The Human Condition

This month, I'm pleased to welcome one of my fellow Mesdames of Mayhem, Hope Thompson, to this blog.  I was particularly intrigued by the topic today, The Human Condition.  You'll see how this post complements my post for next month, How Important is Plot? 

Take it away, Hope!

The Human Condition

by Hope Thompson 

Do you ever read books and immediately forget the plot? As the weeks and months and years pass after reading a crime or mystery novel, I often cannot recall all or even any of the twists and turns of a particular story.  But something that always stays with me are character details - qualities as in British author Ruth Rendell's famous Wexford series set in the fictional Sussex town of Kingsmarkham.  In these books, her protagonist, Detective Reginald Wexford was deeply troubled by one fact: he loved one of his daughters more than the other.  Why did this exquisitely sorrowful detail stick with me?  Through her detective's painful admission, the author reveals a precious detail of the imperfectness of love.  In a story about death, she makes us think about life.

In the fifth book of the American author Patricia Highsmith's wonderful Ripley series, Ripley Under Water, readers find its dubious hero, Tom Ripley, living a luxurious life with his wife, Heloise, in the French countryside.  However, when a peculiar American couple show up and rent a nearby house and appear to be in pursuit of Ripley, he lies to his wife about the threat.  He is a master of the lie.  And his wife seems to know that he's lying but chooses not to question him.  While she seems to suspect something about the strange couple, in particular, and about Tom's dark deeds, in general, she says nothing.  Her stability is worth more to her than the truth.  Like Reginald Wexford, this secondary character stays with me.  In this finely drawn portrait, Highsmith holds up a mirror to all of us.  In how many ways do we turn away and choose not to see and to know, to preserve the peace and stability of our own lives?

In his treatise on suspense writing, the great noir master, Raymond Chandler wrote that, "...the detective story, even in its most conventional form, is difficult to write well.  Good specimens of the art are much rarer than good serious novels.  Second-rate items outlast most of the high-velocity fiction, and a great many that should never have been born simply refuse to die at all.  They are as durable as the statues in public parks and just about as dull." 

I agree with Chandler.  Writing crime fiction is difficult to do well.  For me, the best stories start and end with characters whose thoughts, words and actions pull back the curtain and give readers a glimpse into the frailty and complexity of the human condition.

 

 

Hope Thompson’s debut noir short story collection is Dark Thoughts & Other Stories, and is available on AMAZON

https://hopethompson.net/ 

Angry Joe Writes A Letter

 

Months ago, my wife and I were invited to a community fundraiser event that would take place sometime this fall. At the beginning, the emails were somewhat vague because the people organizing it were just feeling everyone out. If they could get a group of writers to commit, would we consider attending to this quasi-literary, quasi-fundraiser thingie for a good cause?

We said yes.

Throughout the summer, emails came and went. The list of local writers grew. Fine. Great. That’s what happens. I stopped paying attention because while the emails were always wordy, actual details were sparse. At some point, a local bookstore agreed to send a staffer to sell the books of any writers attending this event. The evening had morphed into a book event and community fundraiser. I had never heard of such a thing.

About a week ago, a pair of emails arrived that struck me as incoherent. In the same graf, organizers asked writers to bring copies of their own books to give as gifts to VIP donors. And they reminded us that the bookstore would be on hand to sell copies as well.

Well, thought I, which was it?

If the bookstore will be on site, why would I need to bring my books? The way I saw it, there are too many ways such a thing can go south.

1. Writer A brings three books. Writer B brings 50. These “offerings,” if I may so describe them, would be lopsided.
2. Just because an author wrote a book does not mean that someone they are schmoozing with wants to take home a copy of said author’s book.
3. Unwanted gifts suck.
4. Not everyone is a reader.
5. Even if a person is a heavy reader, their tastes are bound to differ from the next guy. Offering a book to someone who has no intention of reading it falls into creepy, unwanted gift territory. It also makes writers look desperate.
6. Writers may indeed have their books lying around their homes. But chances are they paid something for them, and hope to sell them or offer them to someone who will appreciate it.

By the time I reached this point, I was angry. (Yes, folks—it happens.) Naturally, I sat down to write an email. Boy, was it satisfying. Spleen vented, I knew immediately that I also would never send that letter.

Because I’m chicken? No—because I am like Abraham Lincoln.

I know it’s a stretch, but work with me here.

All his life Lincoln had a practice where, if someone pissed him off, he’d write a letter to get those feelings off his chest. Then he’d stick the letter in a drawer and never send it. He called them “hot” letters.

His most famous hot letter was one he wrote in 1863 to Major General Meade right after Gettysburg. It was, you recall, a terrible, three-day battle that left 50,000 dead. About the same number of casualties on each side, but the battle was still considered a victory for the Union. Its conclusion came when troops under the command of Robert E. Lee retreated. Meade could have pursued them, crushed them, and taken prisoners. But he and his men were exhausted, and he declined to take that action.

In the letter Lincoln wrote but never sent, he said:

“…[M]y dear general, I do not believe you appreciate the magnitude of the misfortune involved in Lee’s escape-- He was within your easy grasp, and to have closed upon him would, in connection with … our other late successes, have ended the war-- As it is, the war will be prolonged indefinitely. If you could not safely attack Lee last Monday, how can you possibly do so South of the river, when you can take with you very few more [than] two thirds of the force you then had in hand? It would be unreasonable to expect, and I do not expect you can now effect much. Your golden opportunity is gone, and I am distressed immeasurably because of it--

“I beg you will not consider this a prosecution, or persecution of yourself-- As you had learned that I was dissatisfied, I have thought it best to kindly tell you why.”

I think we can all agree that if this is Lincoln when he was angry, maybe his practice of writing hot letters in the course of his life had served him well.

I myself have never told someone that I was “immeasurably distressed.” I have never been that, um, measured about anything. That’s why, in certain circles, I have earned the nickname Angry Joe.

I encountered my first hot letter as a kid, though I did not know it at the time. Working on a school project on the life of Benjamin Franklin, I came across this doozy, dated July 5, 1775, about three months after Lexington and Concord:

Mr. [William] Strahan:

You are a Member of Parliament, and one of that Majority which has doomed my Country to Destruction. You have begun to burn our Towns, and murder our People. Look upon your hands! They are stained with the Blood of your Relations! You and I were long Friends; You are now my Enemy, and I am, Yours

B Franklin

I was in eighth grade when I came across that letter in a book. I loved it so much, I committed it to memory.

As with Lincoln, Franklin never sent his letter to Strahan, though he shared it with others as a way of letting his feelings be known and exorcising his rage.

Going on the assumption that this might well work for me, here’s the email I didn’t send.

Dear J—,

We haven’t met, so forgive me if this sounds rude. It is unclear to me why the writers invited to this fundraiser are being asked to bring copies of their books as “donations” for the major donors.

According to the link you shared, VIP donors are those who can afford to donate $500 to $3,500 per person to the cause. If this is a night to celebrate local writers—and considering the local bookstore will be on-site with books for sale—I am sure the VIPs can inspect and purchase whatever they like. Given what the VIPs will have paid to attend, our books are a steal at only $15 to $30 a copy.

Unless, of course, this is actually an evening where local professionals are gathering to offer their services for free to everyone in attendance.

If that is the case, then count me in!

If there is a physician offering free medical consultations, I have an elbow that needs looking at. If attorneys are offering free legal advice, I’ll take that too. And I am happy to accept any interest-free loans local business owners wish to extend.

Please understand that when you ask a writer to give something for free, you are implicitly devaluing their work and reducing them to the status of an organ grinder’s monkey.

Here is a link to one of the greats, Harlan Ellison, explaining this simple concept.

I said good day, sir. 

Cordially, 

Joe D’Agnese

And yes, SleuthSayers, I will attend the event. But I’ll arrive empty-handed.

* * * 

See you next time!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

The Enemy

When you read / write enough literature, you realize that almost all of it involves overcoming an enemy.  So pick a good one.  

There's the villain, the betrayer, the bully, the sociopath, the serial killer (of whom I am sick unto death), the false friend, the false lover, the rival, the Cain to one's Abel, and all the variations on the theme.  The enemy is the source of tension, that keeps everyone's attention on what the enemy will do next, and the reason why it matters for the hero to win - or lose.  

BTW:  it helps if you pick a good hero, too.

Sometimes the enemy is even more interesting than the hero, and thus the anti-hero is born.  And then the writer has to come up with a new enemy, because even an anti-hero has to have someone to outfight and outwit.  

Sometimes the new enemy is inside the hero / anti-hero:  addiction, PTSD, vampirism (the basis of the whole Twilight series), fear, past crimes, loss, obsession...  Or just self.  

Of course, sometimes you don't know who the enemy is:

Disturbing confession found in abandoned house:

"We found this baseboard in a closet of an abandoned house that recently sold and we were there to give owner an estimate for renovation. The house in an old gated lake community. Everyone there knows everyone and all people’s pasts. The HOA is calling the sheriff to see if they need to investigate further with cadaver dogs at “17” which is a vacant lot where a house once stood.... The HOA board decided to involve the sheriff’s department and 5 deputies and a detective showed up to take a look and collect the board."  (reddit)

There are rumors that this has been entirely made up, and if so, I think that Hollywood should track the person down and put them to good use, either writing or manufacturing sets for thrillers.

AND SOMETIMES YOU FIND OUT THE HARD WAY:

Irish Holiday Home Owner:

SOMETIMES THEY TAG TEAM:

Mothers and Sons:

NON-ALIVE ENEMIES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN POPULAR:

DATA CENTERS

And sometimes, a very unlikely hero:

"Former Playboy Playmate Audra Christiansen told Hefner in 2005 that she had allegedly been sexually abused and trafficked by Epstein, leading to a legal complaint in a Florida court which, sadly, was ignored until now.... The documents allege Hefner subsequently contacted the FBI several times with information about Christiansen’s claims. Yet, according to the legal complaint, the agency did not follow up with her until October 2020, which is roughly 15 years after the initial report."  (LINK)

As one commenter said:  "When Hugh Hefner thinks you’re dodgy…"

I can see it now... someone's going to start writing Hugh Hefner Investigates novels.  They'll sell a ton of them, too...  

 

You Are Entitled to Read My Story

 

I am pleased as punch to report that the September/October issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine features "Was That So Hard?" my 45th story there.  And since my first appearance in that august journal was in 1981 I can boast an average of exactly one story a year.  (We won't discuss how many years I submitted stories there before they bought one.)

The idea for this story came from Not Always Right, a website I have mentioned before. People anonymously submit reports on horrible customers.  I enjoy the site so much I use it as a reward: I won't touch it until I have written my quota for the day. It is a huge time sink but I have pulled three short stories out of it. 

"Shanks Has Reservations" (Black Cat Weekly #158) was inspired by a genuine scam that happened in a hotel. "Shanks Gets Lost" came from many tales of customers being rude to fast food clerks. (Black Cat #193) 

And now "Was That So Hard?" was inspired by many reports on rude customers, mostly in grocery stores.  (The title is something an entitled customer says, or more likely sneers, after some underpaid employee goes miles out of their way to be helpful.)  My protagonist is in charge of a high-end grocery store which, just before closing time, is invaded by a mob of the rudest, most entitled customers you could dream up.  Naturally there is a crime involved.

Finally, I want to examine a word I have used twice in this little piece: entitled.  When did it change its meaning? It used to mean that someone has the right to do something.  Now I hear it more often being used to mean that someone feels they have that right.

I checked Oxford English Dictionary and found that they traced that meaning back to Robert Coles' Privileged Ones, published in 1977.

 It is a matter of feeling 'entitled.' A child who has been told repeatedly that all he or she needs to do is try hard does not feel inclined to allow himself or herself much skeptical self-examination.

Took a few decades to get into the mainstream but now we're stuck with the new meaning and, worse, the people it refers to.  

I hope my story makes you feel a little better about it.

Double Dealing

 

    One reason I always liked going to the courthouse was the snippets you'd see or hear while passing down any random hallway. Pick a floor, get off the elevator, and wander. Think of it as trolling for dialogue. 

    Or sometimes it's handed to you. A while back, I was looking at a probable cause affidavit. A PC affidavit, is a document in which a police officer sets out the reasons why the officer believed he lawfully took a defendant into custody. They aren't intended to be works of literature. This one, however, led with the sentence, "I found the defendant, highly intoxicated, standing outside his trailer along with his mother and both his girlfriends." 

    Setting and conflict immediately apparent. I had an opening line that compelled me to keep reading. I wanted to know more about the defendant's double life.   

    Yesterday, while looking up something else, I took an internet detour and discovered the following story about an old trial. In a roundabout way, it reminded me of the affidavit.

    William Brodie lived as a respectable citizen in Edinburgh, Scotland, circa 1786. His grandfathers were lawyers, his father a deacon (president) of the Wrights and Masons Guild. William, as the eldest son, learned his father’s trade: repairing and building cabinets.

William Creech, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

    When his father died, William inherited a tidy fortune and became Deacon Brodie, leader of the Guild. With this position, he also became a member of the Edinburgh City Council.

    Sadly, William possessed an uncontrolled passion for gaming and cockfighting. He kept two mistresses in separate houses where they raised the children they bore him, but were, apparently, unaware of each other. (Here, perhaps, you see the tangential connection to my PC affidavit.)

    His expenses outstripping even his successful business dealings, Deacon Brodie turned to burglary. With access to customers’ houses for his cabinet work, he would make wax impressions of their keys and return at night to steal their possessions. He personified the double life, by day a leading citizen, by night, a cunning thief. His exploits grew, and William added accomplices, including a locksmith, George Smith, an escaped thief, John Brown, and a third man, Andrew Ainslie.

    In March of 1788, he conceived a plan for the big score. He schemed to burglarize the national tax office. The plan, however, failed when, by varying accounts, Brodie fell asleep, or his nerves failed him. He fled to a mistress’s house to establish an alibi.

    One accomplice, Brown, snitched on Smith and Ainslie. Brodie, however, unaware that he had been left out of the confession, skipped the city. Once he ran, all three confessed against him.

    Brodie escaped to Holland but sent letters back to his mistress (not the alibi, the other one). These letters were discovered, traced, and he was arrested. While in Holland, Brodie had been taking forgery lessons and making plans to slip off to America.

    At trial, the prosecutors had a problem. By law at the time, a felon could not give testimony, thereby rendering Brown legally unavailable. The Crown cleared this evidentiary hurdle, however, by pardoning Brown of all crimes. The prosecution also agreed to use Ainslie as a witness and prosecute only Brodie and Smith.

    The trial began on August 27th, 1788. As if Brodie didn't have enough trouble, the presiding judge was Lord Braxfield. In the book Some Old Scots Judges by W. Forbes Gray, published in 1914, Lord Braxfied is described as: 

He came dangerously near being destitute of principle and character.    Unscrupulous, tyrannical, coarse, dissipated, illiterate, he was morally almost    featureless. He had a hard heart, a tainted mind, a cross-grained, domineering    nature, and an uncouth exterior. A noble aspiration or a lofty motive he was    incapable of appreciating. Without faith, without hope, without charity, he moved    continually in a world of sordid interests and ignoble purposes.

    One defense attorney, John Clerk, emboldened himself for final argument by drinking a bottle of claret. He then vigorously attacked “the villain of a witness [Brown] who I tell your lordships is not worth his weight in hemp.

    Against the weight of the accomplice’s testimony, the flight, the letters and evidence obtained from the search of Brodie’s home, a wine-soaked argument proved insufficient. Brodie was found guilty.

    Accounts vary, but as a city father, Brodie had either personally redesigned Edinburgh's gibbet or, at the very least, approved its construction. Either way, it was upon the gallows he helped build that both aspects of his double life came together. William Brodie was hanged on October 1st, 1788. 

Public Domain

 Robert Louis Stevenson found inspiration in the tale of Deacon Brodie’s duplicitous life. Stevenson wove elements of Brodie’s life and nature into his story of a divided human, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” Incidentally, Stevenson’s father owned furniture made by Brodie.

Crime, sex, literature, and law—Deacon Brodie’s case was too cool to ignore. I am therefore making it my Trial of the Month for August.

How does my garden grow?

I think often these days of the famous closing line of Voltaire’s 1759 novella Candide: Il faut cultiver notre jardin. (“We have to cultivate our garden.”) Candide is a satire better known to modern Americans from Leonard Bernstein’s 1956 operetta of the same name. Its protagonist, a naive young optimist, learns through horrific life experience that he can do nothing about war, famine, plague, rape, slavery, torture, earthquakes, religious persecution, financial ruin, betrayal, hypocrisy, and a host of other ills. The survivor he becomes concludes that he must accept the futility of trying to sway these uncontrollable forces. He must also stop wasting his time theorizing about philosophies that claim to have answers that will vanquish suffering and evil. All he can do is make his garden grow.

We’re living through times when all the ills that Candide and his sweetheart Cunegonde experienced are still at large in the world. Of those most likely to touch me personally, natural disasters are on the rise, and global anti-Semitism is at a higher level than at any time since the Holocaust, which was still going during my infancy. In July, there was a tornado watch in New York, and we had three days of Hazardous air quality (500 AQI at its worst) in the Hamptons due to Canadian wildfires. Voltaire, who died in 1778 (during America’s revolution, before that of France), did not mention the collapse of systems of government, but that’s another force that’s spinning out of control.

So here’s my garden, twenty-five square feet in pots on my deck at the modest end of East Hampton. It’s given me enormous pleasure and peace of mind this summer. I go out first thing in the morning to talk to the flowers and deadhead a few spent blooms. In late afternoon or early evening, I give them some water if they look thirsty and feed them every couple of weeks if they aren’t as floriferous as I’d like. It sure beats watching the news.

The Power of Prepositions

The Power of Prepositions by Leigh Lundin Aladdin, getting along in years, found he was unable to pitch a tent as he had done in his youth. Smart as well as lucky, Aladdin still kept his magic lamp and, frugal with his wishes, one remained. He rubbed his lamp. When the genie appeared, he begged him. “My camel can no longer thread the needle. Can you cure my erectile impotence?” Genie said, “I can whisk away your problem.” With that, he rubbed his hands, evoking a puff of billowing blue smoke. Genie said, “I’ve dealt you a powerful spell, but at your age, you’ll be able to invoke it only once a year.” “How do I use it?” asked Aladdin. “All you have to do is say ‘one two three’ and it shall rise for as long as you wish, but only once a year.” Aladdin asked, “What happens when we’re exhausted and no longer want to continue?” Genie replied, “All you or your woman has to say is ‘one two three four,’ and it will go down. But be warned: the spell will not work again for another year.” Aladdin galloped home, eager to try his new powers of the flesh. That evening, Aladdin bathed and scented himself with oil of exotic myrrh. He climbed into bed where his wife lay on her side. Aladdin took a deep breath and said, “One two three.” Instantly, he became more aroused than he ever had in youth, a magnificent happenstance of tree-trunk proportions. His wife, hearing Aladdin’s words, rolled toward him and said, “What did you say ‘One two three’ for?” And that, dear readers, is why you should not end a sentence with a preposition.