Nicholson Baker Talks Poetry

Can a novel capture contemporary poetry’s (dour, curmudgeonly) zeitgeist?

Nicholson Baker interviewed by Jesse Nathan
Poetry Media Services

Paul Chowder—the protagonist of Baker’s latest novel, The Anthologist—is a minor poet. He writes forgettable verse. He is deeply enamored of rhyme and meter. He is suspicious of the waves of free verse that have flooded the last one hundred years of literary history.
The novel that unfolds centers on Chowder’s quest to finish a long-overdue introduction to an anthology of rhyming poetry he’s editing.
I called Nick at his home in Maine to have a conversation about all this. What follows is what followed.

Jesse Nathan: Why a novel?

Nicholson Baker: Because some lines of poetry make me happy. How do you capture that pleasure? A novel lets you write sloppily about the things you love. You can be as selective as you want to. It’s very freeing, and it’s truer to the way poems live in the mind.

JN: Poetry is the art form you can carry in your head, and you can give it to somebody by opening your mouth and reciting, or you can say a line aloud to yourself in an empty hayloft. You can’t do that with any other art form.

NB: It’s true. You can’t carry around a Turner landscape and recite bits of it. You can hum a Brahms piano piece, but it isn’t the same.

JN: Paul Chowder says there’s too much poetry being written.

NB: It’s a feeling of simple unmanageability. So many poems every year. And the fearful onslaught of this much production, combined with the knowledge that you can’t possibly know where to find the gems, can be overwhelming. You need to find a rock and sit still for a bit.

JN: Paul Chowder is alarmingly normal. Is he too normal to be a great poet?

NB: I think that’s his deep fear. And it’s certainly—well, how much to say?—it has certainly been a worry of my own. He thinks that to be a great poet, you have to have a life marred by some kind of great . . .

JN: Pain?

NB: Pain, yes. But of course he’s wrong. It’s a fallacy. Even if he were in terrible pain, it wouldn’t guarantee that he had what it took to be a great poet.

JN: Why does so much American verse sound like it’s been translated from another language?

NB: Maybe it’s that certain poems are looking for some identifying plumage in order to say, “I’m a poem. I may be read aloud and then you won’t be able to see any of the oddities of my layout, but still I am a poem, I am speaking to you with a recognizably translated-sounding accent.” It’s kind of what happened to Poe. If you read “The Bells” or “The Raven,” I mean, it’s just a chocolate-covered cherry of lyricism, it’s so sweet. And then people like Mallarmé seized on those poems and translated them into beautiful pure French prose, and that de-rhymed prose fed back into American Modernist poetry. I think it was Alice Corbin Henderson in Poetry, way back when, who first wrote about that phenomenon: Poe in French translation fueled Modernism in English.

JN: Has poetry been important to your novel-writing?

NB: Yes, poetry taught me to write prose. I don’t have the talent to be a poet, and that’s a disappointment, of course, but there are other ways to put truths down on the page. So I felt that I could recover from the shock.

JN: Paul Chowder meditates on Marinetti, the Italian poet and the father of Futurism, and he describes the way Marinetti’s writing made a fetish of destruction, and how it emphasized the need for hardness and coldness and machinelike attitudes toward everything.

NB: Right, and this in turn so obviously overstimulated people like Ezra Pound and Benito Mussolini—and I’m sure you can take it too far almost instantly, because there are a lot of other reasons why huge, horrifying political movements arise, but at the very beginning there’s Marinetti.

JN: Paul very directly traces Marinetti’s ideas to the rise of fascism.

NB: And in some ways the question about the violent beginnings of Modernism is answered directly, because during the war Ezra Pound went even further off the deep end than Marinetti ever had.

JN: What is the question at the beginning of Modernism?

NB: What’s the energy that motivates us? Is it the energy to make new, or is it simply the desire to break? If it’s just to break, if it’s just hostility, then it doesn’t get you very far. And in Marinetti and Pound there’s an awful lot of hostility, and a bossiness, of insisting that your way is the right way. A really good poem makes its case without making its case. It doesn’t insist that its way is the only way. That’s what’s so beautiful about “The Fish,” by Elizabeth Bishop. She just bends over the fish and looks it in the eye and then lets it go. Her description of what happened is just one description. She’s not insisting on something big. She’s not a manifesto writer. She’s a letter writer. Those are the two antipodes of Modernism, I think: manifestoes versus letters. A letter is anchored in a single day and is to a particular person and is not attempting to change anything.

Jesse Nathan is an associate editor at McSweeney’s Publishing in San Francisco, managing editor of the Best American Nonrequired Reading, and a contributing editor at theRumpus.net. His writing has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Tin House, Adbusters, and elsewhere. This article first appeared at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/.

Distributed by the Poetry Foundation.

Noche de Cita – a poem under construction

These are just my rough notes. I'm still adding to them. I intend to deconstruct and recononstruct in a more formalized poetic format.


Noche de Cita
(Date Night)
I’ve been drinking and I’m in love.
We’re nestled in the corner of the restaurante, sitting on straight back chairs flanking a small table set for two. Jalapeño peppers in green neon flicker against the ochre yellow wall behind you.
I sweep the beer bottles aside and reach across the table for your hand and give a tawdry wink. I think I’m being sexy. You are too gracious to laugh. Luscious lips form a knowing smile and you lower your gaze like an embarrassed schoolgirl.
Someone enters the restaurant and you lift your head to see if it’s someone we know.
I crave your regal neck in that moment. I imagine the faintly salty taste of your flesh with lemon and tequila. I am filled with agave and desire.
Our waitress returns and I lean back and finish my beer while she buses our table, removing plates smeared with red salsa and guacamole and littered with taco shards and lettuce and diced tomatoes and shredded yellow cheese.
She asks if I want something else. Dessert perhaps?
“Dos cervezas más,” I say, winking.
You cancel the order, saying we’ve had enough. You’re right, of course, but I want to stay where I am, bathed in the light of green neon jalapeños and red chili peppers, with cervezas and tequila coursing through my blood. I plead like a child resisting bedtime. You clasp my hand and look deeply into my eyes and wink.
I’ve been drinking and I’m in love.

Copyright 2011 Donald G. Redman All Rights Reserved

"Train" ... a story under contruction

The following is the first draft of a novella I’m currently writing. Well, I think it’ll be a novella. I’m working from a rough outline I wrote after awaking from a dream. I plan to publish excerpts of the story as it evolves. I have absolutely no idea for a working title, so for now I’m filing it simply as “Train.”...

Leonard Morris glanced up at the clock on the wall and then removed a pocket watch from his vest. He lifted his spectacles from his nose to read the watch face and determined that the two timepieces jived with one another. No doubt about it, the train was late – again!

He was not waiting to catch the train, in fact, Leonard Morris had never ridden on a train before, nor was he expecting anyone special to arrive by train, nor was he waiting for a delivery of any sort. No, Leonard Morris was simply a man who liked things to be in order. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” and so on....
On his fortieth birthday, after taking much ridicule for his lack of spontaneity, Leonard proclaimed to a gathering of his friends that he would henceforth adopt a devil-may-care attitude, and then he abruptly bade everyone a goodnight; it was nine o’clock after all, and a week night to boot.
The evening of his fortieth birthday nevertheless did have an impact on him and after much internal reflection, Leonard Morris vowed to be more spontaneous. Energized by the thought of adding more gusto to his otherwise tidy life, Leonard promptly set out to map, chart and schedule impromptu excursions like hikes up the mountain, trips to the zoo, spending sprees at the library’s used book sale and such. The calendar chock full of excitement, Leonard Morris was smugly satisfied that if he ever got the impulse to do something spontaneous, say on the eighteenth of March, he would be prepared for it.
It just so happened that on the eighteenth of March, which was just days away, Leonard had planned to spontaneously attend Lee Valley’s annual Spring Fling. For the occasion, he had dropped off his custom-made dancing boots at Tyler & Sons for resoling. They were due to be picked up that day, and Leonard quietly hoped that the cobblers did not operate their business like the Timberland Railroad Company of late.
“No way to run a railroad,” Leonard said out loud while returning the watch to his vest pocket. There was no one in the office to hear his complaint; it was Monday and his secretary Agnes, the only other person who occupied the office with Leonard, was at the post office collecting the mail.
It was a half past the hour, a sufficient passage of time, Leonard surmised, that freed him to grouse about the train being late without looking petulant. He had once overheard Agnes describe him to someone over the phone as “petty.” She was obviously still sore for being docked in pay after arriving fifteen minutes late to work, but it nonetheless hurt Leonard’s pride to be so summarily dismissed as a pettifogger. He was fastidious, perhaps, even persnickety, but never petty.
Leonard arose from behind his heavy, oak desk and grabbed his gabardine jacket and black fedora from the hall tree. He didn’t normally take a coffee break this early in the morning, but unexpected rains had dashed his impromptu hike through the forest and so he spent the weekend completing piles of paperwork, leaving him with very little to do at the moment. Besides, no one would ever imagine that he would show up at the Blue Mountain Coffeehouse before ten o’clock, and although it felt a bit scandalous, that was, after all, the whole point of being spontaneous.
He picked up a clock-shaped sign reading, “Will return,” and moved the little clock hands to 10:00 and placed it in the window where customers could read it. He gently shut the glass pane door to his office behind him and walked north on the sidewalk, passing Gloria’s Morning Glory flower shop. Gloria was at that moment attaching a flyer to the inside of her storefront window reminding customers that the annual Spring Fling was quickly approaching and that gentlemen may want to consider ordering corsages now for their dates.
“Morning, Gloria,” Leonard said, tipping his hat to florist. She smiled and mouthed something, but Leonard couldn’t hear it because of the glass separating them, but he was confident she was just responding to the greeting and walked onward.
Gloria’s voice from behind stopped him. “Leonard? Leonard?” she called out. He turned to face her. “Where are you going, Leonard?” she asked.
He was caught by surprise by such a question. “Why, I am going to get a cup of coffee.”
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked.
“I most certainly do,” Leonard said indignantly. He spun around and walked briskly to the corner of the block where he found the elderly Lars Jensen sweeping the entranceway to Jensen’s Hardware. Mr. Jensen was humming lightly to himself while he swept, his hunched back turned toward Leonard.
“Good morning, Mr. Jensen,” said Leonard.
“Whoa! Good grief, my boy!” said Mr. Jensen with a jump. “You scared me half to death, Leonard. What are you doing sneaking up on people?”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on any one, Mr. Jensen. I’m sorry I startled you, but I was on my way to the Blue Mountain and I saw you there and I only wanted to tell you good morning.”
“The Blue Mountain? It’s time for your coffee break already?” Mr. Jensen asked. “I must have got caught up in a daydream or something. I hope I’m not coming down with that Old Timers disease. What time is it anyway?”
“You’re not suffering from Old Timers, Mr. Jensen. I simply decided to break for coffee early, that’s all,” Leonard said, trying to keep a smile on his face.
“Well if that don’t beat all,” said Mr. Jensen. “I never took you for a loafer, but I guess you never really know people.”
Leonard’s smile slipped completely off his face. “I am not a loafer,” he said.
“It’s none of my business, Leonard,” Mr. Jensen said. “You can spend the whole day drinking coffee if you want and it won’t mean a thing to me. It’s a free country. But I have to tell you, I’m really disappointed in you, Leonard. All these years you’ve taken your coffee breaks exactly at ten in the morning and again at two in the afternoon. Just like clockwork. You used to be a hard worker, but now all of a sudden you’re taking a break whenever you feel like it, sneaking up on people...”
“I was not sneaking,” Leonard said.
“... scaring the wits out of folks. I think maybe you’re going through some sort of phase or something. It that it, Leonard? Are you going through the Middle Ages or something?”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Jensen,” Leonard said with a nod of his head. He turned and walked across East Main Street, stepped over the railroad tracks, and crossed West Main Street to reach another row of businesses.
It had always been to Leonard Morris’ considerable consternation that the founders of Lee Valley had decided to run a railroad right down the very center of town. The town’s main street was in effect two narrow roads bordering either side of the tracks, with East Main Street on one side and West Main Street on the other. They were one way streets: East Main Street ran north and West Main Street headed south. Of course, Leonard had complained in the past to other townsfolk, but they had merely shrugged their shoulders and sighed, “What can you do?”

Copyright Donald G. Redman 2011 All rights reserved

"A Song for December" -- by Donald G. Redman

A Song for December
by Donald G. Redman

“Turn it up, daddy!” she pleaded
as I pulled into the driveway.
Her “favorite” song was on the radio.
She has a million favorite songs.
I turned the volume up and eased the truck
to a stop and placed the gearshift in park.
“Wait!” she cried as I reached for the keys.
She wanted us to stay
until the song was over.
I turned the headlights off
and the night swallowed us whole.
I killed the engine but
left the radio on
so she could sing her
duet with Taylor Swift.
She sang with the abandon
only a nine-year-old can do –
unashamedly and without pretense.
She glanced up at me and smiled,
then closed her eyes to block me out
so I wouldn’t ruin the moment.
The cab was bathed
in the soft blue light of the radio.
The music was loud and my little girl
was singing her heart out.
And so was Taylor Swift:
“I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright
I go back to December all the time...”
I wanted us to remain forever in that moment –
huddled together inside the truck
on a cold, moonless December night,
listening to music and singing.
But all too suddenly the concert was over.
The stage went black.
It was time to go home.
She opened her eyes, smiled
and hopped out of the truck.
I turned the radio off, grabbed the keys
and silently entered the house.
As time moves me further away from that night
I hope I’ll be able to find my way back
to the cab of that truck
and find my girl there
singing her little heart out.
If I could
I’d go back to December all the time.

 
Copyright 2011 Donald G. Redman All rights reserved

Writing in the open continued...

OK, here's a follow-up to yesterday's posting... a poem under construction now tentatively called December's Song:

“Turn it up, daddy!” she pleaded
as I pulled into the driveway.
Her “favorite” song was on the radio.
She has a million favorite songs.
I turned the volume up and eased the truck
to a stop and placed the gearshift in park.
“Wait!” she cried as I reached for the keys.
She wanted me to stay
until the song was over.
I turned the headlights off
and the night swallowed us whole. (move)
I and killed the engine but
let the radio keep playing
(insert) left the radio on
so she could sing her
duet with Taylor Swift.
She sang with the abandon
only a nine-year-old can do –
unashamedly and without pretense.
She glanced up at me and smiled,
then closed her eyes to block me out
so as not to ruin the moment.
(insert) Outside, the night swallowed us whole
but inside, the cab was bathed
in the soft blue light of the radio.
The music was loud and my little girl
was singing her heart out
and so was Taylor Swift:
“I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright
I go back to December all the time...”
I wanted us to remain forever just like we were –
huddled together under a
cold, moonless December sky,
listening to music and singing.
But all too suddenly the concert was over.
The stage went black and it was time to go home.
She opened her eyes, smiled and hopped out of the truck.
I turned the radio off, grabbed the keys
and silently went inside.
As time moves me further away from that night
I hope I’ll be able to find my way back
to the cab of that truck
and find my girl there
singing her little heart out.
If I could
I’d go back to December all the time.

Copyright 2011 Donald G. Redman All Rights Reserved

Writing out in the open

I find myself once again struggling to fulfill my commitment to create out in the open. It really is messy and unflattering. But here I go with my first rough draft of a poem tentatively called Heart Song...

We were pulling into the driveway
when my little girl squealed with delight –
her “favorite” song had just come on the radio.
She has by my estimation a million favorite songs.
She asked me to turn the volume up.
I did.
I rolled to a stop and shoved the gearshift in park
and turned off the headlights and killed the engine
so I could hear her duet with Taylor Swift.
She sang with the abandon only a nine-year-old can do –
unashamedly and without pretense.
I marveled at how well she knew the lyrics
and leaned back and watched and soaked in the moment
like a sunbather sops up sunrays.
We all have those times in our lives when we just intuitively know
something special is happening – little moments worth a king’s treasure,
like when you hold your child’s hand or share the dawn with friends.
I knew this was one of those moments.
The cab was bathed in the soft blue light of the radio.
The music was loud and my little girl was singing her heart out –
and so was Taylor Swift:
“I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright
I go back to December all the time...”
We sat for a half hour or more,
huddled together in the cab of the pickup truck
under a cold, black-velvet December sky, listening to music and singing.
As time moves me away from here
I hope I’ll be able to find my way back to the cab of that truck
and find my girl there, singing her little heart out.
If I could
I’d go back to that December all the time.

 
Copyright 2011 Donald G. Redman All rights reserved

A Passion of Crime



Susan D. Mustafa lives and writes in Baton Rouge, Louisiana


An Interview with Writer Susan D. Mustafa

  

Susan D. Mustafa loves a good time. Her eyes literally sparkle when she smiles and her infectious laughter quickly spreads across the room until everyone is laughing with her. A petite woman standing slightly more than 5-feet tall, Susan is a real dynamo with a passion for music... and murder.

 A long-time entertainment journalist, general assignment freelancer, and magazine managing editor, Susan virtually stumbled into a whole new career as a writer of true crime books when Special Prosecutor Tony Clayton tabbed her to co-write the true accounts behind the investigation and ultimate capture and conviction of Baton Rouge area serial killer Derrick Todd Lee. The result was Blood Bath, a gripping, unflinching look into the twisted mind of a psychopath and the brutal slayings of his beautiful victims and the bungled police work that allowed the killer to operate under the radar.

She’s following that up this summer with another true crime book, co-authored with Sue Israel, titled Dismembered, about serial killer Sean Vincent Gillis. Slated for publication July 5, 2011, this one comes with a warning from the publisher that it may be too gruesome for some readers.

And between writing her first attempt at fiction – tentatively called The Crescent City Killer – Susan is researching her next true crime book featuring a pack of killers, Daniel and Michael Garcia and James Nelson II.

The Redman Writing Project (RWP) recently reached out to Susan for an interview, to which she graciously agreed:

RWP: You have a new book coming out July 5, 2011. Tell us about it...

Susan D. Mustafa: The name of the new book is Dismembered, and it is the true story of serial killer Sean Vincent Gillis, who confessed to the gruesome deaths and mutilations of eight women in Louisiana. The information provided in this book may be difficult for some readers to deal with because this sociopath was a very sick man who enjoyed not only the killing, but he especially enjoyed what he did with the victims’ bodies after they were dead. It is so gruesome at times that Kensington Books, my publisher, put a warning on the back cover. However, it is also a unique look into the mind of a serial killer, and parts of the story are told in his own words.

RWP: What was the biggest challenge you faced writing it?

Susan D. Mustafa: The biggest challenge with writing any true crime book is the extensive research involved. It takes more than a year to collect all of the information necessary, which includes interviews with family members, friends, detectives, etc. It also involves sitting through trials and sifting through a mountain of police reports and other relevant material.

RWP: From beginning to end, how long did it take you to write? How many re-writes?

Susan D. Mustafa: For me, the research is the most time-consuming part. While writing, I have to constantly stop to look up this fact or that. This book took about three months to write. When I finish, I give it to my writing partner, Sue Israel, who edits it and makes suggestions. I then make her suggested corrections or revisions before turning it in to my publisher.

RWP: What was the biggest lesson you learned while writing your first book?

Susan D. Mustafa: The biggest lesson I learned while writing Blood Bath was the importance of researching every aspect of the murders, the killer and the victims. It is very important to make sure that all of the facts are correct, so that you will be able to produce an accurate version of events as they happened. In true crime, you have to connect the dots, so to speak, so you must be have intimate knowledge of your subjects to be able to do that accurately.

RWP: We hear you’re also writing a fiction thriller. What is the inspiration behind it and what can you tell us about it?

Susan D. Mustafa: This is my first attempt at fiction writing, and I’m very excited about it. I actually dreamed the plot, got up the next morning and started writing. I’ve never thought about writing fiction before so this came as a surprise, but I’m enjoying it immensely. I’m about a quarter of the way through, and surprisingly, it is coming along quickly. I’ve learned that it’s much easier to write serial killer fiction than it is to write true crime because I don’t have to do as much research or stop to check facts because it’s all coming out of my head. I’ve given it the working title of The Crescent City Killer because it’s set in the French Quarter. I’m really enjoying writing about New Orleans because I love the city so much.

RWP: How do you write? Not just mechanically (long-hand or on the computer), but do you create elaborate outlines or thin sketches? Do you create biographies for each of your characters? Do you already know how it ends?

Susan D. Mustafa: When writing true crime, I don’t have to create elaborate outlines because of the amount of research I do. I simply tell the story in chronological order from the killer’s childhood to adulthood to capture and trial, and the victims’ lives and deaths from first to last. Because so much research is involved, I already know what I will write about each victim before I start. I wait until all of the research is complete before I start writing. I do, however, write an outline of each chapter to give to my publisher before I write the book to make sure the publisher wants the book. I don’t necessarily know how all of the book will be written, but I just let it go where the story dictates if that makes sense.

With fiction, I just sit down at my computer and start typing. I don’t know from chapter to chapter what will happen next. I just go where the story leads and hope for the best. If I don’t like where it’s going, I delete what I don’t like and try something else.

RWP: Many writers will tell you that there is a particular time of the day they feel they are most creative and do most of their writing. When do you do the bulk of your writing?

Susan D. Mustafa: I do most of my writing at night and am most creative around midnight. However, considering the subject matter I work with, night time is probably not the best time for most people to do this sort of work. It gets difficult sometimes, and I have nightmares when I am in the process of writing these books.

RWP: What is the most difficult aspect of writing for you?

Susan D. Mustafa: I think I’m very lucky in that writing comes so naturally to me. I am a procrastinator, though, and have a bad habit of waiting until the last moment and then rushing to meet my deadline. I like to think I write better under pressure. At least that’s what I tell myself to excuse my procrastination.

RWP: What are your interests? How do you incorporate your interests into your writing or how have they influenced your writing?

Susan D. Mustafa: Writing true crime can be very disturbing because the material is so dark, so I like to immerse myself in things like art and books and music. I love the blues and enjoy having my musician friends over for impromptu jam sessions. Walking through the French Quarter and experiencing the culture of the area is always a lot of fun for me, so I’m incorporating some of that culture into my novel. I also enjoy spending a lot of time with my family because we always have a lot of fun together. They keep me laughing, which is a wonderful thing when I’m researching a serial killer.
As a writer, I think all of my interests and experiences influence the way I write. How I choose to tell a story, what facts I focus on, how I express the emotions of others, it all stems from what I feel and what I find interesting… to a degree. Two people can tell the same story in entirely different ways, and that’s a result of the writers’ personalities and interests and what each writer deems important.

RWP: Let’s step back in time briefly and find out your earliest writing experiences. Did you write for the high school newspaper and did you keep a journal? Did you enter any writing or poetry contests in school? What did you do to foster the writing bug?

Susan D. Mustafa: As a teenager, I did write poetry, but it was awful, filled with the angst of being a teenage girl. I did not really begin writing seriously until I moved to Baton Rouge in 2000, although I always knew I could write and hoped to write a book one day.

RWP: At what point did you decide you wanted to be a writer? Was there one teacher, one influence or was it just an accumulation of events?

Susan D. Mustafa: When I attended (Southeastern Louisiana University), my journalism professor, Dr. Joseph Mirando, was a huge influence on my life. He believed I had talent and was really hard on me, demanding my best in everything I wrote. He taught me how to research and the importance of writing interestingly and accurately. I really became interested in writing while attending college and began my career the year after I graduated.
(RWP Note: Susan holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Mass Communication and Journalism from Southeastern Louisiana University in Hammond, Louisiana.)

RWP: How did you get your first start? What was your first published piece?

Susan D. Mustafa: My writing partner and editor, Sue Israel, gave me my first writing job at a magazine in Baton Rouge—City Social. She assigned me to write about people who go skiing in Colorado for Mardi Gras. That was my first published story. Because she liked that story, she hired me as a freelance writer for the magazine and later promoted me to managing editor.

RWP: What advice would you give to novice writers or even those unpublished writers still slugging it out?

Susan D. Mustafa: I would say do not give up. You never know which piece you write will be the one that gives you the break you’ve been waiting for. When I talk to college students, I always tell them to do their best on everything they write because people do pay attention. For example, I did a story on Prosecutor Tony Clayton in City Social two years before he tried Derrick Todd Lee for the murder of Geralyn Barr DeSoto. Because he liked the story I had written about him, Tony asked me to collaborate with him on the book. If I had not done a good job on that original story, I would not be writing books today, so it’s very important to do your best on every story you write, no matter how inconsequential it may seem.
When we first wrote Blood Bath, we self-published it under the title, I’ve Been Watching You, because we could not get a publisher. We simply marketed it ourselves and kept trying to get publicity for the book. Three years later, our efforts paid off, and Kensington Books picked it up. I would advise unpublished writers to be patient and never give up. Keep sending out proposals to agents and publishers. If the work is good, eventually someone will want it. Also, do not get discouraged by rejections. Specific publishers look for specific things, and a rejection could simply mean they were not looking for that specific topic.

RWP: List five of your favorite authors:

1. Arundhati Roy
2. Alice Sebold
3. Truman Capote
4. Maya Angelou
5. John Sanford

 RWP: List ten books you’ve read that you’ll never forget:

1. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
2. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
3. Hannibal by Thomas Harris
4. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
5. Dante’s Inferno by Dante Alighieri
6. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
7. Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi
8. The Flame and the Flower by Kathleen Woodiwiss
9. The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
10. The AP Stylebook

 RWP: What are you reading right now?

Dead Man Walking by Sister Helen Prejean (again)

WHERE TO FIND AND SHOP FOR SUSAN D. MUSTAFA:

 Susan’s books are available in bookstores across the country as well as in some Walmart stores, Target and airports. They can be ordered online at any major book retailer or through her publisher at Kensington Books. She is currently building a website that will include all of her books and interesting facts about the serial killers she writes about.

 Susan D. Mustafa Bibliography:

Dismembered by Susan D. Mustafa and Sue Israel (due for release July 5, 2011)

No Such Thing as Impossible (buy it here) by Susan D. Mustafa and Jairo Alvarez Botero

Blood Bath (buy it here) by Susan D. Mustafa, Special Prosecutor Tony Clayton and Sue Israel

Copyright 2011 Donald G. Redman All Rights Reserved