Your hologram awaits

"I'm getting too old for this s**t," I muttered to the dogs recently. I'd been trying to wrestle Instagram to the ground so that I could post about an upcoming book signing. My millennial daughter had snatched the phone from my hand and flipped through my Instagram account with horror. Where are your stories? she asked. You have no hashtags. With this post you should include #barbarafradkin, #inspectorgreen ("Look, Inspector Green has his own hashtag already!"), and #Torontobooklaunch. People will find you with those hashtags.

She unearthed details from my Instagram presence that I didn't even know existed. There were likes and messages and reposts that I'd been blissfully ignorant of. Who knew what all those little icons meant? Facebook is all very well, my daughter said, but that only works for people who are already your friends. Instagram is where new readers discover you, where you build your audience. She started in on TikTok, but I drew the line. Because she'd set it up, I've had an Instagram account for a couple of years and Twitter even longer, but I could never see much point in either. There obviously is a point, but it feels like navigating a brazen new cityscape with speeding traffic, flashing lights, indecipherable signs, one-way streets, and a pace so hectic that I just feel like parking the car and walking. 

Perhaps that's when I decided I was getting too old for this s... Or it may have been a couple of weeks earlier, when I had a birthday after which my last quarter-century looms around the corner. I thought I'd been keeping up pretty well. After all, I had lots of friends on Facebook, I HAD a Twitter and Instagram account, although I had no idea what the use was. Sometimes I'd get a notification that so-and-so whom I'd never heard of was now following me, and my gut reaction was "Why? I'm not going anywhere." I had set up and successfully pulled off two virtual book launches using Eventbrite and Zoom Webinar. 

Not bad for someone who grew up with rotary phones and radio plays! I got this! 

But then Mark Zuckerberg's smiling face came on my TV last week to promote his brand new reimagining of social media. So long Facebook, say hello to the future: the Metaverse. With dizzying speed he talked us through the holograms, the virtual, holographic workplaces that you navigate wearing special googles, teleporting. The possibilities for human interaction are endless. What, real people? Oh, no need.

It did cross my mind as I watched "I wonder what plans he has for sex."

I suspect that as all these tech changes accelerate, there will be a whole generation of us left in the dust. You may find us weeping in fury over our three TV remotes, or possibly walking arm in arm down a country lane somewhere, talking about the good old days. Or something.

My brushes with stardom (or famous people I’ve bumped into by accident)

by Rick Blechta

I loved the post by Douglas yesterday, and having not a jot of an idea about what to write about today, I’m going to riff off his post.

I seem to have a knack to run into famous people. I don’t know why this is; it just happens.

Here’s a list and a very brief description of each encounter:

1. When I was 15, I caddied for Ed Sullivan. Really. He wasn’t a terrific golfer and disliked giving up on a ball off the fairway, so I spent a lot of time in tall grass and the borders of the woods surrounding the fairways. He was a good tipper, though. And the way he was on his TV show was the way he was in real life, so you could say I spent 18 holes on The Ed Sullivan Show.
2. I slammed jazz guitar great Wes Montgomery’s hand in an elevator in New York City. It was one of those self-operating ones. I was shutting the outer door when he stuck his hand in to stop me. I wasn’t paying any attention and was in a rush because my brother was double-parked on the street below — at rush hour (not a good thing in the Big Apple). Fortunately I didn’t break anything! Wes wasn’t too happy with me, though.
3. I once got on an elevator in the Toronto Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s headquarters. The Prime Minister of Canada at the time, Jean Cretien followed me in along with his two Mountie bodyguards. Trouble was I had a very lethal pair of scissors in my pocket at the time. We went up several floors silently with me trying to melt into a corner so I wouldn’t be noticed while I kept my hands far away from the pocket where the scissors were.
4. By far the most amazing event was meeting Eric Clapton and spending over an hour chatting with him. Trouble was, I didn’t know it was him until at least an hour had passed. I’d never seen him with a beard. His band at the time, Cream, was playing in New York the next day and needed some speakers repaired. He knew the repairman from a previous gig in town and decided to spend the afternoon with him (better than sitting in some hotel room). I rushed in needing a speaker repaired for a gig I had that night. Tony, the repairman, asked Eric if he could just take care of me, and then get back to work on Cream’s blown speakers. I assumed the bearded Englishman was one of Cream’s roadies, so while Tony worked, I chatted with him. I asked about touring with Cream and he answered that it was gruelling, complaining that he was tired of listening to Jack Bruce (bass) and Ginger Baker (drums) fighting all the time. Almost done with my speaker, Tony said he’d like a coffee. Eric offered to go to the luncheonette down the street and asked if I’d like a coffee too. I declined. As he left, Tony called out, “Thanks, Eric! I appreciate it.” Then the penny dropped. All I could think about were the things I was asking him as if he was just a nobody roadie and not really twigging on to the way he was talking about the band. Boy, did I feel like an idiot!

There were other brushes with fame, but these are the cream of the crop.

Oh! One more that's too good not to share: my darling wife once hit Richard Nixon in the head with a door…

My brush with stardom

I've long been a fan of actor Brian Cox, now even more recognisable than before thanks to playing Logan Roy on the TV show 'Succession'. Whenever he has appeared in a film, in the past more often than not as a villain, he has brought something to some underwritten roles that only a good actor can bring.

The fact that he happens to be Scottish is immaterial. This is not some flag-waving exercise.

My appreciation began before Hollywood beckoned, however, before he was that indefinable thing - a star. It began when I spent the night with him.

Perhaps I should explain...

Back in the mists of time, when you and I were young, Maggie, I wanted to be an actor. I was a gangling youth living in East Kilbride, just outside Glasgow, with visions of glitz, glamour and glorious technicolour. I took acting classes and elocution lessons that were intended to berate the Glasgow out of my voice (they didn't take). I attended youth courses at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama and with the Citizen's Theatre company. I was in school shows and amateur dramas.

And then I got my big break - a part with my friend Stan Leech in a BBC TV series called Sutherland's Law.

We were to play drunken thieves who may - or may not - have killed a young woman while driving a stolen car.

This was it. The big time beckoned.

Sure, it was only a small part with a couple of scenes, but everyone starts somewhere, right?

The filming took Stan and I to Oban on the west coast of Scotland. The star was Ian Cuthbertson, a big deal on British TV back then, but we never met him, although I did hand him his jacket in the hotel foyer. 

One of our scenes was in broad daylight as we studied damage to the front of the car. It was a sheep we hit, said Stan (or rather his character). I'm not so cure, I said. You were too drunk to remember, said Stan.

We pulled it off in a few takes. Cut, move on, said the director. You were wonderful, said the assistant director, are you sure you have never been on camera before? 

We preened, even though deep down we knew he was only doing his job and giving us some positive reinforcement.

Our other scene was a night shoot, when we steal the car and drive off at speed. I had to be in the passenger seat for that bit, with a member of the crew being a stunt driver, swerving onto a country road at speed and weaving off into the night. That was an experience. But before we reached that we had to wait around while other things were shot.

And that's  how I met Brian Cox.

He was that week's guest star, if memory serves playing a police officer who was having an affair with the young woman. He, too, had some night scenes so he was with the rest of us in the minibus and seemed to take on the mantle of unofficial morale officer. It can get cold in the highlands at night and there is a lot of sitting around on a set unless you are one of the crew. Even the constant hot food and beverages failed to keep up the spirits so Mr Cox kept us all entertained with a constant flow of jokes and stories. 

Frankly, he was brilliant. Approachable, likeable and affable. 

He even signed my application to join Equity, the acting union. I think he may well have proposed me for membership, although it didn't do me much good as I didn't get in.

That was one of the things that finally ended any hopes of becoming the next James Bond.

I see Brian Cox has an autobiography out. I've not yet read it but I wonder if there's a passage where he met an aspiring actor in the wilds above Oban and signed his union application.

And does he wonder, whatever happened to whatsisname?

What Qualifies as a Historical Mystery?

 

I’ve been working on a historical mystery lately, one set in the 1850s. So far I’ve just been doing some outlining and research. Haven’t written a word yet. But it did start me thinking about what qualifies as a historical mystery. Mysteries that were contemporary when written, such as ones by Agatha Christie, even though they’re set in, say, the 1920s are not considered historical. That makes sense to me.

I’ve heard a number of different definitions of a historical mystery.

1. A mystery is considered historical if the author was not alive when the story takes place. So, if a mystery is set in the 1960s, say, it would be considered historical if the author was born in the 1970s or later, but not if they were born in the 1950s.

I rather like this definition, but I can see where it would be confusing when it comes to awards and deciding if a book fits into the historical category. You’d have to know how old the author is.

2. A mystery is considered historical if it’s set X years in the past. I’ve heard 50 years, but I’m sure there are other numbers that people have put in here.

3. A mystery is considered historical if it’s set before World War II.

4. A mystery is historical if it takes place in a time clearly distinct from our own. 

5. A mystery is historical if it takes place in any era other than the one it is written in.

I could probably make a case for any of these. Some mysteries are clearly historical to me. Others, such as ones set in the 1970s, are, for me, not historical since I was alive then. But, I can see why they could be considered historical for those born in the current century. 

What do you think is the best definition of a historical mystery? Does anyone know what the Agatha Awards uses for its definition? I couldn’t find it on the Malice Domestic website.

A random observation about reviews

by Rick Blechta

My post last week dealt with getting reviews for one’s book. It’s common knowledge that reviews make or break books, and getting reviewed by someone influential or in an influential publication, are the best kind. That’s logical, right? But getting your book in the hands of one of these people remains a significant issue, unless you’re a best-selling authors. Everyone else is left to scramble — and hope at winning the review lottery.

As last week progressed, my thinking about my post continued. How reliable are reviews on social media and websites? So I did a bit of poking around.

My highly unscientific conclusion is that reviews on Amazon and web retailers of that ilk tend to be more positive than not. Yes, there are one-star reviews, but these tend to be outliers, some by those with an obvious ax to grind. I randomly chose several dozen titles and tabulated the aggregate review numbers. The only criteria I used in making my list was that the book had to have 20 or more reviews. Seventy-three percent were 3+ stars or better. Not of all of the titles I looked at were by recognized authors or authors published by recognized houses. There were also some self-published titles (22).

It’s easy enough to get friends to write a review for one’s books, and I doubt if these people would give you a bad review. Everyone wants to help their friends after all. This goes for traditionally published authors as well as self-published ones.

But in doing my spot of research another thought occurred to me: with the exception of those reviewing friends’ books, there is likely an unintentional bias in the purchase of books which are then reviewed by non-professional reviewers. Think about that a bit. We tend to purchase books we think we might enjoy reading. Speaking for myself, I’m not about to lay out some hard-earned cash to buy something I probably won’t enjoy. Who would? Reading books is not at all like taking medications your doctor prescribes!

So how do you know if you’re ever getting the straight goods on a book? Did someone purchase the reviews? Were friends recruited? How accurate are they?

Geez, this whole review thing is a lot more complicated now than it’s ever been.

Thoughts?

Tidbits From the News

by Thomas Kies 

I worked for newspapers and magazines for over thirty years so I’m a news junkie, pure and simple.  A few stories jumped out at me this week.

The first one was about how the executives of six oil companies and various lobbying groups disseminated false information to the public about the how fossil fuels have had a major negative impact on climate change. 

That struck me hard, because that’s the basic plot of my last book. Shadow Hill.  In my mystery, a major oil company has commissioned their own “scientists” to write a paper on how climate change is part of the natural rhythm of the earth and that burning fossil fuels has a minimum, if any, effect. The company is hoping to stave off a bill moving through Congress that would cut their obscene subsidies and give the money and tax breaks to renewable energy efforts.

Last Thursday, the executives stuck to their scripts while testifying in front of a House committee, not quite admitting that they had delivered fraudulent information for years but claiming that they were all moving in the right direction with clean energy. 

According to the New York Times: Mr. Woods, the C.E.O. of Exxon Mobil, faced questions about company statements over the years that cast doubt on whether fossil fuels were the main driver of climate change. He said the positions were “entirely consistent” with the scientific consensus of the time.

He also said that a 1997 statement by Lee Raymond, then Exxon’s chief executive, that “currently, the scientific evidence is inconclusive” about the role of human activity in warming was “consistent with the science.” Two years earlier, the United Nations’ top climate science body had reached a consensus that global warming is occurring, and that the burning of fossil fuels was a significant cause.

Mr. Woods also said that Exxon Mobil now recognizes climate change, yet “there are no easy answers,” to solving it.

A second story I thought was interesting was from my old newspaper covering Norwalk, Connecticut.  It was about how Netflix is filming a movie based on Stephen King’s story called Mr. Harrigan’s Phone. The filmmakers are using various locations around the city as well as the neighboring town, Westport.

The plot of the story is that a young man, employed by an older man, buys his employer a cellphone.  When the man dies, the phone is buried with him, but the conversations continue…via that cellphone.  Yikes.

I’m glad they’ve picked Norwalk for their movie location.  I’ve based my Geneva Chase novels in a fictional town called Sheffield, but in my mind’s eye, looks an awful lot like Norwalk. I always loved that town.  Rich in diversity, South Norwalk, or SoNo, has a wonderful vibe and fabulous restaurants.  It's also a great place to stage crime novels.

The last story I’ll tell you about is how one of the most popular Carmen Mola, one of the most popular crime writers in Spain, won the coveted Premio Planeta literary prize and the million euros that go with it.  The protagonist of Mola’s mysteries is a female detective by the name of Elena Blanco.

The surprise was when Mola was supposed to go onstage to collect her million euros, three men appeared instead.  As it turned out, all three of them had collaborated on the Elena Blanco books. 

When my wife saw this, she smiled and said, “See, it takes three men to write as a woman.”

I’m still not sure how to take that.  My protagonist is Geneva Chase, a female reporter.

I don't have any collaborators.  

Not Heaven, But a First Draft

 In one of his dramatic monologues Robert Browning's chararacter -- an aging artist with a faithless wife -- muses, "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,/ Or what's a heaven for?"

I went back to make sure I had the quote correct because as with many texts, something is often lost or distorted when it moves into cyberspace. And, it has been years since I last read Browning. Reading "Andrea del Sarto" again reminded me of one of the sources of my inspiration. Browning was so lodged in my literary subconscious that I used a play on his words in explaining what the acronym for my all-purpose communication device (an ORB) stood for in my near-future (now alternate history) police procedurals. When I was asked by several readers, I needed to come up with an answer that I myself didn't know. I backtracked in my "world-building" and discovered that ORB was derived from a quote by the creator of my world's cybernet. In a philosophical explanation of what he had created, he used the phrase "our reach beyond".

The reason I wanted to quote Browning is because I've signed up for NaNoWriMo. For those of you who don't recognize it, that acronym stands for National Novel Writing Month. It is a much acclaimed annual event that writers love because it gives us a chance to set goals and have the support of other writers who are doing the same thing. The goal is to write 50,000 words in one month, the month of November. Here's the link if you'd like to know more.

https://nanowrimo.org/

What has struck me about signing up for NaNoWriMo again this year -- as I have done in the past -- is that my reach always exceed my grasp. If the challenge is to write 50,000 words, I try to write an entire book. This year, I want to finally get through the first draft of my historical thriller. I know that it will be around 95,000 words when I'm done. Being sane, I won't try to write 95,000 words in a month while carrying on with my other job -- teaching. But I have set myself the ridiculous goal of writing 75,000 words. 

Why? Well, because I have realized that I write best when I have a challenge. This year -- as opposed to last and the years before -- I am not only announcing my goal to finish my first draft. I am announcing the goal to people who I know and whose opinion I value. Not to say I don't want support from readers and other writers who I have never met. But I do even better when there is someone (preferably, as this year, groups of people that I know) who will ask how I'm doing. That makes me accountable. 

Being accountable worked for me with my first published book. Belonging to a writing group kept me at my keyboard for the several years while I was producing one version of my first Lizzie Stuart novel after another. But accountability really kicked in when I told my fellow writers -- only half-serious when I said it -- that I was going to take my main characters along with me on my vacation in England and write a book set in London and Cornwall. Having said it, I did my advance research and, during the week I was there, did field research and outlined the book. And then I came home, excited and fired up, and wrote the book. When an opportunity to submit to a new imprint came up, I had a book ready to send out. 

So, once again, I am going to play a psychological game with myself. Ignoring the 50,000 words of the challenge, I'm going to try to exceed my grasp. That will get me through a rough first draft. Then I will have a manuscript to revise and send off to my incredibly patient agent. 

If you're doing NaNoWriMo be sure to look me up. Even if we don't know each other yet, we can cheer each other on. 

And, thank you again, Robert Browning.

Go There

In my Type M entry of Sept 30, I wrote about a new monthly feature on my own website I'm trying called “Tell Me Your Story”. Thus far I've hosted five authors who have told us about pivotal events in their lives which have shaped their writing and their careers. One of my guests sent me her story to look over before posting because she felt a bit nervous about putting herself out there so openly. I'm not telling which author it was, because they've all been amazingly courageous. 

It was a wonderful, mind-blowing tale, and I told her she shouldn't worry about what some random stranger thinks she should have done. I really wanted to publish it, because I thought it would help and inspire someone who probably needed to hear it. It did, too, judging by the comments we got on social media.

Well, now the time has come for me to decide whether I'm going to follow my own advice and go there myself. It's not so easy when you're the one in the hot seat. I've spent much of my life trying to do the brave thing, and I wimp out most of the time and regret it. Maybe it's time to go there myself.

My “go there” is  less brave than hers, since I'm using my work-in-progress to fictionalize a really problematic theme that has run through my life – racism. The new book is the eleventh Alafair Tucker mystery, my long-running series set in Oklahoma, with established characters and situations. The series began in 1912 and moved forward year by year, and  I've now reached 1921, the year of the Tulsa Race Massacre. It's also the year that the KKK had a horrifying resurgence in Oklahoma. I can't pretend like nothing happened.

I grew up in Tulsa, a little girl in the 1950s and a teen in the 1960s. I grew up in a segregated world. I knew nothing about anything. My parents were liberal for the time and I never heard anything untoward from them, but some of my other relatives...  Suffice it to say I heard things said that shocked me even then, and some of these things were said by people I loved.

In the intervening years, I've thought about those days a lot and wondered. Did any of them ever go beyond words and do something unthinkable? I hope not. What would it be like for someone who found out their jolly, much beloved uncle or father or grandfather had been a member of the Nazi party? Or a stormtrooper? Or a guard at a concentration camp? People are a mix of wonderful and horrible. If you discover that your loved one did the unthinkable could you instantly stop loving them?  Or would it just be profound disappointment and grief? How could you love a Nazi?

How am I going to handle this? What do people of good will do when they realize they've been blind and ignorant? In doing the research for this era I've discovered nothing has changed all that much in 100 years. It's depressing.

All I can do if forge ahead and pray I can pull it off in a way that isn't offensive and honors the trials so many have endured. I want to be brave and finally go there. Somebody needs to hear it. 

Going hybrid

Last night I hosted a virtual launch on Zoom for my new Inspector Green mystery, THE DEVIL TO PAY. At this point in the pandemic, having attended and presented at dozens of virtual events in the past two years, including my previous launch for THE ANCIENT DEAD last winter, I was thoroughly sick of them, and I suspect everyone else is too. I wanted a proper party. I wanted to see my friends and fans, laugh, catch up, and feel the energy that a crowd generates. But I had no choice. Ontario had not yet opened up restaurants fully (until Monday, way too late for planning), and many people would still be reluctant to come to a crowded venue anyway. Bookstores had a similar limited capacity.

So once again, I bought the Zoom webinar package for the month, sent out Eventbrite invitations, asked my long-time friend and fellow writer Mary Jane Maffini to interview me, and crossed my fingers that people would tune in. They did. It helped that it had been dreary and rainy for two days before the event. The feedback was illuminating. Many loved the virtual format because it allowed a solid hour of in-depth conversation with the author, rather than five-minute snatches and a reading in front of a noisy room. Others loved the fact they could tune in from anywhere in the world. My cousin tuned in at 7 a.m. from Australia, and a friend tuned in from Mexico. For myself, it felt like chatting with my friend Mary Jane for an hour, trying to remember that in fact a hundred invisible people were watching. We both had pants on, although that wasn't necessary.

One of the disadvantages of virtual launches, however, is that books can't be sold. In the pre-pandemic days, there would be a local bookseller at my events who had lugged boxes of books from their store to set up on tables, and people would line up to get them signed. That gave me a chance for one-on-one chats with everyone. That personal connection is lifeblood for an author. This is a win-win for the author, the reader, and the bookseller. In the last virtual launch, the best I could do was tell people where to buy the book and to sign a certain number of books at the local store for people to pick up.

This time, with bookstores partially open, I arranged for two "meet and greet" book signings in Ottawa and Toronto, which I announced at the virtual launch. Most people will likely get their books through other means, but at least there is the opportunity to get signed copies if you live near Ottawa or Toronto, and I get the chance for real live conversation. The bookstore gets a boost too. There won't be the energy of a party, but I will take it. 

Here are the Ottawa details, at Perfect Books on Elgin Street October 30th!

And the Toronto details, at Sleuth of Baker Street on Millwood Road November 6th!

For those who like to meet the author and get personalized book, this is the next-best thing to the the in-person launch. It's also a great way for people to buy gifts for the mystery lovers on their holiday lists. We'll see how this goes. Now that I know the advantages and drawbacks of both virtual and live launches, I may consider doing them both next time. And get the best of both worlds. Apart from the task of setting it up, a virtual launch takes less work than live. You sit in your living room and talk to a friend. The biggest challenge, besides conquering the whims of Zoom, is keeping your dogs quiet. You don't even have to wear pants. And attendees don't have to get dressed, go out in dubious weather, find a parking spot, etc.

So thanks to all to tuned in last night. And come on down to the bookstore signing! Even if you don't live in Ottawa or Toronto, both bookstores will take orders for copies, signed if you like, and mail them to you.

No matter how things change, they still stay the same

by Rick Blechta

I was on Amazon the other day, looking for something I needed for a modelling project and somehow got into the book section. In a guilty hour of poking around there, I came to a surprising conclusion: book publishing is in a very healthy state.

My response to this was, Huh? How can this be? Your response might well be the same.

I must tell you at the outset that my conclusion is definitely not scientific. It’s simply based on the number of new books that come out every day. Thing is, the majority of them are self-published. There are hundreds and hundreds in every genre you can think of — and some you probably haven’t.

Amazon and other platforms have made it quick, easy and very, very cheap to self-publish any sort of book. One still has to do the hardest part, writing it, but after that the rest is easy. And unlike traditional publishing, an author can finish a book one day and have it released to the world the next, assuming that you’re only doing it electronically.

The big question is: are any of these books worth reading?

Since a listing can allow the casual browser looking for something to electronically crack open a book and skim a few pages to see if it’s worth purchasing, it’s pretty easy to see that many of these books are really very badly written and not worth considering. However, I did find several that seemed to be really quite excellent, based on the prose.

And this is where the title of this post comes in. No matter if your work is published by one of the large publishers or something produced start to finish on your kitchen table, the trick is making yourself known to the general public — assuming you’re not someone really FAMOUS. They definitely have an easier time of it.

Most authors are not given much meaningful promotional help by their publishers. Traditionally publishers expect authors to do more and more of the work. Believe me when I say that it’s no more difficult to get review copies, most of which are electronic these days, into the hands of people who will review them whether you did it yourself or your publisher sent it out. The vast majority of these reviewers aren’t professional anymore either. Many papers have cut their reviewers loose in order to save money. There seems to be no lack of people who are prepared to read a free book and then review it. Will an author get a fair shake? That's where you have to gamble.

The issue is getting your work noticed by the reading public. There is still a huge stigma involved with self-published books, and there is no shortage of bad examples to which one can point fingers. Since these works are more miss than hit, many people are naturally reluctant to plop down their hard-earned money on what could be something terrible.

So, for the vast majority of authors, the real struggle is still how to find your audience. Unless a massive publicity campaign is at your disposal, the sad truth is the author, you, are going to be responsible for the promotional heavy lifting regardless of who publishes your book. You will have to find a way to get your book read.

And that’s the real trick, isn’t it?

Do You Know the MacGuffin man?

Let's talk about the MacGuffin.

For those unacquainted with the term, it's one Alfred Hitchcock used often and an approach of which he was very fond. 

Briefly, the MacGuffin is something that the characters in a story believe is important, it's even important for the furtherance of the plot, but is not in itself terribly important. 

It was first coined, it's been claimed, by writer and script fixer (or scenario editor) Angus MacPhail, an old friend of Hitchcock's and who contributed - uncredited- to the scripts of both his remake of The Man Who Knew Too Much and Vertigo.

An example is the microfilm in North by Northwest, which is almost an aside in the storytelling, and the money Marion Crane steals in Psycho. It's what kicks off the whole journey to that shower and what happens afterwards but is so insignificant subsequently it's hardly mentioned again.

You might even argue the statuette of the bird of prey in The Maltese Falcon is the ultimate MacGuffin. Everyone wants it, the storyline is about finding it, but in the end it turns out to be fake. The story is about the search and the character interplay, the actual object doesn't really matter that much.

In Alex Cox's cult film from the 80s 'Repo Man', it's a strangely glowing case (memories there of Robert Aldrich's film version of 'Kiss Me Deadly'). A case also features in 'Pulp Fiction.'

And more recently, we have the Rabbit's Foot in Mission Impossible 3. What on earth is it? I don't know but it doesn't matter. The characters believe it to be important and that's enough.

I suppose it could be argued that the identity of the killer in some police procedurals - especially those where the culprit turns out to be someone perhaps barely introduced before - is also a MacGuffin. It's the investigation that matters and the people who are conducting it, not necessarily the person whose collar is felt. That may well be a controversial opinion but I'm from Glasgow and we fear nothing.

That was the driving force behind almost every episode of Columbo, I believe. I don't include the ones based on Ed McBain stories for which the makers abandoned the formula which gave us the identity of the killer up front. That showed us knowing the killer didn't matter - what was important was the way Columbo tripped them up and the wonderful character by-play along the way.

So, class, the MacGuffin is a catalyst to get the plot moving, it's not the plot itself. Write that down.

So why am I thinking of MacGuffins?

I've written a book on spec and I have pulled a MacGuffin. The thing is, it's only now that it's out on submission that I have realised! It didn't occur to me while I was writing or reviewing.

There is an item that everyone is desperate to find but really it's merely a device to kickstart the plot and to draw in the characters, because they are what the book is really about. Especially the protagonist who - and I can't believe I'm going to say this because it sounds so phoney - embarks on a journey both physically and psychologically. Yes, I'm cringing but I can't think of another way to explain it.

Obviously, I'm not going to expand on what that MacGuffin is or anything about the plot save to say that, despite my gut-wrenchingly arty-farty description above, it is a fast-moving adventure. (Publishers, please contact my agent).

I hope commissioning editors see it for what it is and not a flaw in the storytelling.

I'd be interested in hearing other examples of MacGuffins - and whether not any writers, whether published or aspiring, feel a MacGuffin is a valid tool in our belt or a cheat.

The General and Me

Colin Powell--former US Secretary of State and Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staffs--passed away this week. There was a plenty of discussion about the fact he had been vaccinated and still succumbed to Covid. However, he was 84 and struggling with cancer and Parkinson's so I'm sure given his condition, a simple cold could have likewise done him in.

When I was in the Army, his presence loomed large through the ranks. Black soldiers, and particularly black officers, held him in high regard and affectionally referred to him as the HMFIC.

Though he and I never met, our paths did cross when I reached out to him personally. I had been called up from the reserves for Desert Storm and was sent overseas to serve as a soldier artist for the US Army Center of Military History. During my earlier tour on active duty, I had served as an infantry officer and then as an attack helicopter pilot, so I had already punched my ticket in the combat arms. This assignment as a soldier artist was a dream of mine as many of my boyhood heroes were combat artists such as Howard Brodie, Tom Lea (whose mural decorated the library where I spent many hours as a boy), and the great cartoonist Bill Mauldin.

By the time I got to the front, most of the fighting had quieted down. However during the day I'd hear gunfire and at night see tracers and explosions in the distance. The closest I got to real danger was when we had to clear out an Iraqi strongpoint, which turned out to be abandoned. Unfortunately, as we were approaching the bunkers, we discovered that we were in the middle of an enemy mine field. In literature there's a line when you get so scared that you can hear your pulse hammering in your ears. I experienced that, terrified that I'd get a leg blown off for nothing. 

While making my rounds of the battle area I ran into a black officer, a lieutenant-colonel in the Corps of Engineers. He had been an automotive engineer in Detroit, found that work unfulfilling, joined the Army, and was now the division engineer for the 1st Armored Division. As the expert in both construction and destruction, he was always supposed to be the smartest guy in the room, which I'm sure he was. I snapped his photo for reference, along with the minaret for local color, and a M728 Combat Engineer Vehicle with mine plow.

Months later, after I'd completed the watercolor "The Division Engineer" I read that Gen. Powell collected art featuring American black soldiers. So I send him a framed print. Unexpectedly, I received this note of thanks.  

Surprise!

 

Last week I picked up Thomas Kies's book, Shadow Hill, when I was in Barnes and Noble. I was delighted to see it prominently displayed on a table with the country's most prestigious fiction writers. I was heading to North Carolina to visit my daughter and I knew Thomas lived in that state.

Her family had rented a vacation house in Beaufort and when I arrived and cracked open the book, I realized from the flap copy he was the president of the Chamber of Commerce of the county where we would be staying. The very same county! And the very same town!

I emailed him immediately and much to my delight, he invited me to lunch. Naturally, our conversation focused on publishing and also how fortunate we were to be included in Type M For Murder. Type M is one of the oldest running blogs--since 2006. Our outstanding blogmaster, Rick Blechta is responsible for it's longevity. He gives a new meaning to "faithful to the task."

Thomas and I are with the same publishing house, Poisoned Pen Press, which was purchased by Sourcebooks several years ago. It was fun to recall the lessons we had to learn about writing, and how fortunate we were to have skilled editors to teach us how to improve our books. 

Oh the lessons I've had to learn! The humiliation I've endured. My third most embarrassing moment involved Barbara Peters. I have the world's second worst sense of direction. I was so thrilled when I was to appear at the bookstore for an interview. The other author was Michael Bowen. When I arrived and parked my car, I headed up the street in the wrong direction. Arizona was in the midst of an ungodly heat wave. 

I walked forever before I realized my mistake, nearly had a heat stroke, did an about-face, arrived sweaty, red-faced, with my lovely outfit limp and wilted. I was barely on time and went swanning in like one of those vain persons who make a dramatic late entrance. My hopes of making a good first impression on this poised sophisticated lady lessened to striving to sit upright on the stool. I settled for recalling my own name and hoped my blood pressure would return to normal. 

Nope! I'm not going to tell you who has the worst sense of direction because she's another author and I haven't asked her permission. But I will say she was at the wheel while her husband and family were asleep when returning from a Western Writers Convention. She was headed toward their home in Amarillo, Texas and ended up in Spearfish, South Dakota. Boy, was her husband startled when he woke up.

 

Seattle Fun

 

I spent last week in the Seattle area visiting my mom and sister. Had a lot of fun visiting, learning how to make lefse and doing some touristy things. One of those touristy things was a visit to the Space Needle, a place I hadn’t been in many years. Another was a visit to Chihuly Garden and Glass. The third was checking out MoPop, the Museum of Pop Culture, formerly known as the Experience Music Project. All three are in the Seattle Center within steps of each other.

Let’s start with the Space Needle built in the early 60s for the Century 21 Exposition aka the Seattle World’s Fair held in 1962. Things have changed over the years. A glass floor was recently added where a revolving restaurant used to be. This is a floor below the observation deck. On the observation deck you can stay inside and get a 360 degree view of the city or walk around outside. We went to the restaurant once for my sister’s high school graduation. I remember it being quite fun. Alas, there is no restaurant right now in the Needle.

If you want to see what the Space Needle looked like when it was first built, check out the movie It Happened at the World’s Fair with Elvis Presley. There’s a scene in the restaurant and a number of them on the grounds of the exposition. We rented it from Amazon Prime. It’s interesting how the Needle dominated the skyline of the city then. Now it’s pretty much dwarfed by a lot of very tall buildings.

 

Part of the glass floor

View from the Observation Deck

It was a tad windy on the Observation Deck

Chihuly Garden and Glass is a museum featuring works by Dale Chihuly, a well-known glass artist. You may have seen his work at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. There are exhibits inside as well as glass sculptures mixed with plants outside. Truly amazing.

 

The last place we visited was MoPop where we saw a special exhibit on costumes from Disney films and TV shows. It was interesting to hear how some of those came about and the inspiration the designers used for them. The rest of the museum was interesting as well, but my favorite part was the costume exhibit. 

MoPop and the Space Needle

 

If you get up to Seattle, I recommend seeing all 3 of these places. We did it in 2 days, but you could probably do all 3 in one day if you started early enough.

Kinsey Headed for TV?

by Thomas Kies

 I read an Associated Press article in my daily newspaper this morning that I found jarring.  

Yes, most news stories I read, see, or hear are pretty disturbing, but I found this one particularly upsetting.  The headline reads, “Sue Grafton’s alphabet mysteries headed to TV.”

Most writers would celebrate when their book or series of books are picked up for the silver screen.  I have several writers who are friends who have been lucky enough to get deals with studios for their mystery/thrillers. I know I’d love to see my protagonist, Geneva Chase, played out on the screen. 

But Sue Grafton, recalling her unhappy experiences writing for television movies before becoming a world celebrated novelist, made a vow that her Kinsey Millhone series would never become a television adaption. 

In 1997, Sue Grafton said in January Magazine, “I will never sell Kinsey to Hollywood.  And I have made my children promise not to sell her.  We’ve taken a blood oath, and if they do so I will come back from the grave: which they know I can do.  They’re going to have to pass the word on to my grandchildren: we do not sell out our grandma.”

That sounds pretty definite. Sue Grafton passed away in 2017 and to my knowledge, never changed her mind about her alphabet mysteries becoming a TV series.  When announcing her death, Grafton’s daughter, Jamie Clark, publicly reaffirmed her mother’s vow. 

And yet, A+E has acquired the rights to the Kinsey Millhone novels. Steve Humphrey, Grafton’s husband, and according to the Associated Press is also the executive producer of the series, makes the claim that “the times-and the medium- have changed.”

Mr. Humphrey went on the say in the article, “Television has greatly evolved since Sue was writing in Hollywood in the 1980s.  From her experience then, she was concerned that her stories and characters would be diminished when they were adapted.  But the power of television has transformed over time, so too has the quality from writing and acting to the production values and viewing experience.”

Mr. Humphrey posted that quote on Sue Grafton’s Facebook page and there have been over 2700 comments and the announcement was shared over 900 times.  The responses were a mixed bag.  Many of Grafton’s fans are excited about the adaptation and many are appalled that her husband has gone against her wishes. 

I’ve been a Sue Grafton fan for decades.  My protagonist, Geneva Chase, has been favorably compared by two national reviews to Kinsey Millhone.  A compliment that would be hard to top as far as I’m concerned.  Would I like to see a well-done adaptation of her alphabet mysteries?  Of course, I would.

But the author didn't want anyone to do an adaptation at all.  

A friend of mine, who is well versed in the mystery field, pointed out what a studio did to C.J Box’s Cassie Dewell series—now called Big Sky.  He’s concerned that they’ll turn the adaptation into “Hungarian goulash.  Not to insult any Hungarians.  Or insult goulash.” 

Again,
I have two writer friends who have television deals in the works and I'm thrilled for them, and frankly, a little jealous.

Would I like to have my Geneva Chase novels adapted for television?  Sure, if they were done right.  That’s what I think Sue Grafton’s concerns were.  It saddens me that the family didn’t respect her wishes.  

Animal Stories

 The posts from Charlotte, Rick, and Donis over the past week struck a chord. I have to admit that as much as I love Fergus, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who turned one year old on October 2, and Penelope, my Maine Coon, who I adopted this past spring, I sometimes feel like a frazzled mother of toddlers. Last week, I actually heard myself warning Fergus, who bounces and zooms through life, to "Stop chasing your sister!"  At which point both dog and cat stopped dead and turned to stare at me. Were they wondering about that "sister" thing? Or confused by my tone because they had been playing when Penelope ran with Fergus on her tail. Obviously, they were puzzled.

In fact, they both spend a lot of time looking at me while I carry on conversations with them about whatever is going on. I am the leader of their pack. Penelope stares at me with a feline's unblinking gaze or meows if she would like to have her face and chin stroked. Fergus tilts his head, as if he understands what I am saying. But, according to an article I read, that has more to do with his floppy ears and orientating to hear better than being an expression of his intelligence. He is certainly not listening for further instructions. The word "No" means nothing to him when he is chewing on an electric wire and about to send himself up in a puff of smoke or running with my reading glasses in his mouth, stopping at a distance to watch me go for his "training treats" to pay his ransom demand. He needs training -- training in obedience, schooling on not ignoring the commands that he knows but only deems to follow when it suits him. We are going to an obedience class as soon as I can find one that isn't already at capacity with other people who have puppies acquired during the pandemic. In the meantime, strangers pause to tell me how "adorable" he is and he greets them like long-lost friends. "Everyone loves Fergus," the owner of his doggie daycare told me. 

I have returned late to pets ("companion animals"). For much of my adult life after college and beyond, I had no animals in my life. Then I bought a house and almost accidentally adopted Harry because I saw that the local shelter had a Maine Coon, and I wanted to see one of the big cats that I had written into my book, The Red Queen Dies. The cat in the book was there for a reason. The cat, who had only a walk-on-scene, held the secret to the mystery. 

In that same book, Hannah McCabe, my Albany police detective, and her partner, Mike Baxter, run into her first partner, now retired, while visiting the University at Albany campus. As in real-life, the university mascot is a Great Dane, and McCabe's ex-partner has one in tow and reminds her again about adopting a puppy. At the end of the book, she brings home a huge puppy that is such a mix of various breeds that both her father and her brother, from whom she has been estranged, are in awe. Discussing names for the puppy gives them a warm, family, moment. At the end of the second book, What the Fly Saw, another character sees the dog and suggests a name -- and shares an important moment of rapport with McCabe. My animals are in my books because they move the plots along and reveal something about the characters. Why else would a black cat have attended a seance in the same book? Would I be that campy for the fun of it?  

 George, a yellow Labador mix, debuted in A Dead Man's Honor, the second book in my Lizzie Stuart series, and became a continuing character. I didn't consciously think about adding a dog to the series. It was one of those moments when something happened -- Lizzie arrived at John Quinn's house and discovered he had a dog. A dog he had rescued from the side of the highway and had not intended to keep. But he had, and his bashfulness in talking about being a softie when it came to a stray dog gave Lizzie a glimpse of another side of the former military police officer, ex-homicide cop. George becomes the victim of a crime in Old Murders. He survives and recovers, but the incident is a turning point in the book.

In Forty Acres and a Soggy Grave, George is left at home, but he manages to "skunk up" Quinn's beloved Bronco before Lizzie and Quinn leave for a weekend visit with Quinn's friends. Thanks to George's pursuit of a skunk, Quinn is driving Lizzie's Ford Escort when they are in an auto accident soon after arriving on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. The accident launches the subplot involving migrant laborers.

So far, no animals have appeared in the flesh in my 1939 historical thriller. But the senator's housekeeper has reported that his niece, Evelyn, has gone out riding. She has a conversation with the niece's suitor about Evelyn's outrage about the death of a horse during the making of a western movie (a true story). Since several of the characters are going to Saratoga, undoubtedly a race horse will have a role. Evelyn's suitor owns a plantation in Georgia. Is he the kind of man who has a dog that walks by his side? I don't know yet. If he doesn't, is it because of something that happened when he was a child? Something that helped to shape his character?

I have an aunt who doesn't like cats. She will probably never come to visit me with Penelope and Fergus in residence. I have a feeling there is a story somewhere in that. In the meantime, my first Jo Radcliffe novel, set in 1949, will be about the murder of a mean-tempered village storeowner who claimed the dog of a homeless World War II veteran bit him.  

Zeros

I enjoyed Rick's and Charlotte's latest Type M Entries about using pets our novels (though I'm sorry about Charlotte's grandson losing his friend and companion Mayzie). Rick says he doesn't include animals in his books. I certainly do, especially in the Alafair Tucker Mysteries. That series is set on a farm in the 1910s. Their lives revolve around animals, both companion animals, hunting partners, and dinner, so I pretty much had to include them. In the Bianca Dangereuse books, set in Hollywood in the 1920s, my protagonist grew up on said farm and can't imagine a life without animals. 

 In my mind this ties in with my thoughts about Vicki Delany's new series set in 1953. I cannot wait to read it. 1953 is about the time I was becoming aware of the world. The very mention of the year catpulted me back to that time, the feel of it, the way it looked, the smell of it. The beloved peopl, all gone now, who populated the little world I lived in when I was a small child. It's funny how a word, a thought, a conversation, can evoke memories and feelings you thought you had long forgotten.

The building in the distance is where Grandma's cafe was located from the late 1920 to 1970. I took this photo in 2018. Even the building is gone now. 

 A few days ago, my husband and I were driving down the street discussing candy bars. He’s one of the few people in the world who doesn’t like chocolate, so we were trying to think of as many non-chocolate candy bars as we could. I mentioned Zeros, and suddenly was transported back half a century, to Boynton, Oklahoma, and the eatery that my grandmother owned for over forty years, Mrs. Casey’s Cafe, on Main Street. 

That cafe was a very large part of my childhood, since we traveled to Boynton from Tulsa every other weekend to visit my dad’s mom, and we kids spent at least two weeks with my grandmother every summer. Our two summer weeks were no vacation, either. My grandmother couldn’t afford to take time off from her cafe, so she put us to work. I imagine that at the time we were like any other family ristorante in Italy or corner cafe in Greece, where a ten year old with a dishtowel wrapped around his waist comes to your table to take your order. I don’t know what Family Services would say these days about all the times I carried a tray full of open beer bottles to the men in the back room when I was pre-pubescent, or fried up hamburgers on the grill, or stood on a step stool in the kitchen to wash up glasses in a sink full of lukewarm dishwater. 

 Her cafe was a very small affair; a counter with half a dozen twirling stools that we kids made good if annoying use of, and three booths. Every weekend that we went down there, one of the rituals my sisters and I indulged in was to take a small paper sack and fill it with candy bars from the display behind Grandma’s counter to take home with us. We were thoughtless and greedy little buggers, and it never occurred to me that this was costing my grandma money. I hope that my father reimbursed her. I wasn’t aware of it, but knowing Grandma, she probably did bill him. 

 There were certain candies and treats that she always stocked, such as Hershey Bars, Mounds, Milky Ways, Snickers, Mr. Goodbar, Baby Ruth, Butterfingers, Three Musketeers, Pay-Days, Twinkies, Hostess Cupcakes. But there were others that only made an occasional appearance, and we would snap those up with delight when they did show up. One of these was the aforementioned Zero Bar, which resembled a Milky way, except for the fact that it was white chocolate, or something-that-would-be-called-white-chocolate-in-the-future. I don’t remember that term being in wide use back in the olden days. I also kept a sharp eye out for Heath Bars, Brown Cows, Almond Joy, Krackles, and good old Hostess Sno-Balls, which came in white and pink. I liked the white. Pink snow balls just seemed wrong to me. We didn’t neglect the chewing gum, either. My sister liked Double Bubble and Juicy Fruit, but both were too sweet for me. I liked Spearmint and Beeches Clove gum. I can’t say I enjoyed bussing tables every summer all that much, but I’m sure it was good for my character. Perhaps one of the reasons I write about food so much in my fiction doesn’t have something to do with the experience. 

I wonder if they still make Zeros?

Going to the wild side

 Barbara here, at last. Although I'm not sure anyone missed me, I have been AWOL from this blog for the past month and only remembered this week's post rather late in the game. Life has been getting in the way, but most of it is boring stuff about cottage close-ups, laundry, broken washing machines, thanksgiving prep, and such.

The only really interesting reason for my negligence was my sixteen-day trip out to Vancouver Island to research the next Amanda Doucette novel, which is set in the Pacific Rim area on the wild west coast of Vancouver island. Each Amanda book is set in a different iconic location across Canada, starting in the far east on the island of Newfoundland, then moving to Quebec's Laurentian mountains, Ontario's stunning Georgian Bay archipelago, and then the fascinating, slightly spooky Alberta badlands. In this fifth book, Amanda has finally reached the western extremity of Canada. 

Not every region has been represented, and I apologize for that, but had I chosen to include every province and territory, I would be closing in on a hundred years old before penning that last book. I did write about the north in my Inspector Green book, THE WHISPER OF LEGENDS, and should my publisher and I decide to do a sixth Amanda book, it would be set in the north.

In choosing my locations, I wanted to shine a spotlight on the incredible beauty and diversity of Canada's landscape and culture. Not only is the rugged, rocky coast of Newfoundland very different from the parched moonscape of the Alberta's badlands, but the lifestyle and daily preoccupations of its people are unique as well. To do justice to this uniqueness, I needed to visit each place I wrote about. While I was more familiar with Newfoundland, Quebec, and Ontario, my knowledge of the badlands was more limited and my knowledge of the wild Pacific Rim was non-existent. There is only so much one can learn by parachuting into a place and racing around it, taking notes and photos, talking to people, and trying to walk in my characters' shoes, but it is still better than the internet, books, and maps (although I did use those too). Nothing gives the sounds, sights, smells, and feel of a place quite like being there. 

The spirit of Tofino

Naure is awe-inspiring, and there is an emotional and spiritual impact to standing in the middle of it. Before I stood on the endless beach near Tofino, listening to the breakers gather and crumble and watching the surfers rise and fall, I would never have appreciated the soft, yellow luminescence of the early morning sun. Nor the humid, vibrantly green rain forest, which is both soaring and claustrophobic at the same time. I had pictured Amanda bushwhacking through the forest to get from one place to another, something that is difficult enough in eastern forests, but impossible in that dense, choked greenery. Had I not walked those forests myself and corrected my descriptions, I would have lost many readers who should have been immersed in the story.

Rainforest perspective

So in the interests of bringing a vivid, credible story to life, I spent sixteen days and took two day-kayak trips in different parts of the area, a whale watching trip in a Zodiac in three metre ocean swells, a bear watching trip along the inner shores of the many inlets, and a seaplane flight over the coastal islands that form the backbone of my story. I hiked numerous trails, walked for miles along the beaches, rolled up my jeans and walked barefoot in the surf, and visited the location of the local cemeteries and the old hippie commune at Wreck Bay. Now I have to incorporate what I learned into the book.

Long Beach in a storm

Sixteen days is not long to get the sense of a place, but it will be better than nothing. The pandemic nearly ruined all my plans. Closures and quarantine requirements, not to mention the dangers of social interactions, meant I'd had to cancel a previous trip and write a lot of the book beforehand on sheer guesswork. Even now, several of the hikes and activities central to the book are still closed, and one of the islands is still completely off limits to tourists. The famous Wildside Heritage Trail on Flores Island, which is in the book and which I had planned to hike, was closed, as were the Hot Springs. 

My acknowledgements will have to include a caveat and an apology for all the things I might get wrong, but I am trying my best to do justice to an astonishing place.

Plus, it was a fabulous trip!

Pet peeves

by Rick Blechta

I’ve used this title before for one of my weekly posts on Type M, but this post is different. It’s actually about pets, not things that annoy me.

The germ for my post today came from two sources: firstly from Charlotte’s post this past Friday, and secondly because our elderly cat is obviously reaching the end of her days.

I do understand people’s attachment to their pets. Our family dog when I was growing up slowly became my dog because I was the one who usually walked him and we went all over our small town together. Yes, I was upset when Spunky finally shucked his mortal coil while I was attending university in Montreal — but I got over it pretty quickly, which is odd because I’m normally a pretty emotional person.

Why is this? Because when I was in high school I had a weekend job for two years working at a local animal hospital. You pretty quickly begin to understand that pets’ lives are far shorter than their owners. I also realized that when you got a pet, you had to understand that this would eventually happen or it could drive someone to serious despair. This realization hardens you pretty effectively to the eventual death of pets.

My wife and I have always had cats. When you’re busy with life and not home much, and often at irregular hours, cats are a much better pet solution than dogs. Over the years we’ve had six. Our current feline, Abby (short for Abby Normal), was originally our son Jan’s pet. When he had to let her go for various reasons, we said we’d take over.

While a real character as a young cat, Abby is now 13 and her health is catching up with her. Based on her medical conditions, she only has a few months left. Our goal is to keep her comfortable. Once we can’t do that, it will be time to let her go. And it will be a sad day, especially for my tender-hearted wife.

Charlotte’s post got me thinking of why pets can often appear as important characters in crime fiction. We even have novels where animals are main characters and actually solve crimes.

My feeling has always been that unless the pet has a good “plot reason” to be included as a cast member, then it’s best to leave them out. I can’t remember the book title now, but the best inclusion of a dog in a crime novel was because the police detective main character found it useful to think about cases while walking his dog. The dog also seemed to understand this and would beg for a walk when her master had a particularly sticky problem in a case. It fit well and was handled in a pretty funny way.

Other times, though, you realize the pet is there for no real plot reason. They’re more window dressing than anything else and to me that distracts from the plot.

I’ve never even considered having a pet in one of my stories. Perhaps it’s because I’ve become a hard-ass about our beloved animal companions — which is no doubt a mechanism to spare me from woe — or maybe it’s a way to keep the storylines less cluttered by extraneous things. Heaven knows I struggle with that!

So here’s to pets, whether they be our boon companions or simply plot devices. I’m happy to know that many readers enjoy the inclusion of animals in stories. Maybe they’re a way to make crime fiction less dark, giving them a bit more humanity by their presence.

In today’s world, that’s a good thing.

A character by any other name brings notes from your editor

My editor sent me notes this week on the next book in my series and one of the comments made me laugh out loud.

I had used four different names for the same character in the MS and he suggested that I pick one and stick with it.

The funniest thing was, this is not a new character — she actually appears in an earlier book!

Names can be my downfall. Words, coherent sentences, spelling, syntax, plot, dialogue and endings also give me trouble.

I forget character names so easily. I have to write them down on Post-It notes as I go along, just to keep me right. Then, of course, I lose the Post-It note.

Writers have to keep track of a lot of different things. Names, back stories, time lines, whether there is a character with one leg called George (I forget what the other leg is called). I suppose there are apps that can help but I shun the appliance of technology. Until I use it, of course, then I wonder why on earth I was doing all that shunning.

Even coming up with names is difficult, well at least for me. It's easy to devise a character called Jehosephat McGillicuddy. Outlandish names are simple — it’s those that are both memorable and yet everyday that can be problematic.

Whenever I introduce a new character sometimes their names come to me instantly, more often than not I can be found scanning the spines of the books on my shelves to see if anything sparks.

As for forgetting names, this mild form of anomic aphasia extends to real life. I have often carried on complete conversations with someone who clearly knows my name but for the life of me I can't recall theirs!

There is no serious root to this — I hope not anyway. I think it is quite common. With me it is genuinely just a vagueness, even perhaps a lack of attention, caused by having a mind filled with so much nonsense that something has to go to make room for just how many times has Steven Spielberg worked with composer John Williams (I count 28, but there were also two episodes of TV’s Amazing Stories on which they collaborated).

Obviously, I'm not talking about people I know well. The names I forget are people I have perhaps met only one or twice, which I think is perfectly normal.

But to forget the names of people you have created and have spent at least part of however long it takes write a novel is ridiculous and I must do better.

Not losing those Post-It notes might be a start.

This weekend’s special guest Vicki Delany!

I am most pleased to welcome back Vicki Delany, one of Type M for Murders founders and long-time members. She is here to tell us all about her new series set in the Catskill Mountains of New York State. Take it away, Vicki!

Researching the Catskills Resort Mysteries

1953. I was there, but I wasn’t exactly taking notice of the social and political environment of the day, so when I decided to write a series set in 1953 I had to do a lot of research. Fortunately, it was easy.

1953. Think girdles and stockings, fancy cocktails, grand ballrooms, cigarette smoke (and more cigarette smoke), angel food cake and Cheeze Whiz on celery sticks, Reds under the beds and slow moving fans.

It’s the Catskills. Comedians and big bands and glamorous singers. Paddle boats and bellhops, tomato cocktails and Jell-O salads, swimsuit competitions and unattended children.

1953 really wasn’t so long ago. Unlike writers with books set in, say Ancient Rome, or 18th Century Venice, I could watch movies. Not movies set in the era I am interested in, but actually made then. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing, Esther Williams in the water, gritty hard-boiled detectives like Sam Spade in the Maltese Falcon (although that was made in 1941). Movies are a fantasy, sure, but they are also reflective of their times. I watched the dance movies for scenes in the ballroom of my Catskills Hotel. I listened to big band music by the likes of Glenn Miller, as recommend by Type M’s own Rick. I studied the clothes, the furniture, the tilt of a cigarette in the mouth of a sophisticated woman and listened to the expressions.

I also read a lot of cookbooks from the era and looked at design magazines. Many of these are available online. I can’t say I tried cooking anything I read about though. Jell-O salads with canned pineapple just doesn’t appeal.

All of which helped me, I hope, to create the feel of the times, particularly in those minor but important details such as the cut of a character’s dress or her hair style or what she might order from the bar.

As for the specific history of the Catskills at the time of the famous resorts, there’s a lot of first-hand information available. Many people have very fond memories of the times they spent at the great hotels, or cheap bungalow colonies, either as guests or as employees, or children of owners and employees. “Mountain Rats” the latter called themselves.
1953. The Catskills. Put them together and you have my new series, the Catskills Resort Mysteries. Out front: swimming pool, beach, lounge chairs, tennis games, cards on the veranda, a full dining room, helpful bellhops. Behind the scenes: offices full of women pounding typewriters and answering phones, harried switchboard operators, temperamental cooks, non-stop smoking. Hundreds of employees from gardeners to bellhops to chambermaids to entertainment directors, lifeguards, and dance instructors.

And at the center of it all, Elizabeth Grady, war-widow, bookkeeper, reluctant resort manager. Her mother, Olivia Peters, retired Broadway dance star and unexpectedly the owner of a Catskills resort.

So take a trip back in time with Elizabeth and Olivia and enjoy your visit to Hagerman’s Catskills Resort. It is, after all, 1953.

_________________________

Vicki Delany is one of Canada’s most prolific and varied crime writers and a national bestseller in the U.S. She has written more than forty books: clever cozies to Gothic thrillers to gritty police procedurals, to historical fiction and novellas for adult literacy. She is currently writing four cozy mystery series: the Catskill Resort mysteries for Penguin Random House, the Tea by the Sea mysteries for Kensington, the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop series for Crooked Lane Books,  and the Lighthouse Library series (as Eva Gates) for Crooked Lane.

Vicki is a past president of the Crime Writers of Canada and co-founder and organizer of the Women Killing It Crime Writing Festival.  Her work has been nominated for the Derringer, the Bony Blithe, the Ontario Library Association Golden Oak, and the Arthur Ellis Awards. Vicki is the 2019 recipient of the CWC’s Derrick Murdoch Award for contributions to Canadian crime writing. She lives in Prince Edward County, Ontario.

The Long Goodbyes

 

This is a photo of my grandson, John Crockett, with Mayzie, the dog he received for his birthday. And if ever a boy and a dog were meant for each other! John is in Rhode Island in graduate school now, and two weeks ago the family laid Mayzie to rest. 

Next week my youngest daughter and her family will say goodbye to Dakota, another well-beloved dog who has so many ailments that she leads a miserable existence and the vet said it's time to consider her quality of life. 

The response to a pet's death is pure grief, even if we know it's coming. Because the love they give us is so pure, I think. A dog hears our troubles without judging. Dogs seem to know when we are down and need a little extra attention. They are a barometer for our moods and simply commiserate without trying to cheer us up. 

My favorite dog was a little Shih-Tzu named Brandy Noel. The daughters got her for Christmas one year, but eventually they went to college and Brandy became my dog and the inspiration for the ridiculously spoiled Tosca who is in all of my mysteries. I was grief stricken when I had to say goodbye to Brandy. 

I've heard that one of the big taboos for writers is killing off a dog or pet that has been a constant in a series. We can kill anyone else, grandparents, all sorts of relations, close friends — but not the dog.

I wonder how many Type M’ers have pets that are their writing companions? How many integrate pets into their series? 

Can you think of series that wouldn't be the same without the dog? 

There's a reason why I'm not including cats in this blog. Cats really don't need us. Nor do they much care how our day is going. Dogs do.