Haunted by Books

 by Charlotte Hinger

During the Covid lockdown, I reread some of my all-time favorite books. I was curious, too, as to why they were memorable and so many I've read recently aren't.

Thanks to Amazon it's easy to track down these old books that I've remembered for a lifetime. I still own a lot of them. My interest is more than a nostalgia kick, although I am a nostalgic person. This obsession was stirred up by my whimsical treacherous muse who pointed out that great books depend on great characters.

The books I especially admire were mostly commercial successes, but that was not why they stuck with me. I loved the central character in each one. Also, these characters had a huge heart-wrenching problem worth wresting with.

For that matter, it seems to me the old writing books had a lot more information than the manuals I pick up today. I'm re-reading Maren Elwood's Characters Make Your Story. It's outstanding. It's tough reading and I don't think I understood some of her points until I had written several books.

Elwood insists that characters come from within. Spinning them from thin air doesn't work. You can give a man a quirky car, some semi-handsome physical attributes, a few snarly snappy lines and he will still seem like everyone else's cardboard cut-outs. Ditto for Too Stupid To Live Heroines. You know. The ones who never call for back-up. Or run around saying, "Oh I'll show him!"

Here is a just of a few of these old, old books I'll re-read and why:

Green Dolphin Street--Elizabeth Goudge. It's my all-time favorite whose theme touches a spiritual chord within me. Goudge, has the ability to make unlovable multi-dimensional characters profoundly lovable.

Love Let Me Not Hunger--Paul Gallico. This is a hauntingly beautiful insight into the cloistered world of the circus. Who knew that this society fostered it's own royalty? What I remembered forever and forever was Mr. Albert, the animal trainer. How did Gallico so vividly create such a noble humble old man whose personal story broke my heart?

A Distant Trumpet--by Paul Horgan. A historical novel telling about the Indian wars and the relentless campaign to hunt down the Apaches. And for years, whenever we moved to another town, another library, or even when I was visiting relations, I went to the their library to look up General Alexander Upton Quade. I couldn't believe he wasn't real. After forty years went by, I found out this character was based on the autobiography and writings of General George Crook. Horgan told the‎ story from the Indians' point of view as well as the soldiers'.

Not As a Stranger--Morton Thompson. One of the great all-time medical novels. Not only was it informative, I had such hopes for the protagonist. He was destined to be one of the all-time great doctors.

Five Smooth Stones--Ann Fairbairn. One of the great social novels and one of the few that delved into subtle Northern racism. This was published in 1966 when the Civil Rights Movement was roiling America.

Rebecca--Daphne du Maurier. Need I say more? One of the great classic mysteries, which was the forerunner of the gothic novels. At one time I couldn't get enough of them.

There are some common denominators to all the books I've mentioned. In addition to great characters, they all have great plots. Every single author is a masterful story-teller. And for some reason they are all l-o-n-g.

Will these books still resonate with me forty years later? Of course I won't have forty years, but never mind.

Lights Out! Imagination On!

 By Thomas Kies

Isn’t that when your imagination runs wild?  In the dark?

On New Year’s Eve my wife and I met friends at one of our favorite restaurants on the mainland.  We had a relatively late seating for eight o’clock, but after dinner we thought we’d walk over to the harbor where we could watch the holiday fireworks.  

The stage was set for that evening when fog rolled in from the oceanside and then a steady drizzle fell.  Before we headed over the bridge, we’d heard the fireworks had been canceled due to the incoming inclement weather. 

Not to be deterred, we all convened at a cozy table in the dining room and started our evening with a round of drinks.  Taking our time, we enjoyed conversation, listened to the specials, and gave our server our orders.  Knowing that the dark gloom was just outside, it made the dining area even more congenial.

Until the lights went out. 

Where we live, momentary lapses in power happen on a relatively regular occurrence.  Usually these are only long enough to screw up the clocks and force your computers to reboot.  

This wasn’t one of those times. 

We spent the next twenty minutes speculating what may have caused the outage and how extensive it was. Patrons and servers were consulting phones, searching diligently for information.  

“Was it the wind?”

“There was an accident behind the hospital.”

“A transformer blew downtown.”

“Must be more rolling blackouts.”

The most ominous of the theories was, “Someone shot out the grid.”

Our waitress came out of the kitchen into our dimly lit dining area and announced that they simply couldn’t continue with service under the circumstances.  Our friends decided to stay for another drink but Cindy and I bolted, hoping there was power on our island and I could get to our favorite dive for a pizza before they closed.

The rain was falling, the streets were eerily dark, the stoplights were out, and traffic was building as New Year’s Eve celebrants realized the evening was over and it was time to go home. As we crossed the bridge, aware that there were no lights behind us and only darkness ahead of us on the island, we realized there would be no pizza, no Chinese, no take-out at all.  We’d be foraging for food once we got to the house.

But as I drove, one thought kept intruding upon my thoughts of a cold holiday dinner.  Someone must have shot out the grid.

Such is the mind of a mystery writer…or a paranoid conspiracy theorist.  That’s what we do. We wonder what if? We wonder what if someone actually attacked our power supply like they did on December 3 in Moore County, North Carolina, not far from us, where someone with a rifle shot out two substations and knocked out electricity for 40,000 people for four days? 

I wonder how I can incorporate that into my new book????

The power of imagination.  It’s what keeps writers in front of their laptops and pumping out the prose.

So, my wife finished a salad she found in the refrigerator, and I made peanut and butter sandwiches, and we ate by candlelight in our kitchen.  We listened to fireworks as they went off in our neighborhood sounding like gunshots.  That didn’t quell my nervous imagination.

I found a live feed on my phone beaming images of fireworks displays from around the world that I pulled up at our table. My wife proclaimed that, “Boring.”

Then I found a movie and began to watch it, still chewing on my PJ&J sandwich.  Just before she left to go upstairs to read by candlelight, she told me, “I’m not watching a movie on your damned phone.”

The movie?  War of the Worlds.

Ah…new paranoid thought.  Was the darkness on New Year’s Eve caused by aliens?

In actuality, it was an insulator here on the island that had gone bad.  The salt air wreaks havoc on all manner of things.  We never did get our power back until five in the morning. 

I’m still not convinced it wasn’t aliens.  Such is the power of imagination. 

Favorite Novel Openings

By Johnny D. Boggs

Someone asked: If Peter Cooper’s “Somehow, Johnny Cash is dead” is the best lede to any newspaper article, what’s tops for a novel’s opening.

That’s easy.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.” – J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit (1937)

Wait. I forgot Hatchet – the novel that makes every 10-year-old boy want to read. Want to learn how to write for boys? Read Gary Paulsen.

“Brian Robeson stared out the window of the small plane at the endless green northern wilderness below. It was a small plane, a Cessna 406 – a bushplane – and the engine was so loud, so roaring and consuming and loud, that it ruined any chance for conversation.” – Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet (1987)

There. That’s settled.

Except I just remembered …

“To get there you follow Highway 58, going northeast out of the city, and it is a good highway and new. Or was new, that day we went up it. …” – Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men (1946)

Wait, I write mostly Westerns so it ought to be …

“People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenge her father’s blood but it did not seem strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day.” – Charles Portis’s True Grit (1968)

Portis’s ending is spot-on, too.

On the other hand, I’m a fan of mysteries. Like …

“I first heard Personville called Poisonville by a red-haired mucker named Hickey Dewey in the Big Ship in Butte.” – Dashiell Hammett’s Red Harvest (1929)

And this is coming from a reader who is a bigger fan of Raymond Chandler – and, while I’m on mysteries, William P. McGivern (The Big Heat, Rogue Cop) doesn’t get the credit he deserves.

But, shucks, you can’t go wrong with Mark Twain.

“You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. …” – Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884)

Oh, I can't diss Dickens.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair …” – Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

No, it’s now settled:

“It was a pleasure to burn.” – Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (1953)

Yep. Settled. Till I think some more.

Lie Detector

Donis here. To start the New Year off right, last night I watched an episode of American Experience on PBS entitled "Lie Detector", about the development and limitations of the polygraph, or "lie detector", and how United States law enforcement, government, and even businesses came to rely on an unreliable technology. It was a very interesting episode, especially for a crime writer whose books are set in the early 20th century. 

So I'm watching along, all engrossed, when lo and behold, Dr. Frankie Y. Bailey, Type M's own mystery author and professor in the School of Criminal Justice University at Albany (SUNY) pops up as one of their expert commentators. I was wildly impressed and happy to see one of our own nationally recognized for her expertise. ESPECIALLY since at this very moment Frankie's Tell Me Your Story article is up on my own website. Tell Me Your Story is feature I run every month in which I invite authors to share with us how their backgrounds and life experiences have contributed to their writing. Frankie's story is an absolutely fascinating tale of history, mystery, and multiculturalism. 

“Like a butterfly pinned to a board,” she begins. "That’s the first line I can remember writing." 

Oh, that's good!

I highly recommend reading Frankie's story at www.doniscasey.com. The article will be up on the first page of my site for another week, after which you can find all the Tell Me Your Story entries in the site Archives. You'll be enlightened and edified!

I also recommend watching the PBS episode of Lie Detector, an excellent resource for mystery writers. By the way, many years ago, shortly after I was married, my mother told me she could always tell when one of my sisters was lying because "her eyes always flick off to the left." I never forgot that telling piece of information. It brought home to me that the greatest lie detectors ever created are our own mothers.

Happy New Year to all you Dear Readers, and may 2023 bring nothing but good things to you and yours.

Turning the page

 Well, 2023 has arrived! If we are all approaching it with caution, who can blame us? For anyone interested in whether the Fradkin family managed to pull of their holiday get-together this year, the answer is yes! The families from Toronto braved the blizzard and the six-hour drive to arrive on Christmas Eve, we managed the 22-person extended family Christmas dinner at my nephew's with no one catching Covid, although a cold may have been passed around. And we did our famous Fradkin ninth day of Hanukah on December 26th with menorahs, songs, latkes, and lots of wrapping paper. Even Kenzie got a gift, which he loved.

I am so happy 2022 gave us hope in its waning days. Now, if only the viruses would give us a break and Putin would cut his losses and spare everyone further death and terror.  As if.

Welcome 2023!

So now that the joyous flurry is behind me, I turn my mind to my next task - celebrating the release of my fifth Amanda Doucette novel, WRECK BAY, which is due out at the end of January. January is a dreadful time to launch a new book. People are cocooning, their bank accounts depleted and their desire for social get-togethers at rock bottom. It's dark before you get home from work. Decisions on whether to venture out or stay home are often based on last-minute weather forecasts, at least up here in the frozen North.  

Plus, the news about the new book is likely to be buried amid an avalanche of retail and online sales ads for discounted merchandise that businesses are anxious to dump before the spring stuff arrives.

If readers actually see the promo about the new book, they think about the the dark, cold, icy roads, and they tell themselves they can always buy it on Amazon. Which is true (if they remember), and I would encourage people to buy in whatever way feels most comfortable for them. But I am a big fan of local, independent stores, and if one is available in your neighbourhood, consider dropping in or ordering from them by phone or email. Amazon doesn't need your money as much as they do.

I was impressed by Charlotte's post about her friend's outdoor book launch, which was held on the author's driveway with chairs, games, hot drinks, and a fire pit. It would be so much fun, as long as the weather cooperated. No snow, no freezing rain, no brutal north wind. Up here, that's probably too much to ask of Mother Nature. So I am doing the next best thing. My last two books were launched over Zoom, which worked well, but most of us are Zoomed out and eager for in-person connection again. I know I am. Nothing beats seeing the smiles and hearing the laughter of friends and fans who have gathered to cheer you on.

I may do some sort of online "launch" as well, but I am planning two real live events at my two favourite independent bookstores. One at Perfect Books on Elgin Street in Ottawa on February 7 at 6:30 pm (I know, it will be dark out), and one at Sleuth of Baker Street in Toronto on February 4th at 2-4 pm. Official notices and posters will be out soon. But meanwhile, Ottawa and Toronto, if you love Amanda Doucette and want to find out her next adventure or meet her for the first time, mark one of those two dates in your calendars. Even if you don't live near either city, I know both those bookstores will also send you a signed copy. 

Meanwhile, I hope this new baby year treats you well and brings health, caring, and peace to our struggling world.

A Weird Christmas

 by Charlotte Hinger

This Christmas went awry. Even some of the church services that keep my heart in the right place were displaced due to extreme weather. 

It was the "off" year for our family gathering. By that we mean that everyone goes to the in-laws. Next year is "Hinger' Christmas. Which means we negotiate the time and place for my daughters, their spouses and all the grandchildren to show up.

But talk about "off." My daughter, Cherie hosted Christmas for her daughters at the new/old four-story house on the coast of North Carolina. It was 20 degrees outside and a mere 40 inside. They were totally miserable. The geo-thermal heating system wasn't built to cope with the extreme cold. So it gave up the ghost. The pipes froze. Even the dog was rolled up in extra padding. 

My youngest daughter, Mary Beth, worked long hours Christmas Day. She's the administrator of an assisted living/memory care center and ended up supplementing the ones who usually work the floor. She works in Raleigh, but lives in Clayton, NC. She suffered through a complete power outage and her pipes froze too. She showered at work. 

I was snug and happy here in Colorado where we are prepared for cold weather. Even so, no one is used to 17 degrees below. All activities were cancelled. Thankfully, our power stayed on.

My daughter, Michele and her husband, Harry, prepared a wonderful Christmas dinner and their daughter, Audrey, her husband, Pete, and the new baby, Francesca, came up from Denver. Nothing makes a day more joyful than the presence of a baby. For one blessed day, it felt like Christmas. 

Nevertheless, this Christmas was weird. Presents never arrived, or were misaddressed or something. We have a historically long message chain to one another trying to straighten out little messes. We exchange a large number of books and many of us ended up with the wrong ones. 

But guess what. Christmas came anyway. Despite the weather. Despite our bumbling. 

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas was one of my husband's favorite movies. Don's laugh was contagious. We all loved to watch him watch the movie. He delighted in the central message. 

Nothing can stop this special time of year. Christmas draws us closer to our families, to memories of times past, to an awareness of the needs of others who are less fortunate. 

We open our wallets and our hearts and for a brief season join a collective circle of humanity acutely aware of those without homes and families.

The season reminds us that we can do better for our fellow man. 

What a Book Launch

 by Charlotte Hinger

Shortly before Christmas I went to a book launch for Rita Popp's first book, The First Fiancee, published by Wild Rose Press. It was at Rita's home. Rita is a Sisters In Crime friend who lives here in Fort Collins. 

The event was held outside on a cold Sunday afternoon. It didn't sound like a good idea. Surprise! it was a howling success. The driveway to their double garage was scattered with tables and chairs grouped around an fire pit. To one side was an enormous array of hot drinks and snacks. Hot chocolate, cider, and coffee hit the spot. So did all the crunchies and plates of homemade cookies. 

Clutters of people gathered around the fire and we had no trouble finding our connection to Rita, who is a lovely woman and a natural facilitator. For those who liked more activity or were not into chatting, she had set up a throw the bean bag game with sacks of cookies as the prize. 

She sold a lot of books. What a great idea. Who would have thought? December? Outdoors? Cold weather? It worked!

Novel way to launch a book

Great Attendance

Two bags in the hole won a package of home made cookies

Plenty for all

This all goes to show--there's something new under the sun when it comes to selling books.

Merry Christmas

 Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and wishing you a prosperous and healthy New Year.  May all your mysteries be solved. 

Back to The Scene of The Crime

 My holidays began with a visit to a client in Bradenton, Florida. When I arrived at the airport Hyatt, I found out that the hotel restaurant was closed. Upon asking the desk clerk for dining recommendations, she handed me a photo-copied map and said the closest place was Rico's. Off I went on foot. When I read the street sign at the next intersection and saw that it was the North Tamiami Trail, I said to myself, "I've been here before."

The opening chapter for my third novel, The Undead Kama Sutra, took place close to this intersection. My detective-vampire Felix Gomez had been summoned by an alien from the first book. The alien was asking Felix to find "the man who killed me." (The alien was dying from a gruesome blaster wound.) The scene:

"I sat on the alien's bed. We were on the second floor of a cheap motel in Sarasota, Florida. To get up the stairs I had to get past three hookers, their pimp, and a blind man selling pot--for medicinal purposes, of course...

Outside, the second shift of hookers prowled the curb alongside North Tamiami Trail, the main drag in this part of Sarasota. They strutted on stiletto heels around discarded hip flasks and bottles of malt liquor...

None of the hookers showed any interest. Considering the neighborhood, a whale could fall out of the sky and flatten the motel, but no one would admit to seeing a thing."

To Florida's credit, North Tamiami Trail has improved considerably since I wrote that passage. Had I continued straight at the intersection I would've wound up in the John and Mable Ringling Art Museum (of the Ringling Brothers circus fame and fortune). But as I was hungry, I took a left at North Tamiami Trail and continued in search of Rico's. The street was a wide, divided boulevard and in spite of the busy traffic, surprisingly dark. The sidewalk passed stretches of businesses, closed for the night, and gloomy grassy lots, marked with signs prohibiting access. Like similar places in other American cities, empty liquor bottles, discarded clothes, and stolen grocery carts lay abandoned in the weeds. Whereas closer to the airport, you had your pick of chain hotels, here the accommodations were local motels. Most seemed well kept, some retained the sketchy vibe from my book, and others were shuttered and deserted. No hookers anywhere. As I said, it was quite dark and when another person approached from the opposite direction, the chance meeting filled me with a cautionary dread. What if he--they were all men--pulled a knife or a gun and decided to rob me? Step by step we closed the distance and even in the meager light, I could sense they were as apprehensive as I was. I find it hysterical that anyone would be afraid of me, but being Mexican, you get used to this sort of thing. When we passed shoulder to shoulder and realized that we would survive the encounter unscathed, we both breathed a sigh of relief but quickened our pace away from each other, just in case. 

I made it to Rico's, alive. The pizzeria was quasi-divey but friendly and welcoming. My earlier meals had been in over-priced airport restaurants and frankly, Rico's was the cheapest and best place I'd eaten at all day. 

So with this tale of my most recent adventure in Florida, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

 Remembering Peter Cooper

By Johnny D. Boggs

“Somehow, Johnny Cash is dead.”

We’re taught in Journalism 101 to tell readers what they need to know in that first paragraph. Make every word count. And force those readers to keep reading.

Peter Cooper nailed it on September 13, 2003, when his obituary of The Man in Black appeared in The Tennessean, Nashville’s daily newspaper.

For 19 years, I’ve been saying that’s the best lede to any newspaper story I’ve ever read.

Peter, newspaper journalist turned musician, songwriter, historian, music producer, author of liner notes and senior director, producer and writer at the Country Music Hall of Fame, died Dec. 6. He had sustained a head injury after a fall the previous week.

He was only 52 years old.

We both hailed from South Carolina. Peter was born in Spartanburg – he wrote Hub City Music Makers: One Southern Town’s Popular Musical Legacy about his hometown’s music scene (the Marshall Tucker Band, Walter Hyatt …) – and taught school in Rock Hill (“I used to live in Rock Hill/South Carolina, South Carolina/I’m glad I’m not living there still/I feel much better now” he sings in one of his songs).

I grew up farther south in the Pee Dee country. Living in New Mexico, I feel much better now, too.

Peter Cooper. Photo by Deone Jahnke

Courtesy PeterCooperMusic.com

After Peter’s death, I started rereading his Johnny’s Cash & Charley’s Pride: Lasting Legends and Untold Adventures in Country Music. If you want to know about Nashville, songwriters and country-music stars, that’s the book to read. And Tom T. Hall’s The Storyteller’s Nashville: A Gritty & Glorious Life in Country Music (Peter wrote the preface).

How do writers improve their writing? They read great writers.

I read Peter Cooper. And learned a lot.

Peter wrote:

“[O]bjectivity is the mortal enemy. …

"But objectivity is dispassionate.

"And we’re in the passion business.

"We’re trying to make people feel something different than what they felt before they read our words.”

That’s a concept White House beat reporters or those covering cops in Dallas might have trouble wrapping their heads around, but for entertainment writers or fiction writers, it’s a subject worthy of discussion in the bar after deadline.

Recalling an interview during which Johnny Cash told Peter, “I read everything you write,” Peter wrote:

“Immediately, I was ten feet tall.

“Johnny Cash reads all my stuff.

“Then I shrunk eight feet down from ten.

“Johnny Cash reads all my stuff.

“All my stuff.

“Stuff I write on deadline … stuff I just can’t nail … stuff where I am writing over my head … stuff where I am unduly judgmental … stuff where I am overly kind.

“All my stuff.

“Johnny Cash.

“Writer’s block ensued.”

Peter was a writer I wanted to sit down with at Nashville’s Loveless Café and talk craft. Now, all I can do is listen to his music and reread his prose.

Because I’m still waiting for my brain to accept this fact:

Somehow, Peter Cooper is dead.

A Better New Year to All!

Eat well for the holidays!

 Since my birthday falls between Christmas and New Year, the end of the year is the literal end of another year of life for me and I always approach January 1 with  anticipation. I've begun a whole new series and plan on some upcoming trips to which I look forward, so I hold out hope for a pleasant 2023.

Many years ago, I had a friend who was into numerology. Now, I must tell you that of all the divination arts such as astrology or palmistry or tarot or reading chicken entrails, I had always considered numerology the most illogical.* But no, my friend told me, one must approach numerology with the mindset that there are no accidents. That there is a numerical logic to the universe, a vibrational order, like music.

Every number, she said, corresponds to a vibration, a musical note, and we humans are attuned to this music and express it with our language. Each number expresses a series of qualities or traits, just like combinations of notes, rhythms and silences create certain types of music, from rap to classical.

Get it?

This means that your parents looked at you when you were born, sensed your tune, and said to each other, "hey, she looks like a Jane. Jane Doe. That sounds nice." I was impressed by the logic, whether I buy the idea or not. (I prefer to be in charge of my own destiny, thank you very much.)

The point of all this is that 2023 is a 7 year, my friends, and 7 is the number of inner peace and seeking the truth. As for me personally, 2023 is a 1 year - new beginnings (I can only hope they're good new beginnings!) Any numerologist would say, "it ain't that simple", and any non-numerologist would say, "you're nuts, lady." But whether you believe it or not, it's a nice idea.

So here's wishing all of us a wonderful 2023, full of lots and lots of peaceful contemplation and a whole lot of truth.

_____________

*Though chicken bone divination is a close second.

Holiday ups and downs

 This will be my last post of the year, and good riddance to 2022! We have been hanging on for nearly three years through this pandemic rollercoaster, hopes rising and falling with each successive wave and variant. Every single one of our family get-togethers since the pandemic began have been disrupted in one way or another. A grandchild's runny nose, an unexplained cough, a covid exposure... 

But each time, we have picked ourselves up and made another plan. Maybe at Passover... Oh well, there's always Labour Day weekend. Last year at this time, we thought we were finally going to pull it off. All three children and partners, plus two small grandchildren - all were coming to my little house! I stocked up the fridge and the wine rack, planned menus, even as the Omicron variant  began its relentless rise. Then the morning of the first arrivals, there came the call from my son. The two year-old has a weird rash. 

I remember cheering the end of 2021, thinking surely 2022 has to be better! But it wasn't. In fact. 2022 had some terrible surprises up its sleeve. In Ottawa here, first the "freedom convoy" invaded the capital for three weeks of noisy, up-yours, horn-honking nonsense, soon eclipsed by the war in Ukraine and the crushing assault by the bear, Russia on the small, proud nation led by a man who wouldn't say die. And still the Omicron variant tightened its grip. In the spring came supply shortages in food and just about everything from lumber to vehicles. Shipping containers were backed up in ports, employers couldn't find workers to open their shops and restaurants, prices began to soar.

I could go on, but you already know this. 2022 sucked, and now here I am looking forward to kicking it out the door and welcoming the new year. Thinking surely 2023 has to be better! But I am wary of my optimism. Already there are warning signs. It is three to four days before my family arrives at my house to celebrate the holidays - a mix of Hanukah and Christmas that reflects the mix that we have become. They are all driving from other cities. And Mother Nature has a great big storm planned for exactly that holiday travel time. Rain, freezing rain, flash freezes, snow, blizzard winds possibly up to 120 km an hour. This storm spans the continent and has already been ruining travel plans for families everywhere.

But I am holding steadfast to my hope that we can pull it off. So far there are no positive Covid tests, no runny noses or suspect coughs. We are Canadians. What's a little snow? 

Here's a couple of holiday messages I'd like to share before I go back to my holiday preparations. First, if you still haven't got all your gifts yet, consider a book. Any book, although if you choose to go beyond the big-name bestsellers, you will find lots of unique, varied, and entertaining books by lesser-known authors who could really use your support. Including the authors on this blog, just saying. Writers too have struggled during the pandemic. Buy their book, write them a review, and spread the word.

Secondly, before you spend your last dollar on gifts, consider donating it to your local food bank or toy collection or Christmas hamper program. With inflation and rising interest rates, there is a desperate need this year for extra help to make the holidays happen. Every little dollar counts.

Thirdly, may your holiday season, however you celebrate it, be full of light, laughter, and warmth, and may 2023 bring joy, health, and peace. 

Too much to hope for?

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

Snow Day

Hi Everyone,

I hope you are all safe, dry, and warm. I intended to do a blog about writing and marketing this past year. But I had to make this a snow day. I left Fergus to board at doggie daycare on Wednesday and again last night because I needed to pick up my new lease car and get his back seat cover in. 

I've been leasing for years and I was planning to buy the car I had. But I had to make an unexpected trip to the dealership on Wednesday morning to get my tires checked because they were all showing low pressure, then three came back but one didn't. While I was waiting for the service check, I decided to pop over to Sales and see about buying. That was when the rest of my week went off the rails. My sales associate from my last lease wanted to show me the 2023 and then do the numbers. 

I looked and when I had held out long enough to feel I was getting a good deal, he brought out a folder full of paperwork for me to initial or sign. I saw the lease accountant yesterday and talked about dogs and daycare and trips abroad that we had recently made as we did more paperwork. And I drove out with my next three year lease car -- a dark orange car instead of my silver. But this dark orange is dignified, not the awful orange-yellow of my first car decades ago.

This car also comes with bells and whistles, including a sideview mirror that covers the blind spot. If a car is there but not visible, a tiny car icon and a light come on.The review camera for backing also provides a wider view in the 2023 model. And this car even picks up anything that is about to pass behind the car, but is still out of view. The driver assistant that alerts and corrects if  you are drifting into another lane and brakes if you are getting too close to another car's rear end should be useful, too. And this car is bossy enough to make sure I don't forget my sleeping furbaby in back, When I turn off the engine, I am instructed to "Check the Rear Seat." 

All of these features will make my life a little less stressful during my rush-hour, weekday treks to pick up Fergus from daycare. This semester I can go earlier becase I'm on sabbatical, but come January I'll be back into the office on the days when I teach. 

Meanwhile, I can enjoy being a stay-at-home writer for another month. This afternoon we (Fergus and I) have finally made it home after a stop at the ATM, the pet store, and CVS (in lieu of a trip to the supermarket to get snow day frozen pizza). 

And I am about to get back to my gangster movie book. Almost done but I need to expand on several chapters. I usually need to reduce my word count, but with this book the publisher has some specific instructions about what should be covered. This book needs to follow the same format as the others in the genre movie series. Having instructions should have made it easier to write -- but it hasn't. On the other hand it's useful to have a structure that will work for each of the movies.

If I stick to it, I will be done by Monday morning. Just in time to mail out holiday cards and put up a few decorations. 

I have one more blog post before the end of the year. I'll blog then about the books that I have read over the past year that I have enjoyed and/or found useful. Meanwhile, my time spent at the car dealership also turned out to be useful. As the sales associate and I were discussing the blind spot feature on the 2023 car, I realized I had a title for the short story I have due (for an anthology) at the end of the month. "Blind Spot".  Got the title, and now all I need is a story to go with it.  

All is calm here, Fergus has moved his nap from the back of the sofa to the space between sofa and wall. He is snoring now and then as he sleeps. Penelope the cat is asleep on top of the radiator in the dining room.  And  I am going to pop my frozen pizza in the oven and -- pretending I haven't seen or heard the most recent warning about over-processed food -- use the time I'm not cooking to get back to work.

Happy last minute shopping, tree decorating, cookie baking, curling up on the sofa with hot chocolate and an old movie  or whatever you're doing this weekend as the holidays approach. 

Today is National Ugly Sweater Day. I'm about to go see what I have in my closet to wear while I write.

Fergus and Penelope send their best.

Words of the Year 2022

 

by Sybil Johnson

The words of the year for 2022 are starting to roll in from various organizations. Unlike previous years, I haven’t come up with candidates myself. Maybe ‘divisiveness’ or ‘pandemic fatigue’. That’s all I can think of. Here’s what I've seen so far:

Merriam-Webster chose gaslighting as their word for 2022. Every time I hear this I think of the 1944 movie “Gaslight”. (Excellent film.) I believe the term came from the 1938 play the film is based on. Anyway, gaslighting is ‘the act or of grossly misleading someone especially for one’s own advantage.’ Merriam-Webster says there was a 1740% increase in look ups of the word in the past year. To see the full article go here. 

Collins, a British dictionary, chose permacrisis as their word of the year. It is “an extended period of instability and insecurity.” I would say that describes 2022 very well. https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/woty

The Cambridge dictionary chose homer. “Short for home run: a point scored in baseball when you hit the ball, usually out of the playing field, and are able to run around all the bases at one time to the starting base.” This seems very strange to me. I gather the term homer is not common in the UK. Don’t think it would make word of the year here.

The Macquarie Dictionary (Australian English) chose teal. “A political candidate who holds generally ideologically moderate views, but who supports strong action regarding environmental and climate action policies, and the prioritising of integrity in politics”. As far as I’m concerned, teal is a very pretty color or a duck. Found this definition interesting. Apparently, many political candidates in Australia in 2022 wore the color teal.

And, finally, there’s the Oxford Dictionary’s word of the year: goblin mode. For the first time, the public voted on the word of the year. The contenders were goblin mode, metaverse and #IStandWith. Goblin mode is defined as “a type of behavior which is unapologetically self-indulgent, lazy, slovenly or greedy, typically in a way that rejects social norms or expectations.” I am not aware of this term. Guess it shows you how old and out of it I am. Unless this is a British thing? What do you all think? Have you heard of “goblin mode”? For more on this: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/goblin-mode-selected-as-oxfords-2022-word-of-the-year-180981245/

The American Dialect Society will select its word of the year at its annual meeting in January 2023. They are accepting nominations through December 28th. https://www.americandialect.org/now-accepting-nominations-for-2022-word-of-the-year 

In other news, a reminder that the price for the California Crime Writers Conference goes up January 1st. It’s being held June 10 and 11, 2023 in Culver City, in person! You don’t have to live in California to attend. For more information and to register go to https://ccwconference.org/

A Leap of Faith

 by Charlotte Hinger

I'm building on Johnny D. Boggs's blog this week. He wrote about a series of seemingly bad breaks that were catalysts to better developments. He's at the top of his game today and a multiple award winning author. In every conceivable genre. Except songwriting, I think. This man has awesome credentials.

He's where he is today because he didn't quit. I've read a number of articles he's written about writing and at no point have I read that he considered quitting. 

Once in a while when I give talks or presentations I come across a person who tells me they submitted a manuscript--either a book or a short story--once, and if they were rejected, they never sent it out again. 

That's fatal, of course. Writing is no arena for the faint-hearted. Yet, I remember, I remember, when I was beginning, when my heart was in my throat, and my anxiety increased every hour while I waited for the postman. This was in the days when manuscripts were always mailed. I printed my books on pristine white paper of a certain weight and mailed them off in a double box manufactured especially for manuscripts. My labels were perfectly typed.

I decided it was the secret to eternal life. I couldn't imagine dying when I had a manuscript off to a publishing house. The suspense would keep me alive forever. This of course, was a lifetime ago, when editors always responded to submissions. Usually, negatively, and with a form rejection. But it was a response, nevertheless. 

It was possible for editors to participate in this kind of courtesy because they were not inundated with the insane volume of submissions they deal with today. At the time my first novel was published, there were about 55,000 novels published a year in this country. With the invention of the internet and ebooks, self publishing has exploded and the annual tally of novels is close to four million. No wonder personal comments from editors are a thing of the past. 

Nevertheless, this truth will always remain: those who succeed never quit. 

What's Rattling Around in Your Head?

 by Thomas Kies

Back in September, during the two nights that the local community theater troupe performed Death of an Author which was my first foray into playwriting, the emcee kicked off the evening with a monologue.  In her speech to the sold-out crowds, she described the books that I had written. It was germane to the dinner theater since the characters were all based on my Geneva Chase novels.

The first book she described was Random Road where six nude bodies were found hacked to death on an island.  The book also goes on to talk about sex clubs and swingers. 

In the second book, Darkness Lane, Geneva Chase has a brief, tawdry affair with a lascivious actor.  

The third book, Graveyard Bay, is about escaped convicts and dungeons, a dominatrix, and S&M.

By design, I was sitting in a back corner where I could view the performance, eat dinner, and drink a glass of wine.  At the point in time the emcee described the book about a dominatrix and S&M, ladies sitting at a table near me who weren’t familiar with my books were turning and giving me long, curious stares.  

This past Thursday night, I was at one of two holiday parties my wife and I attended, and the wife of one of our community leaders came up to me and told me she had read all of my books, including my latest, Whisper Room, having to do with
an escort service run by women.  She smiled at me and said, “You know, I held out your latest book and told Jim that he should read this. He won’t believe that this all came out of your head.”

I get that a lot, from friends, from clients, from neighbors.  Where on earth does this stuff come from?  Often, they’ll ask my wife, “Aren’t you concerned?”

She simply replies, “I sleep with one eye open.” 

After working for newspapers and magazines for over thirty years, I've seen some strange things, been in some decadent places, and met some scary people. So, I can draw upon that while I’m writing, but more importantly, I draw upon my imagination.  

As writers, the characters that we create might share some characteristics or bear a resemblance to people we know, but they’re figments of our imagination.  That includes the good guys as well as the bad guys.  And let’s be honest, aren’t the villains fun to write? Isn’t it a kick to be evil, even if it’s just on paper, to increase the tension and to the suspense of a story? 

The good guys, the bad guys, the peripheral characters…they're all us, the writers. Writing fiction is about as close to being schizophrenic as you can be, I think. As a writer, don’t you hear voices in your head?  The dialogue is playing out while you’re driving to the grocery store? A plot twist appears when you least expect it like while you’re taking a shower or having breakfast?

Once, a friend of ours, who aslo happened to be a fan, told me, “You think about death a lot.”

Yeah, crime novelists think about death a lot. I think we all have a lot of dark shadows lurking in our heads, rattling around in our skulls.  Mystery novelists just allow those shadows to slither out of our heads and onto a blank sheet of paper. 

RIP, DTH

By Johnny D. Boggs

Today is December 9, which has me remembering 31 years ago.

December 7, 1991: I'm assistant sports editor/nights at the Dallas Times Herald when we move into our first house, an adorable two-bedroom 1 1/2-bath Austin stone home built in 1941. December 7? That doesn't bode well, I joke.

December 8, 1991: The first phone call I receive in my first house comes from a friend at the rival Dallas Morning News. She says: "Uhhh, there's a strong rumor going around here that we've bought the Times Herald and are shutting it down."

It wasn't just a rumor. I went to work that day to put out the last edition of the Dallas Times Herald. Eleven hundred people were out of work.

Somehow there was one massive party at my house after we put out that last edition and drank champagne in the newsroom.

Months later, I landed a job at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. But during those months, to supplement the unemployment check from Uncle Sam, I started querying magazines and submitting articles on spec. I gave serious attention to that first novel I kept saying I'd write.

At one point, a former colleague, who had landed a job at a gardening magazine, called to ask if I could drive to a state prison unit in East Texas and write about a horticulture class being taught there. Pay would be 200 bucks. "I thought 'prison,'" he said, "and you were the first person to come to mind."

Hmmm. Since then, magazine assignments have carried me inside Angola three times and Huntsville once.

A week from today I have a novel due at a NY publishing house. I'm contracted for several magazines (no assignment is about maximum-security prisons). I live in an area many people only dream of visiting.

But every year around this time I think back.

If I had not lost my job, and watched many friends move away from DFW and out of my life, would I be here? Or would I still be working in newspapers? Hey, in case you haven't heard, the majority of the newsroom staff at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram is striking. Would writing awards decorate my home office? Would I have made connections and deep friendships with fellow writers and editors of fiction and nonfiction? Would I have found the guts to quit my full-time newspaper job and take off to New Mexico on practically a whim in October 1998?

Don't get me wrong. I work my butt off, often seven days a week. Writing for a living is not for everybody. There's no job security, and I'm always keenly aware that there's no guarantee that the book contract I sign won't be the last book contract I sign.

But I'm doing what I want and love to do. Not everyone can say that. And the catalyst came when I lost my job on a dark December day.

The More Things Change...

I (Donis) haven't been feeling all that well lately. We've had a lot of rain here in the Phoenix area, which is horrible for my head and I haven't really been able to spend time on the computer. I feared at first I had succumbed to the "tripledemic", but it seems not. I did have a Covid booster last week, so that may have contributed to my woes. Anyway, my head is a mess and nothing seems to help right now. but a warm cloth to the forehead. The old remedies work best sometimes.

In 2017, I wrote a novel called Return of the Raven Mocker, which was set during the influenza pandemic of 1918. No one knows for sure how many died in the flu pandemic, but modern estimates put the number at somewhere between thirty and fifty million people worldwide. Unlike our recent pandemic, which seemed to target us oldsters, the Spanish flu mainly killed young people, and was so virulent that a person would be fine in the morning and dead by nightfall. Once the disease began to spread, whole communities tried to quarantine themselves. People would mark their doors with a red “X” to let their neighbors know the family was infected. There were few doctors available because of World War I, so nurses were the absolute heroes, keeping people fed and looked after, and often falling ill themselves.

 One of the primary research materials for my novels is always the newspapers of the time, and it was fascinating to see what people knew in 1918 and when they knew it. From the perspective of 100 years on, we know how things turned out. But, like now, they had no cure and no idea what was going to happen. In the early days of the pandemic, the government actually encouraged the press to downplay the seriousness of the situation, because the war was still going on and nothing was to be allowed to interfere with war production!

Then there was the mask business – people were encouraged to wear masks and half the population of the country went insane, sure it was a big government plot! Eventually, factories all over the United States were no longer able to stay open because most of their workers were ill, and the stories in the papers began to change radically, printing all kinds of weird and generally useless advice about how to avoid becoming sick. People died from being dosed with turpentine, coal oil, mercury, ox bile, chicken blood, and other unmentionable home remedies they were given by their well-meaning caretakers. There are modern scientists who believe that some of the deaths in the epidemic were caused by aspirin poisoning rather than the disease. Aspirin was relatively new on the market, and folks may have figured that if a little aspirin was good for fever and aches, then eating whole handfuls every hour was even better if you were really sick. 

However, when you have no cure, there are old remedies that can actually be useful. Garlic really does have antibiotic properties, and was used a lot as a treatment during the 1918 flu outbreak. I found a recipe for garlic soup in an early twentieth century cookbook that called for 24 cloves of garlic to be simmered for an hour in a quart of water. That sounds like it would kill any germ that dares to try and infect you. 

 My great-grandmother swore that placing a bowl of raw onions in a sick room would absorb the ill-humors.  I found a number of remedies that called for binding something to the feet. An 1879 cookbook recommended taking a large horseradish leaf, placing it on a hot shovel to soften if, then folding it and fastening it in the hollow of the foot with a cloth bandage. I also found foot-poultice recipes that used burdock leaves, cabbage, and mullein. All the above are guaranteed to “alleviate pain and promote perspiration”. 

Chicken soup really, really does help. Your mother says so, and so does science. Prohibition was the law in Oklahoma in 1918. Even so, my grandmother’s favorite remedy for fever, cold, or flu, was a hot toddy.  She swore that this never failed to break a fever and rouse a sweat.  A hot toddy is made thus : 1 teacup hot water juice of half a lemon 1 tablespoon sugar 1 jigger Scotch whiskey My grandmother was so enamored of this curative that she made it often, just as a preventative.

As for me and my headache, the toddy didn't do the trick, but at least I didn't care about it so much. That's about all I can write now, Dear Reader. Time for a hot rag on my forehead.

Soldiering on

 I read with interest and dismay Charlotte's post on the rising cost of books, which is forcing publishers out of business and driving away readers. It echoes what I myself have worried about. Inflation is affecting the cost of goods and also forcing people to choose between life's pleasures like reading and food on the table or a roof over their heads. Books themselves are not immune to the pressures of inflation, nor are the authors and publishers who produce them. Yet trying to price books to reflect when they really cost means people won't buy them and fewer writers will write them, which would be a terrible loss to the richness of our lives.

There are a number of other pressures affecting the demand for books as well. Entertainment through TV and the many streaming platforms provides a hundred ways to lure us from the written word to the visual, easier to digest world of animated storytelling. I say easier to digest because most of the time, reading demands more active engagement, concentration, imagination and effort on the part of the consumer than sitting in front of a screen. And nowadays a screen is always at our fingertips, ready to draw us in, whether we are on the bus, walking down the street, or preparing dinner.

How can we counter this? I am not one of those doomsayers who thinks the book as an entertainment medium is dead. Not everyone reads, but those who do, love it. We find an enchantment and depth that is rarely present in the more fleeting visual media. We can read at our own pace, whether we race breathlessly to the end to find out what happens, or slow down to savour the power or beauty of the author's words, or reread parts to check details we missed. But if authors can't make any sort of living (most of us barely make a living as it is) and publishers can't pay their staff and stay afloat, there will be less diversity and richness in the choice of books, and the only ones that will survive will be the blockbuster bestsellers by tried and true writers or with tried and true formulae. A lean diet indeed.

Are there solutions? What about used books? They are much cheaper and have the added benefit of keeping things out of the landfill. Used bookstores are popping up all over the place as an answer to the  struggles of the retail book industry. The problem with used books is that neither the author nor the publisher makes a single cent from the sale of a used book. Authors make a paltry percentage on the sale of every new book – it's called a royalty and the typical percent is 10%, often less – and publishers rely on book sales to pay not just that 10% to their authors but also to pay for their editors, marketers, publicists, proofreaders, cover designers, and so on. Used books put no money back into the publisher's bank account.

Which brings me to the second solution that's being proposed. Ebooks. Why should they be priced as high as paper books, when a single digital file is used to produce the ebook, which can then be downloaded by hundreds or even millions of readers at no extra cost? There is an argument to be made that ebooks should cost less than paper books for this very reason. I think the price is kept close to the same in order to subsidize the cost of the paper one, and also to ensure that people continue to buy paper books. For now, there are still a lot of people who prefer paper (myself included) and others who don't own an ereader..Both formats have their advantages and disadvantages.  

However, paper and printing costs are only part of the publisher's costs. How much will depend on the number of copies printed, the quality of the paper, the length, etc. But much of what the publisher spends, whether it's a self-published or traditionally published book, goes to pay the editor(s), proofreader, designer, cover artist, publicist, accountant, and all the sales and marketing people who work to actually get the book into the public eye. And once they have paid all those costs, paid the author's 10%, and given the bookseller a slice of the remaining pie, the profit margin is very slim. 

It's a mug's game, really. Those who are in it, from the author to the publisher to the bookstore owner, are usually in it not for the piles of money but for the love of books.

My new Amanda Doucette book, WRECK BAY, is coming out in January. Despite the dire predictions about dwindling book saes and shrinking markets, I am still going to work hard to let people know about it. We authors are usually excited about our works and eager to share them with readers. I hope to have a couple of in-person launch parties in Ottawa and Toronto, because there is nothing like talking about the book to real people rather than to a disembodied thumbnail photo on the edge of the screen. And I am also thinking of setting up some good old-fashioned book tours like the ones I did in years past, driving to libraries and bookstores within a two-day radius of home to do readings and signings. Winter weather always presents a challenge in Canada, where snow and ice can create havoc with the best-laid plans. But winter doesn't last forever. 

I don't begin to break even on these trips, but that's not the point. They are fun, they get me out of my garret, which has been really isolating during the pandemic, and I make connections not only with readers but with librarians, and booksellers, who are an author's best friend and biggest ally.