With the current heat wave in TX there's only one thing you can do to stay cool. Find a comfortable chair and a good book.
For some strange reason, my favorite thing to read is a mystery. Honestly, I don't try to figure out whodunit, I'm more interested in the characters. I have many favorites. If I start listing them, I'll get carried away and even then I'll leave off someone. Then I will get upset with myself because I left off one of my all time favorites, so I won't name names.
However, I recently read an ARC, titled The Last Whisper In the Dark by Tom Piccirilli. The book just came out from Bantam. Unfortunately, I had not read the previous, The Last Kind Words, I will be purchasing it soon. It's the story of the Rands, a family of criminals...but not your usual criminals. They are creepers, cat burglars, grifters, con artist .It's in their blood and what they do is just their destiny. And to add to the strangeness they're all named after dogs.
Our protagonist is Terrier, father is Pinscher (who is creeping up on Alzheimer's,) grandfather, Shepherd, who is in the latter stages of the disease and who Terry calls, Old Shep. There is a brother, named Collie, who for some strange reason, (if you haven't read the first book you don't know why,) goes on a killing spree and has been executed for his crimes. Terry's sister is named Airedale, he calls her Dale. There are two uncles, Mal (amute) and Grey (hound.)
Terry is in love with Kimmy, who now is married to Terry's one-time best friend, Chub. And I think Kimmy's little girl, Scooter, is Terry's biological child. I don't think I was ever sure about that but it's obvious he loves her and her mother dearly. The locale is Long Island, NY but that is incidental to the story.
Mr. Piccirilli has written an unusual cast of character who slowly become real folks as you continue to read. The mystery is not so much who does what, although there are twist and turns as Terry becomes involved with his estranged maternal Grandfather. Terry's mother was disowned when she married Pinscher and Terry doesn't know any of the maternal side until the man calls and wants to see his daughter before he dies. The old man is on his deathbed. Mother Rand goes but Terry goes with her and it soon becomes apparent the old man wants to talk to Terry too, and he wants Terry to steal something for him.
If that's not complication enough, Terry's sixteen year old sister is involved with some hooligan thugs and looks as if she could be in big trouble almost immediately if not sooner. And Kimmy's husband Chub is involved with some really bad guys and Terry's got to try to save Kimmy and his daughter.
Some reviewers compare the writing to Raymond Chandler and call The Last Whisper very dark. I suppose it is more in the noir category than anything else but it's such an intriguing cast of characters that all I could do was keep turning pages to see what would happen next. It's also probably much better if you read Last Kind Words first because without that background you're a bit lost until about a third of the way into it. But it is definitely worth your time, especially if you like that sort of thing. Great characters and a well-written story, I mean.
The other ARC I read lately is NOT exactly a mystery. It's A Wilder Rose, by Susan Wittig Albert. It's the surprising true story of Rose and Laura Wilder and the Little House on the Prairie books. I'm not going to review it here as Susan is going to write an article in my place in the very near future and I don't want to step on her toes, but is a fascinating story within a story of the collaboration of a mother and daughter and the blending of facts and fiction unraveling the mystery of these books.
Like most writers I love reading. I guess I could be perfectly happy reading all day every day. I loved reading so much that my late husband, Elmer and I opened a bookstore in Austin in 1990. We titled it Mysteries and More. The "more" part was because we also had science-fiction, western, and general fiction. But all of those genre were used books. The new books were all mysteries and we had a huge number of used mysteries. I used to say we had 75% used and 25% new books. That was probably accurate. M & M was only the second mystery bookstore in Texas. Murder by the Book was the first and I think it's the only one currently still in business.
It wasn't too long that I realized that we had more books than I could ever read even if I live to be a hundred. That was a sad realization. When we liquidated the store in 1999 we had had nine years of great fun and great adventures, met a large number of mystery authors and had read a great number of books. However, we had decided to realize our dream of traveling the USA and my husband was ready to retire. We took a lot of books with us to read in the late evenings when we couldn't go sight seeing. Both of us loved to read.
I learned a lot about writing by reading. I read books about how-to-write and books about how to market and how to find an agent. I had reference books galore when I still had my house. But after three summers of RV traveling we decided to live full-time in our fifth-wheel, RV. That meant I had to give up about three thousand books I had kept from the store. It was sad to leave "good" friends and I do mean friends because books have always been my friend.
Books took me to far-away places that I'd never be able to travel to and I learned how to do so many neat things from my friends. Besides how to write, I learned how to collect depression glass, old mason fruit jars, stamps and coins. I learned how to make quilts, make cookies & candies, how to make jelly and jam and how to make a Better Than Sex Cake. I learned how to identify wildflowers, how to look for constellations in the stars and the capitols of every state in the union. As Elmer used to always say, "You can learn how to do almost anything, if you can read."
The intriguing thing to me is how you can learn many things about writing from reading other writer's books. I often stop and marvel at a well-turned sentence that somehow seems to say so much. It might be a character description or the way a place looks that immediately puts you there. I don't copy them down but I know they park themselves in the file cabinet in my mind. Not to plagiarize but to remember that there are way to construct a sentence or to construct the character who always lies or the construction of the faded dress worn by the mother of your suspect.
To remember "good" writing especially when you think yours is lacking. I remember a writer friend who wrote children's mysteries telling me once that you must engage the senses on every page. Sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste because that will capture a child's imagination. It will also capture the imagination of anyone, no matter their age.
When I first saw the Mississippi River, I was in my thirties and my mind went back to reading Huckleberry Finn. That mighty old river had been so strong in my mind, the sound, the sight, the smell that Mark Twain brought to the pages of his book made me catch my breath. That old river was familiar because I had read so much about it.
Another way to learn from reading is to volunteer to read for awards or contests. The Edgars and the Shamus nominees and winners are books read by writers who themselves have been published. By a jury of peers as it were. There are contests given by the Private Eye Writers, by the Agatha writers, by the Thriller writers and probably even by the Romance writers. Those contests often offer a prize of publication. If you belong to one of these organizations, volunteer to read for the awards or contest. You might be surprised at how much you learn.
Another opportunity might offer a chance for a writer to help an aspiring writer. Our local Sisters-in-Crime chapter has a mentoring program for aspiring writers. This program is to honor Barbara Burnett Smith, who was tragically killed in 2005. She often mentored aspiring writers and each year aspiring writers can turn in a couple of chapters and a synopsis. These partial manuscripts are read by published authors from our chapter and critiqued. Then after our May Mystery Month meeting the author and aspiring writer have a chance to talk and sometimes the mentor will continue to help the aspiring writer complete their work. No prizes are given but just having your work critiqued by a published author is priceless.
Through the years I've read for awards, contest and for our mentoring program. You read the opening of a book and realize how a writer has "hooked you." Right from the first paragraph. Suddenly you realize what's wrong with your own work in progress. You haven't hooked anyone in the first paragraph or even the first page. Wow. I've always known this, but somehow forgot it when I started this manuscript, you tell yourself.
More likely you'll read a character description that blows you away. Maybe it's short but, so pointed, so precise that you can actually see that character walking down the street. And you see what you need to do to a character who moves the plot along. Maybe a fight scene comes to life and helps you understand your own scene.
There is so much to learn from reading. In fact, I'm going to sign off and get back to the book I'm currently reading, one that I'm sure will help me with my own. I suggest y'all go and do likewise.
In 1967 I enrolled as a freshman at George Washington University in Washington, D.C. and moved into a dormitory on 19th Street between E and F Streets. Like a lot of new residents of the District my new-found college friends and I took joy in roaming this fascinating city whenever we had the chance.
One night in October, around midnight, following a late night walk, we found ourselves behind a colonial mansion two blocks away from my dorm. The mansion had been converted to offices, and behind it were park benches. We sat down gazing up at the three story building and after several minutes we noticed something decidedly eerie. Someone dressed in a white gown was walking through the building and up and down the winding stair case that connected the three floors carrying a lighted candle. We watched, transfixed, for several minutes, until suddenly the figure disappeared.
This was long before the age of the internet and instant knowledge gratification. So when we decided to look further into the history of the building we did so by hitting the university library the next morning. The house we had sat behind, and watched as that candle moved from window to window, was (and is) Octagon House, the headquarters of the American Institute of Architects and, more importantly for our purposes, purportedly one of the most haunted houses in Washington D.C.
Octagon House was built by Colonel John Taylor in 1801 and served as a temporary White House for James and Dolley Madison following the sacking of Washington D.C. and the partial burning of the White House by the British in the war of 1812. It was in Octagon house that President Madison eventually signed the Treaty of Ghent, finally ending that war. And the ghosts that reportedly reside in the house? Well, according to legend the most prominent of the spirits are the two daughters of Colonel Taylor, each of whom separately met their deaths falling down the circular stair case that is the architectural centerpiece of the building. But also, over the years, a gambler reportedly shot to death on the third floor of the house, a British soldier, and various slaves, who lived in shacks behind the house, have all been observed in the dark of night frequenting the building.
It’s a funny thing with ghost stories. Ask me if I believe in ghosts and I will say “no.” Ask me if I have seen any and I’ll look a bit embarrassed and say “perhaps yes.” And I wouldn’t be referring only to those candles.
My mother died in 2010, and thereafter my brother and his wife rehabbed her St. Louis house for sale. When we visited St. Louis that Christmas we went by the house to examine the miracles they had wrought. As I was getting ready to leave through the front door I turned around and there was my mother, standing next to me and putting on her coat. She smiled, I blinked, and then she was gone.
Several years earlier my elder son Devon worked for the summer in my wife’s hometown of Vincennes, Indiana. He stayed with my wife’s sister and husband, who lived in a beautiful old Sears house, lovingly restored, in the heart of town. The house is also, purportedly, haunted – an elderly lady is frequently seen walking through the rooms. One evening Devon had the house to himself – my in-laws having left it in his care while they lit out on a camping trip. Devon, lonely and perhaps a bit nervous, called us long distance that evening. In the midst of the conversation he screamed. “What happened?” we yelled into the mouthpiece of our phone. It took several seconds for Devon to compose himself. He had sensed something behind him, and when he turned there was a huge face leering at him several inches away. The face, it turned out, was on a balloon. The balloon, in turn, had been left downstairs in the dining room – a leftover reminder from my sister-in-law’s birthday. The balloon had (somehow) floated through the dining room, down a short hall and then up the back “servants" staircase,” coming to rest right behind Devon as he spoke on the upstairs phone.
So. A simple explanation. The balloon was carried by air currents, no doubt fueled by the air conditioner returns, through the house and then up the back stairs. But why, one wonders, did it stop right behind Devon? And why with the face turned just so?
The episodes recounted above share a thread common to most "ghostly" encounters – the evidence of the ghost itself comes down to wisps and shreds. It’s all potentially explainable – over active imaginations, stimulation brought on by atmospherics, coincidences that align just so. Actual evidence of a haunting is pretty hard to come by.
But not always. The day that this article posts we are in Bardstown, Kentucky -- en route to a family reunion back in Vincennes. There is a stretch of road in Kentucky, just outside of Bardstown in the midst of the Bourbon Trail that has long been reported to be haunted. As cars come around an “s” turn in the road a flickering figure can, at times, be discerned hovering in front of the car. Eventually, in an attempt to prove that something really is out there, some local amateur paranormal investigators set up a camera on a hillside overlooking the road. The camera recorded many cars rounding the curve for days, and showed nothing. Nothing that is until the clip below was filmed. Watch very carefully, paying close attention to the area right in front of that car as it rounds the turns.
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Okay. Deep breath. Gotcha, didn’t I? (Yet another example of framing the pitch!) By the way, that road isn't even in Kentucky.
Having moved, I would hope unexpectedly, to the realm of ghost fiction, let us tarry there a while. Like many, there is nothing I like better than a good ghost story. American ghost stories tend to follow the British model, which is really a bit rigid. In "Some Remarks on Ghost Stories" (1929), the British ghost story writer M.R. James identified five key features of the classical English ghost story,:
• The pretense of truth
• "A pleasing terror"
• No gratuitous bloodshed or sex
• No "explanation of the machinery"
• Setting: "those of the writer's (and reader's) own day"
The video clip I think manages to hit every one of those notes.
There is something about a well-turned ghost story that hooks me pretty easily. Particularly at this time of year, when the pumpkins ripen and the evening winds begin chilling the woods. Some personal favorites that you might want to try as Halloween approaches are these:
The Shining, by Stephen King This is King’s third book, published in 1977, and his first bestseller. The ghost is in many respects The Overlook Hotel, where the story takes place. If you want to opt for a filmed version, try for the 1997 television miniseries – much superior, in my view, to Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 film adaptation. Even if you have already read The Shining this is a great time to re-visit the story -- after 36 years a sequel, Doctor Sleep, is in the works and due out in time for next Halloween.
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson One of the few novels written by the queen of short story horror fiction. Terror is built superbly around ghosts that are never seen and a group of innocents, each with some background in the paranormal, who are assembled in the name-sake house by a scientist intent on providing proof of the existence of ghosts in a paranormal experiment that goes horribly wrong.
The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Shetterfield. This gothic treasure intertwines the ghost stories of a famous and reclusive ghost story author, the mystery of her long-lost thirteenth ghost story, and the secret aspects of the her life.
Her Fearful Symmetry: A Novel by Audrey Niffenegger When Elspeth Noblin dies of cancer, she leaves her London apartment to her twin nieces, Julia and Valentina. The two American sisters move to England and become enthralled with life after death. The title is from a William Blake poem -- need we say more? This novel was not particularly well received (the author previously did better with The Time Traveler's Wife.) Perhaps this one pushed the envelope just a bit too far. A real horror story. Not for the faint of heart! The Thirteenth Child by David Dean I admit that I haven’t yet finished this new volume by my Tuesday partner in crime – I was waylaid from fiction the last two weeks as I prepared to teach an annual class at the University of Denver – but I am far enough in to recommend the tale wholeheartedly. What’s not to like about a mystery involving three centuries of disappearances and a terrifying boy who appears only between dusk and dawn—a creature that lures children from their homes for his own dark purposes?
When you're reading a book that you really enjoy, do you sometimes find that you STOP and reread a sentence? Maybe it's simplicity caught your eye. Maybe you know that it completely conveys the character, the scene, the motive, that it just rings as true.
I was rereading a book by my friend Susan Rogers Cooper last week. The book is A Crooked Little House," publishedin 1999. Now, I've read Susan for years, actually since 1990 when we had our mystery bookstore and she came out for our Grand Opening. I had not met her before but we had a hard copy of her second book Houston In The Rearview Mirror. I asked her to sign it and from that point on Susan and I became friends. I read everything she wrote usually before it even came out. I tell you all this to let you know that just because I know and love her like a sister, it has no bearing on the sentences in CLH that grabbed, and gave me the idea for this article. It's actually three short paragraphs, but it conveys the geographic location so vividly.
"I love a good storm. I always have. It energizes me--the drama of it, the excitement of it. Rain without lightening and thunder is just wet, but put the three together, and you have a night's entertainment a hell of a lot more stimulating than dinner and a movie. And sex during a storm is nothing to sneeze at--in case you weren't aware of this. Since we'd moved to central Texas, there was a certain sadness for me about storms. In Houston, where I was born and raised and where I gave birth to my children, you can expect rain just about anytime. Droughts in Houston are such a rarity as to be laughable. Not in central Texas. Each storm of spring could be the last one until fall;enjoy the one coming because you may forget what it's like before the next storm." It's words like that which make me want to be a writer. To be able in a few words to convey a feeling of storms, of living where there are few storms. To feel the heat on your skin and body for weeks and months and the longing for a good rain. Many writers can do this and I admire each and every one of them.
David Baldacci's latest paperback, Zero Day gives a description of a woman that is excellent in my opinion.
"Samantha Cole was not in uniform. She was dressed in faded jeans, white T-shirt, a WVU Mountaineers windbreaker, and worn-down calf-high boots. The butt of a King Cobra double-action .45 revolver poked from inside her shoulder holster. It was on the left side, meaning she was right-handed. She was a sliver under five-three without boots, and a wiry one-ten with dirty blonde hair that was long enough to reach her shoulders. Her eyes were blue and wide; the balls of her cheekbones were prominent enough to suggest Native American ancestry. Her face had a scattering of light freckles. She was an attractive woman but with a hard,cynical look of someone to whom life had not been overly kind."
Wow. Short but so powerful. You know you'd know Samantha if you met her anywhere. There's no reason to describe someone with sentences and paragraphs and words and words. Just find the important little details that can make a character a real person to the reader.
One more example and it's a song lyric, which might sound strange but it's just one that really grabbed me. The song is "Utopia" written by John Greenberg & Bill Murry and is sung by singer/song writer, john Arthur martinez. jAm came in 2nd on the TV show Nashville Star, a few years ago and is a friend and neighbor of mine.
"For 15 battered years we lived out of a pick-up truck. When she told me to make my bed I'd just put the tail-gate up."
Okay, maybe it's just me, but those twenty-five simple words convey so much. I know each of you have favorite sentences and paragraphs that move you or excite you or inspire you. I've shown you some of mine and now you can show me some of yours.
Our home, at the moment, is a bachelor pad. Yes, it's true that I am married and have been for forty years--but my wife's out of town for a couple weeks, and I've been left to my own devices. As of this writing, it's been ten days since her departure, and so far I have (1) read most of a novel and a dozen short stories, (2) written a story of my own, (3) watched five movies and a lot of series-on-DVD, and (4) consumed nine TV dinners and two lunch specials at a nearby pizza place. What I haven't done is wash many clothes or dishes, but hey, I haven't yet had to use a lot--and besides, I've got several more days before the boss returns and does an inspection.
The best thing about all this couch-potatoish activity is that most of it has fallen into the mystery/suspense category.
Reading
The short stories I've read this week were actually re-read, from two of my favorite collections: Little Boxes of Bewilderment by Jack Ritchie and Small Felonies by Bill Pronzini. Bewilderment features thirty-one mysteries by one of the true masters of the short story, and Felonies contains fifty (count 'em, fifty) mystery short-shorts. Every tale in both books is delightful, and some are brilliant.
The novel I've been reading is also a re-read, and even though it's not a mystery it includes a hearseload of suspense and mayhem. It's Stephen King's Wizard and Glass--I'm giving it and Wolves of the Calla a second go-round because I recently finished his fairly new The Wind Through the Keyhole, which is positioned between W&G and WOTC in the Dark Tower series. (Dale, I am once more on the path of the Beam, thankee-sai.) For those of you who are not familiar with Roland of Gilead and his In-World adventures, Wizard and Glass is--like all of King's novels--well-written and packed with action, although it's a strange kind of action: the novel might be best categorized as a fantasy/Western/romance. And I was pleased to find that revisiting it has been as much fun as reading it the first time was, years ago.
At the top of my to-be-read stockpile of novels are A Wanted Man by Lee Child and Winter of the World by Ken Follett. I bought both of them the other day and will get to them as soon as I finish my return to the King.
Watching
My movie and TV viewing this past week has also been mostly mystery/crime/suspense: Man on a Ledge, Lockout, Get the Gringo, Headhunters, Safe House, and the second season of HBO's Boardwalk Empire. Sadly, none of these are what I would call top-notch except for Boardwalk and (if you don't mind subtitles) Headhunters. Just for the heck of it, I also re-watched the pilot episode of Lost--probably the only network series of the last ten years that I've really enjoyed.
Lest I mislead you, though, the movies I've mentioned were viewed not in a proper theater but in my home theater, and from the comforting depths of my recliner--and all of them (the TV shows as well) either arrived in a red Netflix envelope or were streamed in via Apple TV. Give me those conveniences and a snack and my remote and my pair of wireless headphones, and I'm a kid in a candy store.
Next up in my movie queue are Touch of Evil, A Kiss Before Dying, and the U.S. (2011) version of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.
Writing
The short story I wrote this past week is a 3200-word mystery called "Secrets: A Ferry Tale." It's sort of a Strangers on a Train kind of story with a different mode of transportation. It's also the first piece of fiction I've ever written whose title has included a colon--but the truth is, I couldn't decide between the two titles and this was a way to use both. (I've always been more devious than smart.)
Like so many of my shorts, the rough draft for this one happened fast, within a couple of hours, and then I spent the next two days rewriting it. I wish I could do as some of my writer friends do, and pop stories out of the oven fully baked, but with me it just never works that way. My babies are usually ugly, so I do a lot more rewriting than writing. The good thing is, the revision stage doesn't bother me; I'm one of those crazy people who actually enjoy the act of trying to polish a story until it shines.
I also sold another mystery to Woman's World and came up with ideas for two more--those are not yet written down, but they're fully formed in my head and awaiting birth. Now that "Secrets" is finished and languishing on my hard drive, I'll type the two short-shorts up in the next few days and start the editing process.
I'll also start the housecleaning and dishwashing process. Before the return of my better half I'll probably even make the bed, water the plants, and mow the lawn. (I might be crazy, but I ain't stupid.)
It is easy to question whether justice has or is being done. It seems (from a public standpoint anyway) people get away with murder, while others are being imprisoned for lesser charges. Personally, I believe most law enforcement, judges and juries are doing the best they can. That being said, the media reports the extremes and sometimes, I am left scratching my head as to the fairness of it all.
One of the talk shows recently discussed Dr. Conrad Murray's four-year jail term after a jury found him guilty of involuntary manslaughter in the death of Michael Jackson.
Dr. Murray's girlfriend who testified in the trial said he was reading voraciously and transporting himself to other locales through that reading instead of spending his time in a dreary prison. She also said he was quite popular with the inmates.
Anyone see something wrong with this picture?
Would I enjoy spending more time reading? Of course, I would. Think about it: no responsibilities beyond probably keeping his cell area neat and personal grooming. I'm not sure if he has any sort of manual labor to do within the prison system, but the girlfriend did not mention that in the segment.
I'm not going to commit a crime in order to allow myself more time to read or study, but it all seems unfair.
To many, Fate seems to be the ruler we dare not tempt. I'm not one of those. I am a slight risk taker. I've mentioned before, if I were on Jeopardy! (and much to my husband's chagrin) I would most likely place a large wager on my answer to Alex Trebek's Final Jeopardy question.
That doesn't mean I would tempt the Fates by committing a robbery or plotting a murder, except on paper. I am perfectly willing to do that as often as possible. My schedule is a bit more harried than Dr. Murray's, but I'm thinking, this is probably an excellent time for him to pen his own bit of fiction. His name recognition alone would probably make it a best-seller, which also isn't fair, but it happens.
Are we the Captains of our Fate or are we ruled by the Fates? Interesting question that keep philosophers in business.
"What would you do if you absolutely wouldn't get caught?" I was asked by a fellow writer.
"That depends on my conscience, I suppose," I answered.
The thought of the cloak of invisibility conceived by J. K. Rowling in the Harry Potter series comes to mind. What would any of us do if we were concealed from everyone else? Is the answer to that a matter of our personal ethics, a rendering to a higher power or a code of justice in our society?
If you wouldn't get caught.
Would you:
* pull off a Big Heist robbery that wasn't picked up on security cameras?
* Care to be a fly on the wall (so to speak) to hear what others discuss when you aren't there?
*Paint some grafitti on a wall to show off your secret talent?
*Take a risk you wouldn't ordinarily attempt?
For me, just being invisible to the world while someone reads one of my stories is enticing. And if I'm being honest, to see the facial expressions when an editor is deciding on my current publishing fate.
Is life unfair? Sometimes. Are we in charge of our own free will or do the Fates allow us what they believe we should have in life?
They are questions which we may never truly have the answers to until we face the final mystery of our own death and what comes next.
Until then, I may just tempt the Fates a little and carve out some personal time every day to read just one short story. I don't think that is too risky, but I know I will benefit from the experience.
That personal victory of filling our time with more reading is like taking Fate is in our own hands. If only for a few minutes a day.
I wish the Mayo Clinic researchers had included me in their 926-person study. I would have told them their data were suspect because I’ve used a computer for many years, exercised for about a year, and my short term memory has neither improved nor worsened. I don’t fall into the 36 percent cognitively normal or the 18.3 percent that showed signs of MCI (mild cognitive impairment).
As I have grown older, my short term memory has seemed to gradually disappear. Sometimes the loss has not served me, a reader and sometime writer, very well. In my last post on literature and genre, I forgot to include the URL of the essay to which I referred. My biggest sin in that post was not acknowledging my debt to Janice Law for her article on the subject in Criminal Brief on May 16, 2011. Also Deborah for her January 26, 2012 article in SleuthSayers.
Loss of my short term memory is annoying because it interferes with my reading. Memory is necessary in reading any type of narrative but it is especially important in reading fiction. E. M. Forster in his Aspects of the Novelsays that fiction demands intelligence and memory. He goes on to say, “unless we remember we cannot understand.” The loss of short term memory can be disastrous in reading mysteries, for if it misses a clue and doesn’t recognize the red herring, the twist, or the surprises enjoyment of the story is also lost.
Thinking about memory and reading, I did what I always do, googled and binged the words “memory” and “reading” to get more information on the relation between them. I learned that two types of memories are involved in reading, and I suppose writing also, short term and working.
A definition: “Working memory refers to the processes that are used to temporarily store, organize and manipulate information. Short-term memory, on the other hand, refers only to the temporary storage of information in memory.”
I tried wrapping my mind around that definition and concluded that it is a difference that is no difference. It certainly doesn’t help me with the problem of sometimes being unable to remember what I read on page 3 that now connects to what I’m reading on page 10. In my reading experience, I find that I not only must recall information stored in my memory, but also manipulate and organize that information if I’m to participate wholly in the story.
Like a writer whose creative juices have dried up, a reader whose short term memory has deserted him may slip into deep depression if he doesn’t do something to compensate. To compensate, when I’m reading pbooks, I put a pencil check mark near a word, sentence, or metaphor that I think I’ll need to remember later, and then mark the page with a paper clip or post-it. The system works reasonably well for me. Reading ebooks, on the other hand, I’m struggling to find a way to mark what I think I should remember.
The narrator in Stephen King’s short story “The Things They Left Behind” says “Memory always needs a marker....” I suppose it does. My problem is the marker has disappeared taking my short term memory with it.
I haven't been having a cold like Leigh, or trouble with my leg like
Rob, but what I've been having is like a combination of the worst
aspects of both. I've been having a presidential election. I say 'I',
but I really mean 'they', because although I'm in France, I'm not altogether of it, if you catch my drift. I can vote in local and regional elections being a European, but for any Rosbif who tries to muscle in on the choosing of the Head Grenouille, the shrift he gets is decidedly on the short side.
It's been a bad-tempered campaign, often peevish and at times verging on the distinctly shirty.
So to get away from this parliament of crows and the not unfrenzied
activity which has surrounded it, I decided to catch up with my reading.
Our town library now boasts a vast(ish) English language section with a
high proportion of crime/mystery novels. From Block, Connelly, Coben and
Cornwell all the way to Westlake. Wodehouse is also there to ease the
fractious mind.
My selection this last month has largely consisted of books I should
have read long ago, but have inexplicably failed to. So it's been
Catch-Up time. But you can't ever really catch-up, can you? And
my reading has been interfered with by the thought that people will say
incredulously "You haven't read that? But everybody's read that. Years ago!"
Well, okay. We can't all be perfect and I don't get out much. But three
of this month's books have made for a fine distraction from the
worritsome Gallic punch-up. What I like in a book is (of course) a good
story well told, but I also love to learn about something new to me.
And these three have all taught me something new, told me about
something of which I was completely ignorant. Coincidentally, all three
concern America, but I don't mind that.
The first is The Given Day by Dennis Lehane. This is a
very good book indeed. I've now stopped classing D. Lehane as a great
crime writer and started thinking of him as a great writer full stop.
And what fascinated me was the back-drop of Boston in 1919. I had never
heard of the Boston police strike and most of all, I had never heard of
the Boston Molasses Disaster. If anyone had spoken to me about it before
I came across the book, I would have assumed they were talking about a
Monty Python sketch. But the horrid reality was anything but funny. And
the fact that it has Babe Ruth as a sort of Greek Chorus turning up
throughout the narrative is a clever added bonus.
My second selection is The Interpretation of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld.
I am always a little wary about detective novels written about actual
historical figures, but this is an exception. I didn't know about
Sigmund Freud's visit to New York in 1909, and his fractious
relationship with Carl Jung, so here again I learned something new. The
(fictional) murder plot which takes place during the visit and with
which Freud becomes involved is well constructed but again, it was the
back-drop that entertained me the most. The New York of 1909, with its
towering nineteen-floor (gasp) skyscrapers, the Manhatten Bridge as yet
unbuilt, the social New York of the Four Hundred Families - all
beautifully drawn.
Third and not least, I read this.
And it frightened the bejasus out of me.
After 'No Country For Old Men', I had to amend my List Of People To Be Really, Really Scared Of, to
include Anton Chigurh, but nothing prepared me for this. Why on earth
hadn't I read this before? It is one of the strangest, most terrible,
most terrifying things I have ever read. I kept having to stop during
one of McCarthy's long hair-raising paragraphs, to take a few deep
breaths and tell myself it was only a book. But it isn't only a book.
One review (the NYT, I think) called it a journey 'through a hell
without purpose'. And that it is and then some. There is no salvation in
this book, no redemption for anyone. The end is as terrible as the
beginning. It is dark, bloody and pitiless.
And what I didn't know about was John Joel Glanton , his band of
scalphunters and their horrid, bloody work in 1849. And worst of all, I
didn't know about Glanton's appalling second-in-command, the dreadful
Judge Holden. And now I know, I'm not sure I wasn't better off not.
What mesmerises is McCarthy's English which is like no English language
anyone one has written or read before. It isn't simply the repetitive
use of 'and', nor the lack of quotes around the dialogue. It is the way
he drifts into near-Biblical or quasi-mediaeval mode, his use of the
archaic word, the outmoded phrase when he is describing the
indescriptible which raised the hair on my neck. I am going to have to
read it again to make sure I had it right the first time. But not just yet. I have to read some P.G.Wodehouse to settle my nerves.
France has elected a new President.
And I have elected Judge Holden to head my List of People To Be Really Really Scared Of, which now reads:
1. Judge Holden
2. Anton Chigurh
3. Roy Batty
4 Keyser Sose
Every year at Christmas our family--my wife and I, our daughter, our sons, and all their spouses and children--get together for a week or so, at our house. The headcount is up to thirteen now, and shows signs of growing even more in coming years. It's a lot of fun, and since the five grandchildren are all under the age of seven, it can be a little chaotic as well. Sort of a mix between a Waltons Christmas special and the studio food-fight scene in Blazing Saddles.
What's different about this year is that some of our clan arrived here later than usual--the day before Christmas Eve--and are staying until after New Year's Day, instead of coming a week earlier and leaving just after Christmas. Therefore, instead of my usual practice of avoiding booksignings the week before Christmas because the family's here, this time I told my publisher I'd be available, and wound up signing at several Booklands and Books-A-Millions over the past few days.
Gift rapping
I had a good time at each store, met some interesting folks, and was pleased to see firsthand that a lot of shoppers still choose to give books as Christmas presents. I'm sure some of them were last-minute gifts--I still remember the way I used to frantically grab presents for the kids at the airport after a business trip--but the fact remains that the items under the tree on Christmas morning sometimes still turn out to be books. That warms my heart: I love to give them and receive them.
(By the way, I don't mean to be ignoring e-readers or magazines or subscriptions to magazines. To me, any kind of reading material--or instrument for that purpose--makes a good gift.)
Take me to your reader
Which brings up another subject. Several of my writer friends have told me they don't read other people's fiction while they're in the process of writing their own fiction. They say that if they do, it dilutes their focus, and keeps them from concentrating fully on their own styles and storylines.
That's fine with me. I've always believed a writer should do whatever it takes to make him or her productive, which of course includes avoiding whatever would make him or her unproductive. If it hurts when you laugh, don't laugh.
But I must tell you, the "don't-read-others'-fiction-while-you're-writing-your-own-fiction" policy is--for me--a quirk that wouldn't work. If I stopped reading other authors' fiction while I was in the process of writing my own, I would never get a chance to read other authors' fiction. I'm always writing something, it seems, and if I'm not actually putting words on paper I'm dreaming up those words to later put on paper.
Concurrent sessions
Here's a related point, which I'll put in the form of three questions. Do you ever read more than one novel at the same time? (I don't.) Do you ever read a novel and a nonfiction book at the same time? (I do.) If you're a writer, do you ever find yourself plotting (in your head) more than one novel or short story at the same time? (I do.)
One thing I don't usually do, and I'm not sure why, is read two installations of a series without reading some other kind of book in between them. Novels I've read over the past couple months are (in order): Lee Child's Without Fail, Kinky Friedman's Blast From the Past, Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games, John Grisham's The Litigators, Child's Worth Dying For, Friedman's Ten Little New Yorkers, Stephen King's 11/22/63, Collins's Catching Fire, Michael Crichton's Micro, and Collins's Mockingjay--and splitting up the two Child and Friedman "series" novels and the Hunger Games trilogy was intentional. I think I just enjoyed them more that way. (During that same period I also wrote seven short stories and I've almost finished plotting two more.) How about you?--Do any of you prefer to read books in a series back-to-back, or do you (like me) prefer to sandwich other books between them?
Speaking of gifts and sandwiches . . . that's a wrap
In closing, I sincerely hope all of you read plenty of books and stories in 2012, that you buy plenty of books for others, and that you receive even more.
by Jan Grape
