My agent made me join the Mystery Writer’s of America. Well, “made” is a strong term, I guess. She suggested it and I’ve learned to do whatever the woman says or to pay the consequences, which are always terrible. So I joined.
People keep telling me that The Electric Church is as much a thriller as it is a Sci Fi book, and I guess they’re right—the story is, in some ways, similar to old detective novels from Chandler and Hammett. Note I am not comparing myself to those writers, who are much better than me. But there’s a certain spirit shared there, I think, so I guess it makes sense.
I like to think of this like being double-board certified: Jeffrey Somers, S.F.W.A., M.W.A.
Plus, each organization has a lot of cocktail parties each year you get invited to, which right there makes it well worth the membership fees, you ask me.
In other news, I’ve had a sudden glut of people asking me to sign books and ship them to them, which is flattering. One guy in England is having me sign 12! I always feel a little bit of pressure to be witty when I sign books. Maybe you don’t feel pressure because you’re naturally witty all the time, but that ain’t the way I roll, baby–wit is always a struggle for me. I usually fall back on one or more of the following standard Somers “jokes”:
Sometimes I can roll all three into a spectacular meta-joke that only I comprehend. It’s great to watch the face of someone who’s asked me to sign a book collapse into a sort of frozen mask of worry because they can’t decide if they should be pissed off at my inscription, or disturbed.
Think on that if you’re considering asking me to sign a book, bubba.