A Day for Writers and Lawyers

 

A week from today, my son has a birthday. Around our house, that‘s reason enough to celebrate. For those with a more global perspective, Tuesday, October 14^th, marks the 959^th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings. On this date in 1066, the Norman army, led by William the Conqueror, defeated the forces of King Harold II of England. Harold was killed—shot in the eye with an arrow, according to legend. Shortly thereafter, his troops capitulated. The reign of the Anglo-Saxon kings of England came to an end.

Harold may have been among the last casualties of the Battle of Hastings. Today, however, I should like to consider the first.

The Normans invaded England at Pevensey in East Sussex. No troops lined the shore to oppose him, for Harold's army was in the north of England, repelling an invading Norwegian army. From the landing beach, William marched his men on toward Hastings. Harold raced his troops down from the north to confront this group of invaders. The Anglo-Saxons seized the high ground at Senlac Hill and prepared to fight a defensive battle.

The Carmen de Hastingae Proelio presents the oldest source on the Battle of Hastings, written in 1067 or 1068. On the eve of battle, the Normans were dispirited. Not surprisingly, since they, clad in chain mail, must charge the Saxons’ shield wall uphill. Harold’s infantry waited for them there, his lines braced for the attack by the invaders.

According to the epic, out from the mass of Norman soldiers rode a lone man, Ivo Taillefer, the jongleur, minstrel, or storyteller to William. He positioned himself between the two opposing forces. While astride his horse, he began to juggle his sword, catching and throwing it into the air again and again, while singing the Song of Roland, a lyrical poem about a heroic French warrior who served under Charlemagne.

A man should suffer greatly for his lord,

Endure both biting cold and sweltering heat

And sacrifice for him both flesh and blood.

Stanza LXXXVIII, line 1117

Incensed by the bravado, a Saxon soldier rushed from the lines to kill the provocative Taillefer. Tailllefer, however, snatched his sword in mid-air and struck down the man. Singlehandedly, the warrior storyteller then charged the English lines. Inspired, the Normans loosed their arrows, and the battle began.

We might pause the story to consider the warrior storyteller, the person who finds battle and literature to be complementary. Their experiences with death, valor, inhumanity, and a community of individuals locked in a common lead some to contemplate the big questions of life.

In that moment, the warrior storyteller became a literary figure himself.

“Taillefer, who sang right well,

Upon a swift horse

Sang before the Duke

Of Charlemagne and of Roland

And of Oliver and their vassals

That died at Roncesvalles."

Wace, Roman de Rou, lines 8013–8019

Taillefer also enriched the lives of storytellers to come. The Norman victory at Hastings was “an event which had a greater effect on the English language than any other in the course of its history,” according to H. R. Lyon.

William the Conqueror’s coronation at Westminster Abbey on Christmas Day, 1066, was voiced in English and Latin. He, however, knew Norman French. From that day, three languages were spoken throughout Britain, gradually melding into one. It is estimated that the Norman conquest added 10-12,000 words to the English language.

A story from the times illustrates the new world in which the conquered English found themselves. In a 12th-century miracle tale, a traveling friar named Brother William met a mute man. Falling to his knees, the infirm man sought a blessing. Brother William laid hands upon the man who suddenly could speak both English and French. The local priest, Brichtric, witnessing the miracle, complained about the unfairness. Brichtric had served the church faithfully for many years, yet he could not understand his French-speaking bishop. This total stranger, however, could now speak to the entire country, knowing both languages. Brichtric wailed at the injustice.

Before William's coronation, the Anglo-Saxons had a single word, kingly, a direct and straightforward expression for the actions of a king. Following the conquest, three synonyms entered the language: royal, regal, and sovereign. Writers gained the capacity to express shades of meaning with the tools of expanded word choice. Walter Mead illustrates the point, citing a famous example from Time magazine, “Truman slunk from the room to huddle with his cronies,” while “Ike strode from the chamber to confer with his advisers.”

Legal doublets also came into existence. A legal doublet is a standardized phrase consisting of two or more words used frequently in Legal English. Such phrases couple terms that are synonyms. The origin of many doublings can be traced to a French (or Latin) and English word pair to ensure that the reader understood the phrase's significance. Aid and abet and null and void represent examples of legal doublets.

Whether your goal is to clarify (or obfuscate) a legal document or to craft a story full of shading and nuance, the events of 959 years ago expanded your toolbox like no other event before or since. Raise a glass to Taillefer, the warrior storyteller who started it all. Raise another for Sam, whose birth, nativity, parturition, and delivery came along nine centuries later.

I’ll be traveling on the day that this blog posts. Apologies for failing to reply to comments.

Steady As She Goes.

Thank you for inviting me to address this year's graduating class at the Academy of Young Fiction Writers.

As much as I appreciate the invitation, I’m utterly unqualified to give you any advice, since you are growing up in an entirely different world from the one I inhabited (Planet Mid-20^th Century). However, I’ve already cashed the honorarium, so I’ll give it a go.

It was suggested I give my own take on Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules for Good Writing. However, I’ve found as soon as one starts in on rules, one is on shaky ground. And frankly, I’d toss out half of Leonard’s rules and rejigger the rest. But I can think of a few essential ingredients.

Every writer I know reads a lot. If there’s any way to avoid this particular penchant, I don’t know what it is. Anymore than a professional sax player can be unaware of Charlie Parker or Johnny Hodges. It’s also preferred to read all kinds of things – fiction, non-fiction, newspapers, magazines, blog posts, encyclopedias, cereal boxes, doctoral theses, etc. It almost doesn’t matter as you’re simply training your mind to be fluent and versatile with the language. To be aware of the various forms and styles, no matter what you end up specializing in.

This also means reading things you find distasteful, either in form or content. If you confine yourself only to works that comport with your aesthetic, religious or political sensibilities, you might live with a pure heart and soul, but you won’t be a very good writer. And who knows, if breached frequently enough those self-imposed boundaries might get a little more elastic over time.

It’s important to develop your own voice. Everyone says a strong voice is indispensable, though no one can tell you exactly what that means. If you’re lucky, you’ll know it when you hear it, or someone has the generosity to point it out. Your voice could – it should – change to suit the specific work you’re laboring over. But you need to know what voice is all about or you won’t get very far.

Being a good writer takes a tremendous amount of work. This often comes as a shock to people starting out. The main culprits are beloved authors whose prose flows as effortlessly as a sparkling Rocky Mountain stream, which can give a person false notions. Ask the writer to show you all the drafts and marked-up pages that led up to this and be ready for the avalanche.

Other than those three little guidelines, pretty much everything else is up for grabs. As much as I love going to writers conferences and listening to my fellow authors render sage advice from the panel tables (much of which can be extremely entertaining), by itself this probably won’t change your trajectory. You’ll hear a lot about process, but the only worthwhile process is the one that works for you. The magic isn’t in the mechanics, it’s in the imagination. Whether your work finds its way through a keyboard or a quill pen, in a Parisian loft or chicken coop, is irrelevant.

I think it’s good to read tutorials from Strunk & White, Stephen King, and especially Anne Lamott, but there’s little they can teach you that you don’t have to learn yourself.

As noted above, your world is going to be radically different from the one I’ve been living in, so you’ll have to adapt accordingly. Digital technology will impart unimaginable advantages, and detriments, and you’ll have to figure out which is which. Style will be as fluid as the cultural weather, though it won’t likely sound like late-Victorian or early-Beatnik. Some harbingers may be lurking on the bestsellers lists, but you won’t know which ones for a few years.

Language itself may morph into something entirely new. For all I know, you may have different rules for grammar and syntax. Dictionaries and remedial English teachers will have to scramble to keep up. But novelty doesn’t have to result in amnesia.

I mentioned Charlie Parker. Classical musicians often notice a Bach interval sneaking its way into one of his spiraling improvisations. This wasn’t just a sly homage, or hipster satire. Charlie was part of a continuum of genius, not a fatherless bolt of lightning.

Natural historians will tell you evolution never creates in whole cloth. Life transforms itself by adapting available material. What makes us human is nothing more than the clever repurposing of primordial spare parts.

Every generation needs to decide what constitutes quality writing. So ultimately, your peers will be much more valuable than your heroes. Though you’ll still be standing on the shoulders of giants, so it’s best to get a good sense of literary anatomy so you don’t lose your footing.

I think a healthy dose of optimistic skepticism is a healthy thing in a young writer. It’s fine to listen to advice, even what’s being spoken here, but don’t take anything to heart until you’ve proven it to yourself. And even that may slip out from under you when you least expect it.

Always remind yourself, you’re sailing a ship guided by ever-changing constellations.

He felt an itch to write and started from scratch

Before Tik Tok and the World Wide Web, before Chris Rock, before the Blue Collar Comedy Tour was UseNet and it was good. Terms like spam, FAQ, mod, and flame originated here. So did the Internet’s first advertisement — by a law firm — spam. Well, maybe not so good.

UseNet still exists, divided into News Groups, sort of a predecessor to Reddit. Examples might include:

• rec — recreation, entertainment
• sci — science, technology
• soc — society, early social platform
• alt — a catchall for extended discussions

Within this latter category is alt.humor and not long after it appeared, along came alt.humor.funny, a humorous recognition that some ‘jokes’ simply aren’t, well, funny.

alt.humor.writers.mystery ?

This crossed my mind when so-called writerly jibes, jests and jokes appeared in my mail. Ugh, they were awful, maybe 4^th grade level, but they sent me on a quest to find levity amongst fellow scribblers.

Don’t get me wrong… I enjoy my colleagues’ humor, often gentle and sometimes zinging, but it’s clear we as a group slept in during stand-up comedy classes. You might think writers would naturally excel creating authorishy humor, but perhaps wounds of rejection remain too raw.

Apparently a special Melodie brain lobe is required to coax one-liners, rib-ticklers, knee-slappers, thigh-thwackers, and wisecrackers from our inner dark to the light of smiling sunshine. As a public service to my writing friends, I threshed the chaff of many an internet witticism to isolate a few pearls and peals of laughter. Perhaps.

Beginning with…

• Writers learn to be tolerant folk. Pain tolerant, alcohol tolerant, rejection tolerant, antidepressant tolerant…
• What do you call a writer with health insurance? Married.
• How many writers does it take to change a lightbulb? Just one. You call Bob, the janitor, and he does it. He’s written six bestselling novels and won multiple Edgar, Macavity, Derringer, and Reader’s Choice awards.
• How many literary writers does it take to change a lightbulb? Just one. Screw you. I’m not changing one damn thing.
• How many mystery writers does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to swap the bulb, and the other to give it an unexpected twist.
• From novels to fiction to advertising, what writing pays the best? Ransom notes.
• What do writers often purchase with their first royalty check? Extra cheese on their White Castles.
• What do you get when you cross a romance writer with a deadline? A really clean house.
• It’s not unusual for novice writers to make several sales: their car, their cufflinks, their jewelry, their house…

You’ll notice I didn’t include the oft-repeated observation by Paul Gallico about sitting down at a typewriter and opening a vein. However, I came across an interesting variation:

• Writing is easy. You just sit at your typewriter until little drops of blood appear on your forehead.
• According to proofreaders, the blood’s Type O.

Bad Puns and Other Dishonorable Unmentionables

• Shakespeare wrote plays on words.
• What’s it like to be an aspiring writer? It’s difficult to put into words.
• What is a young erotica writer’s favorite position for love making? Exposition. (Yes, that’s a double double entendre.)
• Little wonder Neanderthals died out. They should have seen the writing on the wall.
• My new Parker Pen can write upside down and under water and other words too.
• I’m learning to write poetry: P…O…E…T… It’s coming along nicely.

Whew, those were bad. A good line edit is its own reword.

We can do better! What is your favorite writing quip?

Yep, They Shot Him – But He's Okay

I always try, like most writers I know, to make my stories as believable and accurate and authentic as possible. After all, mistakes can be jarring enough to snap a reader right out of the storyworld, and make him or her think more about the writing and about the writer than about the story itself. None of us want that.

But in the course of my movie-watching, which probably (and unfortunately) takes up as much time as my writing, I have often wondered if filmmakers worry much about those factual and logical mistakes. It would seem they don't. One of the worst inconsistencies is in the way the characters talk with each other. In current movies, the dialogue's pretty good unless you consider Southern accents (don't get me started, on that), but I recently watched an old, old Western that featured a hero who was in deep trouble shouting to his partner, "Come quickly!" I obviously didn't live in those times, but I suspect he would've instead said something like "Come quick!" There's no doubt "quickly" would've made my high school English teacher happy, but it isn't a word I could see John Wayne saying to Gabby Hayes as arrows are flying and the cattle's being stolen and the cabin's burning down around him.

And it's not only dialogue. Consider the following list of inaccuracies that I see in a lot of the movies and TV series I watch these days, mistakes that might make you say What the hell were they thinking? 

Here are my top 20:

1. Old West streets are usually neat, clean, and poopfree.

2. Explosions in outer space make noise.

3. Sheriff's badges can be removed in the blink of an eye (a handy trick, if the villain's in town looking for the sheriff).

4. Also helpful: People fleeing from bad guys always run down the exact center of the road.

5. Monsters often reappear, over and over, good as new, after being killed. 

6. Private eyes are knocked unconscious at least once per episode, with no lasting ill effects.

7. Good guys' gunshot wounds are inconvenient; bad guys' gunshot wounds are fatal.

8. Following an explosion, the hero always strolls toward the camera as the firestorm rages in the background. (Shrapnel? No worries.)

9. Silencers on movie weapons are more silent than in real life--and handguns remain accurate at long distances. 

10. Heroines can run just fine in high heels.

11. Towns have only one church.

12. Bombs have timers with easy-to-read displays.

13. Waitresses never ask customers what kind of salad dressing they want.

14. Bartenders never ask customers what kind of beer they want.

15. Hacking into computers is easy peasy (worst offender: Independence Day).

16. Air ducts are good hiding places/escape routes. And they're always shiny clean.

17. Schoolteachers are interrupted in mid-sentence by the bell, and shout the next day's assignment to the already-departing students.

18. If you're shot while attacking a house, town, fort, or wagon train, your horse will fall down too.

19. When a crowd (usually of teenagers) hears an ominous sound (usually in a cave or haunted house at night), one of them goes alone to check it out.

20. In very old movies, a hero in a fistfight with the villain will get no help at all from the lady he's just rescued. Also, women fleeing from monsters/dinosaurs always fall down and lie there screaming.

In closing, here is a 36-line observation I made years ago on this subject, back before I realized I wasn't a poet. It's called "A Fantasy World," and first appeared in the Spring/Summer 1995 issue of Mobius:

The only thing moviewise I find obscene
    Isn’t brutal or racial or sexual;
It’s that scene after scene that I’ve seen on the screen
    Could never be factually actual.

For example, in Westerns, the ladies of course
    Still look fresh after months on the range,
No one’s ever injured when thrown from a horse,
    And bartenders never make change.

All heroes bound tightly within villains’ lairs
    With one touch of a knife can be freed,
And the chuckwagon’s crew might as well say their prayers
    Anytime there’s a cattle stampede.

Every car, when it crashes, will burst into flames,
    All cougars are shot in mid-leap,
Most private detectives have rugged last names,
    And night watchmen are always asleep.

Our heroes are blue-eyed, their teeth are white-capped,
    All six-guns shoot ten times at least,
And wrapped gifts and presents need not be unwrapped--
    Their tops just lift off, in one piece.

And when stagecoaches fired on by unfriendly forces
    Are chased twenty miles without rest,
No one ever thinks to shoot one of the horses--
    That’d make things too simple, I guess.

More examples? Okay. Taking showers is deadly–
    It’s better to just stay unclean,
And movie blood glistens a trifle too redly,
    And windows don’t ever have screens.

Drivers don’t watch the road and they don’t lock their cars,
    People never use washcloths, just soap;
And the strength of a jail window’s solid iron bars
    Are no match for a nag and a rope.

So the next time you witness an in-progress plot
    To commit a spectacular crime,
Just step in and save everyone on the spot–
    In the movies it’s done all the time.

NOTE: I once heard that someone asked Stagecoach director John Ford why the pursuing Indians didn't just shoot one of the horses in the team, during the long chase. He said, "Because that would've been the end of the movie." 

Okay, enough of that. To you writers who are fellow movie addicts, what are some differences you have noticed, between film and reality? Were some of them wrong enough to be silly? What movies were the worst offenders? And remember--don't do that kind of thing in your stories!

Thanks for indulging me. See you in two weeks.

Crime Scene Comix Case 2025-10-036, Dog Walker

Once again we highlight our criminally favorite cartoonist, Future Thought channel of YouTube. We love the sausage-shaped Shifty, a Minion gone bad.

Yikes! In this Crime Time episode, only one outcome is possible.

 

 

 

 

© www.FutureThought.tv

 

That’s today’s crime cinema. Hope you enjoyed the show. Be sure to visit Future Thought YouTube channel.

Mince Pies and Cigarettes. And a Skull. And a Seance...

Mince pies and Cigarettes

I should wait until Christmas to post this, but I have to say it's the most wonderful alien story I've ever read.  Think of it as an early Christmas present!

Jean Hingley and her husband Cyril lived in a small council house in Rowley Regis, near Birmingham, England. On January 4, 1979, Cyril went to work, and after he left, she saw a light in the back garden. She figured it was the light in the car port, but when she went to turn it off, she saw an orange light hovering over the garden, which gradually turned white while radiating a sound that she described as "Zee...zee...zee..." Then "three beings" floated past her and went through the open back door of her house. The winged creatures glowed with a bright light and hovered about a foot above the ground. They were wearing silvery-green tunics and silver waistcoats, with transparent "fish-bowl" style helmets over their heads. They had no eyebrows or ears. Their faces were corpse-white with glittering black eyes.

Sketch based on Hingley's description of her callers.

Amazingly, Mrs. Hingley did not run screaming around the neighborhood with her apron over her head. Instead, she petrified with fear, as did her Alsatian dog, Hobo. But then the fear went away, and she "felt as if I were lifted up...I felt as if I were a different person; as though I was in Heaven although I was still at home. I seemed to float into the lounge." There she saw the 3 attacking her little artificial Christmas tree, shaking and tugging at it, and when they were done, they floated around the room, touching everything.  

She asked them, "What are you going to do? What do you want with me?" (My note:  I'd have been pitching a fit right about now.)

They replied by manipulating something on their chest, and voices emerged from it saying, "We shall not harm you."
"Where have you come from?" Mrs. Hingley asked.
"We come from the sky."

The trio went back to shaking the tree. Then they started bouncing on her couch.  (My question:  Were they three year olds?) Anyway, she said she was "happy" in their company. "Do you want a drink?" she asked. They asked for water, and when she  brought it, they lifted the glasses, and a blinding "power light" came on around their heads. "I didn't actually see them drink but when they put the glasses back on the tray the water was gone." 

She asked them if she should tell people about them. "Yes. We have been here before. We shall come again. Everybody will go to Heaven. There are beautiful colours there." The beings said they had already visited Australia, New Zealand, and America. "We come down here to try to talk to people but they don't seem to be interested."  (My Note:  Try it these days and someone will call ICE.)

Then Mrs. Hingley went into the kitchen and brought out a tray of mince pies. "They each lifted a mince pie from the plate as though their hands were magnetic." But when she lit a cigarette, they leapt back and floated to the back door, carrying their pies. She followed, apologizing, and saw "an orange coloured glowing thing" in her back yard that appeared to be a space ship. It was eight to ten feet long and four feet high, with several round portholes. The ship had something like a "scorpion tail" at the back, and a wheel on top."  The creatures floated into the ship, flashed its lights twice ("as if to say 'Goodbye,'") and disappeared into the sky. Mrs. Hingley's dog finally came back to life and began looking for the creatures.

Her visitors left Mrs. Hingley feeling "warm and happy," as though she had been "blessed." When she told a neighbor what had happened, they advised her to call the police. She did, but the police didn't know what to make of the story. She also called her husband and told him that she'd had "visitors with wings." 
"Birds?" he asked.
"No. Men with wings."
"Why don't you go and have your hair done and tell the girls about it."  (My note:  it's hard to get much more British than that, unless he'd told her "why don't you just put your feet up and have a nice cuppa tea.")

Mrs. Hingley said that her eyes were sore for a week after the "close encounter," and she felt too unwell to work for some time. Cassette tapes handled by the aliens were ruined, and for a time her radio and TV ceased to work. But she loved it, saying, "Some people have written to say that they think the visitors were elves or beings from the Fairy Kingdom, or even robots, but I don't know what to think. I know I shall never forget them if I live to be a hundred."

Sources:  #1 the main source is from Undine's Strange Company:  A Visit to the Weird Side of History (LINK)  AND  #2 from Slacktivist (LINK).  I cannot urge strongly enough that you subscribe to one or both of them.

The Skull

"A million year old human skull may have belonged to a relative of the mysterious Denisovans and provides clues to the rapid evolution of Homo sapiens in Asia. It suggests that our species, Homo sapiens, began to emerge at least half a million years earlier than we thought, researchers are claiming in a new study.  It also shows that we co-existed with other sister species, including Neanderthals, for much longer than we've come to believe, they say.

"Genetic evidence suggests it existed alongside them, so if Yunxian 2 walked the Earth a million years ago, say the scientists, early versions of Neanderthal and our own species probably did too.  This startling analysis has dramatically shifted the timeline of the evolution of large-brained humans back by at least half a million years, according to Prof Chris Stringer of the Natural History Museum, a co-lead on the research.  He said there are likely to be million year-old fossils of Homo sapiens somewhere on our planet - we just haven't found them yet.

"The earliest known evidence for early Homo sapiens in Africa is 300,000 years ago, so it is tempting to conclude that our species might have evolved first in Asia.  But there is not enough evidence to be sure at this stage, according to Prof Stringer, because there are human fossils in Africa and Europe that are also a million years old that need to be incorporated into the analysis."  (LINK1 and LINK2)

(MY NOTE: My deep genetic tests via the National Geographic Genome Project show that I am definitely Homo Sapien but also have Neanderthal (4.6%) and Denisovian (2.1%) DNA. My ancestors - and probably everyone's ancestors - fooled around with each other. A lot.)  

Now I have been practically popping opening champagne bottle over this news

because I have been postulating (if not preaching) for decades that intelligent hominids have been around for at least a megaannum (that's one million years, folks), mainly based on the fact that as soon as the last ice age (The Younger Dryas) ended around 11,700 years ago, humans started right up domesticating animals and plants, irrigation, pottery (the oldest so far is 20,000, from a cave in China), building, and erecting megaliths, and what may be (so far) the oldest temple found on earth, Gobekli Tepe, just as if everyone "knew" what to do to get what we would call a major civilization going again.  Same myths, stories, and "inventions".  And haunted memories of a paradise lost and/or a perfect city shattered by natural disasters.

It's almost like the ice melted, and humans were racing to get back to the Old Days, but without the Old Ones (read your Lovecraft like the rest of us).

But let's move on to the really weird stuff.

Seance on a Wet Afternoon

I think I've mentioned this book before, but I want to mention it again.  Seance on a Wet Afternoon was written in 1961 by Mark McShane, and a movie was made of it in 1964, which is about the time that I read it on my grandmother's front porch in Kentucky on a rainy afternoon from the paperback pictured to the right.  I've never seen the movie.  I don't want to see it, because I know they gave the movie a Hollywood ending, which the book (actually a novella) definitely didn't deserve. (As if, and this will become more relevant later on, CoPilot offered to finish the movie off for them.)  I consider the book (actually a novella, but back then you didn't have to write 100,000 words to have a novel) a masterpiece of suspense.  

Myra Savage, psychic, truly can see into other people’s minds, and can even sometimes sense the future, but her real goal is communicate some day with the Other Side, mainly because she knows that this would finally give her the fame (and fortune) that she deserves. So she concocts The Plan with the help of her husband Bill, unemployed due to his asthma, and will do anything Myra tells him to do.

The Plan is simple: Bill will snatch a child from her schoolyard and paste together a letter demanding ransom. After a few days of citywide panic, Myra will lead the police to the child and the money, and all of London will know her name. What could possibly go wrong?

If you can guess the ending, the real ending, you're more of a psychic than Myra, because this does not go where you think it will go...  

BTW, I hope that if the aliens ever come back, they don't encounter a Myra.  May it always be a Mrs. Hingley and her mince pies.

****

PS:  I am ecstatic to announce that I have finally found the way to get rid of that #*$%&@&* CoPilot on Microsoft 365.  You know, the one that keeps offering to write my essays or finish my sentence?  Well, the last straw was that one morning I was writing my dreams into my dream diary, and it offered what it thought should be the way the sentence went, and I blew my stack because my dreams are my dreams and I don't need anyone to tell me where my dreams, my stories, my plays, my essays are gonna go, and don't even TRY to tell me what I'm going to or should say next, dammit!

So, this is what you do, for those of you who don't know yet:  open Microsoft Word.  Hit "File".  Go down the column on the left to "Options" and click on it, and turn CoPilot off.  

Oh, what bliss...  

Crime Krewe

 

Swag.  I paid for one of these books.

When Donald E. Westlake accepted the MWA Grand Master Award at an Edgars ceremony he said "You're my tribe!" That's how I felt at Bouchercon last month, but since it was in New Orleans let's call it my krewe.  Some random highlights.

Sociological  Observation.  We attended the World Science Fiction Conference last month and my wife, the SF fan, noted that the mystery crowd is friendlier.  She was right.  For example, standing in line you were much more likely to get into conversation with the strangers around you at Bcon than at Worldcon.

My Busy Weekend. I was only scheduled to be on one panel (on short stories. Surprise!) but I said I would be happy to take on more so, sure enough, I was asked to moderate another panel (on short stories, who would have guessed?), and then invited to be on a third panel, this one on turning ideas into stories.  Happy to do so.  I feel like one reason I was in demand was that so many people seemed to be dropping out at the last minute.  I personally know five people who cancelled due to health or other reasons.

My Librarian Hat.  But I had another job to do.  There was a big event in support of libraries and against book-banning and the like.  I was one of three librarians invited to speak.  The whole shebang deserves its own report so you can read about it here if you wish, including (lucky you) my speech. 

I Love a Parade. The opening ceremonies were held at the World War II Museum.  To get there something like a thousand conference-goers proceeded in a second line, marching behind a brass band, with the guests of honor in pedi-cabs.  It was great fun but the drivers on the side streets must have hated us.  Bonus: I walked much of the distance with Linda Landrigan, editor of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.

Photo by Tracee L. Evans

Most Surreal Moment.  At the opening ceremonies I had the honor of handing out the Derringer Awards.  I was on the stage looking down at the front row where the guests of honor were seated and I spotted Craig Johnson, author of the Longmire novels.  Then I saw, sitting next to him, A. Martinez, a fine actor I recognized from L.A. Law and Longmire.  I was looking at him and he was looking at me.  I don't think I lost my place.

Sign In, Please. The first time I had a story in a Bouchercon anthology, back in Raleigh, there was a book signing event with all the authors neatly arranged by the order their stories appeared in the book so purchasers could just move down the row to have their volumes signed.  The same thing was supposed to happen here except anarchy prevailed.  Purchasers noticed authors down the line with no books to sign yet and jumped in.  Some started at the end of the book, so to speak, and others started in the middle.  I'm sure some of them wound up missing authors but I just scribbled on whatever was put in front of me. (Oh. see the photo of me signing. Can you guess the title of my story?)

photo by Diana Catt

Disappointment. I attended the Anthony Awards, ready to speak on behalf of editors Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman if Murder Neat: A SleuthSayers Anthology took home the prize but, alas, it was not to be. Had a good time though.

Second Sociological Observation. It must relate to some mathematical law.  There were several writer friends -- Josh Pachter, Alan Orloff, Stacy Woodson, Bonnar Spring, Andrew Welsh-Huggins, to name a few -- who I was happy to run into again and again during the weekend.  On the other hand when I got home and checked Facebook I saw reports from other friends who I had never spotted even once.  Random results...

Ah well.  Next year in Calgary.  Does that make the krewe a posse?