Conventional Wisdom

Next week is Bouchercon. I'll be there. Besides grabbing any excuse to visit New Orleans, Bouchercon presents an opportunity to connect in person with the community of readers and writers. I’ve gone convention-heavier this year with the release of The Devil’s Kitchen. But I always try to attend at least one conference annually. I learn something every time. I get other benefits. My network grows. Opportunities I didn't anticipate sometimes crop up.

Mostly, I get a sense of belonging. Reading and writing tend to be solitary activities. Bouchercon and the other conferences allow us private practitioners to come together. Maslow's hierarchy of needs puts belonging only slightly above fending off wild animals. As a social species, we want to be a part of something bigger. Mystery conventions give each of us a chance to connect and to share.

How do we maximize the opportunities at a conference? What follows are a few simple suggestions. For most of the experienced conference presenters and attendees, what follows is probably not groundbreaking. Consider the list as a refresher.

1.      Think about what you hope to gain from a conference before you arrive.

Identify your goals. Want a selfie with a famous author? They’ll likely be signing something somewhere. Get in line. Want to renew acquaintanceships? Find a bar stool with your name on it. Success at a conference differs depending on where you are in your reading/writing journey. Identifying your personal goals helps you determine the steps to achieve them.  

2.      Wear your name tag in a place where it can be easily seen.

I'm horrible with names. Often, I'll forget a name within moments after the conversation finishes. And I'm usually reluctant to renew a conversation later because I can't remember someone's name I should know. Help me out. A prominent nametag makes it easier for introverts to take a chance.

3.      It’s hard for most of us to start a conversation. Consider a few easy and planned openings.

Surprisingly, the question, "What's your favorite book?" may not be the right starter. Surrounded by big names and smart talk, a person's mind may be spinning in search of the correct answer to this question. Consider perhaps asking, "Are you a reader, writer, or both?" The answer leads directly to easy follow-ups. In moments, you may find yourself having an accidental encounter with conversation.

4.      Keep lists.

I'm a list guy. I need to write things down if I want to get them done. Usually, have three lists going at a conference: A. The books I'm going to add to my TBR pile, B. Ideas gleaned from panels. This list contains suggestions to improve either my current project or a future one, C. A list of action items—things I need to do to help myself succeed as an author.   

5.      Say “Yes.”

Conferences can be draining. It’s easy to want to retire to your room after a long day. While everyone needs to find the balance that works for them. Try to say “yes” to opportunities.

6.      Be realistic.

Not every session will be right for you. But everyone will be doing their best. Similarly, not all conversations will be smooth. Remember, people are most likely to remember the last thing you say. End positive. You don’t have to lie and gush excessively if flattery is not warranted. Instead, thank your conversational partner and wish them a good conference.

7.      Carry a card.

It's impossible to remember all the names of people I've met. Even a list guy can't stop mid-conversation to write everything down. Have a card ready. They're cheap. They help build a connection that you worked to forge when you summoned the courage to start talking.  

    8. Fill out the evaluations.

Thoughtful comments help organizers make the best conference possible. No one wants to fail. Giving them a few sincere thoughts helps to improve everyone’s experience.

        9. Don’t reveal the ending.

A few years ago, I was sitting at a major conference watching a big-name author being interviewed. The first question from the audience was, “Why did you kill off [major character] at the end of Book Nine?” The room went ugh. In a private conversation, probe all you want. Writers love to talk about their work. In a public forum, stay away from announcing major plot twists.

 I’m sure you have other suggestions for maximizing the convention experience. If you see me at Bouchercon, come tell them to me. I’ll be the name-tag wearing, list-jotting, reader/writer. Please say hello. I’ll hand you a card.

Until next time.

A Blow for Law and Order

My friend, Brian Thiem, is a retired Oakland cop. These days, he writes crime fiction. The Mud Flats Murder Club, his new book, came out last week. His publisher is the same company who released The Devil’s Kitchen, my debut novel. Since we’re roughly on the same publication schedule with our works-in-progress, we email frequently, a support group of two.

            Normally, the email exchange consists of fantasies about seeing Thielman alongside Thiem on the Edgar’s stage or in a bookstore. Brad Thor may have to slide down a few inches to make room. I think of our emails as typical author porn fantasies.

            Last week, our conversation went in a different direction. In my day job, I had read an affidavit where the police officer wrote that because of the actions of the defendant, the officer deployed a “balance displacement technique.”

            The phrase stopped me cold. I had a couple of thoughts.

            First, I might refer to all my future editing as a “vocabulary displacement technique.”

            Secondly, something prevented the officer from simply saying, “I tripped her.”

            I reached out to Retired Officer Thiem for his reaction. He proposed that the author must be old school. Reports used to be written in third person, giving them an excessively formal tone.

Old School: “The reporting officer arrived on scene, exited his patrol vehicle, and observed…”

New School: “I arrived at the scene and saw…”

The New School teaches first person narratives written in plain English.

As a former training officer, he recommended that the guy be sent back to the academy for some remedial report writing.

Then, Brian advanced an alternative hypothesis. We may be seeing a tactical use of jargon and obfuscation to avoid criticism, Brian suggested. An officer writing that he tripped someone sounds like the officer deployed a combat skill stolen from a fourth-grade class. Writing that “I executed a leg sweep to initiate a controlled fall,” or a “balance displacement technique” both appear to be procedures of a law enforcement professional.

Another piece of jargon I frequently see is “distractionary strikes.” The phrase usually shows up in police reports as “I struck the defendant in the face with my fist as a distractionary strike.”

As I understand it, the term was originally devised to describe a strike or push to divert the suspect’s attention and allow the officer sufficient time and space to move to another technique for executing the arrest. The officer, for instance, pushed the suspect back, allowing a moment to pull handcuffs and grasp an arm.

The usage, however, has broadened. Officers assign the nomenclature of diversion or distraction to justify the action of throwing a punch.

As first an assistant district attorney and then a magistrate, I sit in a sanitized office after an event and make judgments. I freely admit to not being on scene in the moment. I recognize that policing operates in a dangerous environment, and I want officers in the field to be safe. But the language of distraction, I think, interferes with a broader discussion about non-lethal force. I frequently see the phrase deployed first without any discussion of why a distraction was called for. Eliminating the phrase, might enable a better a better societal conversation on the topic of arrest violence.

I floated the idea by Brian. As an experienced officer, he agreed with both the concept of the distractionary strike and, perhaps, the need to remove the phrase from the police vocabulary.

I could paraphrase his comments on the topic, but Brian’s a writer. I’ll let him do speak for himself.

As a sergeant and lieutenant, I reviewed many reports written by officers to explain/justify their use of force. In my experience, the vast majority of these uses of force were justified, but they often needed to be explained more clearly in their reports.

            For instance, an officer approaches the driver’s door on a vehicle stop. He asks for the driver’s license and registration, and the driver says he has no license or other ID. In most states, that is cause for a physical arrest. Once the officer arrests the driver and places him in the back of his car, the officer may then take additional steps to identify him and write him a citation. The proper procedure is to secure the driver while doing so. The officer orders the man to exit his car, but the officer sees the man reaching under his seat. Not knowing what the man is reaching for, the officer may distract him by striking him in the face with his closed left fist, then step back, and draw his gun.

To lay people, this might seem like excessive force, but if the officer explains he feared the driver was reaching for a weapon instead of obeying his order, and he struck him to distract him from his actions, as a supervisor, I would feel the action was justified.

Of course, it would help if there was a knife or gun on the floor under the seat, but to expect an officer not to react until he saw a weapon would be unreasonable for the safety of the officer.

It’s possible, I think, to see this issue from two points of view. As citizens, considering both enables us to be better informed. As crime writers, seeing the world through another’s eyes helps us convey a realistic scene to readers.

Until next time.

Hearsay, I Say

 

The good folks at Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine have included my story, “Slow Burn,” in the current issue. I’d like to say thanks.

Perhaps more fitting for the story, I'd like someone else to say I said thanks.

There is a brief description of a courtroom scene in “Slow Burn.” The prosecution seeks to admit some evidence, and the criminal defense attorney objects as “hearsay.” That’s it, the section doesn't run more than a sentence or two. Don’t avoid reading the story because you don’t care for legal thrillers. “Slow Burn” isn’t one of those. 

But this blog is legal stuff. Stop now if that's not your jam. I’d like to use today’s space to talk about hearsay evidence. I find the topic interesting. Hearsay is an essential element of criminal evidence. Writers often get it wrong.

Most authorities define hearsay as an out-of-court statement offered for the truth of the matter asserted. To illustrate, assume Abel is on trial for murder. His friend, Bob, takes the witness stand and testifies that Abel told him that he couldn’t have committed the crime because Abel was in Tahiti on the date and time the offense happened.

The prosecutor should object, and the court should prevent Bob from being allowed to testify to what the defendant said to him concerning his whereabouts on the night of the killing.

To be clear, if Bob testified that he and Abel were in Tahiti on the day of the killing, that would be an alibi and a different scenario. Here, however, Bob is saying what Abel told him. He is merely the playback recorder for the statements offered to prove Abel’s innocence. Abel’s statements presented through Bob shouldn’t be admissible as evidence.

The criminal justice system likes confrontation. The system strives to enable the opposing side to conduct a meaningful cross-examination of the declarant, the person making the statement. Legal writer John Henry Wigmore called cross-examination "beyond any doubt the greatest legal engine ever invented for the discovery of truth."

The opposing side doesn't really get to ask the meaty questions if all Bob can say is "that's what he told me."  If Abel wants to give the Tahiti defense, as a defendant, he will have an undeniable right to testify. But he will have to answer the opposing party's questions. And advising the client on that strategic decision is where defense lawyers earn their keep.

Sometimes, a statement like Abel's Tahiti trip comes in for some collateral purpose. Assume for a moment a side issue arises in the case on trial about, whether, on the day he made the statement, Abel was allegedly unconscious or unhinged. The fact that he was able to converse with a friend and speak in complete sentences, regardless of their content, is the pertinent fact. The statements, then, are not actually being offered for their truth, but rather as proof that Abel was capable of making them. Bob, likely, gets to keep testifying under those circumstances. The judge may, however, instruct the jury about the limitations on the use of the evidence.

This is a rare exception. Typically, one side of the case or the other wants the meat of the statements to be admitted. And the opposing side frequently wants to keep them out of the jury's ears. 

The courts have traditionally held that the right to confrontation applies to some out-of-court statements but not to all of them. Where that line gets drawn is a constitutional battleground frequently fought in cases before the United States Supreme Court.

Many of the hearsay exceptions are “firmly rooted.” That’s constitutional speak for old. Without bogging readers down in the minutiae of evidence law, these exceptions became rooted because they were believed to have particularized guarantees of trustworthiness.

An example is a dying declaration. Vicky Victim has been shot. The emergency doctor places the stethoscope to her chest, listens, then shakes his head and says in his best medical terminology, "You're circling the drain, Vicky. Any last words?"

Vicky gasps, “Bob shot me.”

Her heart monitor emits a single unbroken tone.

If Vicky Victim is unavailable for trial, usually because of death, that statement is generally admissible in court. The criminal justice system assumes that people have no incentive to tell a lie when convinced that they are facing imminent death. (This, wise readers recognize, is the weak spot in the analysis. If the dying declaration is swept away, it will likely be because challenges to its inherent credibility highlight the need for confrontation.)

Dying declarations are statements made by someone who believes that they are about to die and relate to the cause or circumstances of the death.

The shorthand rule: If the person says I need a doctor, the statement may not be admissible. But if they say, I need a priest., the better the chances that the statement will be heard in court.

The dying declaration illustrates the general rules for exceptions to the prohibition against hearsay testimony. It's a time-old exception, dying declaration precedents date back to at least the year 1202. John Adams used the dying declaration to help secure an acquittal for one of the British soldiers charged following the Boston Massacre. One of the victims, on his deathbed, told his doctors that the soldiers had been provoked. The dying declaration began and persisted because of a social belief in the inherent trustworthiness of those statements.

In the evolving world of constitutional law, it can’t be predicted whether the dying declaration will continue. 800 years may be long enough. For purposes of a brief exploration, the dying declaration exception illustrates the lens through which to view hearsay exceptions.

Other exceptions include present sense impressions, excited utterances, statements for medical diagnosis, and records of routine business activity. I won't beat you down today with analysis of those. Just remember that they've been around a while and society believes that they are the sort of statements that are foundationally trustworthy. 

As mentioned at the beginning. You don’t need to know the exception to understand the story. The publication of “Slow Burn,” however, provided me with the opportunity to talk about hearsay. I hope the discussion will make your legal writing more informed.

Until next time.

Dust and Write

            I've been doing some research on the American Civil War for my next project. The notes I'm taking are stacking higher and higher. I could write a first-class term paper at this point, but I'm not ready yet to write a story.

            In particular, I’m still looking for a hinge fact.

            The hinge fact, in my definition, is the tidbit that hooks the reader and opens up the story. I assume that it will capture the reader’s interest if it grabs my attention.

            I recently read Dust and Light. The author, Andrea Barrett, writes historical fiction and has garnered numerous national prizes for her work. Dust and Light is a short nonfiction book in which she discusses finding and using facts in her writing. The book received some nice attention and seemed perfect for helping me clarify my thoughts on research and writing.

            The Devil's Kitchen, my debut novel, unfolds across dual timelines. The remaining books in the series will as well. To write the historical chapters, I need a basketful of facts. However, to progress as a writer, I wanted to consider new and better ways to utilize them.

            Dust and Light has me thinking about historical facts and their judicious use. I want to deploy the facts to tell the story rather than using the story to display the facts. That's always the goal, but it's easier to articulate than to execute.

            I also hoped the book might show me how to pinpoint the hinge fact.

            That final search didn’t pay off. As Barrett outlined her method, I kept hearing the word "chaotic" in my head. In interviews, she has described her research and writing process as odd, inefficient, even crazy. One of the book's themes is that a discussion of process isn't intended to teach a particular method of writing. Instead, the conversation teaches us that we all have our own individualized method for writing and that “we should cherish those ways.”

            Andrea Barrett may be the dictionary definition of ‘pantser.’

            Her book reminded me of a few other things. The author related a story about scientific research from the nineteenth century. Fridtjof Nansen theorized that in the frozen wilderness of the Polar Sea, ice drifted northwest. He searched for evidence to support his belief. Nansen learned of the Jeanette, a ship exploring the region that had been lost at sea. Several years after its disappearance, a pair of oilskin pants from the Jeanette washed up on the shore of Greenland. Nansen recognized their clockwise drift pattern and set off on his own largely successful expedition.

            An empty pair of pants floating onto the Greenland coast is my idea of a hinge fact. 

            To make his leap of understanding, Nansen needed this fact. But to appreciate its significance, he required a solid knowledge foundation in his field. The explorer also benefited from a community to support and challenge him. He needed resources— a crew, a ship, and time. Finally, Nansen required the courage to try.

            The scientific or explorer’s method may not be identical to that of the fiction writer, but the resource demands are similar. The entry point, an adequate base, space and time to explore, and a supportive community are all elements of successful writing.

            Barrett seriously downplays the use of facts. She acknowledges that fiction must be about something. Setting out a story about a character doing something within a specific time and place necessarily involves articulating facts. While reluctantly agreeing, she wants her facts to be dissolved into her fiction. The basket of facts she accumulates is used to inform what characters love and what motivates them rather than providing specific details about who and when. She doesn't like to overburden her stories with facts. 

            Much of Dust and Light is devoted to clarifying this idea. What Barrett wants to convey about her characters needs to be true, even if not entirely factual. Everyone who writes fiction probably thinks the same way. We write stories and not encyclopedias. 

            To write crime fiction rooted in history, I need a plot. And within a plot, I need facts. In interviews, more so than in Dust and Light, Barrett makes clear that she writes literary historical fiction rather than genre fiction. I felt the metaphorical pat on the head and the implied, 'I’m not really talking about you.' While her polite dismissal sounded a bit pretentious, the take-home lesson--to separate the cause from the result--retained value. Barrett encourages writers “not to confuse the material with the aesthetic creation arising from the material.” In fiction, the facts are in service to the story.

            We think the same way about character building. Somewhere on my computer are saved a host of surveys I’ve been given. These are questionnaires to flesh out fictional characters. When I’ve thought through what sort of dessert she likes and what pet she had as a child, I have a better picture of who my character is and how she might respond in each situation, even if nowhere in my story does she ever pause to eat strawberry ice cream with her cat. The pile of facts Barrett accumulates help her to know her historical characters in the same way.

            Dust and Light is a quick read. I didn’t find my guide to locating the hinge fact. I did, however, come away with a lesson on delicacy in selecting and incorporating facts into my stories. I got a cautionary tale about the temptation to flood my stories with excessive information. The book gave me a glimpse into different research and writing styles. It reminded me about the value of the community.

            And speaking of community. I’ll be traveling from ThrillerFest on the day this blog posts. I won’t have internet access. Please excuse the failure to reply to a comment.

            Until next time.

It's Black and White

The Cliburn Competition has Fort Worth feeling artsy.

For those who missed my city's numerous press releases, the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition is a quadrennial event that showcases the future of classical pianists. The world’s top 18–30-year-old pianists gather in my city and perform before live and worldwide streaming audiences.

One of the unique aspects of the Cliburn competition is that the organizers house the visiting pianists in local homes during the event. Many neighborhoods have a competitor staying in them. While you don't necessarily see them when you're out walking the dog, you know they're there. (Every host family is loaned a Steinway grand piano, the same instrument used in the Cliburn, so that the competitors can practice.) Rover and his companion human might hear some next-level music through the window of a house down the street. The Russian/Israeli pianist becomes our neighborhood competitor. Most of us are homers and we're cheering for our local kid.

I tend to drop the arts into one big bucket, a different bucket from my sports bucket or my business bucket. Although I recognize the differences between the creative arts, I typically see writers, painters, musicians, and filmmakers as kindred spirits. Like fiction writers, these other art practitioners harness their creative energies to make fresh and new things. We all use our talents to entertain and to comment, directly or indirectly, on the world around us. When we are at our best, we unite people across a spectrum of humanity.

I've been forced to rethink my position on concert pianists. I might need to move them to my athletic bucket.

This none-too-deep thought should have occurred to me before. The competitors, after all, are performing another composer's work. But each of them is creating. The Dallas Morning News's review of Vitaly Starikov's performance (our local guy) noted that [i]n addition to fastidious attention to dynamic and coloristic nuances, he demonstrated the magic that can come of stretching and contracting rhythms, lingering over melodic high points and poignant harmonies.”

As a non-musician, I don't pretend to understand everything in that sentence. My takeaway is that Vitaly is doing more than hitting the notes Chopin scribbled down. He is creating.

Painters might scrape away and paint over. Writers can Find and Replace. We get the ability to edit our work. Not so with the piano benches at the Cliburn.

There is a hair-breadths difference between a great and a good performance, between an advancing recital and a return flight home. The immediacy of performance art made it seem more akin to athletes.

The local college baseball team's season ended abruptly in the NCAA tournament. In the moment, the excellent season melted away. Pitchers missed the strike zone or alternately found too much of it. Accomplished hitters missed the ball at critical times. Well-practiced skills that had been honed throughout the season failed under the pressure of the NCAA tournament. Both baseball and piano competitions were co-occurring. It was hard not to see the parallel.

But on the other hand, ball players are competing directly against their opponent. The pianists were playing their best, hoping that their individual efforts would be judged among the best. And that seems comparable to our efforts. When I craft a story for submission to an anthology, I’m not really competing against Rob Lopresti or the other submitters. I’m submitting my best work and hoping it's deemed worthy of inclusion. If Rob's ends up in and mine out, I don't see it as a competition between us.

But maybe we should. Consider this modest proposal. The next time Michael Bracken assembles an anthology, perhaps rather than submitting our 12-point Times New Roman, double-spaced work, we could read it to a live-streaming audience. As Michael judges, Stacy Woodson might offer hushed-voice commentary and insider analysis.

                "He confused ‘blond’ and ‘blonde.’ That could be a fatal error. Michael feels very strongly about blondes."

                "Clearly, to stay under the word limit, she elected to tell rather than show," Stacy offered disapprovingly.

As we read, submitters might close our eyes, sway back and forth, and occasionally throw our heads back for emphasis, like the piano competitors. The anticipation might build through quarter, semi, and final rounds with eliminations along the way. The downside, of course, is that having heard the selected stories read three times, no one may want to buy the anthology. 

And that's a problem. I might need to keep thinking through this concept. But Vitaly is about to play a Mozart piano concerto backed by the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra as part of the semi-finals. I've got a live stream to watch.

Until next time.

Words and Phases

My traveling companion and I hit the road after Malice Domestic. We traveled through early May. Bases needed to be touched. After a bit more than a week knocking about the Eastern Seaboard, we have finally returned to Fort Worth.

If I owe you an email, start the clock now. We've been largely incommunicado these last few days.

Today, I am unpacking the flotsam of a mystery convention. In my briefcase, I discovered that I had tucked the April 27th issue of The Washington Post. It contained an op-ed about the resignation of John Ulyot, the spokesperson for the Defense Department. The piece quoted Ulyot talking about why he'd left the administration. "The president deserves better than the current mishegoss at the Pentagon."

Without getting stalled by the politics, the Yiddish word struck me. According to the Jewish Language Project, mishegoss means foolishness, nonsense, or craziness. The word also describes chaotic actions. I hadn't known the word before I read the article. The expressions I use to chronicle that sort of senseless activity typically involve one or more profanities. I hope to have this gentler word at the ready next time.

I also found a card in my briefcase from friend and fellow short story writer, Mary Dutta. A blog on her webpage introduced me to the French expression l'espirit de l'escalier. She writes that the phrase literally translates to "stairwell wit" and refers to that clever comeback you think of after the moment has passed. Perhaps, as the expression suggests, you find your retort as you descend the stairs on your way out the door. Again, I didn't know the expression until I read her blog. Hopefully, I've tucked it away for future reference.

I don't think I'll be quicker on the rhetorical draw. But at least on future occasions when I'm disappointed by my timing, I'll have a French phrase to explain it.

Mary's blog, by the way, doesn't offer a word for the winded guy who runs back up the stairs and futilely tries to steer the conversation back to the original point so that he can drop the delayed bon mot.

John Ulyot and Mary Dutta got me thinking about words I don't know. In particular, I thought about words that may not exist in English, but we wish they did, so we've swiped them from another language. Schadenfreude is my all-time favorite example.

In the heady atmosphere of a readers and writers convention like Malice Domestic, I get exposed to an array of outstanding short stories. Sometimes I read a story I truly enjoy, but it comes from a place or describes a character so far removed from my experience that I know I could never have conceived of that person or done that place justice. My feelings are full of enjoyment and admiration.

It's when the stories hit closer to home that things get complicated.

© Creative Commons

Occasionally, I read a story where the characters, setting, or theme seem to be within my grasp as a writer. My response can easily become a big stew. I still have the enjoyment and admiration. I ask myself how the author achieved the effect I've felt and what I might learn from her for the next time I sit down to type. There is a pinch of covetousness, perhaps, a wish that I'd thought of the particular twist or developed the characters in that way.

But I don't really like covet as the descriptor. I don't begrudge the author. It's a big pool, and there is room for all of us to play in it. Maybe there's a soupçon of self-flagellation for believing I should have thought of it. Perhaps I need a therapist rather than a thesaurus.

Do you ever read a story that conjures up the mix of similar feelings? Do you have a word for it. If you do, I'd love to learn it.

I might think of it myself, but I'll likely be descending a long stairwell at the time and won't be able to write it down.

Until next time.

Author, Author

 I'm making a nontraditional distinction between "writer" and "author."

When I last blogged three weeks ago, I celebrated the release of my debut novel, The Devil’s Kitchen. Since then, I've been writing very little. Instead, I've been busily forcing myself on audiences to talk about the book. It's been exhilarating. The process has left me thinking about the terms “writer” and “author.”

While acknowledging that the words are often treated as synonyms, dictionaries and the web distinguish the two. The line they draw gets squiggly. Most sources suggest that the key distinction lies with publication. All authors are writers, but only those writers who put their work into the public realm are authors. Using this definition, we might quarrel about the meaning of publication. 

Other definitions reserve the title of author exclusively for those who have published books. Sorry, short story crafters, a writer is all we can ever be.

A different definition focused on intention. It's an internal/external distinction. Writers are scribes who create content for others. Journalists and ghostwriters are perhaps the foremost examples. Authors, on the other hand, are internally driven. They create for themselves and the satisfaction they derive from the creative process. This one seemed a tad pompous. 

I'm sidestepping the debate. The last few weeks have left me thinking about another way to define the words. It’s a solo/social distinction.

As a writer, I sit alone at my keyboard. Sometimes, the dogs join me, but that's about it. I type. I edit. Occasionally, I talk to myself. "Writer" emphasizes the introverted side of my soul. The craft is a solitary activity. Remembering an admonition from Joyce Carol Oates that “constant interruptions are the destruction of imagination,” I block off time when I won’t be disturbed.

“Author,” conversely, is the public face of my writing. It’s me talking about my work in the hope that someone will give The Devil’s Kitchen a try. It's me, standing in a bookstore, giving a public reading, or sitting alongside mystery lovers at a book club talking about the characters’ paths. It's me attending conferences and signing books.

"Author" is my narrow, extroverted, social side. He is the promotional arm of book writing.

Just as there are guides for writers that propose effective ways to develop plot twists or characters, there are also a variety of resources offering advice on how to  inhabit the "author" persona. As a novice, I delved into a few of them and learned everything I needed to know.

The pen—The expert community strongly recommended gel ink as the best pen for book signing events. Rubber grips, with their ergonomic benefits, also received high marks.

The autograph—I found a surprising amount of advice about changing my signature for book signings. I was told that I needed enough swoosh to project style. I should strive for heightened legibility, yet with an economy of motion allowing for speed in a signing line. The blogosphere recommended practicing my signature. Too late, I’m afraid. I’ve been signing too much for too long. My default signature emerges unless I go slow and concentrate hard on my swooshy author script.

The reading—Here, things got controversial. Some sources recommended tabbing my book and reading directly from it. This approach flashes the cover to the audience and helps market. Other experts suggested printing the pages so an author can enlarge the font for easy reading. Printed pages in sleeves mean that the reader will not have to battle with a book's bound spine in a public forum. The debate raged.

Everyone agreed that authors practice their corporate reading and hone their style. Don't read as one normally would. Focus on enunciation and clarity over theatrics. Find your Goldilocks moment, the advice guides suggest—neither too long nor too short. Choose an excerpt with a stand-alone value that emotionally engages and reveals the essence of what the book is about. That asks a lot from a few short paragraphs.

The presence—Almost all the guides recommend that the author do something to ensure that the audience remembers the writer. Several suggested that authors consider coming in costume. I don’t have a National Park Service uniform, so I can’t dress like the main characters in my book. I still have my Boy Scout uniform in the back of the closet. The shirt is festooned with a variety of patches. Maybe that would work. I can promise that if I show up in my BSA shorts and neckerchief, I'd  give bookstore patrons something to talk about on the drive home. 

The recap: The guides I reviewed suggested that I change my pen, signature, voice, reading style, and clothes. Most, however, concluded by reminding me to be authentic.

I’m seizing on the last bit of advice. I’ll be attending Malice Domestic at the end of the week. I won’t be in costume. My signature will be the typical scrawl, and I will likely sound like I always have.

But I will remember to bring a gel ink pen. It proves I've learned something.

BSP: April has been a good month. In addition to the novel’s publication, the anthology Sleuths Just Wanna Have Fun with my story "A Placid Purloin" was released on April 14^th. Trouble in Texas, an anthology from Sisters in Crime North Dallas, dropped on April 15th. It includes my story, “Doggone.” Michael Bracken edited both anthologies. He blogged about them last week. 

Until next time.

BSP

Honest truth. With no horse-trading or calendar engineering whatsoever, my turn to blog falls on the day Severn River Publishing releases my debut novel, The Devil's Kitchen. Stop now if you don't want to read about my unsuppressed joy. 

The road to publication began in 2015. In December, my wife called my bluff. A new district attorney had just been elected in my county. I left the DA's Office without a real plan for what might happen next. On that day, my wife also became a former assistant district attorney. She challenged me to pursue my writing dream. Always the braver and smarter of the two of us, she quickly found traditional employment, the kind that doles out regular paychecks and benefits. 

I started writing short stories. Some of them found homes. (I thank Linda Landrigan, Michael Bracken, Barb Goffman, and others for always making me sound more dexterous in my native tongue than I actually am.) Meanwhile, I began scribbling away at novels. The first didn't sell. Neither did the second nor the third, nor the...You may see a pattern here. 

It was important to me to keep trying. I love writing short stories, and I'm still thrilled when an email arrives informing me that one has been accepted for publication. But to achieve my goals as a writer, I wanted to succeed in both short and long forms. 

Somewhere in this process, I too stumbled back into traditional employment. The regular hours of my magistrate gig were far more conducive to writing than working as an assistant district attorney. I still got to dabble in criminal law without the burden of disrupting and time-consuming trials. 

The new job's schedule allowed me to attend a few mystery conferences. I made friends and learned more about the craft of writing. I'm grateful for the opportunities these gatherings have provided me. 

One of the books I wrote involved a pair of National Park Service investigators who found a dead body at Yellowstone. Clues gleaned from the investigation hinted at a historic conspiracy involving an ancient relic secreted out of France by royalists during the French Revolution. I titled it The Devil's Kitchen. The dual timeline mystery was fun to write, and it allowed me to draw upon hikes I taken visiting Yellowstone with my family. 

Last year, I was sitting on the beach in Galveston, burning some vacation, when my agent emailed me to say that Severn River wanted to talk about the novel. "When could I set that up?" she asked. 

"I'm on vacation," I told her. "I'm available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But that may sound desperate. Tell them that as a magistrate I can move things around and likely be available at their convenience." 

The last few months have been another fabulous adventure. Like Michael and Barb before her, Kate Schomaker has continued to find gentle ways to point out my deviations from the Chicago Manual of Style. I have loved getting emails with possible cover designs and being asked to comment on the options I prefer. (In truth, all I see is my name printed across the bottom.)

And I really, really like the emails where we talk about the next book. Our heroes travel to the Everglades. 

The last decade has been a great journey, one that has only gotten better over the last few months. I'm grateful to many people along the way, especially my family, friends, and fellow writers, who have continued to say, "You can." I hope that I have the opportunity to thank each of you personally. 

I'll see some of you at Malice Domestic in a few weeks. You'll be able to recognize me. I'll be the smiling guy holding the book with the new and shiny cover. 

Until next time. 

Recycling

 

What do you do when things haven’t worked out as you originally planned?

We recycle.

Last week, Black Cat Weekly ran my story, "Fifteen Minutes from Fame." Initially, I'd sent it to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, but they passed. Keeping the universe balanced, AHMM ran my story, “The Angler’s Guide to Walleye Ice Fishing,” in the current March/April issue. In 2022, I submitted that story for the Minneapolis Bouchercon anthology. The Minnesota committee ultimately decided it wasn't one they'd include. I got a nice email of decline.

Like every other member of humanity, I never like getting rejected. But like everyone who submits stories, I accept it as part of the process. I try to find the positive. It means I’m producing and sticking myself out there. We can’t win if we don’t play.

And I really like it when a resubmission is accepted. It validates my belief that the story was worthwhile.

We all recycle. Blogs get repurposed. And stories take too much effort to write. We can't be one and done. 

To be clear, I don’t resubmit to the same publication. If an editor says no, I treat it as firm and move on. I don't want to damage my credibility with the small world of publishers by making a few cosmetic changes, giving the story a new title, and running it back in the hope that it'll sneak by this time. (The only exceptions are those rare times when a story is returned with a qualified rejection—the editor’s email told me that the story would likely be accepted if some changes were made.)

But that doesn’t mean that I give up on the other stories either.

Michael, Barb, and other folks who regularly make editorial decisions have discussed on different blogs why stories might get rejected. They've taught me that rejection does not always mean I've written a bad story. They've emphasized the subjective element of acceptance/rejection. I take my editors at face value. Success or failure may turn on factors over which I have no control. If they've accepted a story with a theme like mine recently, my story may not have a chance, regardless of its strength. I may be the victim of poor timing or bad luck.

Or I might have submitted a stinker.

Before recycling a story, I hope I use the rejection as an opportunity for reflection. I’ll reread my submission critically. Should I have ever sent it off to begin with? Assuming I come away from the reread convinced that the story has merit, I will invariably see ways that a rewrite might make it better. 

Occasionally, an editor’s rejection email points out what they didn't like about the story. I incorporate those comments into my review. But even if a rejection supplies no reason, its quick splash of cold water makes it easier to look at the story with an eye toward finding its flaws. After polishing it further, I'm reading to get this story back in the game. 

Before resubmitting, I need to ask whether I’m sending the story to an appropriate publication. I don’t want to throw my work time after time at calls that don't fit. Is this story right for the prompt? If I have to tilt my head and squint to see the connection, I should save the story for another day. If I have a dog story and the call is for a cat anthology, I can’t simply do a ‘find and replace’ and resubmit. I don’t need the rejection, and the editors don’t need the timewasters. As a writer, I need to maintain my credibility as someone who submits serious stories. That doesn’t involve depending on random chance.

I also like to wait before resubmitting. A bit of distance makes my self-examination more effective. It also separates me from the competition. I have no doubt that in the days after the Minneapolis anthology rejections went out, Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock were inundated with stories set in the upper Midwest. The two-year pause before my submission, I believe, let that wave pass. Hitchcock may have recognized it for what it was, but enough time had lapsed for them to be ready for a midwestern story again.  

We can't give up on the stories we've written—well, not most of them. They need to be recycled. Take heart from the words attributed to humorist Stephen Leacock. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it." 

Until next time.

I'm traveling on the day this blog posts. Apologies in advance if I don't respond promptly to replies. 

Type-ology

 

As I’ve reported numerous times, I’ve returned to work as a part-time criminal magistrate.

            Mostly, I do it for the money. Although the exorbitant sums paid to short story writers meet most of my daily needs, the extra paycheck helps when the servants need bonuses, or the Ferrari's oil requires changing. I also like to splurge on locally sourced pate and not limit myself to the bulk container at Costco. Although I'm told that the blue vests issued to Walmart greeters make my eyes pop, I've reclaimed the magistrate gig instead. The occasional court session keeps my bar card from getting dusty.

            The work also allows me to build my collection of typos and misunderstoods that crop up occasionally in police reports. Often, these mistakes happen when a patrol officer in the field calls in their report using the department’s voice-to-text system. Other errors appear when line personnel use a word and, perhaps, aren't entirely clear on the definition. In either case, the results can be entertaining.

            What follows are a few of the recent examples of reporting errors. Besides a bit of fun, I hope they remind writers and citizens that police officers are human. They make mistakes just like the rest of us. Rarely are the errors cataclysmic breaches or deliberate violations of constitutional norms. More commonly, they are the mistakes we all make--failing to proofread carefully or assuming that what they said was what they meant to say. Anyone who has ever dictated a text message will understand. We have all seen auto-correct go crazy. The typos are a harmless way to remember that police officers are flesh and blood people. We want cops who can empathize with the individuals they encounter. That humanity makes for better police/community relations and more effective law enforcement.

That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it when that humanity is displayed.

“I activated my lights to imitate a traffic stop.”

That's something trainees do at the police academy. They imitate traffic stops, arrests, and searches. In the field, they usually initiate the real thing. Maybe this officer had just graduated.

“Julia starched the victim.”

If you could read the remainder of the police report, you’d see that the victim had four long red lines running along his left cheek. It's safe to assume that Julia scratched him. Starch, however, may have antiseptic properties of which I’m unaware. Or perhaps she didn’t want the red lines to wrinkle.

“Oscar collaborated part of the story.”

This one is likely both a typo and unintentionally correct. The evidence rules in Texas require that an accomplice’s statements be corroborated. Independent evidence must support the truthfulness of a co-defendant. But conspirators might also get together and agree in advance on their excuse. Oscar may have only worked to craft part of the alibi. Next time, stay for the whole meeting, Oscar. The parts you missed will land you in jail.

“I saw her restraining his waste.”

My inner eight-year-old laughs every time at this bathroom humor. I reported a similar typo several months ago if you're keeping score. This mistake seems to be trending upward. But again, it may also be a typo and unintentionally accurate. If the woman squeezed his waist hard enough, she might restrain his waste. Don’t form this mental picture around mealtimes.

"Juan was able to interrupt at times for his mother."

This is the last of my unintentionally accurate misquotes. Juan is bilingual, and his mother speaks Spanish. Although the officer intended to say that Juan helped interpret for his mother, the officer could truthfully write this sentence. At most family violence scenes, a whole lot of interruption occurs. 

“A pre-summit field test.”

Officers in the field typically perform a presumptive field test on possible narcotics they’ve seized to confirm that they are genuine. This officer performed his test before reaching the top of the mountain.

“Due to his eradicate behavior.”

Benefiting from the entire police report, I can tell you that his erratic action aroused the attention of the local constabulary. They intervened and got the situation under control before any eradication occurred.

He drove with wonton disregard.

This one only applies to Uber Eats drivers who wantonly ignore the local traffic regulations and still deliver the wrong order.

As you imitate your day, may you do more than starch the surface of your potential.

Until necks time.

An Elephant Standing

 I still get the morning paper thrown on my doorstep. It's a nostalgia thing. 

Frederick Roth, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

While leafing through its thin front section, I noticed a small article on page two, below stories about wildfires and the new administration. Missy, Kimba, Lucky, LouLou, and Jambo, five elephants in the Cheyenne Mountain Zoon, were appearing before the Colorado Supreme Court. 

Not literally, of course, the building's floor and elevators weren't built for these litigants. 

The Nonhuman Rights Project (NRP), an advocacy organization, had filed a habeas corpus petition on behalf of the zoo animals. 

The Latin phrase habeas corpus roughly translates to "do you have the body?" The write requires the jailer to bring the incarcerated person before a judge to determine whether a person is being legally held in custody. The writ's roots go back to the Magna Carta. The jurist, William Blackstone, called it the Great Writ, for its ability to right wrongs. 

The Supremes denied the NRP's petition to order the creatures released from the zoo. They found that elephants could not seek habeas corpus relief to gain a "get out of jail free" card because habeas corpus does not apply to animals. 

While "great," the writ has limitations. As noted by the Colorado Supreme Court, habeas corpus applies to persons. That's how it was written in Colorado law. Although elephants are cognitively, psychologically, and socially sophisticated, they are not persons. The Court ruled that the elephants, therefore, lacked "standing." 

The legal concept of standing challenges a court's jurisdiction. Courts don't get to jump willy-nilly into anyone's business. Before a petitioner may ask a court to intervene, they must have standing to bring a suit or complain of action. In the words of Maryland's appellate judge, Charles Moylan, standing is the key to the courtroom's door. 

In Missy, Kimba, Lucky, LouLou, and Jambo's case, the Court found that since they weren't persons and habeas corpus applies to persons under Colorado law, the elephants couldn't use the writ. 

Someday, we might discuss habeas corpus in more detail. Today, however, I'd like to pivot and zero in on the notion of standing. 

We're crime writers and readers. Although the elephant case presented an interesting news item, I don't see many nonhuman litigants in state criminal court practice. Standing most typically arises in search and seizure cases. Although the word standing isn't used much for reasons I'll develop below, it still remains an integral part of the thought process in criminal law. 

For years, standing was a property rights question. Did the litigant have a property interest in the place searched? Was the defendant also the owner of the locus of the search and seizure at issue? 

Then, in 1967, Charles Katz went to the US Supreme Court for running a gambling operation out of a phone booth in Los Angeles. Katz closed the phone booth door and did everything he could to protect his privacy. Sadly for him, Katz didn't know that the feds had mounted a listening device outside the booth. 

With Katz v. United States, the Court began changing the analysis. The Fourth Amendment didn't exist to safeguard places; instead, it was written to protect people in places where they should feel secure. Courts now centered their attention on the question of whether "the disputed search and seizure has infringed an interest of the defendant which the Fourth Amendment was designed to protect." (The quoted language is from Rakas v. Illinois.)

What were once two questions: Do I have a property interest? And, was my privacy violated? The analysis telescoped into the one question asked in Rakas. 

Consider this example:

Fearing imminent police search, a chivalrous defendant hid his drugs in his companion's purse, where they were discovered during an illegal search. Although the search was unlawful, he had no expectation of privacy in her purse, so his Fourth Amendment rights were not violated, although hers were. The same illegal search might, therefore, invade one person's privacy but not another's. (Rawlings v. Kentucky)

You've likely read a novel in which the police, disguised as garbage men, collect trash to search for evidence. The same concept is at work here. If I've thrown it away, I've discarded my expectation of privacy. 

Phones are a good example of how rights may morph over time. 

Kalel Tonatiuh, CC

Katz's phone booth conversation was private because he closed the door and attempted to safeguard the call. The strict rule about phone booths has little relevancy these days.  Personal communications are conducted by cell phone. If I use my cell phone in a public place, I can't complain if someone reports half of the conversation--both halves if I decide that I want to discuss my illegal activities on speaker phone. 

When I began working as a prosecutor, police could, incident to a lawful arrest, go through an arrestee's phone if he had it in his possession. They could extract whatever useful evidence they might find. Over time, courts realized that the telephone Katz used, a mechanical instrument with no storage, was very different from a modern cell phone, a computer that also enables telephone calls. The US Supreme Court recognized a person's privacy interest in a phone's contents. Police can still look, but they must get a search warrant. The rules changed in keeping with the times and the technology. 

When writing about search and seizure issues, remember: 1. Defendants will always complain that their rights were violated. 2. Defense attorneys will always ask a court to suppress evidence of their client's guilt. Whether a court will deny the government the right to use the seized evidence requires posing a third question. 3. Does the defendant have a privacy interest that he jurisdiction is willing to recognize? 

The rules and details become cumbersome and fact specific. These three guidelines are easy to learn. You don't need to be an elephant to remember them. 

Until next time.  

Worried at Noon

On New Year's Day, my first short story of the year, "Slow Ride," published. What a great way to start a year. On that day, I felt like Joe DiMaggio. I had a streak. 

Alas, then January 2nd came along. 

Still, I had my day. I'm grateful to fellow SleuthSayer Michael Bracken. He created and edits the Chop Shop novellas. The series tells tales of car thieves and the chop shop that buys their stolen products. In "Slow Ride," Michael's series enabled me to spin the story of Woody and Tommy, a crime-committing duo. The pair work together to successfully boost cars and trucks from across North Texas--or do they? 

In "Slow Ride," tension and suspense lie at the story's heart. Before beginning, I had to think about the tools writers have available to create these driving forces. How do we raise the stakes when telling stories? 

Although I use the terms interchangeably, writing pros tell me that there is a difference between tension and suspense. I like LibreTexts example. Imagine you have a large stick. Tension are the forces bending the stick. Suspense is the unanswered question of whether the stick will break. 

Both tension and suspense start with conflict. In a story about a pair of car thieves trying to steal a vehicle that they will sell to a chop shop, there are four natural sources of conflict. 1. The owner of the car is at odds with the thieves who want to steal it. 2. The thieves may disagree with the chop shop owner. Their transaction is unregulated capitalism, after all, and there is conflict between the buyer and the seller. (Among the lawless, the disagreements might get rougher than between me and Target.) 3. The pair of criminals might also not agree as to means or ends. They may have different goals. 4. Law enforcement's efforts to apprehend criminals and to protect property rights offers another possible area of conflict. 

Having identified the sources of potential conflict, how do we as writers build to that unanswered question? Often, we employ foreshadowing. Hint at a future problem. The suggestion causes readers to begin to guess what will happen next. 

Frequently, we use a deadline. A ticking clock is the most direct method of creating suspense. Consider the movie High Noon. Gary Cooper plays Will Kane, the sheriff of Hadleyville, New Mexico. A train with Kane's nemesis will arrive in town at twelve o'clock. What will the sheriff do? Will Gary Cooper flee? Will the town support the sheriff if he stays? The camera cuts back to the clock ticking closer to noon. Suspense builds. 

Ticking clocks abound in stories. We all have seen them. There are time bombs to be defused, contagions to be isolated, airplanes boarding for departure. The race to resolve the problem before the clock reaches the appointed hour creates pressure on the protagonist. The challenges that must be overcome engage the reader. 

The ticking clock works if the stakes are sufficiently high. The author needs to make the reader care about the characters. Do the parties grab the reader's interest. The characters do not necessarily need to be likeable. To return to High Noon, I was never really fond of Will Kane. I wouldn't want to hang out with him. But he had a code that he needed to adhere to. His wife and friends encouraged him to abandon it. He had to make a hard choice. The story forced him to overcome both external and internal conflicts. The struggle engaged me even if I didn't love the character. Those recurring challenges created tension and suspense. 

We like to cheer for victims and root against bullies. Will Kane is doing his job. We got to know him. We want him to succeed. Viewers want him both to stay alive and remain true to his code. We get tension when it appears that we can't have both. With each failed attempt to rally support, we see the proverbial stick bending. 

The bullies remain relatively anonymous in High Noon. They outnumber Will and want revenge. A faceless, anonymous foe scares us. 

Will Kane had to make deeply personal choices. His wife, Amy, did too. The pending gunfight violates her personal religious beliefs. Will she abandon her code or her husband? The characters' opposing goals created tension within the story.  High Noon offers will they/won't they moments. If the town came together, the small band of outlaws could quickly be dealt with. Will anyone join the sheriff? Some agree, and then melt away away as the crucial moment approaches. False starts keep us as readers/watchers uneasy. Gary Cooper becomes increasingly isolated as the train's arrival looms. As writers, we can model the filmmaker and raise the stakes. Solving one problem begets another. 

High Noon presents Will Kane with internal conflicts. Conflicts also exist between him and his wife. Kane is also challenged by his community and the desperado arriving on the train. As with the car thieves, there are four readily available sources from which to build tension and suspense. 

To further raise the stakes, writers might taunt. Voices, internal or external, can forecast failure. The voices and the action can push the protagonist to feel anger, despair, desperation, or alternatively, confidence. They can highlight conflicts. 

Word choice and sentence length help with pacing. Clipped sentences at critical times force the reader to accelerate the pace, creating momentum. But after a sprint, readers also need time to breathe. Slower pacing allows for more suspense. 

The goal is to create curiosity. Who will win?  How will these conflicts be resolved? Will Gary Cooper escape from this insoluble dilemma? 

In "Slow Ride," I tried to use these tools to create a tension-filled story of suspense. I hope readers like it. Thanks again to Michael for the opportunity to participate in the Chop Shop series. 

How do you create tension in your stories? What techniques work best for you? I hope you'll tell us. Or just leave a hint. That will make us start to guess. 

Until next time.