A History Mystery

I like dabbling in historical mysteries. They're some of my favorite stories to read. I especially like the challenge of building a story set in a different time. I like researching enough detail to tell a credible story and finding the hinge fact that brings disparate past characters together and also connects contemporary readers to a historical event.

I think that historical mysteries offer something besides their entertainment value. By shining a light on an earlier era, they remind us that the problems we grapple with are not new. Along the way, the stories may offer a different perspective and teach us things we don't know. Or maybe just help us to better understand things we think we already know. E. L. Doctorow said, "The historian will tell you what happened. The novelist will tell you what it felt like."

If we scribble out a list of themes from contemporary fiction, the list likely includes good versus evil, alienation from society, the struggle to survive, battles against power, corruption, or prejudice, heroism and courage. We find all these themes and more in the historicals. The themes are what connect us to the stories. How people cope with these universal problems has changed very little. A historical tale reminds us that we are not the first. The specific event may change, but the themes remain the same.

Like science fiction, historical storytelling builds worlds. The tales allow a writer to obliquely touch on a contemporary problem. An immigrant story with a MAGA warrior and a border wall may easily polarize readers. The act of choosing sides may detract from the ability of a reader to lose themselves in the story. A historical setting may facilitate an easier consideration of us versus them. We can reflect and consider the contributions of all sides without the baggage of modern labels. The author can touch on issues without being overtly political.

If politics is defined as the acquisition or use of power, then crime fiction writing always seems to be political. The stories deal with upending or restoring order. One value of historical stories is that they allow us to view political questions at arm's length.

How far back must we go before a writer may call a story historical? A standard definition is that the story must be set fifty or mere years in the past and be based on research, rather than autobiographical experience. I prefer a more subjective answer. A story is historical when it deals with a time when the world was markedly different than the present. In our technological era, that shortens the gap. A world without cellphones, door cameras, and a ubiquitous internet feels like a historical period.

In 16^th century England, Dutch and Flemish settlers arrived in Norwich. Cheap, skilled, Protestant workers escaped political and religious oppression in the Catholic Low Countries. Queen Elizabeth authorized the immigration wave motivated by religion and economics. England had sheep; the settlers brought experienced weavers.

The arrivals were known as Elizabethan Strangers, or simply Strangers. They both revitalized and disrupted the local economy. The Strangers brought differing customs and languages. Most residents of Norwich were glad they came. Some were not. Angry residents claimed that the immigrants took jobs rightfully belonging to Norwich citizens. In 1570, there was an unsuccessful revolt against the new arrivals.

For the current Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Michael Bracken compiled an issue of historical stories. Set during World War II, my story, "Masterpiece," deals with the challenges of coping with or combatting France's oppressors during the Nazi occupation. There's not much mystery about who the good and bad guys are in this one. That's usually what happens when you drop Nazis in the mix.

Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine has also kindly included "The Tangled Web They Weave," in the November/December issue. When I began to think about writing a story, immigration questions were headlining the news. I wanted to touch upon the issues.

And because the Strangers were weavers, the story lets me introduce the metaphor of a society as a cloth made from many diverse threads. Stunning in its originality, I know.

The 16^th century historical example does not perfectly align with our modern world. Nor does the story offer a solution to broad immigration or national sovereignty issues. But answering those questions was never the purpose. "The Web They Weave" is a whodunit. If it stimulates anyone to reflect upon the place of immigrants in the United States, that's a bonus.

Until next time.

Truth be told.

           The subject of my most recent SleuthSayer post was uncertainty.  I’m certain of that.  In that piece, I asserted that crime fiction was the natural home of ambiguity, an abiding state of nature, and a hallmark of every great mystery.  This may or may not not be precisely true, but on the other hand, likely true enough to be contended here. 

            Another fact of nature that plays an important role in crime fiction is that people often don’t tell the truth.  Almost never.  They lie, hedge, dissemble, prevaricate, and weasel their way through their lives, flooding the environment with oceans of uncertainty. 

            Not everyone lies all the time, but everyone is in the habit of telling only part of the truth.  This is usually meant to maintain civility and pleasant relations, though there’s a lot of daylight between complimenting your mother-in-law’s lousy meatloaf and telling the cops that you were home all night and have no idea how that BMW ended up in your garage.  We do these sorts of things naturally and fluently, having evaded responsibility for cleaning out the cookie jar or socking little brothers as soon as we can form sentences.  It’s innate.

Raymod Chandler described detective fiction as “riding around in cars and interviewing people.”  Maybe he didn’t actually say that, but it fits with his general view of the genre.  And while driving skills are fairly widespread, a good interviewer is an artist. 

There was an awful lot I liked about the advertising business, but aside from creating ads, the thing I liked most was qualitative market research.  That is the academic term for what mostly involves interviewing people, one-on-one, or in groups.  You might believe, like most people, that marketing is a soulless endeavor, but not if you’ve had a bunch of guys in a room talking about their cars.  Or intercepted a pack of teenagers in a mall to learn why they’re buying brand new jeans with the knees ripped out.  Or shadowed kitchen-table insurance agents as they chatted with ordinary people about death, disability and destruction. 

           

            After hundreds of these encounters discussing thousands of individual judgement calls, I’ve learned a few things. 

            Everyone likes to talk about themselves and what they do for a living, or how they spend their free time.  In other words, their lives.  That’s why salesmen, journalists, homicide detectives and hostage negotiators want to get the conversation on a personal level as quickly and smoothly as possible.  You cynics out there claim the interviewer’s true feelings can be faked, but they can’t.  You won’t succeed without some natural empathy and a genuine interest in what people have to say. 

            Although a research interview isn’t a test, everyone thinks there’s a right answer.  There’s an urge to please that’s very powerful, but also a desire to look good in the eyes of the interviewer.  That’s why focus groups (a session where one questioner tries to extract information on a specific subject from five, or eight, or ten people sitting around a conference room) can be a harder nut to crack, since few enjoy standing out from the consensus.  You have to convince each individual that the only right answer is what they actually believe if you want any meaningful outcome. 

            You’ve probably noticed that the accuracy of political polling has been falling dramatically.  One reason is it’s hard to get people on the phone, and even harder to catch them face-to-face.  In my experience, phone interviews themselves are far less effective than in person, for reasons explicated above.  I think written questionnaires are close to worthless, and online surveys worse than that.  Social research is a bit of a science, but it’s mostly an art.  Which is why detectives and savvy researchers always prefer to handle their assignments in the flesh.  You can hide those lying eyes, but it’s harder with the questioner staring you right in the face. 

            Body language is often the most articulate.  This is because gestures and facial expressions are less voluntary.  Things just sort of leak out that you aren’t intending.  Consequently, the first reaction is usually the most reliable, because it springs from an emotional response.  Over the following few seconds, the conscious mind takes the reigns, and people begin to say what they think they ought to say, or what their conditioning says is the proper point of view.

            People often don’t know why they want what they want.  Or why they did what they did.  Humans aren’t robots, but we do tend to delegate a lot of our behavior to unconscious impulses.  But when gently pressed to apply logic and reason to emotional decisions, we’re not that bad at figuring it out.  It may not be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but it’s often good enough for storytellers in any line of business. 

Art Imitates Art

Minding my own business, I was. Scrolling through clickbait we used to call news feeds. Subject to pitfalls and rabbit holes. And la, in the style of Movie Master John Floyd, a film collection article slid into view titled,

Different Movies with the Same Plot

Writer Brianna Zigler explains:

“Many plots in modern-day stories—even across continents, time periods, planets, and dimensions—echo each other's plot arcs. Typically, even the most original works of art nowadays owe credit to others that came before, sometimes dating back to ancient myth. … In film, scripts of one studio [can be picked] up while another takes the same idea and gives it a slight spin … Art imitates art.”

My simplistic definition: Different Titles, Same Plot. In other words, we’re not including remakes, do-overs with the same titles (although some remakes take off in wildly varying directions).

Titles began to pair in my head and within a minute, ten had come to mind. I couldn’t resist checking where she ranked them and, to my surprise, not one of mine made her list. Not one.

Okay, no person can watch every movie ever. Blowup/Blowout are a bit obscure not to mention opaque, but surely most people have heard of John Travolta, Charton Heston, Sean Connery, or are we experiencing Baby Boomer irrelevance? Bond, James Bond. Who?

Zigler goes on to pair thirty four movies (after two updates). I dug into the Web to garner additional opinions, which are included in the table. Some pairings seem tenuous and specious at best: Forest Gump v Benjamin Button? I Robot v Roger Rabbit? The Matrix v The Lego Movie? Fugitive v Minority Report v every individualist ever taking on dystopian society?

Defending My Selections

Whodunit? Beats Me.

  

All of us who write and sell short stories know there are ups and downs, hills and valleys, boomtimes and dry spells. It's mostly been dry for me lately: I just don't publish as many stories, or as often, as I once did. One reason is that there are fewer short-story markets out there now. Especially markets for mystery stories, which is what I most enjoy writing.

Having said that, I must say that November has started out well. In the first four days of the month, I was fortunate enough to have three stories published--one in Black Cat Weekly, one in a food-themed anthology, and one in an anthology of stories from Strand Magazine. Those three stories have very little in common with each other, except for one thing. (I'll tell you that in a minute.)

The first story, published November 1 in Issue #218 of Black Cat Weekly, was "City Lights," a short, quirky, lighthearted tale about a retired Southern schoolteacher on vacation in New York City. She stops in to visit an old friend from her hometown and--in the process of three or four pages--manages to spot a financial scam and save her friend from falling for it. A simple and (I hope) fun little story.

The second story appeared on November 4 in the anthology Cooking Up Death (Camden Park Press), edited by Lyn Worthen. This story, "Chef's Surprise," features a restaurant owner who runs into a vengeful man from her past, one she knew in name only, and winds up fighting for her life during an otherwise calm Thanksgiving dinner date. Her only weapon is her quick mind, which--as we all know--is sometimes enough. It's a "framed" story, told later by the protagonist to a friend, and is probably more of a suspense/thriller/survival story than anything else.

The third one of these stories was also published November 4, in an anthology called Best of The Strand Magazine: 25 Years of Twists, Turns, and Tales by the Modern Masters of Mystery and Fiction (Blackstone Publishing), edited by Andrew Gulli and Lamia Gulli. I've not yet seen the book or read any of the other stories, but it should be a good one, featuring authors like James Lee Burke, Michael Connelly, Jeffery Deaver, and so on. (How I squeezed in there is anybody's guess.) My story, "Foreverglow," first published in The Strand in 2018, is about a complicated department-store heist of a jewelry collection, told from the POV of one of the robbers.

Is there a point to all this bragging? Yes, believe it or not. I said earlier that these three mystery stories had one thing in common. That shared fact is that none of them is a whodunit. Not even close. There's no list of suspects in any of them, no detective or investigation, and the identity of the villain is never in doubt. And the really funny thing is, if I look back on all the so-called mystery stories I've published over the past thirty years, very few of them are traditional whodunits. Most of my stores are howdunits, whydunits, howcatchems, or howtheygotawaywithits. 

I think that's okay. I always find reassurance by going back to the definition that Otto Penzler refers to in the introductions to his annual best-of anthologies. He says (paraphrasing, here) that a mystery is any story that contains a crime, even it it's only a hint or implication of a crime. It does not have to be a whodunit. Also, a mystery doesn't have to be a murder mystery. I suspect that more than half the stories I've written and sold have been about lesser crimes: robberies, burglaries, kidnappings, blackmail, fraud, etc., etc. 

Some crime-writer friends who don't accept that definition of Otto's have told me they always say they write crime/suspense fiction, not mystery fiction. If that makes them feel better, fine, but I say that's being too restrictive. As I've said, I write more thriller/suspense stories than traditional mystery stories, but just as the mystery section of the bookstore will always contain novels like The Silence of the Lambs and No Country for Old Men, we short-crime writers can always call ourselves mystery writers. It's fun to point out that even though Columbo will always be thought of as a TV mystery series, not one of its 69 episodes was a whodunit. The audience always knew, within the first ten minutes, who the bad guy was--and the fun was in finding out how he got caught. Same thing goes for the recent Poker Face series.

So, what do you think? If you're a crime writer, do you focus mostly on whodunits? Do you, like me, rarely write them? What if you're a reader? (And God knows, every one of us writers better be a reader.) Are whodunits more fun for you to read? If you don't write only whodunits, do you feel that you're stretching the definition a bit when you say you write mysteries? I've already confessed that I don't think so. If pressed, I would say whodunits are a subgenre.

But how should I know? It's all a mystery to me.

The Secret to Never Growing Old

My name is Anna Scotti, and I am delighted to present my inaugural blogpost for SleuthSayers (though I did guest post for Liz Zelvin in September). Coincidentally, I was given a debut date close to my birthday, and that got me thinking about characters' ages… and my own.

For millennia, people have searched for a cream, elixir, recipe, spell, or fountain that will grant eternal youth. Literary characters from Peter Pan to Dorian Grey have grappled with the wish to be forever young. Jay-Z, Alphaville, and Bob Dylan sang about it. One of the best kids' books ever written, Tuck Everlasting, deals with a family's discovery of a spring that grants immortality. Snow White's stepmother and Death Becomes Her's Madeline and Helen tried for eternal youth, too.

Few of these tales end happily, but if these pitiable literary figures only knew! The real secret to slow aging is to be the main character of a series that takes place over years, or even decades.

Nancy Drew is a dewy 18 in all of her 175 eponymous adventures, except when she occasionally, inexplicably, becomes 16. Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple didn't start young, but aged erratically – and sometimes backward – from their initial late-middle age inceptions.

Sherlock Holmes is in his late twenties – perhaps even early thirties – in A Study in Scarlet, and is sixty in His Last Bow, which takes place in 1914, and finds him already retired to the English countryside to keep bees.

All 58 stories and four novels Doyle wrote about the sleuth take place during that span, which means Holmes is living – and aging – at a different pace from the rest of us. Kinsey Millhone is 32 in A is for Alibi, but just 38 in Y is for Yesterday, although Sue Grafton's series was written over a span of thirty-five years. This kind of sliding timescale, or floating timeline, isn't at all uncommon in fiction. You can probably think of examples of your own.

Mid-thirties may be a sweet spot for female protagonists to linger. When I created my "librarian-on-the-run" character in That Which We Call Patience (Ellery Queen, 2019) I had no idea I'd be writing a series. I made Audrey Smith – who is eventually known as Cam Baker, Sonia Sutton, Dana Kane, Lori Yarborough, and by a handful of other monikers over the course of her fourteen-story saga – "thirty-something," and she'd already been on the run in witness protection for a few years as the story opens.

The age just seemed right to me – I wanted her to be young enough to be fit, active and still fairly naive, someone who could step into an entry-level job without raising eyebrows. But she also had to be old enough to be well-educated and to have a bit of experience under her belt (she's working on a PhD when her life is interrupted by witnessing a crime).

In the fifth story of what became the series, The Longest Pleasure, Lori says she's thirty-two, and in It's Not Even Past, the sixth story, she's thirty-four. When Lori finally comes out of WITSEC, in Traveller from an Antique Land, she says she's thirty-eight, and that she's been on the run for eight or nine years. That would mean she went under in her late twenties, which fits the timeline established in Patience. So the ages add up, sort of, except that there are gaps between stories that must surely equal months or years, and references to other adventures not yet chronicled… and all together, they add up to far more than nine years on the run unless our girl is stumbling over a random corpse every five or six months.

Readers who get hooked on a series know when we're pulling a fast one with a character's age. But what Coleridge identified as a "willing suspension of disbelief" works in our favor as writers of fiction. If a character is engaging enough, and stories are good enough, to compel readers to demand more, time can be manipulated to serve us.

The trick is to make everything else believable. Lori may age at a third the normal rate, and she discovers corpses with alarming frequency, but she is in other regards perfectly ordinary. She's attractive but not a knock-out. She's smart but can be fooled. She drinks Earl Grey Tea, drives a beat-up Honda CRV, enjoys a trashy beach-read, and behaves recklessly – even inappropriately - with more than one man over the course of her adventures. In other words, she's very much like a real person, warts and all. And that's how we pull off the magic trick. Don't ask your readers to believe a dozen strange things – just ask them to believe one. Then make everything else absolutely plausible- even commonplace.

So, yes, if readers keep asking for librarian stories, Lori will eventually grow old – just not at the same, sometimes distressing, rate as her creator. 

Anna Scotti's librarian-on-the-run collection, It's Not Even Past, went out of print when Down&Out Books folded in October. She is hoping a white knight publisher will swoop in soon, but in the meantime, if you'd like to order a copy, go to annakscotti.com. Watch for the next "librarian" installment, When Bright Angels Beckon, early next year. Anna's short fiction appears frequently in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Black Cat Weekly, and her poetry can be found in The New Yorker and other literary magazines.  She's also a young adult author - Big and Bad was awarded the Paterson Prize for Books for Young People in 2021.

Humans are a Puzzlement...

"Never say you know the last word about any human heart"

— Henry James

And as for the human mind… Of course, this is what makes communicating with each other so difficult, whether in person or in writing. And not only do we not know what's going on inside of someone else, we don't even know ourselves, and I'm not talking about repressions or neuroses. I'm talking about how the way we're built literally shuts us off from things about ourselves that are perfectly obvious to everyone else.

We don't know what we really look like. For one thing, all we ever see of ourselves is in a mirror.

(NOTE: This is a plot point in Agatha Christie's Funerals Are Fatal.) And when we do see ourselves in a photograph or a video, we're often shocked, shocked, shocked at what we see! Not to mention how we often carry around an image of ourselves from some time in our past. For example: I hit my current magnificent height of 5'5" when I was in grade school, and one of my best friends did too. We towered over everyone around us. And ever since, I've seen myself as tall. So it came as a shock, back in the late 1990s, to hear someone describe me to someone else as "kinda short". Kinda short? KINDA SHORT??? And then I realized that I had to look up at almost everyone around me. Damn. Still getting over that one.

We don't know what we really sound like. We hear everything we say from our own little skull's castle of flesh and bone and various fluids. Now I have always known that I have a very deep voice for a female (an alto or a baritone, not sure which, but I have been told that it's "sultry") because in grade school I often got cast as a boy in the school plays. I also have an odd combination of a Southern California and Kentucky drawl. (BTW, I can do a dead-on impression of Mitch McConnell.) I never heard a recording of myself until I was in almost 20, and I realized that I sound sarcastic even when I'm saying "So, how's it going?" Sultry and sarcastic: sounds like the subtitle on my future detective's card.

We don't know what we're feeling, and we don't know what to do with whatever we're feeling. Seriously. Ask any toddler, teenager, parent, or boss who is having a complete and utter meltdown. If they can breathe long enough to talk.

Kat Dennings doing a GREAT teenage girl freakout in The 40-Year-Old Virgin

I know I did a lot of Alternatives to Violence Project workshops up at the pen where the inmates couldn't handle most negative emotions, and rather than face boredom, sadness, frustration, anxiety, or fear, they would explode into anger. And of course, you can't just say, "oh, gee, I'm angry" and calm down. As many inmates - and others - told me, "You know how it is. You get disrespected, you gotta react. You can't let anything go, because then somebody's gonna f*** with you, and it's only gonna get worse." BTW, sadness often led to isolating, cutting and/or attempts (or success) at suicide.

Now that might sound like adolescent behavior, but studies have shown that a large number of people are first arrested as juveniles, with over two-thirds of those in state prisons having a first arrest before age 19, and 38% before age 16. So where and how are they supposed to grow up?

But then, I don't think humans do a very good job of teaching emotions. (Lately I don't think much of our skills at teaching reading, writing, history, science, civics, and arithmetic, either, but that's for another blogpost.) You want to see some real unbridled, spit-flecked meltdown rages? – go online, where the ubiquitous Usernames, Gamertags, etc. go after others the way Jack the Ripper went after his victims on the foggy streets of Whitechapel.

We don't know how to share any of this with others, because... We think they see, feel, hear, know what we see, feel, hear, and know, and oh how wrong that is.

Here's an example. I used to teach a community ed writing class back in the Reagan years. And the first thing I started with was talking about words, and what people see when they hear or read a word. So I told them, write down the first image or emotion or memory that comes in your head when I write a word on the board. And the first word was always "Apple".

Answers: red, yellow, green, Apple Music, Apple computers, 1980 Apple IPO, apple tree, apple scent, apple pie, sliced apple, whole apple… all of those were among the answers given.

So, every time we write what we think is a very obvious, simple description... it's not. We know what we see in our mind when read / hear it, but we have no idea what's firing off in other people's minds when they read / hear it. It's a wonder anyone understands anything. But then I'm the person who found the first five chapters of Moby Dick hilarious.

We don't know why we do at least some of the things we do. Because we assume that how we were raised, the food we ate, the way it was cooked, the way the clothes hung in the closet, the way the laundry was done, the way the garden (if any) was planted, the way we dressed to go out (if we went out), that was what was normal. And then you meet people who don't live the way you did... Obviously, they're doing it wrong. Or maybe you finally meet the people who are doing it right, but don't know how to imitate them.

We don't know why we're attracted to certain things, from the colors we prefer in our house (I've always been a big fan of cobalt blue) to people with a certain hair/eye color. Or why certain things repel us. I don't and can't wear jewelry, and never have, because back when my mother first put a little necklace on me (I mean, after all, I was a girl, and girls are supposed to love and wear jewelry), I smelled the most terrible smell... And it happened every time she tried to bejewel me. I have no idea why, and I don't WANT to know why. There's a nightmare there, and I don't want to have it.

We don't know why we annoy other people; nor why we are annoyed by someone else. And that we don't usually analyze. Obviously, they're jerks. See Robert Browning's

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

I	II
Gr-r- r – there go, my heart’s abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God’s blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims – Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames!	At the meal we sit together; Salve tibi! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year: Not a plenteous cork crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt; What’s the Latin name for “parsley”? What’s the Greek name for “swine’s snout”?

To hear the whole poem, listen here:

Don't you wonder why our narrator is so infuriated with / about Brother Lawrence?

We are so strange, and we know so little, about ourselves and others - and that right there is the biggest set up for any mystery, any at all. That's being human.

"Hello, Bookstore"

 

My pal Matt Tannenbaum is about to celebrate 50 years as a bookseller.  He made his bones at the Gotham Book Mart, working for the legendary Frances Steloff.  “Always bring the customer with you back to the shelf when he or she asks for a book which you don’t think you have in stock.  Especially if you know you don’t have it.  Your customer is bound to see something else along the way.”  Frances was enormously grateful for having been led into a trade she so cherished, and Matt clearly is, as well.  He once remarked that when you’re young, you’re unlikely to recognize a life-changing event, because you haven’t lived enough of a life to realize it’s going to change.  But that first day Matt walked into the Gotham, he set his life on a different path. 

                                   Matt Tannenbaum - Photo Credit: Bill Shein/Berkshire Argus

It’s enormously satisfying to see somebody imagine a thing, and make it happen.  Matt moved to the Berkshires, in western Massachusetts, and bought his own bookstore, on Housatonic St., in Lenox.  He and the store have been an enduring resource since, for both readers and writers.  Matt is very much a bookman, in the sense of loving everything about them, the texts, the smell, the history.  He’s achieved something not everybody gets, which is to make a vocation from his ardor.  This is a guy who breathes the written word.  And as a kind of grace note, in 2022, during COVID, a filmmaker named A.B. Zax made a documentary called Hello, Bookstore, which is in fact how Matt answers the phone.  I can’t recommend this movie enough.  It’s hugely charming, and a terrific surprise.  I was prepared to like it, of course, because it’s somebody I love and respect, but there’s always your dread going in – like a high school production of Oklahoma – that it’s going to be amateurish and squirmy, and you have to trust me on this one, squirmy it ain’t.  It’s without pretense, and I hope I don’t doom your interest by calling it heart-warming.

https://www.hello-bookstore.com/

I was on the phone with Matt, just the other day, and if I sample a piece of the conversation, it gives you an idea of how his mind works.  He mentioned that he’d struck up an acquaintanceship with Otto Penzler – another bookseller, of course – because of their shared enthusiasm for Charles McCarry.  (McCarry hailed from Pittsfield, MA, just up the road from Lenox, and he and Matt had gotten to be pals; Otto, as a publisher, had anthologized McCarry in several collections, Best American Mystery Stories among them.)  My own acquaintance with Otto is very slight, but I’ve been short-listed several times for BAMS, and the first time I got in was the year it was guest-edited by Donald Westlake.  I told Matt that I wrote Westlake a fanboy thank-you, and we had a desultory correspondence over the next half-dozen years, snail mail, because he didn’t do internet, and his letters were written on a manual, because he didn’t like electric typewriters, either.  He didn’t want something humming at him, he said.  I’m thinking Don punched those keys pretty hard, and he must have gone through a whole bunch of Smith-Coronas over time, because the e was always out of alignment, about a sixteenth of an inch above the line of type.  Matt laughed, and said something about technology, and how of course Westlake was allowed his idiosyncracies, and then he said, You realize there are no rough drafts anymore.  On a computer, you don’t mark up a hard copy, you just overwrite what you wrote before.  It took me a minute to think that through.  Word-processing is a huge convenience, and I, for one, like being liberated.  But the consequence is an actual loss.  What we gain in momentum, we lose by having no record of the process.  It’s a thoughtful insight. 

I’ve had a lot of eye-opening conversations with Matt.  He’s always been a very alert reader.  He was the one who pointed out the elegance of the last line of John Crowley’s Little, Big to me – a shared appreciation – but truth to tell, I’d missed it, first time around.  I think, too, that I would have turned a deaf ear to Lawrence Durrell, if not for Matt.  Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie.  Patrick Leigh Fermor, maybe.  He can be very attuned to what a reader might not realize they’d been missing.  This is the natural magic of the bookshelf, one thing next to another.