The Killer in Me is the Killer in You

 I know I’m not unique in the idea of a theme song for each novel. We all use music to drive us, some more than others. I know many authors who have to have music blaring to write, others who need silence.

But I’m always looking back to the very moment when I decided to be a writer. And I have to admit, even before I read John Sandford and decided to try it for myself, long ago in a land I’d rather forget, I heard a song that got under my skin.

It’s called “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins. There is a line in the song that goes:

The killer in me is the killer in you

That line mesmerized me. I listened to the song over, and over, and over. That line got under my skin, into my brain. Hubby and I watched a lot of Profiler and Millennium in those days, and I was beginning a true fascination with forensics, profiling and police work. The song felt like it was speaking to me, telling me something. It stayed with me for years, niggling at the back of my brain. I never did anything with it, just let it sit back there, all gargoyle-ly, gathering moss and rot and black mold.  

It was a sign of things to come, though I had absolutely no idea at the time.

It happened again when I was writing my first attempt at a novel. The song was “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. It’s rough, and rude, and violent – and my villain worshipped the song. Worshipped the lyrics. They drove him to his ultimate purpose – to hurt, violate and kill.

You can imagine how I might have been a little worried about this whole getting inspired by music thing.

Now that I’ve harnessed my bizarre little fascination, channeled it into writing novels about good and evil and all the places in between, you’d think I would be better at understanding the why behind the stories. But I don’t. The ideas come when I least expect them. They make themselves known, perching on windowsills, scratching at the glass, each one stumbling over the next in a vain attempt to get inside, vying desperately for my attention.

I love them. Truly, I do.

Sometimes the ideas come from nowhere. Other times, they come from snippets of songs. I’ve learned to take them as they come, write them down, and let them ferment. Sometimes, they actually grow into something worthwhile.

There have been other songs that speak to me. If it weren’t for Evanescence, I might never have finished THE COLD ROOM. I was on a flight to Denver, and I’d been struggling, really struggling, with the book. I couldn’t get myself from point A to point B, much less from A to Z, which is where I needed to go. I had my laptop open, trying to work, and it just wasn’t coming. Frustrated, I turned on my iPod, put it on shuffle and shut my eyes. Evanescence was the first song that popped on. It was “Bring Me to Life.”

As I listened to the song, a spark began in my chest. When it finished, I played it again. And again, and again. And suddenly, all those stupid lost threads fell into place with a bang.

I flipped the laptop back open and wrote the scene toward the end of the book where Memphis and Taylor are talking. I won’t share about what, but it’s a major, significant scene, both for the book, for Taylor’s character, and for the series story arc. Hugely important. And if I hadn’t gotten frustrated and given up, if even for a few moments, I wouldn’t have made the leap. Yes, I might have gotten there another way, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as rich and satisfying to the story.

Now I know my MO. Each book has to have its own song. There’s always a classical piece that’s the daily go to (THE COLD ROOM plays heavily on Dvořák’s New World Symphony) but more and more I’m using songs with lyrics to inspire me. THE IMMORTALS theme song was "Ariadne" by The Cruxshadows. I already had a character named Ariadne, so when I stumbled over the song, it fit so perfectly I couldn’t help myself.

I’m working on a new book. It’s had fits and starts. It keeps getting interrupted to deal with earlier titles, the way this time of year always plays out. But at long last, THE PRETENDER has a song too, one that’s terribly melancholy and sad, but uplifting, in its way. It’s “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan. It’s perfect for the tone of the book, the setting, the topic, everything. Every day when I sit down to work, I listen to the song and read the lyrics, and it puts me in the right, well, mood is the best word for it. I usually listen three or four times, letting the words wash over me as I think back to what I wrote the day before, and where I want to go. Then I can write.

Bizarre, these little idiosyncrasies we writers have.

So writers, do you have a special song that has meaning you and you along comprehend? And readers, do you use a theme song in your daily life?

Wine of the Week: Frozen Strawberry Margaritas

Which explains why I'm not as attendant as I'd like today, so please forgive me. I'll check in as often as I can.

The Shots Heard Round The World

You may be aware of the shot heard round the world that emanated from my backyard this week. Sports legend Steve McNair was shot and killed on the 4th of July. Murdered, in his own home, in his own living room, on his own couch, a stone’s throw away from the house that he built, known officially as LP Field, but still referred to by most Nashvillians as The Coliseum. The place where giants and gladiators stride on any given Sunday for our entertainment.

As far as stories go, it’s sad. Terrible even.

But this is Nashville. Which means there’s more to the story than meets the eye.

 ______________________

Steve McNair was a good guy. As an athlete, he was a glorious God. In a quick glance at his football career en totale, from little Alcorn State in Mississippi to the Houston Oilers to the Tennessee Titans, he is referred to in reverential tones, a tough and humane player who never complained, never shirked his duty, always set the example on the field. He will be remembered well, I think. I’d say there’s better than an 80% chance he will be posthumously inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. And Steve deserves to be in Canton, there’s no doubt about that.

But Steve didn’t make the news this week because of his skills and dedication to the game. Steve made the news this week because he was cheating on his wife with a 20-year-old waitress from Dave & Buster’s, an obviously unstable little girl who racked up a DUI, a semi-automatic purchase and a murder, all in three days.

Steve is in the news because he cheated on his wife with a girl who shot him dead in his own living room, then killed herself.

Sounds pretty straightforward, right? It’s a classic locked-room murder scenario – inside the locked house with no signs of forced entry are two dead bodies, one riddled with bullet holes, some close contact shots, and a second, smaller body, with a contact wound to the right temple, laying on the murder weapon. The two persons involved were in a rather public relationship despite the fact that one of them was married. The two persons involved were not known to have any domestic assaults on record, were law-abiding citizens, and seemed to be in love.

So what really happened in the early morning hours on the 4th of July???

That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.

______________________

On the surface, this does look like a straightforward murder/suicide. But this is Nashville, and nothing is ever what it seems. Here’s what we know for sure.

* In the wee hours of Thursday morning, July 2, Steve’s mistress, Sahel Kazemi, was pulled over for a DUI. Steve and another unidentified person were in the car with her, but were allowed to leave in a cab. Steve returned and bailed her out in the morning.

* Sometime later that day, Sahel legally purchased a semi-automatic weapon in a private sale.

* On Thursday July 2, Sahel also put her furniture up for sale on Craigslist: "NICE FURNITURE. TV, COUCH, COFFE TABLE AND MORE - $1 (hermitage)."

* On Friday night, July 3rd, Steve was on his usual rounds, out on the town for the night. A woman approached him in a lakefront bar and accused him of slipping her a roofie last year. She threatened him, saying her boyfriend was going to kill him.

* Friends saw Steve and Sahel talking in the Escalade he’d bought her for her birthday. They didn’t seem to be fighting.

* Steve was sent home by himself in a private car around 1:00-2:00 a.m. Sahel was waiting for him when he arrived.

* Sometime on the morning of July 4th, Steve’s friend came to the house they shared (this seems to have been a bit of a “bachelor pad” for the boys), unlocked the door, went inside and saw the bodies. Instead of calling the police, he called a third friend. More than 45 minutes elapsed between his arrival and the eventual 911 call.

* Steve was shot four times, twice in the chest and once on each side of the head. The first three shots were from a distance of at least three feet, the last temple shot was at close range.

* Sahel was shot once, a contact shot to the right temple.

* The gun, the same gun Sahel purchased on Thursday evening, was found beneath her body.

* Her hands tested positive for gunshot residue, Steve's hands had no trace.

______________________

Steve was a big, big supporter of the restaurant and bar industry in Nashville. And it wasn’t exactly a state secret that he played around on his wife. It was something that I couldn’t ever reconcile about him – this was an unbelievably accomplished athlete who had the respect of every single person who’d ever met him – but boy, did he like the ladies. Drove me nuts. Be the same man Saturday night as you are Sunday morning, and you get a lot more respect in my book.

Steve was dear friends with the owner of a few establishments that we frequent, and it was in one of these establishments where we met Steve for the first time. This was several years ago, when he was still Air McNair, the quarterback for the Titans.

We were sitting at the bar, and Steve came in with his driver. He sat next to us. We chatted a bit. He was sweet. I was struck by two things: one, he had a gigantic watch with diamonds the size of tennis balls on the bezel, and two, he was unfailingly polite and good-natured to all of the fans and well-wishers (and even the lone detractor) who came by to shake his hand and wish him luck on Sunday. Despite our proximity for the evening, I didn’t want to ask for an autograph. That’s not how we do it here in Nashville.

Celebrity in Nashville is a business. You can’t shake a stick in this town without running into someone hugely famous. Whether it’s Starbucks or PF Chang’s or Venetian Nails or Magic Mushroom or Joe’s Crab Shack or Whole Foods or Sunset Grill, you’ll see someone. But no one really does anything about it.

You see, Southerners are unfailingly polite. They know how to mind their own business, (which they do exceedingly well on the surface, but fail miserably in reality - how else would we get the good gossip otherwise?) But it wouldn’t be right to accost a famous person while they’re minding their own business. That’s how the likes of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban and the legions of other celebrities that now call Nashville home can go out to Starbucks on a Sunday morning unannounced and be left alone – we’re too polite to stare and point. Instead, you’re likely to get a nod and a smile, and that’s it. Lovely for them, really.

But for the athletes, well, if you’re sipping rum and coke in a little suburban bar, you’re probably going to have a few folks stop by to wish you well.

Strangely enough, the night Steve died, he was doing just that.

 _____________________

 
Being a mystery writer in Nashville has its ups and downs. We have plenty of crime, more than enough to make my novels realistic. I’ve had two pretty farfetched scenarios that I’ve made up in my twisted little head make the news in real life. Three, now. The opening of my debut novel is, ironically, set on the 4th of July, with my protagonist, Taylor Jackson, sitting at her desk while the fireworks are shot off, wondering what crime scene she’s going to be called to.

Any minute now, she’d be answering the phone, getting the call. Chance told her somewhere in her city, a shooter was escaping into the night. Fireworks were perfect cover for gunfire.

On this 4th of July, Randy and I had a most surreal night. We were downtown to have dinner and watch the fireworks. There was a storm brewing; one of Nashville’s nasty tornado-inducing thunderstorms was on the way. The city decided to move up the fireworks to 8:10 p.m. so people could take cover as the storms rolled through. Of course, you can’t time out Mother Nature, so the rain started in earnest after the second or third firework. We were standing on 3rd Avenue, in a restaurant parking lot, under an umbrella, with the fireworks blasting into the sky to our left backlit by lightning, and the whirling lights of police cruisers attending the McNair crime scene to our right, both in perfect view of one another. I couldn’t tell if we were all celebrating America’s independence, mourning Steve’s death, or what.

They’d removed the bodies by this point, and the rumor mill was churning in full gear. The first news broke that he’d been found in an alley and it was a murder/suicide, both those reports were quickly backed away from. It took ages for the media to report that the bodies were inside the house and that Steve did own the property. As a matter of fact, after the very first presser our Public Information Officer Don Aaron did, there was nearly a four-hour lag until the media got anything new. And let me tell you, four hours of not talking to the media in this town is probably a new record.

Some of the early gossip had Steve’s wife, Mechelle McNair, as the shooter, having found her husband in flagrante delicto with a younger woman. There was also talk of his new business venture, a restaurant he’d opened earlier in the week, and some of the folks he may have gotten involved with there being responsible.

The fascinating thing is, this investigation is playing out in the news just like the damn books I write, step by step, unraveling the pieces day by day. The police are doing a stellar job of not jumping to conclusions. They are being methodical. They are using state of the art forensics, managing the media, keeping everyone at arms length and staying away from classifying this as what it seems too quickly. They are doing one hell of an investigation, and I applaud them. Because there are plenty of what ifs and pieces that aren’t adding up just right.

Some of the what ifs:

* What about the woman who threatened Steve at the bar? Where is she and where is her boyfriend?

* Why is Sahel's ex-boyfriend Keith Norfleet so convinced she was leaving Steve to reunite with him?

* Why don't the police consider him a suspect, especially in light of this?

* Why did Sahel tell her sister Steve was getting a divorce that would be final in two weeks? (There are no divorce filings on record.)

* Why did she up and put her furniture for sale?

* Was the mistress pregnant? Why won’t the police say yes or no definitively?

* Why did she suddenly buy a gun of her own? (Steve was arrested for a DUI years ago and had a firearm in his possession, we know he had guns.)

* Was Steve having yet another affair, one which Sahel found out about?

* Why did Steve leave Sahel in the back of a police car when she was asking for him to come talk to her? (Here's video of the arrest.)

* Why didn’t Steve’s friend call the police immediately upon finding the body? And why did he move the shell casings at the scene?

* Why would a girl who was head over heels in love with a very, very rich man suddenly snap and decide to kill him?

* How many people had keys to the condo where the bodies were found?

* What really happened between 2 a.m. and 10 a.m.?

These are just a few of the unanswered questions floating around town right now. I have to think like the mystery writer I am with this - it's not easy to stage a suicide well, but it has been done. The methodical shots to Steve's body seem off to me: shoot him in the head, then step around the body and shoot him twice in the chest, then administer the coup de grace to the opposite temple up close? Does that sound like the grouping of a 20 year old in love?

As you can imagine, the murder of one of our own, of possibly the biggest sports star we have, has shaken a lot of people. We’re in the spotlight, and so far, I think Metro has shown themselves to be competent and capable. As of Wednesday afternoon, this was ruled an official murder/suicide. The case is closed pending final toxicology reports.

My prayers go to Mechelle and the McNair kids. I hope that someday, they’ll be able to separate the man they thought Steve was from the man he showed himself to be in the end.

So what do you think happened? Is this a classic locked-room murder/suicide, or is there something more sinister afoot? I mean really, we are crime fiction lovers...

Wine of the Week: 2006 Bivio Italia Tuscan Red Bivio means "fork in the road" in Italian, so I couldn't resist using it here today. Maybe if Steve had taken a different road, he'd still be with us. Regardless, the wine is luscious!

To Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before

Space... the Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Cue soundtrack.

I had some dental work done this week. Don’t you spare me a moment’s thought of sympathy, though–it was elective, cost a bajillion dollars and made me feel pretty. And I benefited, in large ways and in small. Why? I got to spend the better part of an afternoon under the lovely sedative grooves of Nitrous Oxide.

I wrote a post a couple of years ago (click here to read it) about the joys of nitrous. Nitrous and I get along well. It’s a creative booster shot, allowing me to get into a completely different frame of mind. I don’t use drugs, but after an hour with the nitrous, I get a glimmer of understanding about why some people might. Chasing the high, I think they call it, what drives most addicts into their addictions in the first place.

Anyway, because this procedure was going to take a while, they suggested I listen to my iPod.

So I queued up something I knew would take my mind off of things. The soundtrack to Star Trek, by the most brilliant Michael Giacchino. Giacchino does a lot of work with JJ Abrams, most notable the themes for ALIAS, LOST, and of course, STAR TREK.

I’m a huge Trekkie. So I was concerned about the re-energization of the franchise. Sometimes that can fall flat on its face, but Abrams did a masterful job. I can’t say enough good things about this movie – it moved me, made me cheer, captured my imagination, allowed my Dad and I to both indulge in our fascination with all things chaos and quantum, started me down a new avenue of research for a possible future book, and entertained me to the point that I saw it twice in the theater and I’m still hankering to see it again.

Part of the mastery of the movie is the script – so brilliantly rendered by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman that I have to single them out – their interpretation and masterful devices allowed the series to be regenerated into films for the modern era, and for that I salute them. The casting is incredible – I adored Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto, as well as everyone else.

But another aspect of the movie that not a lot of people are talking about is the score by Giacchino. It is so subtle, so powerful, and so perfectly matched to the story that I honestly really didn’t even hear it the first time I saw the movie. Oh, it was there, and there were moments when I heard it, but for the most part, it did its job. Scores aren’t meant to be flashy and in your face. They are a compliment, the eggs that bind the batter so it can be made into a cake, the tray that holds the ice as its being frozen into cubes. In other words, absolutely necessary: the lynchpin of a good movie, the tent pole. Seen but unseen, heard but unheard.

Unless you’ve seen the movie, then downloaded the soundtrack, this may sound silly, but through the music, I can recreate every single moment of that film in my imagination. It’s so successful as a score that it becomes an immediate rewind button. Remarkable. That doesn’t happen to me very often. I’ve had soundtracks that I love, of course (Dances with Wolves, Harry Potter) but rarely am I so moved by the music that I can relive the movie, moment by glorious moment.

Giacchino’s score is wonderful – sweeping, poignant, visceral in spots; playful, sexual and seductive in others. There’s no question which music belongs to the heroes and which belongs to the villain. Nero, the Romulan mining ship captain and driving evil force in the movie, benefits from an especially powerful and ominous theme.

Listening to it under the influence of the nitrous, I wondered if Giacchino was influenced at all by Prokofiev – for some reason, I hear the three horns of the Wolf (from Peter and the Wolf) in the notes to signify Nero’s ship. We all know wolves are bad, bad, bad, and Nero qualifies as a wolf – a threat to the Federation of primary importance. (For those of you who are familiar with this, listen to the Andante molto and tell me what you think.)

Talk about evoking emotions with a classical piece – I can recreate the voice-over to Peter and The Wolf just by listening to the album. The fear, the joy. Ah, Disney at its finest (with the attendant happy ending for Sonia the Duck, too.)

It wouldn’t be the first time a composer has been influenced by an old master – the John William’s distinctive two-note heartbeat JAWS theme is suspiciously similar to the Allegro of Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony #9 in E minor (aka The New World Symphony.) Strangely enough, if you meld the Prokofiev and the Dvořák, it really evokes Nero’s theme in Star Trek. Hmm...

While most of you know my passion for wine, few of you know my undying addiction to classical music. I’ve been using classical for years – to drive me, to tell stories, to layer into my books for effect, as themes for each of my books, to get drunk to, to make love to. I played clarinet for years, with brief forays into flute and saxophone, and shared my first kiss with a trumpet player, so I’m kind of partial to orchestral music. Opera works the same way for me, I adore it. It changes me, alters me, if only for a moment. I've always loved the line from PRETTY WOMAN, where Richard Gere explains the obsession with opera:

People's reactions to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic; they either love it or they hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul.

I couldn’t agree more. I adore the stories told through the music – the emotions it evokes, the fact that just the right note can make or break a piece. It’s what I love about a perfectly pitched scored, like the Star Trek soundtrack. It becomes a part of my soul.

And somehow, I managed to remember this line of thought whilst under the influence of some serious drugs. I must admit, listening to the score under the influence was eye-opening. Mind-expanding, if you will. I felt the music in a completely different way than before. The closest I can remember coming to this was a long time ago, under the manipulative control of Grand Marnier (which is like absinthe to me) and listening to Phantom of the Opera over and over until I was in some sort of wicked trance.

I highly recommend you see the movie, download the score, and have a bit of your favorite non-inhibitor and experience this for yourself. It’s truly something to behold. Kind of like space.

Or maybe I was just stoned out of my gourd.

So how about you, ‘Rati faithful? Favorite movie scores? Favorite operas and classical pieces? And did you like the new Star Trek film?

Wine of the Week: De Toren Fusion V - A South African entry recommended by a dear friend. It's a bordeaux blend that's been compared to the finest Chateau Latour wines. Can't wait to try this one!

(Said dear friend also turned me on to the Kurtzman-Orci interview, so many thanks for both recommendations!)

An Overwhelming Bout of Homesickness

I'm not sure what's come over me, but I've just been overwhelmed with a sense of homesickness. Maybe it was something I smelled, or thought of, or dreamed of last night. Regardless, I find myself sitting in my living room in Tennessee wishing like hell I was someplace else. So, to help, I went looking for this blog I wrote several years ago when I WAS at home. I hope you enjoy it.

I’m away from home this week, visiting family in Colorado. I'm trying to work. I’m sitting on the deck, trying desperately to hit that magic 1,000 word a day vacation goal. I’m pecking away at the keyboard of my laptop, and I can’t concentrate.

It is just so beautiful here.

This is my home, where I spent my formative years. All of my firsts happened in this area. I learned to golf, and swim, and play tennis, and ski here. I learned to drive, had my first kiss, lost a close friend to suicide. I spent all of my time out of doors, leaving the house first thing in the morning and not returning until the gloaming. There were three of us in kindergarten, and it wasn’t until second grade that they decided to bus in some kids from neighboring areas, so we weren’t alone.

I learned to drive, to dream, to work. I fell in and out of love with my brother’s friends. I snuck off into the red rocks with a couple of friends to smoke cigarettes; we discovered dinosaur tracks in the rocks. I was isolated by geography, yet lived the fullest possible life that a child could lead.

These are often melancholy memories, for I left this area under extreme duress when I was a teenager. My parents moved us to Washington, D.C., someplace I had absolutely no interest in going to. I cried for a year. I left every part of me behind. For many unfortunate years, I believed I left the best parts of me behind.

This area is so fraught with emotion, with memories, that I can’t seem to work on the new book. From an objective sense, the beauty of the area overwhelms me. But what’s really happening is everywhere I look, I see the ghost of a smaller me, sniffing the bark of the pine trees trying to decide if the scent is chocolate, strawberry or vanilla. (Don’t believe me? Try it.)

I am so inextricably linked to these woods, these rocks, the greens, blues, blacks and browns, the deer and bear, that I can’t seem to keep Nashville and Taylor Jackson, my protagonist, foremost in my mind.

I’ve settled for writing some short stories. The tenor is completely different from some of my earlier work. It’s moody, and atmospheric, and I’m finding new expressions to illustrate my surroundings. I think once I’m back home, in my office, staring at the river birch outside my window, I’ll be able to refocus on Nashville, and killers, and homicide lieutenants.

This does not bode well for the lifelong dream – the house in Tuscany half the year to write, write, write.

In the meantime, I want to watch the black storm clouds lurk over the jade and stone mountains. I want to smell the sparkling air, tinged with the scent of wet asphalt, moldy leaves and the barest hint of skunk. I want to laugh at the antics of the towhees, scratching for dinner in the scrub oak.

I want to watch the golfers stream in off the course, shouting admirations to one another as they come in to the 19th hole for a post-round drink.

I want to watch the deer wander through the backyard, stopping at the birdbath for a quenching draught of water. They all seem to have had twins this year, so Bambi keeps interrupting my thoughts. (As does Jetta the Wonderdog.) They’re all adorable.

Each time I return, I realize that I didn’t leave the best parts of me behind, but stamped my imprint on the area in such a palpable yet subtle way that I will always feel like I’ve come home.

It’s okay that I can’t work on the book. There are other avenues to explore, other stories to put on paper. I hope to take it home with me, this texture and depth. For today though, this setting is just one spark that I will use to write something... different.

When Ego Attacks

Hubby and I went to a concert a couple of Saturdays ago, one I’d been looking forward to for weeks. Months! Billy Joel, with Elton John.

Now, for the record, I adore Billy Joel. Adore the music, the stories, the way he engages the audience. I’ve seen him in concert before, and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was at the Cap Center (now US Airways Arena) in Landover, Maryland. I was in high school, which meant a limited allowance, so I could only afford to purchase the cheap seats. Obstructed view. Behind the stage. I was a little bummed, but figured I’d be able to hear, even if I couldn’t see.

Boy, was I surprised. Billy Joel set up his stage with pianos on all four corners, and made a point of playing to every section of the crowd. Even though my seats were “obstructed,” I had a great view, and for a quarter of the concert, Billy sang directly to me. He was funny, self-effacing and charming. The music was outstanding. I went home feeling like I’d been a part of something special, something unique. He’d touched me, without ever having set eyes on me, or knowing I was there. Now that’s power.

Fast forward to current day. We can afford better seats now, though through a timing error we ended up in the nosebleeds. My vertigo and I enjoyed that. Thankfully, the lights went down quickly, and out came Billy and Elton. They played two songs in duet, then Billy exited the stage and Elton took over.

And I mean it when I say Elton took over. The lights. The flash. The pure, unadulterated rock. The individual songs that went on (and on, and on) for fifteen to twenty minutes. And after each song (finally) finished, Elton ran around the stage, banging himself on the chest and inciting the crowd for applause. If I had a microphone near his mind, it would have very clearly screamed LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yawn.

We slipped out, took a break, got a drink, walked around, and still he played. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of Elton John that I like. But this was a full-on Wembley Stadium show sandwiched into the Sommet Center. And there was this crazy thing that was also supposed to be going on..... Oh, right. Billy Joel.

Elton played for an hour and a half, and after every single song, he paraded around, basking in the adulation. It just felt so forced, so unnecessary. And in contrast, when Billy Joel finally was allowed to take the stage, he started a conversation with the crowd. He apologized to the people with the crappy seats. He told jokes. He talked about his love for, and connection to, Nashville. He took a moment after each song to introduce a band mate. He made it about us, and them, and not about him.

He had the crowd eating out of his hand in two seconds, simply because he seemed to grasp something Elton John didn’t. Billy was there for us. He was playing for us. Elton, sadly, played at us. Elton was a performer, but Billy was an entertainer.

And at the end of the concert, Elton walked off the stage and refused to do the encore. So disappointing.

We’ve all met those kinds of people, the ones who ask you how you are, then immediately launch into a recitation of how they are. The people who self-aggrandize, who bang their chests and do everything to get people to notice them. The people who are desperate for any kind of attention, and will do whatever it takes to make sure they’re at the center of it all.

There’s a lesson to be taken away from this. We authors, for better or for worse, are public figures. There are expectations, and challenges, along the way. It’s a heady, heady experience to have people read your work and appreciate it, to gain fans, to entertain strangers. And it’s very easy to fall into the “me” mentality: to think your life, your work, your stories are more important, more entertaining, and more appreciated than anyone else’s at the table. To let your ego take over and run away with your reputation.

I just hope that no one ever comes away from a conference, or a panel, or a signing that I’ve participated in and think that I’ve pulled an Elton John. Give me Billy Joel any day.

And speaking of Mr. Joel, I am most definitely in a New York state of mind. Literally, and figuratively. As you read this, I’m traipsing the streets of Manhattan, one of my favorites cities in the whole world. Lots of events on the plate: meetings galore, signings, and hopefully, a night to ourselves to have a quiet meal and some good wine. I’d like to squeeze in an afternoon at MOMA, a trip up the Empire State Building, and if my ankle holds up, a walk through Central Park. So please don’t hold it against me if I don’t comment in a timely fashion.

Your questions for today -

What's the best concert you've ever seen? Why?

And what's your favorite city in the whole wide world???

Wine of the Week: Chateau Ross 2005 Big Bitch Red