Author Archives: Joe Moore

About Joe Moore

#1 Amazon and international bestselling author. Co-president emeritus, International Thriller Writers.

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

Posted on by

As neighbors go, I haven’t always been the most sociable–not in the Mr. Rogers, “I always wanted to have a neighbor just like you” kind of way. I don’t volunteer to organize block parties, update email and phone lists, any of the stuff that keeps people connected. I’m more one of those “If nominated, I will very reluctantly serve” kind of people. I don’t even remember the names of many of the people I’ve met at the annual block parties. (The one thing I do manage to do every year is to bring name tags, primarily so that I’m not embarrassed by not recalling the name of someone I’ve seen, at least once a year, for eight years now.)


But ever since I adopted my rescue Lab/Rotti mix, Macintosh, and started walking the streets twice a day, my outlook on neighbors has begun to change. We live in the charming but highly congested seaside village of Hermosa Beach in Southern California, where McMansions are packed cheek to jowl against small, aging beach cottages.


So as I’ve been walking down the street every day, I’ve gotten a much better feel for the neighbors. I know the retired SWAT officer who trains Rottweilers, and the family that never seems to be home because they’re always at their place up in Big Bear. I met another family when I found their gigantic white rabbit hopping around a garden. I gave it some carrots and water and kept it in our bathroom until I found out whose it was. (I loved my husband’s reaction after I called his cell phone to report that we had a large white rabbit locked in our bathroom. I’d just been diagnosed with hydrocephalus, a leaky brain fluid condition. He later confessed that he suspected I was hallucinating the rabbit, which I called Harvey, but whose actual name was Clover.}


For over a year I watched a double-wide McMansion being built on a corner that guaranteed it an ocean peek. (Around here, an ocean “peek” means you have a nice house. For an ocean “view”, we’re talking multiple millions). Finally the house was finished and landscaped. Last week I saw a Master-of-the-Universe type guy standing on the sidewalk outside the house, savoring his peek du mer. Mac was dragging behind me on his leash (he’s more of a supreme dawdler on walks.) Unfortunately when I wasn’t looking, Mac decided to hydrate the UMaster’s newly planted portofino plants. UMaster gave me a look of supreme disdain and said, “Please don’t allow your dog to do that.” Upon which I turned to Mac and said, “Please don’t water the gentleman’s shrubbery.” And on we went.


But most people are nice. I found out how nice they are, on Halloween. Mac and I are major magnets for off-leash dogs. On Sunday, he and I came upon a couple of guys with dogs, one of them a young Boxer off leash. Mac had a hard time in County lockup and doesn’t react well to off leash approaches, so I did my Dog Whisperer thing and put myself between the dogs to block. Turns out the Boxer had been following the men around for some time. We debated what to do. They found a leash from a lady who had leaned out her window to see what all the commotion was about. I decided the Boxer looked familiar–maybe it had escaped from a house near mine. We got the dog on the leash, and then we all trooped over to my neighbor’s house (I didn’t know the guy’s name, only that he has a Boxer.) We arrived at the guy’s house at the same time as Animal Control (which I’d called in a rash moment before instantly regretting it). So here we all descend on this guy’s house on Halloween–three dogs, two men, me, and the cops in a paddy wagon flashing blue lights. One of my guys pounds on my neighbor’s door.


“I hear a dog barking inside,” he says. Uh oh. Our Boxer must not belong to this house, then.


Then a pleasant but confused looking guy answers the door, along with his Boxer. He takes us all in. Meanwhile, I’m having a conversation with Animal Control. If they take him, the dog will go to “County,” which is tantamount to a death sentence. I’m panicking because I’ll face my own death sentence from DH if I bring one more animal home.


My neighbor–whose name is John, I now know–studies us for another moment, then says, “I could keep him for a while. I was thinking about getting a companion for Rocky, anyway.”


“You could name him Apollo, to go with Rocky the Boxer,” I suggested in a grateful tone.


We all left quickly after that. I got John’s contact number, and promised to put him in touch with my rescue group lady.


I was just blown away by the way this neighbor reacted so humanely after this pack of humans, dogs, and cops converged upon him like a Dogtown SWAT team.


Last night, I checked my email and found out that the wandering Boxer’s owners found him at John’s house and picked him up. Apollo’s real name is “Shake,” by the way.


Oh, and John is one neighbor whose name I won’t forget if I see him at the next block party.

Losing the Psychological Battle

Posted on by

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

I pride myself on being pretty upbeat and resilient most of the time, but now, I fear I am losing the psychological battle as I try to get some major revisions complete on my current WIP. I have a revised chapter outline, so I know where I am headed, and I even have the first 150 pages revised and polished…but now I feel as though I have psyched myself out of being able to finish the manuscript on the timeline I had planned. To be fair we have made a rather major move to a new (or should I say old) country but the transition has had a greater psychological impact than I expected – it’s made me question my ability to juggle my writing with being a mum.
Don’t worry I am not about to embark on a whine-fest or a ‘woe-is-me’ blog post but I am finding that I no longer have the confidence that I can find the time to get the revisions done before school holidays arrive. So what’s the big deal about the holidays, you ask?

Let me explain…The long summer break here in Australia falls over the holidays (duh! That’s when it is summer here) and this means my twin boys finish school on December 7 and do not return until February 2nd next year. Given the total absence of the concept of summer camp in Oz, this means I will be looking after my boys pretty much 24-7 – which mean writing is limited to the ‘after bed-time’ hours. So, as you can imagine, I really, really, really want to get the bulk of my revisions done by December 7th.
Normally I would view this kind of thing as another challenge and I would just tell myself to slather on the bum-glue and get down to it…but this time I suddenly find myself immobilized by the prospect. I’ve convinced myself I cannot get it done and the prospect of the manuscript revisions stretching out into February next year is depressing as hell.

So I could really do with some advice on how regain the upper hand in the psychological battle (with myself!) to get the manuscript finished. Any tips on how to un-psych myself out of this hole?
Otherwise, I fear you may be hearing a two month long scream of frustration all the way from Down Under…

The Great Semi-Colon Debate

Posted on by

by James Scott Bell

And you didn’t think there was one, did you?
Well, there is. At least I’m declaring it so, here and now.
When it comes to fiction, I think of semi-colons the way I think of eggplant: avoid at all costs. As Kurt Vonnegut once said, “Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons … All they do is show you’ve been to college.”
The semi-colon is a burp, a hiccup. It’s a drunk staggering out of the saloon at 2 a.m., grabbing your lapels on the way and asking you to listen to one more story.
Not that I have an opinion, you understand.
Okay, I’ll modify things a bit. For non-fiction, like essays and scholarly writing, the semi-colon does serve a purpose; I’ve used them myself. In such writings you’re often stringing two thoughts together for a larger point, and the semi-colon allows you to clue the reader in on this move.
But in fiction, you want each sentence to stand on its own, boldly. The semi-colon is an invitation to pause, to think twice, to look around in different directions, to wonder where the heck you’re standing. Do you want that? Or do you want your story to move?
The semi-colon is a stone that causes the reader to stumble.
Not that they’ll notice this on a conscious level. Most won’t think, “Why’d he use a semi-colon here? I’m being taken out of the story!” No, but it will have that very effect, on a subconscious level. It will weaken the reading experience in a small way. Not fatally, but why would you want even a small speed bump in your story?
The semi-colon is especially grating in dialogue:
“We must run to the fire,” Mary said. “It is going to burn the town; that is a disaster!”
What’s that semi-colon doing there? Is it making Mary’s dialogue stronger or weaker? Is it adding to the intensity of the moment or diluting it?
Semi-colons. For academics, yes. For novelists, no.
I’ll leave you with this clip from a poem entitled “On Punctuation” by Elizabeth Austen. You may then offer your own opinion on the great semi-colon debate!
 . . .as for the semi-
colon call it what it is

a period slumming
with the commas

a poser at the bar

feigning liberation with one hand

tightening the leash with the other
 . . .
“On Punctuation” by Elizabeth Austen, from The Girl Who Goes Alone. © Floating Bridge Press, 2010

Steel Teeth and Soft Thumbs

Posted on by

John Ramsey Miller

On Monday I went stupid for a split second and damn near lost my left thumb to the blade on my table saw, which was spinning at 4,000 RPMs. I’ve been using table saws all of my adult life and this is the first time I’ve drawn blood. I kept the thumb, but involved 17 stitches and I will long bear a greatly revised fingerprint and a lack of those nerves that tell a person what their thumb is discovering. At the time, I was working alone out at my place so I had no choice but to wrap a bandanna around the injury and drive myself the 25 miles to the hospital of my choice.

This Tuesday past I was scheduled to speak this week and so I had to wear something other than denim overalls and slip-on boots. Alone at home, I discovered that I had to iron a dress shirt, which is slightly harder with a thumb cocooned within a huge bandage. Then I had to button my shirt, tie my tie, and lace up my dress shoes with one thumb. I haven’t had so much trouble with tying a bow since I was five. After managing to do all of that, I had the pleasure of speaking to a group of fifty or so supporters of the library at a nearby college. I talked about my background and how I fell into my career, and how I do what I do. I ran through the old standards: developing characters, where my plots come from, the differences between mysteries and thrillers and then I went into ebooks and what seems to be the future of publishing. For instance, by 2014 ebooks should account for 25% of publishing income. I basically scared the crap out of the audience.

But the cool thing (and one of the points of this blathering) was I started my talk by holding up my Kindle, explaining how it works, how I can put a library inside it, and then placing it on the lectern and waking it up. After I was finished with the basics of my life and career, I told them what was happening with ebooks and the publishing industry. After my talk there was an hour and a half of questions. And I confessed that the points for the talk I had just given were on the Kindle screen. I emailed them to my kindle, and when I had covered the points on the screen I would just hit the “next page” button. The night before I was trying to decide if I would use note cards or wing it as I usually do, but this thumb thing requires stiff medication and that can fog the sharpest mind. I knew I could email my manuscripts into the creature, and so I went modern and emailed my notes to John’s Kindle, which has its own email address. Worked like a charm. But the entire time I was speaking, and glancing down, I swear the Kindle was breathing raspily and saying, “John, I am your father. Embrace the force. Love the technology.” Well, I guess I’ve gone over completely.

Page One . . . Again

Posted on by

By John Gilstrap
Threat Warning is in the can now (look for it next July), and now it’s time to get on with the next book in the Jonathan Grave series. I’m calling it Untitled Grave 4 for the time being, but I’m reasonably certain that I’ll come up with something more compelling before the pub date rolls around in 2012.

I know the basic bones of the story, and I’ve already mapped out the kick-ass final sequence in my head. Having spent all of July and August in a panicked writing frenzy (the price of procrastination), I harbor a dream of digging right into the story and hammering it out right away, delivering a finished manuscript a few months early, thus buying time to take a more leisurely pace on the book to follow that one. Recognizing that I wrote the last 300 pages of Threat Warning in about seven weeks, I should be able to have this next book finished by April and not even be out of breath.

I should be able to do that. So, why can’t I do that?

I think it’s because I don’t like me very much during the frenzied times. Every waking hour that I’m not dedicating to my Big Boy job is dedicated to the book. I’m not much of a husband or a friend during those times, and when the pressure is finally lifted, the pleasure of not writing—the pleasure of dinner table conversations and occasional nights out—is so overwhelming that I find it difficult to sit down and write again.

Thus far, I figure I’ve written about 200 words of the next opus. Soon enough, I’ll be pulled away to respond to the inevitable editorial letter for Threat Warning, and when that’s done it’ll be the Holidays, and shortly after that, two nights per week will be consumed by American Idol (yes, I’m a rabid fan), and then, come May, if this year mimics previous years, I’ll be about 200 pages behind the power curve, and the race to catch up will begin.

Come July and ThrillerFest and the release of Threat Warning, I’ll become impossibly distracted, and then the panic will begin again. I’m beginning to think that maybe I need the crippling pressure to be motivated. Is it really procrastination if you know it’s going to happen?

As I write this, I really hope that I’ll find a way to pace myself and write consistently and regularly, so that when summer rolls around next year, I’ll be able to enjoy it. In fact, that’s the plan.

I wonder if I’ll be able to make it happen . . .

One Life That Still Touches Me

Posted on by

I was remembering our old dog, Feliz, the other day after I had found her collar in a box and wanted to share something that I had written to get past the profound sorrow of losing her.

Feliz had passed from this life after sixteen years of sharing her love. And as we knew it would, her death broke our hearts. Grief manifests itself in many ways. We still hear the click of her nails on tile, still see her shadow at the door, and we still linger at the garage, waiting for her to show and claim a biscuit. All of these moments are products of our wishful thinking and old habits are hard to deny, but it’s amazing how well she trained us. And if Stephen King’s story in Pet Sematary were true, we’d gladly welcome her back to this life, even if she were the spawn of Satan. That’s how much we loved her. She would always enjoy her dog playpen. If you wanted to learn more about dog playpens check out this guide on dog playpens.

Her full name was Feliz Navidog. Yes, she was a Christmas present, but not for us. We had given her to my parents with the caveat that if they truly didn’t want a puppy, they could return her to us. And within two weeks, back she came. In hindsight, she was the best present we ever got. We nearly called her Boomerang, but in Spanish, the word Feliz translates to ‘happy’ and that suited her just fine. She always had a smile on her face.

When she was a pup, she had a dark muzzle, one ear up and one down, a curled tail and an unfaltering bounce to her step. People often asked us what breed she was. In truth, she was a German Shepherd Chow mix, but we lovingly called her a “Somma Dog”—because she was somma dis, somma dat. But one man’s mutt is another man’s idea of perfection.

And Feliz had many admirable skills, despite her questionable lineage.

She was a practitioner of puppy telepathy, transmitting her thoughts to us with a meaningful stare. And she spoke the language of human beings with unfailing accuracy, developing an extensive vocabulary. Balancing a biscuit on the end of her nose then tossing it into her mouth had become her signature move. And in later years, she mastered sign language when her hearing was failing. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? I remember we bought her one of the best dog strollers and used to push her around the village when she was getting older. I have such great memories of her.

And every morning of her life—without fail—she awoke for the sole purpose of pleasing us. We saw it in her face and felt it on her warm wet tongue. She never tired of the routine or the mundane, even after her joints got stiff and her eyesight grew dim—because in her mind, she was always that puppy with a bounce in her step. Luckily we had read some pet insurance reviews and bought some pet insurance, since vet bills can get pretty expensive. She was totally worth all the costs though.

Dogs remind us that love should be unconditional. And in their world, friendships begin with a well-placed and unerring sniff—completely devoid of an ulterior motive or personal agenda. If you pass the sniff test, you’re in. No cover charge and no membership fee. And with a mere wag of a tail, a dog can make you smile and lift your spirits. We can all learn from them—because their love comes from a higher place.

I’d love for you to share your pet stories. Do you have a favorite pet?

Refilling the Well

Posted on by

One of the authors at the recent Ninc conference said, “Don’t think of writing as draining your mental energy so you need to refill the creative well. Think of writing as recharging your batteries so that the more you write, the more you’ll want to write.”

In a way, this is true. Once you’re on a roll, it’s a glorious feeling. The story flows and you don’t want to stop or interrupt your train of thought.

But how about when you’re in between books? I’ve heard other writers say they write every day, or they take a week off and then start the next story.

Me, I’d rather take off a few weeks or more to catch up in all the things I put off when I’m on a project. I can keep going with one book after another for only so long. Eventually, I reach a saturation point where I feel as though I can’t write another word. I don’t want to sit at the computer in my writer’s cave every day while life passes me by. I’m not getting any younger.

Currently, I’m revising my WIP. It’s intense work because I don’t set a daily page quota. I start when I wake up and I quit when my brain feels fried. I need a break. A month or two looks good right about now. I’ll clean the office, sort files, catch up on emails, write blogs, go out to lunch, and go shopping. And I might even start plotting the next story. Once I do the character development and write the synopsis, I’ll be ready to roll again. In my view, this is part of the creative process.

It’s okay to keep the engine running but sometimes you need to shut it down for maintenance. It might turn on smoother from a fresh start. I know that I need a break after I’ve completed a few books. How about you?

When there’s nothing left to fear, you’re a writer

Posted on by

Clare’s post yesterday about writer indignities left me thinking about indignities in general, on both a macro and micro level.

First, a bit of background: I used to hold what John G. would call a Big Girl job. For years I worked at various multinational firms as a Senior Editor and Senior Writer. The jobs were non-creative, high pressure, and frankly, I would have loved to cast off the yoke of the workaday world. But with a high salary, two daughters in private schools, and a fickle stock market, I never felt brave enough to to sail through the front door one night announcing, “Honey, I quit my job!”  

For years I rode the IT roller coaster. At the height of the tech bubble, I gave myself a $15,000 raise in a single day by switching jobs. Then, globalization began to take hold. The employer that had given me the new job offshored our office to Canada, closing the U.S. facility. Take that, America!

While I was unemployed, I wrote the manuscript that became the first novel published under my own name (I’d previously written Nancy Drews under contract, but those didn’t pay that much. And of course, your name’s not on the cover.) I got a contract for a series from a Big House publisher.

Then one day I got an email from a former colleague asking if I was “available.” After considering quietly saying no without telling my husband, I gritted my teeth, responded “yes,” and soon began a new job at another firm, a huge software security firm.

Fast forward a few more years, and my new employer suddenly began making noises about how they poorly they viewed their American employees.  We cost more than our Indian and Chinese counterparts and we were less innovative, they told us in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. I watched people grow more and more frightened with each round of job cuts. The layoffs would inevitably take place just before the quarterly earnings came out. One day, the entire group that I worked with was laid off. (I was spared the ax that time by the random mercy of a dotted line on an org chart).

Speaking of indignities, my colleagues were forced to train their replacements from India. The Indian workers–who were lovely, incredibly polite and competent people, by the way–arrived in the office for their first day of training looking a little afraid of us, and who can blame them? Everyone handled the situation professionally, though, and the survivors carried on. We learned that the American office was now to be regarded as a small, centralized control center over a global workforce of lovely, incredibly polite and competent people in India and China. And wherever else labor could be had on the cheap.

But finally my day came. I got my severance, and I got to sail through the front door and announce, “Honey, I got laid off from my job!” I was gloriously happy–my husband perhaps a tad less so. So now I’m able to write full time without feeling guilty.

I’m relaying this story to illustrate something my dad always says: “In every crisis, there is a hidden opportunity.” (It’s the same concept as “Every cloud has a silver lining”, I guess, but because it avoids metaphor and my dad is an astrophysicist, his version always seemed more profound to me).

Years ago when I was a student at Wellesley College, I recall reading about some old economic theory. (I’m talking really old, as in hundreds of years). A famous person of that era, the Warren Buffet of his day perhaps, suggested that the only reason one worked hard to become a successful merchant, lawyer, or other professional was so that one’s children could afford to grow up and become artists.  Becoming an artist was the greatest aspiration and the most esteemed vocation possible, by implication.

So I think we may have come full circle.  Now that the multinational class rules the globe, and the “good” jobs with benefits are disappearing, the rest of us are being emancipated from our former wage-mongering selves. We are freer to become artists. In my case, that means I can finally claim my identity as a writer. Sans guilt.

Oh, and so far they haven’t figured out how to offshore artists. See? Told you there was a rainbow.

Writer Indignities

Posted on by

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

I know writers across the centuries have suffered many indignities – denigrated, banned, ignored, committed to asylums and marginalized – but thus far I have survived on the belief that times have changed (well, no one has committed me yet!). This weekend, however, I suffered my first real indignity. While I am sure for many people it would be a minor issue, for me it opened up a whole host of outrages. My husband went to our new Australian bank to open a term deposit and when he returned, bearing the completed paperwork, I saw listed under my occupation two words that chilled me to the bone. Those two words? Home Duties.

So I asked my husband, with just a hint of sarcasm, wasn’t there another occupation that could possible reflect what I do…I don’t know, ‘writer’, perhaps?…He turned his startled, deer-in-the headlight eyes to mine and tried to explain how he had told the bank that I was a full-time writer, but apparently being listed as ‘self-employed (which I guess was the only category they had) opened up a whole can of worms regarding verifying income etc. So for the sake of ease, they opted to use the term ‘home duties’…because of course, in Australia, what else would any self-respecting married female writer wish to do?!
I suspect you may be able to detect my feelings on this matter – not that I have anything against those who wish to list ‘home duties’ as their occupation – it’s just that that isn’t how I define myself.
Now maybe I wouldn’t be so sensitive about the issue had I not once been a lawyer who earned more than her husband (funny, I was never listed as ‘breadwinner’ on any bank forms then) or had I not recently moved to a country which seems to be imbued with a Mad Men view of women (I will blog/rant about that another time), but as it stands, I feel pretty indignant. I know the view of a bank is hardly indicative of the real value of anyone’s occupation, but still it made me feel as though my writing was little more than a hobby. I was waiting for the bank manager to phone me up and suggest I take up knitting and macrame in my spare time.

So what about you? Have you suffered any similar indignities as you try to convince the world that writer is actually an occupation and (dare I say it) a pretty valuable one, regardless of its income potential (or lack thereof!)?

The First Line Game

Posted on by

James Scott Bell

A number of my novelist friends share an e-mail loop, and from time to time we put up the first lines of our WIPs. It’s always fun to strut our stuff and see what others are doing.
First lines can also be an idea generator. Dean Koontz, in his book How to Write Best Selling Fiction (1981), told how he used to do this all the time, in order to find material. One day he wrote this:
“You ever killed anything?” Roy asked.
He stared at it awhile, then decided Roy was fourteen and talking to a younger boy. And from that one line he developed what became The Voice of the Night.
Joseph Heller wrote this line, without knowing anything else: In the office in which I work there are five people of whom I am afraid. This became the genesis of his massive satirical novel, Something Happened. (The line was moved further in by Heller once the book was finished, but it was the line itself that suggested the larger work).
I was at Bouchercon last week, in a good place because I had just submitted my manuscript to my editor. I am about to begin another novel, so sitting in the hotel lobby one afternoon, I was “in between.” I took out my notebook and wrote this line:
He had loved her since she was six years old.
Now, that is not my usual style, and it has the word had in it, which I would normally try to eschew. But that’s what I wrote. Then I kept on writing, to find out what the scene was about. When I got to the end of the page I had made two startling discoveries, both of which I’ll keep to myself as I may actually want to write this thing!
It is very cool to find ideas this way. Do you ever do that?
Okay, if you’re a writer, do you want to share the first line of your WIP?
If not, what is a favorite first line from a recent book you read?