Weekend Guest--Tammy Kaehler

When Tammy Kaehler discovered the racing world, she was hooked by the contrast between its top-dollar, high-drama competition, and friendly, family atmosphere. Mystery fans and racing insiders alike have praised her award-winning Kate Reilly Mystery Series (Dead Man’s Switch, Braking Points, Avoidable Contact, and Red Flags), and Tammy takes readers back behind the wheel in her fifth entry, Kiss The Bricks. She works as a freelance writer in Southern California, where she lives with her husband and many cars. Find out more: www.tammykaehler.com.

Don’t Judge a Book by Its Hook

I turned the television on last weekend to watch the Kentucky Derby. It’s not totally out of character: I grew up riding horses and went to plenty of races, since I lived a mile from a horse racetrack. But as another auto racing fan said on Twitter, “I’m watching the Kentucky Derby, because I like all racing.”

But these days, my racing of choice typically has hundreds of horsepower, not just one (sorry, that’s the easy joke). And the races I watch or attend usually last longer than a couple minutes. But still, I turned on the Derby—while simultaneously searching for the article I’d seen earlier in the day: Derby storylines.

See, it’s easy to say “Tammy likes racing” or “I write about racing.” That’s the quickest and most memorable hook about my mystery series, and I do a lot to promote my racing approach (you may have seen me in racing team gear at a mystery convention). But of course the simplified message never tells the whole tale.

Because as much as it’s about racing for me, it’s more about the stories. Last weekend, I wanted to know the details behind the Derby runners and teams. When I’m at an auto race, I wander the paddock looking for the buzz around the drivers and teams. I like setting everyday characters, problems, challenges, wins, and losses against the backdrop of a gritty but glamorous pursuit. Racing is a microcosm of the real world, with every type of person from crook to hero to celebrity—and the added drama of a lot of money and life-or-death stakes.

I write about auto racing like Dick Francis wrote about steeplechasing. Like Cara Black writes about Paris. Like Patricia Cornwell writes about a medical examiner. Like Michael Connelly writes police procedurals. That’s not all our books are, but those are the settings for (hopefully) universal stories.

What I choose to write about is a woman who’s trying to be successful in an uber-competitive, male-dominated arena. She’s got to deal with sexism, the struggle to represent herself well to the rest of the world (especially to sponsors that will fund her racing), and the pressure to be outstanding at her job. Don’t tell me that’s not a universal story! Of course, where Kate Reilly differs from the rest of us (I assume) is that she ends up needing to investigate murders and other crimes.

But all of that took a paragraph to describe, and when you have ten seconds to tell someone what you write, you go with the hook—and don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to have one that stands out. And I’m guilty, too! I’ve caught myself thinking, “I don’t want to read about beermaking, I don’t like beer” and “I don’t want to read about Cleveland, that doesn’t sound exciting.”

But I’m getting better at the snap judgments. The decisions made based only on the surface information. I’m trying to dig deeper, too. I’m trying to see beyond the hook (or the cover) and find out more about the story. Because I know there are a lot of great stories out there, and I want to read them all…

So tell me, do you find yourself making the same kind of judgments about a hook or a cover? What influences you to check out a book?

Point of No Return

This weekend my darling granddaughter, Abigail Bieker, will be graduating from Northern Arizona State University. I'll be driving down with my daughter, her mother Mary Beth, tomorrow. We are so proud of Abby!

A college degree is an enormous advantage in today's economy. What's more, it can't be erased. It's there. Forever.

During historical interviews I've been struck at how much everything has changed. Women from a preceding generation told of canning little jars of beef to take for their food. Casually running home during a semester was unheard of. Rules were strictly enforced and expulsion was a constant threat.

Curfews reigned. Dorms were either men or women. Women were forbidden to ever, I mean ever, visit a man's living quarters. Even sororities locked their doors promptly at certain times every night. Over time the rules were relaxed and dorms yielded to men's floors and women's floor, then even that has given way to shared mixed gender rooms.

Calls home, which often involved party lines, were expensive and traumatic. Imagine chats with the parents with all the neighbors listening in. There were no credit cards, cash was scarce and skimping was a way of life. Friends chipped in a quarter to provide refreshments for a party. There was little relief from constant study.

Libraries were hallowed ground. With no internet available it was essential to devour as many books as possible to do a decent job of writing papers and responding to assignments. It was study, study, study. This was the only time one would have access to this quantity of books.

There has been a sea change globally in about every area, especially in how we do research. Having lived in small towns with limited libraries my gratitude for the internet knows no bounds. I cannot fully express my appreciation. Yet work is work. The young woman slumped over her computer knows this. The internet hasn't erased the need to think, and thinking is hard! The publishing industry is now totally dependent on electronics. A couple of weeks ago I broke my little Surface computer. I bought it in 2012 so it was ancient by current standards. I have a large desktop but it won't do me a bit of good when I'm in Arizona. I need something portable to take with me. I can and do compose in longhand a lot of the time. Especially when it comes to fiction.

But longhand is no good for transmitting documents. My weekend guest post is by the fabulous Tammy Kaehler and she has a wonderful series with Poisoned Pen. I won't be able to send her post before I leave. But the hotel has a business service center.

I've reached the point of no return. It's electronics or perish.

10-minute (writing) workout?

Infomercials promise workout plans that can change your physique –– and, thus, your life –– in 10 minutes. Just 10 minutes a day. Sound too good to be true? Well, if it talks like a duck and it walks like a duck . . .

But what if we applied this theory, in concept and scale, to novel writing? Maybe I’m cynical, but I don’t believe you can get into shape by working out 10 minutes a day. You can get your heart rate up, hold it there, and that’s a good thing. However, life-altering results, it seems to me, require more.

But novel writing? Creating a 100,000-word manuscript, even a rough draft, certainly takes a sustained, concentrated effort. In college, a professor told me he wrote poems because “writing novels takes large chunks of time.” Stephen King, in On Writing, says something to the effect that one should try to write a novel in three months. I understand his reasoning –– writing a book in such a short period of time guarantees that the story, characters, and conflicts remain burned into the forefront of your consciousness. It makes sense.

But it’s just not possible for many writers to write a draft in twelve weeks. Life usually gets in the way, and if it doesn’t, the fact is that few authors write as fast as Stephen King. And most don’t or can’t write as often.

Since many writers don’t have the necessary “large chunks of time,” can there be a 10-minute workout to turn your brilliant idea into a 100,000-word manuscript? Or more specifically, how does one write a novel without multiple hours each day dedicated to the task?

I try to write a book a year. That’s always been the goal. (It seems easier when a contract looms over your head.) And to do this, theoretically, one must only write a page a day for a year. Theoretically. But everyone knows the process on day 1 is not the same on day 51. Or day 251. The plot has a way of jumping up and grabbing you by the throat and squeezing the life out of you every hundred pages or so. (Or it does that to me any way.)

So I concentrate on time –– two hours a day. I can get 500 to 750 words of fresh copy written (or read through 30 pages) in two concentrated hours. It’s what I shoot for.

I’d love to hear what others who lack “large chunks of time” do to get their novels written.

Malice Domestic Recap

Like Vicki, I attended Malice Domestic at the end of April. I've been back for over a week, but somehow it seems like it was only yesterday. I think this is the 4th Malice I've attended, the third as a published author. There's such a great sense of camaraderie there. A lot of Henery Press authors attend and it's a chance for me to meet face to face with my editors. All of us stay in touch throughout the year via email, Facebook, etc., but it's always nice to actually see each other. That's my favorite part of Malice, spending time with friends I haven't see in a while.

I'm in the center, surrounded by my wonderful editors Erin and Rachel

My next favorite part of the convention is the Agatha awards banquet. I'm really not great at small talk, but I've always had a fun time talking with the people at my banquet table. This year was especially great because several HP authors were nominated for Agathas. Cynthia Kuhn won for Best First and Art Taylor won for Best Short Story (this is his third win in this category.) I was seated at Cynthia's table, which erupted in shouts of joy when she won. Tears were flowing, people were jumping up and down in excitement. It was great to see. You might remember Cynthia from her recent guest post.

Agatha Award Winners Cynthia Kuhn and Art Taylor

This year fellow HP author Gretchen Archer and I explored the possibility that we might actually be related through my husband's family and her son-in-law's family. We're exchanging genealogy info and looking into the possibility. The jury's still out, but it's fun to entertain the possibility.

I enjoyed the panel I was on, "Murder and Crafts" with Mollie Cox Bryan, Peggy Ehrhart, Maggie Sefton, moderated by the wonderful Aimee Hix. We had a great time discussing how we incorporate our craft into our stories. Knitting needles used as weapons came up a lot in the discussion with the audience. And I mean a lot. And, just so you know, knitting needles are allowed on planes.

The Murder and Crafts Panel

Next year Malice will be at a new hotel, 3 Metro stops north of the one this year. We'll have to learn a whole new area of Bethesda, but we'll actually have a bar. That was one thing that was sorely missed at this conference. The lobby bar bit the dust in the hotel's renovations. Not that I drink much, but it was a convenient place to find people you were looking for.

Just one more convention for me this year. June will find me at the California Crime Writers Conference here in Southern California. I'll be moderating my first panel there, so if anyone has any helpful hints, I'll take 'em.

The quick and dirty way out

by Rick Blechta

Help! I'm inundated under a deluge of author photos!

As I've mentioned here before, I'm responsible for designing the programme book for this year’s Bouchercon here in Toronto. It’s a gigunda job, to say the very least. Today, a call went out, a rather desperate one, really, asking registered authors who haven’t yet done so to please send in their author headshots.

The response has been an email blizzard of them, so much so that my inbox is overflowing. I’m not complaining in the slightest, mind you. This is a Good Thing. I could visualize them all arriving on the very last day for submissions, so getting them now will save me a ton of agony later on.

However, I’d only started writing today’s blog and had not got very far before the tsunami hit. So my interesting blog subject will have to wait until next Tuesday.

But, fear not loyal readers of Type M for Murder! In writing last week’s topic, I used a photo of a dead fly. That led me down a dark internet wormhole where I found a whole treasure trove of Dead Fly Cartoons.

So for your gentle delectation, I present some of my favourite examples of this obscure art form. Enjoy!

Fun times at conferences

By Vicki Delany

Now that I'm well established into a writing career, I'm cutting down on the number of conferences I attend.

I still enjoy them very much, but other things are increasingly taking preference. Like writing time.

But I will always find time for my favourites, and top of that list is Malice Domestic, held each year at the end of April in Bethesda Maryland.

Crooked Lane authors at Malice Domesitc

The Malice fun starts two days ahead of time with the trip down. This year it was Mary Jane Maffini, Linda Wiken, and I bouncing down the road. The trip is do-able in one day, but a couple of years ago we decided to break it up so we wouldn't arrive totally exhausted. (Plus, that will give some of the members of our group some shopping time!)

I love the community aspect of Malice, from the fans who come every year, often having read my newest book in the meantime, to the many writer friends I have met.  This year, the Crooked Lane authors, of which I am proud to be part, met for breakfast. I got to meet some of my fellow CL authors for the first time. Malice is also, for me, a busienss conference. I had lunch with my agent, the wonderful Kim Lionetti, and the Bookends Agency threw a party for us all.

Me with Kate Carlisle and Sheila Connely

The CWC contingent. MJ Maffini, Linda WIken, Cathy Ace, Vicki Delany (missing Judy Penz Sheluk)

I hosted a table with Barbara Early

Bouncing back down the road, we stopped at the marvelous Mechanicsburg Mystery Bookstore where we were, as always, very warmly received and our panel was well attended.  Thanks to Debbie Beamer for being so welcoming and to Dennis Royer for moderating an excellent panel.

What's coming up in the way of conferences etc?

I have the honour of being the Guest of Honor for Deadly Ink, Rockaway New Jersey June 16 - 18. Toastmaster will be none other than Mary Jane Maffini, which means more bouncing down the road.

http://www.deadly-ink.org/

Women Killing It, in Price Edward County Ontario Sept 1, 2. Ironically, although I am one of the sponsors and organizers of the festival, I won’t be there.  We had set the date before a family wedding was announced. But it will be great none the less as it's in the very capable hand of Janet Kellough.

https://womenkillingitauthorsfestival.wordpress.com/

Bouchercon, Toronto October. The worlds biggest mystery conference will be in Toronto this year, and I am thrilled to be participating.

http://bouchercon2017.com/

Weekend Guest Elaine Viets

Please join me in welcoming Elaine Viets, last weekend's wonderful Guest of Honor at Malice Domestic, to Type M. Elaine's intriguing new series takes her full circle and in a new direction. She's here to tell us about it.

Going Back to the Dark Side

By Elaine Viets

            I've left the light and gone back home – and my home is dark, violent and bloody. After twenty-five cozy and traditional mysteries, I'm writing dark mysteries again: the Angela Richman, Death Investigator series.

          My first series, the Francesca Vierling newspaper mysteries, was hardboiled. When Random House bought Bantam Dell and wiped out that division, I switched to the funny, traditional Dead-End Job mysteries, featuring Helen Hawthorne. The Art of Murder, now in paperback, is the 15^th Dead-End Job mystery. I also wrote ten cozy Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper mysteries.

          I love both series, but I never abandoned the dark side. I wrote dark short stories for Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and anthologies edited by Charlaine Harris and Lawrence Block. I wanted to spend more time on the dark side, but I didn't want to do another police procedural or a private eye with a dead wife or a drinking problem. Other writers had done those and done them well.

          Angela Richman, my new protagonist, is a death investigator in mythical Chouteau Country, Missouri, stronghold of the over-privileged and the people who serve them. Brain Storm was the first mystery in the new death investigator series. Fire and Ashes, the second Angela mystery, will be published July 25.

          My death investigator mysteries aren't too gory – not like Patricia Cornwell's "I boiled my dead boyfriend's head." This series is closer to Kathy Reichs' Tempe Brennan series. Janet Rudolph, who heads Mystery Readers International, believes this may be the only death investigator series.

          Many readers aren't familiar with DIs, but the profession is nationwide. At a murder the death investigator is in charge of the body, and the police handle the rest of the crime scene. The DI photographs the body, documents its wounds, records the body core temperature, clothing and more. Death investigators work for the medical examiner. They are trained professionals, but do not have medical degrees.  They're like paralegals for the medical examiner. I wanted the training – and the contacts – to make the new series accurate. I passed the Medicolegal Death Investigators Training Course for forensic professionals at St. Louis University, a two-credit college course.

          Here's how the sizzling Fire and Ashes begins:

          Five fire engines, two ladder trucks, a portable light truck, a battalion chief’s van, and what looked like every cop car in Chouteau County were fighting this fire. Death investigator Angela Richman knew it was already too late—she was summoned only for death. Tonight, someone had died in that blazing building, choked by the smoke and seared by those flames. Angela oversaw the bodies at Chouteau County crime scenes or unattended deaths. The death investigator reported to the county medical examiner.
         Who was it? Angela didn’t know yet. The detective’s call was cryptic: “Luther Ridley Delor’s house is on fire. One body so far. They’re bringing it out. Get over there now.” Seventy-year-old Luther called himself a financier to take away the sting of how his family made a trainload of money: running a nationwide chain of payday loan companies. People—especially desperate ones—knew the slogan “You get more with Delor.” Was the old man dead? Was the victim his young fiancée? Or did a friend or servant die in that hellish fire?
          Luther's fiancée, a twenty-year-old Mexican-American manicurist, Kendra Salvato, is blamed for the fatal fire. After all, she's an outsider who's already made off with $2 million of the old lech's money. She's also accused of setting arson fires in this posh neighborhood. The Forest burns with prejudice and betrayal, and Angela has to fight it with the forensic facts.

                                                  ****
Elaine Viets has written 31 books four series: the dark Francesca Vierling newspaper mysteries, the traditional, humorous Dead-End Job mysteries, and the cozy Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper mysteries. She returned to the dark side with Brain Storm, the first mystery in her Angela Richman, death investigator series. Fire and Ashes is her latest novel. You can find Elaine at www.elaineviets.com   
Pre-order the Fire and Ashes e-book for $3.99 through July 25 here: http://tinyurl.com/ltfxsyy

A Writer's Mind

When I was thinking about what I would blog about today, I kept going back to something that happened on Monday. This incident was both scary and – in retrospect – a little embarrassing. But I've got to tell you about it, because I suspect this is another example of how a writer's mind functions.

Here's what happened (thank you, Adrian Monk, for that phrase). I had a great time at Malice Domestic last weekend (great seeing several of my fellow bloggers!). The only problem was I kept waking up during the night when my hotel room air conditioner came on and it was too hot to turn it off. So I was a little tired on Monday morning, and I arrived at school with just enough time to hurry over to the building next door to make sure the noise from the pipe in the ceiling last class meeting was not going to be a problem during Monday's team presentations. Relieved not to hear anything and that the media equipment was also working well, I dashed into the cafeteria and picked up the lunch special to go. Back at my desk, I realized I'd gotten napkins and a plastic fork but forgotten I needed a knife. But I didn't have time to rummage through what was in my drawer looking for one. I needed to print out a copy of my syllabus so that I could remind the class of end of semester due dates.

So there I was, pressing "print" with one hand while forking food into my mouth with the other. And swallowing fast. Until something didn't go down and I realized a large piece of steak had lodged in my throat. Luckily, I had taken the time to fill my mug with water. And I managed – with the help of the visitor's chair on the other side of my desk – to perform my own Heimlich Maneuver (see image for instructions):

It was an interesting experience – similar to the time I hydroplaned during a rainstorm. I had time to think about what was happening and consider what I should do. And hear my mother reminding me to "chew my food." But it was all over in a minute or so.

A friend once told me that her tire had blown out as she was driving home on the interstate in rush hour traffic. I said, "Did you panic?" and she, ever logical, said, "That wouldn't have helped." I'd also browsed the Army survival manual and some other books when I was doing research for a Lizzie Stuart mystery. So I had been lecturing myself about not panicking during the next emergency – keep your head and survive. Or, save your cat. My last almost emergency was a few weeks ago, when Harry seemed to be choking on a treat he had gobbled. He managed to cough it up and then swallow. But that reminded me that I didn't know how to do the Heimlich on a cat. And while Googling the instructions, I'd had occasion to review what to do for a human – including yourself. And I was hoping I had time to try that before I ran out into the hall to search for help before I passed out.

As I was dashing out the door to class – couldn't be late because all the teams had to present – I made a mental note that I needed to write down what had happened because now I knew how it felt and I might be able to use it in a book. And last night, having thought of what happened again, I realized – much to my delight – that I can use it in the book I'm working on right now. In fact, it will be perfect in the book I'm writing because I have an important secondary character who is a cook aboard a train, and what if…

My question – am I really too weird even for a writer? Or, are we all – even during scary moments – constantly making notes to ourselves? What doesn't kill us or leave us unable to write, gets filed away to find its way into a book or short story?

Ever Had One of Those Weeks?

I have been incredibly crabby over the past couple of weeks. I don’t know quite what to blame it on. Sometimes these moods just come and go like the tide. Part of it may be the fact that our air quality here in the Phoenix area has been horrible, and high ozone has always done a number on my head. Two solid weeks of low grade headache would make anybody crabby. I also might blame the mood on my looming deadline. My WIP is due in to my publisher next month, and every day I think, this is the day I’m going to finish. And every day, the damn ending keeps getting farther and farther away. Every minute I spend doing something other than writing causes me great anxiety.

But those bills have to be paid and meals made and doctor appointments kept and meetings attended. The state of my house is beginning to depress me. I manage to keep things clean and tidy enough to forestall the Department of Health, but that’s about it. My long-suffering husband bought me a Hurricane Power Scrubber a couple of days ago (at my request. It wasn’t a clueless anniversary present or anything like that). I thought that having a power scrubber would make short work of cleaning the shower, so I was all excited to give it a try. The instructions say that you have to charge the scrubber for 24 hours before the first use, which I did. Then I rushed into the bathroom, I clicked on the appropriate scrubber head, gave it a couple of test whirls, lowered it to the shower floor, and…nothing. It seems our power scrubber is a dud.

I was immediately plunged into unreasonable despair. Sometimes it feels like nothing is easy. Why oh why couldn’t I at least be able to clean my shower without it being an ordeal? Don will return it tomorrow (he has one of those pesky doctor appointments in a couple of hours, which always makes me a bit nervous), and I hope he’ll be able to exchange it for one that works.

I’m sure that once I finish this book and get it off my hands, I’ll feel better. When I re-read parts of the manuscript, I’m pleased with the way the book is shaping up. When I next write to you, Dear Reader, I anticipate that the air will have cleared, Don will have gotten a good report from the cardiologist, the book will be done or nearly so, and my shower will be sparkly clean. I live in eternal hope. There is always light at the end of the tunnel. Isn't there?

The care and feeding of writers

Barbara here, writing from Iceland. This is a pleasure rather than a writing-related trip, but a writer always sees the world through the lens of words.

Iceland has only a little over 330,000 people, two thirds of whom live in Reykjavik, the capital city, but it has a vibrant arts, music, and literary scene. The gift shops are full of hand-crafted goods made by Icelanders, instead of the usual trinkets mass-produced somewhere in Asia. There are knitted goods, pottery, carvings, art... and books! Bookstores and libraries are everywhere, and a quick perusal of the bookstore shelves reveals a wealth of books in Icelandic, including numerous world-class crime writers whose books are not only devoured in their native tongue but translated and enjoyed the world over. One of Iceland's literary icons, Halldor Laxness, won the Nobel prize in 1955. All this in a country of only 330,000 people.

In the short time I've been here, I've noticed Iceland is fiercely proud and protective of its heritage, culture, and language, which is very close to the old Norse of more than a thousand years ago. Their culture is rooted in sagas of their origins, part fantastical, part myth, part historical. The family sagas were passed down orally for generations before being written down by storyteller historians. Tales of bravery, adventure, brotherly feuds, betrayal, and triumph. Storytelling, one might say, is bred in the bone. Through government policy and individual commitment, Iceland supports its culture and its artists, which allows a tiny population less than the size of most mid-sized western towns to provide a livelihood for its creative class. Something that English-speaking countries with populations hundreds of times greater, like Canada, struggle to do, and often fail.

Education is free through secondary school, which runs until age 20, and free also at the state universities, and there is a high level of literacy in Iceland. A culture of reading is supported both at the schools, through dedicated reading times, and at home. Grants and awards are available to support writers as well. I suspect that if I had time to delve deeper beneath the surface, I would find government policies and incentives to support local creators. Certainly in the bookstores, the small English book section contained translations of Icelandic crime writers (among other writers) instead of the usual American or British blockbuster thrillers that feature most prominently in bookstores in English speaking countries.

Iceland's geographical isolation and unique language no doubt contribute to the thriving indigenous book scene, but like many Europeans, most of the people I encountered, from store clerks to mechanics at the tire store, spoke English remarkably well and were plugged into the larger global scene. But they also seem to believe that art and literature, in particular their own, are worth preserving. In a world increasingly homogenized by international corporate juggernauts, if we want to preserve the richness of regional, personal, and cultural diversity, we would do well to take a page from Iceland's book.

You’ve got to be paying attention

by Rick Blechta

Aline’s comment about everyone scribbling notes at one of the presentations during the weekend conference she organized really resonated with me. For those of us who write crime fiction, these opportunities can be incredibly important , because not only can we make use of the “nuts & bolts”-type things to which Aline is referring, but we can also make use of “motivational” (meaning plot motives) items that are encountered almost daily — if one is paying attention.

That’s why I nearly always read accounts in the media of crimes and criminal proceedings. If I had the time, I would attend trials too. Anytime I’m around those involved with law enforcement, I may not be keeping actual notes, but I’m doing my best to memorize anything said that might be used later.

Here’s a good example of what I mean: When I first got involved with Crime Writers of Canada years ago, the Toronto chapter held monthly meetings. Quite often an expert on something or other would come in to give a presentation. There were many good ones over the years: a court clerk, a profiler, policemen (from beat cops to the brass upstairs), a firearms expert, and even one person who was a specialist in hand-to-hand combat.

I always took a notebook to those meetings! You’d invariably come away with tons of useful little details that only insiders know, and even though I’ve only used a handful of them over the years, I’ve kept my store of them dry and ready to use at a moment’s notice.

One experience, though, sticks out above all others. The chapter meeting wasn’t really well-attended which was a huge shame, but those of us who came sure got our money’s worth.

The guest that evening was a senior homicide detective from the neighbouring municipality of Peel. He brought a slide presentation with photos of an actual crime scene. He’d arranged the ones he’d chosen (he told us there were over a thousand) to take us through the scene of a murder investigation as the police had found it.

The police had been called because of the smell coming from an apartment in a large building. The murder took place during the summer and the body they found in the bedroom was a mess. Fortunately, he only showed us one or two of the less-graphic ones, but believe me that was enough to viscerally bring home what it must have been like for the forensics team.

The owner of the apartment was gay and had picked up the person who murdered him at a Toronto bath house. The weapon used was a long kitchen knife and there was blood all over the place: floor, walls and ceiling. It was immediately obvious the body had been there for several days. (The apartment didn’t have air conditioning.)

The detective told us they were pretty sure from start that the murder had taken place around three days earlier. One of us asked how they knew that without a postmortem or witness statements.

“See that glass on the night table in this shot? Both men had been drinking screwdrivers (vodka and orange juice) in those last hours. You can still see half of it in the glass.”

“What’s the black stuff floating on top of the orange juice?” I asked.

“Flies. We found a two-inch layer of dead flies in that glass. It takes about three days to get a layer that thick, so we knew right away roughly when the murder had taken place.”

Now there is a detail that would set a written murder scene description way in front of the rest of the pack of usual descriptions, wouldn’t it?

I have my little file of oddball facts gleaned over the years. Every so often an opportunity to use one comes up. To a writer of crime fiction, it’s pure gold.

So for those of you out there who read crime fiction, keep a notebook of these sorts of details. To those of you who only read crime fiction, this is a good example of where those juicy (and in this case cringe-worthy) details come from.

But you've got to be paying attention.

Conference Time

For the past few weeks most of my waking hours – and quite a few when I should have been sleeping – have been occupied in helping to organise the Crime Writers' Association Conference, held this year in Edinburgh.

When you volunteer for things like this you really don't have the first idea how complicated it is and how many details have to be thought through. Luckily our committee was headed by the wondrously efficient Aly Monroe and included Marianne Wheelaghan whose charm can persuade the birds off the trees and, more importantly, people to donate gifts for our goody bags (you may remember them from their guest posts on Type M) and somehow it all got done.

The CWA is, I think, unusual in that the conference is nothing to do with selling books and only members of the association attend, with their guests. It started in the days when there were no crime festivals and writing was a lonely business, and the idea was to get to know each other, have a good time and attend lectures that would give useful insight into the arcane workings of police procedure, forensic science, psychological assessment, judicial process and other related subjects.

We chose for our theme 'The Jekyll and Hyde City.' Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert Louis Stevenson were both born here and Alexander McCall Smith and Ian Rankin, whose books typify these two faces of Edinburgh, spoke at the Welcome drinks party. We had visits arranged to see round the sinister underground streets, walled in and built over in Plague times, as well as to the writers museum dedicated to the three great names of Scottish literature – Walter Scott, Robert Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson.

A rumour may have reached you that the weather in Scotland is not always as clement as one might hope but on this occasion Edinburgh really did us proud with three beautiful spring days. Having visitors is always good for you; it makes you look around you and see the beauty that you take far too much for granted: the castle, dominating the skyline; Arthur's Seat, the brooding, extinct volcano; the medieval tenements of the old town; the elegant Georgian squares of what is called the New Town but which, since it was built in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, ought really to be called the Not-Quite-As-Old-As-The-Old-Town town.

Our lectures this time were from police officers, a pathologist, and most interesting of all a top forensic soil scientist, Professor Lorna Dawson. She gave a most fascinating lecture about the information that can be gained from as little as a smear of mud on someone's clothing. Most amazing of all was a clip she showed us from a programme on the BBC. They had given her a challenge: she was handed a boot that the presenter had worn on a walk and the only information given her was that it had been somewhere in Scotland. She had to say where. It showed her going through the various processes – initial inspection, microscopic examination, elimination of certain soil types, forensic analysis. We watched on a map of Scotland as she eliminated more and more areas until eventually there were only two possible sites and she chose the right one, a small wooded area in central Scotland. It was a stunning display of forensic power and I wasn't the only one who was frantically scribbling down information that may well appear in the next book.

We were privileged, too, to have the Lord Justice Clerk – Scotland's second most senior judge – as a very witty speaker after our Gala Dinner. I'm actually boasting here; she was one of my former pupils so I was able to exercise some of my former authority in persuading her to do it. Even if it did make me feel about 103.

It was incredibly hard work but there's a great satisfaction in looking back after it has all gone according to plan. There's great satisfaction, too, in knowing that it's someone else's turn to organise it next year!

PS As a follow-up to my last post, I too like Sybil, found the work I had lost. That vital notebook was hiding in a cupboard, pretending to be one of a pile of old diaries. What a relie.

A One-Star Review and Guns

Like other writers, I loathe one-star reviews. I hate to get them, and if there’s a book that I didn’t like I’d rather ignore it and spend my time writing a review of a book that I did enjoy. But I was compelled to write a one-star review on a particular book because it exploits my favorite genre--crime fiction--as a soapbox to promote a political agenda that I disagree with. The book, Unloaded: Crime Writers Writing Without Guns, is an anthology edited by Eric Beetner who uses the book as a platform for his pious grandstanding as a shill for the anti-gun lobby. Read my review here.

No doubt, you’re going to ask, “Mario, what is it about you and guns?”

To begin, I’ve always liked guns. When I was four, my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told her I wanted a machine gun. Part of the reason I joined the army was that I’d have the opportunity to shoot all kinds of guns. Once I even got to shoot a vintage automatic rifle reportedly used by the police when they ambushed Bonnie and Clyde. Macabre for sure, but if you write crime novels, supremely cool.

Then on September 5, 1985, my father committed suicide with his pistol. It was a day of enormous tragedies, heartache, and shame. I associated guns with those horrific events and my reaction to the pain and grief was to get rid of the few guns that I owned. My attitude was that I didn’t need guns, and neither did anyone else. So for the next twenty-five-plus years I was ambivalent to owning guns.

Then recently I read Woe To Live On by Daniel Woodrell and Empire of the Summer Moon by S.G. Gywnne.

                                 

In both books, the early black powder revolvers were central to the action. I became fascinated with these guns to the point that I decided to buy one. When I mentioned this to a writer friend, he told me that if I owned a gun my chances of being killed by it would be 2.7 times more than if I had no gun. The statistic shocked me. Why would I do such a risky thing? I decided to investigate his claim and that led me to dive headfirst into this debate about guns in America.

I learned that statistic came from a study (long since discredited) headed by Dr. Arthur Kellerman, sponsored by the Centers for Disease Control. His study was part of CDC’s quest--not to find the truth or promote public safety--but to cook the evidence in support of abolishing guns. “We’re going to systematically build a case that owning firearms causes deaths.” And “…a long term campaign… to convince Americans that guns are, first and foremost, a public health menace.” However skeptical you might be that the CDC willingly compromises its ethics you only need look at their history with the infamous Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment.

The anti-gun lobby, in league with the American medical establishment, likes to preach about the dangers of owning a gun but when you look at the numbers reported by the CDC, for 2015 Accidental Fatalities, you have: Firearms 489; Pedestrian 959; Drowning 3602; Falls 33,381; Automobile 36,161; Poisoning 47,478 (of which half are prescription opioids, i.e., provided by the medical community). Considering that in this country there are as many gun owners as there are car drivers, Americans as gun owners are much safer than Americans as car drivers. And accidental firearms deaths continue to decline (in 2005 it was 789, in 2010 it was 606), and so you think the anti-gun crowd would cheer that trend but they don’t even mention it.

The Epidemic of Gun Violence! Now that sounds super scary. The big numbers that make up “gun violence” are gun homicide and gun suicide, and those numbers are subsets of the much larger totals of violent crime and all suicides. Interesting how no politician or bureaucrat ever says we have an epidemic of violent crime or an epidemic of suicide. By using the term gun violence, the apparatchiks can blame gun owners--people like me--while washing their hands of the hard work needed to stop violent crime (domestic violence, robbery, gang violence, and drug trafficking) and suicide (depression and substance abuse). To me, suicide is especially troubling since we live in a land of promise and plenty, and yet as our material standard-of-living continues to rise, so do our suicides.

If we are truly committed to solving violent crime and suicide, then we must devote the necessary resources and be diligent and honest in grappling with some tough social issues. The solution will not be a policy based on fraudulent agendas, misdirection, and lies.

Serial Killers Begone

The Beautiful Lizzie Borden

Fractured Families required a serial killer. It was necessary for the plot. The murders were too bizarre to have been committed by a person of ordinary sensibility. I did a lot of research on this subject and know more about truly evil people than is good for me.

My editor asked if she should use the word "sociopath" or "psychopath" in flap copy. Actually the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, which is the psychologist's bible, called this kind of deviance "psychopath" until 1958, then the term switched to "sociopath." After 1968,  information was classified under the heading of Anti-Social Personality Disorder.

For publicity purposes, we settled on using the word "psychopath" because the term is more familiar.

My home state of Kansas has had its fair share of serial killers. Lizzie Borden was famous, of course, and so were the Bloody Benders.

Graves of victims of the Bloody Benders

However accurate historically, It seems as though serial killers have been done to death in mysteries. I'm happy that my current work-in-progress won't need this kind of individual. The classic motivations of greed, love, and revenge have stronger characterization.

Recently I listened to an old, old book (1830s) The Count of Monte Cristo, on an audio recording. Narrated by John Lee it was the one of the best narrations I've ever heard. A classic tale of revenge, it held my interest for hours.

I think betrayal and revenge is are two motivations that are universal.