Author’s Bio: Jeff Markowitz is the
author of the Cassie O'Malley mysteries, an amateur sleuth series set deep
in the NJ Pine Barrens. After penning three books in the series, Jeff
decided to embrace his dark side. His most recent book is the award-winning
black comedy, Death and White
Diamonds. Jeff currently serves on the Regional Board of Directors of
the New York Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in
Monmouth Junction, NJ with his wife, Carol. You can usually find him at his
computer at 5:30 in the morning, plotting someone's murder.
What inspired you to write your book?
I “found” a dead body on
the beach in Cape May. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I “imagined”
the dead body on the beach. You see, I have a writing exercise…I refer to it as
finding the dead body. It’s an exercise in finding story ideas. When I find a body,
I write a couple of sentences to capture the scene. But this time, the dead
woman kept bugging me to tell her story.
Is there any particular author or book that influenced you in any
way either growing up or as an adult?
Dr. Seuss made me want to
be a reader. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve read And to Think that I Saw it on Mulberry
Street. It’s a story about a boy who likes to make up stories.
Is this your first book? How long did it take to start and finish
your book?
Death and White Diamonds is my fourth published book. When I “found” the dead body on the
beach, I had no plans to turn the scene into a book. As I explained, it was
just a writing exercise, like a musician practicing his scales. Besides, I was
busy at the time working on It’s Beginning
to Look a Lot like Murder, the third book in the Cassie O’Malley Mysteries.
So it was a few years before I decided to start writing the story. Once I
began, it took me four months to finish.
Do you write with an outline, or just let it flow organically?
I think that writing a
book is a lot like taking a cross country road trip. Before I begin the
journey, I need to know where I’m going to start and where and when I hope to
end. I need to know a few of the stops along the way. But in between, I allow
the story to find its own path. I encourage the characters to explore uncharted
territory.
But I’ve noticed a
difference depending on whether I’m working on my series or on a stand-alone
like Death and White Diamonds. I need
to do a bit more planning for my series; I’m more comfortable letting a
stand-alone develop organically.
Do you listen to music when you write? If yes, is there a theme
song for this book?
This is another good
example of the difference between writing my series and writing a stand-alone.
Music is not significant in Death and
White Diamonds, neither in the story nor in the writing process. However,
jazz plays a significant part in the Cassie O’Malley series. When I’m writing
Cassie, I’m generally listening to Miles Davis.
What are the keys to success in getting your book out to the
public?
John Wanamaker once
famously said, “Half the money I spend on advertising is wasted; the problem is
I never know which half.”
You will never have the
time or the money to do all of the things that people tell you to do to promote
your books. And you will rarely be able to accurately judge their value. So do
the things you can and don’t stress about the things you can’t.
What advice would you give to new authors?
Write the best book you’re
capable of writing.
“When you die, I believe,
God isn’t going to ask you what you published. God’s going to ask you
what you wrote.” (McNally, T.M. “Big Dogs and Little Dogs,” in Martone,
Michael, and Susan Neville. 2006. Rules of thumb: 73 authors reveal their
fiction writing fixations. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books).
How about sharing an excerpt from Death and White Diamonds?
The weather was changing, clouds blocking out the
stars, wind whipping the surf into a frenzy. As high tide approached, the beach
was nearly gone, just a narrow strip of sand between water’s edge and dune
grass, the rhythm of the waves pounding at the shore, washing away the
evidence. My attention was drawn to the distant lights of a lonely freighter.
There was a chill in the air. I hardly noticed. The knife was still warm in my
hand.
I looked down the beach. Not ten feet away lay
Lorraine, her blouse ripped, an ugly gash just above her left breast, a
delicate thread of blood making its way between her breasts and running down
along her abdomen. I couldn’t take my eyes off the blood. Something in me
stirred. Was it wrong that I saw her, at
that moment, perhaps for the first time, achingly lovely?
I forced my eyes away from her chest and peered at
my wristwatch, the hands luminous. Three a.m. We had walked down to the beach
together shortly after midnight, through the dune grass, giggling. I’d been
carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of merlot. Lorraine had been carrying a
blanket. I remember thinking, at the time, the
surf sounds angry. And then? I can’t remember. I’m fairly certain I wasn’t
responsible for the death of Lorraine van Nessen. But it took no great powers
of deduction to realize that I was going to be the prime suspect when
Lorraine’s body was discovered. If
Lorraine’s body was discovered.
I pictured Lorraine’s body floating out to the
middle of Castleton Bay. I wondered how long it would take for her body to
sink. And once it was submerged, I
wondered whether it would stay underwater. I’d watched enough detective shows
to realize that at least on television, bodies had a way of popping to the
surface at the most inopportune moment, usually just before the first
commercial break. I couldn’t take that
chance. Disposing of the body safely would be a gruesome bit of business.
Still, I didn’t think Lorraine would mind.
Port Salmon was a ghost town in February,
especially on the bay side of town, along Ocean Avenue, at three in the
morning, the homes seasonal, rentals mostly, just a few hundred yards from the
beach, but all of them empty during the off-season. Lorraine’s grandfather had
built most of these homes and even in retirement, he looked after “his” houses.
He remained one of the few year-round residents right up until the end.
Lorraine was the only one left who made use of the house. And now that too was
coming to an end.
I would have plenty of time to dispose of
Lorraine’s body. I walked toward Ocean Avenue, turning back briefly to make
sure that Lorraine wasn’t moving before hurrying back to the beach house. I
didn’t have a plan, not at that point anyway. But I did have a glimmer of an idea.
I rooted through the cellar, searching for a
proper tool. Fifteen minutes later I was
back on the beach. As I made my way through the dune grass, I sensed a presence
on the beach. I was not alone. Someone was crouching low over Lorraine. I held
my breath, trying to get close enough to see without being seen. I looked
again. Not someone, I realized. Something. A dog was sniffing at the body. I
scanned the beach, praying the dog was a stray. Suddenly I felt bad for
Lorraine.
Scat, I hissed, waving the hacksaw in the dog’s
general direction. The dog snarled, but backed away. I threw a piece of
driftwood down the beach and the dog took chase. I stared at Lorraine’s body, a
woman’s body, plump and inviting, even in death, especially in death, her full
hips, her perfect round breasts, the four inch gash just above her left breast.
I’m sorry Lorraine, I whispered, for what I’m about to do.
It was slow work, with the hacksaw. Before long, I
was breathing hard. My shirt was soaked with sweat, the sweat drying cold
against my skin. I had to face a hard truth. I was out of shape, twenty pounds
overweight, unused to physical labor. The hacksaw had not been designed to cut
through sinew and bone. At least not by me. My arm grew numb, but I had little
to show for my effort, her body scarred by the hacksaw blade, but still intact.
I was making more mess than progress.
The tide was coming in quickly now. I needed more time. Lorraine needed
more time.
It’s funny, don’t you
think? Whenever Lorraine wanted to talk about our relationship, about our
future, I always put her off. We’ve got plenty of time for that later, I told
her. All the time in the world. Now we needed more time.
Wrapping her scarred body in the blanket, I
dragged Lorraine back through the dune grass. The path through the dunes was
narrow and long. My feet sank in the soft sand. As I made my way through the
dunes, the footing gradually grew firmer. When I reached the road that bordered
the beach, I slung her over my shoulder and carried her across the street and
down the deserted road until we arrived at the house. Pulling open the cellar
door, I carried her body inside and collapsed in exhaustion at her side.
I imagine that most men would find it difficult to
fall asleep next to a corpse, even if the corpse wasn’t your girlfriend, even
if you weren’t about to be the prime suspect in her murder, even if you weren’t
just a little bit turned on by the intimacy. I dipped my finger in the blood
between her breasts. I drew my finger up to my lips. I wanted a taste. But that would be wrong. I kissed
Lorraine lightly on the lips and said good-night.
I slept till mid-morning, on the floor in the
cellar, Lorraine at my side, lying in a pool of dried blood and semen. I shook
the stiffness from my shoulders and breathed in the day. The day, apparently,
smelled of death and White Diamonds. Lorraine had a thing for Liz Taylor.
Something about that made me happy.
What’s next for you?
Upcoming new novel:
When
you’re eighteen years old, it can be hard, under the best of circumstances, to
balance the demands of your father and the desires of your girlfriend. For
Ben Miller, graduating from high school in 1970, circumstances are far from
perfect. His girlfriend’s mother, Mrs. Rosalie Bayard, has been murdered. Ben’s
father, a detective in the Fifth Precinct catches the case. It’s not long
before evidence suggests that Dr. Bayard may have hired a hit man to murder his
wife. As Detective Miller conducts the homicide investigation and Dr. Bayard
attempts to keep an affair with his secretary secret, Ben and his girlfriend
Emily find themselves attracted by the philosophy, politics and lifestyle of
the counter-culture. Hit or Miss raises questions that were
important in 1970 and still resonate today – questions about American
involvement in an unpopular war, about equal rights for women and about
end-of-life decision-making and the right to die.
Where can readers find out more about you and your
book(s)?
- Website: www.jeffmarkowitz.com
- Amazon Author Page: www.amazon.com/author/jeffmarkowitz
- Facebook: www.facebook.com/jeff.markowitz.3
- Twitter: https://twitter.com/JeffMarkowitz1
- Blog: www.jeffmarkowitz.wordpress.com
It’s been a pleasure
having you here with us today. I know my readers will enjoy getting to know you
and your work.
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