08 September 2012
A Taste for Killing
by Elizabeth Zelvin
Books have always provided a way for both readers and writers to live vicariously. They sweep us off into another place and time, invite us inside the heads of people we’re unlikely ever to meet, and make our hearts ache and soar for strangers who exist only on the page. But only mystery writers routinely get to kill. A mostly law-abiding and compassionate bunch in RL, as Internet users call real life, we are not merely permitted but required by our trade to knock off at least one victim in every book. We even get to choose our murderees, so we can seize the occasion to get rid of those who displease us blamelessly and with great satisfaction.
In the first mystery I ever wrote (thirty years ago, unpublished and unpublishable today), I killed off the wife of a young man I knew, in fictional guise, of course. She was not a very nice person, and her existence was the reason that particular friendship never blossomed into romance. In the long run, I can say now with perfect hindsight, it was for the best, since we have remained friends all these years. He’s now married to someone much nicer—and so am I. But man, it felt good to let my murderer kill her. (Hmm, maybe I’m the one who’s not so nice. But mystery readers will surely understand.)
The victim in a mystery is not necessarily an unsympathetic character. Murdering a good person can elicit a strong desire for justice in both reader and protagonist. Or the victim may be deeply flawed but likable, so that the protagonist cares enough about his or her death to be driven to find out what happened.
The first draft of my first book had only one victim. I didn’t start talking with other mystery writers about our craft and how it had changed until after I finished the manuscript. I learned that the leisurely build-up, letting the reader get thoroughly acquainted with the characters before anything happens, is passé. Editors and especially agents nowadays want to be gripped on the first page, preferably by a body. I also learned that many traditional mysteries solve the problem of “sagging middle” in a book-length story by killing off a second character—often the prime suspect, so that his or her death forces the investigation to take a new turn.
The basic premise and circumstances of the plot did not allow me to kill off my original victim any sooner. I brought the death as far forward as I could by eliminating a lot of backstory—another thing I learned from other writers. But to kick-start the action, literally, I had my protagonist stumble over a body at the end of what at that time was Chapter One. I then needed a reason for this new death. That led to other victims. At the same time, I added suspense to the ongoing investigation by killing off some of the suspects along the way. I found that murder was addictive. By the time I was through, my simple one-victim mystery had turned into one of which Edgar-winning author Julie Smith (who kindly gave me a great blurb) said that my characters “maneuver their way through a forest of bodies.”
A forest? How did that spring up? I only spit out a single murder seed! In succeeding books in the series, I’ve kept the body count down to an initial victim with motivation for plenty of suspects and a mid-book body or two to keep reader interest up and confuse the issue. In my whodunit short stories, I’ve rationed myself to one victim and three suspects. Now I’m wondering if I’m getting too predictable. Hmm, maybe it’s time to break a rule or two again.
07 September 2012
A "Feyn" Idea?
by Dixon Hill
The great physicist Richard Feynman once said: “If I could explain it to the average person, I wouldn’t have been worth the Nobel Prize.”
This is the way I have seen his interview in People (22 July 1985) quoted, though when I’ve heard the quote, that second “I” seems usually to be pronounced as “it” for some reason. Thus, I’m not sure if he really meant that he was worth the recognition of a Nobel Prize, or if he was saying his idea was prize-worthy. But, either way, the sentence works, I suppose. After all, he’s Richard Feynman; I’m not.
Which, is why I find it rather surprising that we (he and I, that is) seem to have so many feelings in common – particularly when I extrapolate his musings in terms of my own quest to generate a synopsis for a novel.
I think it was Ayn Rand who said something akin to: “If I could explain it in 200 words, I wouldn’t have written a 1,200-page novel to explain it in the first place.” And, frankly, this is how I wind up feeling when trying to distill a 300-page book into an 8-page synopsis.
In a word: Stymied.
For those who don’t understand my problem, let me explain it in terms of this poetic excerpt (the ellipses are his, incidentally) from The Feynman Lectures on Physics (1964):
Here we see the human body and brain as a collection of atoms buzzing in tight harmony, working together to produce the human mind, the very intellect.
So, too, do I see a novel after I have written it.
Yes. I know a novel is a body of work. (And, to me, that’s a very living, breathing body!) But, when I approach close enough to work with it, I find it’s atomic structure nearly spectral. As if it were a body whose atoms were not held fast together the way yours and mine are. My hands and mind seem to pass through the epidermis; I fall into a molecular word-cloud, the minute parts and pieces buzzing around me like a swarming cloud of thousands of bees.
I cannot see the body, for its atomic structure. And, this causes me great confusion in the distillation of it’s bodily parts—such separation as required for any synopsis to make sense.
Of late, however, a new modus operandi has come to me. Instead of reaching into the story, what if I work only at its periphery, painting a thin layer on the skin — a sort of topographic construct that follows only the planes and curves along the outer edge of the body itself. But, would not such a thing typically be called an “outline”? Because it would outline the body. And, as such, render the body’s shape.
My concern is that it will be perceived as such, and will prove too hollow, that a prospective agent or editor will peer through this thin topographic layer and find the emptiness behind it disappointing. However, I have another idea that might hopefully fix that problem.
Might I complete this topographic construct, then return later, salting in a few bits and pieces of its intellect? Thus, an in-depth examination might not result in disappointment. That’s the idea I’ve come up with, and so far things seem to be “shaping up” nicely.
And, as I’m sure you can understand, I need to get back to work in the salt mines of my computer. However, I’ll leave you with a few other Feynman quotes, in hopes you’ll enjoy them.
On the infrequent occasions when I have been called upon in a formal place to play the bongo drums, the introducer never seems to find it necessary to mention that I also do theoretical physics.
--Statement made during Messenger Lectures at Cornell University (1964-65), after the person who introduced him mentioned that Feynman also played the bongos.
One time I was in the men's room of the bar and there was a guy at the urinal. He was kind of drunk, and said to me in a mean-sounding voice, "I don't like your face. I think I'll push it in."
I was scared green. I replied in an equally mean voice, "Get out of my way, or I'll pee right through ya!"
-- From Cornell to Caltech, With A Touch of Brazil
Why would I quote Feynman on a writing blog? Perhaps for this last quote.
Our imagination is stretched to the utmost, not, as in fiction, to imagine things which are not really there, but just to comprehend those things which are there.
At first blush (and maybe second and third) the quote doesn’t seem very pro-fiction. However, pondering this quote consistently drives me toward producing something that goes a little beyond the norm. I always like to think good fiction – particularly mystery fiction -- highlights the underlying little truths that lie everywhere out there, even if these particular truths have more to do with love, honesty and courage than with murderers, swindlers and thieves.
 |
| Richard Feynman |
This is the way I have seen his interview in People (22 July 1985) quoted, though when I’ve heard the quote, that second “I” seems usually to be pronounced as “it” for some reason. Thus, I’m not sure if he really meant that he was worth the recognition of a Nobel Prize, or if he was saying his idea was prize-worthy. But, either way, the sentence works, I suppose. After all, he’s Richard Feynman; I’m not.
 |
| Ayn Rand |
I think it was Ayn Rand who said something akin to: “If I could explain it in 200 words, I wouldn’t have written a 1,200-page novel to explain it in the first place.” And, frankly, this is how I wind up feeling when trying to distill a 300-page book into an 8-page synopsis.
In a word: Stymied.
For those who don’t understand my problem, let me explain it in terms of this poetic excerpt (the ellipses are his, incidentally) from The Feynman Lectures on Physics (1964):
here it is standing...
atoms with consciousness
...matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea...
wonders at wondering... I...
a universe of atoms...
an atom in the universe.
Here we see the human body and brain as a collection of atoms buzzing in tight harmony, working together to produce the human mind, the very intellect.
So, too, do I see a novel after I have written it.
Yes. I know a novel is a body of work. (And, to me, that’s a very living, breathing body!) But, when I approach close enough to work with it, I find it’s atomic structure nearly spectral. As if it were a body whose atoms were not held fast together the way yours and mine are. My hands and mind seem to pass through the epidermis; I fall into a molecular word-cloud, the minute parts and pieces buzzing around me like a swarming cloud of thousands of bees. I cannot see the body, for its atomic structure. And, this causes me great confusion in the distillation of it’s bodily parts—such separation as required for any synopsis to make sense.
But, I’ve kept at it, grabbing words or phrases that made sense, trying to tie them into others that might define the body. The problem is, the atomic parts I grab tend to be organically connected with large clumps of other matter that come along with my selection when I pull it out of the whirling molecular word-cloud.
Perhaps that’s the price I pay for writing without an outline – permitting my stories to grow organically. Maybe organic stories grow naturally in clumps (they seem to come to my mind that way, when I’m working on them, after all), and thus it’s only natural that when I stick my hand in and grab a part it comes away with a cluster far larger than I’d first targeted.
Of late, however, a new modus operandi has come to me. Instead of reaching into the story, what if I work only at its periphery, painting a thin layer on the skin — a sort of topographic construct that follows only the planes and curves along the outer edge of the body itself. But, would not such a thing typically be called an “outline”? Because it would outline the body. And, as such, render the body’s shape.
My concern is that it will be perceived as such, and will prove too hollow, that a prospective agent or editor will peer through this thin topographic layer and find the emptiness behind it disappointing. However, I have another idea that might hopefully fix that problem.
Might I complete this topographic construct, then return later, salting in a few bits and pieces of its intellect? Thus, an in-depth examination might not result in disappointment. That’s the idea I’ve come up with, and so far things seem to be “shaping up” nicely.
And, as I’m sure you can understand, I need to get back to work in the salt mines of my computer. However, I’ll leave you with a few other Feynman quotes, in hopes you’ll enjoy them.
On the infrequent occasions when I have been called upon in a formal place to play the bongo drums, the introducer never seems to find it necessary to mention that I also do theoretical physics.
--Statement made during Messenger Lectures at Cornell University (1964-65), after the person who introduced him mentioned that Feynman also played the bongos.
One time I was in the men's room of the bar and there was a guy at the urinal. He was kind of drunk, and said to me in a mean-sounding voice, "I don't like your face. I think I'll push it in."
I was scared green. I replied in an equally mean voice, "Get out of my way, or I'll pee right through ya!"
-- From Cornell to Caltech, With A Touch of Brazil
Why would I quote Feynman on a writing blog? Perhaps for this last quote.
Our imagination is stretched to the utmost, not, as in fiction, to imagine things which are not really there, but just to comprehend those things which are there.
At first blush (and maybe second and third) the quote doesn’t seem very pro-fiction. However, pondering this quote consistently drives me toward producing something that goes a little beyond the norm. I always like to think good fiction – particularly mystery fiction -- highlights the underlying little truths that lie everywhere out there, even if these particular truths have more to do with love, honesty and courage than with murderers, swindlers and thieves.
06 September 2012
What I did on my Summer Vacation
by Deborah Elliott-Upton
The familiar prompt every student has been instructed to use on a September paper has been: What I Did on My Summer Vacation. To that, a writer would have to reply: What is a vacation?
I don't know a writer who takes a real vacation any more. If they travel, it's often for research for a work-in-progress or in search of a work-in-progress.
Forget not taking a computer as a way to force yourself into relaxing and not "working" -- it won't work. We'll use the cell phone's notepad, pads supplied by the hotel and napkins in the restaurants to scribble great ideas we won't want to lose.
One would believe a writer could depend on a good memory since we write vivid descriptions of details others may not notice or recollect as clear, but alas, most of us have indeed lost wonderful ideas that came to us at a time when we were unable to jot down a notation to jog our memory later -- or worse, not be able to read our own writing the next morning or remember what the cryptic message meant.
A vacation without writing seems impossible, so I thought I had a solution: I enrolled in a couple of college classes I assumed would aid my writing and keep me too busy to work on an actual project. I chose Philosophy and Psychology, figuring both would be a boost to my deciding what my characters might do in certain situations.
My downfall was having interesting instructors who encouraged discussion.
We watched films in Philosophy and discussed how the subject matter worked (or not) in today's society. Philosphy, religion and a director, writer and actors choices determined how the film "moved us" as an audience. So much for not playing my own What if game with those choices. My mind went into overload of ideas.
In Psychology, we learned why people may act differently from one another. The instructor brought a hypnotist to class and he gave a demonstration and answered questions. (Guess who not only had more than a few questions, but also volunteered to be one of the subjects just so I'd know how that felt?)
Both classes had discussions about those who lived under different circumstances than our own. Talk about wonderful research for characters -- both classes were filled with interesting characters.
The Philosphy class contained the usual suspects of college-age students and a mix of varied ages and backgrounds.
A biker with a gray beard who argued belief in God turned out to be a Viet Nam veteran who had returned to college on a full scholarship. I'm not completely sure, but from some of his opinions, I think he was a stanch Republican.
His counterpart was originally from Oregon and extremely Liberal in his point of view. One day he decided to load up the kids and his van and tour the country, ending up in Texas. He was an avowed atheist. He also professed a love for Bill Clinton, so I'm guessing he was a Democrat.
These men were polar opposites and yet both had lost their wives to death.
The Oregon man had left his home following his wife's death.
The biker's wife had been murdered behind a convenience store.
Two men who had seemingly nothing in common besides choosing to take a summer course in Philosophy, had in reality shared the same pain of losing a spouse.
That alone raised my muse from her slumber.
The Psychology class was a mixed breed of fellow students. A young racecar driver happened to know my dad (also a racecar driver), ended up the following Sunday in my church which was a surprise to us both. A man who came from Uganda was pursuing a degree to help people coming to America like himself was soft-spoken and extremely polite. One would not guess he had been chased by lions. A young woman had returned to college to become a nurse after working years in a clerical position and being fired when she was late to work because she'd been in an automobile accident. Her change of career was unexpected, but had completely changed the course of her life.
Everyone in this class knew someone who had problems with bullies, abuse or self-mutilation. (An interesting fact I was surprised to discover are tattoos and piercings are considered self-mutilation. The reasons people choose to do these things to themselves was interesting and eye-opening.)
The Muse was wide awake now and not just whispering in my ear or tickling my mind with ideas, she was shouting: Write something!
So, I did.
Vacation? I'm not sure I know what that is any more.
05 September 2012
Your Mileage May Vary
by Robert Lopresti
Last week Jan wrote eloquently about writer's block. I didn't respond in comments because I wanted to ponder for a while, and besides, this way I could fill a Wednesday. (They keep coming around every week, don't they?)
I'm not sure I can say anything useful about this because I don't think I have ever experienced writer's block the way I have heard other people describe it. The reason for that may have to do with the way I approach writing, and - who knows - maybe discussing that would be helpful to someone. So here goes.
I rewrite. I rewrite a lot.
Recently I wrote that I had started a novel and R.T. gracuiously offered to critique the first few chapters for me. (We exchange most of our works before sending them into battle.) I had to tell him that it would be at least ten and probably twenty more drafts before anyone would be allowed to see the book. I have to translate it into English from the original Gibberati.
But that's the point. At any time I have half a dozen stories in my black notebook, going through various phases of rewrite (from "this sentence might be improved if it had a verb. Also a noun." to "one last adverb hunt and it's ready to roll."). So if I am not in the mood to write something new I flip open the notebook and rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. It's progress, so I don't feel blocked.
What if I want to write something new and don't have an idea? Well, I also have a white notebook (there's no significance to those colors; but it makes it easier to tell them apart) full of story ideas. Never throw anything away!
I believe Jan or one of the commenters talked about Sue Grafton's writing habits and I sympathize. My memory is that Raymond Chandler said he sat at his writing desk X hours every day. He didn't have to write during that time but he couldn't do anything else. That reminds me of Edna St. Vincent Millay who, as I recall, said she wrote poetry for a certain amount of time every day. The questioner said "don't you need to be inspired to write poetry?"
She replied that that was true "But when the inspiration comes it finds me at my desk!"
While working on my novel I have set myself a minimum of 100 words a day. A piddling amount, you say. Yes, it is. But that's the idea. No matter how uninspired I feel I can crank out that many words. And it keeps me connected to the work. Plus, very often no matter how uninspired I am feeling once I get those 100 words out, the next few hundred want to follow.
So that's what I do. As for you... well, see the title above.
Last week Jan wrote eloquently about writer's block. I didn't respond in comments because I wanted to ponder for a while, and besides, this way I could fill a Wednesday. (They keep coming around every week, don't they?)
I'm not sure I can say anything useful about this because I don't think I have ever experienced writer's block the way I have heard other people describe it. The reason for that may have to do with the way I approach writing, and - who knows - maybe discussing that would be helpful to someone. So here goes.
I rewrite. I rewrite a lot.
Recently I wrote that I had started a novel and R.T. gracuiously offered to critique the first few chapters for me. (We exchange most of our works before sending them into battle.) I had to tell him that it would be at least ten and probably twenty more drafts before anyone would be allowed to see the book. I have to translate it into English from the original Gibberati.
But that's the point. At any time I have half a dozen stories in my black notebook, going through various phases of rewrite (from "this sentence might be improved if it had a verb. Also a noun." to "one last adverb hunt and it's ready to roll."). So if I am not in the mood to write something new I flip open the notebook and rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. It's progress, so I don't feel blocked.
What if I want to write something new and don't have an idea? Well, I also have a white notebook (there's no significance to those colors; but it makes it easier to tell them apart) full of story ideas. Never throw anything away!
I believe Jan or one of the commenters talked about Sue Grafton's writing habits and I sympathize. My memory is that Raymond Chandler said he sat at his writing desk X hours every day. He didn't have to write during that time but he couldn't do anything else. That reminds me of Edna St. Vincent Millay who, as I recall, said she wrote poetry for a certain amount of time every day. The questioner said "don't you need to be inspired to write poetry?"
She replied that that was true "But when the inspiration comes it finds me at my desk!"
While working on my novel I have set myself a minimum of 100 words a day. A piddling amount, you say. Yes, it is. But that's the idea. No matter how uninspired I feel I can crank out that many words. And it keeps me connected to the work. Plus, very often no matter how uninspired I am feeling once I get those 100 words out, the next few hundred want to follow.
So that's what I do. As for you... well, see the title above.
04 September 2012
Jersey Fresh
Not being a native of the place one lives in can sometimes offer a fresh perspective. And even though I have dwelt in the Garden State for over twenty-five years, I do often find the place fascinating. First of all, let's face it, Jersey takes an awful beating as a result of Snooki and the Gang, corrupt politicians, and the view from the infamous Turnpike of oil refineries, chemical factories, and rubber plants. To some, these may look unappealing ( and I include Snooki and friends with this). But there is a whole other New Jersey out there that is largely hidden away from the tourists on their way to NYC. It is a place in which I often set my stories, and bears little resemblance to Soprano Land: a place of leafy suburbs and rolling farmland; salt marshes and barrier islands; pineland forests and windswept beaches.
The county I live in is called Cape May, and named after a Dutch explorer by the name of Mey who sailed by sometime in 1623. He was too busy exploring, apparently, to bother landing on this new cape that he had discovered. Of course, he had only discovered it for the Europeans who were to follow.
Native Americans had fished and hunted the area for thousands of years before Captain Mey bobbed by in his little ship. The historical tribe was known in their own tongue as Lenape, an Algonquin peoples. The Whites would call them the Delaware after the river, which was in turn named after Lord de la Warre, who saw to it that the English, and not the Dutch or Swedish, would dominate this part of New Jersey. The poor Dutch got stuck with Soprano Land and NYC; the Swedes just went home.
The first European settlers to the area came mostly from New England, Virginia, and Long Island, and they came for the whaling. In those early days, whales often traveled along the Atlantic coast side of what would become Cape May County, and even into the vast Delaware Bay that washes the western half of the peninsula. The locals would simply row out to harpoon the great beasts and tow them back to shore. Even back then, with only a sparse population of whalers, it didn't take long to deplete the animals and virtually kill the industry. The English turned to farming and fishing, and for the next several centuries this was what they did.
Pirates frequented the region as Jonathan Dickinson wrote in 1717, "We have been perplexed by pirates on our coast and at our Capes, who plundered many of our vessels." Captain Kidd, that most unfortunate of pirates, spent some time in the area, as did Edward Teach, of "Blackbeard" fame. Naturally, tales of buried treasure abound. Most of these are baseless, but try telling that to all the folks with metal detectors walking the beaches… fugedaboutit! It never made much sense to me that pirates would risk hiding their treasure on land. After all, sometimes they might be gone for months or even years. But then it was explained to me that this was mostly done when the boys in pantaloons were planning a visit to a large town, such as New Amsterdam, to replenish their stocks and provisions. There was always the chance that they might be recognized as pirates and arrested. The treasure trove on board could be damning. Hence the lightening of the load prior to docking.
The Jersey Devil legend sprang up in this period as well, and comes out of the haunted pine barrens. It seems that the dirt-poor and miserable Mrs. Leeds of that neighborhood, upon learning that she was pregnant with her thirteenth child, cursed him; wishing the devil would take him. Apparently, she had some pull in hell, for her son was born with wings and hooves and flew out the window to begin a reign of terror over that dark and lonely region. He does so to this day.
Cape May became a county in 1692, via a charter from the Crown. In those days there was a West and East Jersey--Cape May County being in the west. There is a cemetery at the county seat, Cape May Court House, that dates to 1766; prior to that people were buried in their back yards, a custom still observed for former business partners in North Jersey. By the way, nearly everything in the county is named Cape May Something: There is the aforementioned Court House, wherein sits a several hundred year old (you got it) court house, there is also Cape May City, West Cape May, Cape May Point and North Cape May. There was even once a South Cape May, but the sea claimed it as its own some time ago. God's judgement, perhaps, on one Cape May too many. Enough already with the Cape May.
New Jersey became known as the "Cockpit of the Revolution" during the War of Independence because of all the important battles fought on her soil. Washington slept everywhere, and New Jersey named not one, but several towns, after the father of our nation. Having a maritime economy, the southern half of the state was affected by the War of 1812. This region also produced one of our nation's earliest naval heroes in the person of Richard Somers. This young man was to lead what amounted to a suicide mission against the Barbary pirates in Tripoli. Sailing directly into their harbor under cover of darkness, he and his crew boarded a captured American vessel and blew it up in spectacular fashion. Though the resulting explosion and fire damaged and destroyed many of the pirates' ships, it also took the lives of the brave American sailors before they could get away. Their graves still lie in a small plot in Libya. His home exists as a museum in Somers Point, the town named for his family. I have had the privilege of visiting it.
As the northern half of the state embraced the industrial age, the south remained agrarian, not unlike the nation as a whole at that time. The capitol even boasted the proud motto, "Trenton Makes, The World Takes," in huge letters across a bridge spanning the Delaware River. It's there to this day. South Jersey, meanwhile, continued to make the Garden State just that. Most of the "industries" practiced in the south related to the exploitation of natural resources: cedar mining (the reclamation of prehistoric cedar trees from the fresh water swamps for shingles and ship building), bog iron collection from the streams of the Pine Barrens (this naturally occurring iron tints the water the color of tea), harvesting salt hay from the marshes for both animal feed and lining coffins, the production of glass from the fine sands of the region, etc... Then came the trains.
By the late 1800s, the great population centers of both Philadelphia and New York had discovered what would be forever more known as the Jersey Shore. Trains made it possible. The industrial era had given the working man both stable wages and a few days off a year. He spent both at the shore. The tourist boom was on and the great shore towns began to spring up--Atlantic City, Asbury Park, Wildwood, Avalon, and yes...Cape May. Of course, many decided to stay, and the local population took a decidedly Irish and Italian turn. Catholic parishes began to pop up amongst the Baptist and Methodists. The small town of Woodbine was founded as a Jewish colony, while the town of Whitesboro became the the county's first predominantly African-American municipality--a by-product of the Underground Railroad, not the one from Philly.
By the mid-1970s tourism was king. Though farms remained, they had grown smaller and began to adapt to specialized crops in order to survive. Commercial fishing survived, as well, by both downsizing and growing more efficient. The waters off New Jersey continue to be one of the greatest producers of scallops and clams along the eastern seaboard and oyster farming is making a comeback in the Delaware Bay. But the tourist dollar, and vacation real estate, are the mainstays of the current economy--battered by the recession, but still king. Unemployment here in Cape May County during the off-season (roughly from November to April) can reach 12% or worse. But you take the good with the bad, and this is the place I happily call home. My literary characters, Chief Julian Hall and Father Gregory Savartha, both live here, as does a ponderous and troubling little girl named Mariel, who is the subject of my next story in EQMM (Dec. 2012 issue). The bewildered protagonist of "Tap-Tap", though he meets his fate in Belize, worked for a tourist agency here, while Kieran, the young kleptomaniac of "The Vengeance of Kali," lives just around the corner. There are many, many more.
So, as you can see, after twenty-five years in a place, you make some friends; form some ties. And luckily for me, having a fresh perspective, a "Jersey" fresh perspective on my adopted home, made it all possible.
Native Americans had fished and hunted the area for thousands of years before Captain Mey bobbed by in his little ship. The historical tribe was known in their own tongue as Lenape, an Algonquin peoples. The Whites would call them the Delaware after the river, which was in turn named after Lord de la Warre, who saw to it that the English, and not the Dutch or Swedish, would dominate this part of New Jersey. The poor Dutch got stuck with Soprano Land and NYC; the Swedes just went home.
The first European settlers to the area came mostly from New England, Virginia, and Long Island, and they came for the whaling. In those early days, whales often traveled along the Atlantic coast side of what would become Cape May County, and even into the vast Delaware Bay that washes the western half of the peninsula. The locals would simply row out to harpoon the great beasts and tow them back to shore. Even back then, with only a sparse population of whalers, it didn't take long to deplete the animals and virtually kill the industry. The English turned to farming and fishing, and for the next several centuries this was what they did.
Cape May became a county in 1692, via a charter from the Crown. In those days there was a West and East Jersey--Cape May County being in the west. There is a cemetery at the county seat, Cape May Court House, that dates to 1766; prior to that people were buried in their back yards, a custom still observed for former business partners in North Jersey. By the way, nearly everything in the county is named Cape May Something: There is the aforementioned Court House, wherein sits a several hundred year old (you got it) court house, there is also Cape May City, West Cape May, Cape May Point and North Cape May. There was even once a South Cape May, but the sea claimed it as its own some time ago. God's judgement, perhaps, on one Cape May too many. Enough already with the Cape May.
New Jersey became known as the "Cockpit of the Revolution" during the War of Independence because of all the important battles fought on her soil. Washington slept everywhere, and New Jersey named not one, but several towns, after the father of our nation. Having a maritime economy, the southern half of the state was affected by the War of 1812. This region also produced one of our nation's earliest naval heroes in the person of Richard Somers. This young man was to lead what amounted to a suicide mission against the Barbary pirates in Tripoli. Sailing directly into their harbor under cover of darkness, he and his crew boarded a captured American vessel and blew it up in spectacular fashion. Though the resulting explosion and fire damaged and destroyed many of the pirates' ships, it also took the lives of the brave American sailors before they could get away. Their graves still lie in a small plot in Libya. His home exists as a museum in Somers Point, the town named for his family. I have had the privilege of visiting it.
By the late 1800s, the great population centers of both Philadelphia and New York had discovered what would be forever more known as the Jersey Shore. Trains made it possible. The industrial era had given the working man both stable wages and a few days off a year. He spent both at the shore. The tourist boom was on and the great shore towns began to spring up--Atlantic City, Asbury Park, Wildwood, Avalon, and yes...Cape May. Of course, many decided to stay, and the local population took a decidedly Irish and Italian turn. Catholic parishes began to pop up amongst the Baptist and Methodists. The small town of Woodbine was founded as a Jewish colony, while the town of Whitesboro became the the county's first predominantly African-American municipality--a by-product of the Underground Railroad, not the one from Philly.
By the mid-1970s tourism was king. Though farms remained, they had grown smaller and began to adapt to specialized crops in order to survive. Commercial fishing survived, as well, by both downsizing and growing more efficient. The waters off New Jersey continue to be one of the greatest producers of scallops and clams along the eastern seaboard and oyster farming is making a comeback in the Delaware Bay. But the tourist dollar, and vacation real estate, are the mainstays of the current economy--battered by the recession, but still king. Unemployment here in Cape May County during the off-season (roughly from November to April) can reach 12% or worse. But you take the good with the bad, and this is the place I happily call home. My literary characters, Chief Julian Hall and Father Gregory Savartha, both live here, as does a ponderous and troubling little girl named Mariel, who is the subject of my next story in EQMM (Dec. 2012 issue). The bewildered protagonist of "Tap-Tap", though he meets his fate in Belize, worked for a tourist agency here, while Kieran, the young kleptomaniac of "The Vengeance of Kali," lives just around the corner. There are many, many more.
So, as you can see, after twenty-five years in a place, you make some friends; form some ties. And luckily for me, having a fresh perspective, a "Jersey" fresh perspective on my adopted home, made it all possible.
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