Type-ology

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Julia starched the victim.”

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

“Oscar collaborated part of the story.”

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

“I saw her restraining his waste.”

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

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

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

“A pre-summit field test.”

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

“Due to his eradicate behavior.”

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

He drove with wonton disregard.

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

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

Until necks time.

An Elephant Standing

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

Frederick Roth, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Consider this example:

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

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

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

Kalel Tonatiuh, CC

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

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

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

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

Until next time.  

Worried at Noon

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

Alas, then January 2nd came along. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next time. 

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.  

    

Thanksgiving Stuff

 Happy Drinksgiving Eve. 

I learned online that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is known as Drinksgiving. Alcohol sales spike as people bolster themselves to spend the holiday with loved ones. Family bonds may be especially strained this Thanksgiving with the recent political turmoil. Many may want to toss back a bourbon or three before hanging out with Uncle Bob or Second Cousin Sue. That can lead to trouble. I can say with some experience that the need for criminal magistrates would fall precipitously without the job-sustaining combination of family and alcohol.

But if risking jail is not how you choose to spend your holiday, I offer a few Thanksgiving-adjacent reads. These books are from the back of the shelf; nothing is a recent publication. Nonetheless, I hope you'll find them better than incarceration. If the thought of family scares you, sequester yourself away and only read about violence. 

I've identified these books as Thanksgiving-adjacent. They are all set around the holiday, although Thanksgiving is not necessarily central to the story. 

The Wolfe Widow by Victoria Abbott

The annual dinner of the Wolfe Pack is also nearly upon us (December 7th). As mentioned in earlier blogs, several Sleuths have received the Black Orchid Novella Award at this yearly gathering of Nero Wolfe fans. This cozy, The Wolfe Widow sits at the intersection of Thanksgiving and Nero Wolfe.  

In late November, Jordan Bingham knows she has much for which to be grateful. Although she works for a reclusive curmudgeon, Jordan has a suite of rooms and regularly eats delicious meals prepared by her boss's cook. She also gets the opportunity to work with a fantastic collection of rare crime fiction, including first-edition Rex Stout's books. 

Then, she gets fired. 

Who is the mysterious woman who has hijacked her employer? Displaced Jordan must find the answer. 

I'm forever grateful to the Wolfe Pack and am drawn to any work that regularly references Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. 

Thankless in Death by J.D. Robb

This is the thirty-seventh book in the series. The author has her formula down. Police Lieutenant Eve Dallas and her husband live in a future New York City. They prepare for a Thanksgiving celebration, during which they will host his large Irish family. Eve is still working on her definition of family, and this holiday may overexposure her. 

Unlike other "In Death" books, the reader knows the murderer's identity early in the story. In this cat-and-mouse procedural, we watch Eve balance her life and relationships while seeking to find the killer amid a rising body count.

Jumping into a series at book thirty-seven is challenging, like beginning a television serial in Season Five. Depending on how long you need to stay cloistered from your family, you may want to start with book one. 

Trap for Fools by Amanda Cross

On the Sunday following Thanksgiving, a professor's body is found on the pavement below his open office window. The police suspect suicide. The university administration knows that many people may have wanted the professor dead. Naturally, they ask a literature professor to investigate. (We can only assume that this university didn't offer a degree in criminal justice.) The title is a reference to a line in a Rudyard Kipling poem. You'll find other quotations throughout the book.

The first book in this series was published in 1964. Although the books are dated, I've always liked the Amanda Cross series. The literary drops make me feel smarter. 

Wicked Autumn by G.M. Malliet 

The setting is a fall festival in Nether Monkslip, England. This book may strain the definition of Thanksgiving-adjacent. The English, after all, have their own name for Thanksgiving. They call it Thursday. 

On the other hand, unlike some of the other books listed, this story centers on an autumnal celebration. The sleuth, Max Tudor, the village's Anglican vicar, investigates the death of the festival's organizer. Although her demise appears accidental, the priest has a host of possible suspects. The priest, by the way, is a former MI-5 agent. Presumably, all the literature professors and rare book assistants were busy solving the other murders on this list. 

This book is only a decade old, so it's a fresh title on this list. The author dropped some funny lines into the text, and when I laughed, the dust on the spine went everywhere. 

Maybe you can recommend some more recent choices. If not, swing by the local secondhand bookshop on your drive home from the liquor store and search for these titles. Happy Drinksgiving, Thanksgiving, and Black Friday, y'all. 

Until next time. 

World Builders

The November/December issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine proves good to SleuthSayers. Rob Lopresti graces the cover while Stephen Ross, Michael Bracken, and I help to fill the pages behind him. Simple math tells me we have a third of the titles in this edition. 

My story, "From Above," is the latest in a series about the 16th-century French attorney Bernard de Vallenchin. His challenge in "From Above" is to defend, in an ecclesiastical court, birds charged with disrupting a Catholic mass.

And yes, that was a thing. Animals could be accused of violating laws and punished in both church and secular courts. They could be imprisoned or executed. As I've mentioned in an earlier blog, while researching a different topic, I stumbled into a 1906 book, The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals by E.P. Evans. He documents the work of Bartholome Chassenee, a 16th-century French jurist who described his own work in defense of accused animals. The Evans' book explores this forgotten world. 

I think of writing the de Vallenchin stories as akin to creating science fiction. The world of animal prosecution in 16th-century France is an alien place to which readers must be introduced. The age had a top-down cosmology that began with God and continued through the great chain of being to the lowest slugs. There was a patchwork of courts--royal, manorial, and ecclesiastical--that may have been involved, depending on the offense. To tell an understandable tale, a good chunk of information had to be delivered in order for the reader to know why a bird might be on trial. I needed to quickly build a different world from the one the readers inhabit. There stands the challenge. How do writers create an distant environment while avoiding a dreaded information dump. Or, in the alternative, how do writers camouflage an information dump so that it doesn't take the reader out of the story?

The standard advice is to feather the facts into the tale. With the limited word count of a short story, however, the slow accretion of details is often impossible. What then might the writer do? 

A few suggestions follow: 

Pare down the information.

In researching Europe's animal prosecutions, I acquired many fascinating pieces of trivia, odd bits that seemed really cool to me. Social historians have used GIS programs to map out the variety and overlapping jurisdictions of courts across France. But I'm not writing a dissertation. My goal was to craft an entertaining tale about fictional characters. To do so, I wanted to keep the information at the minimum level to make the story understandable. I remembered the lesson Barb repeatedly tries to teach me, in a short story, every word matters. I tested my accumulated facts and separated them into what was necessary and what proved merely interesting. The unused facts might one day become central to a future story, but they remained in the nest for this avian tale. 

Consider where to begin.

"From Above" starts in media res. From the first words, the readers find themselves in an ongoing conversation between the lawyer and a barmaid. I trusted that the readers would catch up quickly. By beginning in the middle and then going back, a writer can draw the reader into the conversation and engage their interest in the topic. The goal is to have a shared experience. If the characters were attracted to the subject, hopefully, the readers will also become interested. 

Incorporate the information into the action.

Action doesn't have to be car chases or gunfights. It may be a more subtle personal contest between two people. Bernard de Vallenchin is a libidinous drunkard and a cheap braggart. (I hope you like him in spite of his faults.) His high opinion of himself is sometimes challenged. To accomplish some earthly aim, de Vallenchin boasts about his courtroom mastery and the complexities of the subject matter. He uses his exploits to achieve an end, perhaps bedding a barmaid. In an earlier story, the scheme was to extract free food from the hotelier. The lawyer used an elaborate discussion on courts to serve as a distraction. The information became part of the action. The current story works the necessary details into the process of two characters learning about one another. 

Incorporate the information into character development.

Fans of the Harry Potter books know that Hermione Granger is the brightest witch of her age. She constantly dispenses obscure facts. These nuggets of information often prove necessary later in the story. She is an expository character. She'll tell you the things you need to know. The information dump becomes incorporated into her character development. Similarly, Bernard de Vallenchin's description of the complexities of his legal challenges helps to show readers that he is a self-absorbed trumpeter but perhaps posseses courtroom skills. The technique aids in establishing his character. 

Consider making the expository character a drinker. Who hasn't met an intoxicated person who didn't over-explain, or tell you something you already knew? Adding alcohol can allow a character to state what should be obvious to the people in the room. The writer can educate the reader not only about the necessary details but also demonstrate that the character is a sloppy drunk. 

Conversely, a writer may say something about the recipient's character, the person in the story tasked with receiving the information dump. This character acts as the portal. She is the doorway into this world. If, for instance, the listening character is drunk, she may not object to the bloviating protagonist reciting what should be commonly known information. 

As a circuit-rider, Bernard de Vallenchin travels to new cities and villages in each story. He knows little to nothing about the area's details. He is a fish out of water. Listening as another describes the local jurisdiction or corrects one of his assumptions is a necessary part of his effective advocacy. He needs to learn these details in order to succeed. The fish out of water offers another opportunity to world build and give information to the character and, also to the reader. 

Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine published the second story of the de Vallenchin series in November 2022. I can't assume that anyone will remember the details of the world from that story. Every reader, therefore, needs fresh facts to  imagine a place far outside their own experience. Pouring the essential details into a brief short story required a strategy. As I consider future de Vallenchin stories, I face the same question. How might I deliver the necessary information quickly and in a way that will hold the reader's attention? 

As a writer, your issue may not be 16th-century cosmology. Every storyteller, however, needs to craft a setting. That world-building requires dropping information eggs. The challenge is to find new and different ways to open up that fictional realm. 

What strategies do you like to use? 

It's Election Day in the USA. Go vote. 

Until next time. 

Wanderings

    On the day this blog posts, my traveling companion and I will be trekking on what will likely be our last mountain hike of the season. We're seasonal hikers, and the weather will soon shut us down. We'll be far from the internet. I apologize in advance for my failure to reply to any comments.

    We love hiking, particularly in the mountains. Without getting too woo-woo about it all, walking up and down the San Juans or the Sierra Nevadas provides a great way to reset. The Rockies require you to pay attention and to notice things. But they also offer flat meadows and lake trails when your mind can drift. I've blogged previously about how the Alpine Tunnel Trail in Colorado offered the seed for a story that Alfred Hitchcock subsequently published. My story in Murder, Neat also originated on a mountain hike. The trail didn't make it into that story, but the cold beer I was thinking about at the time did.

    A recent visit to nature prompted a few writing guidelines.

1.      1. Persistence is a key. 

We encountered this little tree while walking up Engineer Mountain earlier this year. Looking at it, I wondered how many pinecones fell upon this rock before a seedling found enough dirt to grab hold and take root. The same tree that drops the seeds shields the rock from water and sunlight. The overhanging pine is at once mother and foe to survival. It seems a harsh environment in which to thrive. Yet here we found the little tree chugging along. It would take effort to live on this barren and rocky environment. Maybe a writer could find an inspirational message about sticking to the task by studying this little pine, persevering until the word count is met or the draft is finished, even if she's not feeling particularly profound that day. Or perhaps a hiker would see a flat, shaded spot to rest after chugging up the hill behind you. Whichever one you are, I hope you find value in what this little guy offers.

2.      2. Practice is essential, but clean up after yourself.

It is hard to hit a clay pigeon sailing through the air. Accurate shooting, like good writing, is a craft that needs to be practiced. In this instance, if you look in the background, a careful observer might see a line of small clay targets poised against a log. I’m deducing from the available evidence that someone was teaching their son or daughter the art of shooting here. They began with static targets before advancing their young marksman to hit them in flight.  They left their litter behind, so we knew they’d been practicing.

After I got over my disappointment at having my nature walk despoiled by a responsible/irresponsible gun owner, I considered the lesson. Continual practice is essential to growth in any discipline, including writing or skeet shooting. But writing necessarily includes self-editing. Clean up after yourself. Read your manuscript critically before hitting send. As Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman can attest, I’ve certainly left a few empty shell casings behind on the manuscripts I’ve sent them, but hopefully nothing that looks quite like this.

3.     3. Keep your eye on the weather.

Never open a book with weather, Elmore Leonard famously wrote. But that doesn't mean the elements should be ignored. When hiking, weather can easily be the character that will sneak up and put you at risk or kill you. The elements are an essential character when you’re writing about the out-of-doors. Sometimes, they sneak in on cat’s feet. Other times, the weather heralds its arrival. Smart hikers know that things change when they're outside. Prudent ones study the forecast so that they have some idea about what they might encounter. Hopefully, they will take along some gear to safeguard themselves if the weather doesn't cooperate with the planned schedule. 

Consider the elements when you're writing. They present another obstacle for the protagonist to overcome in pursuit of the goal. More broadly, the weather should remind the hiker/writer about the importance of flexibility. I'm not a big muse guy. I think of writing as a craft practiced with discipline rather than the whisperings of a beautifully voiced Calliope. But I know we've all seen a story go a different direction than the one we originally intended. When immersed in the process, a better-than-the-original idea occasionally emerges. We follow it and end up in a different place than originally planned. To continue the metaphor, with preparation and flexibility, hopefully, we don't end up in a cotton T-shirt huddled under a skinny pine seeking shelter from rain mixed with sleet. Some who wander are lost. 

4.      4. Finally, Be open for secret doors. 

Doors feature prominently in writing tips. Bernard Cornwell says he spends a lot of time putting doors in alleys. Another recommendation is to have your character open a door when a writer is stuck. When you do, something has to happen. The protagonist could go through, a discovery could be observed, or something might emerge. The action occurs at the threshold.

Sometimes, hikers find doors in the wild. You can see this dark maw in the shadows in the center. The planned trek was interrupted when this mine entrance appeared. Seeing it reinforced my thoughts about flexibility. The dramatic tension built. We could go in, or something could emerge.

I'll hasten to add that we didn't enter. We just peeked inside. Unlike fictional characters, we couldn't write our way out of trouble if things went south. An acute case of Hantavirus is not why I go to the mountains.

The lesson I learned from the discovery is that secret doors really do appear. Strange things happen to us in real life. We can tell a credible story about an incredible happening. The challenge is for the writer to sell it.

I hope to see you on the trail with the right gear for the elements, gathering experiences you can spin into stories or, perhaps, seeing the rules for writing stories displayed in the natural surroundings. 

Until next time.

 

Untied

In 2015, I had my first story accepted for publication. I'd seen a posting for the Black Orchid Novella Award. For those unfamiliar, the Black Orchid is a collaboration between The Wolfe Pack, the Official Nero Wolfe Literary Society, and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.

      The challenge is to write a 15 to 20,000-word story in the deductive style exemplified by the Nero Wolfe series. I submitted a story, and it was selected. In December 2015, The Wolfe Pack etched my name onto the scroll of winners, a list that included fellow SleuthSayers Steve Liskow and Robert Lopresti. Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine published "A Meter of Murder" the following summer.

(The next deadline is May 31^st, 2025, for anyone wishing to enter the contest. The details may be found at The Wolfe Pack's website.)

     The winner is feted at a banquet in Manhattan. My traveling companion and I gleefully traveled to New York City for the dinner. The evening was a clubby affair with song competitions and toasts dedicated to the cast of characters inhabiting Rex Stout's fictional universe. An erudite speaker talked about the author's place in the mystery genre surrounded by a roomful of well-dressed aficionados.

     I was an almost-published author sitting as a guest of honor at a banquet in the literary capital of the United States. I exuded bonhomie and urbanity.

      I might easily have said that I felt smart and happy. Banqueted literary sophisticates, however, allow words like bonhomie to drop effortlessly from our lips. They are what set us apart.

      Shortly after my triumphal return to Fort Worth, I received a compliment from a woman who had attended the dinner. She emailed me to say she'd read and enjoyed the story. In particular, she praised the denouement.

      Since our conversation was via email, I had the opportunity to look up denouement before I replied. I was pretty sure I knew what she meant; the context clues revealed that. But as a recently banqueted, budding literary sophisticate, it was not a word I'd ever used, so I wanted to double-check.

      In the legal profession, we tend to say final argument or summation. I knew those terms. I also had a smattering of impressive-sounding legal-Latin phrases at my tongue's command. Literary words, however, I was still picking up one at a time.

      Before replying, I looked up denouement's definition and confirmed I understood the meaning. I also checked the pronunciation guide. After a few quick taps into my search engine, I quickly and accurately wrote her back, thanking her for her kind words. I'm confident my reply dripped literary panache.

      For the scant few who might also have missed English class that day, denouement is an elegant literary term used to describe the final part of a story. The denouement is the place in the tale where the details are wrapped up, where the various threads of the plot are drawn together and resolved. Our English word was first borrowed in the 18th Century from a French term for "untying." The guides to proper pronunciation taught me to say Dey-noo-mahn, although the internet authorities have differing views on how much emphasis to place on that final N. Everyone agrees that the T gets kicked to the curb.

      It's not often that you can accurately say when you learned a word. I can pinpoint this one. My path to knowledge began on the first Saturday in December 2015.

      When I've had a brief run of publications or something else has occurred to make me think I'm all literary, I'll remember that story. Before I pull out the herringbone jacket with the leather elbow patches and begin holding forth, I remind myself of how I learned this stock literary term late in the game. It makes me remember how much more I still need to know about this writing business. The lesson, undoubtedly, has saved me from embarrassment. (Summertime in Fort Worth is way too hot for tweed anyway.) Recalling the story helps me reset my ego. The memory proves less bruising than opening the folder containing all my recent rejection emails.

      The current issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine contains my story, "The Denouement of a Most Curious Case." And there you have the story's origin. The tale might have easily been "The Resolution of a Most Curious Case" or "The Solution to a Most Curious Case." But for me, it had to be Denouement.

      The word simultaneously reminds me of a success and a failure. It conjures up an image of an education continually in progress. The story began with an idea about writing a denouement, and the tale piled up around it. Starting with "A Meter of Murder," I've always been thrilled when the folks at Alfred Hitchcock include one of my stories. I'm again honored that they chose to publish this one.

      And since Denouement is printed rather than spoken, I don't have to reveal how much emphasis I put on the final N.

       Until next time.

August 13th, A Thrilling Day

My phone, a reliably clever device, routinely tells me about newsworthy events that I should probably know happened that day.

            August 13^th has been monumental in shaping world affairs. If you're a fan of political thrillers, it should be a red circle day.

            Barbed Wire Sunday occurred on this date in 1961. Beginning at midnight, soldiers from the East German military arrived at critical points along the line separating East and West Berlin. They quickly unloaded barbed wire and concrete and began erecting the barrier that became the Berlin Wall. The government deemed the move necessary to stem the brain drain and hemorrhage of the workforce from communist East Berlin to the West. The East German secret police, the Stasi, blocked intersections between the sectors of the divided city. 

            Where would the Cold War political thriller be without referencing Checkpoint Charlie, the best-known crossing point between the city's two halves? Here, Soviet and American tanks squared off 100 yards apart in a showdown that brought the two sides perilously close to war. Prisoner exchanges occurred, and daring escapes were attempted at the thin space separating the two superpowers.

GZen, Creative Commons

Roger Moore, as James Bond, crossed through Checkpoint Charlie in Octopussy. Tom Hanks surveyed the wall in Bridge of Spies. Illya Kuryakin was frustrated in his attempts to rundown Napoleon Solo as he extracted Gaby to the West in The Man from UNCLE (the movie). Countless books have used the wall as a physical challenge or metaphor. And it all started on this date.

            The Manhattan Project got underway on this date in 1942. The research and development program that culminated in the atomic bomb was initially labeled the Development of Substitute Materials. The development project was run by the US Army Corps of Engineers. Engineering districts routinely took the name of the city where they were located. The Development of Substitute Materials had temporary offices on Broadway. Thus, they became the Manhattan District. The term “Manhattan” gradually substituted for the name of the atomic project. Always concerned about spies, Manhattan was believed to attract less attention and reveal less about the nature of the bomb's development.

            The Manhattan District was officially created on August 13^th under orders signed by Major General Eugene Reybold.

            The movie Oppenheimer most recently explored the Manhattan Project. Since the project's creation, the name has become synonymous with any apocalyptic device. Biological weapons and crippling computer viruses have all been labeled the Manhattan Project. The program established a model for government-sponsored, project-specific, big science. The world may be in more jeopardy, but the thriller writer has had an efficient tool for warning the reader about a developing doomsday mechanism since August 13^th, 1942.

            German-born Klaus Fuchs was a theoretical physicist. As part of the Manhattan Project team, he worked on developing the atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico. During his work, Fuchs spied on the project for the Soviet Union. After the war, he moved to the United Kingdom and continued his weapons research. In January 1950, he confessed to passing atomic information to the Soviets. Upon his release from a British prison in 1959, Fuchs migrated to East Germany. There, he became the deputy director of the Central Institute for Nuclear Physics. His work undoubtedly took him to numerous meetings in East Berlin, within easy walking distance of the wall.

            And thus, we're brought full circle.

            Fidel Castro and Alfred Hitchcock were both born on this date. Both impacted thrillers in differing ways. Finally, a shout out to William Caxton, who was also born on this date in 1422. He set up the first printing press in England. His first publication is believed to be an edition of The Canterbury Tales. 

Ilgar Jafarov, CC

            Where would writers be without publishers?

            Until next time.

            Postscript:

            In my last blog, I discussed the upcoming Olympics and made fun of rhythmic gymnastics. I've watched some of the individual and team competitions. While I'm still unclear on the ribbon, the routines performed with the ball and, later, the hoop grabbed my attention. I'd like to offer a sincere apology to all rhythmic gymnastics fans and athletes.

Olympic Ode

 The Olympic Games are nearly upon us. At my household, we're pulling out the American flags and getting geared up.

            We love to watch the Olympics. There are a tremendous number of sports that we wouldn’t concern ourselves with if they were televised every week. (I've yet to catch the professional cornhole league.) But make it an international competition, pit the USA against the rest of the world, and only show the sport for two weeks every four years; my traveling companion and I get totally sucked into sports from archery to wrestling. (Okay, not rhythmic gymnastics, but almost everything else. I’ve never gotten the thing with the ribbons.)

            One of the things we enjoy best is the opportunity to become instant experts on sports that are not regularly watched in the United States. We'll tune in to the gymnastics events, have Tim Daggett give us a five-minute tutorial on women’s uneven bars, and we will confidently evaluate the verticality of the athlete's handstand and the degree of leg separation during her transition moves.

            We can learn a lot in a short period of time.

            This past May, the New York Times ran an article in preparation for the upcoming Olympics. The brief article was fascinating to read. I learned that the modern games have not always been exclusively about sports. For many years, the Olympics awarded medals for painting, sculpture, architecture, music, and literature, in addition to those for athletic prowess.

            Baron Pierre do Coubertin, the founder of the modern games, envisioned artistic competitions as an essential part of the Olympics. Richard Stanton, the author of The Forgotten Olympic Art Competitions, writes that Coubertin was “raised and educated classically, and he was particularly impressed with the idea of what it meant to be a true Olympian—someone who was not only athletic but skilled in music and literature."

            The Baron could not convince the earliest local Olympic organizers that artistic competitions were necessary. In the 1912 Stockholm Games, however, he managed to make the arts part of the Olympics. As noted, painting, sculpture, architecture, music, and literature, The Pentathlon of the Muses, were the artistic events.  Every submitted work had to be inspired by the idea of sport. 33 artists entered, and a gold medal was awarded for each category. Afraid that the Olympics would not get enough entrants, Coubertin submitted a poem, "Ode to Sport," under an assumed name. He took home the gold.

            An American, Walter Winans, won the first-ever gold medal for sculpture. The winning bronze statue, An American Trotter, showed a bronze horse pulling a chariot. His gold medal in the sculpture event went alongside the silver medal he earned in sharpshooting. (He'd also won the gold medal in shooting in 1908.)

            The Olympics were canceled in 1916 during World War I. Following the war, the games did not really get going full speed until 1924 in Paris. Today, no one is quite sure where all the panels of the winning painting, a triptych by Jean Jacoby of Luxembourg, are located. (Two thirds are stored in the archives of the Olympic headquarters.) The silver medal work, The Liffey Swim, an oil painting by Jack Butler Yeats (William's brother), hangs in the National Gallery of Ireland.

            From 1912 to 1952, 151 medals were awarded for the arts. The math doesn't exactly work. In some years, not all the medals were awarded if the jury did not find the submitted pieces worthy. In the 1928 Amsterdam games, the literature category was subdivided into lyric, dramatic, and epic categories. They were later consolidated back into one category and then split apart again. 

Public Domain

            Following World War 2, the Olympics returned. However, the climate for including the arts had changed. There was a renewed emphasis on amateurism. Because artists live by selling their work and since winning an Olympic medal might enhance marketability, purists increasingly viewed the art competitions with skepticism. Avery Brundage, the president of the International Olympic Committee, led the campaign to have the arts removed. Curiously, Brundage had submitted a piece of literature to the 1932 games and earned an honorable mention.

            As the Olympic sporting events blossomed, the artistic contests waned. They were not compatible with television. Judging artistic competitions always involves subjectivity. Unlike the 100-meter dash, there may not be a clear winner. Facing these problems, the International Olympic Committee voted to end competitions within the Pentathlon of the Muses. The 151 medals given out were officially stricken from the Olympic record. Today, when a country's medal count is displayed, the artistic awards are not included.

            But what if the artistic competitions were still around?   

            1924 represented the high water mark for the Olympic art competitions. On the 100^th anniversary, the games return to Paris. It is an apt time to remember the old events and, as a thought exercise, to reimagine them.

As mentioned above, the literature category showed elasticity in the Olympic competitions. Organizers subdivided the category at will. If the competition included the mystery genre, who would slip on the Ralph Lauren-designed uniform and represent the United States? Great Britain? The Nordic countries? Japan? Would your Dream Team consist of established heavyweights, or would you be bold and pin your nation's hopes on a fresh voice? 

Consider it while you dig out your national flag and prepare for the opening ceremonies.

(I'll be traveling on the day this posts. If you comment, I may be delayed in responding.)

Until next time.