tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31191058225891819672024-03-19T00:05:33.477-04:00SleuthSayersProfessional Crime-Writers and Crime-FightersLeigh Lundinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07921276795499571578noreply@blogger.comBlogger4571125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-1480375674468508962024-03-19T00:05:00.216-04:002024-03-19T00:05:00.169-04:00Stolen Opportunities<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: arial;">Pre-pandemic, my traveling companion and I visited Italy. We journeyed with another couple. I'll call them P and D. On a jaunt to the Amalfi Coast, we took the <i>Circumvesuviana. </i>It sounded cool. The train departs from Naples and hugs Vesuvius, the volcano that destroyed Pompeii. The </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Circumvesuviana</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> passes by that ancient Roman city. It treks along the Amalfi Coast before arriving at Sorrento, with its sheer cliffs and colorful villas. I carried a notepad. A few of my notes follow.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span> The train trip reads better in the guidebooks. The </span></span><i style="font-family: arial;">Circumvesuviana </i><span style="font-family: arial;">functions as a commuter railway. Our train was graffiti-splashed, chugged slowly, stopped frequently, and was crowded. If you want to try something that isn't touristy, ride the </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Circumvesuviana.</i></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoBwMqNYkO4g-tfkT-cZOYMkmQ73lsoTJsEvTYfxarRdE9EtCsL4jNZG7VOorT0Gufhk0FcUzimyMhY4hXmhT2qphNZtmCRpYOdFPiz9roNHs9e9v9iuB_H4pMKWneXbs76pVdEPBP_RuFiUlIpsyoCyF-oigK2c1JdxKvllH0pakk9EWki7ajwNw8Q/s800/800px-Ferrovia_Circumvesuviana_Pompei_Scavi.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="800" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoBwMqNYkO4g-tfkT-cZOYMkmQ73lsoTJsEvTYfxarRdE9EtCsL4jNZG7VOorT0Gufhk0FcUzimyMhY4hXmhT2qphNZtmCRpYOdFPiz9roNHs9e9v9iuB_H4pMKWneXbs76pVdEPBP_RuFiUlIpsyoCyF-oigK2c1JdxKvllH0pakk9EWki7ajwNw8Q/w383-h221/800px-Ferrovia_Circumvesuviana_Pompei_Scavi.jpg" width="383" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jensen, Public Domain, Wikimedia</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i> </i>While we stood in the Naples station waiting for the opportunity to board, P, the husband, told us that he'd just foiled a pickpocket. I followed his outstretched arm, pointing toward a man scurrying to the far end of the station, casting wayward glances in our direction. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span> We boarded the train. P had served in the US Navy and had sailed out of Naples on occasion. He remembered a restaurant he'd eaten at in Sorrento. We found it. The place stood dimly lit and mysterious. We were traveling out of season, I'll add. Few tourists were visiting in January. Lots of places proved uncrowded, dark, and mysterious. </span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> We ended this side trip at Pompeii. I entered the ancient site with a certain trepidation. I'd heard about and seen pictures of these ruins for my entire life. Would the place live up to my expectations? Pompeii did. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> An exotic-sounding train trip, an ancient Roman city, and a town on the gorgeous Amalfi coast cloaked in just a hint of mystery. What could a writer possibly do with that?</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> As we zipped along on the ItaliaRail, the sleek, clean, fast national railway back to Rome, I flipped through the notes and began thinking about someday mining this little side trip. <i>Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine</i> graciously published the resulting story, "Sfortuna," in the March/April issue. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span> </span>I love to set stories in the places I've visited. Writing a short story allows me to think back on the pleasant memories of a vacation. Exploring a new place with the mindset that I'll likely dip into this experience for a later story also heightens my observations. I take a five-sense inventory of a place. What stands out that I might tap into when I'm seated at my keyboard? The practice frequently enhances my experience of visiting. Hosts also seem to like seeing their vacation home used as the setting for a short story. Selfishly, if a published story gets me invited back, that's a double win for me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> I've frequently mined these experiences. I think of this as a subset of the writer's maxim, "Write what you know." In this case, the admonition is recast as, "Write what you think you know because you've visited for a very short time." </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Dm0rPG15s77sJ1j0VaCwm111D4a4L-eEvGF87RZTTfsfHNCaXO3YxdHLsthOmynxIKOVu5lFQAuaQ-cD8huSa4x40EqQW2zIT8kGy9YIHiVLwVSPJnM4TGods7hkfy7nHNTwC4bepjdPi0w5guP3XDCII3mpuPYyyz96s5A-n89-Sk0QJJ32xkCOIA/s570/AHMM%20Sfortuna.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="400" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Dm0rPG15s77sJ1j0VaCwm111D4a4L-eEvGF87RZTTfsfHNCaXO3YxdHLsthOmynxIKOVu5lFQAuaQ-cD8huSa4x40EqQW2zIT8kGy9YIHiVLwVSPJnM4TGods7hkfy7nHNTwC4bepjdPi0w5guP3XDCII3mpuPYyyz96s5A-n89-Sk0QJJ32xkCOIA/w265-h377/AHMM%20Sfortuna.png" width="265" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> And I have to expand the maxim. I can't just write what I know. My stories would be too bland. I've been fortunate to have missed out on much of the soul-searing pain others might dredge for their stories. I've never been a POW in a fire-bombed city like Dresden. I'm not complaining or volunteering; I'm just reporting. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> So where do you go when the pains in your life are the abundance of weeds in your front lawn and terrible luck when picking a grocery store checkout lane? How do you mine the commonplace to find exciting story material? </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> First, I need to recognize that my personal experience provides the only lens I've got to view what I'm trying to portray through words. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> Second, I remember the micro-moments. We've all experienced times of heartache, loss, despair, grief, and sadness. Perhaps not on some grand scale, but we've all been there. I've seen the people around me have these emotions as well. My traveling companion expresses her feelings differently than I do. I can amplify that range of emotions to convey my character's thoughts and feelings. I can mine not only my vacations but also my personal history. I can squeeze what I need from the mundane. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> Third, I hope I'm noticing the people around me. Having a ringside seat in the criminal justice system has allowed me to observe other people having bad days. I've seen their anger and disillusionment. I've also witnessed their sense of vindication. Finally, I've also seen their stupidity. It all helps when I'm trying to write. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> But one doesn't need to have worked in jail to find emotions on display. Grocery store trips can demonstrate bits of bad behavior. We're all watching for those moments. To write is to be part voyeur. You're standing in the checkout line or sitting at a restaurant and not intentionally eavesdropping, but suddenly find yourself gifted with a phrase. For a moment, the meal is put on hold so that you can text yourself a message before you forget the gift you've just been given. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> Lastly, I can look things up. Research is, in its own way, an enhancement of my personal experience. I'm going to the places I choose and looking for what I might find. On virtually any subject, the internet makes it possible to eavesdrop on someone somewhere reflecting on something. I can read or watch and filter what they report through my lens. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> I've experienced nothing of what happened in "Sfortuna." Viewed differently, we've experienced it all. I sat down at my computer and imagined how it all came out. I'm thrilled that the kind folks at <i>Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine</i> liked the story. I hope that the readers do also. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> How do you mine your experiences? What tips do you have for wringing the maximum literary value from the fortunes and misfortunes in your life?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;">Until next time. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>Mark Thielmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03172737178145242270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-2223018646319475462024-03-18T00:10:00.000-04:002024-03-18T00:10:37.993-04:00Novel to Short Story to Novel (Again)<p> </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-l9vEyMcORfVe31tJqcMBjyWviKBMHpgAQxQsB4I1G50W3F7BV7ACjaFWQIrsyM5mVbtrd-oDNb_Y64I-0p8YZTHFEPgtQyE7dvoaV1vcUujuaVJsSciOlw2Mn2JZk2vy1uBLz7_51XGFqVsWyMztRvcoBTZ46COyVU2fgWRugQdXABMRSRQFGDbNGNlg/s1350/Kevin%20Egan.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="911" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-l9vEyMcORfVe31tJqcMBjyWviKBMHpgAQxQsB4I1G50W3F7BV7ACjaFWQIrsyM5mVbtrd-oDNb_Y64I-0p8YZTHFEPgtQyE7dvoaV1vcUujuaVJsSciOlw2Mn2JZk2vy1uBLz7_51XGFqVsWyMztRvcoBTZ46COyVU2fgWRugQdXABMRSRQFGDbNGNlg/s320/Kevin%20Egan.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Stephen E. Morton<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i>A special treat today. Kevin Egan is the author of eight novels and more than 40
short stories. His three legal thrillers, each set in the New York County
Courthouse, were inspired by his 30 years as a staff attorney in that iconic
building. Kirkus
Reviews listed his Midnight as a Best Book of 2013.</i><p></p><i>He has appeared in <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alfred Hitchcock's
Mystery Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Mystery Magazine, </span>and <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine</span>.And now he's appearing for you. - Robert Lopresti</i><br /><p> </p><p></p><p><b>NOVEL TO SHORT STORY TO NOVEL (AGAIN)</b></p><p><i>by Kevin Egan<br /></i> </p><p>In
the early 2000s, I experienced a writing crisis. I had published four
novels, including a three-book golf mystery series, but my dream of
writing "bigger" novels had vanished in a welter of half-baked ideas. My
agent, more than once, suggested that I look to my day job as a source
of ideas. At the time, I was a law clerk to a judge in the New York
County Supreme Court. Wouldn't some of the cases I observed lend
themselves to a novel? I didn't think so. This was a civil courthouse,
not a criminal courthouse, and the trials I observed, though they may
have been interesting in the legal sense, were hardly dramatic in the
novelistic sense. <br /></p><p>I decided to take a different tack --
writing a courthouse novel that would take place not in a courtroom but
in a judge's chambers. A standard chambers in the New York County
Courthouse is a self-contained three-room suite that evolves its own
culture, dynamic, and morality. Three people populate this unique world:
the judge, the law clerk, and secretary. As my real-life judge
described at the time, judge and staff essentially "live in each other's
pockets" for 40 hours a week. And three people, as the saying goes, are
a crowd, which in chambers can manifest itself as an ever-changing
kaleidoscope of allegiances and alliances.</p><p>With this setting
firmly in mind, I came up with ... another half-baked idea. My plot
involved: a judge who has just presided over a bench trial targeting a
powerful union boss; a hapless law clerk secretly in love with the
secretary; and a secretary who recently ended her own secret affair with
the judge. </p><p>The story opens on the Third Monday in July (the
working title) when the staff arrive to find a thug sitting behind the
judge's desk. He informs them that the judge tragically died over the
weekend, that the union boss has secreted the body in a friendly funeral
home, and that the law clerk and secretary are to collaborate on
writing a post-trial ruling that awards a multi-million dollar judgment
to the union boss. </p><p>I banged out almost 400 pages of this mess,
and my agent actually tried to sell it. (She later confessed that she
never expected it to sell; she merely hoped that some editor somewhere
would volunteer to collaborate on a re-write.) After seeing the comments
she received (several of which incorporated the phrase "willing
suspension of disbelief"), I returned to the comfort of launching yet
another golf mystery series. </p><p>A few years later, I saw a
manuscript call for a MWA anthology. The theme for the anthology was
institutional law enforcement -- the police, the FBI, the courts. Hmm, I
thought. I work in the courts, maybe I should submit a story to the
anthology.<br /></p><p>Ideas come slowly to me. Rarely have I experienced
the "flash of creative genius" touted in my Patents & Copyrights
course in law school. The only idea that kept popping into my head was
that ridiculous Third Monday in July plot, which at the very least I
would need to miniaturize into a 20 page story.</p><p>That necessity sparked new and critical ideas on how to construct the story.</p><p>First,
I decided that the judge's staff needed to be actors, not pawns or
victims. They needed to have a definite plan and a definite stake in the
outcome. But what?</p><p>Second, I needed to have a clock running. The
novel's time-line meandered through most of the month of July, which
strained the reader's suspension of disbelief as well as my own
imagination. But how fast?</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://the.hitchcock.zone/files/mediawiki/d/dc/Alfred_hitchcocks_mystery_201001-02.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://the.hitchcock.zone/files/mediawiki/d/dc/Alfred_hitchcocks_mystery_201001-02.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I found the answers to both
questions in the New York Judiciary Law. By law, a judge is entitled to
two personal assistants -- a law clerk and a secretary. By law, these
assistants are personal appointments who serve at the pleasure of the
judge and therefore can conceivably keep their jobs for the entire
length of the judge's 14-year term. Also, by law, if the judge dies
during that term, the assistants keep their jobs until the governor
appoints a successor. As a practical matter, and partly for political
reasons, the governor usually delays appointing the successor of a
deceased judge until the end of that year. Therefore (because I'd seen
it often enough), the staff of a deceased judge usually can bank on
keeping their jobs until the end of the calendar year in which their
judge has died. </p><p>Consequently, if you work for a judge, the worst
day of the year for the judge to die would be New Year's Eve. The best
day? Obviously New Year's Day itself.</p><p>Thus, the short story
"Midnight" was born. A judge dies in chambers on the morning of December
31. The law clerk and the secretary, both desperately seeking to keep
their jobs, hit upon a plan to "float" the body to make it appear that
the judge died after midnight. The odds are in their favor: the
courthouse is virtually empty on the day before the holiday, the judge
is elderly and not in good health, and the judge is one of the few
judges who owns a car and actually drove it to the courthouse that day.
Plus, the judge's only family is a brother who lives in Florida.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/61v1n4fR7tL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="535" height="400" src="https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/61v1n4fR7tL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />The
law clerk and the secretary spirit the body out of the courthouse after
dark, drive to the judge's apartment, and tuck the body into bed. They
wait in the apartment until well after midnight, then go to their homes.
They arrive back at the courthouse on January 2, planning to report the
judge as missing when he doesn't show up in chambers by the end of the
morning. But then, of course, the unexpected happens.<p></p><p>I missed the
deadline for submitting the story to the MWA anthology. Instead, I
submitted it to <i>Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.</i> I was thrilled when
Linda Landrigan accepted the story and even more thrilled to see it
featured on the cover of the January-February 2010 issue of the
magazine. But beyond the thrill of the story appearing in one of the
finest and most respected mystery publications, I knew that the act of
miniaturizing that original embarrassment of a novel created the
blueprint for writing a new one.</p><p>Two years later, I finished
writing <i>Midnight</i> the novel. The short story, expanded from 20 pages to
just over 100 pages, became the first day of a four day timeline that
runs from December 31 to January 3. Structurally, each day presents a
new problem for the desperate duo to solve, and each day they seem to
overcome that problem only to discover that they have unwittingly
created a more complicated obstacle until ultimately ... well, you need
to read the book. <br /><br /><br /><br /></p>mystery guesthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352979692241386956noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-79311153200844221602024-03-17T00:17:00.000-04:002024-03-17T00:17:27.383-04:0051 and Counting<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplOAfnRNTrLK_vSZqsWknlpGu2Ew0SLvk3tw8GJ2MD4g9HRs51JsAI52JefJw-mhirqcsMjMzXdvcNMFifPP5Ojo3qCQn15AjKQEi7hxnFx5v-Nsv5gMW15HYu2kViXbCcrRt3ua_k_x3bsc_ht4JvueCsVm-9EAg9uMtjaY_aMtKzajAfghyphenhyphenTjYAAZM/s600/51.png" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="51" border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="600" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplOAfnRNTrLK_vSZqsWknlpGu2Ew0SLvk3tw8GJ2MD4g9HRs51JsAI52JefJw-mhirqcsMjMzXdvcNMFifPP5Ojo3qCQn15AjKQEi7hxnFx5v-Nsv5gMW15HYu2kViXbCcrRt3ua_k_x3bsc_ht4JvueCsVm-9EAg9uMtjaY_aMtKzajAfghyphenhyphenTjYAAZM/w320-h219/51.png" title="51" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>There's an old saying that figures don't lie, but liars do figure. However, one can also choose those figures from the data which are more favorable to the point one wishes to make. This person is usually called the expert in that field. Therefore, following in the footsteps of some of our fellow SleuthSayers bloggers in their blog articles which contained personal statistics from their writings and/or published works, here are some of my own figures. Make of them what you will.</p><p><span><b>Note:</b> The following come only from my short stories published and/or accepted by AHMM.</span></p><p><span>The data starts in 2001 with my first acceptance, "Once, Twice, Dead," at 3,030 words for a payment of $280, and it currently concludes in March 2024 with my 51st acceptance "Murder Alley," at 5,300 words for a payment of $480. All of this makes for a total of 258,330 words for a total payment of $21,376 for all 51 of the stories.</span></p><p><span>The majority of my short stories range from 3,530 words on the low end to 8,060 words on the high end with a per story average of about 5,065. Of course, when you are writing your own stories, please remember that every story should have just as many words as it needs to tell that story. My word count total for all my short stories sold to AHMM comes to 258,330.</span></p>
<p><span>Added to the above figures are monies earned from AHMM reprints:</span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: large;"> Great Jones Street ($500)</span></li><li><span style="font-size: large;"> The Big Book of Rogues and Villains ($250)</span></li><li><span style="font-size: large;"> Black Cat Mystery Weekly ($50)</span></li><li><span style="font-size: large;"> Japanese Mystery Magazine ($200)</span></li></ul><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>51</b> accepted <b>28</b> rejected <b>64.56 %</b> AHMM acceptance rate</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>$21,376</b> Initial Payment earned, plus <b>$1,000</b> for reprint rights on AHMM stories equals<b> $22,376</b> total.</span></p><p><span>My conclusion from the data is that approximately 358K words would make about three novels at about 86K words each. Assuming a $500 advance or less per novel from a small publisher, many of these don't earn out in royalties. The author frequently spends the advance money for advertising in one form or another because small publishers don't have much of a budget for PR or advertising. It's a sad state of affairs for a beginning writer. However, I do think that a novel writer gets more prestige in the writing community for having a published novel under their belt.</span></p><p><span>Since I am not a prolific writer, it would take me a long time to write those three novels from my short story statistics. Not to mention that an editor/agent/publisher would be expecting a new novel every year for me to succeed in the writing game, therefore I'm better off staying in the short story business. Right now, it's fun. If I had to write 86K publishable words a year, it just might quickly turn into work.</span></p><p><span>So, there you have my story.</span></p><p><span>See you in print.</span></p><p><span>Somewhere.</span></p>R.T. Lawtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15523486296396710227noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-61897931266532444392024-03-16T00:00:00.075-04:002024-03-16T10:22:26.805-04:00Plotters and Pantsers<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihypAhpcMRx006EvIK7YjiMR-g6By-2gTxrmZEy4FEkbM2hiSHrH97EOK-gxSrdUBO9ksAFtBXe4xayK9xn_NyKxG_2wbWmSYmd0_f6ZYArPNm1cT6YwX-kCYZ72uOurl599vuy-vuzIdrkvd2t7yBk5HTMVyvhmPe6kQpx1Dm4_JrfHMNR8E2_Rr32NA/s281/stanton%20hall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="281" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihypAhpcMRx006EvIK7YjiMR-g6By-2gTxrmZEy4FEkbM2hiSHrH97EOK-gxSrdUBO9ksAFtBXe4xayK9xn_NyKxG_2wbWmSYmd0_f6ZYArPNm1cT6YwX-kCYZ72uOurl599vuy-vuzIdrkvd2t7yBk5HTMVyvhmPe6kQpx1Dm4_JrfHMNR8E2_Rr32NA/s1600/stanton%20hall.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p>Last Saturday my wife and I drove down to Natchez, a place I've visited many times, especially during my years with IBM, and this trip was more fun than work. I'd signed an agreement with the Mississippi Writers Guild not long ago to conduct several workshops this year on writing and selling short fiction, and this one was the first. The next session's in Jackson, in April. We had a good time.<p></p><p>One of the things I usually find interesting, in writer gatherings like this, are the students'/attendees' responses to the question, "Are you an outliner?" In my experience, the group is always almost equally divided on that issue, and that was the case Saturday as well. About half say they know beforehand where the story's going and how they're going to get there; the other half say they start writing with no idea of where or how the story'll end. The first half happily identifies as "outliners" or "plotters" and the other half as "seat-of-the-pantsers," which is the way they fly their story planes. (The only pantser I know who doesn't like that term is my longtime friend and writing buddy Elizabeth Zelvin. Sorry, Liz. We'll call you a non-outliner.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy87rHtPSQM0_TPPmiv94LI1NQqgwgwMLQwpftJzbhcBXI423FjfMKLCqwu3mnwwtFdlOZFND3nRFvFlH2VPXIx3dS3BVjWvp6h3c7iHZ3DKlEdYhpcVVBPUNty8o4RekDvlwECloFCPmi3XxNAvyoyD3Q1RdB-XHlzAlM0aVGDaAwrvCFc-Au4AlQluU/s309/plot%20pants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="309" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy87rHtPSQM0_TPPmiv94LI1NQqgwgwMLQwpftJzbhcBXI423FjfMKLCqwu3mnwwtFdlOZFND3nRFvFlH2VPXIx3dS3BVjWvp6h3c7iHZ3DKlEdYhpcVVBPUNty8o4RekDvlwECloFCPmi3XxNAvyoyD3Q1RdB-XHlzAlM0aVGDaAwrvCFc-Au4AlQluU/s1600/plot%20pants.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p>As I've said before, I would never attempt to change anyone's approach, on this. I'm not even sure it's changeable. I think it boils down to which way our brains are wired, just as some of us are always late and others always early, some like the toilet paper to unroll from the top and others from the bottom, some like to squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle and others from the end, etc. <i>Vive la difference</i>, right?</p><p>I confess that I'm a plotter/planner/outliner. Rarely on paper, but certainly in my mind. I'm one of those structure-driven people who have to be be able to picture most of the scenes in the story beforehand, all the way to the ending. That might change a bit as I go along--it often does--but I have to know that tentative story layout before the writing starts. Does that make my stories less fun to write? Does it make the process more boring? Does it stifle my creativity (who in the hell came up with that phrase)? The answer's no. It doesn't. Instead, an outline gives me the comforting mental safety-net that I need, in order to shoulder my backpack and set out on my storytrip. If I <i>didn't</i> have that road map in my head, I might eventually make it to my destination, but I might not, and if I did get there, I think I'd waste a lot of time and effort on the way. That, to me, would <i>not</i> be fun.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPXyxxjeuvDEGbx-VfTiuU77wz0TMAmYWRA1FntDSNJhBHBmuU2dBZcqQsnrkE-cMmK9mm83O5tre2hX1HKbQeNBSDUxedMga-89At0oHpDEWwnkea8_M8zsTjwTUZv3ou6PmN-scH5r5cCAXbfjdlWK0B-5z07iIrN2eJdtYBKyxUZuUUtqna7t-qXc/s286/flowchart.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="286" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPXyxxjeuvDEGbx-VfTiuU77wz0TMAmYWRA1FntDSNJhBHBmuU2dBZcqQsnrkE-cMmK9mm83O5tre2hX1HKbQeNBSDUxedMga-89At0oHpDEWwnkea8_M8zsTjwTUZv3ou6PmN-scH5r5cCAXbfjdlWK0B-5z07iIrN2eJdtYBKyxUZuUUtqna7t-qXc/s1600/flowchart.png" width="286" /></a></div><p>NOTE: I'm not saying I don't respect the (roughly) half of my writing students and half of my writer friends who <i>don't</i> follow a mental or physical outline. In fact, I envy them. These carefree adventurers strap on their goggles and climb into their literary ATVs without knowing much of anything about the road ahead, and motor merrily into the unknown with big grins and flapping scarves, usually (and somehow) with good results (!!). In fact, some of the writers I most admire do it that way (!!!!). How? Don't ask me. I would still be wandering around out there someplace, running into dead ends and cursing and backtracking and rewriting. But--again--their way seems to work, and I would never try to change them. I don't even <i>want</i> to change them. I like their stories. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U0v6Okcp9dcyXJaRIV-mHMLpjIaCh3NWTd6wvHdy2R4AC1AB-rFa1patzX-NYfc9IwzdTaWYyaEdhS0YCCzOpn2Ks2RwPYVPS73XoYhHvwS4xXC0A8i6-Fv7GZXdScaPI9ASebKtPuAco0YoVIEwJM4adqSF4OFT0EcdiRUepxy-sVi2zLMmM1pQTWE/s225/pantser.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U0v6Okcp9dcyXJaRIV-mHMLpjIaCh3NWTd6wvHdy2R4AC1AB-rFa1patzX-NYfc9IwzdTaWYyaEdhS0YCCzOpn2Ks2RwPYVPS73XoYhHvwS4xXC0A8i6-Fv7GZXdScaPI9ASebKtPuAco0YoVIEwJM4adqSF4OFT0EcdiRUepxy-sVi2zLMmM1pQTWE/s1600/pantser.png" width="225" /></a></div><p>One more thing. We're not always talking about only two groups, here. There are probably half a dozen different variations and subgroups between the two extremes. Yes, some writers do indeed have their entire story planned in great detail before starting, and they stick to it. Others have an ending firmly in mind but everything else is undecided. Others know their characters but don't yet know the storyline. Others know only the title and maybe a few opening words. Others have a fairly clear picture of how things will progress, but they don't dwell on it because they realize most of it'll change after the construction begins. And still others start with a completely blank slate, not knowing anything at all about their story except that there's probably one out there someplace, waiting to be discovered. On a scale of 10 to 1, with 10 being "I've got the whole story in my head" and 1 being "I have no idea what'll happen until I start writing," I'm probably an 8 or a 9.</p><p>By the way, I'm always early, I like the TP mounted to unroll from the top, and I squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle. </p><p>How about you? Outliner or free-wheeler? Or somewhere in between?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFHCBhiPzK-tV38_7X7p4C_CIXlLv_GnJgWaFBSWmRD4ruMLKYNbrNN7LKSqnBhGUeCJkVP7ULyzpZtbxZp5lPkdxjxb0Qg7UFKrVyYcqrKc0Zx6x1JO78q6XKTgVmoS8ArFw0q4fNCwRNeyVKIBe1_Wy3WSo-lkc5Gn5ZeNwhBJ_FeHJvfkIizfoV2Tw/s297/plotter%20pantser%20funny%20cartoon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="297" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFHCBhiPzK-tV38_7X7p4C_CIXlLv_GnJgWaFBSWmRD4ruMLKYNbrNN7LKSqnBhGUeCJkVP7ULyzpZtbxZp5lPkdxjxb0Qg7UFKrVyYcqrKc0Zx6x1JO78q6XKTgVmoS8ArFw0q4fNCwRNeyVKIBe1_Wy3WSo-lkc5Gn5ZeNwhBJ_FeHJvfkIizfoV2Tw/s1600/plotter%20pantser%20funny%20cartoon.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br />John Floydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04001712728130488485noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-41610772439786970612024-03-15T00:00:00.002-04:002024-03-15T00:28:37.888-04:00From Gun Monkeys to Fast Charlie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1gWL3I-Sn6WOhmYBgkT7AFuQ8iIzxQvz3vVru0Esy5olHlgJY8AOdWEvYtQfv8Er-gMmSFam7HbuUmDzyN2S5zZHyhTFGc15pfvASHCVnuVb1tdqevEhGkygS-xaaaceRrKQvzxhE1feeaaGn4rAbxOMjTROjFmzACEb0cr2nVqbSaKHUW3h3qpt/s274/gunmonkeys-original.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Gun Monkeys - original cover" border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1gWL3I-Sn6WOhmYBgkT7AFuQ8iIzxQvz3vVru0Esy5olHlgJY8AOdWEvYtQfv8Er-gMmSFam7HbuUmDzyN2S5zZHyhTFGc15pfvASHCVnuVb1tdqevEhGkygS-xaaaceRrKQvzxhE1feeaaGn4rAbxOMjTROjFmzACEb0cr2nVqbSaKHUW3h3qpt/s16000/gunmonkeys-original.jpeg" /></a></div>
<p>When I started out, back when cell phones were actual phones and texting required learning a new set of runes to type into your keypad, I made the acquaintance of one Victor Gischler. Back then, he and pal Anthony Neil Smith ran the now-missed <i>Plots With Guns</i> webzine. I have a special fondness for <i>PWG</i> as they gave me my first publishing credit in their second issue, a short story called "A Walk in the Rain."</p>
<p>At the time, Gisch was putting the finishing touches on his first novel, a nasty slice of noir called <i>Gun Monkeys</i>, which had already been taken by a rather well-regarded small press. <i>Gun Monkeys</i> debuted in 2003 to much acclaim, and off Mr. Gischler went. The Big Five (There were five back then. Good times!) snapped him up and published <i>Suicide Squeeze</i> and <i>Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse</i>. The latter should have been optioned for SyFy back before it got glommed by Peacock. Marvel tapped him to write for Wolverine, Deadpool, and the X-Men.</p>
<p>Then, in the midst of the pandemic, producers approached him about adapting <i>Gun Monkeys</i>. Hollywood being Hollywood, they moved the action from Florida to Gischler's native Gulf Coast region near New Orleans and southern Mississippi. Pierce Brosnan took on the role of "Fast Charlie" Swift with Morena Baccarin as Marcie and James Cann (in his last film role) as a doddering Stan. There were other changes, but the heart of the story remained. It's been twenty years, after all. In the original, Stan was still trying to cling to power. In the movie, Charlie is trying to protect a father figure whose mind is literally fading to nothing scene by scene. And, of course, they gave the movie the title <i>Fast Charlie</i>. </p><p>I watched <i>Fast Charlie</i> when it came out late last year. Other than Brosnan's cringe-inducing accent (An Irishman trying to sound Cajun is a dicey prospect.), it was very well done. Many of the changes had to do with the changes in society over two decades and the fact a movie director has only ninety minutes to two-and-a-half hours to tell a story. Plus script writers gotta script. Hand me, SA Cosby, or Nathan Singer <i>The Maltese Falcon</i>, and you'll get three different movies, none of which look like Bogie's version.All in all, I'd say director Phillip Noyce and screenwriter Richard Wenk did a good job invoking the original. Helps that <i>Gun Monkeys</i> was a short book.</p><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVV9kOuaLAR4oA1lxHDoWcQdGmnRkoBMtIEZvVUDyYZZwQqxF9mlD5V7fGS_uPM2yHBj9o-804DyUBasGRgFcJX5eQVWbBsFYITV47qNaJgsPXg-T22Jecee5jMsWUmsxVmh8pXMYWR2yw-gluKiU4dfbeRbdtuFURKhlSbhGoL0evMX6gJkUM8ef/s210/fastcharlie.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Fast Charlie, the retitled version of Gun Monkeys from Hardcase Crime" border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVV9kOuaLAR4oA1lxHDoWcQdGmnRkoBMtIEZvVUDyYZZwQqxF9mlD5V7fGS_uPM2yHBj9o-804DyUBasGRgFcJX5eQVWbBsFYITV47qNaJgsPXg-T22Jecee5jMsWUmsxVmh8pXMYWR2yw-gluKiU4dfbeRbdtuFURKhlSbhGoL0evMX6gJkUM8ef/s16000/fastcharlie.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>Still, I asked for (and got) the original, retitled <i>Fast Charlie</i>, from Hardcase Crime. Honestly, Hardcase Crime is probably a better home for the book than it's original publisher. But it didn't exist in 2003, and Uglytown's short existence gave the book some heft in its original run. However, when I originally read it, I had vastly different pictures of Charlie and Stan. Baccarin as Marcie, though, solidified my original image of the character. On reread, I couldn't help seeing Brosnan as Charlie and Caan as Stan.</p>
<p>It's pretty rare when an adaptation invokes the original so well. Look at how many times <i>Dune</i> has been done. David Lynch's mind-bending version wasn't even the first attempt. A French movie in the seventies would have probably required a visit from the Merry Pranksters, with their psychedelic Kool-Aid, to watch. The Syfy version lacked heart but at least could be followed. But <i>Dune</i> is a long, complicated book. Still, even the simplest novels can morph into something other than what the author intended. See <i>The Long Goodbye</i>.</p>Jim Winterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06122822825357026014noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-78273730912792096262024-03-14T00:13:00.001-04:002024-03-14T01:00:02.621-04:00True Crime History<p>I am not particularly fond of true crime books, which often have a sensationalist and voyeruistic angle that makes one feel for the relatives and friends of the protagonists. I am not even fond of those lightly fictionalized novels, "ripped from the headlines" as one of my old editors like
<p>But I have no reservations about Timothy Egan's <i>A Fever in the Heartland,</i> an account of a true crime certainly, but, even more, a vivid history of a real criminal enterprise. The book's subtitle, <i>The Klu Klux Klan's Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them</i>, provides a handy if rather exaggerated subtitle.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-z2CZ02Jebgh7jKvDXwR7wllkZUI1NfiwGhF9iDMZDejRmay7VFPZPdYC4QCElGoQtVueKZEJBEqvRxSt1rdl9erBwq_BD3xyxon_JGHqwJVgPCKfJJkUDtRgAtsFx9a8amCyv1hq1-BqackQR6hLylY5tVTgWMrVWHRI3dr8A0OFaep7nSAtrJucYys/s400/61423989.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-z2CZ02Jebgh7jKvDXwR7wllkZUI1NfiwGhF9iDMZDejRmay7VFPZPdYC4QCElGoQtVueKZEJBEqvRxSt1rdl9erBwq_BD3xyxon_JGHqwJVgPCKfJJkUDtRgAtsFx9a8amCyv1hq1-BqackQR6hLylY5tVTgWMrVWHRI3dr8A0OFaep7nSAtrJucYys/s320/61423989.jpg" width="212" /></a><span></span></div>
<p>Still, even if the plot only managed control of Indiana, the "fever in the Heartland" was a substantial historical event and, I think readers of the book will agree, an informative and cautionary tale that is still relevant. </p>
<p>America in the 1920's was very much a society in transition with all the strains of modernity under its jazz age exhuberance. There was a reservoir of racial bigotry north as well as south, along with anti-semitism and a general anti-immigrant animus, spurred by a sense that the nature of the country was changing and that the old social order, white and protestant, was under threat.</p>
<p>One of the men who saw promise in this stew of prejudice and resetment was a not particularly successful salesman named D.C. Stephenson, who devised a way to make hate pay well. He took over what had been a small time Klan outfit and revitalized it with big parades, picnics, and entertainments. The aim was to take bigotry mainstream and make the Klan look superficially like just another popular fraternal organization.</p>
<p>Stephenson was charismatic but also shrewd. His deal with the organization let him keep a substantial portion of what he promised would be increased profits from selling Klan regalia and robes and from membership fees. He was soon living luxuriously but there was still plenty of money left over to pursue his big aims, respectability and power. Under his direction, the Klan bribed judges and cops, subsidized pliant ministers, and funded like-minded or venial politicians.</p>
<p>Soon Stephenson and his associates were political powers in Indiana, and the Old Man, as he was called, had even begun to imagine a run for the White House. He might have been backed in the attempt, because his version of the Klan looked clean and upright and All American.</p>
<p>Of course, there was the dark side, the cross burnings, beatings, and not so subtle visitations of robed and hooded Klan members. But public sentiment saw the Klan as protecting their values and keeping lesser folk in their place. As for the journalists and independent thinkers who might raise a fuss, the Klan was backstopped by cops and judges and top officials.</p>
<p>Timothy Egan gives a vivid picture of how a democratic society was corrupted by hatred and money before he relates how the Klan and Stephenson fell from grace. Those savvy about American history will perhaps not be too surprised that it was not the Klan's politics that got them into trouble, nor their assaults on Blacks or Jews, but Stephenson's private failings, which ran to booze-fueled parties and sadistic sex. One of his victims was Madge Oberholtzer, an unlikely hero, who proved to be the one brave witness whose testimony began to unravel the Klan empire.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblTJv7ZZI1AQO55LhiFE40iPA-zySd07XJ8xRLuROfeKYAeBvsATCgOuA-iQeozGC6fxnc3sXliVJxtyuaMbvXML1HvMn0fKvqhbz2pMS44LWDmlI-xXtFGGah3pcQBpz9i4b-U_5cHpt0sKZhXwEhwoxagAKXaxRM47-U7y_6DmHDBaPwStV3D3g2Ho/s225/Unknown.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="155" data-original-width="225" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblTJv7ZZI1AQO55LhiFE40iPA-zySd07XJ8xRLuROfeKYAeBvsATCgOuA-iQeozGC6fxnc3sXliVJxtyuaMbvXML1HvMn0fKvqhbz2pMS44LWDmlI-xXtFGGah3pcQBpz9i4b-U_5cHpt0sKZhXwEhwoxagAKXaxRM47-U7y_6DmHDBaPwStV3D3g2Ho/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="225" /></a><span></span></div>
<p>Sharp characterizations, careful research, fast moving narrative – would more histories read like<i> A Fever in the Heartland</i>. I may have to modify my opinion of the true crime genre.</p>
<br /><hr width="25%" /><br />
<p><i>The Falling Men</i>, a novel with strong mystery elements, has been issued as an ebook on Amazon Kindle. Also on kindle: <i>The Complete Madame Selina Stories.</i></p>
<p><i>The Man Who Met the Elf Queen</i>, with two other fanciful short stories and 4 illustrations, is available from Apple Books at:</p>
<p>https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-man-who-met-the-elf-queen/id1072859654?ls=1&mt=11</p>
<p><span><i>The Dictator's Double,</i> 3 short mysteries and 4 illustrations is available at:</span></p>
<p><span>https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-dictators-double/id1607321864?ls=1&mt=11</span></p>Janice Lawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03406971307368250281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-50825033157744828202024-03-13T00:00:00.024-04:002024-03-13T00:00:00.133-04:00The Roaring 20's<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI80nqZ6iE2Gh8GEayQyIEtacXtA0EZNL41kJv4dn1MpMdqzUAhX-X1j6PTbcCWzT4E2hEC-L57V0OIBzxbPO_IF65dxTgJ-WA2c0GAzWXdr8lrhiy3LA0sZ-oCDRV0vr8ZjVMMFO1JvS_CZi-naIhfsKgonmBMr0q7aBqsf9Dm1Q5x4CdvYqcCvU_qsI/s1600/Criterion%20THE%20ROARING%2020'S.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI80nqZ6iE2Gh8GEayQyIEtacXtA0EZNL41kJv4dn1MpMdqzUAhX-X1j6PTbcCWzT4E2hEC-L57V0OIBzxbPO_IF65dxTgJ-WA2c0GAzWXdr8lrhiy3LA0sZ-oCDRV0vr8ZjVMMFO1JvS_CZi-naIhfsKgonmBMr0q7aBqsf9Dm1Q5x4CdvYqcCvU_qsI/s320/Criterion%20THE%20ROARING%2020'S.jpg" width="258" /></span></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Raoul
Walsh made some terrific pictures, some of them in fact great. You can make a good argument for <i>High Sierra</i>, <i>Pursued</i>, and <i>White Heat</i>,
but even the movies that aren’t obvious masterworks are pretty damn rousing: <i>They Died with Their Boots On</i>, <i>Gentleman <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Jim</st1:city><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><st1:state w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Colorado</st1:placename></st1:state></st1:place>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Territory</st1:placetype></i>, <i>The World in His Arms</i>, <i>The
Revolt of Mamie Stover</i>. He made four
features with Cagney, and probably only Wellman, in <i>The Public Enemy</i>, had more to do with shaping Cagney’s screen
persona. He made <i>ten</i> features with Flynn, and while it’s safe to say Michael Curtiz
invented the dashing Flynn swashbuckler most of us think of - <i>Robin Hood</i>, <i>The Sea Hawk</i> - it’s Walsh who gets more out of Flynn the
actor. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another
thing about Walsh is that he sets up bits of business that reverberate well
past their actual time on screen. There’s
a throwaway gag fairly early in <i>The
Roaring Twenties</i> that’s not only one of the coolest things in Walsh, it
turns out to be one of the coolest things in the history of the movies. (Since it’s a visual joke, I can’t really do
justice to it, but here goes.) Cagney
meets <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Priscilla Lane</st1:address></st1:street>
and falls head over heels. He squires
her home on the late train, from midtown Manhattan
to someplace out in the sticks, maybe Yonkers. Cagney mutes the trademark Cagney wiseacre, and
delivers enormous yearning and charm. In
the end, she’s fated to wind up with the straight-arrow DA instead of the
roguish bootlegger, but in the immediate present, you can entertain the same hopes
he does. The moment is suspended, a
single note hanging in the air, like the chime of a wineglass, the two of them completely
taken up with each other, a private </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">physical
space for themselves alone, but keeping a delicate distance, hoping not to
break the spell. They get to the last
stop, where she’s going to get off, and he gets off with her, to walk her home
from the station – because he’s still not ready to leave the moment behind –
and <i>here’s</i> the kicker. Cagney and <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Priscilla Lane</st1:address></st1:street> haven’t been shot in
close-up, i.e., a shot of his face, a reverse of hers, an alternating visual
dialogue; they’re shot together, over the back of the seat in front of them, so
you don’t get the feeling they’re <i>opposed</i>:
they’re in the same frame. Walsh also
frames the scene, at the beginning and the end, in a longer shot, that shows
the whole carriage, with Cagney and </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lane
about two-thirds of the way back in the nearly empty car.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">entirely</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">
empty.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Toward the front of the car,
closest to the camera, is a passed-out drunk, with his hat over his face.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">When the train pulls up, and Cagney and Lane
get off, the camera waits behind for a beat, and the drunk startles awake,
realizing it’s his stop, and stumbles out of the carriage.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Your </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">laugh</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">
breaks the spell.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This
scene on the train prefigures Garfield and Beatrice Pearson in the back of the
cab in Polonsky’s </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Force of Evil</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, and
the even more famous scene between Brando and Rod Steiger in </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">On the Waterfront</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">You can see its influence in the Coen
brothers’ </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Blood Simple</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, when the
camera tracks along the bar, and bumps </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">over</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">
the sleeping drunk, and then settles back down to surface level – instead of
effectively dollying </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">through</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> him,
because in the convention or conceit of movie-world, the camera takes no notice
of such physical obstacles, a wall or a window, a speeding car, a piece of
furniture.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The camera, first of all, is
omniscient, and secondly, it doesn’t exist in the same physical space as an
object or an actor.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s a ghost, it isn’t present.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Walsh
doesn’t break the Fourth Wall, that’s not where I’m going.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">And he doesn’t call attention to
himself.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He’s not doing a Hitchcock,
inviting you behind the curtain.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He’s
very straightforward.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">In fact, the story
goes that he’d turn his back on a scene, and then turn around and ask his
cameraman if it went right, as if he were embarrassed to be a grown man, doing
something this stupid to make a living.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">But look at the way he sets stuff up, the </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">scaling</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, the intuitive balance between the epic and the intimate.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ward Bond has an amazing cameo in </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Gentleman Jim</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> as John L. Sullivan, the
bare-knuckles heavyweight champ that Corbett knocks out in the ring.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He comes, literally hat in hand, to the door
of the victory party, and when Corbett asks him in, Sullivan says no.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He’s the past, he tells him, an old
punch-drunk palooka with cauliflower ears; Corbett’s the future, what the Irish
can aspire to.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The most astonishing
thing about it is that you can easily imagine this with Ward Bond, or maybe
Victor McLaglen, in the hands of John Ford, and watch it get grossly
oversold.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s sentimental, but Walsh
has the sense not to play it for sentiment.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another
example. Custer leaves for the Little
Big Horn, in <i>They Died with Their Boots
On</i>. (Even in sympathetic
biographies, Custer comes across as a bully, if never a physical coward; Flynn,
interestingly, plays him as ingratiating and thick-witted, exaggerating his own
least likables.) It’s the last time
Libby Custer will see her husband alive.
(Libby devoted her widowhood to promoting the Custer legend, the golden-haired
Achilles of the Plains; she was remarkably successful. Olivia de Havilland is a sympathetic Libby,
but the real woman had ice in her veins.)
The way Walsh shows it, Custer kisses her goodbye and steps away, out of
the frame. The camera draws back
slightly, a medium shot, Libby in the lamplight. She’s standing stiffly, as if posed for a
daguerrotype, her eyes wide, her mouth barely parted, one hand resting on the
dresser next to her, the other clutched to the front of her dress, and then she
crumples, all of a piece. I think
there’s a sudden pulled focus, just as it happens, a quick trick of the lens,
that underlines her abandonment, but I’m </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">not
quite sure.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It might be something my own
eye added.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And
the justly famous tracking shot in </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">White
Heat</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, in the prison mess hall, first from right to left - Cagney asking how
his mom’s doing, passed down the line of cons to Edmond O’Brien – and then back
from left to right – the word that she’s dead, all of it done in pantomime, and
then Cagney, zero-to-sixty, batshit psycho in a tenth of a second.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Word is, the scene wasn’t shot as written,
Cagney and Walsh set it up without warning the extras, and Cagney took it to
the bank.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">The Roaring Twenties</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> was
released in 1939, which was one hell of a year for pictures, and you can make a
case that it caps the Warner Bros. gangster picture.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It hits all the marks, with plenty of vigor, but the </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">movie’s a swan song for the genre.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Cagney personifies this.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">The Roaring Twenties</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> is one of his most
physical performances.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mark Asch, in his
essay for the Criterion DVD release, points out that he seems to think with his
body, that he expresses all his energies and emotions with it, his hands, the
balls of his feet, the way his eyes change.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He’s always restless, in motion, checking the threat environment.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">And as the picture winds down, he loses that
intensity, that muscular purpose.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He
turns into an old soak, living on memories.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">His last gasp, when he comes out of hiding – from the promises he’s made
himself – is like watching somebody try on a set of clothes that don’t fit
anymore.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the end, he lives up to his
promises.</span></span></p>
<br /><hr width=25% /><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The Roaring Twenties</span></i><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"> is out on a new DVD restoration from Criterion,
although not available on the Criterion Channel to stream. There’s a halfway decent print on YouTube, even
if the subtitles are strange.</span></span></p>David Edgerley Gateshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05302818835018859164noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-32964172738329134532024-03-12T00:00:00.000-04:002024-03-12T00:00:00.128-04:00Writerhood of the Traveling Pants<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWA6YcfZKnI-Q-NmTVTetqjj7QInqp2ZpAAc4-WjU5N52ZbuMsdahIJWCkp4PtuKhtNGkMoTaHT8pnKI4fOe3MPh8r2OTwBa_CHcxnfDMaX57qqz3y5bnSKlZa3IJBAjTeEAobhyphenhyphen0xfdDyS3Lu6_tfVCmGCOWDCJbKadRwsRVJViWg3ImjFUjnBPyyg/s4032/IMG_3038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWA6YcfZKnI-Q-NmTVTetqjj7QInqp2ZpAAc4-WjU5N52ZbuMsdahIJWCkp4PtuKhtNGkMoTaHT8pnKI4fOe3MPh8r2OTwBa_CHcxnfDMaX57qqz3y5bnSKlZa3IJBAjTeEAobhyphenhyphen0xfdDyS3Lu6_tfVCmGCOWDCJbKadRwsRVJViWg3ImjFUjnBPyyg/s320/IMG_3038.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Which pants shall I pack?</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p>This is shaping up to be a busy year, with multiple projects due before year-end. It’ll be even busier than usual because I’m attending several conferences and conventions.</p><p>A busy travel schedule is unusual for me. Until the past few years, circumstances prevented me from attending most conferences, conventions, and related writing events, only putting Bouchercon and Malice Domestic on my regular schedule after Temple and I married.</p><p>Last year, I increased my travel schedule. In addition to Bouchercon and Malice, I attended Between The Pages Writers Conference, Crime Bake, and the Edgar Awards banquet. This year, I’m already scheduled to attend Bouchercon, the Edgar Awards banquet, Left Coast Crime, Malice Domestic, ShortCon, SleuthFest, ThrillerFest, and the Texas Institute of Letters Conference. I will also Zoom in for Mystery in the Midlands, and next week will do an online presentation for Sisters in Crime Northeast. (Unfortunately, Temple still works a day job and is only able to join me for a few of these events.)</p><p>While the online presentations and conferences don’t require travel, they do require putting on pants. In addition to remembering to pack my pants for the live events, the other conferences and conventions require additional planning—from determining which airlines, which flights, and which airports to fly from to determining if I can fit everything I need into a carry-on bag or if I’ll need to pack so much that a checked bag (or two) will be required.</p><p>And all the traveling cuts into writing and editing time. So, do I take my laptop computer—which is one more thing to tote around—and attempt to work? That hasn’t generally worked out well for me.</p><p>For those of you who travel extensively in support of your writing career, what tips do you have? Do you take a laptop computer with you, and do you actually manage to get work done?</p><p><b>2024 TRAVEL SCHEDULE</b></p><p>If you’re also attending any of these live events, please stop me and say howdy.</p><p>Left Coast Crime <a href="https://leftcoastcrime.org/2024/">https://leftcoastcrime.org/2024/</a></p><p>Malice Domestic <a href="https://www.malicedomestic.net/">https://www.malicedomestic.net/</a></p><p>Edgar Awards Banquet <a href="https://mysterywriters.org/product/2024-edgar-award-banquet-tickets/">https://mysterywriters.org/product/2024-edgar-award-banquet-tickets/</a></p><p>Texas Institute of Letters Conference <a href="https://texasinstituteofletters.org/">https://texasinstituteofletters.org/</a></p><p>ThrillerFest <a href="https://thrillerfest.com/">https://thrillerfest.com/</a></p><p>ShortCon</p><p>Bouchercon <a href="https://www.bouchercon2024.com/">https://www.bouchercon2024.com/</a></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ETzmT4wy5X3SDmZXGxinaQBlSiiPMmXodhED0yi9LUN0HwCG76bIPiflRbaIkaXOUTIF3PHc98LVYlvANd35cjGBRlCkL4li0Ka1V_4-cexBC5rr0boSKylPWl3U9fRZOKK4JSVxySzPJp8RYyaCP-s2C59ot85KKzMX051EdS-1qFjsaGZw6QtT9A/s1250/MURDER-NEAT-3D-6x9-Thick-Paperback.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1007" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ETzmT4wy5X3SDmZXGxinaQBlSiiPMmXodhED0yi9LUN0HwCG76bIPiflRbaIkaXOUTIF3PHc98LVYlvANd35cjGBRlCkL4li0Ka1V_4-cexBC5rr0boSKylPWl3U9fRZOKK4JSVxySzPJp8RYyaCP-s2C59ot85KKzMX051EdS-1qFjsaGZw6QtT9A/w161-h200/MURDER-NEAT-3D-6x9-Thick-Paperback.png" width="161" /></a></div>
<p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Neat-SleuthSayers-Michael-Bracken/dp/1685125662/ref=sr_1_1" target="_blank">Murder, Neat: A SleuthSayers Anthology</a> <i>(Level Short, 2024) contains 24 stories by some of your favorite short-story writers. So, belly up to the bar, order your favorite libation, crack the spine, and wet your literary whistle.</i></p>Michael Brackenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01072019804281421944noreply@blogger.com2Hewitt, TX, USA31.462390199999991 -97.19583773.1521563638211454 -132.3520877 59.77262403617884 -62.0395877tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-89283463147164730462024-03-11T00:00:00.010-04:002024-03-11T00:00:00.131-04:00Your attention is most kindly requested.<p><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I often read in the newspaper that
there’s been a general erosion in common civility. </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">That may be true, since why argue with sociological
studies and the finely tuned antennas of our media watch dogs, ever alert for
any diminishment in our quality of life.<span> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>But I just don’t see it.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">That is, I rarely suffer this during my
day-to-day undertakings.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In fact, I
think people are mostly more congenial and sociable than they used to be.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It could be that since I now have white hair
they take pity on me and my declining faculties, and express greater kindness than
I experienced as a young man.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Maybe I’m
now more convivial myself, and get rewarded by a response in kind.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’m willing to accept these variables as suggesting
I’m all wrong.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Though still not be convinced</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It might be that social media
interactions are larded with terribly disrespectful and aggressive behaviors,
and that has warped our perception of the overall state of public comportment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since I participate in social media only glancingly,
and then only with friendly people I know, I never confront such conduct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I did I’d tell the offenders, in the nicest
way possible, to stick it in their ears and never communicate with them again.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBS0o3IYyNUr506ZYUT8ONF29gnjgerIaG4GXhyCvOmecgpKZ66uzqxaA52qVpY71x_JaH6u2E84u9SdB-ZINphuwDiBNk0lBUTXXYkJ_V52K0j9ZW53Z7fjYi7r44w3UIK9waw2Ex-q-uV23ZaDPoG77Txsu0qAK4MWM5UWCnIF_Mxqy2bBPG5yBbyaq/s2420/jack%201.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2420" data-original-width="1816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBS0o3IYyNUr506ZYUT8ONF29gnjgerIaG4GXhyCvOmecgpKZ66uzqxaA52qVpY71x_JaH6u2E84u9SdB-ZINphuwDiBNk0lBUTXXYkJ_V52K0j9ZW53Z7fjYi7r44w3UIK9waw2Ex-q-uV23ZaDPoG77Txsu0qAK4MWM5UWCnIF_Mxqy2bBPG5yBbyaq/s320/jack%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> It helps to have a dog.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Only the hardest heart can resist our terrier’s
charms.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">He elicits good feelings from
every version of human being, irrespective of socio-economic standing, race,
creed, orientation or nationality.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We
once had a motorcycle gang cooing over our pups, comparing notes on healthy diets
and grooming strategies.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I think foreigners
first learn our language by saying “Hello.”, “How much?”, “Where’s the
bathroom?” and “Cute dog!”</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We’re the
fortunate beneficiaries of this canine charisma, since much of it seems to rub off.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>I’ve been to Ireland and Australia, countries
that have set the English-speaking gold standard for full-throated cheerfulness and good will toward any and all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By contrast, I live in New York and New England, who many contend occupy
the other end of the spectrum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this isn’t
really fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New Yorkers are actually quite
friendly and garrulous, it just feels like they’re shouting at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to tune your ears to the right
pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>New Englanders are taciturn and
reserved, it’s true, though get them started on a favorite subject, like the
Patriots’ defensive line or the best route from Cambridge to Logan Airport, and
they’ll talk your head off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You do have to make more of an effort to
engage a New Englander, unlike a person from almost anywhere else in the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If all you say at the check out
line is “thank you” as they bag the groceries, don’t expect much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they ask, “How are you today?” give them a
broadside of jolly commentary on your current state of being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even include a complaint or two, delivered
with the sort of rueful irony that invites commiseration. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span>“Could be sunnier.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span>“Yeah, but we need the rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Roma tomatoes just lap that stuff up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the zucchinis?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Don’t
I know it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>I used to drive the Massachusetts
Turnpike all the time, and before they did away with the toll gates, there was
one guy so irredeemably buoyant and busting with bon homme that a line would
form at his booth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>“There’s your change, sir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One dollar and thirty-five cents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buy yourself something fun!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQGyRl4b-2IvkySX6Hr9Z2976uPNpTmkEe9Y-zHZc_RqnrB_IHPkv1LNd8ypvBjeNymqO3qA_EqnTf73p15G70AdhEIChfrRuAl17BhVbJ4a_MSKASWVRim6LxpavwrWjtBSwxkYQ3QF_zVaesISsHn0Y1zjhCOwXa2mffexPZ_iW-FYRnbUlA6jDSfYQ/s1152/Bogie.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQGyRl4b-2IvkySX6Hr9Z2976uPNpTmkEe9Y-zHZc_RqnrB_IHPkv1LNd8ypvBjeNymqO3qA_EqnTf73p15G70AdhEIChfrRuAl17BhVbJ4a_MSKASWVRim6LxpavwrWjtBSwxkYQ3QF_zVaesISsHn0Y1zjhCOwXa2mffexPZ_iW-FYRnbUlA6jDSfYQ/s320/Bogie.webp" width="213" /></a></div> Mindful of our brief here at Sleuth Sayers,
I do have a way to link this happy state of affairs to writing fiction.<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">If you only follow the observations of our
gloomy journalists and academics, you’ll not only feel enduringly depressed,
you’ll deviate from your lived experience.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">You’ll break the law of authenticity.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The world isn’t a disagreeable place, most of the time.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Genuine assholes are notable simply because
they’re so rare.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>W</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">riting hardboiled crime novels is
no excuse.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Even Humphrey Bogart (channeling
Marlowe) said, "I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners.</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don't like ‘em myself.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Chris Knopfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124637275019627545noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-66158398506788342762024-03-10T00:00:00.113-05:002024-03-15T06:44:35.755-04:00Why Backstories Matter Today More Than Ever. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0rtyyv6IjFg4MCLZbiew9AxDB-jfSTrXjyXBXkw_iu3FhHDc1VYEtqX1gJ-LheDl4Lhh6ELfOPxUqz8X2rYGHSsG3Q6MOW_s4-S7JM179RO-91wpa74eA2jIxxfWkftY7m-RbdOKk8OptlPy_JWlxqZmtdL3IFp_zkieFHesOLjFij0UUan_uaLVkLZWR/s320/Untitled%20copy.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0rtyyv6IjFg4MCLZbiew9AxDB-jfSTrXjyXBXkw_iu3FhHDc1VYEtqX1gJ-LheDl4Lhh6ELfOPxUqz8X2rYGHSsG3Q6MOW_s4-S7JM179RO-91wpa74eA2jIxxfWkftY7m-RbdOKk8OptlPy_JWlxqZmtdL3IFp_zkieFHesOLjFij0UUan_uaLVkLZWR/s1600/Untitled%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>In mystery books, many of us consider backstories of perpetrators and the victims of crimes the meat of the book. Apropos of exactly that, lately I’ve written about the rise of hate speech against many vulnerable groups because this is the backstory to hate crimes. Doctors like me always tout preventive medicine and, as a person, it’s my core belief that crime prevention is better than crime investigations.</p>
<p>This month brought to light the terrible consequence of a fetid backstory that’s been gaining ground. I’ll reference events in Canada because that’s what I know best, but this has been a problem in the United States and other countries around the world. So, although the backstory is Canadian, the crime occurred in America.</p>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">Backstory:</h4>
<p><a href="https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/university-of-waterloo-stabbing-arrest">In June, 2023,</a> a professor and two students were stabbed at a gender studies lecture at the University of Waterloo and the police cited the motivation as “hate related to gender expression and gender identity.”</p>
<p>By <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/kitchener-waterloo/universities-remove-course-info-from-websites-university-of-waterloo-1.6951618">August, 2023</a>, many universities removed class locations and instructor names from the public domain to protect those teaching gender studies. The president of the Ontario Confederation of University Faculty Associations, which represents 17,000 university faculty and academic librarians, said “racist, anti-feminist, anti-LGBTQ and other hate-motivated online extremism is being seen on university campuses and classes that explore social and gender issues.”</p>
<p>Despite the proof that anti-LGBTQ hate speech results in violence, in September we saw Marches against LGBTQ Canadians. I wrote about this in <a href="https://www.sleuthsayers.org/2023/10/on-our-street.html ">On our Streets</a> and referenced these marches with the Orwellian name “Leave our kids alone” that actually targeted LGBTQ children. These marchers claimed that children were too young to hear about our LGBTQ community but what they really didn’t want is teaching our children the facts: some people are gay, trans or binary and that’s OK because Canadian laws protect them. One video of these marches showed a child claiming that LGBTQ Canadians are“disgusting” so, apparently, they weren’t too young to hear about the LGBTQ community, talk about them or insult them. They were just too young to hear that being LGBTQ is OK.</p>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">Crime:</h4>
<p>In <a href="https://www.teenvogue.com/story/nex-benedict-everything-we-know-about-16-year-old-oklahoma-students-death">February, 2024, </a>Nex Benedict, a 16-year-old Oklahoma high school sophomore, who identified as transgender and non-binary, had her head smashed repeatedly against the bathroom floor by fellow students and she died from her injuries.</p>
<p>Many people I’ve spoken with justify their silence on attacks against LGBTQ by saying they don’t really understand the issue. Surely, killing a child by bashing their head against a bathroom floor because they claim to be transgender and non-binary requires no complex understanding of sexual development to know this is wrong and a grotesque crime.</p>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">Our collective backstory:</h4>
<p>Hate speech is a crime in Canada. Less so in the United States. Regardless of the legal status, hate speech is the backstory to an increasing number of vicious attacks against innocent people. Another crucial backstory is silence. </p>
<p>When I post on social media about many types of hate speech, more recently about antisemitic hate speech, I get some very ugly pushback. This is why many people are increasingly silent on hate speech related issues. It’s difficult to speak up.</p>
<p>Martin Luther King’s haunting line applies to this silence: “The ultimate tragedy, is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people.”</p>
<p>So, if we are writing a fulsome backstory of bigoted physical attacks on people whether they be Asian, Jewish, LGBTQ or any other group - the silence of the many would be part of that.</p>
<p><b>How do we speak up? </b></p>
<p>Here on SleuthSayers, I’ve been so fortunate that Leigh Lundin and Robert Lopresti have been kind enough to allow me to indulge my penchant for writing crime backstories. On social media, I have followers who are incredibly decent and decry hate speech and hate crimes – and this makes it easier to handle the rude pushback. </p>
<p>Ultimately, it is the fact – and it is a fact – that we write the backstories for others daily and this should make us eschew silence. These are dangerous days for the rise of hate. In my decades of living, I’ve never felt so worried as I am now. If you’re not scared, you’re not paying attention.</p><p>This rise of hate against so many groups worldwide isn't just organic. Many reports from intelligence agencies show it's funded by foreign countries to sow dissent within our democracies, as well as by Neo-nazi movements, funded by ardent believers, some of whom have a great deal of money. It often feels like those of us speaking out are playing checkers with chess players who have moves, money and motives that we don't understand. It's all so infuriating. And depressing. I hope that writing backstories will help people connect the dots and maybe that will matter. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>UPDATE: </b>Do new autopsy results clarify what happened to Nex? I give you the summary by a child paediatrician - because, of course, there are many who do not want this to be murder, but Dr. O'Brien clarifies the cause.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_s4JIqNz9zaa7VW0fbCBRjB8a375vG0AJUhFXPxTUy2XNik7xNLV_EMaBx_6Ro9x0ZHBYuNzHni5Delrw7shMKOW73WjJA7L6z39EYmF9u710fACgD_1VHiAJtsdRkr3GBOP-JE5Rg6Qk4wFRvA6pETXECnRutVAJmx9wLP0nn3XhuwSVC65kGvA0PmU/s1002/Screenshot%202024-03-15%20at%206.35.33%E2%80%AFAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1002" data-original-width="598" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_s4JIqNz9zaa7VW0fbCBRjB8a375vG0AJUhFXPxTUy2XNik7xNLV_EMaBx_6Ro9x0ZHBYuNzHni5Delrw7shMKOW73WjJA7L6z39EYmF9u710fACgD_1VHiAJtsdRkr3GBOP-JE5Rg6Qk4wFRvA6pETXECnRutVAJmx9wLP0nn3XhuwSVC65kGvA0PmU/w300-h405/Screenshot%202024-03-15%20at%206.35.33%E2%80%AFAM.png" width="300" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mary Fernandohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095691813967544051noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-44741532978262828802024-03-09T00:36:00.691-05:002024-03-09T00:36:00.141-05:00What the Hell, Let's Make Wine: On "Noble Rot" in Murder, Neat<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEu9SgQo9fA2MErwPfhaSU7Exog86_pxboZHj689VuonSJWDVY7sMt4w4W0eUpibBIKZ7SK8EvwLNwYL5vuyB9ao2UJniBtiSCNiMMSDzHS848K2tHHZVPra7kPGpVDjVQuIquCe8513orGq4og_zXVeKWVDxkS3Xm21AGnXF0Qz8HUaAafVZyDfJAt8M/s2000/Murder%20Neat%202024%20Sleuthsayers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEu9SgQo9fA2MErwPfhaSU7Exog86_pxboZHj689VuonSJWDVY7sMt4w4W0eUpibBIKZ7SK8EvwLNwYL5vuyB9ao2UJniBtiSCNiMMSDzHS848K2tHHZVPra7kPGpVDjVQuIquCe8513orGq4og_zXVeKWVDxkS3Xm21AGnXF0Qz8HUaAafVZyDfJAt8M/w202-h303/Murder%20Neat%202024%20Sleuthsayers.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><p><i>I'm told this entry winds up our collective series going behind </i>Murder, Neat<i>. I've enjoyed these backgrounders as much as I've enjoyed reading the anthology. Pick up a copy, and you'll see what I mean. </i>Murder, Neat<i> is also perfect for birthdays, spring solstices, allergy season, or any occasion you've got going on.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>Given my name, you won't be surprised to hear I'm of French heritage. As best we know the history, the Mangeots did okay over there--until the Revolution. Ah, well. <i>C'est la guerre</i>. <p></p><p>Having old France in my blood, you also wouldn't be surprised to hear I enjoy wine. I'll go so far as to claim I've accumulated minor wine knowledge. I said minor, so don't quiz me. One nugget explained to me on a vineyard tour way back was a winemaking technique with a particularly catchy name: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noble_rot#:~:text=Grapes%20typically%20become%20infected%20with,fine%20and%20concentrated%20sweet%20wine." target="_blank">noble rot</a>.</p><p>What a word combination. Noble plus rot catches the eye, dances on the tongue, sparks the imagination. It's that juxtaposition, noble to rot, a lofty start and steep descent as if inevitable. Poetry? Depends on your tastes. In real life, the term is more like good marketing. </p><p>What's known today as noble rot started out in Hungary or Germany, depending on the account. To oversimplify, the vintner inoculates their ripening grapes with a fungus. Happy little fungi from the same family as makes penicillin, bleu cheese, and athlete's foot. Then, the vintner walks away. It's not until a late harvest and a chill in the air that picking time arrives. By then, the fungi turns the grapes into super-intense raisins. Those raisins are the secret behind some of the finest sweet wines on this planet. Tokay, Sauternes, Riesling. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVurzAwlLoD_yBnvOPa21PmX3sbMBhvevZZB3OWGHiATFE9c5BA7VLE6T-H8jnODiDpy3038hyphenhyphenosyKzy-HyVxeZq2w-RIIN9_9FNjV8CWue-TBfXDTXw1QjRdSxY95yitAGfRuaYw9Hb85bJPQil1zXGQoRRawQjDukznGf2mWe4soZ5coq_tl8qPj1TU/s960/Slide1.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVurzAwlLoD_yBnvOPa21PmX3sbMBhvevZZB3OWGHiATFE9c5BA7VLE6T-H8jnODiDpy3038hyphenhyphenosyKzy-HyVxeZq2w-RIIN9_9FNjV8CWue-TBfXDTXw1QjRdSxY95yitAGfRuaYw9Hb85bJPQil1zXGQoRRawQjDukznGf2mWe4soZ5coq_tl8qPj1TU/w195-h146/Slide1.JPG" width="195" /></a></div>That's the high-gloss version, but let's be honest. The method surely sprung from desperation. Rewind however many centuries, and surely a German or Hungarian vintner schlub dilly-dallied at harvest time. It got to be October, and the wind bode a frost, and wolves howled from the foothills, and the vintner's family shoved him outside to get the grapes picked. The vintner sidled to the vines and discovered that a nasty fungal situation had spread something fierce, and the vintner said, "What the hell, let's make wine."<p></p><p>Rot done well. For art. I'd wanted to write about all that. For a while, actually.</p><p>Opportunity came when Sleuthsayers decided on an anthology. The call was for stories with a bar somehow a core element. My fellow Sleuthsayers' submissions would include amazing stories using saloons and dives and well-drawn noir tones. So I went another direction. I played with other types of bars and landed on a wine bar. I might've been sitting at my basement wine bar at the time. </p><p>Anyway, a submission. I kept brainstorming wine things and soon landed back on that brewing noble rot concept. All I needed next was a story. About a state of rotting. Nobly. And for that, folks, let me welcome you to Nashville.</p><p>We Mangeots aren't alone in moving along when fortunes take a turn. Middle Tennessee boasts a near-inexhaustible supply of ex-rockers settled here after their chart-topping runs ended. That isn't a critique. The ex-rocker colony makes large and welcome civic contributions, and they invest in stuff. Stuff like wineries. And rich winery owners have tasting rooms. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqE1IyVhHgCoMSCEFn3mWoO8Bhuytalit_mwXNBJ78zHx45TH0tfoAQuGyZ_QUzhSsjeVvE8SL4R3N6pVbWuoCLoQO6_MzdTC1h-A3lT6fxEoCiXRPIwdA6MuKIHqgDA399ZNKAfBcIU4y0QwSoU9UfW3COehAl77OGrFj0puv8TkIBPi77g1bBTkuOs/s960/Slide2.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqE1IyVhHgCoMSCEFn3mWoO8Bhuytalit_mwXNBJ78zHx45TH0tfoAQuGyZ_QUzhSsjeVvE8SL4R3N6pVbWuoCLoQO6_MzdTC1h-A3lT6fxEoCiXRPIwdA6MuKIHqgDA399ZNKAfBcIU4y0QwSoU9UfW3COehAl77OGrFj0puv8TkIBPi77g1bBTkuOs/w266-h199/Slide2.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>Rockers moving here makes sense from their lens. Nashville has long had country chart-only stars, and the city culture protects their privacy. A faded rocker can run to the grocery with no hassles. Nashville has a cheaper cost of living (or used to), no state income tax, a bevy of top studios and historic venues, and a chance to plug into a peer group with similar life experiences and creative bents. <p></p><p>These rockers haven't lost their talent. The voice might be going, the hand a beat slow sometimes, but the creativity and musicianship are still there. It's excellent that they hang around the music scene. One might say noble, in its way. Noble, but also fair game. After all, these headliners used to embody sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Now, they're on YouTube cooking their favorite recipes and aging with their audiences. Not always comfortably, which is the core idea behind my story "Noble Rot."</p><p>To smash-summarize the premise, a 90s grunge guitarist moved to Nashville after both his fame and edge waned. He's in that nostalgia-act phase, a short set at festivals guy. He doesn't care that his career is on life support. He only wants to make wine. His agent, though, isn't done with music yet. To grasp for relevance, it's time to embrace a Great American Songbook cover album. The plot centers around the agent's pitch, with the inevitable complications and moral choices. Plus a hit of gonzo, if I did it right.</p><p>You might've also been wondering about Tennessee wine-making beyond huckleberry. Few grape varietals thrive consistently in the mid-South. Too humid, the climate too ideal for--hang on for it--fungal diseases. </p><p>Grapes do grow, over thirty varietals, and many more tons get shipped in. Noble rot wine can happen here, given the right winemaker and the right microclimate. That's what Nashville is for those aging rockers, a microclimate where some of them put out the best music of their lives. And that's what "Noble Rot" is about, microclimates and life choices, the inevitable fade of great things and the fight against it, that eternal hope for beauty in life's next act. </p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><h3 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbm3ryZwmO5BDOkOQnylXxGrEhyVf39k2FMSUrqi2ods5RVCSSaPNhlli_1kPU_ZD9s957AezLZ1j_xZnXiDYbtDUuxHSzfzFyv1jl2xgJE3Cbbg_-VFvaplet9ZuesFeG4D1ms5Rzd9FR6YOKo_p8t3Z2yNSl7RSv_p1qaITGbs06GKi9NPnQY3I7-90/s1080/3-Murder,%20Neat.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbm3ryZwmO5BDOkOQnylXxGrEhyVf39k2FMSUrqi2ods5RVCSSaPNhlli_1kPU_ZD9s957AezLZ1j_xZnXiDYbtDUuxHSzfzFyv1jl2xgJE3Cbbg_-VFvaplet9ZuesFeG4D1ms5Rzd9FR6YOKo_p8t3Z2yNSl7RSv_p1qaITGbs06GKi9NPnQY3I7-90/w385-h385/3-Murder,%20Neat.png" width="385" /></a></h3><br />Bob Mangeothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07888391367916922601noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-81732971514658454892024-03-08T00:00:00.027-05:002024-03-08T00:00:00.135-05:00Irish Neat<p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4h_g_KtTvlAATNzeR8iPvK-B5Yc0O1KnbUXJsMNxMIN8l41PrNW_JHPc7zl2ZmesR-jsmKrkXYRKimFuy5mUVjSQsdRHDwUpVsOF3ScGu11jAvrjlyfXEW-bFT3IRei4B4b9iWp9BCAq8O3o0ltndjmjPoVmSrQ63RPXP2TtCzkfKx2jo55JfAtZ0TQe0/s928/David%20Dean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4h_g_KtTvlAATNzeR8iPvK-B5Yc0O1KnbUXJsMNxMIN8l41PrNW_JHPc7zl2ZmesR-jsmKrkXYRKimFuy5mUVjSQsdRHDwUpVsOF3ScGu11jAvrjlyfXEW-bFT3IRei4B4b9iWp9BCAq8O3o0ltndjmjPoVmSrQ63RPXP2TtCzkfKx2jo55JfAtZ0TQe0/w277-h320/David%20Dean.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><br />by David Dean<br /><br />“The Atonement of Michael Darcy” in MURDER NEAT is the last—I think—in a sporadic series concerning an Irish American crime gang. When I wrote the first story concerning this crew it was meant to be a stand-alone tale. But as sometimes happens to writers, I found that “The Assumption of Seamus Tyrrell” needed a follow-up. This became “The Salvation of Seamus Tyrrell.” Of course, this story demanded a sibling and so it went for four more tales in the less-than-epic recounting of a fictional crime mob operating out of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Every time I would think I was out of it; these small-time hoodlums and killers pulled me back in for another heist or hit. Somebody’s got to feed the baby they’d say. So, I’d fire up the old laptop.<br /> <p></p><p>Michael Darcy, the protagonist of my entry in this anthology, got out long ago. Not voluntarily, but through the intervention of the legal system. When we meet up with him, he’s well past his sell-by date and knows it. All he wants after a long stint in prison is a decent whiskey in the old neighborhood bar. He gets more than that, of course, as the title of the story suggests. <br /> </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaKcGJMAsO7pTP7fJCsjnY7QkhbjcfPISIx_bk6gYCz7X7vL8dIn9rxya1Aglot8_hDMkt3Fh3DEfbj34eBtDle_TAyQ2-i9bHyymfNcsZPKeYM2qCFh3AeC7zNUgcxwwKZ237C2ZszOV-A9JtBSbT1DH1jR-6Fx7FJxep8a4l-CTF2_whLJySAmv_EDa/s640/Tavern%20in%20Elizabeth%20(002).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaKcGJMAsO7pTP7fJCsjnY7QkhbjcfPISIx_bk6gYCz7X7vL8dIn9rxya1Aglot8_hDMkt3Fh3DEfbj34eBtDle_TAyQ2-i9bHyymfNcsZPKeYM2qCFh3AeC7zNUgcxwwKZ237C2ZszOV-A9JtBSbT1DH1jR-6Fx7FJxep8a4l-CTF2_whLJySAmv_EDa/s320/Tavern%20in%20Elizabeth%20(002).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tavern in Elizabeth<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>When Michael Bracken revealed that the theme of this anthology was to be crime fiction and bars, I was already there. The gang and I practically live in one. It’s where Seamus, Michael, Jimmy Blake, Thaddeus Burke, and all the rest of our crew plot our best work. Our motto has always been, ‘Why work sober, if you have a choice?’ Crime can be thirsty work, and don’t these fellas know it. <br /> </p><p> Stop in for a short one with Michael Darcy and you’ll see what I mean.<br /> </p><p>Oh yeah, I almost forgot—some of the best crime writers working in short fiction today also have stories in this book. You can’t go wrong, unless, like Michael Darcy, you do. He didn’t read this book. <br /> <br /> <br /></p>mystery guesthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352979692241386956noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-48951550184635341432024-03-07T00:00:00.074-05:002024-03-07T00:00:00.351-05:00Ale You Need is Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSsT3916H_rfFQ4k-38IGAiY0gYU0-VfgBZf_jkvmRIRcQTfpjKjvHmNFpASO_cm1_5Elyn6ozEnrsmGn8Vo7O3XRR0Y5HNYkDxW_hCYIKzLzq9nYnWWV-OqmvpTQ7OkBISF4mC8SdmGbeLqd912XoCqYBKDECTF_vqBlLychtFQ0M4Rhl3u_3Zfem2c/s1080/pro-tip.png" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="mug of beer" border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSsT3916H_rfFQ4k-38IGAiY0gYU0-VfgBZf_jkvmRIRcQTfpjKjvHmNFpASO_cm1_5Elyn6ozEnrsmGn8Vo7O3XRR0Y5HNYkDxW_hCYIKzLzq9nYnWWV-OqmvpTQ7OkBISF4mC8SdmGbeLqd912XoCqYBKDECTF_vqBlLychtFQ0M4Rhl3u_3Zfem2c/w320-h320/pro-tip.png" title="mug of beer" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>Confession time.</p>
<p>I’m not a beer drinker. Never have been. In my early days of enjoying spiked beverages, I reached for wine coolers (shoutout to my two college friends, Bartles and James). Then Scotch whiskey, both single malt and blends, took over as my libation of choice. These days, I favor crisp Italian white wines.</p>
<p>Which is a long way of saying, I was in store for some fun new-to-me research to help craft my short story of suspense, “Not Yo’ Mama’s IPA” in <i>Murder, Neat, </i>the SleuthSayers Anthology. I took Happy Hour fieldtrips to a few of Richmond, Virginia’s finest brew pubs. Tasted flights of beers. Studied the origins of IPAs, as well as the proper way to pour and serve. Did you know India Pale Ales (a.k.a. IPAs) have their own dedicated glassware? I didn’t when I started plotting my story idea.</p>
<p>Well, then if not beer, what inspired my story, you might wonder? An insurance statement delivered by snail mail not so long ago. Sexy? Maybe not, but I found it pretty compelling.</p>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhusDGLaM4ORhvmmQ0gHP5A8OQN2skqo35exQF3IrJbgeMvkExuPfEOdCjU-wtToggMflvkjNjQHFWZtswravcwuVRN2SsOKbFGPbsPhW049VlZx2sUyhhljhx0YQ8MAkq_XDIExQhppUcNbXKOFEhPDPOJ9lsAnmEIo1HnCdq3EbKE1uvMIt5evnYGaL8/s1600/KristinKisska-LindseyPantelePhotgraphy.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Kristin Kisska" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1031" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhusDGLaM4ORhvmmQ0gHP5A8OQN2skqo35exQF3IrJbgeMvkExuPfEOdCjU-wtToggMflvkjNjQHFWZtswravcwuVRN2SsOKbFGPbsPhW049VlZx2sUyhhljhx0YQ8MAkq_XDIExQhppUcNbXKOFEhPDPOJ9lsAnmEIo1HnCdq3EbKE1uvMIt5evnYGaL8/w206-h320/KristinKisska-LindseyPantelePhotgraphy.jpg" title="Kristin Kisska" width="206" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kristin Kisska ©<br />Lindsey Pantele Photgraphy</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p>As the beneficiary of my husband’s life insurance, I received what would be the final premium invoice for his term policy. That auspicious morning, I’d ripped open the envelope, looked up from the paystub to him, and joked that for one final year, he’d be worth more dead than alive—crime authors can be sensitive and thoughtful that way. It’s a good thing my husband shares my humor!</p>
<p>But my muse took my dark quip, noodled it for a while, and ultimately ran with it. What would it take for someone to cash in on a loved one’s expiring policy? How deep and dark would an injustice need be to give them motive?</p>
<p>Let me introduce you to Lynn and Jack, the unlucky-in-love, beer-drinking couple at the heart of my short story of suspense, “Not Yo’ Mama’s IPA”. Lynn finds out that ignorance can indeed be bliss…until the truth hits you like a sledgehammer.</p>
<p>Happy reading!</p>
<p>For the true crime enthusiast with an interest in insurance as motive for murder, I recommend reading the creative nonfiction, <i>The Devil in the White City</i> by Erik Larson, which dramatizes the chilling story of serial killer on the loose in Chicago at the turn of the twentieth century. The murderer, H.H. Holmes, mastered the art of convincing his many victims to take out insurance policies with him as the beneficiary. Spoiler alert ~ his prey had a very short life expectancy after signing on the dotted line.</p>
<p>Insurance fraud can be deadly.</p>
<p>At the end of the day, you may or may not find me savoring a fine IPA at happy hour. But one thing I’ll forever be preaching from my soapbox is, don’t let your life insurance policy be used as a weapon against you.</p>
<p><b>Note</b> ~ No real-life husbands were harmed in the plotting of this short story. On the contrary, mine enjoyed being my plus one as I conducted my IPA and brewery research. I’m happy to report that we both survived the expiration of his insurance policy.</p>
<p>Cheers, y’all!</p>
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<p>KRISTIN KISSKA used to be a finance geek, complete with MBA and Wall Street pedigree, but now she is a self-proclaimed #SuspenseGirl. Kristin has contributed short suspense stories to a dozen anthologies, including Malice Domestic’s Agatha Award-winning anthology, <i>Mystery Most Edible.</i> Her debut novel, <i>The Hint of Light,</i> is an Agatha Award finalist for Best First Mystery Novel. Kristin is a member of International Thriller Writers, Women’s Fiction Writers Association, and Sisters in Crime-Central Virginia. Kristin lives in Richmond, Virginia with her family and their moody tabby cat, Boom. She loves hearing from friends, readers, and book clubs at <a href="httpa://www.kristinkisska.com/">www.KristinKisska.com</a></p>Kristin Kisskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06716211423569846271noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-35242670366913059602024-03-06T00:01:00.006-05:002024-03-06T23:05:45.181-05:00 MURDER, NEAT, or The Twenty-four Bar Blues<p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCz_0JHz4IL1ZYfr6UBJMkSHTs92TjSTZPulf8ey89kCDgvbOBlI75GCuXKcrO9w3j-bN27fouMGfteWM4ZBnvBYBY1TBadBGLbewm55Q_hODTgmdltSHzFwjxi4eDtcS-gkeAiszvMcB16jO7D_f_DIi5y3TgFj0Ajzml6SeKoekf2rNRFap9f_QgaI/s526/Murder%20Neat%20Walker%20Blurb.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCz_0JHz4IL1ZYfr6UBJMkSHTs92TjSTZPulf8ey89kCDgvbOBlI75GCuXKcrO9w3j-bN27fouMGfteWM4ZBnvBYBY1TBadBGLbewm55Q_hODTgmdltSHzFwjxi4eDtcS-gkeAiszvMcB16jO7D_f_DIi5y3TgFj0Ajzml6SeKoekf2rNRFap9f_QgaI/s320/Murder%20Neat%20Walker%20Blurb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span> <i>Murder, Neat</i> came out on February 13, and I'm thrilled to be included with so many of my talented friends, twenty-three of them, to be exact. All twenty-four stories involve a person in a bar, and I've been invited to tell you a little about mine. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span> I didn't start playing guitar at open mics until my mid-sixties, but before the pandemic shut things down, I played at five venues regularly, two of them monthly and the others either weekly or bi-weekly. Obviously, my playing improved considerably. So did my understanding of audience dynamics.</span><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span> One monthly venue was kid-friendly church with a large and appreciative audience. I saw several teens get their first taste, and some of them were already terrific. The other monthly venue was a Kinghts of Columbus, a small building with a bar, but only six stools and as many tables. It wasn't a large enough crowd to get rowdy, and the manager liked having the musicians play, so we didn't have to deal with hecklers.</span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBQ2oHRq4Mh-IDghEWYzUCtNvXIhEkJLz9WHNaZvPKEMsKQC-EJFdvYP5smYMXqTORWl6kMXWfbsAjCuTSrHPUZYtIgemzjSiLopIbbyRCqW1bSZ_28RMXOlRuS_ACoLhBEYUp7Fh9298Dm9Jew0yXsHZXA_GeB1xzpyLTwPynbOpp2chymr9m7ArBC8/s2048/Valentine's%20Day%202024.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBQ2oHRq4Mh-IDghEWYzUCtNvXIhEkJLz9WHNaZvPKEMsKQC-EJFdvYP5smYMXqTORWl6kMXWfbsAjCuTSrHPUZYtIgemzjSiLopIbbyRCqW1bSZ_28RMXOlRuS_ACoLhBEYUp7Fh9298Dm9Jew0yXsHZXA_GeB1xzpyLTwPynbOpp2chymr9m7ArBC8/w240-h320/Valentine's%20Day%202024.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span> My favorite weekly gig is a pizza joint that serves only wine and beer and has regained its pre-Covid vibe. It features some killer musicians, including a sax player and a woman who plays both keyboards and cello. We even have a banjo player and a dulcimer player occasionally, and the place hosts Connecticut Blues Society jams.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> Both other weekly gigs were in bars, my least favorites, but the most conducive to a crime or mystery story. Alcohol lowers inhibitions and restraint, so there's more potential for someone to make a bad choice. Because the space tends to be louder, so is the music. If you go in to play acoustic folk or blues, people may not listen to you. Or, they may not be able to hear over the general voice (and TV sports?) level. Bar bands lean toward country or classic rock, like Creedence Clearwater Revival, Tom Petty, or Elvis. The instruments include solid-body guitars and maybe a bass and drums. By its very nature, the music is more aggressive, maybe because of the volume, or maybe the songs themselves. The Doors and AC/DC have a subtext that's different from, say, Peter, Paul, and Mary.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> That's where my story comes from. A local band covering rock songs in a bar with bargain beer on tap is a cauldron for bad impulses and worse choices. And if a pretty woman shows up dressed in a whole lot of not much, the good ol' boys will turn into bad ol' boys. If that pretty woman knows what she's doing, things can go to hell in a hurry. And there you are. Or there I was. Rob and Leigh announced the theme of the <i>Murder, Neat</i> collection--someone walks into a bar--and it could lead into either noir or a bad joke. I thought both at once, so we start with a woman snappin' her fingers and a-shufflin' her feet, dressed to thrill, and with jokes and puns about drinking or music.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniJp36SIkmM_0r5Go1tvVVrrNmi-9uvEr0_HKIPz_5XVdVxts74_04Anbi_gLTcJomjY5i54XvJSsvpIfRzqm0SI8IMIi7n9g5SR5_JRGG1jBVDpQwvcW49UQxzJK6zVni4KhxdKNWd521E-X-fOhJfZbmilq5aBKNG1EgQ2bmaWM-9WrYHXap4L4vdg/s562/150%20Prospect%20May%2018.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="562" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniJp36SIkmM_0r5Go1tvVVrrNmi-9uvEr0_HKIPz_5XVdVxts74_04Anbi_gLTcJomjY5i54XvJSsvpIfRzqm0SI8IMIi7n9g5SR5_JRGG1jBVDpQwvcW49UQxzJK6zVni4KhxdKNWd521E-X-fOhJfZbmilq5aBKNG1EgQ2bmaWM-9WrYHXap4L4vdg/w200-h200/150%20Prospect%20May%2018.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> My opening line popped into my head almost immediately. That seldom happens, so I thought it was a good omen. Many of my story titles are also song titles, and when the opening scene materialized, I heard the Searches singing my title, too. The song even mentions guitars, so I just let the beat carry me on to the big finish.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I hope you like it, from the orange slice on top to the cherry at the bottom. Do you remember that 12-string guitar riff that kicks it off?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> "When You Walk in the Room." </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAvvsxu-JJ8">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAvvsxu-JJ8</a><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>Steve Liskowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107703903536520140noreply@blogger.com6Newington, CT, USA41.6972996 -72.722829313.387065763821155 -107.8790793 70.007533436178846 -37.5665793tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-55664573868640110892024-03-05T00:00:00.023-05:002024-03-05T00:00:00.129-05:00"The Colonel"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKuOnjm8zWwNF1j_vIYFgTdXpWHZpjsHA_WIIP45w11Bq5kJM8eX0408iTazndTtbGcTzWIQT9BNEv1hb2dz9rVR7Gpj20-YOzkMlgiz1IigjwDMW8Pb9YwQMGIp2CXgU1TkZb8_s12zsm4EgxRkdO2VZN_zT4Aapc5f8RT8JyBIi1v-GIozz4yYU0z5q-/s2000/MURDER%20NEAT%20cover%20FINAL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKuOnjm8zWwNF1j_vIYFgTdXpWHZpjsHA_WIIP45w11Bq5kJM8eX0408iTazndTtbGcTzWIQT9BNEv1hb2dz9rVR7Gpj20-YOzkMlgiz1IigjwDMW8Pb9YwQMGIp2CXgU1TkZb8_s12zsm4EgxRkdO2VZN_zT4Aapc5f8RT8JyBIi1v-GIozz4yYU0z5q-/s320/MURDER%20NEAT%20cover%20FINAL.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<p>When Sleuthsayers settled on <i>Murder Neat,</i> with stories set around watering holes of all kinds, I had a problem: I don't drink. I find beer, which smells so interesting, disappointing, while hard spirits bring up reminders of childhood illness.</p>
<p>I was susceptible to colds as a kid – possibly our drafty one room schoolhouse had some part in that – and my Scots immigrant parents were convinced of the medicinal powers of their national beverage. Rightly so, perhaps, because my mother brought Punch, our beloved parakeet, back from paralysis and near death by administering whisky and water.</p>
<p>In any case, the hot toddy of my childhood, whisky, hot water, lemon, and honey, served to inoculate me against a taste for alcohol save for the occasional glass of wine or cider. Glass, singular, as any more and I fall sleep. Participation in <i>Murder Neat</i>, therefore, called for imagination.</p>
<p>Fortunately, my childhood, which clearly hampered a career as a writer of the hard drinking tough guy school, provided alternative sources of inspiration, including a couple of road houses. Yes, the same sort of isolated drinking establishments that Raymond Chandler found so inspiring in California.</p>
<p>These were in rural Dutchess County, N.Y., and we regularly passed the roadhouse that appears in "The Colonel" on the way to music lessons. The tavern was on a bare open stretch of state highway, fields and pastures on every side.</p>
<p>The dark brown, one story bungalow sat alone on top of a hill at the juncture of a county road. A lonely place, a lonely building, on the unlit roads with its lighted sign, it became The Huntsman in my story, a little nod to the fox hunting that so many of the rich estate owners loved.</p>
<p>The Huntsman was an odd place for a man of wealth and culture like the Colonel, who came to drink inferior spirits when he undoubtedly had better at home. But who knows what people need? I surely did not as a child in the late 40's and early 50's, though I was aware of troubled people who could not find happiness, despite possessing everything that should have made their lives good. </p>
<p>But after Korea, Viet Nam, Afghanistan, and Iraq, we all have a better grip on post war costs. There are wounds that nothing can heal, and in the late 40's and early 50's there were a lot of veterans for whom time had not done even the smallest work. The Colonel was one of them. I recognize that now.</p>
<p>The tavern, that from its architecture began as an ordinary dwelling, may have been established with just such folks in mind. It was quiet and out of town and out of sight with its parking lot tucked in the back.</p>
<p>What ideas might come in such a place to some wounded soul? The title, <i>Murder Neat,</i> says it all.</p>Janice Lawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03406971307368250281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-16916579498824529322024-03-04T00:01:00.062-05:002024-03-04T00:01:00.131-05:00So an alcoholism treatment therapist walks into a bar...I'm a lifelong writer who started talking about it at the age of seven and dreamed of becoming a bestselling novelist in my twenties. That didn't happen. So in my late thirties, when my sole published output consisted of two poems (payment in copies), I started looking around for something else meaningful to do.
<br><br>
I emerged from Columbia University in 1985 with a master's degree in social work and a desire to work with recovering alcoholics and their families and partners as well as the usual clinical social worker's ambition to practice as a psychotherapist, or as I prefer to call myself, a shrink. I've just come across a blog post I wrote in 2007, right before my first mystery, <i>Death Will Get You Sober</i>, came out. Titled "Recovery and Transformation," it's still spot on about why I wanted to do what many considered an oddball kind of work.
<br><br>
<i>It’s simple: recovery is transformational.
<br><br>
I once knew a nursery school teacher who had her class do a butterfly project every year. They’d watch the caterpillar form its chrysalis and wait for the brightly colored butterfly with its glorious wings to emerge. At the end of the term, she’d take them to the park so they could release the butterflies and see them fly free. Sometimes it’s kind of like that when an alcoholic finds recovery.
<br><br>
Before two drunks started Alcoholics Anonymous in 1935, alcoholism was truly a hopeless illness, whose outcomes were inevitably “madness” (depression, delirium tremens, irreversible dementia) and death. AA offered another choice: stop drinking for just one day, admit you need help, find some kind of spiritual path, get rigorously honest about your own shortcomings, make amends for the harm you’ve done others, and help another alcoholic. In other words, all you have to do is stop drinking and change your whole life.</i></b></b>
<br><br>
While I was running alcohol treatment programs—the one up in East Harlem, the one down on the Bowery, the one for women at Coney Island Hospital—I would occasionally find myself bellying up to the proverbial bar on a social evening out. I would twirl around on the bar stool, grin at the bartender, and say, "Ask me what I do for a living!"
<br><br>
So my reaction may not have been quite the same as that of the rest of the SleuthSayers gang when I heard that we were doing an anthology whose theme was bars. My Bruce Kohler mysteries, both the novels and the short stories, are a lot of fun. But once Bruce gets sober in the first book, they're not about bars and drinking. The challenge was to join in the fun of <i>Murder, Neat</i> without being unfaithful to my expert knowledge that out of control drinking is not ho ho ho hilarious, but a recurring disaster that leaves shattered lives in its wake.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVL-RvdD1BhUffm86HU9jvjjljTHG0kpyT3DWgBPqrIrizKPfcfMGoWl44ExtWMWHDYEORkek3wBd71yiaQYoUy5CucHcwzM_vnhppXjlTsEMAhjFAb76NbcrTtYYcqcGIGP8mBVTQoC3TTz1PR_7SNjmxuB5skK-QIK1URbUceDz-sWDdRr5YwIHeuEs/s650/st-paul-de-vence.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVL-RvdD1BhUffm86HU9jvjjljTHG0kpyT3DWgBPqrIrizKPfcfMGoWl44ExtWMWHDYEORkek3wBd71yiaQYoUy5CucHcwzM_vnhppXjlTsEMAhjFAb76NbcrTtYYcqcGIGP8mBVTQoC3TTz1PR_7SNjmxuB5skK-QIK1URbUceDz-sWDdRr5YwIHeuEs/s320/st-paul-de-vence.jpeg"/></a></div>To write "A Friendly Glass," I turned back to a time when I myself was young and ignorant, knew nothing about alcoholism, and did think wild drinking could be hilarious. I set my story in a fictional village in the South of France. It was loosely based on a village where I'd spent a week in 1962 and a month in 1966. I drank numerous cups of <i>café filtre</i> on the picturesque <i>terrasse</i>. I sang and played the guitar in a <i>boîte</i> I can't remember anything about. I made two treasured women friends who, sadly, are no longer with us, and two artist friends, a Frenchman and an Englishman, who are still my friends today, sixty years later.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNV8DCqPhZrYM94eCSCzU1ES9UVy_FMakVUD2jiohUUTQv4Z6pkapPNkN9Xm2FsSS_92fLeDWuGkSa8OCCjA8F13pHjHILaUr5q23S8aoi5dwP78EbtspyyvJp5vwx9T8ZKqN_CsFqUdleEajvAjPnE43QuWoLZS_Ha4c2ZX8ukRujTGUuosVr251kTvQ/s520/FrVillage1.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNV8DCqPhZrYM94eCSCzU1ES9UVy_FMakVUD2jiohUUTQv4Z6pkapPNkN9Xm2FsSS_92fLeDWuGkSa8OCCjA8F13pHjHILaUr5q23S8aoi5dwP78EbtspyyvJp5vwx9T8ZKqN_CsFqUdleEajvAjPnE43QuWoLZS_Ha4c2ZX8ukRujTGUuosVr251kTvQ/s320/FrVillage1.jpeg"/></a></div>The village was St Paul de Vence, then completely unspoiled, a maze of narrow cobbled streets that wound up stairs and through stone arches, surrounded by a medieval wall. Alas, it's now a tourist destination with luxury hotels and high-priced shops with plate-glass windows. It's still considered artsy, but it's more of an artfully packaged artsiness. I'm glad I didn't miss the real thing.<br><br>
Oh, and the fictional murderee is based on someone I thought deserved it back in the 1960s.
Elizabeth Zelvinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13944424094949207841noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-58441960173211023152024-03-03T00:00:00.096-05:002024-03-12T01:23:47.475-04:00Music, Neat<p>Many SleuthSayers enjoy a music background. I’ve long known Rob’s interest in folk music dating back to the classic electric zitherphone. Our Fran Rizer, no longer with us, was an avid bluegrass fan and picker. Liz Zelvin released an album. And I gathered Brian Thornton and Steve Liskow stay active in the music scene. Turns out Eve Fisher and Chris Knopf keep up as well. And then I learned Stephen Ross pretty much operates a home recording studio.</p>
<p><b>“Stephen, Lady Ga-Ga on line 2.”</b></p>
<p>After intense cogitation, I mapped out a trailer for our first anthology based on Deborah Elliott-Upton’s book cover. I loaded up tavern sound effects– laughter, tinkling glasses, breakage, yelps and more laughter. I snagged karaoke tracks featuring Chris Stapleton, George Thorogood, and a little bit drunk Lady Antebellum. But as much as I like ‘Tennessee Whiskey’ (the song at least, thank you, Melayna), the cuts didn’t quite match the mood of the book. But I knew who could.</p>
<p>I put out a call and a half dozen SleuthSayers responded gleefully when I proposed a nearly impossible task– coming up with a bar song amid a time crunch. Using groundwork laid by Lopresti and Liskow, the team figured out how to pull off a global effort. Thank you, everyone. Here is the song, composed and sung by Rob Lopresti, instrumentals by Stephen Ross.</p>
<blockquote>
<h3><i>Murder, Neat</i></h3>
<p><i>sung by Rob Lopresti, keyboards and percussion by Stephen Ross</i></p>
</blockquote>
<div align="center">
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</div>
<p>Following are Rob's clever lyrics. No alcohols were unduly harmed in the making of this song.</p>
<blockquote>
<h3><i>Murder, Neat</i></h3>
<p><i>lyrics and melody by Rob Lopresti</i></p>
<p>Come in the tavern and kindly ignore
<br />The ax in the bar stool, the blood on the floor
<br />You’re in no danger. Here death has no sting
<br />For this is crime fiction and not the real thing.</p>
<p>There’s bourbon for burglars, and robbers get rye
<br />Cocktail or blackmail? One vodka per spy.
<br />Here partners may swindle and spouses might cheat
<br />When SleuthSayers serve you up <i>Murder, Neat</i>.</p>
<p>The cops drop a beer in their favorite saloon
<br />Where hardboiled detectives start drinking by noon
<br />Amateur sleuths take red herrings and Scotch
<br />While pickpockets covet your wallet and watch.</p>
<p>Femme fatales ask as they sip the champagne
<br />Does gunpowder leave an indelible stain?
<br />A dive bar is waiting down any mean street
<br />Where SleuthSayers serve you up <i>Murder, Neat</i>.</p>
<p><i>Murder, Neat. Murder, Neat</i>
<br />That’s the name of the book
<br />Where convict and constable, conman and crook
<br />Will pour you a ninety proof story of crime
<br />To make you turn pages way past closing time.</p>
<p>In the back room there are gangsters today
<br />Planning a caper to steal cabernet.
<br />If you aren’t driving the getaway car
<br />They’ve got pinot grigio and plenty of noir.</p>
<p>The mastermind villain advances the plot
<br />And chuckles that arsenic sure hits the spot.
<br />Each cozy village has pubs so discreet
<br />Where SleuthSayers serve you up <i>Murder, Neat</i>.</p>
<p><i>Murder, Neat. Murder, Neat</i>
<br />That’s the book you should choose
<br />If you like your clues well-infused with some booze
<br />You can buy it online or in bookstores downtown
<br />But don’t steal a copy or we’ll track you down
<br />When SleuthSayers serve you up <i>Murder, Neat</i>.</p>
</blockquote>Leigh Lundinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07921276795499571578noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-39921715642308889322024-03-02T00:00:00.083-05:002024-03-02T09:49:17.905-05:00Howtellums: They're All Mysteries to Me<p> </p><p>Since we at <b>SleuthSayers</b> are still posting about our stories in the new <i>Murder, Neat</i> anthology, and since my slot has rolled around again and I've already done one post about my story here . . . I thought I'd just do a different take on it today, and talk mostly about plotting.</p><p>As you probably know, many writers and readers believe all mystery stories are whodunits. That's not correct. According to most editors and publishers, a mystery story is merely one that has a crime central to its plot, or at least includes a crime. Some even say it's a mystery story if it <i>implies</i> that a crime is committed. If you want a real-world example, take a look sometime at the mystery fiction section in your local bookstore: the one thing those novels have in common is that they're crime stories. They're not all whodunits.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0WiN_js1yHrXMZxHfiJ0MMMTP3vj_HFiTqFHzMFdPxqjkhahRNZQROCOZNRFi9VawdxsashW4GoLcmmTzRYX49qgbIdTm2-EpZYuZ2pAJAeX77ZWWNfmv_veUuIO9Clj4txIX0ZyDvNVKc2drYoD6AtsE-3Jzscq14p2lso7cJ_cwU38bVOzkDldGBo/s1000/eye%20in%20magnifying%20glass.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0WiN_js1yHrXMZxHfiJ0MMMTP3vj_HFiTqFHzMFdPxqjkhahRNZQROCOZNRFi9VawdxsashW4GoLcmmTzRYX49qgbIdTm2-EpZYuZ2pAJAeX77ZWWNfmv_veUuIO9Clj4txIX0ZyDvNVKc2drYoD6AtsE-3Jzscq14p2lso7cJ_cwU38bVOzkDldGBo/s320/eye%20in%20magnifying%20glass.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Neither is my short story, "Bourbon and Water," in the <b>SleuthSayers</b> anthology. It's a crime story set mostly in a bar, which was the theme we chose for the book. (It goes a bit beyond that, but I can't say more without getting into spoilers.) </p><p>My point is, there are other kinds of dunits. Lots of mystery stories are howdunits or whydunits. The late great Elmore Leonard, a recipient of Mystery Writers of America's Grand Master Award, once said in an interview that he'd never written a real mystery, or at least never a whodunit. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that in none of his novels was the villain's identity ever kept secret from the reader until the end. Even so, I think his shorts and books were--and are--great examples of the mystery genre.</p><p>Another example: Neither of the two TV series <i>Columbo</i> (old) and <i>Poker Face</i> (recent) featured whodunits. Or howdunits, or whydunits. All those episodes were howcatchems. In every show, the viewing audience knew at the beginning of the story who the murderer was. The fun was in the rest of the hour or so, in watching the hero (or heroine, in the case of <i>Poker Face</i>) figure out the identity of the killer. It was a concept that worked just fine. <i>Columbo</i> ran for ten seasons, and (current news flash!) three episodes of <i>Poker Face</i> are among the five screenplays that are nominated for the 2024 Edgar in the Best Television Episode Teleplay category. It's a fantastic, well-written series.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeTNKwNX6TepGuIKyAi-GAqbFuLcsfySE_cGW4B-b_hDtw3L5Qrf5-sLOfUcIQMpVD5hyrBmSIK3sgor8kb15iuyRHfCopAeLv2y-s7TIHVvA4a78FppGnKCfSi8esyrWNYZ83lUTOXOMmUlQkddkIKhDbjkWSdxnyr1rPPPADjUoqaX7tTQJWg4XMFQ/s275/columbo%20poker%20face.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeTNKwNX6TepGuIKyAi-GAqbFuLcsfySE_cGW4B-b_hDtw3L5Qrf5-sLOfUcIQMpVD5hyrBmSIK3sgor8kb15iuyRHfCopAeLv2y-s7TIHVvA4a78FppGnKCfSi8esyrWNYZ83lUTOXOMmUlQkddkIKhDbjkWSdxnyr1rPPPADjUoqaX7tTQJWg4XMFQ/w400-h267/columbo%20poker%20face.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>As for me and my writing, I suspect that at least two-thirds of the mystery stories I've written and published are <i>not</i> whodunits. They're crime stories, period, to the degree that if you took the crime out of the plot, you'd have no story. Not that I have anything against whodunits and traditional mysteries--I like reading them <i>and</i> writing them, and yes, trying to figure out who the villain really is. But I also like the other kinds of mysteries, and I think the others are often more fun.</p><p>I've heard a lot of writers say they don't submit mystery stories to <i>Woman's World</i> because <i>WW</i> publishes <i>only</i> whodunits. Not true. I've also heard they publish only murder mysteries with at least three possible suspects in each story. Again, not true. A couple of weeks ago I sold my 130th story to <i>WW</i> (my 128th mystery, there), and less than half of those were whodunits. </p><p>What about you? Considering both short stories and novels, do you mostly stick to the tried-and-true whodunits in your mystery writing? How about your reading? Do you find that you like UNtraditional mysteries just as much? Better? What's <i>your</i> definition of a mystery story?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-Qf6feI3Rdf0e7UNjErQ3n4dzrgBRLV3DHnnhyphenhyphenShNQxMbO0m5MN0wwVnylMp1iQJ1vhTmSbL4WuEE09KvTAXpLim1vsM2LNnpT7cNwlP8fepkOV7UU-dqflkP4zDzC0urBsUWU8H8S4clDoADXDb6tS_d0iCjvOBYm5Fgq3gq8M1o0BioGPu0q8oSz4/s320/murder%20neat%20book%20view.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="257" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-Qf6feI3Rdf0e7UNjErQ3n4dzrgBRLV3DHnnhyphenhyphenShNQxMbO0m5MN0wwVnylMp1iQJ1vhTmSbL4WuEE09KvTAXpLim1vsM2LNnpT7cNwlP8fepkOV7UU-dqflkP4zDzC0urBsUWU8H8S4clDoADXDb6tS_d0iCjvOBYm5Fgq3gq8M1o0BioGPu0q8oSz4/w259-h320/murder%20neat%20book%20view.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><p>I'm looking forward to seeing just how the stories in <i>Murder, Neat</i> fit into this discussion. (I've not yet seen a copy of the finished product.)</p><p>I guess that, for now, is a mystery.</p><p><br /></p>John Floydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04001712728130488485noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-63426004976394230682024-03-01T00:01:00.001-05:002024-03-01T14:33:26.607-05:00My story in MURDER, NEAT: a SleuthSayer's anthology<p>When I learned the proposed title/idea for the SleuthSayers' anthology was </p>“Two crooks walk into a bar…” – I chuckled. Felt like another school homework assignment because I don't go to bars, haven't been in one for a drink since the mid-70s and those were discos where I danced more than drank. Wouldn't be familiar turf, more like writing about two guys walking across the Gobi desert. It was a challenge I became eager to take.<p>Some may ask how can I be a New Orleanian and not frequent bars. Well, I don't like jazz music either. I've been a rock-and-roll fan since the last 50s.</p><p>OK, I did enter bars when I was a cop, searching for suspects or witnesses to crimes, seeking help from bartenders and barmaids, which brought me to the plot of my story in MURDER, NEAT. I decided to write a simple story and came up with "Flesh Wounds."</p><p>It took longer to write than I thought but I like its simplicity.</p><p>The set-up – a man staggers from a rainstorm into a bar. There's a lone barmaid inside. There's blood.</p><p>I just followed along …</p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzzHwErnsUOYzxVQRgfP5z30ue4enTbJPt3MNp4XJdN9ttWBl-ilOt_7Pca0YwIN1Xr56sUMVgmBEyeNKFqYG4uieho6vVQyaLfkPZSHbG69xr7t9jkQM-4RxCFIj3wwiSndxn-TIovZ7_DfEHaHkF5ahRbjH2fp6Yy2xnfimaq3ZWMLdsoIBINm_JooW/s1200/MN-with-bottle-2-glasses.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="628" data-original-width="1200" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzzHwErnsUOYzxVQRgfP5z30ue4enTbJPt3MNp4XJdN9ttWBl-ilOt_7Pca0YwIN1Xr56sUMVgmBEyeNKFqYG4uieho6vVQyaLfkPZSHbG69xr7t9jkQM-4RxCFIj3wwiSndxn-TIovZ7_DfEHaHkF5ahRbjH2fp6Yy2xnfimaq3ZWMLdsoIBINm_JooW/w640-h334/MN-with-bottle-2-glasses.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<p>Hope the anthology does well. Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman did a great job in editing and the stories are so well done.</p><p>So y'all indulge, take a drink and see what's going on where people get liquored up and sometimes die.</p>
<p>That's all for now,</p><p>www.oneildenoux.com</p>O'Neil De Nouxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03142721824657611738noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-16997030979426576232024-02-29T00:00:00.002-05:002024-02-29T00:00:00.245-05:00Golden Parachute - Can Money Buy Everything?<p> </p><p>When Barb Goffman, Michael Bracken, and other Sleuthsayers discussed
putting together an anthology from active members and alumni about
stories set in a bar/drinking establishment I was thrilled to be invited
with so many amazing writers. I had an outline of a story with an
explosive opening that I had been wanting to write for a while and this
was the perfect excuse. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcqXVURebQPm97URFf2r8lZ9UdoSpwrfUydIkfUSYDACnOi6m1zRcCbwYHIAxjKDY7rrm98sw62bxhi3ZXIw2aADbYNoI__UAWqjnVt3odn7CBX5-8vwy9mubXqeMXV2o3vVUjAI0o6PZC5DCJ0uHqNwGEeIAEmNapi2TfbrBtKg52xLGTLMuFLYWnBiS/s2000/MURDER%20NEAT%20cover%20FINAL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcqXVURebQPm97URFf2r8lZ9UdoSpwrfUydIkfUSYDACnOi6m1zRcCbwYHIAxjKDY7rrm98sw62bxhi3ZXIw2aADbYNoI__UAWqjnVt3odn7CBX5-8vwy9mubXqeMXV2o3vVUjAI0o6PZC5DCJ0uHqNwGEeIAEmNapi2TfbrBtKg52xLGTLMuFLYWnBiS/w199-h299/MURDER%20NEAT%20cover%20FINAL.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><p>As
a writer of crime fiction – and often in the short story format –
sometimes I create characters who are not likable and then make their
lives miserable. More often than not, it is protagonists who sabotage
themselves with selfish short-term decisions. People making bad choices
and suffering the resulting consequences is a definition that I use for
noir. </p><p>In my story “Golden Parachute” I wanted to create a display
of obscene arrogance and have it backfire. A billionaire tech bro in
Silicon Valley plans to make a memorable exit after the board of his
company canned him for inappropriate behavior. Unfortunately for Alex
Dorrett, his departure does not go very well for him …and things get
worse from there. </p><p>I also wanted to contrast insane wealth and
egotism with people who were down, out, and desperate. While San
Francisco is famous for Alcatraz there is another famed prison just
across the bay, San Quentin. The current and former residents include
Charles Manson, Sirhan Sirhan, Merle Haggard, and Scott Peterson among
others. The prison (now called a rehabilitation center) sits in on prime
waterfront property in an area where nearby homes sell for millions of
dollars. I set a bar in the nearby vicinity of San Quentin. So when
Alex, injured in both spirit and body, stops at that bar not long after
crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, things will probably not go well for
him. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNxMrq0xEyFxX04YJR5m4Mh1dKb7r5lovsKvGpZMavPohGpOyKbCrdf8mgSsi3NDIwFwN0PG6SbRGqA4KUos0t6BqeakovFLjtQDcOc5oSQLRTesVxQyFDO5E608zosi3ugQ04YAUXkH6AKJf7T3cYBbqqe304NnVQn9uVtAuGbfEFvbe9lGKhQVzzi-r/s1024/_96b30f22-e56b-4774-a32d-4c381661c819.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNxMrq0xEyFxX04YJR5m4Mh1dKb7r5lovsKvGpZMavPohGpOyKbCrdf8mgSsi3NDIwFwN0PG6SbRGqA4KUos0t6BqeakovFLjtQDcOc5oSQLRTesVxQyFDO5E608zosi3ugQ04YAUXkH6AKJf7T3cYBbqqe304NnVQn9uVtAuGbfEFvbe9lGKhQVzzi-r/s320/_96b30f22-e56b-4774-a32d-4c381661c819.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AI-generated (Copilot) image</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I
don’t want to give too much more away except to say that the story is
very dark and brutal. During the writing process, I came to a fork in
the road where the story could have gone in another direction. I
sketched out some scenes that would have resulted in a different outcome
with an overall lighter, happier tone. But I went dark. (Hopefully,
I’ll use those “road not taken” scenes in another story.) There was
something in the air—the political climate we live in probably—about
wealth corrupting everything and how it can bring out the worst in
humanity that felt true. So, I chased it. </p><p>I am excited to read
all of the stories in this collection from so many authors that I
admire. This is an outstanding collection. Also, this is my first
Sleuthsayers article in several years, so I want to thank Velma for
allowing me back on this platform. I wasn’t so sure she’d let back here
after what happened the last time. 😅</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1HRrUMBxK3BP3wRvEViM3DGLZu4PyKbaFFmLC5Ut1euzXK8SvU5cZNWckfRgQex0DV4DbtQbJFmxQRhGjFKqJD2CEuz2ck0z2xhfWokygmZgxozZce0mKh4b_d9T8RGQkzooljdC5GdqIyYMfKWWrqYIirxn0gIzRkAyomYRA5nKLN0WUuWxfwHoYE-M/s3600/AA2A3186.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="3600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1HRrUMBxK3BP3wRvEViM3DGLZu4PyKbaFFmLC5Ut1euzXK8SvU5cZNWckfRgQex0DV4DbtQbJFmxQRhGjFKqJD2CEuz2ck0z2xhfWokygmZgxozZce0mKh4b_d9T8RGQkzooljdC5GdqIyYMfKWWrqYIirxn0gIzRkAyomYRA5nKLN0WUuWxfwHoYE-M/w320-h213/AA2A3186.jpg" title="The Author trying not to look so dark" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author trying not to look too dark</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>Travis Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921123586885981804noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-2418105888785327572024-02-28T00:00:00.244-05:002024-02-28T00:00:00.248-05:00Getting More Than You Bargained For<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCM30awmdQ4WR0gB81ExcNYHHVkWNP4WEsizZ23NrQabXDZEKjK8JycyFUF8kcuGO3NufNW_WOubYKuU-FEWKN1vnIoY0YWpLngNlP6Lt1Z52xN3eMzkzlO5qOVynBNoDvXpabZwBmfiewur0dTg6ttNzNg0L2nzl78nVNdKUuh8yfUQJgMlvvWRqN/s1380/creative-gift-vouch-template-sales_23-2147954035.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1380" data-original-width="1380" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCM30awmdQ4WR0gB81ExcNYHHVkWNP4WEsizZ23NrQabXDZEKjK8JycyFUF8kcuGO3NufNW_WOubYKuU-FEWKN1vnIoY0YWpLngNlP6Lt1Z52xN3eMzkzlO5qOVynBNoDvXpabZwBmfiewur0dTg6ttNzNg0L2nzl78nVNdKUuh8yfUQJgMlvvWRqN/w320-h320/creative-gift-vouch-template-sales_23-2147954035.jpg" title="Image by Freepik" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Image by <a href="https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/creative-gift-vouch-template-sales_3159863.htm#query=coupon%20book&position=0&from_view=keyword&track=ais&uuid=e9c97c7d-6c1d-41fe-8ebd-da16c1dfcb7e" target="_blank">Freepik</a></i> <br /></div><br />Frankly, I love a good deal. Complementary appetizer or dessert with purchase. The trial products our grocery store app sometimes sends our way. One free night each year at a hotel chain we're loyal to—and then the occasional complementary upgrade on rooms between times. I recognize, of course, that many bargains come with costs (no free appetizer <i>unless </i>you buy an entree, of course, and credit card points only accrue if you've been charging on your card), but you obviously have to consider many factors whenever you try to weigh which deals are worth it. The man who paid for a lifetime pass on United—not cheap!—and has been living it up ever since? I <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2023/06/23/united-airlines-very-frequent-flyer/" target="_blank">really admire that guy</a>. <br /><p></p><p>Many years ago (this phrase will come up again), back in the days before Groupon and Living Social (which I was also a fan of), I lived in Raleigh, NC, and while I can't remember the specifics, there was a coupon book that I bought which was full of promotional offers from restaurants, stores, event venues, and more throughout the Triangle area (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill). As I recall, many of these offers were "two for one" deals—BOGO in more current slang. The woman I was with at the time and I thought it was a real treat, and we tried restaurants and activities that we probably wouldn't have tried otherwise. A real deal! </p><p>...but it also reached a point where the coupon book seemed a burden of sorts. If we were going our to eat or looking for something to do, <i>shouldn't </i>we use another coupon? The expiration window would be closing, after all, and there were so many coupons left, and we wanted to get our money's worth, didn't we? </p><p>And so, many years ago (I told you so), I wrote a story about a couple who'd been enjoying all the many benefits of such a coupon book <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">(</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">"</span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dine-A-Mate is
Dine-A-Mite!</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <i>Thousands of dollars in savings! A year of opportunities awaits!</i></span>") but after awhile, one of them wants to break free a bit, try a new restaurant that's <i>not </i>in the coupon book, and—honestly—maybe break out of some bigger rut in the routines of the relationship too? Sandra and Wiley were my characters, and the story—"Two for One"—tried to chart both their relationship struggles and also some larger questions about what people want out of life and how to balance those wants against another person's desires. While it wasn't technically a romance, the story also focused pretty intently on desire and seduction and on storytelling as an aspect of expressing desire and maybe manipulating seduction. It also wasn't—I need to stress this—a suspense story in the traditional sense either: no mystery, no crime, nothing like that. This was, as I said, "many years ago"—before I'd really come back around to writing in the genre at all. <br /></p><p>I wrote the first draft while a student in the creative writing program at N.C. State University, and then I reworked it again (and again) in a "Revision" course my first year in the MFA program at George Mason University. Though I felt very pleased with each subsequent version of the story, it never found a home, and I ended up just putting it aside. </p><p>...until SleuthSayers announced the call for <i>Murder, Neat</i>, and I remembered the bar at the restaurant that's at the heart of "Two for One" and began thinking about how one kind of story might become another kind of story. What are the tensions—the dangers even—in a relationship when one partner wants something different from the other? Where might temptation lead to trouble? Or adventure into adversity? What happens when you bite off more than you can chew—or to stick with the anthology's theme, sip more than you can comfortably swallow?</p><p>Often when I look back at the drafts of stories from many years ago, I find myself wincing a bit—prose that's not up to par, plotting a little underdone (or overwrought), or characters without much... well, character. Often, I end up just tucking those drafts away once more—out of sight, where they belong. </p><p>But in this case, returning to those early drafts of "Two for One," I found myself pleasantly surprised, particularly by some of the playfulness at the line-level—a bit of fun with language and phrasings, particularly in descriptions of food and drink. The story felt like it had some energy to it, it felt like that writer—the old me—was having some fun, and that fun was infectious. I found myself excited to dig in for a fresh revision. </p><p>Here's a little sample of the story to, um, whet your appetite?</p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Sandra
worked as a receptionist at a law firm in downtown Raleigh, and on Friday
mornings she browsed through the newspaper between calls, looking for new ways
to lure Wylie away from <i>Dine-A-Mate</i>. In recent weeks she had been drawn
repeatedly to an ad for the new Royal International Buffet.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Alaskan King Crab Legs! Peking
Duck! London Broil! Chilean Sea Bass!</i>—each entrée was encased in a
starburst. Drawings of the Eiffel Tower and the Taj Mahal, of the Leaning Tower
of Pisa and the Golden Gate Bridge stood in each corner of the ad. <i>Visit the
world on our 70-foot-long buffet! Chefs of all nationalities! Kids buffet for
tiny travelers! Elegance and sophistication!</i></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><i> </i>Elegance and sophistication? She
knew better. A buffet was a buffet. But that wasn’t the point.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“I saw this new restaurant,” she
told Wylie on their regular Wednesday. “Want to try it one night?” She handed
him the paper.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">They’d
finished the steaks she’d pan-fried with a little Marsala sauce. Capers and
green peppercorns and a hint of Dijon—though she’d called it pan gravy for
Wylie’s sake. Last Wednesday, she’d added a single finely minced porcini
mushroom into a quick pasta sauce, even though Wylie claimed an aversion to
“funguses.” Another Wednesday, she’d glazed some pork chops with guava paste, telling
him it was a new barbecue sauce from Hunt’s.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Had
any of it encouraged his appetites? </span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> Had it? Well... you'll have to read and see. <br /></p><p>I hope readers will enjoy the final story too, and I'm grateful to Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman for editing <i>Murder, Neat </i>and to all my fellow contributors—so pleased to have my work alongside yours. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AQTymYKmzidCgZzs5OX4wNVjtq7JJN2yRSUEiYq0Q63qnm3QhTFzXWd8d7U6eH-nUcD4wqCi_XUaT-mKjkf77H97QKYOqyuK0eeqg67Z7Qm5WqvJmUk_htkFj9MD6KUJyFMhYU5LHH06bQ5ISWi6gMMf5Mm09AcCq5ksfWYMHYd9E9kFvkDd2EVC/s485/3-Murder,%20Neat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="485" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AQTymYKmzidCgZzs5OX4wNVjtq7JJN2yRSUEiYq0Q63qnm3QhTFzXWd8d7U6eH-nUcD4wqCi_XUaT-mKjkf77H97QKYOqyuK0eeqg67Z7Qm5WqvJmUk_htkFj9MD6KUJyFMhYU5LHH06bQ5ISWi6gMMf5Mm09AcCq5ksfWYMHYd9E9kFvkDd2EVC/s320/3-Murder,%20Neat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><style>And so, many@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Art Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02409008167752619352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-55115001908789673022024-02-27T00:05:00.104-05:002024-02-27T23:13:44.580-05:00Lyrics and Music<p> <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> Like the other authors in the <i>Murder: Neat </i>lineup, I'm using this blog as an opportunity to talk about my story in the new SleuthSayers anthology. I jumped at the chance to contribute a story as well as the opportunity to write about it here. My tale, "Lyrics and Music," kicks off the anthology. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span> I love listening to ballads on the radio. By definition, they tell stories. Not surprisingly, that's something I admire. But a ballad does the storytelling in short stanzas, set to music, and makes the words rhyme. A good one makes my attempts at story craft feel entry-level. </span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span> As my traveling companion can attest, with me, usually the sappier the ballad, the better. If you tell Billy not to be a hero, like Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods did, I'm right there with you. </span><br /></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-QQIKq_Yv4qmm9yFWKrl6d0mw_wLTjU83sCpiNA8ey3Udej7oyi4l2bjXWCXldhOK5AlCuE-pfODMzHFgmQ-mzkr7CYgggG16mcxT4YEtTJ0Ix9ocxFo2giX2tkdEXzHtlyACOAJ3hKjgIH3PhQnOZ4wDcbGLzE8ePdwlv0sZ3yKyYSuTb3Ni11OvA/s640/Sappy_Refractions_(168933479).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="640" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-QQIKq_Yv4qmm9yFWKrl6d0mw_wLTjU83sCpiNA8ey3Udej7oyi4l2bjXWCXldhOK5AlCuE-pfODMzHFgmQ-mzkr7CYgggG16mcxT4YEtTJ0Ix9ocxFo2giX2tkdEXzHtlyACOAJ3hKjgIH3PhQnOZ4wDcbGLzE8ePdwlv0sZ3yKyYSuTb3Ni11OvA/s320/Sappy_Refractions_(168933479).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span> Sappy is a loaded word. These days, it's never a positive. Tag anything with<br /> "sappy" and it is weighed down with the baggage of cheesy or saccharine. But "sappy" used to be a good thing. In its origin, it meant full of vitality, like a young sapling. Somewhere around the early 17th Century, the meaning changed to excessively sentimental. The change may have been due to the stickiness of sap, the syrupy goo oozing from the young green stalks. </span><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span> When the opportunity to contribute a story presented itself, and the only requirements were a crime story and a bar, I immediately thought about a saloon singer with a tale. Love, alcohol, a villain, and a problem to be solved: a ballad could be written about each. Instead, let's put the four together, I thought. That'll drip sap. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span> I turned up the volume on a Marty Robbins gunfighter ballad and settled in at my computer. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span> But what bar? In Fort Worth, <i>the</i> bar is Billy Bob's Texas, the world's largest honky tonk. It has a main stage, ample dance floor, various watering stations, and plenty of dark corners where all sorts of mischief might occur. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Billy Bob's Texas, however, felt too big for my setting. I needed something smaller. I remembered a great evening my traveling companion, and I spent at the Stagecoach Bar in Jackson, Wyoming, many years ago. In my mind, the place was like Billy Bob's Texas, only dried on hot. It had the same features and drew a diverse crowd but occupied less real estate. It felt more intimate. The place lacked a mechanical bull or a gift shop. The Broken Spoke in Austin also offered a similar vibe, at least before the new construction crowded in on all sides. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLI1eLZhFZeaml_KUSz5fihHvjwC6n6LcaYVZas-YloEXI8DLoO6dFmH9hp5hvCK0sUzKPkcneAwF_qvBn1ic5-Bb5OYAXj_YeXkG4j7LmOuSdi5zw4d1LNWN_zN9qoR4u-w8U-MRIoYmdOPPqI5NMGPzS76D6HQmWknLPqrHGlaVzN9EJp8uromnA4g/s1080/417464948_7550393434995451_8700034384121443343_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLI1eLZhFZeaml_KUSz5fihHvjwC6n6LcaYVZas-YloEXI8DLoO6dFmH9hp5hvCK0sUzKPkcneAwF_qvBn1ic5-Bb5OYAXj_YeXkG4j7LmOuSdi5zw4d1LNWN_zN9qoR4u-w8U-MRIoYmdOPPqI5NMGPzS76D6HQmWknLPqrHGlaVzN9EJp8uromnA4g/w343-h413/417464948_7550393434995451_8700034384121443343_n.jpg" width="343" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> With a mental picture of the place and a vision of a woebegone protagonist, I began to type. The resulting story introduces the reader to Jimmy West, a country singer trapped by a bad contract and forced to perform at a bar run by an unscrupulous proprietor. Jimmy can't get out from under his ironclad contractual obligations. There is no escape for him...or is there? </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Vitality and sentimentality, "Lyrics and Music," I hope, embraces "sappy" in all its definitions. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Running a finger down the list of contributors to <i>Murder: Neat </i>makes a guy feel pressure to put the right words in the right spots. My name stands alongside some heady company. I'm grateful to Barb and Michael. Their skilled editing helped shift the errant words to the places they were supposed to be. They've wrung out the excess syrup. I hope you'll enjoy the results. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Until next time. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>Mark Thielmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03172737178145242270noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-32176235386266379642024-02-26T00:00:00.053-05:002024-02-26T05:09:28.979-05:00Room of Ice<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AlW1EOe4pSA1NSgxTA7leFOQG18a8Y3lN-VOWmAcWB3dpDUBvBq9e_MpCGIEyJyztd6GRmjUPWjFdc3ftqNBY-SxETsNIpD2iDjMntY9wM35FC9PWJ2K5_FboT-C0_WgnE72i0eHK_nsB_jHUhTdXp2vDQVsd94fGCSanqbOvrbCxEJRBAH-2VkI2xY/s760/ROOMICE.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="760" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AlW1EOe4pSA1NSgxTA7leFOQG18a8Y3lN-VOWmAcWB3dpDUBvBq9e_MpCGIEyJyztd6GRmjUPWjFdc3ftqNBY-SxETsNIpD2iDjMntY9wM35FC9PWJ2K5_FboT-C0_WgnE72i0eHK_nsB_jHUhTdXp2vDQVsd94fGCSanqbOvrbCxEJRBAH-2VkI2xY/w400-h396/ROOMICE.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></p>
<p><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">I have a new story, <b>Room of Ice</b>, and it appears in the new SleuthSayers' anthology <b>Murder, Neat</b>. The alcohol reference in the anthology's title is on purpose. All the stories in the book have a finger, or other, in a drinking establishment. A glass or two of my story is set in a London pub.</span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Story settings aside, drinking establishments are excellent places to <i>tell </i>a story. The social atmosphere, comfortable seats, warmth, and alcohol invites (nay, demands) story telling. When the wine comes in, the wit comes out. I mean, if you're sitting there with a group of friends, you've got to do <i>something</i> while you're drinking. And pretty soon, someone will be off and running with a tale, tall or otherwise. </span></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgesugvm-fN78iIfY5KzZk6-N_9zrT3mxhfAGIlO2rIAPXXIe2Cm7oEhqX7MjHvxQPq9uA5W-T0tRS6MR44wKyLs0iREG7aotEFVpiSeX-vc0rjrd5CsudIVFzf-XyBLoMZhvFynaPX8BpEyjACrLCiFI9zndHkvag4l_AnFEdRjIgKPEQfKoxEeUAWH9Y/s2000/MURDER%20NEAT%20cover%20FINAL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgesugvm-fN78iIfY5KzZk6-N_9zrT3mxhfAGIlO2rIAPXXIe2Cm7oEhqX7MjHvxQPq9uA5W-T0tRS6MR44wKyLs0iREG7aotEFVpiSeX-vc0rjrd5CsudIVFzf-XyBLoMZhvFynaPX8BpEyjACrLCiFI9zndHkvag4l_AnFEdRjIgKPEQfKoxEeUAWH9Y/w164-h246/MURDER%20NEAT%20cover%20FINAL.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
<p><span style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Our desire to gather with friends somewhere warm and convivial, and tell a story, is innate. And it predates drinking. </span><span style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Many thousands of years ago, our caveman ancestors sat around the fire on dark winter evenings. The whole clan. The extended family. They'd spent the day hunting and gathering, they'd eaten. They sat there sated and sleepy, nothing else to do – drawing pictures on the cave wall was so last era. Someone said, "You know, a funny thing happened to me today. There was this woolly mammoth…" And off he or she went, running with a tale, tall or otherwise.</span></p>
<p><span style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The invention of alcohol meant there was now something to do </span><i style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">while </i><span style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">the stories were being told. And that swiftly led to the creation of places to do all of this in: pubs, inns, bars, taverns, and so on. The public living room.</span></p>
<p><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> I digress.</span></span></p>
<p>So, what's my story (<b>Room of Ice</b>) about? Well, no spoilers, it's about two things: Hammer Films and perception.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfvwS1_M7pTMZmuLx36FmLZIvWxymtKN6zBAQlfNSusjz4sChb38WG0GZLNT_0kLF1vkcTUs6SYkVwHcLyvNSLZJiDV9CJ6lSA-_KItllavQInH4lajz9rYM4e8DAdb2RSO71aoXW3veVeeMRmuA4N-QGmHL9bxov0XH2-hDwF4aKrjAi8yeI59CLapM/s660/hammer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="660" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfvwS1_M7pTMZmuLx36FmLZIvWxymtKN6zBAQlfNSusjz4sChb38WG0GZLNT_0kLF1vkcTUs6SYkVwHcLyvNSLZJiDV9CJ6lSA-_KItllavQInH4lajz9rYM4e8DAdb2RSO71aoXW3veVeeMRmuA4N-QGmHL9bxov0XH2-hDwF4aKrjAi8yeI59CLapM/s320/hammer.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #202124;"></span></div>
<p><span style="color: #202124;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hammer_Film_Productions" target="_blank">Hammer Film Productions</a> is a British film production company that had its heyday from the mid-1950s to the 1970s. They specialised in horror films with a Gothic flavour (e.g., vampires, mummies, Frankenstein). Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing were probably the studio's two biggest stars. According to Wikipedia, the studio made 295 films (between 1934-2019). In addition to horror, Hammer also produced science fiction, thrillers, noir, and comedies. I grew up watching <i>Hammer Horrors</i> (along with their American counterparts, the Vincent Price Edgar Allen Poe movies).</span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">In my story, I imagine Hammer made a horror film in 1959 called <b>Room of Ice</b>. </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">My story is from the point of view of a middle-aged man – "Tim" – who, as a child, was an extra in that movie. Tim tracks down the movie's now elderly star, because he has, in later life, remembered something about the filming – something he saw. It isn't a spoiler to say that Tim is a blackmailer.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">This is a story about perception. Something witnessed as a five-year-old, and then remembered at 45, with a now adult's perspective of the world (my story is set in 1999).</span></span></p>
<p><b style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Room of Ice</b><span style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> is about movies (I'm film mad, don't you know?). Making them, remembering them, worshipping them. And, as such, I made a trailer for the story to help promote it. And rather than do my usual, I made a "movie trailer" for an imagined re-release of the movie </span><b style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Room of Ice</b><span style="color: #202124; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. You can watch the trailer here:</span></p>
<div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #202124;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="436" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iIEAILXOzJs" width="640" youtube-src-id="iIEAILXOzJs"></iframe></span></div>
<br />
<p align="center">Well, I'm off to read all the other stories in the anthology. Should be a treat!<br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkk_NNukGi9JeFJJYHbXlcSQ8M4Z35YzwhCmDyVhZJJEA4CnQmNHcmBfBfGpOWA-r2a3OPAUGay39DT99viahKXOE_qSJ6Xk3BMZZZzUQI0MWNxL5ceaMD7qD2ZxEfFcqIjAnWuPz2O_mxCvNgN1Y3BB_M3XFUic8MusPLXo1mRYhpOOIX7Ll0u1UYMOI/s400/sr_SS.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="400" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkk_NNukGi9JeFJJYHbXlcSQ8M4Z35YzwhCmDyVhZJJEA4CnQmNHcmBfBfGpOWA-r2a3OPAUGay39DT99viahKXOE_qSJ6Xk3BMZZZzUQI0MWNxL5ceaMD7qD2ZxEfFcqIjAnWuPz2O_mxCvNgN1Y3BB_M3XFUic8MusPLXo1mRYhpOOIX7Ll0u1UYMOI/s320/sr_SS.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span><br /></span><div><a href="http://www.StephenRoss.net"><span>www.StephenRoss.net</span></a></div>
<p></p>Stephen Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05594368159220033291noreply@blogger.com8Auckland, New Zealand-36.850882700000007 174.7644881-60.709549036958087 139.6082381 -12.992216363041926 -150.0792619tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-42530463749252533192024-02-25T00:01:00.002-05:002024-02-25T00:01:00.253-05:00The Bar<p><span>Most people have memories from various bars over the course of their lives. These memories may be good ones from the times when they were the happy center of attention or it was a gathering of good friends, a time they hoped would never end. But then, some could also be bad memories. A time when bad happenings affected their life, or they made bad decisions not easily undone.</span></p><p><span>My memories of bars started in a 3.2 joint in Wichita, drinking red beers and playing pool with, at that time, a good buddy. We were both underage, but other customers in this establishment were scarce and the bartender didn't ask to see IDs. Next came my part-time employment in one of the first Pizza Hut franchises. The owner of a 3.2 beer joint leased space in a defunct barber shop next to his bar, set up the pizza shop in that space, and sawed a window in the interior wall between the two businesses so that beer could be pushed through one way while the pizzas went the other direction. The boss' waitress cum mistress usually took care of any business conducted at the window. It wasn't exactly Cheers, but everyone seemed happy to be there. After that came the Army's NCO Club, which advanced ten-dollar chit books to its clientele, so that any broke NCO who wanted to could still wet his whistle. Of course, come payday, the chit book recipient immediately paid off his debt to the club.</span></p><p><span>Then, in early '71, a new job came along and the memories changed. Seems criminals and undercover Special Agents tended to operate in the dark corners of life. Bars were one of the accepted meeting places. Turned out, anything could happen in a bar.</span></p><p><span>One night, I dropped into a mob owned bar in downtown Kansas City, Missouri. Sitting up to the bar counter with a drink in hand, I gave a dollar to the waitress and asked her to to get me a pack of cigarettes. She took the dollar and walked to several places in the bar before disappearing in the back room. At no time did she approach the cigarette machine set along a nearby wall and in plain view to me. When she returned, she handed me a pack of cigarettes. The pack had no license or tax stamps on it. This pack was either stolen from a warehouse, or bought clandestinely out the back door of a tobacco factory. No idea how many cartons of smokes were involved.</span></p><p><span>On a different night, but still on the Missouri side of the river, my partner, a KCMO vice-cop, and I had a federal arrest warrant for the son of a capo. We went to a night club owned by the capo, found a secluded table and ordered drinks. When the waitress brought the drinks, we told here we wanted to speak with the capo. Five minutes later, he showed up at our table. My partner explained that we had a federal arrest warrant for his son, but we did not want to disturb his wife or his home life, so we came to him here. He replied that his son would be in our office early Monday morning. Then. to show his thanks for our discretion, he said the drinks were on him. We did now wish to offend him by rejecting his offer, nor did we want to be in his debt for anything, so we left a tip for the waitress large enough to cover the drinks plus a nice tip.</span></p><p><span>On the Kansas side of the river was a biker bar known as Mother Pearls. I once bought a small quantity of crystal meth in one of their rest rooms. The purchase turned out to be crystal, but not methamphetamine. In those days, if the U/C guy got burned on a buy, he either got the money back, or he made the burn up out of his own pocket. Making up a burn was usually a long, involved story concerning bad decisions on someone's part. Sorry, but these stories are best told in a bar......if told at all.</span></p><p><span>Further up the river in St. Joe on the Missouri side one night, I was in a bar with an informant and a surveillance team. After a couple of beers and a no-show on the potential defendant's part, I made a trip to the head. As I stood there, a large, rough-looking guy appeared on each side of me. "Hi, Pockets," one of them said. "How's your evening going?" Turned out they were ATF agents that I knew. I was there to buy drugs and they were there to buy guns. Trouble was, our informants were trying to buy from each other. We called it a night and drove home.</span></p><p><span>There are plenty of other bar stories, but I'm not at liberty to tell most of them.</span></p><p><span>Like I said, anything can happen in a bar, plus everything may not be as it first appears. Mysteries abound, plots hatch, and con men flourish. Perhaps it is safer to curl up with a good book, like the <i>Murder Neat</i> anthology, and just read about what happens to other people in a bar. Someone might get murdered in their bed, or even in a dark alley behind a bar, but at least it won't be you.</span></p>R.T. Lawtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15523486296396710227noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3119105822589181967.post-38344213454304114052024-02-23T23:37:00.001-05:002024-02-24T03:53:01.402-05:00Roman à Clef? Murder, Neat: A Former Model Confesses<p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Neat-SleuthSayers-Michael-Bracken-ebook/dp/B0CSV1RPN9/ref=sr_1_1?crid=8TMV4JATL9GA&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.j1lDtTKtPIanLfqYuhMIflqYh0IL4dSbVD01EUUXMXZIamIr_MwnziQ8XMqTBwfret_zZOQkqZRuB2sKctFP1j2u58aTpPnI_pIlOLFkQ15PmyrxkfR4QBI5hL21l-HYQLJJmfYo6Hon9Rt2VZQWuxIFOr0tBNx_P5k-YRW5CfIk1YHzVPoUI75GX7mIC4l3eVC_G59tm-RY7aMTnQLLiT5g3a6dplCGX88Xea644GA.qCHvW_A4UXzlCMt7ZxgV0hvfFB-DwJsM0YPzZwTVJKU&dib_tag=se&keywords=MURDER%2C+NEAT&qid=1707848449&sprefix=murder%2C+neat%2Caps%2C388&sr=8-1">MURDER, NEAT</a>… and a little bit twisted.</p>
<p>Who could guess that my past would be all over the short story, <font style="font-variant-caps: small-caps;">‘The Mob, The Model and The College Reunion’</font>, in the anthology <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Neat-SleuthSayers-Michael-Bracken-ebook/dp/B0CSV1RPN9/ref=sr_1_1?crid=8TMV4JATL9GA&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.j1lDtTKtPIanLfqYuhMIflqYh0IL4dSbVD01EUUXMXZIamIr_MwnziQ8XMqTBwfret_zZOQkqZRuB2sKctFP1j2u58aTpPnI_pIlOLFkQ15PmyrxkfR4QBI5hL21l-HYQLJJmfYo6Hon9Rt2VZQWuxIFOr0tBNx_P5k-YRW5CfIk1YHzVPoUI75GX7mIC4l3eVC_G59tm-RY7aMTnQLLiT5g3a6dplCGX88Xea644GA.qCHvW_A4UXzlCMt7ZxgV0hvfFB-DwJsM0YPzZwTVJKU&dib_tag=se&keywords=MURDER%2C+NEAT&qid=1707848449&sprefix=murder%2C+neat%2Caps%2C388&sr=8-1"><i>MURDER, NEAT</i></a>?</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr00rZ2B-vxiE7_ilmET2avQUkTob5OPfjhjVpoZbbo9CMb0fnZ1o2pMBnHM0YmwItz88o_2G7LcCO6UbsFw81dhRpKS2FRnn5-YLz1-dZW5iDp6_W1QJkSBLGAfypqVmx2qmH_JrGH4pJrQqIXvOy7XVoe5A_xwtqKk0BxLbevTwy69RMY52_OBzN514-/s801/Murder,%20neat.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="801" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr00rZ2B-vxiE7_ilmET2avQUkTob5OPfjhjVpoZbbo9CMb0fnZ1o2pMBnHM0YmwItz88o_2G7LcCO6UbsFw81dhRpKS2FRnn5-YLz1-dZW5iDp6_W1QJkSBLGAfypqVmx2qmH_JrGH4pJrQqIXvOy7XVoe5A_xwtqKk0BxLbevTwy69RMY52_OBzN514-/s320/Murder,%20neat.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>A few years ago, I was on stage for a book event, hearing happy applause. A hand went up, and a young gal with somewhat questionable social skills said, "You don't look anything like your protagonist."</p><p>I swallowed my wounded pride, dug deep into the wit-basket and quipped: "Not only that, I don't look anything like my author photo!" That brought the biggest laugh of the evening, of course.</p><p>But the incident prompted me to rethink a related question I get asked frequently. How close is the protagonist to the real me?</p><p>I've written 18 books and over 60 short stories. If the protagonist was me in all of those, it would be a pretty boring adventure for readers. And for me, as well. Part of the fun of being an author is putting yourself into the skin of others. Becoming the character you are writing, for just a little while. Leaving yourself behind.</p><p>However, sometimes I just want to write myself into a fun story (always a fun one...never a fearful one!)</p><p>So in ‘The Mob, The Model and The College Reunion’, I let the real me show through. Okay, I may be older now than Donna di Marco, the protagonist, is in this tale, but she carries my background, my on again – off again modeling career, my outlook on life, and definitely my wit. She even looks surprisingly like me.</p><p>Have you ever wanted to write a character who says what you're thinking? The things you don't actually say out loud?</p><p>Donna does that for me! And oh, it was fun to write them.</p><p>College reunions? I'm not a big fan. There were few women in my Commerce program, and the misogyny at the time was pretty brutal. Competition was savage between the young men, and my memories are mixed at best. Sometimes I was the bone to be fought over.</p><p>But I've discovered an interesting thing. Reunions sure are good for setting conflict. Old grievances resurface, even among the bank executives and corporate buccaneers of my class that have done so well financially. They don't forget the old days.</p><p>So I had a bit of sport, writing what might have happened if I had gone to our last reunion. In fact, I didn't go. Maybe self-preservation? Maybe I was too busy celebrating my recent marriage to an old college classmate?</p><p>Yes, the John of this story is the John Michael O'Connell who persuaded me to the altar not long ago. And yes, our classmates were shocked. So you can see how easy it might have been to concoct such a tale, and to lace it with the loopy humour I just can't seem to leave behind.</p><p>Not to mention the mob elements that always seem to sneak into my work.</p><p>Roman à clef? I'll leave that to your imagination.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The author at college:</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5cVXQKnInXHkJiVEcrTc7o3PYEj64GZROHym-JjCXFUug8QRgmV6T4Fbev51NtSmUy1KuI2-JZB2xjYMZzmSMh-g6yVLHl9fCkWGx0L9YjOMJmay4GpaaGdld8sHVGFtK8xFXfQ_XJN-20wTxdcVB6QNCa0wcZlB1NcrGtii-NYNrSqNt_-BzCDd-7PG/s2048/science%20formal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5cVXQKnInXHkJiVEcrTc7o3PYEj64GZROHym-JjCXFUug8QRgmV6T4Fbev51NtSmUy1KuI2-JZB2xjYMZzmSMh-g6yVLHl9fCkWGx0L9YjOMJmay4GpaaGdld8sHVGFtK8xFXfQ_XJN-20wTxdcVB6QNCa0wcZlB1NcrGtii-NYNrSqNt_-BzCDd-7PG/s320/science%20formal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">The author today:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23cglBnMDBRK-p5NWjr3sKaxWHPhXNCw_yJg-jGsE1MZ3h2Ye3hyTSt8Hs-fpvoj6lDSn81g_5T4utRexshUic3P5MUcENDPScRsJeSa7Sy4x9LwxcN_C44fqtSM_kvZtGGuc6WAQwu5U-iU7Tab2Ow3DcY63LtWMhL8jr3WWYNQsfxB4shzJrXkm2Rim/s801/Wedding%20snip.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="572" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23cglBnMDBRK-p5NWjr3sKaxWHPhXNCw_yJg-jGsE1MZ3h2Ye3hyTSt8Hs-fpvoj6lDSn81g_5T4utRexshUic3P5MUcENDPScRsJeSa7Sy4x9LwxcN_C44fqtSM_kvZtGGuc6WAQwu5U-iU7Tab2Ow3DcY63LtWMhL8jr3WWYNQsfxB4shzJrXkm2Rim/s320/Wedding%20snip.png" width="229" /></a></div>
<p>• Buy link for <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Neat-SleuthSayers-Michael-Bracken-ebook/dp/B0CSV1RPN9/ref=sr_1_1?crid=8TMV4JATL9GA&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.j1lDtTKtPIanLfqYuhMIflqYh0IL4dSbVD01EUUXMXZIamIr_MwnziQ8XMqTBwfret_zZOQkqZRuB2sKctFP1j2u58aTpPnI_pIlOLFkQ15PmyrxkfR4QBI5hL21l-HYQLJJmfYo6Hon9Rt2VZQWuxIFOr0tBNx_P5k-YRW5CfIk1YHzVPoUI75GX7mIC4l3eVC_G59tm-RY7aMTnQLLiT5g3a6dplCGX88Xea644GA.qCHvW_A4UXzlCMt7ZxgV0hvfFB-DwJsM0YPzZwTVJKU&dib_tag=se&keywords=MURDER%2C+NEAT&qid=1707848449&sprefix=murder%2C+neat%2Caps%2C388&sr=8-1"><i>MURDER, NEAT</i></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span> </p>Melodie Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07870938103759179132noreply@blogger.com7