The Library Case

 by Charlotte Hinger

Last weekend my daughter Michele painted my office. It was a major ordeal because we had a lot of heavy furniture to move out. Talk about sore muscles! 

My favorite piece of furniture is an old fashioned library card case. When the Hoxie Public Library moved to a new building, it auctioned off its old furnishings. I loved all the little drawers and the solid construction of this birch cabinet. 

I decided to bid a maximum of $100.00 dollars for this gem. Then I reasoned that if someone else really wanted it, that's probably what they would bid, and I had better be $1.00  over that. Then I decided that was the way the competitor would think, so it would be smart to top $101.00 dollars. Would someone else use my same devious reasoning? Really now, it had to end somewhere. I stopped at $102.00

Amazing! I won. The next lowest bid was for $101.00. Someone else had reasoned just like me. It was a silent auction so there was no danger of getting into a heated floor battle. 

That was a long time ago. Through the years, I've made good use of all the little drawers. They hold miscellaneous equipment, cassettes, interview tapes, pictures, cables and connectors, business cards, drives, bookplates, and postcards. Just to name a few. 

It high time to go through all the drawers individually and throw out anything that is obsolete. For instance, there are speakers that will never work with anything anymore. In fact, as I recall, they never worked with anything in the first place. 

The sad part of accumulating stuff is that it's often meaningless to our children and we carry on like we are bestowing them with treasures.

Stories All Around Us.

 by Thomas Kies

I was coming up blank for this week’s Type M for Murder blog, so I did what I usually do when I’m mentally blocked, I went for a walk.  We live on an island here on the coast of North Carolina and no matter which direction I take, it’s beautiful.

Fate took me in the direction of the marina, just a few minutes away where there are picnic tables and benches that overlook the boats in their berths, the canal, and the entrance to Bogue Banks Sound.  But before I got there, I was hailed by one of our neighbors who was sitting outside her house enjoying the perfect weather.

We chatted, as neighbors will do, and she told me about her role in creating a “History Trail” throughout our little municipality.  One of the stories she told me was about a place up the beach that used to be the location of the Iron Steamer Pier. “Do you know that story?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

I did not.

The Iron Steamer Pier was named for the SS Pevensey, an iron hulled, sidewheel steamer with a single deck and two masts and was schooner rigged.  It was built for speed and was used as a blockade runner for the Confederates during the Civil War.  The Pevensey had successfully run through the Union blockade near Wilmington and Cape Fear four times before their fateful last journey.

On June 9, 1864, they were carrying cargo for the Confederate army that consisted of arms, blankets, shoes, cloth, clothing, lead, and bacon. As before, they had left Bermuda with their cargo and were headed for Fort Caswell that guarded the port of Wilmington.  However, on this voyage, they found themselves too far north, off course and, unbeknownst to them, heading into Union waters.  

They stumbled across the path of the Union supply ship, the New Berne that began firing cannon shots at the Pevensey.  Still thinking they were close to Wilmington and Confederate territory; they aimed their bow directly for land…our little island. They ran aground about a hundred yards offshore, and immediately took to their lifeboats, leaving one sailor aboard their ship.

While his shipmates rowed for shore, and what they thought was safety, the last man aboard was given the task to blow up the ship and its cargo to keep it out of Union hands.  He rigged the boiler to explode, and it rendered the ship unrepairable.  He managed to survive and was placed under arrest by the Union sailors. 

The thirty-five-member crew who had escaped landed on Bogue Banks Island and thought they were safe. The crew was approached by a group on horseback who asked them why they’d blown up their ship.  “To keep it away from the damned Yankees!” they replied.  “How far are we from Fort Caswell?”

“Well, we ARE the damned Yankees.” And then they were promptly arrested and taken to the Union outpost at Fort Macon.

Is the dialogue accurate? I kind of made it up, but I write fiction, so sue me.

The Iron Steamer Pier, which was known for its fishing, was swept away by a hurricane some time ago and the wreckage of the Pevensey is still out there, still about a hundred yards offshore.  Sometimes, at low tide, you can still see some of what’s left of the paddlewheels.  

This part of the East Coast where we live has been called the Graveyard of the Atlantic.  The waters here are treacherous, the currents are strong, and sandbars seem to move at will rendering charts useless.  And of course, we’re a hurricane speedbump here so the weather adds another bit of spice.  Throw in pirates, scoundrels, and warfare and you have enough for a whole slew of historical novels  

My advice as a writer--keep your eyes and ears at the ready.  There are stories all around us. 

Writers' Conference Joy

 

Writers' Conference Joy

 by Johnny D. Boggs

Today should find me at the Best Western Inn of the Ozarks for the annual Ozark Creative Writers conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

Don’t ask why they keep inviting me back, but I know the reason I make that roughly 1,600-mile round trip every October.

You never stop learning the business, and there are worse places to be than the Ozark Mountains in the fall. 

OCW has been holding an annual conference for 55 years. I forget the year – it wasn’t 55 years ago – but the first time I went was as a keynote speaker. After which, board members asked me to join the board of directors. Pretty sneaky, but I accepted.

After two days of panels and presentations, I was also asked to hand out prizes to the winners of writing contests. Each year, the conference offers dozens of contests, paying prizes from $10 to $300, or certificates for honorable mentions. It would be a treat for the winners, I was informed, to get an award from me.

So there I stood with a certificate in my hand when the emcee announced that first finalist.

For 24 years, I’ve been writing professionally – full time, no real day job, no retirement, no inheritance. I haven’t written anything on spec for years. An editor, publisher or my agent reaches out to me, a deal is worked out, I deliver the manuscript, and deposit the check.

But around this time every year, when I had out money or a certificate and I smile and say, “Congratulations,” I remember.

The first professional byline I got came for a sports article in the Sumter (South Carolina) Daily Item the summer after I graduated from high school. That byline was my payment. Drove 65 miles roundtrip to buy some papers at a 7-Eleven, and when Daddy came home, I showed him the sports cover, pointed at the article. He sat down, read my first journalistic effort, and said, “Well, that’s interesting.”

Mama said: “Read who wrote it.”

“Oh.” Daddy saw my name. “I didn’t even look to see who wrote it.”

Wasn’t the last time something like that happened.

All that evening at my first OCW, and at every banquet night since, I recall sending short stories or short nonfiction articles on spec to magazine editors … trashing rejection letters … collecting my payment of two contributor’s copies … maybe depositing a check for five bucks. I remember the time a magazine offered me a hundred bucks for a short story, then folded before the story ever got published – or I got paid … signing that first book contract … and when I told my dad that I had given notice, was quitting the newspaper game, and moving to New Mexico to write full time. He said, “Well, I reckon you know what the hell you’re doing.”

I didn’t. Still don’t. 

But I love to see those faces on dads and grandmothers and lawyers and schoolteachers, retirees and even young kids who have that same dream, and are excited that someone liked his or her writing.

That’s why you’ll find me in Eureka Springs this weekend.

My Favorite Research Story Ever

 I write two historical mystery series, one set in Oklahoma in the 1910s and one set in Hollywood, CA in the late 1929's.  I find myself doing quite a bit of research about what was going on in Oklahoma or California at the time, which isn’t that easy when I don't currently live in either place.  Local historical research is easy enough if you live in the locale, and have easy access to library newspaper archives, historical societies, and museums.  

I’m able to find out a lot on the internet, but it’s surprising how difficult it sometimes is to find simple facts that would be readily available if I was on the scene.  So, I often end up on the phone, explaining what I need to a librarian or historian in whatever area of Oklahoma or California I am interested in.

The very best fun thing about doing research, if I may coin a phrase, is that even if you’re looking for the most mundane piece of information, you often discover amazing stories and connections that you could not possibly have made up on your own.  

Before I continue, you should know a couple facts, Dear Reader.  The first book of the Oklahoma series was set in 1912, and each subsequent book moves forward a year or so in time. First, the Tucker family of my series is partially based on a branch of my own family by the name of Morgan, of whom there are gazillions in Muskogee County, OK.  My great-grandmother was named Alafair Morgan.  Second, for the past 25 years, I have lived in Tempe, AZ.

Here’s the tale. For my fifth Alafair Tucker mystery, Crying Blood, I wanted to know the name of the sheriff of Muskogee County in 1917, but was unable to find the that seemingly easy piece of information online.  So I called the library in the city of Muskogee, and asked the local history librarian to look it up for me and e-mail the answer to me.  Later that afternoon, she sent me a wonderful campaign photograph of Sheriff J.S. Barger.  

Now that I knew his name, I was able to find his obituary online.  From this I discovered that it is indeed a small world, and time does not dim our connections to one another.

For after John Barger lost his reelection bid in 1918, he became a county “Speed Officer”, whose job was to curb the then-growing automobile menace, and was given a county patrol car to cruise country roads and highways.  In 1924, the county’s “speed patrol” car was stolen from the garage by the Lawrence brothers, “Babe” and Bill, young Muskogee desperadoes who were wanted for auto theft in several towns around OK.  After several unsuccessful attempts to catch them in OK, the sheriff was notified that the pair had been caught at El Paso, and he sent Deputy Barger and his partner, one Joe Morgan, who happens to have been a cousin of my grandmother’s, to pick them up and bring them back to Muskogee. After taking charge of the prisoners, Barger and Cousin Joe started back with them in the county car.  Barger was driving and Morgan was in the rear seat with the Lawrence boys.

Barger heard a shot, looked around and found himself peering down the barrel of a gun in Babe Lawrence’s hand. Cousin Joe was on the floor, shot through the head with his own pistol. The car, going at a rate of at least 20 miles an hour, crashed into a fence, righted itself and mowed down fence posts for 40 yards before stopping. The boys forced Barger to walk off the road into the woods and handcuffed him to a tree, before escaping again in the county car. Barger shouted until he attracted the attention of a ranch hand, who refused the help him.  He was handcuffed to the tree for 3 hours, until officers arrived and rescued him.  He then went back to Ft. Worth, where he organized a posse and went after the Lawrence boys.

They were later apprehended in Tempe, AZ.  Bill was later hanged in Arizona, and Babe served a life term in Texas. Barger died in 1938 at the age of 77.

How could I possibly make up anything better than that?

Remembering Peter Robinson

 I first discovered Peter back in the mists of time, a quarter century ago, when the Ladies Killing Circle was in its infancy and looking for a professional writer to critique a chapter of the debut novels we were all struggling to write. A group of us invited him up for a day workshop. He was informal, insightful, at times funny, and often blunt in his assessments, teaching us the first rule of writing; develop a thick skin and take the punches. 

He was, however, very encouraging about the first chapter of my first Inspector Green novel, and once I sold it to a publisher a couple of years later, I met him again at the inaugural Bloody Words Mystery Conference in Toronto, where I waylaid him in the bar (having a drink with Ian Rankin) and he agreed to write a cover blurb. By that time I had become a fan of his Inspector Banks series and have read almost all of them. He is the kind of writer I aspire to be, tackling human stories with intensity, compassion, and hope, creating intelligent, nuanced characters and making insightful commentaries on the human condition using one of the most powerful media I know - the crime novel.

Over the years, I met him frequently at Bloody Words conferences, Arthur Ellis banquets (now called Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence), and at various festivals and book signings that often ended up in a pub. That's a favourite writer pastime - the post-party in the pub to share insider war stories. Peter, like his protagonist, loved a good Scotch but also knew his way around beers. 

He was always friendly, talkative, funny, with a sardonic wit. I also knew he gave tirelessly to the Canadian and international crime writing community, supporting the efforts of writers both experienced and rookie, teaching creative writing at the University of Toronto, and giving workshops. He was a tremendous voice for the Canadian crime writing community, and indeed for the crime genre in general. In between he wrote an astonishing number of books while still managing to keep the Inspector Banks series fresh and intriguing, and over the years has garnered too many awards to mention here. I will just say that his Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence, won for both short stories and novels, probably fill not just a bookshelf but a whole book case. In 2020 CWC awarded him the Grand Master Award, given "to recognize a Canadian crime writer with a substantial body of work who has garnered national and international recognition."

Through all of this I've always known him to be humble, and maybe like most of us writers, to view his gift with a touch of disbelieving awe. One of my favourite memories of him was at a interview some years ago when he was asked how he plotted his books. Like myself, he was a "pantser" who made things up as he went along, and at a certain point in every novel, he'd say to himself "What am I doing? This is crap, I'm not a writer, what makes me think I can be a writer?" And his wife would say "Oh, you're on Page 280, aren't you?" Thus capturing the sentiment of every pantser I know.

His twenty-seventh Banks book, STANDING IN THE SHADOWS, will be published in March 2023. Peter Robinson died on October 4, 2022 at the age of 72. Far too soon. We've lost a great talent and a great friend to the writing community. But his soul lives on in his wonderful work.

Juggling

 by Charlotte Hinger

It's that time of year again. All of my programs and activities have kicked into high gear. I'm already struggling to balance commitments and control anything that will conflict with my writing. 

Finding time to write has never been a problem. I simply do it the first thing in the morning and don't schedule appointments or meetings during this time. It's the business of writing such as marketing and promotion and writing organizations that take an extraordinary amount of time. I appreciate the friendships and the connections. Networking is important. I learn so much from other writers.

My Sister In Crime group meets once a month on Wednesday morning. If I'm beginning a first draft of a novel, I will skip the meeting, but I really hate to do this. It's a great group. 

I'm on the board of an organization that meets once a month in Denver: The Denver Woman's Press Club. This organization was founded in 1898. The date was not a typo. It began as a Suffrage Movement by a group of high society civic minded matrons who were influential in Denver. Everyone who is currently a member writes, or is a retired writer. The ladies' literary specialties are varied. The organization actively supports young author and is well known for the quality of its scholarship programs. I'm the assistant treasurer. That's how I ended on the board. The obligation comes with the territory. Who knew? I didn't, when I agreed to the position. Driving to Denver on I-25 is quite an undertaking. 

My Westerners International group has supported my writing by kindly sending my articles and my academic book to be judged for their awards. My article on Abram T. Hall won first place, and another on the Harlem Renaissance in the West, took third place. My academic book about Nicodemus won second place. I'm very grateful to this group and go to the monthly meeting whenever I can. 

Describing church related activities and other groups would involve another post.

And as for the young beauty whose picture heads this post--Francesca Michele Bell is my first great grandchild. 

Talk about a distraction!

Back in the saddle on the streets

First - this was supposed to be posted two weeks ago. I wrote it but then forgot to press PUBLISH. 

Yeah, my brain (as we say here in Glasgow) is mince. That's ground beef for you guys across the pond.

Anyway...

 I've been revisiting some old TV favourites recently, both shows that as a boy I loved and others of more recent vintage.

Don't worry, I'm not going to say that telly was better back then because it really wasn't. It was of its day and when you watch these shows you have to try to rekindle the spirit of the times, when things were simpler and everything was in black and white.

The majority are westerns, series that I lapped up avidly in the early 1960s. Yes, I am that old. They've not been seen on British telly for many years but they are getting an airing thanks to the Talking Pictures channel, which is a must have for movie buffs. Where else will you get classic series nestling alongside Brit flicks from the 40s to the 70s, Hammer movies in their Eastmancolour gorey and seldom seen US movies from the 60s and 70s?

It was shows like 'Cheyenne', 'Maverick' and 'Sugarfoot' that instilled in me my love of westerns and all three are being screened.

Yes, the storytelling is stodgy compared to today but there was a conciseness to it that is lacking in an age when we're urged to watch three episodes of a show before it gets into full swing. How many times have we been told 'Stick with it, it gets better'? Who can be bothered?

And there's the star power. James Garner had the charisma wattage to counteract the energy crisis while Clint Walker may have been wooden enough to provide a home for squirrels and I'd forgotten how boyish Will Hutchins was in 'Sugarfoot' (whatever happened to him, I wonder?). But both he and big Clint were both watchable. At least for me.

They haven't unearthed episodes of 'Bronco' with Ty Hardin but I'm keeping my fingers, and my shooting irons, crossed.

Then there's 'The Saint', with former Maverick star Roger Moore  getting togged up in some cool suits, driving an even cooler Volvo and cocking an eyebrow like a pro. Again, the storytelling is tight, not a wasted scene. It was get in, get the job done, get out again.

And the fight scenes, although not realistic, were pretty good. I watched one recently which featured some unusual moves which were decidedly not Marquis of Queensberry approved. Simon Templar held a bad guy upside down and bounced his head on the floor!

Rog was another one with charisma to spare. He could act, although he seldom was given the chance, but my goodness he did what he did with tremendous style.

A more recent series I've caught up withy is 'NYPD Blue', and frankly it has never been bettered. Big things were predicted for David Caruso on the back of this series, which he left in season two. Despite a few movie roles, those big things never did really materialise, which is a shame because he had the knack of getting to the heart of a scene. Eventually, he did hit the big time with CSI: Miami. Frankly, nobody took off, and then put back on, a pair of sunglasses like him.

Dennis Franz was the breakout star of a show, playing a drunken, racist and quite possibly corrupt cop who changed into a tough but tender detective over the course of the seasons. The show itself broke new ground on network TV for its language and its flashes of nudity. It all seems tame now, thanks to the likes of HBO, but in its day it would make Roger Moore raise both eyebrows.

I'm loving this welcome opportunity to watch from the very beginning.

But what has all this to do with a writing blog?

I'm glad you asked that.

I learned my craft not simply by reading books but also by watching these and many other shows and each, in turn, has influenced my writing. 

The western series, movies and books I read gave me the idea of the lone protagonist, righting wrongs. When these characters move into another town at the beginning of each episode, they found normality being upended and that taught me at an early age that it doesn't matter how civilised the world becomes, there will always be someone wishing to subvert it, either through self-interest or just plain evil. 

Of course, as I grew older, I found that there were politicians the world over who make it their mission to  do the same.

'NYPD Blue' showed me that you could stylise your dialogue, and get away with it. The backdrop and plotlines could be realistic, but the way the characters speak to each other can carry a level of artifice and still sound genuine.

But also, watching these series from the early black and white days of TV to one from the 80s, exemplified how storytelling changes. In the older shows the main characters are static. They do not grow, they do not transform. From episode one to episode 200, they remain the same.

But by the time 'NYPD Blue' came along, that was being tossed out of the window. The masterful 'Hill Street Blues' paved the way, to be honest stealing the idea from soap opera, but 'NYPD Blue' perfected it and led to the shows we have today.

That some of them are so intent in being depressing is another matter.

Along the Continuum

 This week, I was reminded of two things about myself that also seem relevant to the characters in my historical thriller. First, I don't like change.This morning, I was into my office on campus and learned that one of our long-time staff members is leaving to accept a position in an administrative office on campus. Although I''m happy for her, I'm distressed knowing how much we all rely on her. Aside from that, I'll miss her warmth and laughter. Don't get me wrong, the other staff are terrific -- but she has been there so long that she is our bedrock. 

I should clarify when I say that I don't like change, I have no problem at all when something that is bad gets better. But with the world and daily life so uncertain, change in areas that offer stability and comfort are depressing and disconcerting.

The other thing I remembered last weekend when I attended a literary awards event at the public library and watched a really impressive high school ensemble and their director perform -- already knew, but was reminded -- is that I value precision. I'm not sure that's the exact word (i.e., quality) that I'm trying to describe. But it's my delight in Cam Anthony's performance in the finale of The Voice, when he turned on a dime on the platform surrounded by finger-snapping dancers. Or that flawless scat he did a couple of weeks earlier.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jQ3QKwFEeA

It's my favorite part of the movie Taps when the cadets in the hallway do their present arms for their cadet leader. Or the soldiers marching in the rites for Queen Elizabeth. I mention the military because I was in the Army and had no ability to march. Nada. None at all. So, I admire the precision rituals. (Fortunately, I was a food inspector).

I admire the precision of those who can do something flawlessly and make it look easy. And that brings me to my character. The protagonist and his antagonist. My protagonist, the sleeping car porter, prides himself on how he does each of his tasks. He has memorized the detailed Pullman manual -- from greeting passengers to mixing drinks to shining shoes. He wants to be a lawyer, and he is working as a porter to earn money for law school. But he takes pride in doing what he must do well. He is the type of man who approaches whatever he does as an exercise in precision -- logical, orderly, well thought-out. 

On the other hand, his antagonist -- the "villain" -- prides himself on his charm. He is "the gentle gentleman from Georgia" to quote a song of the era.  He has inherited his grandfather's plantation and aspires to be as dashing as he was. He is a businessman but careless -- and that is one of the reasons he is deep in debt.

What has occurred to me is that I should go deeper with their contrasting characteristics. There are situations in which being precise serves my protagonist well, but at moments when he must innovate and react quickly to a situation, his opponent may have the advantage. After giving this some thought, I'm looking at how they may differ (or be the same) in other ways.

I'll let you know how that goes. Happy Friday!

It's Been How Long?

 

by Sybil Johnson

I was catching up on old SinC and MWA newsletters this week when I noticed, in one of them, that a fellow author was celebrating 10 years since their first story was published. I couldn’t remember when my first story came out. I didn’t know if I should be celebrating something. All I knew was that it was before 2014 when my first book, Fatal Brushstroke, was published. So I consulted my trusty list of all the stories I’ve ever written. I keep track of when I finished the story, where I’ve submitted it, who has rejected it and who has accepted it.

To my surprise my short story, “Family Business”, came out in the premiere issue of Crimson Dagger magazine, a very short-lived ezine, in 2005. I hadn’t realized it has been 17 years! This was not the first short story I’d written, just the first one accepted for publication. My first story was “The Power of Prayer”, which got an Honorable Mention in a Writer’s Digest Writing Competition in the Genre Short Story category. That one was published in the premiere issue of another ezine, Silver Moon Magazine, which was also very short-lived. At that point, I remember wondering if I was a bit of a jinx.

“Family Business” introduced the main character in my Aurora Anderson mystery series. I had been working on Fatal Brushstroke for a while when I decided to write this one. I used it as a way to practice plotting and work on my main character. It took about a year and lots of submissions to various markets for it to find its home.

I’ve had a few more short stories published since then. I only got paid for one of them, which seems to be fairly common. I received $50 from Spinetingler Magazine to publish my story, “Meet Market”. That was pretty darn exciting.

Things have changed since 2005. Writers no longer have to physically send in copies of their stories or novels with an SASE. Everything seems to be done via email or online submission these days. That’s quite a time saver plus we get to save a few trees.

A lot of online magazines have come and gone. Spinetingler closed a while back. Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock are still around, thank goodness, though now you submit things online. I’ve yet to crack that market. Hoping to some day.

I have a couple short stories out for consideration to anthologies right now and I just finished book 6 in my series, which I will be self-publishing. Lots of other ideas going through my head for stories. All I have to do is sit down in my chair and write them. Easier said than done, but well worth the effort.

The Perfect Title

 by Charlotte Hinger

I wasted a lot of time this morning searching for the perfect title for my new mystery. It didn't work. I'm going to have to reply on my stumble-across method. I liked my previous title, Brutal Bonds, but it's no longer the right fit. 

The title of the first book in the Lottie Albright series was originally Bound by Blood. I had planned for subsequent books to be Bound by Murder, Bound by Death. . . .You get the drift. 

My editor told me that clerks at bookstores don't have the time to read all the books they shelve. Bound by Blood could easily end up in the vampire section. Egads. We couldn't have that! So I began each book with two alliterative words: Deadly Descent, Lethal Lineage, Hidden Heritage, Fractured Families. These combinations are hard to think up. 

I'll bet something comes to me out of the blue beginning with a C, E, or B. My mental processes seem to work that way. 

I've heard one should never judge a book by it's cover, but does anyone doubt the power of a title? It absolutely transforms business books. Examples are Swimming With The Sharks, Atomic Habits, Thinking, Fast and Slow, The Millionaire Next Door. The ones that promise instant wealth grab my attention in a heartbeat. 

All the non-fiction historical books sell better with a catchy title. Fiction sells better too. The problem is coming up with one in this competitive business. 

The funniest story about titles I've heard was told by a veteran novelist at a writer's convention. He turned in his book and the editor said he didn't like the book, but he really liked the title. The writer said, "well, why don't I just jack up that title and run a new book under it. The editor agreed. By the time he turned in the second book, the editor had moved on to another house. The new editor just loved the book, but asked if he minded changing the title. He really disliked it. 

I was not enchanted by the one word titles. Suddenly there were too many books with the same title. Example are Gone, Never, Drift, Lost, Driven. When I recommended one of these books to fellow readers, I had to remember the author's name, too. 

Frankly, when I go into Barnes and Noble or my local book store, Firehouse Books, all of the titles appeal to me. Every single one. The titles overcome my fiscal judgement. 

Yes, the Author Was Dead, But the Characters Lived to Tell the Story.

By Cindy Schersching

Full disclosure…Cindy is my wife and she’s written a glowing review of the dinner theater we did a couple of weeks ago.  It was my first attempt at writing for the theater and Cindy’s effusive compliments make me blush.  That being said, here it is, a shameless bit of self-promotion.

The launch of Thomas Kies’ Whisper Room, his fifth book in the Geneva Chase series, was as masterfully orchestrated as his novel.    Kies took the unique approach of dramatizing the book launch as a play within a play – which he also wrote. Talented community theatre actors brought the books’ characters to life.

The play, Death of an Author, was performed in a dinner theatre format to sold-out audiences of more than 100 guests on each of two evenings.   The performance took place at the newly built culinary school at the county’s community college under the leadership of Shana Olmstead, also the co-owner of Morehead City Floyd’s 1921 premiere restaurant. The 3-course dinner was prepared by the students of the culinary school under the supervision of 2 local Escoffier chefs.   The funds raised from the evenings’ performances went directly to supporting students of the culinary school and to the community theatre’s capital campaign to rebuild the theatre heavily damaged by Hurricane Florence in 2018

The emcee for the evening, Pamela Long, oriented the audience to the Geneva Chase mystery series, while the performers mingled among guests and brought the action tableside.

Each actor was given the freedom to develop their book characters as they adopted them, infusing humor and several surprise interactions.   Robin Hamm, the director, molded the diversity of characters into the murder mystery storyline characteristic of Kies’ novels.

Those familiar with the series also recognized dominatrix Shana Neese (realistically portrayed by Karen Lutz), Frank Mancini and his wife, Evelyn (Ray Tillery and Mylissa Maynard), and Gregor Tolbonov (Eduardo Alen).   Caroline Bell (Mara Jennings ), Geneva Chase’s ward, rounded out the cast.  

Minutes into the performance, it was clear that the author, played by Matt Brooks, had unknowingly ingested cyanide laced wine.   He ‘dies’ on the dining room floor.   Geneva Chase (the well-known protagonist of the Kies crime series played by Kim Murdoch) and Matt Dillon assistant Chief of Police (played by theatre veteran Ken Hamm) unsuccessfully attempted to revive him.  His limp body was slid out on a tarp by Dillon and Private Investigator John Stillwater (David Griffith) while servers with entrée platters swerved out of the way.  Publicist Mandy Chahall (Rhonda Osterhoudt) quickly calmed fears by assuring everyone that even though the author was dead his books would still be for sale -  even though it may be difficult to get them signed.    

Geneva confirms that all in the room are suspect.  It was the responsibility of each to determine ‘who killed the author.’

Kies created a mind-boggling matrix as the characters realized their lives continued even though their creator was dead.   This awareness grows as does the realization their freedom to follow their own dreams.   With motives and motivations for the murder revealed and with fingers pointing in all directions, the audience was challenged to identify the murderer.  Prizes were given to those who first correctly figured out the mystery and for the best sleuth costume.

It was a fun filled evening that benefitted all participants.   Each audience called for a repeat experience at the end of the evening.  Books sales were strong and the real author, Kies, signed each.   

Preventing Brain Fade

By Johnny D. Boggs

             Brain Fade.

My favorite bit of sports jargon/slang comes from my newspaper days. If you include college, part-time work, freelancing and almost 15 years in what was then a highly competitive/drive-you-to-drink market in Dallas-Fort Worth, that covers 1980-2001. The phrase comes from NASCAR – stock-car racing – which I found myself covering and editing during much of my career. You see, when Dallas Times Herald and Fort Worth Star-Telegram editors learned I came from South Carolina, they figured I knew all about goin’ racin’. Well, I did attend school with NASCAR Hall-of-Famer Cale Yarborough’s daughters.

             Covering races or editing articles about races, I ran across Brain Fade a time or two.

There’s not much a driver can do at 190 mph when his car throws rod or a tire blows, but when a driver does something completely stupid – and maybe wrecks other cars – that, folks, is Brain Fade.

So whenever an editor or proofreader (yikes, or even a reader after a book/article is published) calls my attention to a stupid mistake, I chalk it up to Brain Fade.

Most Brain Fades I attribute to newspaper training: Write fast. File on time. Pray that the copy editors catch anything that will get you in serious trouble. Make it better for the next edition.

Sure, when I sit down at the desk, I think: This book isn’t due for months, take your time, don’t type so fast. I remind myself of the advice a high school writing teacher gave Robert A. Caro, who went on to have a successful newspaper career before becoming a two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer:

“The trouble with you is that you think with your fingers.”

For a few minutes, I slow down. Then that newspaper DNA takes over and I’m back at 120 words a minute.

My goal always is: Cut down on Brain Fades.

In Working: Researching, Interviewing, Writing, Caro recalls that when he moved to book-length works he started writing his first drafts with pencil in longhand – just to slow that write-fast instinct. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says, “but you get calluses.” My handwriting, however, stinks.

One night on the sports desk at the Dallas Times Herald, a fellow copy editor theorized on why we caught more gaffes on paper proofs than while editing on computers. His reasoning: The eye-to-brain connection rebels from a computer screen. So print your proof out on paper. And recycle so we don’t kill as many trees.

Another tip I’ve heard: Read your work aloud. (But I hate my voice.)

Or change your point size and your font before proofreading.

Hey, we’ll try anything.

Benjamin Dreyer, copy chief of Random House, had an interesting essay in the September 25 New York Times Book Review. One line, as writer and editor, especially struck a chord:

“I still aim for unadulterated perfection, at least as far as books are concerned. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t.”

I’ll keep on trying.

 

The War Of Art

I don't read how-to-write books very much.

Well, I take that back. I've read more lately than I did before I was published. Not because I wanted the writing tips, but because I was looking for concise, cogent ways to talk to groups about writing. Usually, I don't find anything that I couldn't have thought up myself from my own experience, but occasionally I come across something that strikes me as particularly insightful.

I (Donis) did a program on the importance of setting for our local Sisters In Crime annual writing conference earlier this month, and I found some useful information for the panel discussion in Walter Mosely's book, This Is the Year You Write Your Novel. This is a short little step-by-step manual for someone who has never actually written a novel from beginning to end, but Mosely is a very good writer, of course, and I found the whole thing rather interesting, especially when I compared his advice to my actual real-world experience.

I've been having a lot of real-world experience in the past year or so, and have been finding it increasingly hard to carve out writing time. 

The very best book on writing, in my humble opinion, is a small book called The War Of Art, by one of my favorite authors, Steven Pressfield. It's not a how-to book. It's a why-to book. Pressfield maintains that the greatest barrier to becoming a writer is the demon inside you that keeps you from actually sitting down to do it.

This quote is an excerpt from the introduction of Steven Pressfield's The War Of Art.

"Are you a born writer? ... In the end the question can only be answered by action.

Do it or don't do it.

It may help to think of it this way. If you were meant to cure cancer or write a symphony or crack cold fusion and you don't do it, you not only hurt yourself, even destroy yourself. You hurt your children. You hurt me. You hurt the planet...

Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It's a gift to the world and every being in it. Don't cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you've got."

In the end, it doesn't really matter how many people read your contribution. I enjoy the thought that the thing I love so much to do is still a gift to the world and every being in it.

Life's best laid plans

Wednesday is my Type M time slot, but I am both late and fairly inarticulate. My apologies. Life gets in the way of the best intentions. I have a stack of research books related to Ukrainian history which I hope to use for the backdrop of a new Inspector Green novel. I bought one new from my local independent bookstore, and ordered the other three from that wonderful boon to researchers of obscure texts, Abebooks. The books remain unopened in a stack by my side along with my coffee cup. Life has intervened.

Last week, just as I was about to host my family's first Rosh Hashanah since the pandemic, my dog had a kind of spinal cord stroke which has left him paralyzed on one side and unable to move, walk, or even stand. Hopefully it is temporary while the spinal cord heals over the next few months, but meanwhile, his care, and the various hospital, neurology, and rehab appointments, have taken over all the hours of the day. And his needs have taken over my living room. There will soon be a huge x-pen (dog playpen) in the middle of the living room floor so that when he does begin to get more mobile, he won't hurt himself. I am sleeping on the couch beside him to try to keep him calm. 

Until last night, neither of us has had more than four hours' sleep over a night. This is also not conducive to creative thinking. Embarking on the creation of a new book requires not only the time, mental focus, and eagerness to start the daunting journey but also the physical reserves to mobilize the brain cells. Both sadly lacking right now. I did have one book appearance to talk to a local community group this week, and that was a welcome respite. It was a rare chance to connect face-to-face with readers, reminding me of why I do this job. That gave me a morale boost to pick up the first of the Ukraine books. 

Once I have a spare minute. Hopefully by next blog time, I will have something to report.

The Vampire Craze

An editor once told me one of things she worried about at every writing conference was underestimating the abilities of someone who really didn't look like their notion of a writer. Someone with a bad perm, wearing old sneakers, stained polyester pants and a saggy T-shirt. This happened to her once, and she never forgot it.

Because the lady turned out to be one of the most successful romance writers ever. By dissing her the editor lost a lot of credibility with her publishers. Sending editors to a writers conference isn't cheap. They are supposed to spot rising talent. 

The editor's comment has stayed with me because writer's conference are by nature--well, exhausting. They just are. I can just imagine an editor spending an entire afternoon listening to pitches and having someone show up announcing they have written a book about vampires. Does that sound promising? Probably not. I'll bet the editor's first reaction is that it's been done for goodness sake.

I'll bet more than one editor regrets not paying attention to that pitch. 

One of my favorite books was The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. Our own Type M'er, Mario Acevedo, has a vampire series. A student of mine at Fort Hays, Morgan Chalfant, wrote a vampire western, Youngbloods. Steven King's Salem's Lot  isn't at all like Anne Rice's The Vampire Chronicles. The Teen series, The Vampire Diaries, was a huge success, in print and on the screen.

 So what is it about vampires that inspires writers to come up with books so different from one another? What is there in the human psyche that connects to such a bizarre creature. I'm not only speaking of writers, but the readers who devour them. No pun intended. I really am not enthusiastic about vampire books, nor am I inclined to believe a word. And yet, and yet. When I first read Salem's Lot I wore a crucifix around my neck for days. I wore it when I slept too.

The Historian is such a terrific book I began to doubt my disbelief.

I searched for vampire books in Amazon Some of the covers were a little too interesting. You want blood? There's blood aplenty. There were over 100 pages of Vampire titles. That has to be a category record.

My first mystery in the Lottie Albright series, Deadly Descent, was originally titled Bound by Blood. I intended to make it the Bound by series. Bound by Murder, Bound by Death, etc. My editor objected. She said that clerks don't have time to read all the books and would stock Bound by Blood in the Vampire section. Then the series would be placed there forever. 

If you are starting out in this business, don't ever let someone tell you that your book won't be published because another writer has already written a book on the same subject.

Cooks In The Kitchen

                                            

If you've ever written a book, you know what a solitary process that can be. It's just you and those ideas in your head that you're trying to get on the page. But what happens when it's not just your ideas but someone else's? I've worked as ghostwriter on over a dozen books so I'm well aware of another set of eyes looming over my shoulder as I peck away at the keyboard. Some of my clients have been quite generous with feedback while others have given me broad latitude to interpret their vision of the work. Other gigs have been collaborate efforts with other writers, either fleshing out a new concept or in a deep revision process. Despite all the good intentions, the old proverb comes to mind: Too many cooks in the kitchen spoil the broth. 

But that hasn't been my experience. Another writer and I worked on a screenplay and after drafting the story outline, we divvied up the scenes. Afterwards, we were amazed at how well everything meshed together with little break in continuity. What helped was our empathy for the protagonist, a down-and-out goon hired to eliminate a snitch while investigating the suspicious death of his daughter in an S&M episode gone wrong. Much perviness and violence which I guess is why we were in such synch. Another collaborative venture, albeit where I worked as a ghostwriter, was on the high-tech thriller, The Natanz Directive, and again, our contributions joined seamlessly.

More recently, I was asked to collaborate in the rewrite for The Bane of Yoto. While I don't have any experience writing epic fantasy, I do understand the mechanics of dialog, character, and narrative structure. The efforts of our writing team paid off as Booklife of Publishers Weekly, gave us an A in every category.

 

Gritty, vividly told, pulsing with a spirit of old-school adventure, Bane of Yoto is steeped in the history and present of its genre, drawing from the pulps, comic books, video games, and—in its seamless three-author approach—shared-universe collective storytelling...All this is delivered with welcome earnest confidence, as the authors resist the temptations to wink at their readers or to overcomplicate their characters. The villains are villains, full stop, and the heroes, though often preoccupied by vengeance, fight for freedom. Readers eager for moral ambiguity should look elsewhere...

My Travel Log

 Hello, Frankie here. 

I missed my last Friday post because I was away. For the first time since the pandemic began, I boarded a plane. For the first time in well over a decade, I went out of the country alone instead of traveling with a friend. The latter reminded me of when I was in my twenties and thirties, with a sense of adventure, and no thought at all that I might encounter a situation that I couldn't manage. Those were the days when I would eat pasta and pizza and save my money for a cheap ticket to the places with names that were like music to my ears -- a three-city airline tour to Madrid, Paris, and London. Another trip to Spain -- the Costa del Sol, with a side trip to Tangier. Jamaica, Bermuda. Aruba.  

I loved traveling alone because when I did I was detached from time and place. I met people and made friends because I was an American abroad and that was a starting point for conversation. For example, there was the African student who stopped to talk to me in the Paris metro and invited me to come home and have dinner with his brother and sister-in-law. -- and I went. That was my first opportunity to observe the legendary chic and charm of French women. His sister-in-law prepared dinner then sat on the floor nibbling from her plate, wine glass at her side, as she carried on an animated conversation in English that was much better than my almost non-existent French. Traveling alone, I was invited to come over and sit with the owner of a club in Malaga who wanted to chat about the States. I encountered a Canadian on a train who invited me to Toronto after we returned to our respective homes. As much as I enjoy traveling with friends, solitary travel allows for chance encounters. 

But I have become older and more cautious. I am now much more prone to worry about all of the things that might go wrong. To check my purse multiple times for my passport and the conversion rate for euros. To spend hours searching online for a carry-on bag because a checked suitcase might be lost. To shop for a bag at Macy's, and finally buy a roll-along attache case and a carry-on suitcase that would meet Aer Lingus requirements. And then sigh with relief when the bookseller for the festival I was attending asked me to bring along copies of my book because she had not been able to get it. Now, I had a good excuse to use my large suitcase that I would have to check. That meant packing a change of clothes in the attache case, while taking a tote bag that would hold my purse and anything else that wouldn't fit in the attache case with my laptop. But I would be able to pack everything I "might need" to be comfortable.

I took my travel agent's suggestion and flew Business Class on Aer Lingus. There was a great discount available on the trip to Europe, and I would be able to get some sleep. I had only three days in Dublin, and I wanted to see and do as much as possible. That meant not losing a day to jetlag. Aside from a short domestic upgrade, the flight from Newark to Dublin was my first experience of luxury travel -- the luxury of having comfortable seating in ones own little cocoon. That night I stretched out in a cleverly designed seat that moved forward to accommodate my legs, turned off my reading lamp, drew up my blanket and settled in wearing my socks and eye mask from the kit I had been proved. I slept so well that I almost missed breakfast. That would have been a disappointment after the dinner the night before. 

In Dublin, my hotel was in the center of the city. I ventured out on arrival to get my bearings. I signed up for a free walking tour the next day -- and missed it because I took a wrong turn on my way to the meet-up at City Hall. That was the first of the multiple times I lost my way over those three days and stopped strangers to ask for directions rather than dig out my phone to look for a map. I had the paper map that I had gotten at the hotel. But it seemed so "touristy" to pull it out there on the street.  

Too late for my tour, I struck out on my own. I spent the afternoon wandering down streets to what seemed to be the outskirts of the city. Four hours after I had left I found my way back to my hotel. I had not done the "must-dos" on my list. I'd by-passed Trinity College because I was too tired when I saw the sign. The same for the museums and galleries on my list. But my afternoon had given me a sense of the city. The next day I went on a "food tour" of Dublin. Our guide was a young woman who was getting her graduate degree in culinary studies. I divided the rest of the afternoon between the Wax Museum and the National Leprechaun Museum. 

Queen Elizabeth died while I was in Ireland. On television, the coverage of her death was continuous on BBC and most of the other networks. I had the opportunity to observe the solemn rituals for a beloved monarch from the British perspective. That was when I realized that I too felt a connection to a queen who had been there all of my lifetime.  

On that Saturday, I boarded my connecting flight to Torquay for my destination -- two days at the annual Agatha Christie Festival. I had intended to stay on for the week of events and presentations. But going to the festival via Dublin (to avoid the crush at Heathrow and a possible rail strike when I booked) meant that I had less time in Torquay. 

In the old days I would have stayed on, but now I have a dog and a cat. I thought Fergus, my bouncy Cavalier, would be fine because he getting home boarding with the owner of the his doggie daycare. He had stayed with her before. After three or four days, he might wonder why I didn't come for him when all his dog companions went home at the end of the day. But he would carry on. It was my rescue Maine Coon I was worried about. She had only one experience of  boarding a couple of days with her vet. Even though the cat sitter, who Harry (my cat before her) had loved, made a special trip to meet her, I was worried she would be confused and frightened.  

As her sitter showed me in the photos and video that she texted, Penelope, my cat who had hidden in the basement when she arrived to pick her up and required two trips to capture, was enjoying her stay. She was housed in the room reserved for one boarding cat, where she enjoyed the companionship of the sitter's husband who used the space as an office when he worked at home. She was relaxing on a carpet, snoozing on a chair, and playing with toys. Having her own vacation. 

But it was too late to change my plans. I did my presentation at the Christie festival that Sunday morning. Then that afternoon, I had my scheduled interview with the BBC crew that was filming a three-part documentary series about Christie and her works. The next day I took a taxi back to the airport, fretting unnecessarily that I would miss the only flight from Torquay back to Dublin.

In Dublin, the line through airport security and US Customs stretched endlessly -- but moved with speed and efficiency. And then I was on the plane  -- in economy for the return flight, but seated in an aisle seat beside a friendly couple with whom I coordinated restroom breaks and who ignored me as we all read and watched movies and had a not-bad meal.

I drove home the next day. In contrast to the downpours on my way down to Newark, the sun was out. I turned off the radio and spent the drive in blissful silence as I planned my writing schedule for the next year or two -- including a return to Dublin. During my four-hour walk, it had occurred to me that my characters Lizzie Stuart and John Quinn might end up in Dublin rather than Paris on their European honeymoon. But no sooner than I had the thought, then I experienced a magical moment of Irish serendipity -- a sign on a shop -- McCabe's. My protagonist in two police procedurals is named Hannah McCabe. Obviously, the universe was telling me that the book should be hers, not Lizzie's. My plot fell into place as I walked. McCabe and her father, a retired former newspaper editor, are on a trip to Ireland that will take an unexpected turn when McCabe witnesses an incident. . .

Many thanks to the International Agatha Christie Festival organizers who invited me to do the presentation, the audience who attended, and to the wonderful BBC documentary crew and Lucy Worsley, historian, curator and skilled interviewer. My time in Torquay was brief but delightful. My time in Dublin equally so. I returned home, cobwebs swept away. 

Farewell Mystery Scene Magazine

 

I recently heard from a number of sources, including this one, that Mystery Scene Magazine is closing down. Kate Stine, its editor, announced recently the November issue will be its last.

 

This really saddens me. I've enjoyed the articles and reviews over the years. I've discovered wonderful books I might not have known about if it wasn't for the magazine. One of these as the “7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle” by Stuart Turton. If it hadn’t been for the article I saw in Mystery Scene, I would have missed out on a great book.

The issues are full of reviews of books, articles, interviews, awards. It’s been a one-stop shop for what’s going on the world of mysteries for a lot of years. They also sponsored the New Authors breakfast at Malice Domestic every year, which is a fun event. I participated one year when my first book came out and have gone a few times since then. Admittedly, not as often as I should have, but it’s really early on Sunday morning. Did I mention it’s really early?

Mystery Scene Magazine, thank you for everything you’ve done over the years. You will be missed.

God Bless The Queen

Queen Elizabeth was the epitome of sanity and stability in a world that is wobbling on its axis. The way she lived her life assured us of the validity of Browning's words that "God's in his Heaven, and all's right with the world."

Despite the chaos all around, the world could count on Queen Elizabeth to do her duty without complaint. She was regal in every sense of the word. Not only was her death mourned by the United Kingdom, there was an outpouring of grief from all corners of the earth. 

She was our Queen, too. Those of us who admire the United Kingdom from afar. Those of us in countries without the underpinning of long established traditions. Those of us subjected to a topsy-turvy political systems. 

She was our symbol of a life lived with integrity. A reminder of immutable standards. 

She acted and spoke with assurance because knowing the right thing to do and say was bred in her bones. No one had to coach her. Decency emanated from her soul. 

A number of the Type M posters are members of the United Kingdom. 

Your American cousins extend our deepest sympathy.

Strange Places Research Takes You

By Thomas Kies

 During the height of the pandemic when the world was locked down, no, I wasn’t looking to date anyone.  However, I was like almost everyone else who was hunkered down at home, I was looking online for items that were difficult or impossible to find in our local grocery store (toilet paper, anyone?).  The longer I was in lockdown, the more apps I discovered on my phone and my laptop.

I found that I could buy most anything from the comfort of my home office while still in my pajamas—clothing, food, insurance, furniture, gym equipment, cars, boats, even a house. 

During that time, I was working on my fifth book, Whisper Room, and the thought occurred to me, what if there was an app where you could order an escort along with all the bells and whistles—a nice dinner, a fancy hotel room, a Broadway show, or a trip to the Bahamas?  Or as the fictional owners of the Whisper Room describe it, it’s a full-service dating app where both the escorts and the clients are fully vetted.   

That all led me to do some research into dating websites and apps. I was amazed to discover that online dating started in 1965 when two young Harvard students managed to wangle time on an IBM 1401 computer (one of the first computers to run on transistors and not vacuum tubes) and created the very first digital matchmaking service. 

The two men created a 75-question survey that applicants would answer and then mail in along with their $3 fee.  In turn, they would receive a list of matches that the IBM machine generated for them. By 1966, Operation Match claimed to have 90,000 people using the system. 

Computer dating really hit its stride in 1993 when Match.com was created by Gary Kremen and Peng T. Ong in San Francisco.  Match became a household name early on after garnering over 100,000 users in its first six months. At that time, participants were matched up based on answers to a wide variety of questionnaires. 

It wasn’t until 2014 that Match.com created a mobile app that used location to match people based on photos and using similar algorithms as the dating app called Tinder. 

With the success of Match.com, starting in 2000 a company called eHarmony brought people together by what they described as “scientific methods”. Prospective members answered a proprietary questionnaire about their characteristics, beliefs, values, emotional healthy and skills. At its height, 33 million members used the service. In 2010, the company claimed that after finding their match on eHarmony, an average of 542 members in the United States were getting married every day.

It was during this same period, the 2000s, that social media skyrocketed.  Once again at Harvard, Facebook was founded in 2004 and by the end of the decade, Twitter, Instagram, and LinkedIn had taken root. All online places to meet and interact.

Then in 2012 Tinder came along and really kickstarted online relationships…or hookups. Tinder is location based and subscribers can swipe right on someone’s photo if they like them and left if they don’t. If both users swipe right, then they can message each other. As of 2021, the app has been downloaded 400 million times and has 57 million active monthly users. 

The advent of dating app specificity has exploded. No matter what your experience, demographic profile, or sexual interest is, you can find it online if you know where to look.  

If you’re looking for a DTF dating app…and I didn’t know this, but DTF means easy hook-up: Pure (no-strings attached hookup app), Feeld (looking to match singles with couples..threesome anyone?), Ashley Madison (an extra-marital website that thinks life is short, so have an affair), and Bootyshake (give your phone a shake and anyone who has logged on in the past hour will appear on your screen).

Then there’s Farmers Only (connects country folks), High There (for stoners), Clown Dating (yeah, exactly for what you think it is), Redhead Passion (for gingers), Gluten Free Singles, and Singles with Allergies…the list goes on and on. 

But in doing research for Whisper Room, I wondered if you could buy sex online?  Silly question.  You can buy anything online.

One site, that appears to have been taken down, is called Redevu that focused on creating a safe space for sex workers. When it was up and running, Rendevu was supposed to be safe because everyone is vetted and customers have to put in their credit card info before they receive their booking. 

Ohlala is an app that is supposed to be designed with women in mind.  On Ohlala, the customer makes a date request along with time and a budget.  The escort sees the request and if she accepts, a new private chat will pop up.  If they agree on a location, duration and price, that the date gets locked in. 

According to Bustle, “Ohlala is the one dating app where everyone’s intentions are clear.”  According to Tech.co, “Now there’s a dating app that is purposefully putting women in control.”

PinkDate connects clients and escorts just like Uber connects riders and drivers.  The app has a Tinder like feel where clients can scroll through thousands of escort profiles.  When the customer finds their choice, they check available times and dates.  Escorts shard hourly rates and calendar availability.  

So, during the lockdown, when I dreamed up the app called Whisper Room, I thought I had come up with something unique.  In reality, if you want something bad enough, you can find anything…or anyone… online and make a purchase.