A crime writer's take on travelling

 When my computer alerted me today that it was my week to post on Type M, I realized I had skipped my last Wednesday post. I doubt anyone noticed, because we have so many authors posting on different days, but I apologize anyway. I was galavanting around Italy on the first real travelling holiday I've had since Covid hit. In-person book events aren't the only thing that the pandemic has quashed. How wonderful it was to be exploring new places and meeting new friends again!

But this is a blog about writers and writing, not holidaying. Can I connect them? I did wonder, as I contemplated the stunning views of the Amalfi coast and the Island of Capri, whether I could work this trip into a book somehow. Partly, I confess, for the tax write-off, but mostly to relive the experiences and share them with readers. I've really enjoyed travelling all over Canada for the Amanda Doucette series and hope that readers felt they explored Canada along with me. But trying to transplant Inspector Green to Italy seemed a stretch. Law enforcement officials don't operate outside their jurisdiction, so if Green stumbled upon a possible murder on the Amalfi coast, say, he would have to hand it over to the local authorities, and if he continued to meddle, it would be for purely personal reasons, which would make him more of an amateur sleuth than a professional investigator. 

Roman law enforcement

Italy is a very densely populated country. There are few remote areas where Green could reasonably become involved before the national CID team arrived to take over. The Amalfi coast has some stunning wilderness trails and I did hike one of the more well-known of these, called "The Path of the Gods". It crossed my mind several times that it would be an easy place to dispose of an unwanted person. An irritating mother-in-law who stirred up trouble within the family, for example, or a tour group in which tensions and conflicts boil over. A stumble at the edge of the cliff or a boulder crashing down from above would be so simple to set up. That's the way a crime writer's mind works; we see opportunities for murder and for concealing bodies everywhere. But I try to stick to realism and I research my stories thoroughly, so it would be very difficult to create a set of circumstances where Green would realistically investigate, and if he did, it would not be a classic investigation. I would also have to learn a lot about Italian law and police commend structure.

Lost in the fog

Getting Amanda embroiled in a murder in Italy would be much easier. She is already an amateur sleuth, and with her penchant for rushing to the rescue, I could easily give her a reason for getting involved. Because I have already walked the Path of the Gods, I wouldn't have to research another location, and Amanda would know as little about Italian law and policing as I do. I hope the writer's best friend –Google  – could fill in the necessary gaps.

The Path of the Gods

But both these scenarios represent a significant deviation from the two series, and I'm not sure how successful they would be. It may be better to write about a completely different set of characters rather than trying to shoehorn one of my series into the Italian landscape. So don't be surprised if a short story surfaces in which a body is found at the base of a cliff, or a blood-curdling scream is heard by a group of hikers on a damp and foggy morning...

Travelling is always fun, but even more so when a writer's imagination is along for the ride.

No Sense of Time

 by Charlotte Hinger

The first time I bit off more than I can chew was when I was eleven years old. I was an avid 4-Her and a member of the Seekers Not Slackers 4-H club. The highlight of the club year was enrolling in projects. They were astonishingly varied. Every child could find a niche.

So one year, in addition to my usual sewing and food projects, I decided to take gardening, and plant strawberries. It was to be the biggest, gol-durned bestest strawberry patch the county had every seen. I certainly had the first part right. It was enormous. Big enough to stave off any Vitamin C deficiency in the third world.

We noble, conscientious 4-Hers were not allowed to accept help. Preparing the ground was hard enough, but inserting all those precious little plants was torture for even young backs. The worst was yet to come. I had to hand carry buckets of water. Every. Single. Day. It was hot, The metal handles dug ridges in my hands. The plants were bent on dying. I was determined to save them. It was a matter of honor. I was quite bitter that my parents didn't recuse me.

Late summer, the entire club formed a convoy and drove from farm to farm to view the members' projects. We admired all manner of livestock; calves, pigs, horses, chickens, ducks, dogs, sheep, and goats. Some members showed off their woodworking skills. With luck, those enrolled in cooking had thoughtfully baked a little treat.

At last the club came to our farm and viewed my huge strawberry patch. It was respectable, but nothing special. It looked droopy and some plants had died despite my best efforts. It had ruined my summer, but I didn't have to suffer the humiliation of a failed project.

The whole 4-H experience was highly educational. We learned to give talks, to present ourselves well, to assimilate failures, to be graceful losers and winners, to calculate time and energy, to pull together as a group, and most of all, we learned to think.

Recently I asked a new mystery writer who had a great debut novel if she would be interested doing a guest post on Type M. She calmly said she didn't have the time. She was writing her next book and didn't blog when she was actively writing.

Smart, smart lady. I envy her ability to think, to plan, to calculate time and cost.

I keep forgetting the strawberry patch experience and blithely assume I can do it if I set my mind to it. Most of the time I sort of can, but the cost cancels the pride of achievement and the nagging sense that I could have done much, much better on projects.

Most of us can remember the good old days when marketing demands were minimal. 

Pressing the flesh

Last weekend I was in lovely Grantown-on-Spey, nestling close to the Cairngorms, for the town's Wee Crime Festival.

It's been three years since the festival was last held. First 2020 happened. Then 2021 came along. 2022 hasn't been THAT much better but at least the festival was back on.

It's organised by Marjory Marshall, the energetic owner of the town's bookshop, the Bookmark. It's a popular store, footfall is incredible - local bookshops can be part of the lifeblood of a town. Someone told me that property prices for towns with a bookstore are higher than those without.

Anyway, the festival...

I've been lucky enough to be a regular there for a number of years. Along with crime writers Caro Ramsay and Michael J. Malone, I present a comedy mystery play each year called Carry on Sleuthing (there are three of them! And the mystery is, where's the comedy?) We also chair some of the panels over the weekend as well as participating in others as ourselves, as it were.

It felt good to be back, and not just because Grantown is a lovely place to visit. It, and the other festivals I've been lucky enough to attend this year, made me realise how much I missed getting out there and seeing the whites of the readers eyes! 

When I began this lark we call authoring, when I was writing true crime and non-fiction, I wasn't called upon to do much in the way of public speaking. There were radio and TV interviews but I was invited to only one festival, where one man approached me following my talk to remonstrate with me over the fact that there were no photographs of dead bodies in my books. 

I backed away sharpish, looking for a safe space. Or a panic button.

But since embarking on the stormy seas of fiction, I've become an old hand at the festival game, which is amazing to me because I am actually shy, Mary Ellen. 

Meeting the reading community is a vital part of what we do. A couple of months ago  I attended an event for a 'celebrity author' who announced at the start that he would not be doing a signing at the end - all books on sale were pre-signed. I was incensed that the unwritten contract between author and reader had been broken. To my mind, signing books and sharing a few words with the people good enough to shell out their hard-earned folding green to buy them goes with the territory.

The message he sent was that he didn't care if anyone bought his book. (Actually, he said that at one point during the interview. Quite breathtakingly arrogant, I thought).

I didn't buy his book.

I'll be out again next week. Every year that fine and august body, the Scottish Book Trust, funds events across the country for a week long literary extravaganza called, cunningly, Book Week Scotland.

It sees authors traversing the face of Scotland, up hill, down glen, into the streets, to talk in libraries, community halls, phone booths. Okay, I made the last one up.

I've got a full week going coast to coast, for which I'm grateful. I'll be in Musselburgh (on the East Coast), Saltcoats (West Coast), Motherwell (Central Belt) and then Dundee (East Coast again). 

Granted, the phrase going coast-to-coast in Scotland doesn't mean the same as it does in the US of A.

It will be exhausting, for I am not a young man, but it will be fun appearing with other authors, talking about my work, having a laugh and - it is fervently hoped - if not selling books then at least inspiring readers to borrow them from those all-important libraries. 

When next we are together, dear reader, I'll tell you how it all works out.

True Crime to Fiction

 I'm getting a late start this morning because I had to take my dog into the vet for his physical. Alas, he weighs more now than he did our last visit. We've been taking short walks during the week and long walks on Saturday and Sunday, and he goes to daycare. But even though everyone he greets with delight finds him "adorable," he is a chubby Cavie right now. His vet just put him on prescription dog food to give his metabolism a reset -- even the few training treats he will be allowed need to be subtracted. This is goiing to be a test of discipline on my part and stubborness on his. Fergus is as stubborn as he is adorable. Right now, he demands a treat to get in and out of the car, not chase the cat, not sit down and refuse to move in the middle of a walk. . . you get the idea. Even when a treat is only one and a half calories, they can mount up doing the day. But I am determined to get hm back to his "small dog" size. 

Anyway, that's why I'm running late today. I need to get back to the gangster movies manuscript I'm working on because my editor is waiting. But I'd like to mention something that I'm thinking about. Next weekend I'll be on a panel at the New England Crime Bake. My panel is "Fiction vs Reality: Taking Real Crime and Making It Work as Fiction." I had an interesting experience with that a few days ago.

I've been doing a deep dive into sources to make sure I've found the links between movie gangsters in my nine classic films and The Sopranos and the real life crime families and mobsters that have inspired the fiction. A few days ago -- as I was reading a story about a mob soldier with a nasty temper -- I had a burst of inspiration. I've been concerned about my male protagonist's motivation in my historical thriller. He has a reason for being curious at the beginning of the book. But when a death occurs and he narrowly escapes being arrested as a suspect, he has more reason to back off. As I was reading about that real-life gangster, it suddenly occurred to me -- I need a mob guy to make my protagonist "an offer he can't refuse".  The mobster has a girl friend who was related to the victim and he has promised to find out what happened. Now, he is passing that responsibility on to my protagonist because he was the one who got the victim involved. Having my mobster walk in and make his threat will carry me through the dreaded middle section of the book and give me the twist I need towards the end.

I think it's going to work. If it does, I'll have a recent example of using real crime as inspiration for my panel. I'll also have a boost as I try to sprint through NaNoWriMo this month. 

Anyone else have a recent experience with drawing inspiration from real life?

Active vs. Passive Entertainment

 

by Sybil Johnson

I was in the Seattle area last week visiting family. While I was there we went to see Disney On Ice and visited a cat cafe. That got me to thinking about active versus passive entertainment.

Let’s start with the cat cafe. For those of you not familiar with one, a cat cafe is where you can drink coffee/tea/hot chocolate and play with cats who are either permanent residents or are up for adoption. I believe they’re very popular in Japan. We found three in the Seattle-Tacoma area. We settled on one called Catffeinated in Tacoma. I mean, how could we pass that name up?

It was quite fun. The hot chocolate I had was good. My sister said the coffee was good. (I don’t drink coffee. I know, I know. How can I be of Scandinavian descent and from Seattle and not?) We had an hour to play with the cats. I consider that active entertainment.

 Here are a couple of the cats we interacted with. The orange one is a permanent resident. The other is being adopted.

Disney On Ice had a lot of kids in attendance, as you might expect. It was fun, but I noticed they spent a fair amount of time trying to get people actively engaged before the skating started. Honestly, with events like this, I’m more into the passive entertainment stuff. I do realize, though, with that many kids in attendance it was good to let the kids blow off some steam.

I’ve had an annual pass to Disneyland for over twenty years. Okay, now they’re called Magic Key passes. Whatever, it’s the same thing. I’ve noticed in that time that Disneyland/California Adventure has moved more and more toward encouraging active participation by its guests. There are “character experiences” at various places throughout the parks like the Avengers Campus and in Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge. Some of the newer rides are more interactive. The Web Slingers ride has you actively slinging webs as you ride along. The Millennium Falcon: Smuggler’s Run ride is an interactive attraction where guests work together during a “smuggling” mission.

Me? I much prefer the more passive rides like Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, It’s a Small World. The classic rides. Maybe because I’m a “classic” myself.

That got me to thinking about books and television/films. Both are fine. Reading a book is active entertainment. The reader has to imagine the scene in their mind and fill in the details that aren’t on the page. Television/films is more passive. Those visuals are supplied by those who put the programs together. The one exception I’d probably say is silent films. I’ve watched a number of them over the last ten years since there’s a silent movie theater not far from where I live. I find, when I watch those, that I fill in dialogue of what’s going on the screen in-between the title cards. I feel like I'm more actively engaged with a silent film than one with sound.

What about you all? Do you like more active or passive entertainment or a mix?

Will Rogers Gold Medallion

 by Charlotte Hinger

 Saturday night I was awarded the Will Rogers Gold Medallion for Short Fiction for a story in the anthology, Librarians of the West. The title of my story was "The Book Mama." I was--and still am--just thrilled and frankly shocked. The ceremony was held in Fort Worth, Texas. It can be seen on YouTube. Just search for "will rogers medallion ceremony 2022."

It was a special treat to see a number of friends winning awards and to make new friends. There's something about "writing" trips. I always come back from them rejuvenated. I especially liked the keynote speech by Stuart Rosebrook because he spoke of the moral compass present in some of our most enduring writers. 

Here's a couple of pictures I took when some of us signed books at Monkey and Dog Books.

Pamela Nowak

Pam won the Gold Medallion in the Traditional Western Fiction Category (books) for Never Let Go: Survival of the Lake Shetek Women. I'm eager to read this one. 

Phil Mills

Phil Mills is the current president of Western Writers of America. His short story, "Cold the Bitter Heart" won the Silver Medallion. 

I'm so disappointed that my photo of Bill Markley, Rocky Gibbons, and Nancy Plain at the signing turned out to be a faint video. Not worth posting. Bill won a Silver Medallion for Geronimo and Sitting Bull: Leaders of the Legendary West. Nancy and Rocky, as co-authors, won Gold Medallions for their Western Nonfiction Book for Young Readers: Why Cows Need Cowboys. 

It's great to see ceremonies back because Covid brought a number of traditional events to a screeching halt. 

Recognition is rare and sweet. All of us in attendance at this year's Will Rogers event wish to thank Chris Enss and Laurie Cockerell for all of the hard work they put in to make this ceremony such a memorable one. 

 

What Scares Us?

 by Thomas Kies

Happy Halloween readers!!  Since today is the day when, according to the ancient Celtic tradition of Samhain, we should be lighting bonfires and donning costumes to ward off ghosts…but instead, we’re putting on costumes and eating ourselves into a sugar frenzy—let’s talk about what scares us.

Full disclosure, I like scary stuff.  I like novels by Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and the late Peter Straub.  I enjoy the occasional horror movie like Rosemary’s Baby, The Thing, The Shining, and yes, Halloween.  I like going on ghost walks and ghost hunts.

Regarding ghost hunts—I wrote about one in my first book Random Road. That’s loosely based on a real ghost hunt I was lucky enough to join.  I was the president of the Norwalk Seaport Association at the time and one night we ferried a crew of experienced ghost hunters out to Sheffield Island.  The island is on Long Island Sound and boasts a wildlife refuge and a nineteenth century lighthouse and lighthouse keeper’s cottage.  

The island has no running water and no electricity and when you’re out there, it’s dark and deathly quiet.  While I sat quietly drinking a glass of wine at midnight at a picnic table, the hunters snapped photos, took electrical and temperature readings, ran audio recordings, and prowled around the lighthouse and the island. They brought back photos of “orbs” and one picture of a little girl’s face in a second-floor window as she was gazing out at us.  One of the hunters was a psychic or “intuitive” who told us there were three ghosts living out on that island.

The only spirits I saw that night were in my glass.

I sometimes write about things that scare me.  In my third book Graveyard Bay I wrote about White Supremacist crime gangs, the Russian Mafia, dungeons, and S&M…oh my! My neighbor read it and when I asked him how he liked it, he replied with a deadpan expression, “Gave me nightmares.” 

As a writer, that’s when ya’ know you nailed it, baby.

My wife, Cindy, and I are in the middle of watching the Netflix anthology Cabinet of Curiosities originated and hosted by Guillermo del Toro.  I’ve always enjoyed his work, especially his movie Nightmare Alley.  The ending was not only scary as hell but dripping with delicious irony. 

According to Mr. del Toro, this is what frightens him.  “The moment Lon Chaney is revealed as the Phantom of the Opera was one of those seminal moments in my mind. It scared me not because of how scary it looked, but because of how remote and majestic Lon Cheney played it. That gesture, so unique and so commanding and so full of power and rage and despair. It was truly a powerful moment.”

What scares the master of horror Stephen King?  In many of his novels, characters go mad or lose their minds due to dementia, fear, or isolation like the Jack Torrance character in The Shining. When that happens, even well-intentioned people can do horrible things. In an NPR interview he did a number of years ago, King said, “That’s the boogeyman in the closet now. I’m afraid of losing my mind.”

Why are “haunted houses” and horror novels and movies so popular?  My own theory is that we know that, in the end, we’ll be putting that book down and all will be well.  When the lights come on at the end of the movie, we know we’ve had a good scare, but it wasn’t real, was it? 

It’s like being on a rollercoaster.  It feels like we’re facing death by moving at an eyepopping speed and dropping down the tracks over a cliff while your stomach is trying to figure out where it’s supposed to be. But at the end, we know we’ll be stepping out of the ride, legs weak, heart pounding, but safe.

So, it’s Halloween…what scary movie shall we watch tonight?  What will you be doing?

Connections

 

Connections

By Johnny D. Boggs

The telephone rang last week, and I pushed away from the keyboard and answered. The news stunned me.

Karl Cordova died after cardiac arrest the day before. He was 52.

Karl worked for, and loved, the National Park Service, serving as superintendent at Casa Grande (Arizona) Ruins National Monument and Pecos (New Mexico) National Historical Park. I met him after he moved to New Mexico to take the Pecos job. His two sons and my son were in the same Boy Scout troop -- Karl eventually became Scoutmaster, and I was one of several assistants -- and all three boys played baseball. I coached baseball with Karl, sometimes against him, and umpired a few ballgames in which the boys played.

                                                        Karl Cordova at a naturalization 

                                                        ceremony at Pecos National His-

                                                        torical Park in 2016.

I have never met anyone as calm and collected as Karl. He never lost his cool -- hard to do when you're wrangling pre-teen and teenage boys.

The sad news also had me thinking that as a writer, you often never know if you touch readers, and it's a blessing when you have. It's a bigger blessing when you realize how a reader can touch you.

The last time I say Karl was in March. He invited me to bring the family to a dinner in Pecos with Friends of Pecos National Historical Park on the eve of the park's annual Civil War Encampment (the 1862 battle of Glorieta Pass, in which Union forces turned back a Confederate invasion, was partially fought on what's now park property). I'd talk a bit about writing historical novels and answer any questions.

Over the years, I had given Karl some of my novels, and he had bought others. His father, he said, was a big fan of my books and loved Westerns. When you write in this genre, you hear that fairly often: My father reads ... My grandfather reads ... my great-grandpa reads. ... Well, Karl said he liked my books, too, though I'm pretty sure his sons had no interest in reading Westerns.

But that night, Karl told another story.

He was visiting his father in the hospital. His dad was reading Hard Winter, if my memory's right. I said, "I kinda like that one myself." They talked about my my writing style, how they liked the way I told different kinds of Westerns, how I did my research, how I made my characters realistic, believable, human. I was wondering if my hat would fit when I had to leave.

And then Karl said:

"My father passed away that night. So I'll always remember that the last conversation we had was about your books." 

Readers have written letters or emails or even telephoned to say how much they like something I've written, or why they didn't like what I'd written. But I'd never heard anything like what Karl said that night. I signed a copy of the book in memory of Karl's dad.

This morning, I'll be at Karl's funeral. This afternoon, I'll be back in the office, writing a novel with a deadline fast approaching. But I've already rewritten part of that book. A few days ago, I called up the Word doc and went to the dedication. Deleted what I had written, then replaced it with:

In memory of Karl Cordova (1970-2022),

fellow baseball coach, Scout leader, and friend;

and his father, Bill (1936-2020),

who liked my novels.

The Eighth First Draft

I have just begun the preliminary research and planning stages for my next novel (number 14), and soon I'll be in that apply-glue-to-rear-end-and-sit-down-in-front-of-computer-whether-you-like-it-or-not stage. Wringing out the first draft.

Or trying to. I find my mind wandering at the most inconvenient times, and considering that I have a tendency to give in to random thought as it is, I'm not having any luck completing the tasks I should.

For instance, rather than work on the manuscript I've just spent the last fifteen minutes naming my rock band. I was listening to Death Cab for Cutie when it occurred to me that they must have come up with their name by throwing darts at a dictionary. "Donis," I say to myself, "if you close your eyes and stab your pencil point at random spots on the newspaper, surely you could come up with your own effective band moniker." I've done this several times and have a whole pile of likely band names in case anyone is looking. Here are the latest, my four, three, two, and one word band names, in just the order random chance dictated.

Those Filet-Mignon Panini

Makes an Error

Secret History

Camera

I discovered several books ago that if I’m going to be able to power through the pain of a first draft, I have to set myself a rigid writing schedule. This is difficult for me, since I’m not by nature a disciplined person. I don’t enjoy forcing myself to put words on the page, whether I’m feeling inspired at that moment or not. I’m always anxious and unhappy for much of a first draft. Why, I ask myself, isn’t this better? It seemed like such a good idea when it was still in my head.

Why do I put myself through it? I’m never sure I can pull it off, no matter how many times I’ve pulled it off before. But then there are those days, even while you’re struggling with the first draft, when you do hit the perfect note, or compose a passage so beautiful and true that it brings tears to your eyes. Ray Bradbury spoke truth when he said that real success comes when you begin to write from the inside, and not from the outside.

Besides, once the first draft is finished and you’re on to the second and third and however many more, world without end, it all starts to come together and you realize with a start that you’ve got something. Maybe that old mojo is working after all!

p.s.  Years ago I heard Jerrilyn Farmer say that an editor told her once you have had seven books published you've pretty much made it. Until she had seven books published, then that same editor said, "Once you have ten books published... "

Lizzie Noel

 by Charlotte Hinger

My short story, "Lizzie Noel," was published in the Nov/Dec issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. I'm absolutely thrilled to have a story in this publication, which includes such notable writers as Joyce Carol Oates. I've submitted several stories over the years. Only "The Family Rose" was accepted. Ironically, that story was later published in two anthologies, Murder on the Verandah, and Murder to Music. 

The editor, Janet Hutchings, kindly provided an excerpt of my story on the Ellery Queen website. Here it is:

Lizzie Noel
by Charlotte Hinger

The glittery little floozy burst through the door of the Overhours Cafe like she was fleeing the gates of hell. Or her pimp, more likely.

Teresa Wainright had every reason to recognize her kind immediately. But she didn’t want trouble. No telling who might come looking for this one.

She gave a final polish to a stainless-steel napkin holder and scornfully studied the little whore as she swiveled onto the nearest stool. A small woman. Eyes ringed with straying mascara. She wore hot pants and scuffy mid-thigh leather boots and a stained lacy see-through blouse that needed a few extra buttons. Brittle white-blond hair piled on top of her head. Chipped dried-blood-black nails. READ MORE

Obviously, to "READ MORE" you'll have to buy a copy of the magazine. 

It'll be alright on the edit

 It's cold and wet here in Scotland, which is nothing unusual but still seeps into the bones like dampness into old walls.

It's the kind of day that makes me yearn for blue skies and golden beaches. For sitting at a table in warm sunlight, sipping a coffee, or a cold beer, and watching the world pass. No need to rush. No hassle. No pressures. Busy doing nothing and working the whole day through.

I'd settle for logs snapping in an open grate and an old movie on the TV. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness...

Hang on there, Omar Khayyam, before you recite the entire Rubaiyat - you've got an edit to do.

Ah yes.

It is an uncomfortable fact of writing life that we seldom, if ever, get it right the first time. Sometimes even the second time. We might think we have, but we really haven't. As our editors are quick to point out.

Editing is a vital part of publishing. As I tell creative writing students, this authoring game is a collaborative process.

Sure, we sit down in our garret and pound out the deathless prose, because if we didn't then everyone who follows on wouldn't have anything to work with.

But then we can find out that said prose isn't quite as deathless as we think. Sometimes it needs a little elixir of life, courtesy of a good editor.

They can spot plot holes. They can fix grammar. They can even suggest a new chapter that will make sense of something that previously didn't make much sense, even though you thought it did make sense when you sent the manuscript off with a sigh of relief and a deep draught from that jug of wine (see above). 

I'm sure a decent editor would have something to say about that last sentence.

I am currently in editing mode, for the second in my Jonas Flynt historical series. (I am contractually obliged to mention that the first, 'An Honourable Thief', is out now in hardback in-store and on-line and ebook on-line. That ends the word from our sponsor and we now return you to our programme).

Let me make something quite clear - for me, writing is hell. It's not something I particularly enjoy, generally speaking. As Dorothy Parker once said, I don't like writing, I like having written. I have no idea what she thought about the editing process.

Personally, I don't mind it. I do frown a little when Kit, my editor, highlights a sentence or passage and comments that it doesn't sense. I read it myself and, sure enough, it generally doesn't make sense. I try to remember what I was thinking when I wrote it but I often find myself incapable of remembering what I was thinking just a few minutes ago and....

I have no idea where I was taking that sentence.

That is why good editors are vital. We can write something we believe hangs together and they will tell us that it doesn't and the really good ones can tell you why. Kit has done that with me, by the way. They will do it not because they have an axe to grind or because they want to show off or because they want a co-writing credit. They do it because it's their job and everyone - author, editor, publisher - want to produce the best book possible, even if it's a silk purse/sow's ear situation. (For the record, I don't mean that about my book, because it's marvellous. 

(Or will be. 

(At least until the readers see it. 

(It's like Schroedinger's Cat for authors).

So grateful that Kit's eagle eye has highlighted some sections that need work, I must now bend to the task with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.

Or something.

I have fresh material to write.

Did I mention I hate writing...?

Vaya con Dios, BookBar

I originally wrote this for October and set it to autopost, which didn't happen. 

Take 2. After too long of a delay, I finally had another book launch to get excited about. Unfortunately this news is bitter-sweet. The venue for the book launch party was BookBar, which sadly announced that after ten years, they will be closing on January 31, 2023. The reasons are many, explained best by them. After wrestling with the usual challenges of running a small business, aggravated by Covid lockdowns and its precautions, the final nail in the coffin was the City of Denver's mandated increase in minimum wage.

A decade ago, BookBar took over the location of another bookstore in the Tennyson Arts District, one that limped along and even sold ice cream to help pay the bills. BookBar expanded that hybrid model by offering coffee, food, and alcohol. Wine and readers, who would've guessed? Though the inventory was heavy in literary fiction and contemporary non-fiction, what endeared BookBar to the local community was their willingness to take a chance on local authors. BookBar became the go-to venue for book launches, poetry gatherings, and even hosted readings for the Colorado Book Awards. BookBar was a favorite location because of their friendly staff and attention to detail, like making sure consignments were paid, something other area bookstores found hard to do. In appreciation, people (me included) regularly ordered books from BookBar to avoid patronizing Amazon, who themselves are retreating from brick & mortar store fronts. BookBar was a spot to meet friends, out-of-towners especially were taken by the place, or to kick back with a good read, a coffee and pastry, or with a beer, glass of wine, or a cocktail.

During the quarantine, I sought to cope with the disturbing weirdness of it all by drawing a daily cartoon of cats dealing with the pandemic in ways that were both feline and human. Honestly, I thought that after two weeks to flatten the curve, plus another two weeks to let things settle down, that we'd be back to normal in a month. Two months, tops. Was I wrong. A few dozen cartoons became a hundred, then two hundred, three hundred, and more. When I was done, deciding that the fiasco in Afghanistan and the then looming war in Ukraine were fitting disasters to end cap the Covid disaster, I realized that I had chronicled the history of this pandemic--lockdowns, the masking, the hoarding, social distancing, Zoom calls, mostly peaceful protests, the vax/anti-vax wars. Hex Publishers offered to publish an edited collection of my work in Cats In Quarantine: A Cartoon Memoir of the COVID-19 Pandemic, which received a Starred Review from Kirkus Reviews.

As for my favorite cartoon? I have many but if there is one that I think best describes me and everyone else during the pandemic, it's this one:

Facts and Maybe Facts

 I'm in the midst of fact-checking for a nonfiction book that I'm doing for my academic publisher. The book is about gangster movies -- or, rather, nine gangster movies and The Sopranos.  The most fascinating task -- and the most grueling -- is trying to distinguish fact from fiction about multiple mobsters.

This week I've been looking at a dispute between two drug traffickers about who came up with a system for importing heroin from Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War. Ike Atkinson was getting out of prison after spending over three decades behind bars when he learned that Frank Lucas was taking credit for being the mastermind for a system that he claimed eliminated the Mafia middlemen. He had made that claim in his interview for an article, and the article had caught the attention of Hollywood, and now there was a movie  -- American Gangster -- starring Denzel Washington. Atkinson was not happy. He said he knew Lucas and had worked with him. But he was the guy -- the former U.S. Army master sergeant -- who had served in Southeast Asia and come up with the system for getting the heroin into the United States. He had controlled that system. He was not the minor character who had appeared in the movie as Lucas's cousin. 

The author of a book about Atkinson -- who did not believe Lucas -- makes a persuasive case that the media failed in their obligation to fact-check the assertions that Lucas made. The author of the article about Lucas pointed out that he had been writing about what Lucas "claimed" or "said" rather than what was necessarily true. But the article and the movie had revived the legend about Frank Lucas's "Cadaver Connection" -- a gruesome myth about heroin having been smuggled into the United States in the corpses of fallen soldiers. Even after both Lucas and Atkinson said it didn't happen, the question is who originally said it did. And if that wasn't true, then how had the heroin been smuggled in? Was it false bottoms in caskets or furniture with hollow interiors? However, it had been done, why would the media and everyone else who believed Lucas was a criminal mastermind has accepted the premise that a man who had never served in the military could have made a trek to Southeast Asia and established an elaborate system that would have required corruption at multiple levels to make it work. 

Any debate about historical truth is fascinating because of the "paper trail" that researchers attempt to follow. In this case, it involves DEA, FBI, lawyers. judges, reporters. social scientists, historians, and film critics. I have gone deeper than I needed to for my chapter on Anerican Gangster. But I can use this example next semester in my class on Crime and American Popular Culture.  

As it turns out, I can also use this research for my 1939 historical thriler. I think my protagonist is going to have an encounter with a gangster who can help him with his problem -- or, maybe, make it worse. 

Hectic schedules and tiny egos

It’s been a hectic fall with lots going on, so I’ve backed off on my Type M commitment, dropping down to one post per month for the time being.

I have a new day job. I’m leading the upper school at Detroit Country Day School now, having left boarding school for civilian life. Michigan, I’m learning, is a great place to live (and write). And aside from a fondness of bourbon, I now have one other thing in common with Ernest Hemingway: Michigan has given us both the freedom to write. While Hemingway went to Paris and wrote about Michigan; I moved to Michigan and am writing about boarding school life.

In late August, I finished a draft of what I’m hoping will be a new series featuring a husband and wife team at a New England boarding school, and I did something I haven’t done before: I brought in a hired gun to read it and offer a critique, hiring a longtime editor Marcia Markland (St. Martin’s and Avalon) to read the manuscript and offer her thoughts. Those thoughts were instrumental in me developing the draft.

I’ve long used a “home team” of readers –– close friends who are book lovers and who know me and the boarding school environment well. They offer excellent insights. But Marcia, who acquired and published crime and genre fiction, read the work as an acquisitions editor does. Her feedback allowed me to trust my instincts and have made the book much better.

It’s a question of ego, I think. I have published nine novels. Why pay for a reader? someone asked. My answer is simple: When trying to launch a new series, the goal is to go to houses with the best possible product, and I write only from 4 to 6 a.m. The rest of my day is spent with my head in another world, so I’m willing to pay Marcia for her time, excellent insights, and her ability to examine my book for plot unity.

I’m hoping to have the updated manuscript on my agent’s desk by Thanksgiving.

*

In an unexpected plot twist in the story of my writing life, an agent at CAA reached out to my agent, Julia Lord, last summer with unexpected news: two screenwriters wanted to option my Peyton Cote US Border Patrol agent/single mother series and pitch it as a TV series. In late September, we sold the option, and I’m thrilled that Bruce Norris and Caroline Wood will try to develop it with me as “consulting producer.” Caroline, who will take the lead, gets my vision for the series, which is set in the unique and isolated region of Maine known as Aroostook County.

Reality TV Show, Anyone?

 

by Sybil Johnson 

Recently, I’ve been hearing about a new reality TV show that’s in the pilot stage – America’s Next Great Author hosted by Newberry Medal winner Kwame Alexander. Co-Creators Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry will serve as mentors. Jason Reynolds, Angie Goff and Marga Gomez will serve as judges. It’s billed as an effort to “give more authors a seat at the publishing table.”

You can read more about them and the official details here: https://americasnextgreatauthor.com/ 

Apparently, the way it works is as follows. The first phase is tryouts that are being held around the country. Contestants will have one minute to pitch their book ideas. This will eventually be pared down to six contestants who will live in a house together and have one month to finish the first draft of their novels. At the end a winner will be announced.

Applications were accepted through September 15. The 100 semifinalists were to have been notified by October 1. They’ll attend the pilot taping on October 30. During that taping, 20 semifinalists will be accepted to live pitch their ideas. The winner of the pilot will receive $2,500. The pilot is taping in New Jersey and contestants have to arrange for their own travel.

Honestly, I’m not sure what I think about this other than I don't want to participate in anything like this. I haven’t seen any details about what the winner of the entire show, not just the pilot, will receive. Money? A guaranteed publishing contract? All I’ve seen so far is info on the pilot. And, just because they’re taping a pilot, doesn’t mean that the show will go forward. It still has to be picked up. Something tells me that there’s not much chance of that. But, you never know.

I can’t believe that people will be all that interested in watching writers work. And, I’m sure the producers of the show, if it continues to the house stage, will try to amp up any conflicts between contestants to make it more “interesting”.

According to Victoria Strauss at Writer Beware, this isn’t the first time such a show has been attempted. I was actually surprised by that. At the end of her post she has a list of similar reality shows that have been attempted and failed. 

Her post:
https://writerbeware.blog/2022/07/15/americas-next-great-author-the-author-reality-show-idea-rides-again/

I suspect this will be one of those things that gets some press in the initial phase, then just fades away.

What do you all think about this idea? Has anybody ever competed in anything like this? Would you do it?

 

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.