The Book Biz Is Busy On Cape Cod

by Susan Santangelo

Greetings to all from Cape Cod MA. Yep, summer is here at last, and along with the glorious weather, summer in this particular piece of paradise means craft fairs, town festivals, parades, sandcastle building, walks on the beach, and a dizzying array of opportunities for authors to meet readers and sell books. Here's a snapshot of what I'm up to. Thursday, July 7, at 7 p.m., 5 members of Sisters in Crime New England celebrated the 25th anniversary of this wonderful organization before a standing-room-only crowd at the Cultural Center of Cape Cod. A fabulous event. The next afternoon, we all packed up our books and moved over to the West Dennis Library, where we joined 10 other Cape Cod authors,including the wonderful Leslie Meier, for the first (but not the last) library Writers' Workshop. Big crowd. Lots of fun. The next two days -- that would be last Saturday and Sunday -- were spent at Brooks Park in Harwich for the annual crafts festival. Twelve authors under 3 tents. Wonderful folks -- very supportive and they bought books, too! And yesterday, two events: the annual Sandwich Festival (that would be for the town, not the food), with more than a thousand people in attendance in the morning alone. The Cape Cod Writers Center sponsored tables for member writers, and a good time was had by all. The day was capped by Dream Days on Cape Cod, a fundraiser for this worthy cause which grants wishes for terminally ill children. The fundraiser was held at the Cape Cod Museum of Art, and 8 authors were in attendance -- including Mary Higgins Clark and her daughter, Carol -- to sign books. A portion of all our sales went to support Dream Days. Needless to say, the lines of fans at their table were much longer than mine!
Next on the agenda is a two-day festival at Drummers Boy Park in Brewster (next Thursday and Friday), followed by a book signing at an independent bookstore, Market Street Books, in Mashpee. One of the cooks whose recipe is in my second Baby Boomer mystery, Sharon Thompson, will be there with me, and we're going to celebrate her birthday.
Meanwhile, I'm going to try and get some writing done on Book 3, Marriage Can Be Murder. The important word in that sentence is "try."

Why Brazilians Speak Portuguese

by Leighton Gage

Brazilians speak Portuguese.

But the rest of South America speaks Spanish.

Ever wondered how that came about? Read on.

In the last decade of the fifteenth century, the two great maritime powers of the age, Spain and Portugal, were engaged in a struggle for the riches of the Orient. The key to unlocking those riches was a sea route to the East. Since the time of Prince Henry the Navigator, dead by then for over thirty years, the Portuguese had been working the hypothesis that the discovery of The Route lay to the South, around the tip of Africa. They weren’t even sure there was a tip ofAfrica, but that was their theory and they were clinging to it.

Bartolomeu Dias - First Navigator to round the Cape of Good Hope

Then, in 1488, they hit the jackpot. Bartolmeu Dias rounded the Cape of Good Hope – the “good hope” being an expectation that they’d found their way at last. 

Vasco de Gama

But before another Portuguese navigator, Vasco de Gama, was able to convert the hope to a proven reality, and sail from Portugal all the way to India, Columbus was back from his first voyage. 

Old Chris started spreading the word that he’d found The Route by sailing West, not South.

The Portuguese didn’t believe it for a minute. They thought (and time would prove them right) that Columbus had grossly underestimated the circumference of the earth. They weren’t, however, about to share their conviction with their rival, Spain.

But now, all of a sudden, the Spanish were laying claims left and right.

And those claims were supported by the Spanish-born Pope, Alexander VI, who  issued bulls giving dominion over the newly-discovered territories to Spain.

Concerned, King John II of Portugal opened negotiations with theSpanish Court.

Those negotiations culminated in the Treaty of Tordesillas (a small town near Valladolid, in Spain) in which it was agreed that a line of demarcation would be drawn 370 leagues (a league was about 4.2 kilometers) west of theCape Verde Islands. It's the westernmost meridian (the one on the left) on this map:

 Any newly-discovered lands to the east of that line would be recognized as Portuguese territory, anything to the west as Spanish.

The Spanish figured they’d negotiated a good deal, because they now had the right to “the Indies”. And the Portuguese were pleased because they were quite convinced that the Spanish were barking up the wrong tree.

The treaty was signed and ratified in 1494.

In 1498, de Gama landed in India.

 Two years later, the fleet of Pedro Àlvares Cabral embarked on a follow-up voyage, carrying colonists and supplies to the new Portuguese colonies on the Indian subcontinent.

On board was de Gama’s pilot, who’d discovered doldrums off the coast of Africa on his previous voyage. He advised Cabral to try to pick up wind by sailing west before turning south.

Cabral did – and bumped into Brazil.

Look at the map.

See the way Brazil sticks out from the rest of the continent? And how close it is to Africa?

One of the first things the Portuguese did after setting foot on shore was to carry out some astronomical observations.

They quickly determined that the spot they’d landed upon was to the east of the line of demarcation. That made it Portuguese territory.

And that’s why today, more than five hundred years later, Brazilians speak Portuguese.

A Little Marketing Music Please

A guest blog by Pat Browning

I didn’t have to reinvent the wheel. Just when I was ready to write a few words on marketing, Vickie Britton’s new mini-ebook, Writing and Selling a Mystery Novel: A Simple Step-by-Step Plan, fell into my hands.

She also writes fiction. Vickie and her sister, Loretta Jackson, have co-authored more than 30 novels, most of them mysteries, mystery-romances, and westerns. Besides print editions, many are available on Kindle.

Vickie’s new mini e-book is a blueprint for writing a mystery from start to finish. Her segment on marketing sums up in three rules: Get it finished; get it out there, get it to the right market. Please note: The first rule is

GET IT FINISHED!

Here’s an excerpt from the marketing segment, reprinted with Vickie Britton’s permission:

Why Most Books Don’t Sell

Yes, being a writer is tough, and it is a competitive market. But there are three rules that will greatly increase your odds of success.

■ Get it Finished

Most people don’t sell their novel for one simple reason: they never get it finished. They attend writer’s conferences and critique groups, talk about their project incessantly, and maybe even jot down a few ideas or chapters. But when it comes down to the wire, they don’t have a finished product to offer.

Half a book will never sell. True, when you get established you may be able to sell on the basis of a synopsis and three sample chapters, but at some point in time the editor is going to ask for the completed manuscript. You had better be ready and able to produce one. Usually, editors want completed manuscripts from new authors so that they know the writer can finish what he started. Once you’ve written a completed manuscript you've already eliminated over half of the competition.

■ Get it Out There

No manuscript has ever sold sitting in the bottom of a filing cabinet. Once you feel you've written the book to the best of your ability, get it circulating – by either querying an agent or sending it directly to a publisher.

■ Get it to the Right Market

Not only do you have to get your manuscript out there, but targeting the right market greatly increases your chances of a sale. If you have a mystery, don’t send it to a romance market. If you've written a police procedural, don’t send it to a tea cozy market. You'll get nothing but rejection. Study the publisher’s book list. You'll find that all publishers have a certain image they project to target a certain type of reader. They can vary greatly. Even if you have written the great American novel, the publisher won't change his publishing list for you.

■ Finding an Agent

This is the question authors get asked the most. No, it isn't necessary to have an agent in order to sell a book. An agent can help you reach larger publishing houses that don't accept unsolicited material, and they can help you get a better book deal once you have reached the stage where you want to sign multiple contracts. They can handle foreign rights for you and do all the bookwork.

On the downside, they charge up to 15 percent. So yes, you should try to get an agent if you want one. There are plenty of legitimate agents listed in the Writer’s Market. Another way to find a good agent is through word of mouth. Never pay a reading fee. Agents who ask for money up front make their living by charging fees, not by selling books.

■ Going Solo

If you either can’t get an agent to take you on because you're a new author or you simply don’t want one, you can query the editors at publishing houses yourself. Read their submission guidelines carefully and don’t try to change rules.

Guidelines can be found in the Writer’s Market, or by sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to a specific publisher. Most editors want to see a synopsis and three sample chapters. The synopsis shouldn't be more than three pages. People disagree whether the outcome of a mystery should be revealed in the synopsis. I believe when selling a book you should tell how the story unfolds so the editor can get an idea of the plot’s plausibility. The sample chapters should be the first three chapters and not picked randomly from the book. If a publisher will accept a completed manuscript, then send the entire book.

***

Writing and Selling Your Mystery Novel: A Simple Step-by-Step Plan by Vickie Britton is available for purchase at Smashwords: http://tinyurl.com/4y75bt9 . It’s available in ten e-book formats.

About the Author:

A veteran traveler, Pat Browning's.globetrotting of the 1970s led to her work as a travel agent and correspondent for TravelAge West, a trade journal published in San Francisco. During the
1990s, she served as a newspaper reporter and columnist. Her mystery novel, Full Circle, first of her Penny McKenzie mystery series, was later republished as Absinthe of Malice. She's currently hard at work on the second novel in the series.

Don't Tread On Me!

By Mark W. Danielson

In a previous blog, I featured Benjamin Franklin’s segmented rattlesnake from his famous Join, or Die political cartoon. Franklin’s snake was most likely the basis behind the coiled rattlesnake on Colonel Christopher Gadsden’s yellow Don’t Tread On Me flag (pictured), which he presented to the Second Continental Congress in 1775. Gadsden intended this flag to be used by the Commander in Chief of the American Navy to represent its readiness to strike at any time. Gadsden’s Don’t Tread on Me phrase became so popular that it also appeared on the First Navy Jack and the Flag of the Culpeper Minutemen. Believing the rattlesnake is the perfect embodiment of the early American view of independence, Franklin wrote this passage in the Pennsylvania Journal in 1775:

“I recollected that her eye excelled in brightness, that of any other animal, and that she has no eye-lids. She may therefore be esteemed an emblem of vigilance. She never begins an attack, nor, when once engaged, ever surrenders. She is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage. As if anxious to prevent all pretensions of quarreling with her, the weapons with which nature has furnished her, she conceals in the roof of her mouth, so that, to those who are unacquainted with her, she appears to be a most defenseless animal; and even when those weapons are shown and extended for her defense, they appear weak and contemptible; but their wounds however small, are decisive and fatal. Conscious of this, she never wounds till she has generously given notice, even to her enemy, and cautioned him against the danger of treading on her. Was I wrong, Sir, in thinking this a strong picture of the temper and conduct of America?”

The rattlesnake, specifically the Timber Rattlesnake, is particularly symbolic to the American Revolution because its rattle contains thirteen layers, coincident to America’s original Thirteen Colonies. Credit is given to Commodore Hopkins in 1775 for adding an uncoiled rattlesnake and Don’t Tread on Me phrase to the thirteen-striped red and white “jack” that was commonly used on early American merchant ships to create the First Navy Jack (pictured). Clearly, Commodore Hopkins borrowed elements from Benjamin Franklin and Colonel Gadsden to create this Jack. Debate remains over whether Commodore Hopkins flew the First Navy Jack or the plain striped jack on the Alfred, flagship of the Continental Fleet in January 1776. However, historians do agree the rattlesnake-clad First Navy Jack was flown as the Navy Ensign during the Revolutionary War. Coiled or uncoiled, the rattlesnake is intended as a warning that America will strike whenever provoked.

Soon after the adoption of the June 14, 1777, First Stars and Stripes Law, the U.S. Navy replaced the First Navy Jack with the Union Jack. (The Stars and Stripes Union Jack, also known as the Jack of the United States, should not be confused with Britain’s Union Jack, which bears its country’s colors.) The First Stars and Stripes Law stated that this flag be 13 alternating red and white stripes and that its union be 13 white stars in a blue field representing a new constellation. Although the date of introduction of the Union Jack is not precisely known, a 1785 engraving of the frigate USS Philadelphia clearly depicts the Union Jack flying from her jackstaff—the vertical spar (pole) in the bow of a ship, on which a “jack” is flown.

To this day, flags remain a distinct form of communication between ships, thus seafarers must know the difference between a jack and an ensign. Jacks are additional national flags flown by warships at the head of the ship when the ship is not under way, and when dressed for special occasions. Ensigns are flown at the ship’s stern or island when entering or leaving a harbor, when sailing through foreign waters, and whenever the ship is signaled to do so by a warship. Warships usually fly their ensigns between the morning colors ceremony and sunset when moored or at anchor, and at all times when underway or engaged in battle. Because tradition dictates that if a ship lowers its ensign it is deemed to have surrendered, second and subsequent ensigns may be flown from different locations to ensure the opponent understands the battle will continue.

In some instances, the traditional First Navy Jack has been used in lieu of the Stars and Stripes Union Jack. In other words, the Jack becomes the Ensign. In 1975, the Secretary of the Navy directed that the First Navy Jack be flown in 1975 and 1976 during the United States Bicentennial Year as a colorful and historic reminder of the nation's and the Navy's origin. In August 1977, the Secretary of the Navy then specified that the ship with the longest total period of active service display the First Navy Jack until decommissioned or transferred to inactive service, at which time the flag shall be passed to the next ship in line with appropriate honors. Most recently, on May 22, 2002, the U.S. Navy ordered that all ships display the First Navy Jack during its War on Terrorism as a temporary substitution for the fifty-star Jack of the United States. Most vessels made the switch on September 11, 2002, the first anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon.

Whether you agree or disagree with our current foreign policies, it is noteworthy to realize that the Don’t Tread on Me flags pre-date our existence as a nation, and that the United States still stands ready to strike against those who dare tread on us.

Defined by a cake

I’ve never understood why people get upset about ‘landmark’ birthdays – you know, 40, 50, 60 – but a couple of years back I had the first one of mine with a zero on the end that could have seemed significant, if only because, according to the Bible, I should now be dead. Yes, I’ve had my allotted three score years and ten (plus 18 months now, too). I celebrated it in Plymouth with my 3 sisters, 2 brothers (all younger than me) and our spouses. And we had a wonderful time. So much so that I was forced to replace my habitual mantra of ‘Hell is other people’  with (gulp) ‘Heaven is other people’. I am Darwinned (my version of ‘blessed’) with a great family – ‘celebrate’ seems to be the default mode for them and they really should take out a patent on the mechanics of having a good time.

There was wonderful food, excellent wine, amazingly creative presents, a specially written and performed song and, most of all, a cake. I say ‘most of all’ because my youngest sister, who made it, managed to crowd onto it objects and images which featured most of my main interests. It would be tedious to list them but, from the obvious ones, such as the crests of my school, university and the city where I’ve lived most of my life and my interest in horse racing and sailing, they ranged to a bicycle and a wee duck (because I ride a bike and confit de canard is probably my favourite meal).

Around the feet of the little, kilted, icing figure who sat carving wood (another hobby of mine) lay tiny wood shavings of icing. A golfer prepared to putt to a flag (in the 70^th hole) beside which curly green icing formed the rough which he’d managed to avoid (for a change). Around three sides of the cake were the titles of all my plays and books. But the pièce de résistance lay underneath it all. The cake was propped up on five wee glasses acting as pillars and forming a sort of basement. I peered at it, saw tiny figures beside the pillars and was baffled. My sister said ‘Well, where is it?’ ‘Under the cake,’ I said. Then she patiently teased out of me the realisation that they were in a cellar. It was a scene she’d recreated of the main theme of my book, The Darkness – 5 guys chained to pillars in a cellar.

So why am I bothering to bore you with this? Well, when someone not only knows you so well that they can sum you up in a series of cake decorations but also takes that much trouble on your behalf, it almost suggests (if only briefly) that there may be some truths in life after all – no purpose, no structure, but joyous reminders to confirm that life is definitely worth living.

JUSTICE SERVED, UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS

By Shane Cashion

On the evening of the Casey Anthony verdict, I too was in court representing a criminal defendant. And if you think justice wasn’t served in the Ninth Circuit Court of Florida, you wouldn’t believe what’s going on in our local municipal courts....AT NIGHT! A friend of mine’s dad recently got a ticket for allegedly speeding in a construction zone. He maintained that it was long after the workers had gone home and that there weren’t any signs posted. Who knows? At any rate, I appeared on his behalf to see if I could “make it go away.”

When I pulled up to the courthouse at just before seven in the evening, I was surprised to see at least a hundred people loitering in the parking lot. They looked like they were waiting to buy tickets to see Poison. And when I say courthouse, I’m using the term loosely. It was actually a defunct ladies fitness center in a low- slung strip mall.

Next to the court’s entrance was a collection of lawyers in khaki pants and blue blazers with gold buttons. They were dressed like choir boys - choir boys who smoked and cussed. When there was a break in their conversation I asked the only one smiling, a jolly character named Pete, what time court started: “Seven. Lawyers get to see the prosecutor first so it’s not too bad.”

At precisely seven o’clock, I walked through a cloud of smoke to find a banquet style room lined with rows of metal folding chairs. Pete pointed me to a mean looking lady who’d slipped into a culture coma sometime around 1986. “She has the files,” he said. As I followed him into the courtroom I noticed that he was clicking, like a Bushman.

“I need the file for Kevin Fox,” I said to the crabby woman.
After a long, uncomfortable pause she barked, “Virtual.”
“Virtual?” I asked, confused.
“Virtual.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means there’s no paper file. The prosecutor has it on his computer.”

How about that? Maybe I’d been too quick to judge this place! With no file in hand, I took a seat next to Pete. To either side of me sat a dozen or so lawyers, all in their standard issue blue blazers and khaki Dockers. One lawyer wore a short-sleeve Polo shirt and jeans. He also talked on his cell phone. It was clear that he enjoyed special privileges.

Behind the lawyers’ row, the crowd had grown to at least four hundred fidgeting Poison fans, desperately in need of nicotine and ready to argue with the cops, the prosecutor, the judge, any of ‘em, ALL OF ‘EM! Just as I was getting comfortable, Pete accidentally elbowed me. He was trying to dig out a rock that had wedged its way into a crack in the sole of his worn out shoe, hence the clicking. “Sorry,” he said, “And by the way, your handkerchief’s in the wrong pocket.” I looked down to see my fly open and the tail of my white dress shirt peaking through.

In the row behind me I overheard a nervous mother ask her teenage son if he saw his lawyer.
“No. He’s not here,” the kid answered. By the tone of his voice I could tell he’d never presented her with a “My Son’s on Honor Roll….” bumper sticker.
“Well do you know what he looks like?” she continued.
“Yeah.”
“Well, tell me?”
“Tall. Slicked back hair. Douche bag.”

I laughed, but none of the other lawyers sitting within hearing distance did. “Could be talking about any of us,” Pete mumbled to no one in particular, which again made me laugh.

By the time I’d made it a third of the way to the prosecutor’s table, the judge took the bench...in a denim oxford. No tie. No robe. The bailiff then asked the motley crew before him to rise while the judge read the rules of the court. Not once did the judge’s eyes leave the page. He was obviously afraid of these people and his predicament.

The first 183 cases were continued to next month so that the defendants could get lawyers - when they got paid, or got a job, or remembered the name of the lawyer they’d hired but who was now nowhere to be found, doubtlessly waiting for more money before doing something so reckless as entering his or her appearance on behalf of some revoked felon on the lam.

By 8:00 the novelty of Night Court had worn off. Lawyers and offenders alike were restless. Twice a bailiff had to scream: “NO TALKING!!!!!” Sensing that he was losing his audience, like a great entertainer, the judge called two huge families to the bench. Through salty language and ear-piercing inflections I was able to surmise that the two families had engaged in a full-fledged battle royale with at least a dozen combatants over accusations too numerous to recount in a single post. What’s more, the whole thing was caught on tape, and the judge was going to play it for us!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe night court wasn’t so bad after all.

I didn’t have a great view of the court’s old tube TV, but from what I could tell the video looked like it had been lifted right off the production set of the Jerry Springer show. Every minute or so the judge would pound his gavel and scream, “THIS IS ASENINE,” over and over again.

By 9:15 even the judge looked to be losing his steam. He abruptly announced to the crowd: “NO MORE PAPERS!! I DON’T WANT TO SEE ANY MORE PAPERS FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT!!!!” I liked that he didn’t really consider what the defendants had to show him to be worthy of a word as heavy as EVIDENCE; it was just papers. Then to my greater surprise, he barked, “FROM THIS POINT FORWARD ALL TESTIMONY WILL BE IN NARRATIVE FORM. NO MORE EXAMINATIONS. THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG!!! NOW, YOU IN THE GREY TANK, GO!”

Just as I was beginning to form an opinion as to which family was the real instigator, it was my turn to see the prosecutor.

“Please, have a seat. What’s your client’s name?”
“Kevin XXXX,” I said.
With just a few keystrokes he had my friend’s dad’s entire record before him.
“Okay, what would you like to do with this one?” He asked.
Not sure how to respond, I said, “Well, I’d like to see if I could make it go away, because…”
“Because, because, because, because, because. Because of all of the wonderful things he does.” That’s what he sang, like he was the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz.

By the time I stopped laughing he had already amended the speeding ticket to excessive vehicle noise (on a Buick driven by an 83 year-old man), and handed me a pay slip reflecting nearly $500 in fines and court costs. What’s worse is that the bailiffs shooed me out of the courtroom before I could hear the judge’s ruling on the feuding families. My friends, these are not heady times for our judicial system.…

WRITER'S BLOCK

June Shaw

What is writer's block? Is it real? What can cure it? Those are today's questions.

In my early days of writing, I was happy to learn of the term writer's block. That was it: my ailment. I'd caught it, and that was why I couldn't think of anything else to write. Gosh, I loved knowing about it and having that terrific, legitimate reason for not having any more words to put on the page.

My excuse was NOT that I hadn't planned a thing for my book except who a couple of people were and what they wanted. Of course why they couldn't get what they wanted didn't take much to solve, so I couldn't go on.

But the fault was writer's block--not mine!

Wow, I discovered I could start lots of stories this way whether I wanted to write a script or short story or novel. Each time I reached a spot where I didn't know what might come next--I could get up and go to the mall! I mean, why not? Writer's block had grabbed me and dug itself right under my skin and wouldn't let me put down another word, so--off to purchase new earrings (which are so easy to shop for since they don't have to fit :) Shopping for earrings is almost like having the ailment that kept me from writing.

Back at home with my new pair of earrings, I needed to find just the right spot to put them. And the outfits they would go with. And then I needed to iron the shirt that would go perfect with them. And since I went through the trouble of getting the ironging board out, I couldn't believe how many other items I owned that needed pressing.

Oh, and then later I'd get back to writing. Of course first I needed to put supper on. And then keep an eye on the pots so nothing would burn.

And back to my story. But goodness, it was time for my favorite TV program and then I needed to shower and get to bed. After all, I had to get up and keep writing my great American novel in the morning..... If that dreaded disease, writer's block, didn't snag me again.

Of course if it did, I had a friend I hadn't gone out to eat with in a few weeks and that extra bedroom closet I'd been meaning to clean out......