With Love, From Me, To You
With Love, From Me, To You
Twenty years ago this month, I published my first novel, Baltimore Blues. It was a paperback original, so advance reviews were scarce. However, Publishers Weekly was kind enough to review it before publication. (Please note: There is no sarcasm in the foregoing sentence.)
The review, in its entirety, read:
Downsized ex-reporter Tess Monaghan spends her days working part-time at the bookstore owned by sexy Aunt Kitty and trying not to fall into the disgustingly polluted Patapsco from her city-owned boat. When rowing buddy Rocky pays her what looks like a fortune to follow his fiancé, the trail leads to murder with Rocky the prime suspect. "Uneven" is the word for this first novel-hometown and newspaper backgrounds are alive from page one, but characters are cartoons until chapter 15 (out of 30) when Tess investigates the victim. Suddenly the story perks up to a believable pageturner. If Lippman continues the promise of the second half of Baltimore Blues while adhering to advice attributed to Elmore Leonard to cut out the parts people won't read, mystery fans can anticipate an engrossing series.
One small point: the character was "Rock," not Rocky. And I'm not sure I ever learned to cut out the parts that people won't read -- I have this obsession with explaining the history of the Baltimore Bullets/Washington Bullets/Washington Wizards. But as I readily tell everyone: "Tess and I both got better at our jobs." Characters cartoonish until midway through the book? I'd probably say I struggled with creating three-dimensional villains for several more books.
I am often asked if I'm insulted when people tell me my books got better. I parry: What are the options?
You can get better.
You can get worse.
You can be wildly uneven.
You can be absolutely static.
If my public trajectory is one of steady, book-to-book improvement -- I'm fine with that. I'm that relatively rare novelist without a book in my drawer. (So far.) (Knock wood.) I write, they publish, and here I am, twenty-two books in, with #23 arriving a year from now. I grew up in public, sort of like, say, Jerry O'Connell.
It seems a little defensive to note that Baltimore Blues was nominated for a Shamus Award (for PI fiction). Or that my second book, Charm City, was nominated for three awards and won two, including an Edgar, the so-called Oscar of crime fiction. (That book, too, broke one of Elmore Leonard's rules by beginning with a description of the weather.) Overall, I've been nominated for more than 50 awards and won at least 20. No humble brag here, just brag-brag -- no one seems able to come up with a definitive list of my awards, not even my mother, not that she's trying that hard. There are a lot of crime fiction awards given and I've won most of them. I'm unabashedly proud of this fact.
But you know who gets the credit for my career? You, dear reader, for sticking with me. This February, as the trade paperback of my 21st novel is published on Valentine's Day, please consider this my Valentine to you. Because readers are the only reason I'm standing here. Readers have given me everything. Freedom from my day job, a life that allows me to be a late-in-life mom, travel throughout the United States and to the UK, Ireland, Germany, Italy and places I'm probably forgetting. It's like I'm playing Mystery Date and you, dear reader, are this guy:
What do you say we go for another twenty? I'm in if you are. Meanwhile, watch my social media threads for a chance to win a very cool Valentine.
Laura Lippman
February 2017