Scrooge McGrinch and the Four Elves (a Christmas Puzzle)

E. Scrooge McGrinch

In the hour before thr sun peeked around the mountain, he clumped up the hill, dysphoria washing over him again. Scrooge McGrinch felt misunderstood. His shrink explained he suffered from hereditary hormonal imbalance, festiphobia (a fear of holidays) and affluenza (love of money). The 7^th generation following the historic marriage of Ebenezer Scrooge Jr and Ethylene Lovecraft MacGrinch, his skin still bore the same pigment as an eight-dollar bill. [For vast our audience of molecular biologists, see DAT1, DRD2, and SOD1-/- in ‘Condition Green’, Morley et al, JAM, 2022.]

Then he heard a racket, a cacophony of four voices, and his spirits leaped in joy. Off the trail, caught in an avalanche of snow, were his worst nemeses, a quartet of bratty elves who made his life miserable.

Four Awful Elves

Boozy, Doozy, Floozy, and Woozy had awakened at 4:30, giggling and chuckling. The lads chortled at the notion of joyriding the village’s most recent understudy, a new deer– Bolderdash. In the dark, they pulled on boots, mittens, and stocking caps over their heads. Emboldened by a generous slug of wintergreen schnapps, they headed toward the barns.

Bolderdash was not thrilled to be shaken and awakened when a bridle slipped over his nose. The brightly lit factory and rail yard swarmed with activity at that early hour, so the jackanapes led their captive reindeer into the dark before climbing aboard.

They cantered toward the mountain train and galloped into the night. Startling them, an artic cargo plane landed at the moment they reached Kringle International Airport at the edge of the plateau, Bolderdash balked. He had had enough. In a fit of pique, he bucked and skidded to a halt at the edge of a precipice.

Four little figures flew over a cliff and landed up to their chins in deep snow, fortunate they didn’t set off an avalanche. They found themselves trapped in cold white stuff, unable to move. Meantime, Bolderdash sulkily stalked back to the barns, hoping for a little more sleep before roll call.

The Problem and the Proposal

Thirty minutes passed until Scrooge McGrinch stumbled upon the naughty elves. He said, “You… You in the red hat. What are you miscreants doing?”

The elves appeared confused. “We don’t know which hats we’re wearing, O Verdant One. In the dark, we just grabbed toques without noticing the colors.”

Two wore red hats and two wore green hats. McGrinch said, “You brats wear colorful hats, but you don’t know the hue?”

Scrooge McGrinch wasn’t a mean man… Well, okay, he was mean in multiple senses of the word, but he wasn’t entirely heartless. Following a modicum of enjoyment, he said, “If any of you can figure out the color cap you’re wearing, I’ll rush back to Ski Patrol to dig you out, else I’ll call your parents and they won’t be happy.”

The elves shivered. “We’ll give it a try, Your Viridescence.”

McGrinch grimaced. “Fine. Here are the rules.”

The Puzzle

1. Four elves in a row are immovably buried up to their chins in snow.
2. Their names and positions are Boozy₁, Doozy₂, Floozy₃, and Woozy₄.
3. Two wear red hats, two wear green, but no elf knows what color he wears.
4. Each elf can see only straight ahead and only the elf or elves directly before them.
5. Separated by a snowdrift, Woozy can see no one and vice versa.
6. None can glimpse their own hat, nor do colors reflect off the snow.
7. Elves are not permitted to discuss what they see.

Solution after the break.

Thus, Scrooge McGrinch promised to rescue them if any elf correctly identified the color hat he was wearing, else they faced the humiliation of begging the Big Elf’s help.

Here It Comes, Ready or Not

 

I have often been asked, over the years, for advice on how to submit short stories to publications--mostly magazines. I don't know how helpful that's been, but I've always tried to deliver honest guidance, and the only reason I feel qualified to advise at all is that I've submitted a lot of stories and I've done some of it the wrong way.

The truth is, in the old days it was much harder to submit stories to editors and much easier to make a submission mistake. I can recall forgetting to sign my name on cover letters, leaving pages out of manuscripts, not putting enough postage on envelopes, binding the pages the wrong way, using the wrong kinds of envelopes, forgetting to enclose cover letters, and forgetting to enclose SASEs (remember those?). I once put together a neat submission, packed it all into one of those 9 x 12 envelopes, and then forgot to mail it. My wife found it under some papers in the back seat a month later.

But even in our modern, electronic world, you (I should say I) can still make submission mistakes. One of the worst, of course, is an error in the story itself. Some of those are minor (misspellings, typos, punctuation errors, etc.) and some are major (plot holes, factual mistakes, unintended POV switches, etc.). All are embarrassing, and are a good reason to try harder in the future to proofread, proofread, proofread before sending a story off into the hard and competitive world.

It's something that's especially important to me because one of my so-called rules for the submission process is to not read a story again after I've sent it off to the publication. After I hit SEND to dispatch my emailed submission to an editor, I try to forget that story, and I mean completely forget it, until I receive a response. If the eventual response is a rejection, fine--I then re-read the story, make any changes that I think are needed, and submit it elsewhere. If the response is an acceptance, I usually also re-read the story. But--I'll say it again--I don't re-read the story while it's out for consideration. I erase it from my mind and start working on another one.

Now, consider this. What if ignore that advice, and decide to take another look at your story after submitting it? Hopefully you won't find any mistakes, but . . . what if you do?

If the error is really minor, I would let it go. Everybody makes mistakes now and then. Make a note of it to yourself if you want to, but do nothing more. Don't contact the editor. Go back mentally to the point when you emailed the submission and think no more about the story until you receive a response. 

But what if it's a major mistake, like one of those I mentioned earlier? What if you re-read the story while it's in transit or under consideration and find that action B cannot logically follow action A in your plot? What if the geography's wrong, or the timeline is wrong, or the hero knows things he couldn't possibly know, or the device your character used in your historical mystery hasn't been invented yet? Or maybe Janet Bradley on page 2 has changed to Janice Brady on pages 4 through 10. After you slap your forehead and spew a few words that shock both your family and your dog, what do you do?

That's happened to me. (Well, except for the dog.) In my case, it was an error in a fact that I just hadn't researched as well as I should've. It not only made my plot look stupid, it made me look stupid. I still remember thinking Did I actually write that? But I did. And I submitted it to a magazine, only a few days earlier.

What happened then was, I reluctantly send a followup email to the editor, one I thankfully knew, and I told her I'd screwed up a story I'd sent and would like to resubmit a corrected version of that manuscript. She was kind enough to allow me to do that (she probably hadn't read the botched submission yet)--but even so, I suspect my request annoyed her. And annoying editors doesn't top anyone's list of smart things to do.  

But what if I had found the mistake and hadn't sent the followup note? One of three things might've happened, and they're the same things that might've happened if I hadn't found the mistake: (1) the story could've been (deservedly) rejected; (2) the story could've been (undeservedly) accepted, after which the editor would probably have corrected the mistake or asked me to correct it; or (3) the story could've been accepted and published with the mistake intact. And believe me, that can happen as well.

Anyhow, it has become my practice to submit a story and then leave it alone until I get a response. Call me irresponsible, call me unreliable, but that's my policy. I make sure my submission is written as well as I can write it, I send it off, and I forget it. My reason is, if you re-read it and don't find any mistakes, you've wasted your time. And if you re-read it and do find a mistake, you either alert the editor or you don't. If you don't, you'll probably still worry about it for the next few weeks or months, and if you do alert the editor, you run the risk of irritating her and could be wasting your time anyway, because the acceptance/rejection outcome might be the same. Bottom line: I'm not convinced that finding an error once the bird has flown does anyone any good.

One more thing. I think my decision to not look at a story again after it's submitted has made me a more careful writer. It's forced me to look a lot harder at the story beforehand. 

So here's the question. What's your policy? Do you forget your stories after they've been submitted for consideration? Do you re-read them after submission but before you've received a response? Have you ever found a gastric-distressable error at that point? If so, what did you do about it, besides Maalox? Did you contact the editor, and if so, how'd that go? Was the story accepted or rejected anyway? Have you ever made story mistakes, small or large, that somehow got past all the guards and found their way undetected into print? (I wish I hadn't--they don't stay undetected long.) Come on, be honest. Confession's good for the soul.

Meanwhile, keep writing the best stories you can, check them carefully, and send 'em in. Some of them will surprise you, and actually make something of themselves in the world.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

Alimentary, My Dear Watson!

I blame Dickens for my household’s attempt to cook a Christmas goose some years ago. My wife and I had always been charmed by the Cratchit family’s dinner of goose and Christmas pudding depicted in the 1999 TV version of A Christmas Carol starring Patrick Stewart. We followed Julia Child’s instructions to the letter, but did not have the “tight-fitting lid” for our roasting pan that is so critical for properly rendering the bird prior to roasting. For weeks after, I felt as if everything I touched in the house—my eyeglasses, my computer keyboard—was coated with a fine film of goose fat. It’s not a fowl I desire to ever eat again. The Cratchit bird fed eight, and I get it. One slice of that rich meat is all anyone needs to survive winter.

I’ve since come to respect geese. The living specimens are fierce protectors of their turf who figure prominently in ancient art. In Rome people told us that if you didn’t have a dog, you could rely on a goose to keep your yard safe from intruders. No one wants to be bitten in the butt by an angry honker.

Alas, when the fowl shows up in literature, it’s usually on someone’s plate. The “unimpeachable” goose who is the star of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” starts out alive, then ends up dead and the centerpiece of a mystery. Interestingly, as we shall see, that goose kept coughing up mysteries well into the 20th century.

The 8,000-word story is the only Christmas tale in the Sherlock Holmes Canon. It first appeared in the January 1892 edition of The Strand magazine. (You’ll find it in the first book of collected stories, The Adventures.) If you know your Holmes, it’s the story that starts with the great man deducing the heck out of a bowler hat that has lost its owner, and later confronting a nervous amateur jewel thief who has stolen a precious gem—a blue carbuncle—from the belongings of a countess lodged at a London hotel. To keep the jewel safe until he can consult with his fence, the thief thrusts the gem down the throat of a living goose in his sister’s backyard. The goose gets switched on him, is sent to market, and zaniness ensues.

I reread the story recently to see what sort of Christmasy details Conan Doyle folded into his prose. They’re sparse; mostly Watson describing cold weather, warm fires, a cast of chilly characters, and ice crystals forming in windows. There are no Christmas trees or presents. Since the story is nearly 133 years old, I don’t think I’m spoiling anyone’s enjoyment by revealing that in the end, Holmes lets the repentant thief off scot-free. Because, he argues, “it’s the season of forgiveness.”

I enjoyed the story immensely this time around, and then foolishly read all the notes about it in my copy of Leslie S. Klinger’s The Annotated Sherlock Holmes. That’s how I learned that serious Sherlockians have long quibbled with fine points of the tale.

Some examples should suffice. A carbuncle is a garnet, which are typically red. Though they have been found in other colors, there’s no such thing as a blue carbuncle. No garnets have ever been found in the Chinese river Holmes mentions as the origin of this stone. The detective botches a discussion of the jewel’s weight, presumed value, and chemical composition. The law enforcement official in the story conducts a hardness test on the stone that does not prove what he thinks it does. Moreover, of the eleven or so deductions Holmes makes about the bowler, Sherlockians dismiss at least four as highly illogical.

But hey, if our author couldn’t get the number of Watson’s wives straight, or the location of the shrapnel the good doctor brought back from Afghanistan, why do we expect him to get such details right? Conan Doyle wrote to make glad the heart of geekhood. He was a little like the Hungarian-American director Michael Curtiz, who when someone pointed out all the implausibilities in the script for Casablanca, replied, “Don’t worry. I make it go so fast nobody notices.”

Sometime after WWII, however, a clever female reader proved just how much the largely male membership of Holmes societies knew about geese. Throughout the story, we are told repeatedly that the stolen gem was found in the goose’s crop. That word is mentioned five times in the story. Since many birds do not have teeth, they pre-digest their food by funneling items into a separate anatomical pouch, which is sort of a pre-stomach.

I remembered seeing such a thing as a child, watching my mother butcher a backyard chicken. The bird’s crop was filled with tiny pebbles, which chickens instinctively swallow in their pecking. That grit is later used by the gizzard, the muscular end of the stomach, to grind bugs and vegetation so they can more easily be digested.

In a sidebar in Klinger’s Annotated Holmes, our editor tells us that the “Blue Carbuncle” was referenced during Christmas season 1946 by Chicago Tribune columnist Charles Collins, who was a friend of Vincent Starrett’s and a founding member of the Chicago chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars. A longtime journalist, Collins wrote a popular column called A Line o’ Type or Two for the newspaper. Some days later, astute reader Mildred Sammons fired off a note, taking issue with his six-paragraph summary. Her brief note appeared in the newspaper the day after Christmas that year. 

Regarding the Sherlock Holmes Christmas story, “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” discussed in the Line o’ Type column on Dec. 17: It contains a statement that the missing jewel was found in the crop of a goose. Let me remind you that a goose has no crop.

You could hear a feather drop in the great and glorious Kingdom of Holmesiana. By then the tale was 54 years old; in all that time none of the geniuses had spotted this error.

After consulting various waterfowl experts and butchers, the U.S. experts conceded: “[T]he lady is correct. Holmes made an alimentary error, which the Baker Street Irregulars should have noted long ago.” There was talk in the pages of The Baker Street Journal of granting Mildred Sammons some sort of award “in gratitude for her discovery.”

I don’t know if she ever collected, because of course it didn’t end there. Scholars on both sides of the pond kept interrogating poultry experts, further beating a dead goose. The problem went all the way to the UK’s office of the Minister of Agriculture and Fish. The Ministry’s Chief Poultry Adviser—who of course turned out to be a Holmes geek—weighed in, saying that the American experts were correct. “However,” he added, “as a Sherlock Holmes fan I am glad to say that this fact does not necessarily invalidate the theory in the story of the ‘The Blue Carbuncle.’”

The reasoning: Yes, chickens and turkeys have a separate organ or pouch called a crop. Waterfowl such as geese and ducks have no such pouch, but their gullet is just long and extendable enough to accommodate food—or the occasional precious gem—that will be stored and later digested. If the goose’s stomach is full, a swallowed item might well remain lodged in the gullet, awaiting its turn. (I beg your indulgence here. I am not an expert on poultry anatomy. I am relying on articles such as this, on the glories of the digestive tracts of waterfowl. Feel free to cry fowl if I've screwed anything up.)

Naturally, this engendered a flurry of further academic papers, the most hilarious of which was written by a Sherlockian who posited that the hullabaloo was all beside the point. Maybe, just maybe, quoth he, “the long debate is centred on a printer’s error, which substituted an o for Watson’s a.”

And on that note, I’ll wish you all the best of the season, however you celebrate and whatever graces your table.

* * * 

Please use the comments to share some of your favorite holiday stories. I could use a few suggestions.

I recommend Connie Willis’s 544-page A Lot Like Christmas, if you can stomach that much Christmas, much of it novella-length SFF. I also recommend Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s Holiday Spectacular, which she describes as a virtual advent calendar that delivers one new story—a romance, mystery or fantasy by various authors—to your inbox every day from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. All holidays are represented, not just Christmas.

See you all in the New Year!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

 

Vegas: Well-Spring of Story Ideas

 

A room with a view-photo by the author.

So as it turns out the Most Wonderful Woman in the World is both lucky at love and at cards. And the Luckiest Man in the World– that’s me by the way– got to do a ride-along when the aforementioned Most Wonderful Woman in the World went to Vegas for a couple of days last week.

We had one heck of a time. My lady love has mad skills in the casino, and I wrote a bunch. Plus the Bellagio’s atrium is currently decorated for Christmas. If you happen to find yourself in Vegas, it would be a shame to miss it.

Longtime readers of this blog (Both of you!) will no doubt remember that l lived and worked in Vegas for a couple of years back when the world was young. It was the beginning of my public school teaching career, and I could not have asked for a better baptism of fire than teaching in one of the Clark County School District’s schools.

Because I worked with some of the best teachers in the world. Because they were generous with their time and their advice, and they were overwhelmingly effective in their example. I learned tricks of the trade that I use every day to this day.

Stuff like learning a kid‘s name. Using it. Making sure to pronounce it correctly. Letting them see you do that. It’s a great way to show you care enough to say their name right, and that means that you care about them. You build a relationship with these kids– and this is true anywhere in the world– and your work gets monumentally easier. My heroes, the Vegas teachers, taught me that.

So anyway, it’s always nice to visit Vegas, and when I go, I try to get out to places that tend to be far away from the strip (like Red Rock Canyon. Not to be missed!), and the best thing about it, is I always return home with ideas for stories. Because Vegas is full of characters. Let me give you just one example.

The Calico Hills, Red Rock Canyon-author’s photo

More shots of Red Rock- all author’s photos.

Robyn and I were headed to the airport to catch our flight home. We had eaten at an Italian place I knew of away from the Strip, so rather than cab it, we called for a Lyft. And that was how we met Mark.

Mark’s SUV make & model

Nice guy. Early 60s, so a few years older than me. Drove a sweet Mercedes SUV. Spotlessly clean. Told us all about how he was working on getting his CDL, because the money was so much better than driving for either Lyft or Uber.

Not Mark-but definitely his fleece.

Now, this was a guy whose entire appearance practically screamed “MONEY.” Manicure. $200 haircut. Expensive base layer fleece that retails starting at firm $150. So I was somewhat surprised to hear him complaining (however mildly) about money.

Then came the segue. While talking about money, Mark made an oblique reference to the recent election (full disclosure: I think Mark would have been surprised to learn that in this election I backed the accomplished brown-skinned lady with the foreign-sounding first name.). He said, “Yeah, I was tired of seeing all of the money leave the country, instead of coming into it, and felt like we needed a change.”

Bear in mind that my origin story includes being born in, raised in, and taking frequent sojourns in what the chattering class have lazily begun to refer to as “Trump Country.” I call this “lazy,” because I am well aware that aside from campaign stops and photo ops, Donnie Dollhands wouldn’t be caught dead in places that bear such a moniker.

But I’m from there. I still have friends and family there, and I have learned how to either talk with the people I care about whose opinions differ from mine, or even more importantly, how NOT to talk to them about things like politics. It is definitely a skill.

I used that skill to evade being drawn into just such a discussion with Mark. But as it turns out, he wasn’t done trying.

When I mentioned I used to work in Vegas, he asked what line of work I was in. I told him I was a history teacher and a writer. 

He immediately seized on the “teacher” part. Asked about whether I had any exposure to students categorized as “ESL” (“English as a Second Language”- an outdated term outside of Vegas. Several years back the state changed the acronym to “ELL” - “English Language Learners”, and more recently to “MLE” - “Multilingual Education,” but I wasn’t about to tell him this.).

I replied that I did. In fact I worked very closely with kids in that program. 

And then he said it.

“I bet they’re a real drag on your resources, huh.?”

Well.

No.

Far from it.

And I made a decision that I wasn’t going to avoid this conversation after all. I mean why not? I kinda liked the guy. And all he was really doing was the all-too human move of seeking confirmation/support for his biases. We’ve all been there.

So I told him no. I told him my hardest working group of students tended to contain high numbers of “ESL” kids. I further explained that I teach in one of the most diverse districts in the nation (we are situated cheek by jowl with a huge refugee resettlement center.) and something like 240 different languages are spoken in my district.

And that’s the thing: I explained. I didn’t lecture. I didn’t proselytize. I kept my tone light, breezy, conversational. My very first response to his question about “those kids“ being a “drag“ was to say: “On no, far from it. Some of the hardest-working kids I have are ‘newcomers.’ I teach in a very diverse district with a ton of different languages being spoken there. And I invite anybody to come on into my school. Come on into my classroom. Mark, if you ever find yourself anywhere near my patch, get in touch with me. Come visit. It will blow your mind.” 

To his credit, Mark listened. Or he at least seemed to. Our conversation stayed pleasant. And then we moved on to him telling Robyn and I a cool story about him watching a semi truck practically blow up during a training exercise gone horribly wrong (no one was hurt) on a part of the freeway one of his CDL classes was using for training. 

I told him I was going to use his description in this other story I’ve been thinking about. This is one I’ve told before about a former student of mine who teamed up with a friend to steal cinderblocks from a construction site and spend a lot of time trying to drop them on cars from the loca I-15 overpass back when I  still taught down there. 

I think I’m gonna put those two together and I think I just might have something. I’ll keep you guys posted.

And I already promised Mark I would use his name.

So yeah, Vegas well-spring of stories! And as it turns out, civilized political discourse.

Who knew?

(Same view as above, only at night, and a panorama shot. Video by the author’s better half.)

And on that note, my time here draws to a close with this, my final blog entry of the year. I wish you all the finest of holidays, and a blessed new year. See you in January 2025!

Writing Advice From 1908, Part 1

A few months ago John Floyd asked if I would be interested in a very old book about creative writing.  Mary Lou Condike had found it and offered it to him.  John didn't want it but thought I might.  I said sure, why not. Mary Lou very kindly mailed it to me and it has been part of my bedtime reading for a while.  

Writing the Short-Story by J. Berg Esenwein was published in 1908.  According to Wikipedia it is one of the first creative writing manuals.  When Esenwein wrote it he was the editor of Lippincott's Magazine.

So clearly the information was going to be a little dated.  But I thought it would be fun to see what, if anything, I could learn from this book.  Don't expect a review, just a summary of things I thought were interesting for one reason or another. Some still make sense. A few will astonish you.

* Let's start with something that appears near the end of the book which I am sure will move the hearts of all the writers out there. In discussing the processing of submitting stories to magazines Esenwein asks:  how long should you wait to hear from an editor? "If you do not get an answer in three weeks, it may be wise to drop a line courteously asking for a decision, but you had better wait the month out."  That sound you just heard was the rueful laughter of thousands of authors.  In today's modern age of mad speed and instant communication, well... I have fourteen stories out waiting for judgment by editors.  The wait is currently an average of 131 days, with the median being 95 days.  Considerably more than four weeks.  

* Esenwein tells us the oldest known story is in The Westcar Papyrus.  I had never heard of it but it turns out to be an Egyptian manuscript from roughly 1600 BCE, although the stories seem to be a millennium older.  The tales are about priests and magicians doing amazing things. If you have ever heard that cutting an animal in half and restoring it to life is "the oldest trick in the book," this papyrus is the book.

* "Men are often interested in fictional characters whom they would not care to know in life."

* Mystery writers "all introduce the detective, amateur or professional, for the purpose of unraveling the mystery before the reader's very eyes and yet concealing the key-thread until the last.  Sometimes the web  of entanglement is woven also in full sight -- with the author's sleeves rolled up as a guarantee of good faith; and the closer you watch the less you see."

Esenwein

* Character "names should be fitting. Phyllis ought not to weigh two hundred, nor ought Tommy to commit suicide. Luther must not be a burglar, Maud a washerwoman, nor John spout tepid romance.  The wrong surname will handicap a character as surely as the wrong pair of hands.  Hardscrabble does not fit the philanthropist any more than Tinker suggests the polished diplomat, or Darnaway the clergyman."

* "A man who has a stirring fact or a thrilling experience has not a story until he has used it in some proper way - has constructed it, has built it." - Walter Page 

* Esenwein gives us a list of things a short story is not: an episode, a scenario or synopsis, a biography, a mere sketch, or a tale.  In a tale "events take a simple course," but in a short-story "this course is interrupted by a complication."

* "Never write back sarcastic letters when your offerings are rejected. You may need that editor some day."

* "In the detective plot, the author seems to match his wits against the detective's, by striving to concoct a mystery which presents an apparently impossible situation. It adds to his problem that he must leave the real clue in full sight, yet so disguised that the reader cannot solve the mystery before some casual happening, or the ingenuity of the detective, shows it to the reader at the proper moment."* "To make a first-class short-story longer would be to spoil it."

* Some themes for stories may just "pop into your mind." "Sir, Madame, I am a Story. Write me up!" I wish that would happen more often.

*The advice on the left will make most modern writers, not to say editors, shudder in horror.

* Sir Arthur Phelps quotes an anonymous friend: "Whenever you write a sentence that particularly pleases you, CUT IT OUT." An early statement of "Kill your darlings."

* "Whatever may be the thing which one wishes to say, there is but one word for expressing it, only one verb to animate it, only one adjective to qualify it.  It is essential to search for this word, for this verb, for this adjective, until they are discovered, and to be satisfied with nothing else." - Flaubert

* "Write at white heat because you can think big thoughts only under stress of emotion; but revise in a cool mood."

* Esenwein criticizes writers who "debase their gifts by presenting distorted views of life, placing false values upon the things of experience, and picturing unclean situations -- all for the sake of gain." Thank heavens that never happens anymore.

This is getting long so I will give you the rest of Esenwein's wisdom next Monday.   See you then!

Of Word Counts and Crickets

     My doorbell rang yesterday. Looking up, I saw a man's silhouette through the drawn shade. He was walking away. Assuming he was another delivery driver, I opened the door. A young man in a white shirt and tie turned back to face me. He launched into a long-winded spiel about the job skills he learned by going door-to-door peddling magazines. I interrupted, declined, and backed away, wishing him 'good luck.' 

    "I don't believe in luck," he told me. 

    I knew then that he had never submitted a story for publication in one of his magazines. 

    Publishing isn't just about luck--we know that. Follow the submission rules, adhere to the deadlines and word count, send a manuscript as error-free as possible, and stay true to the call's theme--all good and necessary rules for success. But don't discount luck. 

    Suppose you present a solid Super Bowl story to a sports-themed anthology. The editor, however, reads it moments after accepting a different Super Bowl tale. Your piece likely won't get published. The anthology has room for only big football game yarn. Good story--bad luck. 

    Since this is the holiday season and my last Sleuth blog of 2024, I've scoured the holiday legends for the best ways to maximize your luck in the new year. 

    Stick a loaf of bread on a broomstick. Jam the stick in the ground on Christmas Eve and leave it in front of your house overnight. Bad luck won't come your way all year. At a minimum, an impaled loaf of bread might make the magazine salesmen think twice. 

    On Christmas Day, rise before the sun and feed your pets by candlelight. They will be well-behaved throughout the upcoming year. How many stories have been waylaid by barking dogs? This sounds like the surefire cure. 

    It's bad luck to go fishing on Christmas. A writer should be home writing. 

    It is, however, good luck to find a fish scale under your plate. This is easier when your household serves the traditional Czech yuletide meal of fried carp. A fish scale signals luck and prosperity. Traditionalists carry the scale in their wallets throughout the year. If word count is the issue, leave it on your keyboard. (To maximize their holiday luck, Czechs allow the fish to swim in their bathtubs for a few days before preparing it. This may test your mettle or your hygiene.)

    Food matters. Eat an apple at midnight on Christmas Eve for good luck. Or toss down twelve grapes on New Year's Eve. Black-eyed peas, of course, are the down-home good luck standard for the New Year. Wrinkled collard greens are supposed to represent folded money; eating them will improve your chances of success in the upcoming year. Oplatki, thin Polish wafers, are to be passed around and shared with family as a good luck stimulus. The pink one in the package is intended to be eaten by the family pet. Giving them a biscuit is easier than feeding them at midnight. 

    Don't eat lobster on New Year's Eve. Many believe that because lobsters swim backward, consuming them will cause you to regress rather than move forward. 

    But do eat a herring to usher in the new year. The Swedes believe it promotes good luck. The legends don't say whether eating red ones helps a crime writer. 

    Should you eat a raw egg on Christmas morning? Superstition says it will make you strong throughout the year. Medical science, however, thinks it might give you food poisoning. Raw eggs worked wonders for Rocky Balboa. The signals on this practice, therefore, are mixed. You decide. 

    If the egg isn't upsetting enough, a South African tradition is to eat a fried caterpillar on Christmas for extra luck. The logic may be that if you finish off the year with something disgusting, it helps put your other troubles into perspective. 

    Give your cow a present. You'll be rewarded. The earliest practitioners probably anticipated increased milk production from their happy cows. I like to believe that the beasts will reciprocate with writing success. 

    Sneezing and hearing a cricket chirp on Christmas Day will reportedly gift you good luck. These are separate events. No legend requires you to sneeze while hearing a cricket chirp, although this would likely be the grand slam of luck hoarding. 

    In Finland, having a ritual sauna with your family as part of your Christmas Eve celebration is believed to be lucky. When finished, some families leave the sauna slightly warm, making it comfortable for the house elves to visit and leave good fortune. I don't know if it works, but as a practice, it sounds way better than chugging a raw egg. 

    A story completed on New Year's Day will always sell if the first draft was written using Helvetica font. I made up this one, but it's no stranger than eating a fried caterpillar. 

    Writers do have their lucky rituals and talismans. Charles Dickens always slept facing north. Dr. Seuss reportedly kept a secret closet filled with hats. When he felt stuck, he chose one to wear until he became inspired. Do you have any charms you want to confess?

    By whatever means you conjure up success, I wish you safe and happy holidays and a fruitful 2025. 

    Until next year.  

    

A curmudgeon’s guide to erudition.

             I read an engagingly relevant article by Nick Hornby in Lit Hub, by way of McSweeny’s, about how his reading habits had changed as he’s aged.  Lamenting almost turning 60 (which made me yearn earnestly for this dubious misfortune) he went on to write about loads of obscure books, that all sounded great, and also reminded me there are far more well-read people in the world than I will ever be.

            But his greater point resonated – that ones tolerance for bad books wanes considerably as our allotted time on earth narrows.  I once felt a moral obligation to read a book I’m not enjoying to the end, especially works others had praised, assuming those judgments would prove out in the end.  They rarely did.  Now I drop a stinker faster than a hot skillet without a potholder, swifter than Usain Bolt on amphetamines, speedier than the electro-chemical arc between a pair of synapses, quicker than a guy caught in bed with his boss’s wife can make it to the window. 

            I did the same with a very well-written book, by an acclaimed author I like, not because it was bad, but because the story was just too dreary.  I looked at the remaining 200-plus pages of sadness and tragedy and said to myself, nah. 

 

            I also occasionally reread a book I know I’m going to like.  This is the equivalent of eating comfort food, say my wife’s chicken piccata, or turkey stuffing with homemade gravy or a cheese steak from Vito’s in Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania.  Though I do resist this urge, since there is likely another promising unread book waiting in the wings, specifically on my nightstand, that might add to my preferred canon.

            I read as many articles and commentaries as books these days, and apply the same rules.  If it’s poorly written, I move on immediately.  If it’s a bit clunky, but teaching me something, I hang in there, though only for so long.  Enjoying fine writing, while simultaneously learning something and feeling validated in ones own opinion, is a marvelous pleasure. 

            Hornby also noted that contemporary nonfiction can elicit the same joy and fulfillment as any splendid novel or short story.  Again, I agree whole-heartedly.  With the advent of New Journalism back in the 60s and 70s, nonfiction writers are now much better story tellers, and the reading public has rewarded them with strong enough sales to encourage the practice. 

          Though if you want to learn more about their progenitors, I recommend Winston Churchill, Freud, De Tocqueville and even Charles Darwin, who often got a bit in the weeds, but had a gift for narrative.  More recently, Stephen Jay Gould, Oliver Sacks, (Simon Winchester, Walter Issacson and Bill Bryson, still with us), Norman Mailer (Armies of the Night – his fiction stinks), Hunter Thompson and Tom Wolfe.

             If you’re a young person trying to understand the vaunted world of great fiction, you might read things like Gravity’s Rainbow or Finnegan’s Wake.  These are books that make little sense to anyone but the authors, and for me, not worth the precious time to prove otherwise.  You can read The Crying of Lot 49, or Ulysses, and be better for it.  It’s a matter of wise curation.  I read all of Faulkner, and am glad about it, though I feel no irresistible urge to reread Absalom, Absalom! The time is better spent with Lee Child or Gillian Flynn.  Or Amor Towles.

            As with the depressing book by the fine nonfiction author, I just don’t want to slog through giant, dense tomes by towering heroes of Western literature.  I’m too old for that stuff.  Though I’m glad I did when I was still able to swim miles in open water, carry a full keg across a bar room floor and split two cord of wood in a few hours.

            I’m still very much in the market for enthralling books by people I’ve never heard of.  My hope is they’ll appear before me without too much searching, since I need to meter out my discretionary vitality.  Let me know if you have any suggestions.  If I don’t want to read the book, please don't hold it against me, and I'll return the favor.  You might even like Norman Mailer’s fiction, and that is your prerogative.  I might be fussier about books as I age, but my tolerance for other’s tastes has only become more expansive.  I’ve learned it’s a more pleasant attitude. 

Though at this point, I’ll politely acknowledge your enthusiasm for stuff I don’t like, and just move on.  Youth may be wasted on the young, but neither should one squander old age.   

           

The Good, The Bad, and The Confusing

The ‘Wicked’ Witch of the West

At first blush, the home life of Rebecca and Maddie, Hunter and Christina might sound make-believe. They live on an idyllic farm where they raise goats, chickens, and garden vegetables south of the big city of Indianapolis. Their father is a dual-degree family physician and their mother started life as a ballerina.

They’re real, I assure you, but they have a few rules. One of them is no television. Although mother and father have different reasons for forbidding TV, they reached the same agreement.

The family actually owns a television, a huge clunker, but it’s not hooked up to anything, not even stray signals that might beam far into the countryside. Instead, it’s use is restricted to videos deemed suitable by the parents. When I visited, I raided the town’s library and borrowed a number of classic comedies the kids hadn’t seen. They loved Marx Brothers and Buster Keaton, and liked It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Betty Boop. They didn’t care much for Laurel and Hardy– Stan and Ollie slapstick didn’t appeal to them.

Popcorn Capitalism

To a degree, their upbringing mirrored my experience, including no television. The only kids’ movie I recall as a child (not counting the devastating The Little Match Girl) was sponsored by Indianapolis merchants on a shopping Saturday. To give moms a break, parents could drop off their younglings at a theatre that provided popcorn, a drink, and Abbot & Costello on the silvery screen. Our visit happened only once. A voyage into the city was a 70 miles (112km) round trip, a little over an hour and a half of driving.

However, our nearby town hosted a free summer movie nights. They showed classic (and cheap) films on an outdoor screen attached to a wall of the Armory, Masonic Lodge, or other large building. Viewers would bring blankets and cushions, and snuggle as Chief Crazy Horse played on the screen. Like drive-ins of the era, the show often led with a cartoon followed by an adult drama.

Then a funny thing happened. The venue shifted to the school, where show operators hooked the large screen to the outer wall of the school gymnasium directly across a narrow street from my grandmother’s house. Had she chosen, granny could have enjoyed the movie from the comfort of her living room.

Instead, my mother had a brainstorm. She cooked popcorn and steeped iced tea. Within minutes of our arrival, movie-goers came sniffing and mom handed out cups of Kool-Ade, tea, and brown bags of popcorn. The fare disappeared within minutes. Next time, she iced a tub of Coke and Nehi soda, and again sold out. Throughout the summer, my family ran a de facto concession stand. Mom, bless her, figured out a way to make money from free movies.

Catchin’ Up with the Crowd

But, the time and distance of running a farm and a second job meant my parents couldn’t take off to visit a city for a movie night. Until I dated in high school, I had never seen a current kids’ film. I wasn’t unaware of current showings, but when Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, and Wizard of Oz cycled through movie houses, I read the stories but didn’t see the films.

Not until I was an adult. As previously mentioned, I consulted for Walt Disney World. I wasn’t an employee, a ‘cast member’ in Disney parlance, but they often extended privileges to me.

Follow me here: As you emerge from under the Magic Kingdom’s train station and face the park, to the immediate right is a theatre. Not the silent showing of Steamboat Willie under the marquee up the street, but a real theatre. On Fridays, Disney occasionally sponsored free family movie nights. For the first time, I saw Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia, and other classic animated films.

And I soaked them up. As a little kid, I loved Peter Pan. I read all versions– J.M. Barrie’s novel evolved over time from a short story of a wild boy who frequented Regent’s Park, to the novel we know and love. My Aunt Esther gave me a huge Peter Pan comic book, 25¢ instead of the usual dime. I spent hours reading and re-reading it. I would have gladly traded my brothers for one Tinkerbell and a sister like Wendy. Along the line, I fell in love with Indian Princess Tiger Lily.

But an odd thing happened when as an adult, I saw the films. I empathized with Captain Hook. He was intelligent, erudite, well-spoken, well-dressed, and very, very annoyed by a pestering brat who cost him his right hand and fed it to a crocodile. (Or left hand… it changed with stage showings and even between scenes.) Much as I admired Peter, I’d feel irritated too. I must not have been the only one to feel that way– Disney released Hook, which I saw in their Magic Kingdom theatre.

Wicked Thoughts

The same phenomenon happened with the Wicked Witches of the East and West in The Wizard of Oz. Why did sister witches hate each other so much? Was it simply because of a skin condition surprisingly similar to that which affected the Grinch, the Hulk, and perhaps Mr. Spock, all known for ill temper and lack of patience? Couldn’t one of the beautiful witch sisters lend green ones their extensive supply of Neutrogena or Aveeno?

When East Witch was unceremoniously crunched under Dorothy’s house, why couldn’t someone show sympathy to her Western sister? While thinking about it, did some witchery party give the house a little nudge to alter its landing?

Didn’t Witches North and South lie to Dorothy about how to get home?

Consider the following contrasts:

Good Witches, North and South	Wicked Witches, East and West
• are blest with great beauty	• are afflicted with green skin
• celebrate death of fellow witch	• squashed sister is mocked and derided
• lie to Dorothy knowing shoes can return her to Kansas	• mother’s valuable shoes stolen by Glinda given to Dorothy
• set Dorothy on path to kill rivals	• East Witch killed by Dorothy
• seize power after Wizard departs	• West Witch killed by Dorothy

Who exactly is the bad guy? Could it be the so-called‘good witches’? Or even Dorothy? Sure, she slummed around with Straw Man, Metal Man, and the Frightened Feline, but toward what end?

Gregory Maguire may agree with me, the author who wrote Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West. I confess I haven’t read the novel, enjoyed the award-winning stage play, or seen the movie (Part 1), as I’d hoped this weekend. But hey, the showing isn’t over yet.

In what movies or stories did you find heroes to be less than honorable?

Yes, There Is a Santa Claus, and He Pays His Damn Taxes

Santa Claus. Does he exist? If so, does he hang at the North Pole? What sort of being is he? It's all folklore, even the St. Nicholas origin story. The Santa legend has become whatever anyone wants from it. But you might be surprised to learn the American legal system has weighed in here. According to the Ohio courts, there is a Santa Claus, he lived in Warren, and he owned a '65 VW.

Fittingly, our story picks up at the holidays. December 21, 2001, and Santa--also known as Warren Hayes--just bumped his VW into another car. Being Santa, he owned up to causing the minor damage. This Santa also carried hard cash and reimbursed the other driver on the spot. Even jolly old elves understand not to get insurance involved.

It was the Warren City P.D. showing up that started the trouble. The cop wanted ID, as cops will do. Santa produced an official Ohio Identification Card with himself in full beard and red suit. Unquestionably legit, and the card said this guy was Santa Claus, of 1 Noel Drive in Warren, Ohio. 

The cop had problems with his story. Besides the Santa part. By law, Ohioans could only get state ID cards if they didn't already have a driver's license, and Hayes, as Hayes, had a duly-issued license. 

Also, Noel Drive didn't exist. It was a playful crossroads sign posted for the driveway to Hayes Industries, a shopping cart repair company and by-God Chamber of Commerce member. The Warren P.D. was playing it straight, and they believed Santa was operating under a false ID.

But this was Christmas, right? The Warren P.D. would let Santa off easy, right? 

Wrong. The cops booked Santa on "displaying or possessing an identification card knowing it to be fictitious," a class one misdemeanor. The max penalty was six months and a $1,000 fine. 

Santa was fighting this one, damn it. And he had evidence. Hayes was known around town as Santa and for his generous gifts to area kids out of his own pocket. He had the suit, the ID, and a joint bank account opened under Santa Claus, with his wife as Mrs. Claus. That's right. Hayes wrote many a check signed as Santa, and those checks cleared. 

Santa lawyered up. In a motion to dismiss, Santa's counsel produced motor vehicle records showing that the very VW from the fender-bender had been registered to "Santa Claus" for almost two decades. Santa had duly paid all fees and vehicle taxes. From his Santa checking account. He'd also maintained that Santa Ohio ID card for decades. 

The prosecution cried humbug. They pointed to actual precedent where Ohio had denied an aspiring Santa a legal name change based on the public's "proprietary interest" in Santa's "persona." And if Ohio didn't allow a Santa, and Hayes was flashing ID as Santa, how could that ID be anything but fictitious?

Santa was in a tight spot. What he needed--what all great Christmas stories need--was a miracle.

Enter the Warren Municipal Court. The judge pointed to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles and their repeated transactions with Santa Claus. After so many years of taking his checks, this was an odd time to raise a concern. 

Hayes also hadn't filed papers to change his name. He'd just started holding himself out as Santa. Except when he needed to be Hayes, such as for the cart repair game or when tooling around as Santa. Common law allows it, provided no illicit intent is involved. As to intent, and on top of his duly filed VW paperwork, Hayes introduced into evidence a "Certificate of Birth" claiming he'd been born in 383 A.D. to Mr. Claus and Holly Noel. 

Fictitious? If anything, this guy was working hard to prove his Santa bona fides. 

In a Solomon-worthy verdict, the judge ruled that Ohio could issue Hayes a driver's license, so he could drive, and also issue Santa an ID card, so he could Santa. Charges, dismissed.

So that's the story of Santa Claus and his Ohio address. There is a moral here, maybe. Maybe it's that whatever season you celebrate or whatever spirit floats your boat, you can become that if you're generous enough, if you're committed enough. If you believe it about yourself enough. 

Or maybe it's to get yourself a good lawyer.

Read the judge's ruling here. And the interview with Hayes' attorney here. 

Who Killed the Chauffeur?

There's a legendary Hollywood anecdote about the making of the classic 1946 film noir The Big Sleep, which starred Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It involves the fate of Owen Taylor, the chauffeur working for the depraved, old-money Sternwood family. In both the film and the source novel by Raymond Chandler, Taylor is found dead in the Sternwood limousine, which had been driven off the end of Lido Pier ("Lido" being Chandler-speak for Malibu). Since Taylor's head had been bludgeoned, it was not a natural death, but no one during the films production, not director Howard Hawks nor screenwriters Leigh Bracket, Jules Furthman, or William Faulkner, could figure out how actually killed Taylor and/or how he ended up awash in the Pacific. When Hawks called Chandler directly to ask, the author reportedly said, "I have no idea," and hung up.

Even though the murder of Taylor is just one tile in an incredibly complex mosaic, somebody had to off him, and for some reason. It likely had to do with the fact that the chauffeur had been madly in love with Carmen Sternwood, the unstable, vixenish younger daughter of rich, elderly General Sternwood, who was posing for pornographic photos for a Hollywood bookseller named A.G. Geiger (Carmen was posing, not the general; the family's not that depraved). Taylor followed Carmen to Geiger's Hollywood Hills bungalow, which Geiger was renting from a mobster named Eddie Mars, and either found her naked in front of a camera (the book) or "high as a kite" (the movie). Enraged, Taylor shot Geiger and took the photo negatives, fleeing the scene in the Sternwood limo. But a cheap hood named Joe Brody, who was also part of Geiger's porno operation, was there, too. Brody got into his car and chased Taylor through the city, finally catching up with him, sapping him, and taking back the negs.

At that point, Owen Taylor was still alive. How he ended up miles away in the drink is the missing puzzle piece, one that was overlooked within the labyrinthine plot, which also involved Eddie Mars blackmailing the Sternwood sisters over a murder cover-up.

The Big Sleep was shot in the fall of 1944 and was ready for release in March 1945. Today it is renowned for its convoluted plot, but the original 1945 cut contained a scene in which Philip Marlowe (Bogart) recaps everything that has happened up to that point for the District Attorney who steered him toward the Sternwood case. This included the strong implication that Joe Brody not only assaulted Taylor but helped him on his way to the big sleep. When the film was previewed, though, it received shockingly negative responses, which panicked the Warner Bros. front office which was then building up Lauren Bacall, who played the elder Sternwood daughter Vivian, as their next big wowee. The film was pulled back for retakes.

The new scenes would focus almost exclusively on the steamy chemistry between Bogie and Baby (as they were known), who had fallen in love on the set of Hawks' s previous film To Have and Have Not and were by then married. But to make room for those scenes, some existing ones had to go. The easiest one to cut, since it was self-contained, was the plot recap. As confusing as the new edit was as a result, the film became a big hit in 1946. The original 1945 version, incidentally, was show only to American servicemen overseas, though it can now be found on DVD.

But the identity of Owen Taylor's killer remained a mystery. 

While remaking a classic is rarely a good idea, I can envision a new version of The Big Sleep presented in the style of the 1985 comedic whodunit Clue, which was released with three different endings that alternated with each screening. Applied to The Big Sleep, once the story was wrapped up, an off-camera voice would holler, "Wait, who killed the chauffeur?" One of three speculative theories would follow.

SOLUTION ONE: Joe Brody saps Taylor, takes the photo negs and Taylor's gun, and flees. Taylor eventually wakes up disoriented and realizes that not only has he murdered a man, which will likely be detected, he's failed to protect his beloved Carmen. Guilt-ridden and with his brains addled by the blow, Taylor vows to end it all. He can't shoot himself, since Brody took his gun, so he drives to Lido Pier and plunges through the rails and into the ocean. The murder is really suicide.

SOLUTION TWO: Owen Taylor regains consciousness in the car and realizes the trouble he's in, which will splash back onto Carmen if he's caught and grilled by the police. He decides his best option is to disappear. Taylor plans to flee the country, figuring he can hire a boat at Lido to take him to Mexico. But in his weakened condition, he either blacks out again or dies once he's on the pier and unconsciously guns the car off the end of it and into the ocean. Technically, Joe Brody is responsible for his death since he inflicted the blow that led to Taylor's demise.

SOLUTION THREE: After he saps Taylor and takes the negs, Joe Brody panics and contacts Eddie Mars and tells him what he's done. Mars in turn calls his lieutenant, a particularly vicious torpedo named Lash Canino, to clean up the scene. Canino drives out to the limo and finds Taylor barely clinging to life. Taylor asks Canino for help, and Canino replies, "Sure, I'll help you," and then shoots him. Shoving him over on the car seat, Canino drives to Lido Pier and accelerates the car toward its end, jumping out a second before it crashes through the rail and goes over. Canino then returns to Mars to tell him the matter is taken care of.

There are surely other possibilities, though perhaps the best on-screen response to the question of who killed the chauffeur would be an AI-generated image of Raymond Chandler turning to the camera and saying, "I have no idea," and then smiling for the fade-out.

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Michael Mallory is an L.A.-based writer.