Yikes! and Crickets! The Happy Hollisters are back!

Where do you stand on rewriting or editing the work of long-dead authors? Yes, I am thinking of the recent articles we’ve all seen about revising the work of such authors as Agatha Christie, Ian Fleming, Ursula LeGuin, and Roald Dahl, among others.

I’m asking for a few other reasons.

One: I was just in a casino—I swear I was there for research—and encountered a ton of slot machines derived from literary works. Willy Wonka slot machines. James Bond slot machines. Game of Thrones, and The Lord of the Rings slot machines. Granted, these slots were devoted to filmed versions of these literary properties. But it nevertheless reminded me that there is big money in keeping the literary heritage of an author as trouble-free as possible. No wonder the heirs of various estates are tempted to permit revision of their ancestor’s work. They want book sales and licensing deals to keep rolling in until the copyrights have expired.

Two: I’m also asking because I recently revisited a couple of books in a mystery series I’d enjoyed as a kid. Those books not only raised the question of revision, but, to my mind, complicated the issue even further. It’s back-to-school time in the U.S., so I thought this might make an interesting conversation. But I warn you right now: I cannot easily answer some of the questions I will pose to you. I actually hope that you can help me.

The Happy Hollisters at Sea Gull Beach is the third book in the series I’m talking about, but it was the first to hook me as a kid. It’s the story of a family of amateur sleuths who search for a long-lost pirate ship while on a beach vacation. When I discovered the book at a library sale in the early 1970s, it struck me as aspirational. A family that goes on a vacation to the beach at a moment’s notice? To solve a mystery? Parents who don’t berate their kids about how much this trip is costing? Sold!

It never occurred to me that the Happy Hollisters were part of a larger franchise until I discovered a stash of 15 more titles at a yard sale. By then, I was a little older, and I marveled at how all the loose ends of the plots wrapped neatly in 182 or 184 pages like clockwork.

Only recently did I learn that the Hollisters were part of the Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew empire. Their return to the publishing stage in the 21st Century can be seen as a triumph of self publishing, and an object lesson on the importance of preserving one’s intellectual property.

 

The series ran from 1953 to 1969. They were written by “Jerry West,” a pen name for Andrew E. Svenson, a total Jersey boy—born, schooled, married, and employed first at a newspaper in the Garden State. In mid-1940s, he joined the Stratemeyer Syndicate, then based in East Orange, New Jersey. Svenson wrote about 80 books for the firm, including books in the Hardy Boys series.

In 1950, when the firm began revamping those books to purge them of the offensive racism that had nearly gotten them axed by their publisher, Grosset & Dunlap, Svenson oversaw that operation, revising titles that he himself and other writers had written years earlier. (I’m not going to delve into the specifics of that revision project; that’s what Prof. Wiki is for.) Franchises such as the Bobbsey Twins, the Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew have since been revised numerous times to fit those characters into the modern world. Before anyone was thinking of purging James Bond or Hercule Poirot or Willy Wonka, the Stratemeyer Syndicate and the publishers who later acquired their stable of stories routinely updated the old books. It was what you did if you wanted to keep selling. I’d venture to say that anyone who grew up on those books would agree that revising them in the 1950s was probably a good thing.

Andrew Svenson, 1948 photo. (Courtesy happyhollisters.com)

Svenson outlined and wrote Hardy Boys books along with a coterie of largely anonymous syndicate writers. But he alone was responsible for conceiving, outlining, and writing the Happy Hollisters series, which ran for 33 books.

The Hollisters, who live in the fictional town of Shoreham, consisted of a mom, dad, five kids, a dog, a cat, and—in the later books—a donkey adopted on a trip to Puerto Rico.

(Courtesy happyhollisters.com)

Svenson was inspired by his own family. He and his wife lived in the suburb of Bloomfield, New Jersey, with six kids and a bevy of pets. When he traveled, alone or with the brood, Svenson collected ideas for stories. Back home, he’d draft a working outline, and dictate a 33,000-word Hollister book in about a month. The children’s literature archives at the University of Mississippi preserve many of the audio discs Svenson generated on a Sound Scriber device, as well as the initial manuscripts later typed by secretaries. Each book is about 18 chapters of about 1,600 words each. Sticking to that formula was how he managed to hit that 180-page target that impressed me so much as a young reader. He would have had to write about two books a year to reach 33 titles in the span of time he worked on those.

As they travel the USA and the globe, the Hollisters encounter new cultures and find themselves in the middle of a new (yet always murderless) mystery. For the era, the books were considered educational since they delved into different topics—sign language, braille, coin collecting, new cuisines, foreign languages, just to name a few. The photos Svenson collected on his travels informed the illustrations later created by Helen S. Hamilton.

In the heyday of the Syndicate, the Hollister series sold about 11 million books. It was the bestselling mystery series for younger readers at the time. Doubleday and Stratemeyer severed their Hollister contract in 1971, though there had not been any new books for some time. Before he died in 1975, Svenson and the Syndicate tried to tempt new publishers, but found no takers. The Syndicate transferred the copyright to Svenson’s heirs, who tried for a few more decades to interest other publishers. Nothing doing.

In 2010, Svenson’s grandchildren re-launched the series as a self-publishing venture, carefully retyping the entire series—1.1 million words—into digital form for the first time, and carefully digitizing the original Hamilton images and covers. One by one, they re-issued the books as ebooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, and eventually audiobooks. They connected with fans via social media, a website, and homeschooling conferences. The final reissued book pubbed last year. Reviewers on Amazon largely celebrate the books as wholesome, and routinely cheer their happy endings.

On one hand, there’s a powerful lesson here for all writers. Currently, copyright in the United States extends for the life of the author plus 70 years. We have all heard stories of “orphaned” author estates, where the work of a writer disappears because no one has been empowered to license their work after their deaths.

The Svensons—via The Hollister Family Properties Trust—lucked out by making their own luck. Svenson’s widow wisely renewed the copyrights of all the books, which was necessary at the time. His children and grandchildren were all well-educated, many of them with backgrounds in publishing, radio, marketing, and catalog sales. If there was one family who was not going to lose their father’s legacy, it was this one.

That all said, how well do the books hold up?

The reissued Hollister volumes preserve Svenson’s words exactly as they were originally published. As I re-read Sea Gull Beach, I continued to be amazed by Svenson’s gift for compression, keeping the plot humming along quickly, and ending nearly every chapter with a cliffhanger.

I certainly came across language and scenarios that struck me as antiquated. Eleven-year-old Pam Hollister wonders if girls are allowed to enter the kite contest at Sea Gull Beach. Prior to their trip, the siblings mount a pirate play to benefit a local hospital for “Crippled Children.”

In The Indian Treasure, the fourth book in the series, the Hollisters visit the Native American Pueblos of New Mexico. They learn about adobe houses, historic pueblo structures and kivas, turquoise jewelry, the Hispanic culture of the Southwest, chili con carne, and more. That all struck me as truly educational. Svenson researched Pueblo culture by connecting with Popovi Da, a legendary Native American artist, and docents with a famed tour company.

In the 21st book, The Haunted House Mystery, which features a deaf character and sign language, Svenson thanks his contacts at a school for the hearing impaired. So we have this impression of a conscientious author trying to get his facts straight. And remember, Svenson—a longtime member of the Mystery Writers Association—is the guy Stratemeyer turned to when they needed to revise their older books. He was seen by his peers as an open-minded writer who could be trusted to portray all characters with decency.

Yet there’s still a moment in The Indian Treasure—just one—where an individual is described as a redskin. When the Hollister kids are playing, their shouts of joy are described as “war whoops.” A lot of their conversation touches on all the “nice Indians” they’re meeting, perhaps implying that there are “bad Indians.”

I could go on, probably, but you get the idea. As I read The Indian Treasure, knowing the history of the Stratemeyer titles, the former children’s editor in me thought, “Wow, this would have been so easy to fix. The book is already 90 percent respectful to other cultures. Why not revise it so it’s perfect for the 21st Century?”

That’s where I had to slap myself and ask myself the question I asked you at the beginning. Books are a snapshot in time. When the author says it’s done, it’s done. Dame Agatha did in fact famously revise the book we now know as And Then There Were None for the American market, eradicating its inherent racism. She was alive to do that work, though her UK publishers changed the UK title in the 1980s, after her death. In the New York Times article I link to above, her great-grandson says the book would have been unpublishable if they hadn’t.

Christie, Fleming, LeGuin, and Dahl aren’t here to revise their books anymore, and neither is Svenson. My current thinking is that if a book is problematic, the publisher can at the very least provide a disclaimer. The Svenson heirs have done exactly this. The copyright pages of the new Hollister books all carry this language: “Certain events, terminology and behaviors are presented in this volume exactly as originally printed. In retaining potentially confusing and questionable situations, the publisher offers the opportunity for valuable ‘teaching moments’ for today’s reader.”

I think that’s the way to go. I mean, this is a series that presents a post-war America where diversity is largely nonexistent. The Hollisters are white kids who live in a largely white neighborhood. But that describes most of the old movies cinephiles celebrate today. Heck, it describes a ton of modern movies and TV programs. As an aside, I’ll note that Svenson did in fact write the first African American mystery series for Stratemeyer, featuring a five-kid family not unlike the Hollisters. I’m tracking down a few of those original volumes to review.

That said, aside from the cultures they visit, the Hollisters don’t ever meet anyone who isn’t white unless the plot necessitates the diverse character’s presence. An encounter with a Native American baseball player in their hometown is the inciting plot point of The Indian Treasure, for example. Changing the plot to “correct” the Native American issue would not fix the overwhelming whiteness. You’d have to revise the entire series.

That brings up a host of questions I don’t feel qualified to answer, or even grapple with. But’ll throw them all at you, because some of you have been at this game longer than I have, and probably can offer some coherent responses.

If it was okay to revise the old Hardy Boys and Nancy Drews, why isn’t it okay to revise Fleming, Dahl, LeGuin, or Christie?

Is it because the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew aren’t considered great literature?

Because they were written by an ever-revolving team of house writers?

Because they were mystery novels for kids?

What’s really the issue? Are we okay protecting kids from potentially troubling content, but comfortable allowing adult readers to make up their own minds about the content they consume?

How does this connect with banning books?

And while your eyes are still bleeding, let me lob the most important one at you: Why won’t the Willy Wonka slot machine recognize that I’m a huge fan of the Gene Wilder movie, and let me win big time?

* * * 

See you in three weeks!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

A Question of Empathy

 The other day I had a well-dressed, impeccably kempt older man approach me while I was getting gas at a local service station. He asked me in broken English laced with a lot of Italian, for help getting his rental car back to Portland. I offered to pay for some gas, but he told me his minivan didn't need gas. He needed money.

I rarely carry cash and this time was no exception. Plus, the kiosk attendant at this particular station was not set up to give customers cash. On top of this, I was on my way to work, and didn't have time to get to a cash machine. I apologized and told him I couldn't help him.

While I filled up I watched him approach a number of other people at the other pumps, and have more success. I felt relieved and wished him well.

The above got me thinking about the limits and limitations of human empathy on my drive in to work, and several times since. 

So of course I turned this into a thought exercise on the impact of empathy (or lack thereof) on writing fiction.

Jane Austen once famously said, “I intend to write a protagonist that no one will like. But I shall like her.” Austen was, of course, talking about the titular protagonist of her novel, Emma. And even though Emma Woodhouse frequently comes across as self-satisfied, wrong-headed, and hard-to-like, She never comes across as undeserving of the reader’s empathy. Also, Austen clearly felt empathy for this, one of her more famous creations.

This is interesting to me, because the difference between affection and empathy with regard to literary characters is so often papered over by writers, either in a hurry, or blessed with onlya marginal amount of insight and skill.

Of course, affection and empathy are not the same thing. One requires an emotional reaction in favor of the character whereas the other requires only the acknowledgment of the basic humanity of the character, and thus that character’s being deserving of empathy.

And not just “deserving.” Empathy is not a luxury in writing good fiction. It is a necessity. And while it’s truly needed for one’s protagonists, and any supporting characters more complex than the stock background characters who wander in and out of so many stories with only one thing to do, one sentence to deliver, etc., in service of the story’s plot, it is all the more important that the writer have it and employ it when writing the antagonist of the piece.

Because one truism of writing is that the best villains are the fully drawn ones. And a character drawn without empathy on the part of the writer is doomed to be a caricature, a cartoon.

This is in large part because non-cartoony characters tend not to think of themselves as the “bad guy.” In their narrative, they are the hero, not the ostensible protagonist.

Well-drawn villains possess their own desires, goals and resources, same as the best protagonists. The difference between the character and the cartoon is the difference between Heathcliff the complex, Byronic antihero of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights and Heathcliff the orange cat from the classic comic strip.

Mustache twirling is best left to the Dick Dastardlys of the literary world. For me, give me characters whose motives and desires I can understand and respect, even if I don’t share them.

That’s what empathy on the part of the author can give the reader. And what a gift it is.

See you in two weeks!

The Picture on Pratchett's Wall

I just finished reading Terry Pratchett: A Life With Footnotes: The Official Biography, by Rob Wilkins.  I have written about Pratchett before but I want to discuss one aspect of his life that shows up a lot in this book.

Sir Terry Pratchett (or STP, as his fans called him) was a bestselling British author of comic fantasy novels.  That description is selling him pretty cheap, since he has also been called the greatest satirist since Chaucer.

And "cheap" is sort of the point, because I want to talk about his relationship with money.  Pratchett was raised by working class parents (his father was an auto mechanic).  He got a job as a reporter for a small local newspaper and later moved to public relations for the nuclear power industry.

During this time he had started publishing novels. After several had appeared he decided, with great trepidation, to try writing full-time.  His publisher (who became his agent) said "His conclusion was that he thought he would see a dip in income in the short term, but then he would quite possibly be all right."

Which turned out to be understatement.  At one point he and Wilkins (personal assistant turned business manager and then offficial biographer) calculated that his novels were paying him ten pounds per word.  I assure you those of us who write mystery short stories do not make that much.

Pratchett seemed a bit obsessed with money, which is understandable because, besides providing for the necessities and luxuries of life, it was a way of keeping score.  For many years critics were not lining up to heap his work with praise and awards. After all, this couldn't be serious work.  The wrote about vampires, for heaven's sake.  And golems.  It took all those serious critics a while to catch onto the fact that  his vampires struggled with addiction problems and the golems were fighting for their civil rights. 

Why do I say he was obsessed with money?  Here is one of many examples.  At one point he created a book that was different from anything he had done before and he was so offended by the bids publishers made on it that he took the book off the market for many years.  What was wrong with the bids?  He felt they were too high.  He worried that whichever publisher released the book would lose money.

I diagnose a case of imposter's syndrome, a terrible fear that people might realize he was not as good as they thought.

Fortunately that never happened.  Pratchett  was even knighted for his "services to literature" although he maintained that his greatest service to literature was never trying to write any.

He was not shy about donating money, including a million pounds for Alzheimer's research after he was diagnosed with an early-onset variant.  (He lived with it for eight  years. and remarkably kept writing until near the end.)  Generally he gave money to organizations that were also finding money elsewhere.  "Pratchetts help those who help themselves."

He kept a photo on his office wall, one he got from W.H. Smith's, Britain's biggest bookstore chain. Was it a cozy picture of the front of one of their shops? No. Perhaps a candid snap of him signing books?  Sorry.

It was a photo of the company's book-pulping machine, where unloved volumes went to die.

It was, he said, a reminder to write better.  And he did.

Game On!

I'm delighted to welcome Kristin Kisska back to SleuthSayers today with this guest post. It's perfect timing because today is a special day for her--publication day for her first novel! Congratulations, Kristin!

--Barb Goffman

Game On

by Kristin Kisska

Credit-Lindsey Pantele
Photography

Thank you, Barb Goffman, for letting me take over your Sleuthsayers’ byline today!

Picture this.

A diligent, twenty-something graduate student sitting through her fourth lecture of the day, the statistics class, which had earned the reputation for being the dullest required course for the degree. She’s two semesters deep into her MBA program and wishes she’d had the foresight to skip this one lecture. But with her notebook open and a No. 2 pencil in hand (this story is set in the analog era, not digital), she waits for the bell to ring, announcing the start of class.

But instead of yet another mind-numbing lecture swirling with math terms like means, medians, and regression lines, the professor introduces a topic that perks her up—game theory, a mathematical model of corporate and geo-political strategy. This has been used to analyze everything from the Cold War, mergers and acquisitions of global companies, privatizing utilities (hello, Ma Bell), and even chess strategies.

While most of this high-level concept was beyond this starry-eyed grad student’s mere human-level grasp of math, one of game theory’s core elements resonated with her:

Every player (a) is rational, and (b) will always make decisions in their best interest.

The element’s inverse truism is that if a player does something that seems counter to their best interest, then the opponent does not have complete or perfect information.

Spoiler alert. This grad student was me.

Let’s fast forward a couple decades (or three). I’ve since traded my global corporate finance hat for my #SuspenseGirl author hat. Not many lessons from my MBA days have helped me in my current career path, but I’ve used this one element from that epic statistics lecture every single time I sit down to write fiction.

If all fictional characters were to behave predictably, what fun would that be? Not much. I’d argue most readers crave the chance to solve puzzles. If not, mysteries wouldn’t be the thriving genre they are today.

When it comes to fiction—particularly crime fiction—astute authors can use this game theory element to their advantage. By layering in a character’s unexpected behavior, either subtle or obvious, a crime fiction author can signal to the reader that new—surprising—information will be forthcoming. It can elevate the reader’s experience by hinting at the richness of the character’s as-yet unrevealed backstory:

Secrets. Relationships. Unresolved traumas. Character wounds. Behind-the-scenes conflicts. Or even a deeper understanding of the stakes involved.

Let’s consider the classic movie Star Wars. When Obi-One Kenobi is fighting Darth Vader, the first-time viewer would expect Obi-One to fight for his life. Survival is a rational, relatable, and universally assumed goal. But for no explicable reason, when Obi-One sees Luke Skywalker watching the fight from a distance, he surrenders by raising his lightsaber and allows Vader to strike a death blow. In the moment, we (the viewers) are as confused and shocked as Luke Skywalker. It’s not until later that we learn that by dying, Obi-One could amplify his power for good because he becomes one with the energy of the Force.

Or, as is in the case of my debut novel, The Hint of Light, (published today!), the unconditional love of a mother toward her child can make her actions seem irrational and unpredictable. In real life, over-protective mothers are so common in society we’ve labeled them as mama bears, helicopter moms, and even tiger moms, but these terms boil down to the same concept. The maternal-child relationship can be so intense it can make people do very strange things when placed under pressure. A mother, in an effort to keep her child safe, can seem both irrational and unpredictable. And yet, when viewed from the mother’s lens with her specific interpretation of events, her priorities, and the options open to her, readers may understand the extreme choices she has made.

We could carry this example one step further by also challenging the first part of this game theory element—that all players are rational. It’s not always a given. In fact, we have a thriving subgenre called psychological suspense, which depends on the concept of the unreliable narrator. But I addressed this in another Sleuthsayers blog post, Deconstructing a Narrator: https://www.sleuthsayers.org/2020/05/deconstructing-narrator.html

Now, I have a little game theory homework for you. What character in a novel or movie made a choice that shocked you? What new information did you learn after the fact that made their choice seem reasonable?

 

PS - Let's be social:
Twitter @KKMHOO
Facebook - @Kristin Kisska
Instagram - @KristinKisskaAuthor
Website - KristinKisska.com

What could go wrong?

I start every new project, whether it’s repairing a toilet, designing a four-bedroom house or starting a novel, flush with optimism.  This time, I think, everything’s going to go smoothly and efficiently.  A relentless march from beginning to end with nary a hiccup.  Because, after all, I’d done all these things before and I have the positive results to show for it.

Yet this never happens.  A better way to describe my projects is a series of screwups and miscalculations, strung together by intermittent moments of good luck, and relentless revision.  In retrospect, the degree of difficulty for each project is inversely  proportionate to my expectations for smooth sailing. 

I think in this, I’ve inherited the same delusional thinking that infects entrepreneurs, research scientists and treasure hunters.  We’re excellent at imagining successful outcomes, and blind to the realities that come with the actual experience, even though experience should be informing our states of mind. 

You could make a case that this mad, irrepressible sanguinity is what compels human achievement, driving our ancestors out of the grasslands to spread out across the globe, and eventually sending some of us all the way to the lunar surface.  That’s probably true.  Though there’s another quality that sustains the effort, however naïve the launch. 

I know someone who’s always surprised and affronted when a project doesn’t go exactly according to plan.  As if a hitch in the works is the act of a malevolent, supernatural being, or the result of gross incompetence by someone other than the planner himself.   This flows from an assumption that things should always go right, when all the evidence tells us things will inevitably go wrong. 

At this late stage of life, I’ve come to accept that glitches, goof-ups, gaffes, blunders and misapprehensions are an integral part of the process, necessary, even indispensable.  At the company I used to run, people would ask if we had a problem, and I’d say it isn’t a problem unless we don’t have a solution.  It’s just the work. 

In the woodworking world, much of what I’ve learned has come from noodling through problems, or mistakes.  Since I hate wasting wood, I can usually salvage the effort, often by tinkering with the design.  (A piece cut too long is rarely an issue, since you can just cut it again.  It’s the too-short ones that wreak havoc.)  The goal isn’t to never make mistakes, it’s to avoid making the same mistake more than once. 

There are also those pleasant occasions when a mistake makes the project better.  Like a random mutation that improves a species’ chance of survival, some goofs are revealed to be a better approach in the first place.   Something faster, more precise or just better looking. 

Every writer has experienced those happy accidents when the writing suddenly veers off course and a far better idea emerges.  One could argue that these aren’t really mistakes, but rather the machinations of the subconscious taking control over the work and sending it along to where it should have been going in the first place.  The trick for the writer, or the woodworker, or plumber, is to embrace these little diversions, make adjustments and thank them for their service. 

Since it’s popular to relabel things once considered negative in order to sooth easily offended sensibilities (you’re not tone-deaf, just harmonically challenged), what’s called for is a redefinition of mistake.  Back at the company I worked for, we’d sarcastically describe some monumental f**kup as a growth opportunity.  That’s a good start.  Maybe “Unplanned Deviation From Projected Outcome”, or UDFPO. 

Or maybe just another life lesson, which if you’re lucky, will never stop being taught. 

KDP Paperback Change in Pricing

Prior to June 20th of this year, Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing stated that due to inflation. it would be increasing its pricing on paperbacks by about 23 cents per book in order to cover their increased costs for ink, paper, etc. Authors in turn could increase their book's selling price to a value of their choice, or they could accept a sell price determined by KDP where they would not lose any royalty income. Or, the author could do nothing and therefore lose about 23 cents per paperback in royalty sales.

All 9 of my e-book short story collections were listed at $2.99 per e-book and were not affected by KDP's inflation-based raise in their price. However, I had considered raising my sale price anyway, so this was probably a good time to do it. Same for the paperbacks regardless of what KDP was doing.

Curious to see what price KDP would set on my 9 paperbacks which were selling for $8.99 each at the time, I chose to let KDP set my paperback sale price, with me having the option to change the price later. On June 20th, KDP left my e-book sale price alone and set my paperback sale price at $9.21 per book. I would not lose any royalty money at that level, but I had wanted to increase my price above that figure anyway.

A day later, I went to work on the figures. KDP had given easy instructions on how an author could change their prices. I went down my Book Shelf list and took each e-book and/or paperback in order. Strangely enough, I found that not all my e-books were linked to their paperback.

I increased all my e-book sale prices from $2.99 to $3.99, which increased my royalties per e-book. Hit the PUBLISH button and sent the e-book off to be reviewed by KDP.

For my paperbacks, I increased the sales price from KDP's $9.21 to a $9,47 figure. It's not much, but now knowing how easy it is to change pricing, I can always increase the selling price later. I hit the PUBLISH button and off  the paperback went to KDP for review. Reviews for both forms of books came back accepted within a day.

While working on the process to change prices, I kept noticing buttons to link the previously unlinked e-books to their paperback, or vice versa. Me being slightly paranoid about changing two variables on an established product at the same time, I ignored those buttons under the theory that it is easier to solve a software choice if you are only dealing with one variable change at a time. Surprise, surprise, Amazon/KDP linked each e-book with the proper paperback anyway.

One other item I noticed. When the author sets the selling price, the software automatically calculates the author's royalty for all Amazon.com sales, plus for all Amazon foreign sales. There is also a box the author can check for expanded royalty sales if he wants access to other distributors. This expanded royalty is about 20% of what the regular royalty is. I was sure I had checked the box first time around, but found my original check mark wasn't there, so I needed to check the box all over again. One of these days, I'll need to go back and see if all the other paperbacks need a check mark. In which case, I'll have to hit the PUBLISH button again.

Side Note: The majority of the short stories collected in these 9 e-books/paperbacks were previously published in magazines or anthologies, so every sale of these is like found money.

I hope this makes it easier for any authors going through or contemplating the KDP pricing change, And, if anyone is interested, my spreadsheet is below.

New Prices & Royalties on Paperbacks as of 06/20/23

  Title                                Pages    Price     Royalty    Exp. Royalty   Status

9 Chronicles of Crime       168      $9.47      $2.64             .42            08/21/19

9 Deadly Tales                   162      $9.47      $2.74             .44            08/27/19

9 Twin Brothers                  204      $9.47      $2.23             .39            09/12/19

9 Historical Mysteries        214       $9.47      $2.11             .22            09/12/19

9 Holiday Burglars             210        $9.47      $2.06             .47            09/14/19

9 Tales Golden Triangle     194        $9.47      $2.33              .41            06/09/22

9 Historical Mysteries II    196        $9.47       $2.40              .42            08/09/22

9 Tales Criminal Mind        196        $9.47      $2.38              .48            09/xx/22

31 Mini-Mysteries               170        $9.47      $2.64               .42           09/22/19

Now, can anyone tell me why one of my paperbacks listed on Amazon has a line through the price I set and is being offered at a discounted price? To my knowledge, I did not sign up for any sale or promotion program.

A Fun Post: Why Book Tours are Expensive... (More comedy on the road)

 It's rerun season! 

I dug into the archives, and found my third ever column for Sleuthsayers, from NINE YEARS AGO, to the month.  

It also happens to be a favourite of mine (which usually points to loopy comedy.)  There have been ten books since The Goddaughter's Revenge, would you believe.

by Melodie Campbell 

I’ve recently been on a book tour for my latest crime comedy, The Goddaughter’s Revenge (winner of the 2014 Derringer and Arthur Ellis Awards for Best Novella. There. I got it in.  My publisher can relax now.)

Book tours are expensive.  You travel around to independent book stores and you sell some books and sign them. 

It’s fun.  You meet a lot of great people.  But it’s expensive.  And I’m not talking about the hotel bill and the bar tab.

I should have just stayed in the bar.  It was leaving the bar that become expensive.

Nice night.  We decided to go for a walk.  It was dark, but I had on my brand new expensive progressive eye-glasses, so not a problem, right?

One second I was walking and talking.  The next, I was flying through the air.

Someone screamed. 

WHOMP.  (That was me, doing a face plant.)

“OHMYGOD! Are you okay?”  said my colleague.

I was clearly not okay.  In fact, I was splat on the sidewalk and could not move. 

“Fine!” I yelled into the flagstone.  “I’m Fine!”

I tried to lift my head.  Ouch.

“That must have hurt,” said someone helpfully.

I write about a mob Goddaughter. So I know a bit about mob take-outs.  It may come in handy.

A crowd had gathered.  Not the sort of crowd that gently lifts you off the ground.  More the sort of crowd that gawks.

“Couldn’t figure out why you were running ahead of us.” My colleague shook his head.

I wasn’t running.  I was tripping and falling.

“That sidewalk is uneven.  Your heel must have caught on it.”

No shit, Sherlock.

By now I had tested various body parts.  Knees were numb.  Hands, scraped.  Chin, a little sore. 

But here’s the thing.  I hit in this order: knees, tummy, boobs, palms.  My boobs cushioned the fall and saved my face. 

Yes, this was going through my mind as I pushed back with my tender palms to balance on my bloody knees.

“Ouch!”  I said.  No, that’s a lie.  I said something else.

I stood up.  Surveyed the damage.  My knees were a bloody mess, but the dress survived without a scratch.  It was made in China, of course.  Of plastic.

The crowd was dispersing.  But the pain wasn’t over.

Next day, I hobbled to the clinic.  The doctor, who probably isn’t old enough to drive a car, shook his head.

“Progressive glasses are the number one reason seniors fall.  They are looking through the reading part of their glasses when they walk, and can’t see the ground properly.”

Seniors?  I’ve still got my baby fat.

“Get some distance-only glasses,” he advised.

So I did.  Another 350 bucks later, I have a third pair of glasses to carry around in my purse.
Which means my purse isn’t big enough.

So I need to buy a new purse.

And that’s why book tours are so expensive.

Melodie Campbell is an infant Sleuthsayer, and this is her third column.  She writes comedies (No shit, Sherlock.)  You can find them at www.melodiecampbell.com and all the usual book places.

Update!  Melodie Campbell is a veteran Sleuthsayer now, with seventeen books and a few more years on the bod.  Might even admit to being a senior now, if a senior means over 55.  Hope to be around to rerun this humour column in another nine years.  Hope you are too!

(cartoon of me with offending shoes)