Edgar Awards 2014: Congrats to Winners

Edgar Awards

The Mystery Writers of America announced the winners of this year’s Edgar Awards at a banquet in New York tonight.

The Edgar Awards, named of course for Edgar Allan Poe, honor writers of crime and suspense in a variety of fields. First, congratulations to William Kent Krueger, winner of best novel for “Ordinary Grace.”

Edgar Awards: Ordinary Grace
Edgar Awards: Winner of Best Novel

The prize for best paperback original went to Alex Marwood for “The Wicked Girls” and best first novel to Jason Matthews for “Red Sparrow.”  Meanwhile, Amy Timberlake took home the prize for best juvenile book with “One Came Home,” and Annabel Pitcher for best young adult for  “Ketchup Clouds.”

Edgar Awards: Young Adult
Edgar Awards: Winner for best Young Adult novel

Daniel Stashtower won the nonfiction category for “The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War.”

(For the record, I’ve never won the award, though my Solomon & Lord novel, “The Deep Blue Alibi,” was nominated in 2007).

Edgar Awards for the Screen: Whither Film?

The best television script was deemed to be the pilot episode of  “The Fall” by Alan Cubitt in a coup for newcomer Netflix.

The best screenplay for a feature film was….none.

It’s a pet peeve of mine.  The MWA stopped  giving the feature film category in 2009.  (The last winner was the terrific British comedic thriller “In Bruges,” which proved Collin Farrell could act.  We already knew Brendan Gleason could).

Edgar Awards last winner
Edgar Awards: “In Bruges” was the last feature film to win the prize.

The film was written and directed by Martin McDonagh. The darkly funny film is about two Irish hitmen, hiding in the scenic Belgian city of Bruges, and contains a couple of terrific dramatic twists. It deserves to be ranked among the best of the Edgar Awards for screenwriting.

It’s just a shame the MWA dropped the feature film prize award after 65 years of giving Edgar Awards to screenwriters. But don’t blame the organization.  It was Hollywood that simply stopped submitting scripts and DVD’s.  Unlike television producers, feature filmmakers just don’t consider the Edgar Awards nearly as important as the Oscars or the Golden Globes. (It’s different in television. I’m a former member of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, and I can attest to the lengths the networks go to get their scripts, DVD’s, and promotional  material in front of Emmy voters).

So, what are we missing now that feature films are missing from the Edgar Awards.  Well, just consider the past winners:

Edgar Awards: “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”

The feature film winners cover a wide range from noir to satire, from corrupt cops to high school girls named Heather. Still, some themes span the decades:

Corruption: “Chinatown” (Robert Towne); “Witness” (William Kelley, Earl W. Wallace); and “L.A. Confidential” (Brian Helgeland, Curtis Hanson from James Ellroy’s novel).

“They call me Mister Tibbs.”

Edgar Awards: Heat
Edgar Awards: “In the Heat of the Night” was both an Oscar and Edgar winner.

Socially Conscious Films: “In the Heat of the Night” (Sterling Silliphant from John Ball’s novel); “Twelve Angry Men” (Reginald Rose); and “The Defiant Ones” (Nathan E. Douglas, Harold J. Smith).

“That’s funny. That plane’s dustin’ crops where there ain’t no crops.”

Edgar Awards: North by Northwest
Edgar Awards: “North By Northwest” was a winner

Hitchcock: Alfred Hitchcock seems to get all the credit, but the brilliant dialogue was written by others. “North by Northwest” (Ernest Lehman) and “Family Plot” (Ernest Lehman from Victor Canning’s novel); “Psycho” (Joseph Stefano from Robert Bloch’s novel); and “Rear Window” (John Michael Hayes from Cornell Woolrich’s short story).

“A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans.”

Edgar Awards: Silence
Edgar Awards” “Silence of the Lambs” was a scary winner

Thrills and Laughs: Even a thriller can have moments of dark humor. “The Silence of the Lambs” (Ted Tally from Thomas Harris’ novel) and “Pulp Fiction” (Quentin Tarantino, Roger Avary).  Occasionally, satire has been rewarded: “Heathers” (Daniel Waters) and “The Player” (Michael Tolkien from his novel).

Sometimes, the winner simply defies categorization. The musical “Chicago” razzle-dazzled the voters in 2003, getting the nod over “Road to Perdition.” Don’t get me wrong. “Chicago” is a wonderful adaptation of  show about celebrity and crime. It’s just, as far as I know, the only musical to ever be ranked among the winners of Edgar Awards.

So what’s the future of mystery and crime films? For one thing, expect fewer novels to be the source material for Hollywood. When studio execs talk about “tentpole” movies with nine-figure budgets, they’re not looking for character-driven novels in the tradition of “The Maltese Falcon.”

There’s a similar pattern in network television. “Law & Order” and its spawn created an era of crime shows heavy on procedure and light on character. (During one nine year period — 1997 to 2005 — the “Law & Order” shows won seven of nine television Edgar Awards). Thankfully, cable has brought us shows with richer characters. HBO’s “True Detective” and FX’s “Justified” come to mind.

Still at the risk of sounding as obsolete as a Betamax, I miss my favorites of the seventies and eighties: “The Rockford Files,” “Quincy,” “Magnum, P.I.,” “Hill Street Blues,” “L.A. Law,” and “Moonlighting.”

But then, someone should just tell me: “Forget it, Paul. It’s Hollywood.”

(All the winners (and nominees) for this year’s Edgar Awards can be found here.    Prior Edgar Awards winners beginning with 1954’s best novel “Beat Not the Bones” by Charlotte Jay can be found in Wikipedia here).

Paul Levine

 

 

 

 

James Patterson: Writing the “Unputdownable” Novel

James Patterson

James Patterson, the world’s bestselling author, doesn’t do a lot of interviews, so when he does, writers of commercial fiction pay attention. Even if you’re not a fan of Patterson’s fast-paced thrillers, his concise suggestions in the current “Fast Company” are worth reading.

James Patterson’s Rules

In shorthand form, here are James Patterson’s rules for writing suspense:

Write stories the way people tell them. Stated another way, “leave out the parts people skip.” (The late Elmore Leonard used to say the same thing.

Make reading the book an “experience.” Let the reader experience what the characters are experiencing.  Good advice,  and harder to accomplish than it may seem.

Keep your chapters short. Agreed. (I thought a short reply was in order).

The story doesn’t have to be realistic. Okay, here’s where I part ways with the billionaire author. I write legal thrillers, and for me, verisimilitude is essential. At the very least, the story must seem realistic.  In a murder trial, a spectator does not leap forward and confess, saving the day for the defendant.

Always outline the book before starting to write. Agreed. You will have fewer false starts and wrong turns.

Still, be open to changes during the writing. Agreed. My characters frequently point me in new, better directions.  (Occasionally, Jake Lassiter, my linebacker-turned-lawyer, threatens to punch me out if I don’t change his dialogue).

James Patterson book

Write with confidence. I’ll modify that a bit. Re-write with confidence. That’s when you’ll turn out your best material.

Know who you’re writing for and what they want. “People want to be glued to the page. They want suspense,” James Patterson writes. He advises the writer to plant a “hook” early, then reel the reader in. Agreed.

Critics don’t give James Patterson much respect, but nearly four decades ago, he won the Edgar Allan Poe award for best first novel: “The Thomas Berryman Number.”    I don’t think  Patterson would be offended if I said he was a better storyteller than a writer. Hell, he’d probably agree. Bottom line: one out of every 17 novels purchased in the United States is written (or co-written) by Patterson, and according to Wikipedia:

“James Patterson has had 19 consecutive No. 1 New York Times bestselling novels, and holds The New York Times record for most bestselling hardcover fiction titles by a single author, a total of 76, which is also a Guinness World Record. In recent years his novels have sold more copies than those of Stephen King, John Grisham and Dan Brown combined. His books have sold approximately 300 million copies worldwide.”

Commercial success isn’t everything, but writers of popular fiction might want to listen and learn from the most successful storyteller of all time. (The entire interview on “Fast Company” can be found here).

Paul Levine

Jake Lassiter: Flirting with Disbarment

Jake Lassiter faces disbarment in “Last Chance Lassiter,” the prequel to the ten-book series featuring the Miami Dolphins linebacker turned trouble-prone lawyer. In the novella, a young Lassiter – a few years out of night law school – slugs a client. Why? The transcript of his Bar Disciplinary Hearing answers the question, as he spars with the judge assigned to his case.

************************************************************************************

IN THE SUPREME COURT OF FLORIDA

THE FLORIDA BAR, Case Number SC-14-238
Petitioner

vs.

JAKE LASSITER,
Respondent

TRANSCRIPT OF BAR DISCIPLINARY HEARING

**************************************************************************************

JUDGE BUCKSTROM: Apparently, Mr. Lassiter, you have a propensity for violence.

JAKE LASSITER: Not really, Your Honor. The only time I was arrested, it was a case of mistaken identity.

Q: How’s that?

A: I didn’t know the guy I hit was a cop.

Q: But in this case, Mr. Lassiter, you have admitted striking your own client.

A: Technically, he wasn’t my client. It was our first meeting, and I hadn’t agreed to represent him.

Q: So why did you hit him?

A: He came at me with a baseball bat from the collection on my office wall. Barry Bonds. Mark McGuire. Alex Rodriguez.

Q: You collect from any players who didn’t break the rules?

A: Innocent until proven juiced, Your Honor.

Flirting with Disbarment
Jake flirts with disbarment in “Last Chance Lassiter.”

Q: So your testimony is…your prospective client attacked you with your own bat?

A: Under Florida’s stand-your-ground law, I could have shot him with a machine gun.

Q: The complainant swears you hauled off and slugged him without provocation.

A: So he’s a liar in addition to being a wife beater.

Q. Now, hold on, Mr. Lassiter.

A: He was charged with spousal abuse and wanted me to suborn perjury. Specifically, he said–

Q: Stop right there! That’s hearsay.

A: I thought this was an informal proceeding.

Q: My report to the Florida Supreme Court is damn formal, pardon my French. And you, sir, are flirting with disbarment.

A: (inaudible)

Q: Did you just laugh, Mr. Lassiter?

A: Sorry, Your Honor. Flirting with Disbarment. Sounds like my life story.

Q: Indeed. I’ve reviewed the litany of Bar Complaints against you. Are you familiar with Florida Bar Rule Seven-D?

A: Not really, but if it’s only number seven, how important can it be?

Q: What!

A: Like in the Ten Commandments. Number seven outlaws adultery. No biggie, if you look at the statistics.

Q: Mr. Lassiter, Rule Seven-D states that “Lawyers must comport themselves with dignity.”

A: Sounds like a slap-on-the-wrist offense. Can I plead nolo and get a sternly worded letter from Tallahassee?

Q: Assault and battery is a felony, and a felony is a disbarable offense.

A: Disbarable? Is that even a word?

Q: That’s enough! Your flippancy will be noted.

A: Now, flippancy is definitely a word. But a funny one. No way can you say flippancy and not smile.

Q: What about the word disbarment? Want to crack wise about that one? Disbarment! Disbarment! Disbarment!

A: I get your point, Judge. I just do things my own way.

Q: If you don’t follow the Ethical Rules, just how do you go about practicing law?

A: I look for a cause that’s just, a client I like, and a check that doesn’t bounce.

Q: How’s that working for you?

A: I seldom win the trifecta.

Q: I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Do you have any remorse? Do you regret striking your client? Your prospective client.

A: My Granny taught me that any man who hits a woman is a low-life scumsucker, and if I were ever to see such a thing, I should put a stop to it. Well, I couldn’t stop this bastard, so I just called him a bully and a coward who doubted his own manhood, a pussycat pretending to be a tiger. He’d been admiring the Barry Bonds black maple bat. I was hoping he’d come at me with it. When he did, he swung more like Barry Manilow than Barry Bonds. I ducked and caught him with a left jab to the jaw followed by a right hook to the gut. He tossed his cookies on my loafers.

A: So you have no regrets about this violent incident, which could lead to your disbarment?

Q: Sure, I do, Your Honor. I regret getting caught.

#

“Last Chance Lassiter” is available in paperback and as an ebook from Amazon. More information on the Jake Lassiter Series Pages.

Pulitzer Prizes 2014: Snowden Gets the Last Laugh

Pulitzer Prize

By Paul Levine…

The 2014 Pulitzer Prizes were announced today, and I’m trying to take a nuanced approach…but I’m getting angry.

The Washington Post and the Guardian U.S. shared the public service award for their publication and analysis of documents revealing the National Security Agency’s global surveillance program. The stories were, of course, based on documents stolen by megalomaniac and international fugitive Edward Snowden. (Note I prefer the word “stolen” to “leaked.”)

Snowden Basks in Pulitzer Prize Glow

Meanwhile, Snowden, sipping vodka and eating blinis with his Russian caretakers, had this to say, according to the Guardian: “Today’s decision is a vindication for everyone who believes that the public has a role in government.”

Pulitzer Prize shines on Snowden
Edward Snowden basks in the reflected glory of the Pulitzer Prize.

No, it doesn’t, Eddie. It’s a vindication for sneaky little rats who violate federal law, claiming higher principles, then flee into the arms of that great protector of liberties, Vladimir Putin.  I would have more respect for Snowden if he had stayed and faced the music, i.e., if he had marched  into the F.B.I. and surrendered. (This is what Daniel Ellsberg did.  More on that later).

Eddie, tell your story to a jury, you little punk, then do your time like a man. But no, you fled like…well, a fleeing felon.

As for the Pulitzer Prize itself, I have mixed emotions.  The Post reported that it had a team of 28 journalists working on the stories. Frankly, in these times, I’m happy any newsroom still has more than two dozen working journalists. I hate the fact that Snowden can now claim vindication for his illegal acts. But bear with me now. I cannot say with certainty that The Washington Post didn’t deserve the Pulitzer Prize. That also goes for the damned Guardian, which keeps referring to Snowden as a “whistleblower,” rather than my preferred terms of “thief,” “rat bastard” or “traitor.”

pulitzer 1953 medallion

The Pulitzer Prize Board stated that the award was being given for:

“the revelation of widespread secret surveillance by the National Security Agency, marked by authoritative and insightful reports that helped the public understand how the disclosures fit into the larger framework of national security.”

I believe there should be a robust debate over the scope of surveillance by the government, but by lawful means.

Memories of the 1972 Pulitzer Prize

All of this brings back memories.  In 1972, The New York Times won the Pulitzer Prize for its series on the “Pentagon Papers.” For those too young to remember, the Papers were a study of governmental decision-making during the Vietnam War and were a major embarrassment to the Nixon Administration. The leaker, military analyst Daniel Ellsberg, did not flee to China or North Vietnam. He surrendered voluntarily and faced trial for violating the Espionage Act.  Upon turning himself in, according to Wikipedia, he stated:

“I felt that as an American citizen, as a responsible citizen, I could no longer cooperate in concealing this information from the American public. I did this clearly at my own jeopardy and I am prepared to answer to all the consequences of this decision.”

Due to “gross governmental misconduct” in the gathering of evidence against Ellsberg who faced up to 115 years in prison, all charges were dismissed. (The misconduct, approved by Nixon’s right-hand man John Ehrlichman, included the infamous break-in of the office of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist by the crew that would later gain greater notoriety as the Watergate burglars).

Bravo for Ellsberg, who bravely stood his ground. And do svidaniya Snowden, as they say in Moscow. Goodbye, coward.

The complete list of the 2014 Pulitzer Prizes, from the History award (Alan Taylor’s “The Internal Enemy: Slavery and War in Virginia, 1772-1832″) to Poetry (Vijay Seshadri’s “3 Sections”) can be found here.

Paul Levine

How I Killed The Miami Herald’s Tropic Magazine

The Miami Herald building

By Paul Levine

The official story: there just weren’t enough ads for maternity jeans.

I’m talking about the death of Tropic Magazine, which appeared every Sunday in The Miami Herald from October 1967 to December 1998. The magazine won three Pulitzers, published Dave Barry, John Katzenbach, and Carl Hiaasen, among others, and invented Miami’s strangest event, the “Tropic Hunt.”

The Miami Herald
The Miami Herald’s Tropic Magazine invented the world’s most insane scavenger hunt.

Who Really Killed The Miami Herald’s Tropic Magazine?

I wrote a piece in the September 13, 1998 issue and then the cover article on October 25.  Six weeks later, The Miami Herald killed the magazine.  The word around the newsroom was that Tropic wasn’t making money as a stand-alone magazine.  No kidding.  But it certainly added value with some of the best writing (both journalism and fiction)  in the newspaper over those 31 years.

(Full disclosure: I was a Miami Herald reporter who once worked at Tropic in 1970, shortly before going to law school).

For the last 15 years, I’ve been happy to let The Miami Herald take the rap for terminating that wonderful little magazine. But my guilty conscience compels me to cop a plea.  Or at least raise the question: did my two articles lead to Tropic’s surprising demise?

The cover story on September 13, 1998 was titled “On Being Beautiful,”  a series of essays commissioned by Editor Tom Shroder on physical beauty.  A 24-year-old woman wrote the lead article entitled “Don’t Hate Me For Being Beautiful.”  A young male model wrote a piece about putting on unwanted weight when working in Paris.  “What is happening?” his agent  asked.  “You look like a giant croissant.”

Oh, the humanity!

I wrote “In Defense of Wrinkles.”  Yep.  And this was more than 15 years ago!  Miami Herald photographer Charlie Trainor, Jr. took a photo about three inches from my face and then had some fun with it.

Miami Herald Tropic
No plastic surgery for me. I earned my wrinkles.

The Miami Herald: A Plastic Surgeon Ruins My Day

Here’s my little piece, which ran adjacent to an ad for $16.99 maternity jeans:

Just when I was getting used to my looks, when life had bestowed the dubious blessing of crinkly eyes and a furrowed brow, when it might be said that my face had acquired character, a plastic surgeon suggested he could take 10 years off my appearance by drilling holes in my head, slicing some muscles, yanking up my forehead, and fastening it to my skull with metal pins.

I received this heartening offer while standing in the gym near the bench press, having lifted a respectable amount of iron for a lanky fellow whose work requires mere mental gymnastics while seated in a cushioned chair.

“Look at that vertical crevice between your eyes,” the sawbones said with the same awe Spanish conquistadors must have expressed upon seeing the Grand Canyon.

“I know,” I replied. “It looks as if Lizzie Borden hit me with an ax.”

“We can get rid of it,” he promised. “And while we’re at it, we’ll take out some muscles to keep you from frowning or raising your eyebrows.”

“I need to raise my eyebrows to express irony,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Wrinkles!” he shouted. “It causes wrinkles.”

Smoothing out my forehead and plucking the fat from beneath my eyes, he promised, would leave me with a youthful demeanor reminiscent of my bar mitzvah photos.

“If you don’t do it,” Doc Hollywood warned me in solemn tones, “with gravity and aging, your forehead will slide even lower and eventually cut down your vision.”

“OK, so I’ll give up my dream of landing an F-14 on the deck of a carrier.”

But his words cut even deeper than his scalpel. I pictured myself as a beady-eyed Chinese Shar-pei, peering out from under a corrugated brow. Rushing to the mirror, I saw that he was right. Just when had my forehead slipped south? Most men aren’t aware of such subtle changes. As a man ages, I once read, his genitalia shrinks. Now, that we would notice.

“If you’re afraid of the surgery,” the surgeon continued, “I could simply inject Botox into your forehead. It’s derived from botulism and will paralyze the muscles and smooth out the wrinkles.”

“So would a ball peen hammer,” I replied.

I sometimes think that every crease and crevice can be attached to a specific trauma, so now I chart my face as a botanist might the rings of a giant Redwood. Aha, there’s the year of my career change, my divorce, my father’s death.

My past is littered with youthful humiliations, including being dateless for the junior prom. Adolescence began with huge black eyeglasses and a four-inch-high dirty blond flat-top that resembled an Iowa wheat field.

I did, however, have a sparkling personality and a deadly wit that I mistakenly believed could convince a girl — once sprawled across the front seat of my ’56 Ford at the drive-in theater — to shed her blouse. This strategy failed, notwithstanding soaking my turquoise vinyl upholstery with English Leather, which I understood to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

Later, with anti-war rebellion in the late ’60s, I let my hair grow long and bushy until it must have appeared that a muskrat was sleeping on my head. But now, three decades later, with a decent haircut and having grown accustomed to my face, I do not want to be reminded that the downhill slide may be even more painful than my awkward adolescence.

Aging means more than sagging jowls and a wrinkled brow, of course. In the past three years, I have had knee surgery, two hernia operations, and my first colonoscopy . . . clean as a whistle, thank you very much. I have bone spurs in both thumbs; I have trouble with the small-print on menus in darkened restaurants; and I get whipped in wind sprints by my 17-year-old son.

When I turned 50 earlier this year, I began receiving mail from the American Association of Retired Persons and a men’s health magazine that promises sturdy erections into my 90s if I would only buy a variety of food supplements favored by ancient Indian tribes from Peru.

I Am the Sum of My Aging Parts

Oh, Botox, schmotox! No plastic surgery. I don’t want an eye job, a chin implant, or penile enlargement. Keep your liposuction, collagen injections, and endoscopic forehead lifts. I know men are doing these things, but it’s all too trendy for me, a guy as up-to-date as a Ban-Lon shirt. I don’t carry a pager or a purse or wear suspenders, cuff links, or even a watch.

I don’t have an earring or a tattoo, and I don’t smoke cigars or wax melodic over the smoky essence of single-malt Scotch. I’m not in touch with either my feminine side or my inner child. I’m not a man of the ’90s, much less the millennium. OK, OK, I’m a throwback. So sue me . . . but don’t slice me.

It’s not that I am unconcerned about my appearance. I will swim my laps and hoist my weights in vain efforts to stave off gravity and the passage of time. I will eat low-fat foods with an occasional timeout for an oversize steak at Morton’s. I will drink gallons of water, hide from the sun, and imbibe martinis only in moderation. I will be the sum of my aging parts, and the wrinkles will bother me not a whit. After all, I earned them.

Paul Levine
Formerly of The Miami Herald

(Much has been written about the agonizing death of newspapers. Locally, the Miami News died in 1988, Tropic in 1998. The Miami Herald building, pictured above, is being demolished, and the newspaper now resides in the Everglades. Well, actually the burg of Doral, FL. Nonetheless, the newspaper’s staff, stretched thin, continues to l produce excellent journalism. I still read the newspaper and always will).