Sidestepping Tradition

 We've entered that period in America known as the Holidays! And with my schedule here on Type M For Murder, my posts coincide with the big holiday celebrations, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

While Thanksgiving is about getting together with loved ones and friends and sharing a meal in a spirit of gratitude, hosting Thanksgiving dinner is an exercise in anxiety. This year, my girlfriend and I decided to sidestep tradition by hosting a low-key breakfast for my sons and their significant others. While the meal was simple--waffles, omelets, sausage--there was a bit of anxiety since there's this pressure for everything to be perfect. I'm happy to report that a good time was had by all. 

We did enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner of sorts by dressing up and going out that evening to nosh at The Ship's Tavern in the swanky Brown Palace. Followers of this blog will happy to hear that dinner conversation involved stories of murder at the Brown Palace and other tales from Denver's sordid past. On the way home we drove by the Denver City and County Building and saw that it was decked out for the Holidays!  

Thanksgiving With the Family

 by Charlotte Hinger

There's nothing like a Thanksgiving trip to Pensacola, Florida. My nephew, Charles Mader and his wife, Brenda host a massive dinner every three years. This container of punch says everything about the spirit of the celebration.

Brenda is a gourmet cook. She seated 55 persons around their gorgeous backyard pool. I don't think anyone came up with an accurate count of all the animals, let alone the children. The pool of deserts was staggering and I think she cooked three turkeys and a ham.

 Among the entertainment highlights was bocce. Everyone can play. Even someone like me. All ages loved it. In this photo Chuck Mader is explaining the rules to his sister and visiting cousins. 

I also got to see my first ice hockey game and loved it. 

And the day after we went to an absolutely whopping club called FloraBama that's right on the Florida Alabama line. Bands play around the clock. It's open 24 hours a day. The place swarms with children until 5:30, then they have to leave. We were there during the day, so I have no idea what goes on after sundown. 

Do writers write about their families? I don't. At least not overtly. But there's no denying how much my wonderful goofy extended family shapes my attitudes and my memories. 

There's now a wistfulness creeping into my psychology when I remember times past. Happy memories of family celebrations. 

The Great Unknown

 

I spent Thanksgiving in a raft on the Colorado River, with my daughter Michele, her husband, Harry, my granddaughter Audrey, and her husband Pete. We camped out overnight in twenty degree weather. I had no idea what I was getting into. The others were experienced white water addicts. This was essentially a float trip. But still . . . 

The river part of this excursion was a lot of fun. Camping out was miserable. What's more, at my age, it's not a good idea to risk getting too cold and lowering one's immune system. Harry said later this was the coldest trip they had ever taken. 

On the whole--especially since I survived--I enjoyed the trip and decided afterwards that I live too cautiously. I'm very self protective.

Nevertheless, if I had known what I was doing, I wouldn't have done it. And I would have missed out.

In a way, the adventure was reminiscent of my entry into the writing life. When I began I didn't have the slightest idea what I was doing. I had never had a creative writing course. I didn't know any writers and there were no writing groups in my community. It was literally the great unknown. 

I taught myself to write from books that I checked out from our local library and from the Writer's Digest Magazine. I sold the first short story I submitted to a magazine that was marketed in truck stops: Overdrive. Then another to the same publication, then one to Woman's World. 

I've had a lot of breaks and made a lot of mistakes. 

Nevertheless, if I had know what I was doing in writing I wouldn't have done it. And I would have missed out.

There was no internet chiding me that I would be foolish to try because of the odds. No bombardment of statistics. No writers groups to mock my plots, my characters, my choice of words. I was foolishly optimistic. Writers Digest told me monthly that if I persisted I would succeed. 

Now publishing is looking far off into the Great Unknown again. People are reading a lot, but the books they are reading were bought by publishers before Covid hit. I understand a great many of us are turning to the classics. How will this trend affect the industry's coming list? What books will the great houses choose to entice the buying public?

As for me, I'm relying on the best advice I ever got. Irwin Applebaum once said "Write what you really want to write. There's so little money in the business it's stupid to do it for any other reason."

Mr. Critical

 By Thomas Kies

I tell my Creative Writing students that once they’ve taken the class, they’ll find themselves being much more critical of the novels that they read.

I know I am.

I recently read Squeeze Me by Carl Hiaasen.  I absolutely loved it because it’s a complex current satire that’s laugh-out-loud hilarious.  Mr. Hiaasen writes about the rich and the ridiculously rich in Palm Beach, Florida, boa constrictors terrorizing the area’s country clubs, crooks, killers, cops, and a POTUS nicknamed Mastodon by the secret service. 

Needless to say, I enjoyed Squeeze Me very much. 

About a month ago, I finished reading Harlan Coben’s mystery thriller, The Boy from the Woods. The story begins thirty years ago when the police discover a feral boy living alone in the wilds of New Jersey.  The kid grows up and becomes a reluctant investigator looking into the case of a missing high school girl that no one seems to be too concerned about.  The book moves fast and is a cracker jack mystery.  My one complaint was the book never explained how the feral boy came to be in the woods in the first place.

I guess Mr. Coben wanted to leave room for a sequel.

I’m currently reading Brad Parks' newest mystery Interference.  In it, a brilliant physicist is working on the Entanglement Theory of quantum physics.  This is where two particles can be born with intrinsic connection to each other. You can separate the particles across galaxies and the connection remains: poke one and the other feels it. Immediately. Einstein called this “spooky action at a distance.”

The physicist goes missing and the suspect in a possible kidnapping might be a reclusive billionaire. 

This book moves really fast.  The chapters are short.  I’m loving it.

My only complaint is most of the book is written in the third person.  Except for the physicist's wife who is written in the first person.  I find it distracting. 

Now, I have some criticisms for a couple of authors that I will not name.  One sent me his book to read and I loved it, right up until the end when I found a plot hole large enough you could drive a truck through it.  

One recently sent me a book he’d written asking me to critique it. He’s already got a publisher for the book.  It had been professionally edited so there were few distracting typos and the plot hung together pretty well.  There were about three chapters early on that I thought could have been cut, but the characters were well drawn, and the story held my interest.  I even wrote a blurb for his book cover. 

A few weeks ago, I visited one of my favorite bookstores here in our area and there was a delightful lady signing books that she had written.  I like to support local authors and plunked down the money to purchase her novella.  

I couldn’t finish it.  I couldn’t keep the characters straight, they didn’t seem to act true to the situations they were in, and the plot seemed muddled. 

That being said, I recently read a book by one of the biggest names in the mystery business.  After I finished the book, I felt mildly dissatisfied.  I took a look at some of the professional reviews.  One of them described the author as telling the story without breaking a sweat.

To me that meant that the author had mailed this one in.   But honestly, can anyone really crank out two or three books a year and stay sharp?

Let’s change the subject.

Since we’re in the season of giving thanks.  I’d like to thank my agent, my editors, my publisher, and my readers.  When I go back and reread some of my early work, I shake my head and wonder how I finally managed to write something that anyone would want to read let alone publish.

While I was talking to my publisher a few weeks ago, I told her that she’d changed my life.

She told me that it was me who had changed my life.  

I’ll always be grateful to the people who held my hand along the way, and I especially want to give a huge hug and shout out to my wife, who never let me give up and kept telling me that I was a good writer.

Even when I wasn’t.  Cheers and Happy, albeit belated, Thanksgiving.

Weird, Weirder and Weirdest

 

Thanksgiving is getting beyond strange. Our county (Larimer) is begging people not to gather in person for Thanksgiving. Our county is under a directive to limit gatherings to ten persons and two households. 

I fudged last weekend. I drove to my daughter Michele's house. One household--she and her husband Harry also live in Fort Collins. However much to my delight, my granddaughter, Audrey, and her husband Pete were also there. Two households right off the bat. I stayed anyway. Three households. But what the heck? It was just five people. Not so bad. But I felt sneaky. I'm freakily law-abiding. 

So what to do about Thanksgiving? Everyone was going to come. Michele volunteered (sort of) to hold the annual celebration. Her dispassionate wording (as I recall) went something like "we'll be here. Anyone can come who wants to." The truth is no one in this family really wants anyone to come to their house for Thanksgiving in this county this year. And no one wants to visit relatives either. 

The simple truth is Larimer County's medical facilities are overloaded. We are dangerously close to filling all our ICU beds. 

So being the senior member of this highly dysfunctional family (don't blame me, I tried) I generously decided to stay home and have a Marie Callendar's Turkey Pot Pie for dinner. I would let someone else be the the lucky ducky who got to be the second household at the Crockett's. 

Then Michele had a splendid idea. She called last night and said she and Harry and Audrey and Pete had decided to go on a float trip for Thanksgiving. She magnanimously invited me to tag along. It would not be a dangerous white water adventure. No, no, no. Not the gleeful adventures they were famous for. Also they had plenty of warm sleeping bags. I would be quite comfortable camping out for the first time. Warm, even. They would do all the cooking.  

I considered my rather fragile bones, my precarious sense of balance, my sensible aversion to any sort of discomfort, but disregarded all my liabilities and immediately said yes, I would love to go. Michele did not expect this. 

I hope they are well and truly frightened at the thought of trying to keep an old lady alive on a cold river. 

Got to give the kid credit. While living in Kansas with vast swarms of people descending on our little house on the prairie--usually to hunt pheasants-- it never once occurred to me to suggest they all go on a river trip instead.

Possibly because we had no rivers. 

Gratitude Past and Present

Happy Thanksgiving all readers everywhere. What could be a bigger blessing than a free press and the right to read anything we want? My favorite activity is reading. I can even remember the first book I ever read on my own. Ironically, it had to do with Thanksgiving.

I had finished all my school work. Our class room had three grades together. The teacher was occupied with the older kids. We had just learned the alphabet and were beginning to read. She said I could choose something from the books on a special shelf. So I picked one.

The name of the book was Hoot Owl. There was a little pilgrim boy who wandered off from his friends and family who were preparing a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. The little boy got lost in the woods. But he was rescued by a kindly little Indian boy named Hoot Owl who was happy to help him find his way back home. Elated, the community joyfully urged Hoot Owl to invite his parents and their friends to join them for the abundant Thanksgiving feast. The Indians accepted and everyone became great friends.

The ending made me incredibly happy. I simply glowed with the realization that our Pilgrim fathers were magnanimous generous people and the native inhabitants really, really appreciated all of our friendly gestures.

Yeah. Well. You've got to remember, this was first grade--a long, long time ago. I wonder if the book would get published nowadays. Besides, the big underlying dazzling magic was that their were books right there in our humble class room that actually had stories. I didn't have to put up with Spot and Jane and that wretched ball any more.

Usually, in a Thanksgiving post, I express my heartfelt appreciation for my family. That's still my biggest blessing. But right up there in the gratitude category is my reverence for libraries and the access we have to books in this country.

Thank you, thank you librarians everywhere. God bless all the writers who keep books on the shelves and the readers who keep us going.

And God bless little Hoot Owl who warmed my heart and made my first book such a happy experience.

The First Thanksgiving

We had a great Thanksgiving yesterday. It was the first time I hosted a large family event in my home since moving to Fort Collins. I was amazed at how my house accommodated the group. The too small kitchen seemed to swell to include all the women who had their fingers in various pies. There was even room for the essential pitch table in the living room.

I have a large leather sectional that is just right for viewing movies. A large arched three-shaded lamp provides plenty of light for those who want to knit or do needlework.

We have a lot to be thankful for this year. This autumn has been one of the most spectacular I've seen. The weather has been gorgeous and the country is slowly emerging from the wounds afflicted during the recent election.

Thanksgiving is the source of one my happiest memories. I was introduced to reading through a little book about Thanksgiving. The title was Hoot Owl.

I wanted to learn to read more than anything in the world. We were in a tiny school where three grades were together in one room. No pre-school or kindergarten. No TV, Sesame Street, or clever toys. My mother read stories sometimes out of the old Book of Knowledge. We were simply jump-started into first grade.

I thought reading was a trick or a revelation. I emulated a third grade boy I especially admired. I sat exactly as he did, held my head at the same angle, frowned like he did. But I couldn't read. Then one day the teacher told us about the alphabet and that the alphabet formed words and the words then became sentences and sentences were the basis of stories. I was swept with a wave of white-hot fury that it was that simple and everyone had withheld it from me.

The alphabet and everything connected with it became an obsession. And then came one of the most joyful days of my life. After the class had endured yet another fumble-through with Dick, Jane, Spot, and that damned ball and I was out of anything to do, the teacher told me I could choose a book to read.

And I could! I could actually read. And these books all had plots.

 The first book I ever read on my own was Hoot Owl. It was about a little pioneer boy who got lost in the woods. Just when everything seemed the darkest and he despaired of ever making it back to his colony he was befriended by a little Indian boy, Hoot Owl, who took him to his stern, but kindly Chief. A group of Indians guided Hoot Owl back to his anxious parents who, along with other welcoming colonists, were preparing a Thanksgiving feast. Naturally, the grateful colonists invited the Indians to share their meal. It was the first Thanksgiving and everyone lived happily ever after.

There now. Wasn't that wonderful? The shelves were full of similar books and I was off and running.

Characters, Ideas, and Settings

The posts by my colleagues this week has been so thought-provoking, I had a hard time deciding what to blog about today. Characters who take over? Where ideas come from? Setting as character?

I have experienced that phenomenon of a character who refuses to do what he or she was intended to do. In my third Lizzie Stuart book, Old Murders, the character who was to have been the killer refused that assignment and insisted on having a subplot. In the fourth book, You Should Have Died on Monday, Lizzie's mother, Becca, made an appearance that threatened to upstage Lizzie, my first-person protagonist. Becca is still out there and now that I've returned to the series for a new book, I'm sure she will be making another appearance. I hate to have her ruin Lizzie's wedding, but I'm pretty sure she will show up during the honeymoon. And when she reappears, I will be torn. She is the most take-no-prisoners character I have ever created. A femme fatale who disrupts Lizzie's life, but shouldn't overshadow her.

The idea for my historical mystery came to me when I was thinking about 1939 and the events that symbolized the struggle in America between past and present, inequality and justice. In 1939, Marian Anderson performed at the Lincoln Memorial on Easter Sunday, the New York World's Fair opened that summer, Billie Holiday performed "Strange Fruit," a song about lynching, at Cafe Society in NYC, and that December, Gone with the Wind premiered in Atlanta. This idea -- even more than most of my ideas -- has required a lot of thought to get to workable plot.

On the other hand, the idea for my sixth Lizzie Stuart book, now in progress, came to me as an image of a woman running out of her house toward her car. I wanted to try my hand at a flash story for the New England Crime Bake contest. It wasn't a great story -- I needed more words -- but I did discover where that woman was going. She drives up into the mountains to rescue her child, who is being held hostage by an old enemy. The story was pure noir. In my head it played out like a graphic novel. And my protagonist Lizzie Stuart was nowhere in sight.

But that dark, rainy night wouldn't go away. When I was ready to start my new book, the plot changed and the characters changed. But the book begins with Lizzie, driving home on a rainy night in Gallagher and coming upon a car by the side of the road. A woman is trying to change a tire. . .

The book begins there. But the next day, Lizzie and her fiance, John Quinn, fly off to Santa Fe to spend Thanksgiving with his family.

Lizzie has never met his family and wants to make a good impression. But now she is distracted by what is going on back in Gallagher. A woman is missing. Her car was found by the side of the road. . .

Since the murder mystery is back in Gallagher, I might have done some reading about Santa Fe and watched some YouTube videos. But my Thanksgiving gathering -- when Lizzie meets Quinn's family, all of whom have been mentioned in earlier books -- is important to readers who have been following the series. I'm curious about Quinn's family, too, and I want to do those scenes justice. Lizzie and Quinn will soon be on a plane back to Gallagher, Virginia, but I want the family gathering to ring true. So I'm going to Santa Fe for three days in November to find the neighborhood that Quinn's half-sister lives in and the street where her art gallery is located. I'm going to do the tour of the area that Lizzie will have when she goes there. I want the setting to have as much significance in the story as Gallagher.

I have one other idea that I'm playing with, but need to work out. I need to resolve a series arc from my two Hannah McCabe police procedural novels set in Albany. The two books, The Red Queen Dies and What the Fly Saw, are set in 2019 and 2020, respectively. My Lizzie Stuart series is set in the recent past. The year in the sixth book is 2004. But Lizzie is an alum of the University at Albany, School of Criminal Justice. I've been thinking of a cameo appearance by a professor in Gallagher, Virginia, who Detective McCabe contacts to ask a key question about the threat that she is facing in Albany, NY in 2020. Lizzie would be in her 50s, and I wonder what would be going on in her life and how she would be different in McCabe's alternate universe. Just playing with the idea. . .

T-day dinners and other memories

Here in the US of A we joyfully cram our stomachs full on Thanksgiving Day. We could easily match the excesses of Roman aristocracy if only we had the rumored vomitoriums. Hosts put a lot of care into the meal, and I've never been to a T-day dinner where the food wasn't good. But not every Thanksgiving meal is memorable, in fact few are.

I got to thinking about specific meals that stuck in my mind. One Thanksgiving dinner that stands out is the only one I spent by myself. It was at a diner in Bisbee, Arizona, back in 1975. Another occurred last year when I delivered T-day leftovers to my friends Angie Hodapp and Warren Hammond who had just returned to Denver after a long, long flight from China.

Another remembered meal was when I caught up to my high-school best friend during our time in the army. We spent the afternoon in a Mexican restaurant in Alexandria, Virginia. We ate and drank and ate and drank. Hours passed and dinner over, we expected to stumble into cool night air. But it was still light out and the sun's merciless glare stung our bloodshot eyes.

Another food-related snap shot. During a prolonged and painful period of unemployment, I finished grad school and to celebrate both my master's degree and my expected return to work, I arranged for a dinner with my critique group at a small bistro. The future never seemed so hopeful.

Another military meal. I had just completed the Fasotragulant Navy S.E.R.E. school near Brunswick, Maine. We students--Army Special Forces and Navy aviators--spent days hiking over the wilderness like hunted animals, eating nothing but tree bark and tiny raw trout caught with safety pins. That trial was followed by more uncomfortable days in a simulated POW camp run by a sadistic cadre who never broke character. Late in the afternoon of the last day, a bus rolled up to take us back to the navy base. Dinner included an urn of hot black coffee, another urn of steaming chicken-noodle soup, and a yellow sheet cake, which we stuffed into our faces during the ride to civilization. A humble repast but one of the most satisfying meals of my life.

Years later, I was in Baltimore, Maryland, for Bouchercon 2008. At the time, since I was still in HarperCollins' stable I was invited to their authors-only fancy, schmancy dinner. The other authors included HC's big hardback mystery NYT-bestsellers and international writers who sat with the editors at the big table. Because I was merely a writer of paperback vampire novels, I was shuffled to the equivalent of the little kids' card table where I sat next to Sarah Weinman. Later that night, Jane Friedman, the President and CEO, stopped by to say hello. She not only knew who I was, she even signed my name tag. I decided to keep that tag as a memento of my days with HarperCollins, not realizing that within weeks, Friedman and many of the editors at that dinner would be gone from the company. Ironically, I had outlasted them.