I recently asked Echelon Press author Cyn Hyytinen for the answers to some questions about her writing career and she agreed to give me some answers. Here they are.
When someone asks you what kind of book do you write? What’s your answer?
(The famous elevator speech)
I usually say trashy crime thrillers which gets a smile, but I know that pisses off my publisher. When I say "trashy" I'm referring to bad language, lots of sex, and nasty immoral behavior. Being my stories are heavily involved with the Mafia and their wicked ways, that is a "given," right? My main character is a top-notch homicide detective with the Minneapolis Police Department. She approaches life in a pragmatic, no nonsense fashion as she deals with criminal minds and the undesirables. She gets the job done despite her own personal struggles: single mom, male-dominated workforce...
When did you know you were going to be a mystery writer?
I consider myself more of a thriller writer...edge-of-your-seat kind of stuff. Yes, there is mystery intertwined, but my novels certainly aren't who-done-its. I knew as soon as I began the writing process and was halfway through a romance manuscript which I discarded to start Pattern of Violence.
Tell us a little bit about your family background.
I am the youngest of 3 and have one older brother and one sister. I come from your typical hard-working middle-class family and was born and raised in La Crosse, Wisconsin. A Cheese-head.
What is your educational background?
I have a degree in computer science. Go figure...
Talk a bit about your present family situation.
I've been married 30 years to the same man (that in itself is a mystery). Just kidding. He is great and comes with me to all my events. He doubles as my body-guard and book carrier as well as chauffeur, best buddy and of course the best husband in the entire world. I have two wonderful sons, Nick who is 23 years old and Troy who is 17 years old. Oops, almost forgot to add, a Rat Terrier (Lucy) and three cats. We live in rural MN on a small fishing lake.
What did you read as a child?
I started out with Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon because that is what my older sister read. I was reading by the age of four. Once I entered elementary school, I came across a book in the library about witches in Salem, Massachusetts. Reading about the Salem witch trials was fascinating and crazy. They believed anyone with red hair was a witch and would throw them into the nearest lake or river to see if they'd float. It was kind of a lose-lose situation because if they sank they were not a witch (whew...), however, they drowned (major bummer). And if they floated, they were indeed a witch, fished out of the pond and burned at the stake. Yikes! That had me hooked. From then on, I went for the thriller-type books.
What’s your daily routine when you aren’t touring? Unfortunately, I have to go to work every day with a 1-hr commute each way. I work in a high-stress environment as an Enterprise Technical Consultant in the Command Center of a major insurance company. Weekends are spent writing whenever possible when I'm not busy doing family things and/or book gigs.
How much touring do you do?
Not enough, due to the day job and other time constraints. But I try to at least do 1 to 2 events/signings on a monthly basis.
What surprised you most about the writing community once you became a part of it?
How nice everyone was. I was pleasantly surprised that even the big names did not have big egos and were more than willing to discuss their craft with those of us who are struggling to make a name for ourselves--the great unknowns...
Whats the hardest thing about being an author?
Finding the time to write and promote and network all while working full-time and being a wife and mother.
Lets talk about promotion and marketing.
Do you blog? How frequently? Is your blog a group or single effort?
Rarely, I have a MySpace blog, but find it easier to post bulletins instead of blogging. There again is the time constraint. I'm gone 10 hrs a day, five days a week. If/when that ever changes, I will blog blog blog.
How frequently do you participate in book tours?
As often as possible, although not as much as I'd like.
Do you belong to an authors co-op for touring and promotion purposes?
Yes, our group, Booked 4 Murder (myself, Michael Allan Mallory, Marilyn Victor, Lois Greiman) does scheduled appearances at various venues.
How is that working out?
Great! We're all diligently working on getting more gigs. Plus I love our little group and would want to hang out with them anyway.
What kinds of events or signings do you do?
Libraries, bookstores, mystery clubs. Anyone who will have us.
In a typical year, how many events do you do?
We try for one per month minimally. The more, the better.
How many fan conferences such as Bouchercon will you typically attend in a year?
One or two due to expenses.
Any cons or workshops you recommend?
I recently attended Mayhem in the Midlands in Omaha, Nebraska. It was small, but informative and so much fun. The mystery dinner was a riot and I definitely plan on attending again next year.
Do you have a web site and/or other Internet places you routinely participate in, such as Good Books or Face Book or Twitter? List them.
My website is chyytinen.com and then there are the usual suspects--Myspace, Facebook, Linked-In, Authors Den, ITW....
Do you like to travel?
Yes, I love to travel and wish I was independently wealthey so I could quit my day job and tour all over the country promoting and selling my wares.
What surprised you the most when you became a published author?
How everyone thinks you've "made it" and are automatically rich and famous just because you're published. Wow...so not true.
Do you think you'll change direction in your writing? Produce a different kind of crime novel? If so, what might that be?
Definitely. My writing has changed and matured with each manuscript I write. When I finish what I'm currently working on I do have some new ideas to try on.
Especially since 9/11, how do you respond to the accusation that you are trying to make money on a phenomenon in society we call murder? Or heinous crime?
I shrug it off. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I write for entertainment--for my readers, as well as myself. Period.
If you could be anything else in the world, have any other career, what would it be?
A rock star.
What career would you least like to do, if writing stories was to become impossible?
Construction worker. I feel for those guys in the 90 degree heat on top of a roof laying shingles, plus I have an issue with high places.
Have you ever collaborated on a novel? Would you consider it?
Yes. I’m in an anthology - Heat of the Moment.
Who are the authors who you feel have had the most influence on your writing career.
Dean Koontz, Stephen King
Tell us one or two authors or books you absolutely universally recommend.
Dean Koontz, Alex Kava, Tami Hoag
Who is your favorite mystery author?
Dean Koontz.
Where do you want your career to go?
Up up and away.
To what organizations related to your writing career do you belong?
ITW, Authors Guild, SinC, Authors Den
Who is your publisher? What’s your current book?
Echelon Press. Pattern of Vengeance
Are you agented?
No.
What’s your take on the rise of electronic publishing?
I think it's great. I know it's very controversial right now, but I think it is definitely the wave the future and we should all get onboard before we miss the train.
What’s your favorite word?
Cataclysmic (but it changes daily)
What’s your least favorite word?
Yep.
If you could change one thing about the world what would that be?
More empathy for others.
Do you have any pithy (or other) words of advice for aspiring authors?
Never give up. If you love to write, keep writing. Good things come to those who persevere.
Tell us about your next or upcoming book or other project.
I am working on a novel which takes place in International Falls, MN/Voyageurs National Park. Mystery/suspense.
Showing posts with label Echelon Press. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Echelon Press. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Janice Halley Interview
This one is a reverse. She interviewed me
here's the link
http://research-writing-techniques.suite101.com/article.cfm/writers_rituals_carl_brookins
here's the link
http://research-writing-techniques.suite101.com/article.cfm/writers_rituals_carl_brookins
Friday, January 23, 2009
BLOODY HALLS: an excerpt
CHAPTER 1
You see, if you come an hour late,
you have to put up with cold meat
Later, when I’d had time to think about it, I realized it was those banging metal trash cans in the lobby that marked my initial entanglement in the Marshall affair. Sometimes, when I dream about those noisy trash cans, I wonder what might have happened if I’d followed my first instinct, left the rehearsal, and gone to the theater lobby while the killer was still there. That thought makes me sweat, sometimes, in the quiet dark of an early morning.
* * *
The day of the murder hadn’t been one of my better days. I’d stayed late in the college’s Office of Student Services because that’s what directors have to do to keep up with the workload. Now, well after the cocktail hour, I found myself in an uncomfortable seat, cold, bored, waiting. Waiting for my entrance in this creaky, drafty barn of a theater.
Weeks earlier I’d let my eagerness for the play get the better of my judgment. When the community theater group loosely associated with our college, City College of Minneapolis, announced they were going to produce Ibsen’s “Enemy of the People,” I couldn’t resist the opportunity. I happen to like Ibsen a lot. Here was my chance, I told my friend Lori, to really stretch myself. If I landed a part, even a bit part, what an experience! Ibsen. Wow! So I auditioned. And I got a part.
“Wonderful,” one would say. “Just what you wanted,” another will say.
“Rats,” I’ll say. It was a much bigger part than I ever anticipated. Not to put too fine a point on it, it was too much part for me. Besides, I knew it would take up most of what little free time I already hadn’t enough of. I should have declined, but I was the director’s first choice, so pride entered into the equation as well as opportunity, and I was lost.
Dr. Stockman. Enemy of the people. That was to be my role.
That had been weeks earlier. Now here I was, facing an obsessed director, Delton, he said his name was, a graduate student from the big university across town. The small college for which I labored had no theater department so the acting company usually hired a grad student from elsewhere. Funny, this same director, when he’d called to offer me the part, had seemed pleasant, logical, even charming. No longer. I was fast becoming convinced that this mere child of a director knew no more about Ibsen’s time and the dragons that drove the good Dr. Stockman than did that janitor, banging about in the lobby outside the auditorium doors at that moment.
What was it with that janitor? Didn’t he realize the noise would distract us? I finally rose from my seat, intending to go to the lobby and snuff out the continuing banging. I had almost reached the double doors when the noise stopped. Silence fell on stage at the same moment. I glanced back and realized most of those in the auditorium were looking at me, or more precisely, looking in my direction.
“Well, Marston?”
“Well, Delton?” I shot back. Quick, that’s me.
“I believe you have an entrance here,” the director growled.
“Ummm... right. Sorry.” I’d lost track of exactly where in the act we were when I started up the aisle toward the lobby. I was still curious about the now absent noises, but decided I’d better get on stage, playbook in hand. I trotted back toward the proscenium while Delton stalked off, deep in conversation with someone whose face I couldn’t quite see.
As I approached the stage, I was conscious of the people scattered throughout the big auditorium. There were actors, stage crew members, set and costume people. Some were alone, some in small groups. All eyes seemed to be on me, but I couldn’t positively identify everyone in the auditorium because the light was strongest from the stage, which threw many of their faces into shadow. The assistant director, a student whom I vaguely recalled from one of my counseling classes, fell into step just behind me and we made a short parade.
Because I was tardy for my entrance, everybody else had to wait. They didn’t like it, although no one said anything. They were unhappy because we’d learned by this time that director Delton ran long rehearsals and delays added to the time. You’d think the guy was directing professional, paid actors. Professional actors probably wouldn’t take the verbal abuse we’d already received, and it was still early in the rehearsal schedule. I found my place, did the scene, and we made it through Act I. It got on to eleven and just when I began to think Delton was going to have us start over or, worse, go on to the next act, he took a big, tired breath and kind of whooshed at us.
He stared slowly around at the assembled cast. That night he wore a frayed, shapeless green coat of some kind over a sweater and faded jeans. The coat might have been military surplus and it seemed to be about two sizes too large. His narrow shoulders slumped forward below his receding chin. He said, “Tomorrow night at seven, please. Do-not-be-late.” He punched the words for emphasis. Another thing about Delton I didn’t like was his eyes. At times they seemed to bore into you, as if there was a recording machine inside his skull instead of just a brain. Maybe that was just me. He’d made it clear from the start that he considered me a distraction to his art. It was unclear to me why he’d chosen me for the role of Dr. Stockman.
Dismissed, we collected our belongings and wandered through the backstage area, past old flats left over from God knew what ancient production. Backstage was a vast cavern inadequately lit by a few dim unshaded bulbs hung on long black snakes that descended from somewhere overhead. The grid of lights, sandbag weights, ropes and other trappings of live theater resided about twenty feet above us. The ceiling of the building was somewhere above that. We left in a group through a back door, into the cold November night, and somebody locked up. As I shrugged into my jacket and went out, I remembered the noises from the lobby.
The tiny space where we were allowed to park was just a narrow gap between the tall dark buildings. It felt oppressive, confining. I hunched my shoulders. I left my fellow thespians and turned the other way down the alley. I walked around the building to the marquee on Eighth and peered into the dark interior. Nothing. “All’s well that ends well,” I muttered aloud.
I didn’t try the doors. Later I wished I had.
The novel, first in what I hope is a long series of so-called academic crime novels, is published by Echelon Press and is available as a downloadable e-book from Fictionwise
I juste finished a scary book by Peter May, titled "Snakehead." It's pub. date in the US, from Poisoned Pen Press is February. I'll have a review up early next week.
You see, if you come an hour late,
you have to put up with cold meat
Later, when I’d had time to think about it, I realized it was those banging metal trash cans in the lobby that marked my initial entanglement in the Marshall affair. Sometimes, when I dream about those noisy trash cans, I wonder what might have happened if I’d followed my first instinct, left the rehearsal, and gone to the theater lobby while the killer was still there. That thought makes me sweat, sometimes, in the quiet dark of an early morning.
* * *
The day of the murder hadn’t been one of my better days. I’d stayed late in the college’s Office of Student Services because that’s what directors have to do to keep up with the workload. Now, well after the cocktail hour, I found myself in an uncomfortable seat, cold, bored, waiting. Waiting for my entrance in this creaky, drafty barn of a theater.
Weeks earlier I’d let my eagerness for the play get the better of my judgment. When the community theater group loosely associated with our college, City College of Minneapolis, announced they were going to produce Ibsen’s “Enemy of the People,” I couldn’t resist the opportunity. I happen to like Ibsen a lot. Here was my chance, I told my friend Lori, to really stretch myself. If I landed a part, even a bit part, what an experience! Ibsen. Wow! So I auditioned. And I got a part.
“Wonderful,” one would say. “Just what you wanted,” another will say.
“Rats,” I’ll say. It was a much bigger part than I ever anticipated. Not to put too fine a point on it, it was too much part for me. Besides, I knew it would take up most of what little free time I already hadn’t enough of. I should have declined, but I was the director’s first choice, so pride entered into the equation as well as opportunity, and I was lost.
Dr. Stockman. Enemy of the people. That was to be my role.
That had been weeks earlier. Now here I was, facing an obsessed director, Delton, he said his name was, a graduate student from the big university across town. The small college for which I labored had no theater department so the acting company usually hired a grad student from elsewhere. Funny, this same director, when he’d called to offer me the part, had seemed pleasant, logical, even charming. No longer. I was fast becoming convinced that this mere child of a director knew no more about Ibsen’s time and the dragons that drove the good Dr. Stockman than did that janitor, banging about in the lobby outside the auditorium doors at that moment.
What was it with that janitor? Didn’t he realize the noise would distract us? I finally rose from my seat, intending to go to the lobby and snuff out the continuing banging. I had almost reached the double doors when the noise stopped. Silence fell on stage at the same moment. I glanced back and realized most of those in the auditorium were looking at me, or more precisely, looking in my direction.
“Well, Marston?”
“Well, Delton?” I shot back. Quick, that’s me.
“I believe you have an entrance here,” the director growled.
“Ummm... right. Sorry.” I’d lost track of exactly where in the act we were when I started up the aisle toward the lobby. I was still curious about the now absent noises, but decided I’d better get on stage, playbook in hand. I trotted back toward the proscenium while Delton stalked off, deep in conversation with someone whose face I couldn’t quite see.
As I approached the stage, I was conscious of the people scattered throughout the big auditorium. There were actors, stage crew members, set and costume people. Some were alone, some in small groups. All eyes seemed to be on me, but I couldn’t positively identify everyone in the auditorium because the light was strongest from the stage, which threw many of their faces into shadow. The assistant director, a student whom I vaguely recalled from one of my counseling classes, fell into step just behind me and we made a short parade.
Because I was tardy for my entrance, everybody else had to wait. They didn’t like it, although no one said anything. They were unhappy because we’d learned by this time that director Delton ran long rehearsals and delays added to the time. You’d think the guy was directing professional, paid actors. Professional actors probably wouldn’t take the verbal abuse we’d already received, and it was still early in the rehearsal schedule. I found my place, did the scene, and we made it through Act I. It got on to eleven and just when I began to think Delton was going to have us start over or, worse, go on to the next act, he took a big, tired breath and kind of whooshed at us.
He stared slowly around at the assembled cast. That night he wore a frayed, shapeless green coat of some kind over a sweater and faded jeans. The coat might have been military surplus and it seemed to be about two sizes too large. His narrow shoulders slumped forward below his receding chin. He said, “Tomorrow night at seven, please. Do-not-be-late.” He punched the words for emphasis. Another thing about Delton I didn’t like was his eyes. At times they seemed to bore into you, as if there was a recording machine inside his skull instead of just a brain. Maybe that was just me. He’d made it clear from the start that he considered me a distraction to his art. It was unclear to me why he’d chosen me for the role of Dr. Stockman.
Dismissed, we collected our belongings and wandered through the backstage area, past old flats left over from God knew what ancient production. Backstage was a vast cavern inadequately lit by a few dim unshaded bulbs hung on long black snakes that descended from somewhere overhead. The grid of lights, sandbag weights, ropes and other trappings of live theater resided about twenty feet above us. The ceiling of the building was somewhere above that. We left in a group through a back door, into the cold November night, and somebody locked up. As I shrugged into my jacket and went out, I remembered the noises from the lobby.
The tiny space where we were allowed to park was just a narrow gap between the tall dark buildings. It felt oppressive, confining. I hunched my shoulders. I left my fellow thespians and turned the other way down the alley. I walked around the building to the marquee on Eighth and peered into the dark interior. Nothing. “All’s well that ends well,” I muttered aloud.
I didn’t try the doors. Later I wished I had.
The novel, first in what I hope is a long series of so-called academic crime novels, is published by Echelon Press and is available as a downloadable e-book from Fictionwise
I juste finished a scary book by Peter May, titled "Snakehead." It's pub. date in the US, from Poisoned Pen Press is February. I'll have a review up early next week.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
AFTER THE HOLDAY
Christmas is a memory.
I distributed fifteen copies of The Minnesota Crime Wave's audio anthology RESORT TO MURDER AUDIO to friends and family who didn’t yet have it. Unalloyed joy reigned. (yeah, right). I never get books as presents, either Christmas or birthday. People say, “we never know what to buy you.” When I give books, they always come with the proviso that either before or after reading, they should give the book to some deserving soul, or maybe to a retirement home or…”
I often give ARCs to retirement or hospice or hospital reading programs.
Whole wheat bread is rising in the proofing oven at the moment. Bread making when irked or frustrated about something is great therapy. Kneading bread is always a wonderful experience.
One wonders when—if ever—the Senate race in
I spent this morning (Sunday) watching and talking with (sort of) Peter May, a fine writer of thrilling mysteries. He was home in
He was introducing a world wide audience to his latest Enzo MacLeod story, Blacklight Blue. It’s an excellent third book in his second series. It’s published in the
I’ve just been elected to the board of the
There are interesting things happening with the whole e-book universe after years in neutral. Kindle and the new Sony reader seem to be the motivators. I think today any publisher and author ignores e-publishing at their peril.
My new sailing book with Mary Whitney and Michael Tanner, titled
I’ve read some fascinating new mysteries in the past few weeks. Here’s a review of another. It’s called Barbados Heat, by Don Bruns
ISBN 0312304927
November, 2003
Tock Tock, Tick tock. Like the sound of steel wheels over the gandy dancer’s rail joints, this novel rocks along. A Congressman is dead. He wanted to attack the Hip Hop and Rap music industry. He wanted to join his brother-in-law, the Reverend Joseph Evans in an attempt to rein in bad lyrics, violent lyrics, sexual lyrics. Now the congressman’s son, Nick, is charged with Congressman Shappley’s brutal murder. It’s said he’s in it up to his elbows along with Rap star, Chilli D, who may have been the triggerman. Chilli D’s producer, T-Beau wants to protect his investment so he calls on a music industry star, friend Mick Sever. Mick is already in
Tick Tock. Time is running on and readers may have the feeling they’re on a fast train going downhill. The whistle screams and the scenery goes by in a blur, leaving out whole pieces. There are complications. Sever, whom we last saw in the author’s debut novel, Jamaica Blue, calls in his divorced wife, Ginny to do research. Tension. Sever once had a childhood friendship with the accused Nick, the Congressman’s son. More tension. There are other family presences, not just in D.C. Tick Tock. Sever’s off to
Page by page Barbados Heat gathers speed. Tock tock. And just when you think you’ve got the characters and their relationships sorted out, even with the missing bits of action, the train roars around a sharp curve and carries you off in a new direction. Author Bruns is evolving a fresh and breathless style of pell mell writing that may be a little short on detail but long on action and thrills. Tick Tock.
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