A while back, I was casting about for story ideas. One of them was that old trope of the woman tied to a railroad track by a dastardly villain. (Dressed in greatcoat and top hat, twirling his mustache as required by the Congress of Vienna in 1848.) A passenger train is bearing down on her. Our hero, who sounds suspiciously like Dudley Do-Right (even in silent film) swoops in to save her at the last minute. Our damsel in distress clutches her hands to her chest, bats her eyelashes, and coos, "My hero!"
The last woman I saw do that was Arlene Sorkin, trading voices with Dave Coulier on America's Funniest People, or some knock-off thereof. For reference, Sorkin is not only the original voice of Batman villainess Harley Quinn, the 1990s writers of Batman based Harley on her. So... Parody?
But I thought about this. I've seen cartoons as a kid referencing this trope and the odd silent movie. But with independent stations airing westerns ad nauseum, I never actually saw a movie where the dastardly villain tied anyone to the railroad track. According to Atlas Obscura, there aren't any real-life cases.
What if there was? Thus came an as-yet untitled short story set in the Celloverse, my name for the fictitious setting for the Holland Bay novels. A train-obsessed suburban cop catches a break on his Saturday night (really, Sunday morning) shift and parks next to the tracks near the town square. He wants to watch the Lakeshore Limited blow by on its way from Cleveland to Chicago. As he settles in with a cup of cheap gas station coffee, he sees something on the tracks. We've all seen that. Limbs blown down by high winds. A dead animal, with deer a real derailment hazard. Trains do not stop suddenly. Even the really short ones way thousands of tons and have too much momentum. I've witnessed one panicked stop where the wheels on every car locked up and the train skidded to a stop. The train still moved several hundred yards, and it's a wonder it didn't derail.
But our intrepid hero, being an on-duty officer of the law and self-confessed train nerd, jumps out of his car, jogs around the fence, and goes to move what he thinks is a dead deer. It's a woman, zip-tied to the track. The explanation involves roofies and a man who can't take no for an answer.
That's a plausible scenario, but where did it actually come from?
Despite what our Saturday morning cartoons suggested, the woman tied to a railroad track did not appear all that often in silent films. In reality, the person who ended up on the tracks was almost always the dashing male hero. In comedies, the damsel in distress might end up tied to the tracks, but this was parody. The hero, a detective or a cowboy, would often be knocked out, landing on the tracks, only to be rescued by...
The heroine. So that's not a Marvel or scifi trope. That's an available character rescuing our disabled hero. It's not surprising the hero falling onto the tracks occurred so often to amp up tension. Trains during the silent and early talkie era were not just the primary means of public transportation, but cars were still not that common until the Depression. And planes? Why that sounds dangerous. Or did until World War II, when Clipper planes and huge bombers became commonplace. Helicopters did not even become common until 1945.
And the dastardly, mustache-twirling villain? The earliest example I saw came from a couple of episodes of The Little Rascals, where the gang put on a show with one of them (usually Spanky) playing the top-hatted villain. And that was a play-within-a-play, deliberately cheesy.
So where did the trope come from? The earliest example came from an 1876 play called Under the Gaslight. In it, our hero is actually tied to the railroad tracks and saved by the heroine.
Credit for the modern woman-on-the-tracks trope stems from the serial The Perils of Pauline, wherein Pauline would get herself into all sorts of over-the-top peril (Hence the title. Clever!) with weekly precursors to the stock Bond villain. It should be noted none of these wannabe Blofelds ever tied Pauline to the tracks. However, comedies poking fun at poor Pauline, did put the woman on the tracks at the hands of a mustachioed, top-hatted villain cackling like Palpatine 50 years later in the Star Wars movies.
And since the 1970s, the trope hasn't played well outside of cartoons. And even then, it died off in Disney and Warner Brothers shorts by the 90s. Ellen Ripley, she of the Alien franchise, found herself not tied to a railroad track but stuck in a lifepod with the most frightening alien monster ever created. (Sorry, Galactus.) But instead of waiting for Tom Skerritt to save her (and anyway, the xenomorph already ate him), she grabs her cat, a pressure suit, and a proceeds to fight the monster in her underwear. As I teen, I naturally found this titillating. As a middle-aged man, I completely identify with this as if you wake me up in my boxers while doing mischief in my house at 3 AM, you will become very familiar with my Lousville Slugger. (Ripley weaponized the airlock, but there ain't a lot of baseball bats in space. Rifles, maybe, but not baseball bats.)
So I had fun writing this story and making it believable. It's still in revision, but it's coming along.
Besides, I'm a train nerd, among other things. I mean, how many more jazz buffs will crimefic readers tolerate?
Has anyone else noticed it's becoming a thing to write crime fiction about healthcare and present it as fact? People are drawn to crime fiction. It gets their hearts racing. But this crime fiction writing has real victims - patients denied healthcare because of fictitious crime. One recent story that made me ponder this whole strange issue once again is the story of the safe drug consumption sites and the healthcare of addicts.
There has been a push by politicians to shut down supervised drug consumption site by claiming they increase crime in the neighbourhood. One can see this is an effective strategy for closing all supervised drug consumption sites because people worry they could come into their neighbourhood, bringing in a wave of crime. No one wants a crime wave in their neighbourhood, where their children play and grandma and grandpa come to visit. Stories have power and stories of threats to those we love are perhaps the most compelling – they make us act, vote, do anything to protect our loved ones. However, this is fiction, presented as fact.
We have years of data showing that crime doesn't increase around these sites but the latest data from Toronto caught people's attention:
"Toronto police data shows they may have the opposite effect.
Crime types including robberies, bike thefts, break and enters, thefts from motor vehicles, shootings and homicides dropped among neighbourhoods with supervised drug consumption sites between 2018 and 2023, often more than they did in the rest of the city, the data shows....One exception was the crime of assault, which rose by 22 per cent among neighbourhoods with sites, though neighbourhoods without sites saw a rise of 24 per cent“
So, even if these safe consumption sites don't increase crime, why have them in the first place? The answer simple: they are a crucial form of healthcare for addicts and the facts about addiction are concerning.
"More than one in four deaths among young Canadians (in their 20s-30s) between 2019 and 2021 were opioid-related..They found that in three years (between 2019 and 2021) the annual number of opioid-related deaths rose from 3,007 to 6,222. And the number of years of life lost due to opioids increased from 126,115 to 256,336."
This is the other story, a true one, about the young people we know, in the very neighbourhoods many wanted to protect from a fictitious crime wave in the wake of safe drug consumption sites, who are dying in increasing numbers.
Some argue that those young people who die from overdoses were going to die anyway. There is no saving an addict, so why bother?
We should bother because addicts can be saved. The first safe consumption site in North America opened in British Columbia, Canada, in September 2003. With over 4 million visits by users, over 11,000 overdoses reversed, they have had 0 drug overdose deaths. Instead they have many stories, true ones, of success, like Felicella, who spent two decades using drugs and "was one of the first through the door when Insite opened, and he credits it with saving his life. Now married with three kids, he works as a Peer Clinical Advisor for both Vancouver Coastal Health and the BC Centre on Substance Use, and is an in-demand harm reduction public speaker."
These safe consumption sites are healthcare, providing a safe place to do drugs and also the resources to get off drugs and build a life. To have a job, to have children and to help build the community your live in.
This continuing controversy over safe consumption sites is another of the sad tales of healthcare fighting crime fiction. The real victims are patients who can be denied healthcare if these fictional stories are believed and people vote to make them policy. Whether it is safe consumption sites, vaccine safety or a myriad of other issues, healthcare is butting heads with crime fiction. Medicine is faced with constant stories of vaccines that cause death and threats of doctors being jailed or killed in response. One of the latest and weirdest is the crime fiction of babies being murdered by doctors after birth under the name of 'abortion'. These crime stories are made up to make people's blood boil and they create real victims: patients who fail to get the healthcare they need to keep them safe.
As someone who is passionate about healthcare and mystery novels, never did I think the two would meet in such a dangerous way.
"I wanted to start a gang, but it turned into a book club..."
I don't know the kindred spirit who first said the above quote, and I've probably butchered it somewhat, but...Guilty as charged! Which is saying a lot, because usually I write about the mob...
BOOK CLUBS ROCK...
I
love my current book club. We don't do the 'buy one book and everybody
read it' thing. Instead, we have a list of categories (30 in all) and
are expected to read one book that satisfies each criteria in a calendar
year. We can each read a different book that fits the category. We
also give each other two free outs, meaning you can skip two categories
if you absolutely hate them. Bless those outs.
Love this club,
because I am pushed into reading things I wouldn't normally pick up.
Other genres, past classics, even cookbooks. Plus they come with
recommendations from people I trust. We all read more than 30 books a year (I'm close to 100.) So there's still lots of time to read new releases from favourite authors beyond those 30 on the book club list.
That said, I'm a crime
writer and crime reader. Whodunits are my trade, and I shy away from
anything that sniffs of Chicklit. So you can imagine my surprise when I
am pressured to read a book that reaches me in a way I didn't expect.
"What Alice Forgot" by Liane Moriarty, is a perfect example, and I'm
exceedingly grateful. That book made me think about my own past and
future, at a time when I had just lost my first husband to cancer
(decades earlier than it should have been.)
And let me also say, that I am thrilled that people are reading. If
they want to read things I don't find pleasure reading, that's
terrific! Please, please keep reading, young people. It doesn't matter
what books you cherish, as far as I'm concerned.
Still, there's the guilt. Yes, I feel guilt. I should like reading everything. I should at least
recognize that reading diverse books is 'good for me,' and thus be an
enthusiastic participant.
Confessions, confessions. What things have I learned about myself, through that seemingly innocent little social activity?
Three things come to mind. Let me take a moral inventory, and feel free
to cast aspersions on my virtue. It wouldn't be the first time (wink).
1. Non-fiction sucks.
University type here. Prof at college for 30 years. Read a lot of non-fiction in
my time, in order to be able to teach the stuff. Guilty secret? For
me, reading non-fiction is work. I don't want to work in my off-time.
I know. I can hear the collective gasps from here. Non-fiction is good for you! It makes you smarter!
I
doubt very much if anything at this stage could make me smarter (much
as that might be desirable for all concerned...) It might make me more
knowledgeable, that I accept. Do I care? Not much. My brain is
precariously close to full now, and putting more into it threatens to
dump other things already lodged there out my ears. (Medical fact. I
read it online.)
2. And on that note, I rarely enjoy reading memoirs and biographies.
Our
book club requires us to read one of the above, once a year. It's not fun for me. I really don't like spending my time reading about
other people's lives, especially the white-washed
versions. Ditto, the poor me versions.
Why? I read to escape reality. Which brings me to the final point (some of you will gasp.)
3. I don't care much for fiction written from (many) multiple points of view.
There are some extremely popular books out now that are written from several points of view (I'm thinking The Thursday Murder Club and like.) I like humour and crime together, so I gave it a try. And I can see why people would like it. I thought some parts of it were great fun. Thing is, I kept putting it down. I could read a chapter and put it down. Pick it up a few days later and read another two scenes. Then put down the book and forget about it.
What this tells me: For me, it wasn't a compelling read. I didn't care enough about the protagonist to keep reading to find out what would happen. Wait a minute - to tell the truth, I couldn't even tell who the protagonist was!
And that's the key. The protagonist. God Bless Book Club. I've learned a lot about myself and what I treasure reading. To wit:
I want to become the protagonist when I read a book.
(Please let me know in the comments below if you relate to this.)
I want to slip into the skin of the main character and have a rollicking adventure. I want things to happen. I want there to be a satisfactory conclusion to the adventure, so I close the book with a smile on my face.
On the memoir front: For
the record and just to be fair, I have no desire to write a memoir
myself. Have the general public read all about my misspent youth and
totally embarrassing past mistakes? Gulp. Would rather go public on my
bra size (weight is off the table.) In fact, I am puzzled that others
do want to share their dirty linen in public.
Mine is stuffed into drawers that hopefully my kids will never open.
Melodie
Campbell writes fiction (swear to God it's fiction!) from the shores of
Lake Ontario. Book 17 is now available for preorder. On AMAZON
Some people may not like this post. Some might even call me a 'cranky author.' And that's just fine, because I'm all about open discussion when it comes to fiction writing. In fact, I think the main thing wrong with the world these days is too many people want to shut down open discussion on everysubject.
So here goes:
Was gabbing by phone with my friend Cindy, another writer, about the usual Covid-Writer fare. What are you writing… what are you reading… what disasters have befallen your publisher, etc.
(And just to give you an example… Remember last November, when all the ships were crowded around the docks off California for weeks and weeks, unable to unload their goods in time for Christmas. Well, remember at the same time there was one container ship foundering off the coast of Vancouver, that dumped 117 containers into the ocean? One of those containers contained the second reprint of my 16th book with Orca Book publishers. Yes, I couldn't make this up. Hope the fishes enjoy eating my royalties.)
Back to the main beef of today.
This discussion with Cindy inevitably led to what 'What do we hate' in fiction these days. Cindy surprised me by saying: "You know what I really hate? Books written in third person, that all of a sudden dump the murderer's point of view in the middle of everything! In first person, no less. Drives me nuts."
"Me too!" I said, delighted to find another fellow cranky writer. "Not to mention, it breaks all viewpoint rules." (Okay, the cranky college prof can't resist the opportunity to lecture.)
What are we talking about? You're reading a book - police procedural, usually - that starts with the protagonist - a cop - in third person. The book carries on very nicely in third person for several chapters, and then suddenly, you get a chapter written in first person, by some unnamed character, that is completely self-focused. Gradually you figure out it must be the murderer talking, because he's going on and on about his awful childhood. Oh Sweet Jesus. How the heck did that get in there?
It's like they wrote the whole book and then thought, I'll just go back and plop in some chapters of a completely different book into random spots. The critics will love it!
I say police procedural because the last book I read - Oranges and Lemons by Christopher Fowler - did exactly this thing. Now normally, I love the Bryant and May detective series by Fowler. (The Peculiar Crimes Unit takes place in England.) It's a hoot. But I didn't like this added 'device'.
I say police procedural, but I've also seen it done with an amateur detective novel. In fact, I read a recent book by a very well known Canadian author who used the same 'device' (note how nice I am in calling it 'device' instead of the words I am really thinking.)
'Recent' is the key word here. The first time I came across this was about five years ago. Really threw me the first time. Who the hell was speaking? I thought it was a misprint. No, truly. I thought the printer had made a mistake and inserted part of another book into this book.
"Why do they do that?" said Cindy.
Believe it or not, being in the middle of writing my 18th novel, I had a logical explanation for that.
"Word count," I said confidently. "They finish the novel at 70,000 words, and they've got to get it to 80,000. I know from wence they came."
Some famous crime writer - it may have been Spillane - said that most crime books are perfectly written at 50,000 words. In other words, a lot of mystery or crime stories end themselves naturally at that word count. And that pushing them to 70 or 80 thousand means adding stuff that doesn't have to be there (which is a nice way to put it, I think.)
I ascribe to the Spillane school of thought. My own work settles nicely between fifty and sixty thousand words. I have to work hard to get it to 70,000. And my agent and publisher usually push it to 75,000 in the editing process.
So I figure these writers who slot in the murderer's point of view are doing so to add word count. What a nice way to avoid thinking of another plot twist. Problem is, these chapters are usually static. They are internal monologue. All narration. They interrupt the story. And worse, they don't exactly move the story forward.
Not to mention, they break viewpoint and drive me and other cranky veteran authors crazy.
Not that we have far to go.
How about you, Sleuthsayers? What do you think about this newfangled device in fiction?
Melodie Campbell sticks to the viewpoint rules in her otherwise loopy crime fiction that almost always involves the mob. You can find her books at all the usual suspects.
The Globe and Mail newspaper this morning mentioned that Stig Larson died on this day in 2004. I mentioned this to a man I know who is a reader - a man I like and respect - and he said, "I really liked his books." This brought about a discussion that has gotten me thinking.
Now, as you may recall, the writing community was quite split on Larson's book 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' when it first came out. Most authors I know, at the time, thought it needed severe editing. But others were more concerned with aspects of the content.
I remember being at the bar of the Drake Hotel in Toronto, a notorious hangout for crime writers like ourselves, and hearing the following from a well-known male crime writer sitting beside me. "Stig Larson was one sick puppy."
I asked him to elaborate. After all, he was a male thriller writer of some note. Here's what he said:
"That graphic torture scene of a young woman? We all know how long it takes to write a book. He would have been weeks writing that chapter. What kind of sicko could spend that much time devising ways to describe that kind of horrific torture?"
His words really hit home with a lot of us, all of whom were published crime authors.
Another male author at the table said, "He glorifies violence against women."
I write mainly heists and capers. My Goddaughter series is about a mob crime family, so I'm not exactly a cozy writer. In my short stories, I can go quite dark, but never to the point of torture. I can't write grim novels - I simply can't spend day after day in a dark world. It affects me mentally.
Violence is absolutely at the core of a lot of crime fiction. It's not the topic of violence that was at issue here. What my male author friends at The Drake were commenting on was the stunning increase in graphic description of heinous acts in fiction. It's not offstage in any way, in these books. But I think what bothered me today is the following: my fellow reader friend didn't even remember the torture scene that has haunted me for years. ( I won't go into details here.) His memory of the series was that of a woman getting her own back. Fair enough.
So I asked him: "Would you be able to read a scene in which a child is tortured in that way?"
He said: "No, definitely not. I'd have to put it down."
Telling, isn't it? And that of course is the issue that haunts me today. Those books of Stig Larson - and some like it that are extremely graphic in their abuse and murder of women - have done well. Readers seem to accept it as a means to advance a plot in which - hopefully - justice will be done in the end. (One could argue that if you are a woman killed in a horrible way, there is no justice, but that's a topic for another post.)
The end justifies the means now, so to speak. Or is it deeper than that? Does this reflect a deeper societal desensitization, nonchalance, or fatigue when it comes to the topic of violence against women?
My friend is not the only one. At some point, and I think it took off with the publishing of the Stig Larson books, the fiction reading society moved to embrace a more graphic description of violence against women as entertainment. And I have to admit, this bothers me.
Comments welcome. I'm struggling with this one and could use others' insights.
Melodie Campbell writes about the mob in Hamilton Ontario, with tongue firmly in cheek. You can get her books at all the usual suspects.
Every time I have a novel come out I do a post about some of the locations in it. I try to set most scenes in the real world and give that world a sense of verisimilitude (remember, don’t use a small word when you can use a six syllable one). Much, though not all, of what I write is set in Los Angeles. As is The Blues Don’t Care (dropping on 6/1/20, and available now for pre-order)…but with a twist this time. Instead of being set in the modern L.A. of White Heat, Broken Windows and Vortex this one is set in 1940s L.A., with World War II raging in the background.
Bobby Saxon is a young white piano player whose ambition is to get a spot with the all-black Booker ‘Boom Boom’ Taylor Orchestra (big band) at L.A.’s famous Club Alabam. He gets his wish but at the price of having to help investigate a murder that one of the band members is accused of.
Like Randy Newman said, I love L.A. (well, more like love-hate, but overall love) and I really loved researching the locations and history of 1940s L.A. Bobby’s adventures take him on a wild ride through mid-century Los Angeles, from the swanky Sunset Tower apartments in West Hollywood to seedy pool rooms near downtown and the vibrant jazz scene of Central Avenue.
So here are some of the stops on Bobby’s journey:
The Club Alabam and The Dunbar Hotel: In the days when African-Americans couldn’t stay at most hotels and couldn’t go to just any “white” nightclubs—or other establishments—they formed their own businesses. In L.A. the heart of the black community during the mid-twentieth century was Central Avenue. Clothing stores, barbershops, restaurants, doctors, dentists and pretty much anything one could want could be found there. And the heart of Central was the Dunbar Hotel (formerly Hotel Sumerville), which featured an elegant lobby with arched windows and entry ways and Art Deco chandeliers. The Dunbar was where the cream of black society, entertainers, politicians, et al., stayed when they were in town. Duke Ellington kept a suite there. Right next door to the Dunbar was the most famous of the nightclubs (of which there were many) on Central, the Club Alabam. Bobby spends a lot of time at both the Alabam and the Dunbar. And it’s said that one night when W.C. Fields got drunk at the Alabam he stayed overnight at the Dunbar, accidentally integrating it.
Two shots of the Dunbar Hotel, interior & exterior. It was formerly the Hotel Somerville.
Famous couple at Musso & Frank.
Musso & Frank: Has been a Hollywood watering hole for decades, since the 1920s. There was a back room bar where famous writers including F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, John Fante, Thomas Wolfe and William Faulkner hung out. Movies stars like Charlie Chaplin, Gary Cooper, Betty Davis, Ginger Rogers, Greta Garbo and Edward G. Robinson all dined there. It’s known for its red-coated waiters, many of whom have worked there for decades, probably since the time of the story (maybe?). In Blues, Bobby plays piano in exchange for a free meal, but pays dearly for that meal when he’s ambushed outside of the restaurant. Here’s a recent pic of Amy and me there. We didn’t get ambushed that night, but anything’s possible on Hollywood Boulevard.
Another famous couple at Musso & Frank ;-)
The La Brea Tar Pits: Located on Rancho La Brea lands, the tar pits were a major excavation site in the 1910s for paleontologists from all over the world. In the 1920s ranch owner, Hancock, donated the land to Los Angeles County with the stipulation that the tar pits be designated as a protected park and that the fossils found there be retained and exhibited. When I was a kid we’d go on picnics at the park surrounding the tar pits and I have fond memories of them, including the acrid smell of the tar. Since those days the George C. Page Museum was built and fossil excavation continues to this day. Bobby visits the tar pits in a scene in the book, and let’s just say not all the bones in the tar pits are that old….but you’ll have to read the book to find out what really happens there.
La Brea Tar Pits (photo by Kimon Berlin)
The Long Beach Pike: In the novel, Bobby and his “partner” Sam Wilde head down to the Pike in Long Beach, while looking for clues. For decades the Pike was an amusement park by the sea. It featured a wooden roller coast, The Cyclone, with two tracks so cars could “race” each other. Bobby and Sam ride the coaster in one of the scenes at the Pike.
Long Beach Pike
There was also a midway with arcade games, shooting galleries, fortune tellers and assorted shops. And because it was situated near Naval shipyards, it earned a reputation for being a hangout for rowdy sailors looking for girls. That’s the atmosphere that appealed to me as a setting for some of the scenes in Blues.
In the 1970s it fell on hard times, got seedy and eventually closed.
One of the challenges writing Blues was figuring out how Bobby and Sam got down to Long Beach in the 1940s, before freeways. I turned to the usual sources for help, the internet, books, etc. But the best source was buying old Los Angeles area street maps from eBay. They really helped in this regard and were just plain fascinating in general. My mom also helped with her memories of how to get from “here” to “there.”
Here’s a short excerpt of Bobby and Sam heading to the Pike. When Bobby first meets Sam it’s not exactly under pleasant circumstances and Bobby isn’t sure if Sam is on his side or not, so the long ride to Long Beach is a little tense to say the least:
Long Beach was a navy town south of Los Angeles, the Pike its oceanside amusement quarter. Bobby knew there’d be lots of sailors around, if they ever actually made it to the Pike. They’d have to pass through the Wilmington oil fields on the way and that was as good a place as any to dispose of a body. The oil fields were a well-known dumping ground. Bodies were always bobbing up through the greasy black muck that leached to the surface. Bobby white-knuckled the steering wheel, gripping as hard as he could, mostly so Wilde wouldn’t notice his shaking hands. They passed through the oil field, with its forests of towering derricks—supplicants reaching for the sky. Safely past the dumping grounds, he loosened his grip on the wheel.
Pickwick Books (in case the sign didn't give it away :-) )
Pickwick Bookshop: I loved this place, which is, unfortunately, gone now. It was an institution on Hollywood Boulevard for decades. Three stories of books, books and more books. There was a time when there were a ton of bookstores on Hollywood Boulevard, most of them used or antiquarian. I think most are gone today, replaced by electronic stores and gimcrack souvenir shops in large part. And people running around dressed up like super heroes who, if you take their picture without paying some ridiculous fee will chase you down and… Bobby has occasion to go there in the story, but my favorite part of the scene there was cut. Supposedly this is a true story that actually happened there, but fictionalized to include Bobby. So here it is: Bobby looked away. “There are no second acts in American life,” the salesman said, as Bobby handed him a five dollar bill. “No, I guess not.” “Know who said that?” “Can’t say I do.” “F. Scott Fitzgerald, the famous writer.” “I like his books,” Bobby said. “But I don’t know the quote.” “A man came in here one day looking for Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. You know our store here’s on three floors, the first is current titles, the second level is for rare and unusual books. The third floor is for used books, bargains and the like.” Why was the salesman telling him all this? “So anyway, this man comes in and asks for Gatsby. The salesman tells him, ‘We don’t stock the work of dead authors on this floor. You’ll have to try upstairs.’” “So did he find the book upstairs?” “He did. And do you know what his name was?” “No.”
Pickwick Books (interior)
“F. Scott Fitzgerald. I didn’t even recognize him and it’s been making me sick ever since. Especially since he died shortly after that. Another customer who knew him told me my not recognizing him and thinking he was dead had a catastrophic effect on him.” The clerk looked at the book Bobby had set on the counter. “Thomas Wolfe. No, you certainly can’t go home again.” “Neither you nor me.” The clerk finished wrapping Bobby’s book in brown paper, tied it with string. He handed it to Bobby with a wink. “Here’s your change.”
Max Factor Building: Bobby has occasion to go to the Max Factor building in Hollywood on Highland near Hollywood Boulevard. Max Factor is the famous Hollywood makeup artist, who branched out into a line of cosmetics that I think you can still buy today. He also had a salon where anyone could make an appointment and you might run into someone rich or famous while there. Bobby goes there on business, but feels a little funny, and maybe not for the obvious reasons. Today it’s the Hollywood Museum, so luckily here’s one building the Powers That Be didn’t tear down as happens so often in the City of Angels.
Max Factor building (the pic doesn't do it justice)
Cocoanut Grove: The Cocoanut Grove nightclub in the Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire was one of the premier, if not the premier nightclub in L.A. for ages. On a darker note, the Ambassador is also where RFK was shot by Sirhan Sirhan in 1968. Bobby takes Margaret, a woman he’s interested in and someone who might know more than she’s saying about the murder, on a date there. It might not have worked out so well for him…
Cocoanut Grove
Clover Field (A.K.A. The Santa Monica Airport): Douglas Aircraft worked out of Clover Field in the heart of Santa Monica. As such, during the war Warner Brothers technicians and artists came out from Burbank to camouflage the airfield so it couldn’t be seen from the air. Movie magic applied to real life. Bobby, his pal Sam Wilde, and Margaret wind up there when they’re chased by a mysterious car and end up almost breaching the base’s security, not something that is taken lightly by the MPs on duty. But what happens after that makes Bobby wish they’d been arrested by the MPs.
Clover Field: the center/bottom half of the pic is the concealed Douglas Aircraft
Cars parked under the camouflage tarp
Bradbury Building (photo by Jay Walsh)
The Bradbury Building: With its atrium, caged wrought iron elevator and marble and brick is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. I’m sure you’ve seen it ’cause it’s been in many movies, especially the interior. Generally, one can’t go above the mezzanine as it’s still a functioning office building. I had a meeting there one time and felt special to be able to go up the elevator and walk the upper hall. Someone Bobby has an interest in has an office here, too. I don’t think his visit was as pleasant as mine… I did a whole SleuthSayers post on it some time back so if you want to check that out: https://www.sleuthsayers.org/2016/05/the-bradbury-building-screen-star.html .
These are a few of the places Bobby visits. I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief tour of 1940s Los Angeles. Stay tuned for more when the book comes out on June 1st. It’s available for pre-order now at Amazon, BarnesandNoble.com and iTunes.
~.~.~
And now for the usual BSP:
My short story "Fade-Out On Bunker Hill" came in 2nd place in the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Poll. In lieu of the pre-Edgars cocktail party, we had a virtual awards ceremony. You can see the whole thing (including my bookshelves) on YouTube. I want to thank Janet Hutchings and Jackie Sherbow of Ellery Queen and, of course, everyone who voted for it!
“Paul D. Marks finds new gold in 40s’ L.A. noir while exploring prejudices in race, culture, and sexual identity. He is one helluva writer.”
—Michael Sears, author of the Jason Stafford series
Last month, I wrote about Endings, and reader expectations for each of the main genres. The response was positive, and some people have asked that I bring more stuff from class onto these pages. So here are some notes from the very beginning, class 1, hour 1.
People often ask what comes first: character or plot?
Do you start with a character? Or do you start with a plot?
This is too simplistic.
Here’s what you need for a novel: A main character With a problem or goal Obstacles to that goal, which are resolved by the end.
PLOT is essential for all novels. It’s not as easy as just sitting down and just starting to write 80,000 words. Ask yourself: What does your main character want? Why can’t he get it?
Your character wants something. It could be safety, money, love, revenge…
There are obstacles in the way of her getting what she wants. THAT PROVIDES CONFLICT.
So…you need a character, with a problem or goal, and obstacles to reaching that goal. Believable obstacles that matter. Even in a literary novel.
There must be RISK. Your character must stand to lose a lot, if they don’t overcome those obstacles. In crime books, it’s usually their life.
So…you may think you have a nice story of a man and woman meeting and falling in love, and deciding to make a commitment. Awfully nice for the man and woman, but dead boring for the reader. Even in a romance, there must be obstacles to the man and woman getting together. If you don’t have obstacles, you don’t have conflict, you don’t have a plot, and you don’t have a novel.
Put another way: When X happens, Y must do Z, otherwise ABCD will happen.
That’s what you need for a novel.
GIVE YOUR CHARACTER GOALS
1. Readers must know what each character’s goals are so they can keep score.
2. Goals must be clearly defined, and they must be evident from the beginning.
3. There must be opposition, which creates the possibility of losing.
>>this conflict makes up your plot<<
4. Will the character achieve his goal? Readers will keep turning pages to find out.
If you don’t provide goals, readers will get bored.
They won’t know the significance of the ‘actions’ the hero takes.
To Conclude:
Until we know what your character wants, we don’t know what the story is about.
Until we know what’s at stake, we don’t care.
Melodie Campbell writes fast-moving crime fiction that leans toward zany. If you like capers like the Pink Panther and Oceans 11, check out her many series at www.melodiecampbell.com
They say write what you know, but we can’t always write what we know because that would severely limit what we could write. I don’t think George Lucas or Robert Heinlein ever went to outer space before they wrote about it. And most of us here are crime writers or readers, but how many crime writers have actually lived a life of crime? Aside from speeding or maybe smoking a joint or a little underage drinking, not exactly heinous felonies. How many of us have committed those?
I’m no goody two-shoes (does anyone say that anymore?) but I also haven’t lived a life on the lam from a criminal past. As RT mentioned recently, I may have had homicidal fantasies, but I only carry them out on the page. I did, however, get a ticket for jaywalking once.
As I’ve mentioned before, I like to watch the Murder Channel, the Discovery ID Channel, 24/7 Murder, Mayhem and Betrayal. And one of the things that strikes me in many of the cases they cover is how, not only the main bad guy can so easily kill—and often someone they had once loved,—but how easy it is for them to find friends who will help them carry out their deeds before, during or after the fact. Someone to join you in the fun of murder, or join you afterwards to help you dispose of the body, lie to the cops, etc. Think about your circle of friends. Is there anyone you could turn to to help you kill someone or bury the body afterwards? I know I travel in certain circles, but I don’t think anyone I know would be willing to do that…except maybe the guy I wrote about last time, Brian McDevitt. But since I never tested him on it I can’t say for sure. But you know what they say, a friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a body. I’m not sure I have any really good friends… But so far I haven’t needed one. I guess I’ll find out if the time comes 😉.
And though I may not have murdered anyone, my life of crime began at a very early age. When I was around eight, I’m guessing, I stole a couple pieces of candy from a market. Once we got outside my dad noticed them in my hand and made me take them back. It was humiliating but it taught me a lesson—crime does not pay.
When I was in my late 20s, I was approached by a couple—no not for that. They wanted me to marry a friend of theirs from Lebanon so she could become a citizen. They would pay me and at the time I could have used the money, badly. I told them I’d think about it. But I didn’t really need to. I knew I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do it…because it was both wrong and illegal. Nonetheless, I went home and got back to them a day or two later with my negative response. They weren’t happy, but I could live with myself.
But I did commit a crime while down in San Diego. A buddy of mine and I wanted to go to Belmont Park, a small seaside amusement park. We didn’t want to pay, so we hopped a fence on the back side, climbing over barbed wire, and jumped into the park. Nobody caught us. Not exactly in the category of mass murderer, but still illegal.
McDonald’s Incident 1: Also, in San Diego, but another time, another person—my brother this time. We went to McDonald’s. They gave him too much change. A twenty instead of a five. I made him return it. Not a crime, of course, but it ties in with the next point:
McDonald’s Incident 2: Up in LA this time. They short-changed me. I pointed it out. They made me feel like a liar, a thief and criminal. They made me wait while they closed that register and rectified. They found they were wrong and I was right. They gave me my change but never apologized. This happened shortly after the first McDonald’s incident, so I felt like a sap for being honest that time. But I’d probably do it again.
Rear-ender: I was on my way to teach a class. Occasionally I taught one-night screenwriting seminars. I was sitting at a red light and I see this huge Ford pickup barreling down on me. I tried to pull over, but couldn’t in time. He clipped me, sent me through a lamppost and destroyed my car (see pix). I was lucky to get out alive. Luckily I wasn’t hurt more. And all I wanted from his insurance company—and everyone knew and admitted that he was 100% in the wrong—was to have my medical paid, real replacement value for my car, not the bluebook value—I proved to them that these cars were going for more than Bluebook. And for them to pay for my rental car. His insurance company lied to me over and over. They also tried to screw me more ways than one. I had tried being honest and straight with them. But I realized the error of my ways: not getting a lawyer and finally got one. And I’m sure that whatever settlement we got was more than what I would have settled for initially…because I am an honest person and didn’t want to screw them. But they wanted to screw me…so I screwed back, legally.
I probably shouldn’t say this, but since it’s from my wilder and younger days, and I don’t do it anymore: I used to carry a very sharp knife with me. And when people would block me in a parking place one way or another, well, let’s just say they had a hard time driving home…after I slashed their tires. I never felt bad about it. It shouldn’t take me ten minutes to crawl into my car or work my way out of a parking place. It was sort of instant justice.
I may have done some other things, heated arguments and sometimes fights, but nothing major. Never stole (except for the candy when I was a kid), murdered, burgled, robbed. But I write about people who do. And, of course, I did pull a gun on the cops that time...and lived to tell about it… But for that story you’ll have to check out my website: https://pauldmarks.com/he-pulled-a-gun-on-the-lapd-and-lived-to-tell-about-it/
So………..do you know anyone who would be willing to help you move the body?
~.~.~
And now for the usual BSP:
Colman Keane interviewed me for his blog, Col's Criminal Library. Check it out:
(reaches for the gun in her stocking, and yes that is me and a Derringer)
I'm tired of downer books. I don't want to be depressed after reading for three hours. Bear with me: I'll explain.
The
problem is, most of the downer elements of grim books involve women who
are victims. Either victims of crime, or victims of a patriarchal
society. Scandinavian Noir is full of the first. In fact, most noir
novels involve a female who is murdered and often hideously mutilated.
That's so much fun for women to read.
So here goes:
I
don't want to read any more books about women who are abused or
downtrodden. I know there are several good books out there right now
featuring such women. Some are historical. Some are current day. It's
not that they aren't good. It's just that I don't want to read any
more of them. I've read plenty.
Imagine, men, if most
of the books you had read involved men who had been victimized or
relegated to second class status by another gender. One or a few might
be interesting to read. But a steady diet of these? Would you not find
it depressing? Not to mention, discouraging?
I don't
want to read any more books about neurotic women, or women who can't get
it together. I dread more 'unreliable narrators.' Particularly, I don't want to read a book ALL THE WAY THROUGH, and then find out at the very end that the protagonist has been lying to me. (Are you listening, Kate Atkinson? *throws book across room*) Who wants to be tricked by the author? But there's something even worse about it:
Did
you notice that most (okay, every single one I can think of) unreliable
narrators on the bestseller lists recently are women? Does that say
something to you about how society views women? (reaches for gun in stocking...) It does to me. No more
'girl' books. (BLAM!...that felt good.)
I
don't want to read any more books this year with female protagonists
that are written by men. Yes, this means some of the bestselling crime
novels out there. They may be very well written. But these rarely
sound like women's stories to me. They aren't written with the same
lens.
What I want: books with intelligent female
protagonists written by women. I want more women's stories. Books I
can be proud to hand on to my daughters, and say, see what is possible?
She isn't a victim! She's someone like you.
Trouble
is, I can't FIND many books like that. The bestseller lists today are
filled with protagonists who are unstable, neurotic women. Let me be
clear: a lot of people enjoy these books. They may be very well
written. They wouldn't be on bestseller lists otherwise.
But
I'm tired of them. I want a ripping good story with a female
protagonist, written by a woman. Hell, I want to *be* the protagonist
for a few hours.
And not come away feeling downtrodden.
Speaking of which...if you're looking for a female protagonist with wit and brains, this mob goddaughter rocks the crime scene in a very different way: The Goddaughter Does Vegas - out this week from Orca Book Publishers! Book 6 in the multi-award winning caper series.
I'm guilty of this one. I'll say it right up front.
Janice Law and O'Neil De Noux got me thinking serious thoughts, which is always risky for a comedy writer.
I
make a living as an author. But not a particularly good one.
Probably, I could make the same working full time at Starbucks. As
authors in these times, we don't expect to make a good living from our
fiction. It's a noble goal, but not a realistic one for the average
well-publisher author with a large traditional publisher.
This isn't a new observation. F. Scott Fitzgerald said something similar about his time: The book publishing industry makes horse racing seem like a sure thing.
So if we can't expect big bucks from all this angst of writing fiction, what do we expect?
When The Goddaughter
came out, there was quite a fanfare. I was with a large publisher that
agreed to pay for refreshments. Eighty-five people overflowed the
place for the launch. Local newspaper and television brought cameras.
This doesn't happen in mega-city Toronto. But in Hamilton, a city of
500,000 where my book was set, I got some splashy coverage.
Those
eighty-five people included some of my closest friends and cousins. I
was delighted to see them support me. We sold out of books quickly.
I've
had another twelve books published since then. I've won ten awards. I
am still fortunate to get people to my launches. But the mix has
changed. The people who come to my launches now are fans, not relatives
and friends. With a few exceptions (and those are friends I treasure.)
Back
when I first started writing - when big shoulders were a really cool
thing - I expected my friends and extended family to be my biggest
supporters. I've been fortunate. My immediate family has been
terrific.
But expecting your friends and extended family to celebrate your success in continual ways is a road to disappointment.
I've
come to realize this: if you work, say, in a bank and get a massive,
very difficult project done, there are no parades. Your friends and
family don't have a party for you. They don't insist on reading the
report. Your paycheck is your award.
Yet as an
author, I have expected that sort of response from my non-writer
friends. I expect them to buy my books. (First mistake: all your
friends will expect to be given your books for free. For them, it's a
test of friendship.) I expect them to show up to support me at my big
events if I am in their town. Maybe not every time. Is once a year too
much?
It's been a lesson. I have people in my circle who
have never been to a single one of my author readings or launches.
I've given my books to relatives who are absolutely delighted to receive
a signed copy - but they never actually read the book.
Worse
- I've done the most masochistic thing an author can do. I've casually
searched friends' bookshelves for my books. Not there. (Note to new
authors: NEVER ask someone if they have read your book. You are bound
to be disappointed. This is because, if they read it and liked it, they
will tell you without prompting. If they read it and didn't like it,
you don't want to know. If they didn't read it...ditto.)
Yet
along this perilous, exhilarating and sometimes heartbreaking journey,
I've made a discovery. Your closest friends may let you down. I no
longer see my closest friend from ten years ago. I write crime
and fantasy. She let me know that she thought that unworthy.
People like her will find excuses not to go to your events. I don't know why. It could be a form of envy.
But
the best thing? Some people you least suspect will be become your best
supporters. This came as a complete surprise to me. A few friends -
maybe not the ones you were closest to - will rise to the occasion and
support you in every way they can. I treasure them.
To
wrap: Most authors need approval. We're doing creative work that
involves a lot of risk to the ego. There is no greater gift you can
give an author-friend than full support for their books. Be with us at
our events. Talk enthusiastically about our books to other people. We
will never forget it, and you.
Do we expect too much from those around us? Is it because we don't usually get a constant paycheck? What do you think?
In these divisive times, I need to let you know where I stand. There are some things people just can't see eye to eye on, and we can avoid talking about it or we can just hash it out and get it over with.
What the heck is wrong with people who don't like short stories?
They pick up a book and see that it's a story collection, and then drop it like like a road apple, before they catch something. I just don't understand it, but I'll try.
I love a well-crafted short story, and of course, not all of them are. In the mystery community, some editors have said that they get a lot of short stories with series characters, meant as promotion for a the latest novel, and they aren't very compelling unless you're a fan. I've been reading a lot more short stories this year after I issued myself The Short Story Challenge, so I've read a couple of those. They're a disservice to the medium, if you ask me. There are some excellent short stories starring series characters in the genre–I'll pluck "Batman's Helpers" by Lawrence Block, as one–but in the end, they are often unsatisfying, because we are used to spending time with these characters in a novel, where you can get away with things that you can't in a short story.
A story is its own little world and must be self-contained. It may be served in a buffet with others, but unless it can be served alone, like a savory dumpling of deliciousness, it isn't a story, it's an advertisement. A story isn't an idea that can't be expanded into a novel. It's almost a novel that's been compressed into a diamond. The flaws and inclusions can't be visible to the naked eye, because the reader will spot them. Writing a good short story takes concentration and focus.
Maybe reading them does, as well.
A compliment I received from a reader was "I can't skip anything, when I read your stuff." Now, I don't consciously adhere to Elmore Leonard's rule of "I tend to leave out what readers skip", but because I honed my skills on flash fiction, I try to make every word count. In novels, I had to give myself a little more breathing room, to let the characters think and feel, to let the reader get comfortable with them. Not all short stories have a laser focus, or require you to read every word like it's a puzzle, but maybe it's less relaxing to read them? I don't know. For me, I enjoy getting lost in one, for a dozen or so pages.
It's also easier to put a novel down and pick it up later. With the rise of the smartphone, editors have tried to tap in to the short attention span of the busy reader. There was the Great Jones Street app (R.I.P.) that didn't make it. Starbucks tried super-short stories with your coffee. I think most stories require more focus than we're used to giving these days. Maybe a serial story in very short parts would work better, like 250 word chunks of a novella?
I've written stories as short as 25 words ("The Old Fashioned Way," in Stupefying Stories: Mid-October 2012), and as long as ten thousand ("The Summer of Blind Joe Death", in Life During Wartime). The shorter ones tend to be harder, but more satisfying. My favorite flash tales were published at Shotgun Honey and The Flash Fiction Offensive. They're still delivering the goods. For me, a good flash fiction crime tale should be indebted to Roald Dahl or John Collier. "Slice of Life" stories tend to be boring, unless the writing is a knockout. Stories are where I cut my teeth, made my bones. They're a challenge, and while zine slush piles can be no less navigable than querying agents with novels, there are plenty of markets and you can still make a mark in readers' minds.
Down & Out Books collected the best of my short stories in Life During Wartime.
If you want to read what I've been reading, and I've found a lot of great new and old stories this year, check out The Short Story Challenge.
If you want to read some good short stories, but prefer novels, there's always the "linked short stories" books. I have a few favorites in the crime genre.
Country Hardball by Steve Weddle is a great one, set in Arkansas along the Louisiana border. Steve edited the excellent Needle: a Magazine of Noir and knows a great story. And how to write one. Check out "Purple Hulls" for an example.
Jen Conley's Cannibals: Stories from the Edge of the Pine Barrens is another great one. Jen gets into a character's heart, whether it's Metalhead Marty, unlucky in love, or a young girl playing tag in the woods, when she runs into an encampment.
Hilary Davidson is another of my favorite short story writers, and The Black Widow Club collects some of her best. And people say my stories are dark?
So, are you one of the people who prefer novels over short stories? If you don't mind, please tell us why, in the comments. We won't throw rocks, or think any less of you. We like what we like.
Toronto has had a lot of nicknames, but I like this description best:
Toronto is “New York run by the Swiss.” (Peter Ustinov, 1987)
He meant that in a good way, of course! Toronto is a big city - the
Greater Toronto Area is more than 6 million. Our restaurant scene is
second to none. We may be the most diverse city in the world. How
great is our diversity? When I worked in health care, our government
agency had 105 dialects spoken by staff!
It's my
great pleasure to be part of the Bouchercon 2017 Committee. Many of you know my friends Helen Nelson and Janet Costello, who are the conference co-chairs. With these gals in charge, you know it will be an unforgettable conference. Come to our town, for a great Crime Time!
Even if you aren't registered for Bouchercon 2017, you can still enter the anthology competition!
Our
theme is the convention theme—Passport to Murder—so include a travel
theme with actual travel or the desire to travel with or without
passports. And it must include at least a strong suggestion of murder or
a plan to commit murder…. All crime sub-genres welcome.
Publication date: October 12, 2017.
Editor: John McFetridge
Publisher: Down & Out Books
All
stories, by all authors, will be donated to the anthology as part of
the overall donation to our literacy charity fundraising efforts. All
profits on the anthology (including those of the publisher) will be
donated to our charity.
Guests of Honour for Bouchercon 2017
will be invited to contribute to the anthology. For open submissions,
preliminary selection for publication will be blind, by a panel of
three judges, with final, blind selection by the editor.
The details:
The story must include travel and at least a strong suggestion of murder or a plot to commit murder.
Story length: a maximum of 5000 words
Electronic submissions only.
RTF format, preferably double-spaced
Times New Roman or similar font (12 point)
Paragraph indent .5 inch (or 1.25 cm). Please do not use tabs or space bar.
Include story title and page number in document header.
Maximum of one entry per author
Open to both writers who have been previously published, in any format, and those who have never been published.
The story must be previously unpublished in ANY format, electronic or print.
Please remove your name or any identifying marks from your story. Any
story that can be associated with the author will either be returned for
correction (if there is time) or disqualified.
Please include a brief bio in your submission form (max 150 words) and NOT in the body of your story.
After Bouchercon 2017 and Down & Out Books expenses have been
recovered, all proceeds will be donated to Bouchercon 2017’s literacy
charity of choice.
Copyright will remain with the authors.
Authors must be prepared to sign a contract with Down & Out Books.
Submissions must be e-mailed no later than 11:59 P.M (EST) January 31,
2017. Check the website (www.bouchercon2017.com) for full details and
entry form.
Today, I’m writing a serious blog. (‘NO! Don’t do it!
Don’t’ <sounds of heels screeching on floor as body dragged offstage>)
I write comedy. I wrote stand-up, and had a regular column gig for
many years. My published crime books and most of my short stories are
(hopefully) humorous. My blog…well, that sometimes goes off the wall.
But I’m noticing that as I get older, the comedy seems to become more
shocking. Or rather, I am shocking people more. They don’t know how
to take it. I see them gasp and act confused. Did I really mean
what I said just then? Was it meant to be funny?
I don’t believe it’s because I’m writing a different level of material.
Nope.
So why? Why does my comedy seem to shock readers more than it did
twenty years ago?
It’s not the readers. It’s my age.
Writing comedy when you are thirty is ‘cute’. I can’t tell you how
many people told me that I ‘looked cute on stage’ as I innocently said some
outrageous things that made people laugh.
Saying outrageous things on stage when you are over 50 is not ‘cute’.
Women over 50 are never described as ‘cute’ (unless they are silly and feeble
and quite old. Not to mention petite.) Women over 50 cannot carry off
‘innocent’ (unless portraying someone very dumb.) Women over 50 are
expected to be dignified.
Phyllis Diller was a wonderful comic. She did outrageous things on
stage, and we laughed with her. But she dressed like a crazy-woman and
had us laughing AT her as well as with her. Some women I know dislike the
fact that Diller made herself ridiculous in front of an audience. I
don’t, because I know why she did it.
Forgive me while I pull a Pagliacci. Yes, I still write comedy.
But I don’t do stand-up anymore. I’ve found that women my age are not
well received by crowds (especially liquored-up crowds).
Women who are young and pretty can get away with murder. Even better,
they can get away with comedy.
But this is what I've found: A woman over 50 who makes fun of younger women is (often) seen as
jealous. A woman over 50 who makes fun of men is (often) viewed as
bitter. A woman over 50 who makes fun of other women over 50 can get away with
it, but the big audience isn’t there.
So my hat goes off to women like Rita Rudner, who do it still. I admire her
so (and not just because she is slim and petite.) I’ll stick to combining
comedy and crime on the printed page. At least that way, I won’t end up
murdering my audience.
Postscript: I paid a tribute to Phyllis Diller, at the launch of my
latest book, The Goddaughter Caper. I wore an outrageous hat and a sign
that said, "Return to the Holy Cannoli Retirement Home."
Everyone laughed and loved it. I made myself look silly. Which
demonstrates that when a woman over 50 engages in self-deprecating humour, it
is approved by audiences.
What do you think? Yes, an older woman can make fun of herself and delight an audience. But is there a similar acceptance if she makes fun of others? Ageism or sexism? Both?
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