourse with him.  Fast-tracking to the end of this part of the story: lawyers got involved, I got the resolution I wanted, and the house is now fixed.


Two days ago, I got a random email from a lawyer.  She asked me about contact info for Mr. S. saying that her client had given Mr. S a deposit for his work, and had paid in advance for materials, and then she never saw him again...
(Plot idea #3)


Truth really is stranger than fiction...

Character Bio: Jessica... Pickles, Cowgirls and Shoelaces

CHARACTER PROFILE

Sasha Jackson's two best friends are Lindsey and Jessica.  We don't see much of Jessica  in Blood and Groom, but she figures much more prominently in book two, Dead Light District and then makes a return appearance in book three, The Lies Have it.  

Here's a little bit more about Jessica:

Name: Jessica Molly Mercouris (Greek on my Dad's side, British on my Mom's).

Age: 32

Sign: Cancer if you mean zodiac sign.  Otherwise "Don't Feed the Animals". 

Occupation: Bartender/Waitron at The Pilot Tavern (and The Stealth Lounge above it).

Education: One year of College, studying nursing.  Dropped out.  I want to take care of people, but I just can't stand blood.  Two years in University, majoring in Psychology... I'll finish someday...Freud was really whacked, eh?  I really don't think "Little Red Riding Hood" is a rape fantasy or anxiety over menstruation.

Favourite Food: Anything without garlic.  Is there something green stuck in my teeth?

Favourite Book: Chick Lit.  Anything Chick Lit.  The forerunner of Chick Lit has to be Valley of the Dolls.  I re-read it about once a year.

Favourite Quotations:
"Pickle make squishy bookmark" -Confucius
"I'm desperately trying to figure out why kamikaze pilots wore helmets" -Dave Edison

Favourite Position: West, I like sunsets.  Oh, you mean sexual position?  Then I'd have to say Reverse Cowgirl.

Once Dumped a Guy For:  Bleaching his shoelaces.  Who bleaches their shoelaces?  Loser.

Not Only Will Indies Survive, But They'll Thrive

With the news about Borders, Angus, et al filing for bankruptcy, I've been mulling over a theory I heard recently (sorry, I don't recall where or when).  The theory is that even though the book world is changing - and e-Books are a huge part of this - smaller independent stores will become more and more successful. 


How and why, you may ask? 

1.  Personalization.  Customer service is and ought to be a big part of book selling (and any other retail enterprise as well).  Being greeted by name matters.  Having a book store clerk suggest titles to you because he knows what your interests are matters. 

2.  Specialty items.  In terms of books and selling them, small stores may be able to create niches of unique book related products, such as signed copies of books.  Yes, you can get these on eBay or similar, but it's nice to be able to look at that autographed first edition and see what kind of shape it's in. 

3. Indies have freedom.  They do not have to stock and display all the titles that head office tells them to. 

4. Customers do care.  Not all customers are seduced by the convenience of the big box stores.  Many customers go to the indies precisely because they are not part of a big corporate chain.

5.  Community.  A small local bookstore is likely to be involved in its neighbourhood, schools, churches, book clubs and so on.  People like this.

Here are links to three articles that explore the topic of Indies vs. Chains: 

The Winnipeg Free Press

Associated Content

Forest Bookshop

Guys: This is Why You're Still Single

Really Unsexy First Dates



Sasha’s standards are notoriously low, but even so, some things that guys do are just unforgivable on a first date.


Men: make note of these comments and keep them in mind next time you’re trying to impress the ladies...



1. The Baseball Cap. Unless you’re a fourteen year old boy, or unless the first date is actually going to see a baseball game, lose the cap. There may be some times when the cap is acceptable outdoors, but not indoors. Unsexy. It’s awkward to kiss a guy with the peak of his hat poking you in the eyes.


2. The Door.  It may well be that the days of ladies first, holding the door open, and all that are long gone, but still... The guy probably shouldn’t walk through the door first and then let it swing shut behind him. Just saying...


3. Her Coat. Yes, she can put on her own coat, but why not hold it out for her and be a gentleman? No doubt about it: This will score you some points.


4. Showing Off.  Bragging about your car/house/investments or whatever will only impress the kind of chick who is only interested in your for those things and nothing more. Water sinks to its own level.


5. Lothario/Don Juan Boasting.  Talking about your prowess in bed is tacky, presumptuous, a waste of your time... and every girl knows that it is sure to lead to disappointment. Women know that a guy who has to brag about it can’t actually deliver. And you’ll need to stock up on Viagra.


6. The One Word Text.  Sending her the one word text message. Are you a caveman? Can you not think of anything to say to her or to ask her beyond a one word text? And just what is it that makes a guy think that one word is enough to capture her interest? Unless it’s a big, cool word like sesquipedalian, don’t even bother to send it. It’ll just annoy her.

Fancy Book Learning Stuff & Talking About Dicks

Today was the fourth and final post in the "Mysteries and More" blog run by Bill Selnes.  It's been fun reading Bill's two reviews, plus doing the Q & A with him, and then the follow-up discussion. 

I miss being a nerdy academic!  I had a lot of fun doing my MA.  I did a lot of work on detective fiction in general, and women in crime fiction in particular.  I'm not really into the "cozy" types of mysteries - hardboiled was more my thing.  So... I did a great deal of reserach on the hardboiled gumshoe when I was working on my Master's, and I loved every minute of it.  (By the way, I did my MA online via Athabasca University - awesome experience!!!!) 

In Bill's fourth and final post, he comments on some of my MA research and analysis of (women in) crime fiction.  Here is a link to excerpts from the Essays I did on mysteries and Bill's thoughts on the essays vis a vis the Sasha Jackson series. 

I thoroughly enjoyed reading his comments and will post my own responses in a day or two.

Cheers, Jill

Website Update & Review Clips & Interviews & Condom Covered Cucumbers...

So, I've gotten a few reviews for Dead Light District in the last couple of weeks, plus I've done two interviews.  Rather than posting everyting, I've cobbled together some of the highlights and added them to my updated website and have excerpts below. 

Two bloggers in particular have done interesting things with me and Dead Light District, and I thank them both for it.  Rebecca Emrich, who runs the blog "Living a Life of Writing", covered Dead Light District over a series of three blog posts on writing and publishing.  Bill Selnes, who runs the blog "Mysteries and More" posted reviews of both my books, plus a Q & A section and a follow up discussion. 

I really got a kick out of doing the Q & A with Bill.  He only asked five questions, but gave me as much room as I wanted with my asnwers.  In one question, he asked about  tough, edgy sleuths.  That  brought to mind the world of the hardboiled PI and what events or influences in my life inspired such a setting for the Sasha books.  I think much of my writing is influenced by all the years I worked in bars while I was a student (I did more than eleven years of post-secondary schooling). 

Once upon a time, a guy tipped me a condom covered cucumber.  It was autographed.  That was weird, of course, but over the years that I worked in bars, I met more than my share of freaks... the guy who ate fettucini alfredo with his hands, the crackheads who asked me for empty coke cans, the suave playah who liked to get it on with women in the washroom, the drunk manager who habitually fell into the ice machine, the weirdo who kept sending me flowers and teddy bears at work, the gambling addict who lost $2500 playing Trouble (remember that game: pop-a-matic pops the dice, pop a six and you move twice...)  I don't think a writer can completely divorce himself from his experiences.  The influences are always going to be there, and they shape the writing, even if only peripherally.

Finally, Professor Gloria Filax from Athabasca University interviewed me for the MAIS newsletter.  I did my MA at Athabasca; my area of concentration was Cultural Studies, and I did several papers on women in mysteries during my MA.  I loved every minute of working on my Master's and much of the work from my program found its way into my creative writing.  It was great fun talking to Gloria about the academic side of crime fiction, and I look forward to seeing the interview when it's posted later this month. 

Bye for now... Jill




Snippets from reviews for Dead Light District

"Dead Light District was sure worth the wait. Jill writes great mystery novels. The book flows... Dead Light District is well written and very interesting. Sasha is a good character, but the key to a good plot is a bit of surprise. Dead Light District is a light read... where I find the plot is good enough to sit and read it all the way through. I didn't suspect the ending... Jill has a surprising way to keep me reading" -Rebecca Emrich, Living a Life of Writing




"Sasha Jackson is back... searching for a missing prostitute in a milieu suited to her tough girl personality. Trashily dressed and heavily made up, the remarks of attempted clients on a hot summer night, confirm Sasha has successfully gone undercover as a call girl. With the book in first person narrative by Sasha I found the short first person comments of Mary Carmen made her character come alive. Mary Carmen’s painful past and ongoing desperate decisions are vividly expressed. [The] plotting is more assured. I liked Sasha better in this book. She was wittier and a little less sarcastic, while remaining as strong willed and stubborn. Sasha reminds me of Stephanie Plum in Janet Evanovich’s series. With the growth of Sasha’s character I am looking forward to the third in the series" -Bill Selnes, Mysteries and More

Sasha's Taste in Music (...with a dash of stream of consciousness...)

My musical tastes are all over the map. The songs I was listening to when I was trying to solve the case of The Missing Hooker don’t really fit into any one category.

While I was looking for Mary Carmen, The Temptations came up on my iPod. The song was “Ball of Confusion” and that could well have been the theme song for that whole damn case. Of course, once I figured out where the Old Lady was, “I Can’t Get Next to You” was stuck in my head. Really, I didn’t want to be in the same room as the Old Lady... much less next to her.



The Dead Light District days really stressed me out, and at times the only way I could chill was to jam for a while. Usually one of my favourite bands to play along with is Sublime, but every time the song “Caress Me Down” came on, I started thinking about sex and a certain pair of hands caressing me up and down and everywhere in between, and... Well, I had to take a cold shower. Of course, I could say the same about Franz Ferdinand and “Lucid Dreams”. Very lucid. I had a craving for a cigarette when I woke up.


I still have mixed feelings about Mary Carmen. It’s not up to me to make judgements, at least early on it wasn’t. Until she tested my moral compass, I was on her side. I remember being in a Led Zeppelin mood, and playing “Living, Loving Maid (She’s Just a Woman)” and thinking that song title pretty much sums up Mary C. Plus, with her green eyes and body to die for, “Heartbreaker” is not an exaggeration.


As much as it might make me cringe, but because of Todd the Drag Queen, I’ll forever have a soft spot for Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe”. I had never really liked the song, and I’m even less keen about singing the male part, unless we’re talking the version Cher did in 1993 with Beavis and Butt Head... Somebody pass me a chain saw, please.


I think, for now, I’ll switch to classical; it usually mellows me out. Time to cue up Bach. 

DEAD LIGHT DISTRICT is available on AMAZON  

Officer Mark Houghton: Why I cringe whenever I see Sasha's name on "Call Display"

Officer Mark Houghton, Toronto Cop, on Sasha Jackson:

I don't think Sasha has ever forgiven me for dumping her when she was still in high school.  At times it seems like she's spending her whole career just trying to give me grey hair.  She's cute, so I can let he get away with a lot, but  it's so much easier to deal with her if she's fully clothed.

She tends to call me out of the blue, and she usually has  random questions about designer drugs or switchblades or even handcuffs.  In Sasha's world, handcuffs take on a whole new meaning.

I've moved up the ranks of the Toronto Police, and I have respect from my supervisors and my peers, but if they knew what I know about Sasha Jackson, I'd lose my badge.  I've never actually seen her commit any crimes, but I do know she has a habit of entering places where she has no right to be... and without a key. 

I don't know he details, and I don't want to.  Just like I don't want to know about the computer records that end up in her purse, the copies of confidential files in her back pocket, or how she ended up doing surveillance in a car when she doesn't have a driver's licence.

She claims she doesn't remember that we slept together once, during that high school romance.  I don't know if she's telling the truth or not, but all I can say about that night is that it was hard to explain all the scratches on my back, the hickey on my neck, and why I was walking home at 3:00 am with no shoes on... in November. 

More on the launch party... Video Clips!

Here's a short video (53 seconds) from the Dead Light District Launch Party.  All photos were taken by Iden Ford http://www.idenfordphotography.com/

Guest Blogger: Lisa Daisy Hamid on Cats, Caffeine and Other Secrets of the Editor's World

Hey Folks,

I'm pleased to have one of the editors who worked on my new book contribute a guest blog post.  Lisa Daisy Hamid knocked my socks off with her work on Dead Light District.  She caught little snafus that I totally missed, plus she was fast and thorough and just an all-around cool chick.  We spent an afternoon going over the manuscript and I must say she has a sharp eye and a great sense of humour... which you'll see in her post below. 

Now here's Lisa...


Greetings, dear readers!


I'm Lisa, one of the editors of Jill Edmondson's new novel, Dead Light District. Jill asked if I'd like to spout off a few words about my experiences in this industry. Of course, I obliged. Working on her book was a great opportunity that I continue to be thankful for.


I'm a newbie to this business, and the two years I've spent in this industry have taught me some valuable lessons. I've been through a Publishing certificate from Ryerson University, a publicity/marketing internship at Tundra Books (McClelland & Stewart) and an editorial internship at Colborne Communications.

Here, I list my top ten lessons from the life of an intern.

1. Editors live long, long lives.


There is a running joke amongst publishing hopefuls about the super-vitality and seemingly never-ending existence of in-house editors. It's a joke because if publishing students didn't laugh about it, we'd sink into depression instead. Only the very lucky get to follow their grammatically-correct dreams of becoming an editor at Random House, HarperCollins, Penguin, and other bigwigs. Editorial positions usually only open up when long-standing editors vaporize, grudgingly retire, or die. Would-be editors keep an eye on potential editorial positions like gold-digging wives keep an expectant eye on their aging husbands' dwindling health and growing wealth.

2. Drinks all around.


The publishing industry includes lots of hard work and even more hard drinking. Many professors (who shall not be named) prefer to hold their classes or meetings at The Imperial. Some publishers engage in the ritual of Champagne Mondays. Most book launch parties are held at pubs or clubs. Frankfurt festival is debauchery at its finest. Of course, I'm not complaining; I'm just pleasantly surprised.

3. Writers can be glorious wing-nuts.


I've interacted with a variety of writers throughout my internships. Some of these interactions (save my collaboration with Jill, who is profoundly awesome) left me wholly terrified or completely amused. Thankfully, I was on the outskirts of most of these altercations.


There was the semi-famous tv personality who couldn't meet with us for months, only to show up unexpectedly and freak out about their book cover; the writer who kept submitting different parts of the same book every time they got rejected; the author who spammed a co-worker with daily "funny" pictures of her pets; the clients who submitted work to be evaluated and then disappeared - the list goes on. At the same time, I've been rendered star-struck many times and continue to be in awe of the quirkiness, generosity and ingenuity of the writers I've met.

4. Double spaces, em dashes and small caps. Glamorous.


Writers hold an identity in culture as starving artists - genius minds working through the night, smoking like a chimney and crying absinthe-flavoured tears onto a typewriter. They live off bread and possibly squirrels. The same goes for editors, except we're honestly just hobos. No romance here; no transient artistry - just low wages, a style guide and Cheetos. And yet, we love it.


I'm proud to say I edit things, but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, it's all about those details that go unnoticed in a finished product. These editorial details are the things that really bring a product together. Editors are supposed to deal with things that no one else will pay attention to. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

5. Editors aren't perfect.


I kind of suspected this, but I've seen proof. Even the editor's name can get misspelled in a book's credits. How does this happen? The editor was probably too fixated on the consistency of serial comma use.


6. Reading will never be the same.


Publishing industry people and publishing students alike long for the days when they were simply a reader. Designers, typesetters, editors, sales people - all of them now experience books in a completely different way. This is wonderful and terrifying. It's completely impossible for me to read a novel now without inadvertently proofreading it instead.


7. Likewise, my sense of humour will never be the same.


Editing/publishing humour is on the same level of specificity and awkwardness as physics or engineering jokes. For example, editors fall into hysterics discussing the chiller font. It's a damn font.


I'd like to share reasoningwithvampires.tumblr.com. The blog breaks down the grammar of the Twilight series paragraph by paragraph. Sentence maps are never supposed to be funny and yet I definitely laughed at some of these.


We also find things like twitter.com/FakeAPStylebook totally hilarious.

8. Publishing is actually a cult.


This is a quick one because we disciples aren't really supposed to talk about it. I've had multiple industry people tell me to "get out while I still can". I've yet to find out what this means.

9. Editors worship cats and caffeine.


Editors are 50% caffeine and 50% cat lady. I haven't encountered an editor who doesn't need coffee and meows to properly function. If we could somehow combine the two into a coffee-making cat-shaped robot (with a roll up the rim), we would be complete.


10. When it's all said and done, Canada's publishing community is a beautiful thing.


All of the ranting and jokes aside, the publishing world is truly inspiring. Toronto is a hub for innovative, entertaining and unique voices in writing, design and book culture. There are book launches and poetry readings to be found almost weekly. There are book festivals to match every season. It's a veritable pow-wow of creativity and love of the written word.

Thanks for reading. Now, get a copy of Dead Light District into your hands!

-Lisa


You can follow me on twitter @lo_haze and on my blog hazelo-peach.blogspot.com

Note from Jill:  Check out her blog; Lisa has a bit of everything on there and it's all pretty cool!