Remembering Ken Bruen

It was about two weeks ago we got the news Ken Bruen passed away. If you read Ken's Jack Taylor or Inspector Brant series, you know he infused every page with rage. You might call his writing "brutal poetry" as that's how he wrote prose. The violence and horror he depicted came to the reader like a long epic poem.

But in person, Ken was the kindest, most generous person to other writers. Quick to take an author he liked under his wing, he would nonetheless make it about something other than writing when you hung out with him. If he wasn't regaling you with stories of the people he met, he was listening to you. Because the stories all had to come from somewhere. Ken not only wanted to tell you where his came from; he wanted to know where yours came from.

I met Ken in 2004 at the Toronto Bouchercon. It was a year of firsts for me. My first novel was scheduled for the following year. It was my first trip to another country (during which my second day was spent, in part, at a Walmart and a McDonald's. But I did legally smoke a Cuban cigar!) I mingled, met some of the people I'd spoken to only online or at book signings. One of them tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Hey, Ken Bruen's taking a bunch of us up the street to an Irish pub. You're invited."

Me? Yes. Ken read a bunch of our stuff. So a handful of us, including our own Brian Thornton and Jersey writer Dave White, ended up a couple of blocks from the Intercontinental where the Jameson flowed, and so did the Molson. (Well, one of us insisted on drinking Guinness. "Dude, the famous Irish guy is drinking Molson. We're in Toronto!" "It's an Irish pub.")

Ken was partially, though not entirely, responsible for crime fiction writers of a certain age developing an obsession with Tom Waits. But Ken could personalize it, too. He me into a five-year binge of the late Rory Gallagher's work. Prior to meeting Ken, I knew Gallagher is one of those who floated in the same orbit as Clapton, Page, and Beck. Usually, I heard him on other people's stuff. But getting the CDs direct from Ireland was a revelation. 

And of course, there was the writing. The Guards grabbed me and threw me to the ground. I've read all but the latest Jack Taylor novels. The best was The Dramatist, but the ending was so harrowing I can never reread it. He could do that. He could put a reader through the emotional ringer yet leave them wanting more.

And now Jack's story is done. And Brant's. And Max's, his raucously funny series cowritten with Jason Starr (who knows a few things about putting readers through the meat grinder.) And unfortunately, Ken is gone. We miss you, buddy.

"Worst Case Scenario: We Amputate Your Leg"

    "Worst case scenario: we amputate your leg to save your life

 — Hospital ER Surgeon, in conversation with me, March 10th, 2025

Soooooo it's been a while. Miss me? How did your March go?

To say mine was "eventful" would be a colossal understatement. I spent three weeks in the hospital battling a septic infection that had half of my legion of doctors convinced I would be dead before the end of the week.

Not that they told me.

They told my wife. Gave her the whole "Might want to get your affairs in order" speech.

Yep. March was the cruelest of months at Casa Thornton.

I didn’t know any of this (not then anyway).

Here’s what I did know:

I had cellulitis. That infection in turn got into my blood stream, giving me a case of blood poisoning, and my leg got “septic.”

That’s when my kidneys shut down.

I can also now speak with authority on what two solid weeks of having your medical team treat your intense pain with oxycodone.

I quit taking that stuff the first minute I felt able to. I don’t understand why anyone would want to risk addiction to this particular pain killer: yes it deadened my pain, but the hallucinations were so unpleasant, and it was not the sort of “high” I would think I could ever enjoy.

Lots more to share, but I still tire easily, so that’s got be it for now.

Stay tuned!

The Old Success

You forget how good Martha Grimes is.  Reading The Old Success, the most recent of the Richard Jury books, number  twenty-five, from 2019, you’re struck by what an economical writer she is, and how devious.  Nor has she hung up her spurs; pub date for The Red Queen is July 1^st, 2025.  I, for one, can hardly wait.

The Man with a Load of Mischief came out in 1981, the year of Red Dragon and Gorky Park, so the competition wasn’t chopped liver.  In the event, Jury’s debut got a cordial welcome.  There were familiar things about it, and certainly aspects of the cozy, but Jury himself gave the book a rigorous spine.  He might have reminded you a little of P.D. James’ Adam Dalgliesh, both characters having a somewhat chilly reserve, and Jury being of a circular disposition, taking his time and feeling out the contours of the emotional landscape before committing the full weight of his resolve.  We recognize his moral clarity, and he gains our immediate confidence.

Not so much Melrose Plant, the former Lord Ardry as was.  Or let me correct myself.  It isn’t Melrose, who grows on you over time, but the insufferable chorus of bores at the Jack and Hammer.  We’re all guilty of this - writers, I mean – you come up with a device, or a turn of phrase, or a plot mechanism, that you think is terrifically clever, and absolutely necessary, and you won’t be turned aside.  It doesn’t matter that it’s stupid, or unconvincing.  This is my problem, unhappily, about the gang Melrose surrounds himself with.  I don’t think they’re witty and eccentric; I find them wearisome.  They impede the narrative. 

There’s another trope Grimes deploys, though, that’s used to terrific effect.  The kids.  Almost invariably (and front and center, with her Emma Graham series), she’ll give you precocious and alarming children, sometimes chillingly in jeopardy, but often the linchpin of the story.  In her handling, you can get a piece of the puzzle everybody else has missed, that the child herself may well have missed, because they’re lacking the needed context.  It’s tricky to navigate, from a child’s POV, to both tell and withhold.

To me, the most interesting thing about The Old Success is its complete lack of clutter.  There’s little physical description, not even much sense of place.  It’s mostly conversation, or observation of people, and how dialogue – or silence - and body English, and the way people arrange themselves in a room, reveals their inner character.  Even at the beginning, a woman’s body found by the shore, the island of Bryher, in the Scillies, off Land’s End, you get an impression of wind-swept shingle, and that’s pretty much it.  It’s all in what they say, and how they speak.  What they leave in, what they leave out.  The environment is personal, and one-on-one, the surroundings less significant than the subjective dynamic and self-identifying drama.

The consequence this has, overall, isn’t claustrophobic.  Rather, it concentrates your attention, and presents as a kind of watchfulness.  You find yourself very alert, to movement, or discomfort, to the way people read.  Are they transparent, or are they concealing something?  This is very true of the children, in particular, who may be reluctant witnesses, not because they don’t want to say what they’ve seen, but because they’re not entirely sure if what they saw is what you, the adult, want to hear.  They have an abundance of caution.  This seems to me utterly right, as far as kids are concerned.  They aren’t keeping secrets, exactly, but guarding their privacy.  Grown-ups are intrusive, and their curiosity can be predatory.  They have a different map of the world than children, and may in fact be a different species, entirely.  What passes for protective coloration, in a Grimes novel, is more than camouflage.  It’s a survival mechanism.  When the adults practice it, a man like Jury sees evasion.  If it’s a kid, he looks for the pattern of concealment, for the thing left unsaid, or avoided.  And not necessarily on purpose. 

I drifted away, I should admit.  I wasn’t a fan of The Horse You Came In On, for one.  Why would I want to see this crew plunked down in Baltimore, of all places?  (Martha Grimes went to the University of Maryland, and now lives in Bethesda.)  Anyway, after only dipping into a couple of the intervening titles, I came back for good with Vertigo 42 – which is, actually, somewhat atypical.  I’m not sure, really, whether you have to have read all the books in the series, but I do recommend you read them in order.  They seem, to me, more stripped down, as you move forward.  That’s part of my point about The Old Success, that it delivers the essentials, and doesn’t stray.  I don’t mean that it’s confined, or lacks breathing room, but it’s tight, there’s no wasted motion.

Grimes is one of those writers, perhaps like P.D. James, noted above, who takes a little warming up to.  She’s not sunny, or confiding, like Sue Grafton.  Maybe it’s the third-person, or simply that she holds you slightly at a distance.  This being a reflection of Richard Jury’s character, a meta-fiction.  The character of Melrose Plant, then, would supposedly provide the reader with access.  I don’t imagine it’s that calculated.  I do, however, suggest you’d be rewarded, reading these eminently solid Scotland Yard stories.  They have a seamless quality, woven from the sturdy woolens of convention, with a flinty finish.

Can You Have Too Much Inspiration?

Sometimes, something obvious to one person may not be as clear to another. That was true for me in high school (math and science). And it was true for me from the first time I heard "Escape: The Pina Colada Song" until just a few years ago, when I realized that the author of the personal ad (remember those?) in the song wanted someone not into yoga, rather than someone not into yogurt. (Not being a fan of yogurt's texture, its supposed inclusion in the ad had made a ton of sense to me. But I digress.)

I also had a hard time seeing something important about writing short stories inspired by things--often songs--and I didn't even realize it. Until recently. 

But before I tell you about that, I need to give a little backstory. Short story anthologies inspired by music have been popular for more than a decade. I've had stories in books inspired by the songs of Billy Joel and Joni Mitchell, as well as by songs that were one-hit wonders in the US. Now I am glad to add another story sparked by music to my list: "Keep It Dark" appears in In Too Deep: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Genesis. The book, edited by Adam Meyer, was published last week by Down & Out Books.

I spent a lot of time in high school listening to Genesis on the radio, as well as to the independent releases of Phil Collins, who was the band's drummer and its lead vocalist from the mid-1970s to the mid-1990s. But to my surprise, when I reviewed the list of Genesis's songs in anticipation of writing a story for this new anthology (thank you, Adam, for inviting me to contribute), there was one--okay, more than one, but bear with me--that I had never heard of: "Keep It Dark."

It appeared on the 1981 album Abacab. A Rolling Stone article from 2014 about twenty great Genesis songs that aren't well known said "Keep It Dark" was never released as a single in the US, which explained why I had never heard it. I eagerly streamed it, and for the first half, I sat confused, thinking, Is this really a Genesis song? It is bad. I can understand why it wasn't released as a single in the US. But then a funny thing happened; the song grew on me. By the time it ended, I immediately played it again. And now I love it! And I totally get why it was released individually in the UK and hit #33 on the UK singles chart. And I get why Rolling Stone thinks so highly of it.

The unusual beat is catchy, and the lyrics are interesting. They tell a story--one more detailed than a lot of songs do. I decided to use "Keep It Dark" as my story's inspiration. I needed to pay tribute to the song, but I didn't want to retell the story this song tells. That turned out to be difficult. Everything I was writing felt derivative. 

And this is where the thing that you may think is obvious--but it wasn't for me--comes into play. Needing help, I called my fellow SleuthSayer John Floyd, who is a very wise man. He told me not to get bogged down trying to work so many details from the song into my story. Just find a piece of it that I could run with. That advice felt like opening a window on a lovely spring day. Rejuvenated, I took John's advice, and I ended up with a story I am delighted with. If you listen to the song "Keep It Dark," I believe you will see that it sparked my story of the same name, yet my tale is different.

Here is what my "Keep It Dark" is about:

It's the spring of 1972, and life's been good for Gary. He loves working at the pawn shop, where he helps people out of their financial jams. But a sleazy new employee has changed the vibe, and Gary's in his crosshairs. Can this good guy find a way out of the jam he's about to find himself in?

I hope John's advice is as helpful to you as it was to me. Thanks again, John! And I hope you will pick up a copy of In Too Deep. It has seventeen stories, including ones by fellow SleuthSayers Michael Bracken, Joseph S. Walker, and Stacy Woodson. 

You can buy the book in ebook and trade paperback from the usual sources, as well as directly from the publisher. If you buy the paperback straight from Down & Out Books, you can have the ebook thrown in for free. Just click here. 

Do you have a favorite Genesis song? Which song and why? I would love to hear. And listen to "Keep It Dark" and let me know if it grows on you like it did on me.

All life is improvisation.

I hardly ever listen to rap or polyphonic jazz.  Okay, basically never.  But I’m glad other people do, and want them to continue.  You might wonder how I square this in my brain, and I can tell you.  Easily.

Charles Darwin

            Darwin figured this out in the 19^th century.  In order for nature to evolve, species had to pump out a lot of experiments, deviations from the norm, which biologists somewhat frighteningly call mutations.  The vast majority of these oddities whither and die immediately.  But some squeak through, and others, a tiny percentage, turn out to be better than the original product.  Again, with a bit of luck, this success multiplies, until the whole species jumps on the bandwagon and its continued survival is thus temporarily assured.   

            I didn’t see any of the movies up for the Oscars this year.  I didn’t like the sound of them, because I’m an old-fashioned movie-goer who likes what he likes and rarely shells out part of his fixed income on something designed to make him uncomfortable, confused or even challenged.  This is a failing on my part, I admit, but I’m still glad these movies got made and were honored.  Art, like nature, depends on experimentation to survive and thrive. 

            Most contemporary art leaves me scratching my head.  Maybe because the artists aren‘t blood relatives.  My son is a professional artist and he never tries to do anything that’s been done before.  Because he’s my son, I look closely at his work, and always find something to appreciate.  This keeps me open to other efforts, and when something crosses my path that gets to me, I’m grateful for the experience.

            My favorite form of art is Impressionism.  This stuff is now considered as homey and mainstream as a cardigan sweater, but when it first emerged, most people, and nearly all the commentators of the time, thought the artists were completely out of their minds.  That turned out not to be true, Van Gogh notwithstanding.  Art lovers  simply had yet to adjust their eyes, minds and social constructs to absorb the work.

        You could say the same thing about jazz and James Joyce.  Cultural revolutions rarely blast on to the scene (I’d say the Beatles were the exception.)  They come on little cat feet, slowing infiltrating our attention and devotion.  The early innovators are usually disregarded into oblivion, sadly, but the victorious mutations they create are relentless and unstoppable. 

            The alternative is stagnation.  Ironically, this is usually a side effect of success.  If everything is working for you, there’s little incentive to change.  The French Academy was saturated with rewards, admiration and nice granite galleries featuring their work.  The Impressionist rabble was likewise poor, denigrated and overlooked, but they owned the energy of innovation, and eventually, the established art culture just rotted away. 

            It’s not a stretch to attach the same logic to biology.  Everyone loves Koala bears, but they only eat certain types of Eucalyptus leaves, and are thus endangered as their food supply fluctuates.  Racoons, on the other hand, eat almost anything.  We have no shortage of racoons, and there’d be a lot more Koalas if they developed a taste for Vegemite sandwiches. 

“Hey, let’s give it a try!  What can it hurt?”  This doesn’t always pan out, but it’s why humans rule the world today.  There’s never been a more versatile and adaptive species.  Like racoons, we eat almost anything.  We’re not that strong, relative to polar bears or saber tooth tigers, but we amplify what we have with devices and machines.  As such, we’re now not only the apex of the apex, but a threat to the planet’s survival.  Too much of a good thing? 

                I don’t know what would qualify as experimental writing these days, though I’m sure others do.  I hope so.  I’m probably the least likely reader to discover the trends of the future, since I feel the same way about novels and short stories as I do about movies.  My diminishing timeline leaves little room for branching out, dabbling in the Avant Garde.  As with breakthroughs in quantum mechanics and new records in the 100-meter dash, this is something better suited to the young. 

Anyway, it’s their world that’s being quietly created, and theirs to relish.

Squid Names

Squid Game.

I despised it, finding myself standing alone as fascinated fans globally flocked to watch Squid Game. To be sure, its visuals were startling brilliant, especially the M.C. Escher architecture. Music was carefully selected from modern to classical, e.g, Blue Danube. I even appreciated that Eyes Wide Shut corrupt and wealthy secret society behind the plot. However…

I have no stomach for betrayal and torture story themes, the reason I chose not to watch the series 24. Likewise, Squid Game relied heavily on perfidy and persecution plot points, 456 participants playing off against one another to the death. I finished the first season, vowing to watch no more.

But…

Not long ago, I stumbled upon a photo essay that explained a few things, suggesting more than torture-for-entertainment pleasure.

It turns out some in South Korea may have known something the rest of us didn’t– the show was possibly inspired by horrid events. Forty years ago, unwanted children, unwanted elderly, and the homeless were rounded up to slave away in work camps, facilities with extremely high rates of attrition, as much as 551 deaths. It’s further suggested a wealthy Australian-Korean family was behind a pseudo-religious charity called the Brothers Home that ran the operation.

But…

Enter Snopes: They say while Brothers Home and South Korean street cleanups happened, no evidence exists that anyone was forced to play games or was tortured. They found no reports of exploitation, suffering, or spurious deaths.

Stephanie Soo © Rotten Mango

But…

Enter Stephanie Soo. She is a prolific vlogger and podcaster. One such podcast is Rotten Mango, a long format true crime video blog in which she cites brilliantly read crime articles, some of them atrocities and crimes in Asia and around the world.

Something about her suggests Korean, and indeed, she was born in South Korea and grew up in Atlanta. She works with an unknown, never-seen male commentator behind the camera. He occasionally questions or seeks clarification, and her responses demonstrate she’s done her homework.

The couple created a three episode series on real life Squid Game, and no doubt, she believes it to be true. Further, she provides considerably more detail than I’ve found elsewhere, more than three and hours of presentation. And she names names.

But…

Is Snopes wrong? Both could be right. Note the site’s careful wording repeatedly states they found ‘no evidence’ of a real-life torturous work facility. That may be true as far as it goes, but given Mango’s aggregation of detail, it’s eminently possible Soo's Korean contacts uncovered facts and evidence not readily available to the rest of us. I’ve watched a few of her podcasts that demonstrate her attention to detail and her researchers’ knack for collecting, collating, and validating information from disparate sources. In general, she knows what she’s talking about.

Watch Stephanie’s podcasts and let us know what you think.

1. Thousands of Koreans Forced to Play Children’s Games to NOT Be Killed
2. South Korea ‘Erased’ 4000 People to Host Olympic Games
3. Man Survives Real Life Squid Game That Killed 551 People Funded by Rich Australian Family

We Can't Bury Her THERE

  

I don't know about my fellow SleuthSayers, but the columns I write for this blog usually come to mind only a few days before they're due, and they're often triggered by a recent event or a conversation or a new publication, etc. The idea for my post today popped into my head while I was out in our back yard this past week, when I happened to hear our behind-our-house neighbors chatting to each other in their back yard--we're separated only by a six-foot-tall cypress fence.

Anyhow, hearing those voices made me think of something out of the past--an incident that happened out there in almost the same spot (though we had different neighbors then), and it's memorable only because it proves that real life can sometimes be a lot stranger than fiction.

Here's some background. Twenty years ago, a film producer who lives about three hours north of us had contacted me several months earlier about a Western story of mine that he'd read in a Canadian magazine. He said he thought it would make a good movie, and (of course) I agreed. After a lot of discussions and negotiations he asked me to write a screenplay for it and was soon in the process of putting together a crew, equipment, casting calls, music, locations, etc. Fortunately he allowed me to take part in most of that --I've never had so much fun--and we were swapping phone calls pretty regularly. (NOTE: Alas, that movie never saw the light of day, but for a year or so it was a real possibility, one that now reminds me of the old joke about the airline pilot who announces to his passengers, "I have good news and bad news. The bad news is, we're lost. The good news is, we're making damn good time.") 

Anyhow, while all this was going on and we were making good time even though we were lost, my Movie Man had decided he also wanted me to come up with a second screenplay, this one a contemporary murder mystery. And here's something else you need to know: Our neighbors in the house behind ours were fairly new to the area, and we hadn't yet met them. All I knew about them was that the husband was tall like me, because we occasionally caught a glimpse of each other over the top of the board fence. 

Okay, back to my story. On this particular day, a Saturday afternoon, my wife Carolyn was in the kitchen and I was out in our back yard, talking on my cell phone with the producer about the plot of my aforementioned in-progress mystery screenplay. The call lasted a long time, as our calls usually did, and when I disconnected and walked in though our back door, Carolyn looked up at me from whatever she was doing and said, "Do you realize what you just said, out there?"

I stopped and gave her my usual clueless stare. "What do you mean, what I just said?"

She pointed to our breakfast-room window, which looked out onto our back yard and--on that day--was open to let in the cool breeze of a nice spring weekend. "For one thing," she said, "you were talking too loud. I could hear every word."

"So, what'd I say?"

"You said, 'We can't bury her there.'"

Then I remembered. We'd been discussing the plotline, and my producer friend had suggested that one of my main characters, who had murdered his wife, should plant her body in a flowerbed on their property, which I didn't think was a good idea.

Continuing, my wife said, "You almost shouted it. After that, you said, 'We should bury her down by the railroad tracks instead, where nobody'll ever find her.'"

I still didn't see what the big deal was. I said, "So?"

She rolled her eyes. "So, our new neighbor was out in his back yard, the whole time you were talking. I saw the top of his head go by a couple of times, above the fence."

Understanding finally dawned. "You think he heard what I said?"

"Unless he's stone deaf, he did."

Well, I remember thinking, Even if he did hear me, he probably thought nothing about it. Besides, what was done was done. I shrugged and asked, "What's for supper?" 

And seriously, I thought no more about it. Until two days later, when I was mowing the grass.

We live on a big corner lot, and at the place where our side lawn bordered our neighbor's lawn, outside the fence and between it and the side street, I saw a shiny new sign, about a foot square, one of those flimsy metal Ten Commandments-like signs with two little wire legs, sticking up out of the grass on our property line. The sign was aimed at our house, and it said, in big printed letters, YOU ARE BEING PRAYED FOR. 

When I finished mowing, I came into the house, hot and sweaty, and reported this news to Carolyn. As it turned out, she'd done some research the previous day, and she now informed me that the husband half of the neighbor couple was the new youth minister at the local Baptist church. For some reason that struck me as funny, but she was not at all amused. I think she strongly suspected that the police might soon show up with drawn guns and a lot of questions about my future plans for burial sites and who might get buried there.

The cops and FBI never arrived, but what did happen was that our backyard neighbors moved away the following week--I swear that's true--and to this day my wife is convinced it was because of my big mouth and my announce-it-to-the-whole-neighborhood plot plans.

Final note, just to ease your mind: Unlike my suspicious wife, I'm fairly certain that (1) our neighbor did not hear what I was saying that day, (2) that sign probably had nothing at all to do with that incident, and (3) neither did our neighbors' sudden relocation to greener pastures. And you might be pleased to hear that I do now try not to talk so loudly on the phone (especially if my immediate family is listening). 

As I said, all this happened long ago, and in all the years since, I have never attempted to use that goofy incident in one of my short stories. Why?

Because fiction must be believable to the reader--and I doubt that this story, even though it's true, would be able to pass that test.

That's one thing that's always bothered me, about writing: Nonfiction is more easily accepted; it doesn't have to be believable. If it happened, it happened, strange or not--in fact, the stranger the better. With fiction, there are restrictions. If it's too strange, it won't work. On the one hand, we as writers are encouraged to mine our past experiences to come up with compelling story ideas, and on the other hand, we have to be careful not to make it too true. Has that kind of thing ever happened to you?

Real Life, as they say, is a trip. You can't make this sh*t up.

  

Have a Word With Yourself

Two writers inhabit the office where I’m sitting right now. If one of us is having a bad day, the other can’t help but notice. It doesn’t take long before the other occupant gets an earful. On one of those days, I asked my wife to pause in her exasperated recitation. I rooted around in our stash of stationery and produced a piece of textured card stock. I handed it to her, and urged her to write something in this format:

Dear (your name):

You did a great job yesterday writing (short description of the thing you wrote or edited yesterday).

Today you’re going to work on (short description of today’s goal). And you know what? It’s going to be awesome. Have a great day.

I love you,

(sign your name here)

She looked at me like I was nuts but she did it. And for weeks after, whenever I sensed or heard from her that she felt bad about the way the current project was going, I’d either present her with a card in person or leave it on her desk so she’d see it when she next sat down.

She originally thought it was a woo-woo idea, but she now has a little stack of these cards that she has written out. (I do too, because I couldn’t very well let myself off the hook when I was foisting this on her.) I bought two old-timey mail spikes so we could lend some order to our individual piles.

One day, when she resisted doing the exercise because it felt weird, she said, “Where did you even get this stupid idea?”

I did what any husband would do in such a circumstance. I blamed Lawrence Block.

Yes, fellow mystery scribes, that Lawrence Block. The MWA Grand Master. The author of the Matthew Scudder novels, the Bernie Rhodenbarr capers, the Ehrengraf stories… (Oh you don’t know them? You probably should. Very funny.) Block has written tons of books, including what his website calls “midcentury” erotica.

You can’t say this about many fiction writers, but I like Block just as much when he’s writing nonfiction. His advice books for writers, in particular, radiate a very gentle, conversational authority.
In the mid-eighties, Block attended one of those seminars that promised to change your life. He liked what he learned and thought it might even be useful for writers, except that no one had created such material. So Block created a group of exercises and a PowerPoint presentation. Then he booked ads, rented hotel conference rooms, and embarked on road trips with his wife to teach writers how to get in their right mind.

For instance, he had students pair up with another writer, sit across from each other, and recite a list of fears they have about their writing. While one person read off their list of fears, the other person’s job was to simply listen and respond as follows.

“A fear I have about my writing is that it’s all a big waste.”

“Thank you.”

“Another fear I have about my writing is that it’s not any good.”

“Thank you.”

“Another fear I have about my writing is that editors will reject it as soon as they see how bad it really is.”

“Thank you.”

Block’s logic is that fear and negativity are chickenshit. They run aground when they are exposed.
The technique reminds me of that scene in Good Will Hunting when the shrink character played by Robin Williams demolishes Matt Damon’s tough guy persona by repeating one phrase over and over again—“It’s Not Your Fault”—until Will’s subconscious finally accepts the truth about his miserable childhood.

Block and his wife presented these in-person seminars for two years. Attendees paid $100 for the one-day course. Hitting the road every weekend for three months at a time quickly got old for the Blocks. Little mistakes here and there often left them at the break-even point financially. Block hung up his spurs and got back to his writing.

But he did hear from former students who felt that the class had helped them enormously. Well, he thought, maybe I should write it all down in a book. The first book version of the Write for Your Life course ran about 60,000 words, 20 chapters, 175 pages. Back in the eighties, in the days before print-on-demand, the only way you could make a book was to order a full press run. Block printed 5,000 books hoping he wasn’t going to lose his shirt.

Far from it. He sold all but 25 via mail order. After 4,975 copies disappeared in the mail, Block allowed the book to slip from his mind. Those copies took on a life of their own, with vendors eventually hawking them online at astronomical prices. In 2013, Block says, an assistant of his found the 25 leftover books tucked in a storage facility somewhere. They slapped them up on eBay and alerted fans in an e-blast. The books sold out in three hours.

Block finally capitulated, making the text available as an ebook and a print-on-demand paperback. Though many of the exercises were originally designed to be conducted in a setting with other writers, you can easily adapt them. (Hence the subtitle The Home Seminar for Writers.) I reread the book to write this piece, and I discovered many exercises that I refused to do upon first reading it years ago, such as:

• I never got around to meditating at several points during the day: as a prelude to writing, after I had finished my writing for the day, or when I was stuck…
• I never got around to practicing automatic writing—putting down on paper anything that pops into my head—for 10 minutes…
• I never got around to compiling a list of all the eduction, expertise, life experiences, and references that I have accumulated that I might draw upon for my writing…
• I never got around to assembling a list of actions I can take to add to that “bank” of experiences…
• I never got around to decorating my home or office with positive affirmations that I can see on a regular basis…

I’ll stop there, but the book offers at least another 15 different exercises that I—haha—never got around to doing. Because I apparently was too busy not living up to my potential.

Oh—it turned out that the exercise I asked my wife to do is not in Block’s book. The closest is an exercise in which Block asks you to sign and date a letter to yourself in which you state that you no longer need to believe the aforementioned negative thoughts about your writing.

So it turns out that I, Joe D’Agnese, am also a self-help author!

You wouldn’t know it to look at me. I am not alone in buying such books and then not taking their advice. The entire self-help genre would die tomorrow if people did. At one point in the course’s history, Block realized writers so hate saying affirmations that he created and sold audiotapes where the affirmations were spoken aloud and you merely had to listen to them.

For me, what has become interesting about the “love letters to yourself” technique is noticing the negative reactions I have while doing it. I tell myself it’s stupid. I feel uncomfortable, almost sick, at the prospect of praising myself. In fact, I have already judged writing this very column about my experience to be a worthless and egotistical endeavor.

To which I can only respond: Thank you, Joe. Thank you very much.

But what does that mean for you?

Well, some morning soon, I hope you will rise, look yourself in the mirror, and say, “You know what, INSERT NAME HERE? You done good.”

If even thinking about such a thing makes you feel icky or weird, interrogate the feeling. That’s all I’m asking. And if it does make you icky, maybe you ought to check out Block’s book to see if it’s for you. Think about getting a paper copy so you can dog-ear pages or mark your progress as you work through the exercises.

Oh…and while you were looking at yourself in the mirror just now, I left this card on your desk. 

I use these Avery postcards
because they offer nice texture at decent price.

You know what to do with it. If following the instructions makes you feel weird, ask yourself why. Carry that question around with you for a few days as you go about your other projects and errands.

Not because it’s a big deal. Not because it’s supposed to change your life. Do it for yourself. Because it’s worth getting to know an interesting, creative person who builds such marvelous worlds.

* * * 

See you in three weeks!

Joe

josephdagnese.com

Plot Holes as Big as a Buick

We've all read a book, or watched a movie, one which we actually enjoyed, but later went...  "Wait a second.  What about???"  

And I 'm not talking about tropes, which are everywhere, ranging from "meet cute" to "discussing highly confidential secrets while an evil person is standing right outside the door listening" to "the supervillain who is always one step ahead of the detective, spy, superhero*" to "the genius detective who is never wrong."  You can either stand them or not, and it's usually based on who's playing the part.  

BTW, Allan Rickman could play either the supervillain or the romantic hero and I was always all in for it.  

No, I'm talking about plot holes, the size of my father's 1955 pink and white Buick, where you just shake your head.  And again, you either accept it or you don't...

The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins has two plot holes, but I still love it with a passion.  It has tremendous suspense, one of the great villains of all time (Count Fosco), secret illegitimacy, faked deaths, mental asylums, an evil mother (Mrs. Catherick), an innocent heroine cruelly treated (Laura Fairlie), an even more innocent victim who dies (or is killed?), a dauntless hero, a dauntless heroine (Laura's half sister, Marian Halcombe) and enough twists and turns to keep anyone happy and thinking.  A nice, long winter's read.  But, the plot holes:

The plot turns on wealthy heiress Laura Fairlie's remarkable resemblance to a mentally ill young woman (Anne Catherick), and how, after her marriage, where she becomes Lady Laura Glyde, she is drugged and placed in a mental asylum under Anne's name, while the exceedingly ill Anne dies (or is helped along the way) and is buried under Laura's name.  

First Plot Hole: "The most well known error of chronology is that first described in The Times of 30 October 1860. The plot relies on the fact that Laura’s departure for London took place the day after Anne Catherick had died under Laura’s name. In the book edition the date of that death was 26 July whereas as the reviewer points out ‘…we could easily show that Lady Glyde could not have left Blackwater Park before the 9th or 10th of August. Anybody who reads the story, and who counts the days from the conclusion of Miss Halcombe’s diary, can verify the calculation for himself.’"  (The Wilkie Collins Society)

This was eventually corrected, but not until the fourth edition of the novel - and then the correction interfered with later dates in this tightly woven, complex novel.  Those of us who love the book have learned to live with it, and ignore all, including the second plot hole:

Second Plot Hole:  Long after Lady Laura has been rescued from the mental asylum she and her true love Walter marry, but before her identity as Lady Laura has been confirmed and reinstated by the law.  So what name did she get married under? Was it truly legal?  We are never told.  

There is a similar problem in Charles Dickens' Our Mutual Friend.  Bella Wilfer marries John Rokesmith - however John Rokesmith is actually John Harmon, using an alias, which leads to the obvious question, how could their marriage be legal since he married under a false name, and did they remarry once John Harmon revealed himself?  

All I can say is, just ignore it and keep reading. 

The Big Sleep - the movie, not the book.  The book, of course, was written by Raymond Chandler. The movie was written by Leigh Brackett, William Faulkner, with touch-ups by Jules Furthman and Howard Hawks.  

Plot Hole:  The legendary "who killed the chauffer?" (whose death starts the whole movie and investigation) is unanswerable. None of the writers knew; so Hawks cabled Raymond Chandler, who said later, "They sent me a wire ... asking me, and dammit I didn't know either."  (Wikipedia) 

Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie.  

Plot Hole:  Both the book and the movie have a fatal flaw:  why kill the maid?  Yes, the maid is blackmailing the killer, but the killer has money, and they're on a steamer on the Nile.  Why not just pay the maid off, and keep paying the maid off for a few months, and kill her later when everyone's back home and no one will notice if the maid, for example, gets a little blood poisoning from a scratch and dies of it, or just plain disappears?  Obviously, the only reason was that Ms. Christie (whom I revere in many ways) had made such a complex, ironclad plot that it was the only way to make it possible for Hercule Poirot to solve the case.  

And right there is a lesson for us all:  don't make your plot so tight you can't find a way out of it.  Leave room for errors and basic screw-ups, because we humans do that all the time.  

For that matter, leave room in your life for basic screw-ups, because they will happen.

Today in Mystery History: April 2

 

Time for the 14th stop on our tour of the genre's past.

April 2, 1879. Hulbert Footner was born in Ontario.  He explored the northern part of the province (Lake Footner is named in his honor) and then became an actor, traveling across North America in a play called Sherlock Holmes.  He wrote adventure stories and more than 30 detective tales about Madame Rozika Storey who solved crimes with her less-brilliant assistant.  Some of his other crime novels were made into movies.

April 2, 1914.  Alec Guinness was born in London.  He starred in some wonderful films in our genre (Kind Hearts and Coronets, Our Man in Havana, The Lavender Hill Mob) but to me he is immortal for the greatest performance of John LeCarre's master spy, George Smiley, in TV's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and Smiley's People.

 

April 2, 1920. Jack Webb was born in Santa Monica, CA.  In 1949 he starred as an unlicensed private eye in the radio show Pat Novak, For Hire. In 1950 he performed in  two classic genre movies: Sunset Boulevard and Dark City. But you know darned well what he is remembered for: he created and starred in the radio show Dragnet (1952-1957) which also played on TV from 1952-1959.  Yes, he played Sgt. Joe Friday on radio and TV at the same time.  He brought the show back to TV from 1967 to 1970.  The highly-stylized police procedural was much quoted, copied, and mocked.

 

 April 2, 1931. The birth date of another Ontario mystery writer.  Howard Engel wrote sixteen novels about Toronto private eye Benny Cooperman. In Memory Book the detective suffers a blow to his head (as have how many other fictional sleuths?) but this one resulted in his inability to read.  This was based on the results of an actual stroke Engel suffered.

 

April 2, 1950. This Week Magazine featured Ellery Queen's short story "The Sound of Murder."

 

April 2, 1974. The Sting won the Oscar for Best picture.  Can you hear "The Entertainer?"

 

April 2, 1980. The Long Good Friday was released.  The wonderful Bob Hoskins as a gang boss  under attack.  "You don't crucify people! Not on Good Friday!" 

April 2, 199?. On this date Detective Mike Hoolihan tells us about the case she can't let go of.  Thus begins Kingsley Amis' novel Night Train.

 

April 2, 1999. Robert Altman's Cookie's Fortune  was released.  Glenn Close and Julianne Moore starred in a movie about the results of an old woman's death on a small town.  It was nominated for an Edgar.

 

April 2, 2002. Henry Slesar died in New York City, where he was born.  In between he wrote  mysteries and science fiction, but is best remembered for the adaptation of his work to Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Twilight Zone.  His first novel, The Gray Flannel Shroud, won the Edgar Award. He also won an Emmy as head writer for the only crime-focused soap opera, The Edge of Night.

 

April 2, 2012.  On this day New Jersey mobster Sal Caetano told a gang of Mafiosi that he wanted a screw-up killed.  Thus begins Greenfellas, written by somebody named Lopresti.

And there we draw the veil.

 

BSP

Honest truth. With no horse-trading or calendar engineering whatsoever, my turn to blog falls on the day Severn River Publishing releases my debut novel, The Devil's Kitchen. Stop now if you don't want to read about my unsuppressed joy. 

The road to publication began in 2015. In December, my wife called my bluff. A new district attorney had just been elected in my county. I left the DA's Office without a real plan for what might happen next. On that day, my wife also became a former assistant district attorney. She challenged me to pursue my writing dream. Always the braver and smarter of the two of us, she quickly found traditional employment, the kind that doles out regular paychecks and benefits. 

I started writing short stories. Some of them found homes. (I thank Linda Landrigan, Michael Bracken, Barb Goffman, and others for always making me sound more dexterous in my native tongue than I actually am.) Meanwhile, I began scribbling away at novels. The first didn't sell. Neither did the second nor the third, nor the...You may see a pattern here. 

It was important to me to keep trying. I love writing short stories, and I'm still thrilled when an email arrives informing me that one has been accepted for publication. But to achieve my goals as a writer, I wanted to succeed in both short and long forms. 

Somewhere in this process, I too stumbled back into traditional employment. The regular hours of my magistrate gig were far more conducive to writing than working as an assistant district attorney. I still got to dabble in criminal law without the burden of disrupting and time-consuming trials. 

The new job's schedule allowed me to attend a few mystery conferences. I made friends and learned more about the craft of writing. I'm grateful for the opportunities these gatherings have provided me. 

One of the books I wrote involved a pair of National Park Service investigators who found a dead body at Yellowstone. Clues gleaned from the investigation hinted at a historic conspiracy involving an ancient relic secreted out of France by royalists during the French Revolution. I titled it The Devil's Kitchen. The dual timeline mystery was fun to write, and it allowed me to draw upon hikes I taken visiting Yellowstone with my family. 

Last year, I was sitting on the beach in Galveston, burning some vacation, when my agent emailed me to say that Severn River wanted to talk about the novel. "When could I set that up?" she asked. 

"I'm on vacation," I told her. "I'm available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But that may sound desperate. Tell them that as a magistrate I can move things around and likely be available at their convenience." 

The last few months have been another fabulous adventure. Like Michael and Barb before her, Kate Schomaker has continued to find gentle ways to point out my deviations from the Chicago Manual of Style. I have loved getting emails with possible cover designs and being asked to comment on the options I prefer. (In truth, all I see is my name printed across the bottom.)

And I really, really like the emails where we talk about the next book. Our heroes travel to the Everglades. 

The last decade has been a great journey, one that has only gotten better over the last few months. I'm grateful to many people along the way, especially my family, friends, and fellow writers, who have continued to say, "You can." I hope that I have the opportunity to thank each of you personally. 

I'll see some of you at Malice Domestic in a few weeks. You'll be able to recognize me. I'll be the smiling guy holding the book with the new and shiny cover. 

Until next time. 

What Makes An Anthology The Best?

The SleuthSayers anthology, Murder, Neat, edited by our own Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, has had the distinction of being named one of the finalists for the inaugural Derringer Award for Best Anthology in an impressive field of 2024 short crime fiction anthologies.

I've edited two anthologies and contributed stories to almost a dozen including my own. I've also had a story included as an "Other Distinguished Story" in a volume of Best American Mystery Stories—an honor that means the notoriously critical series editor picked it as one of fifty out of a field of several thousand, but that year's guest editor failed to select it as one of the twenty to include in the anthology.

So I feel qualified at what seems a good moment to talk about some of the elements of excellence in an anthology.

Any anthology needs focus. This may be provided by a theme, restriction of the setting or authorship to a certain region, or limitation of submissions to a particular group or organization. All the contributors to Murder, Neat are current or former SleuthSayers. The theme, some aspect of alcohol, bars, and drinking, was chosen after much lively discussion among the blogfellas.

 The highly regarded Noir anthology series from Akashic Books was fresh when it began with Brooklyn Noir. It now runs to more than a hundred books. I've heard that the publisher is deeply committed to publishing stories on a variety of aspects of the chosen location as well as a genuine noir flavor. On the other hand, the concept of the "anthology noir" has been a runaway success far beyond the original publisher's series. I wrote a story for Jewish Noir II (2022). The stories ranged from Biblical to paranormal to historical to modern, the genres from noir to comic to speculative, the settings spanned the globe. Submissions were by invitation only, but not all of the contributors were Jewish.

Some editors choose to engage potential readers through a mix of beloved authors and fresh voices. Those are the anthologies in which half the stories are by invitation, the other half by open call. I've never made it into one of those. I tried to seed my own anthology, Me Too Short Stories, with a few well-known authors along with open submissions in hopes of attracting a better publishing contract. As it happened, a political issue was raging at the time, and the more courted authors were the first to abandon ship. I persisted and ended up with a book of wonderful stories that failed to get the attention it deserved.

Apart from market considerations, the best anthology is one in which every story is a winner. I got that in the end with Me Too Short Stories. All the stories adhered to the theme, but each of them did it in a different way. None of the writers was famous, but all were terrific at working cooperatively and appreciated a strong editor. Even when fifteen or twenty or two dozen stories are all about bars or all about Jewishness or all about crimes against women, they can be as different as each writer's voice and way of building a unique structure on the three-cornered foundation of plot, character, and writing or storytelling.

Once the editor or editors have selected the stories, they must put them in the best possible order. This is a creative act, akin to putting together a single-author collection of short stories or poetry, and I assure you it produces endorphins. A well arranged anthology starts with a pie in the face—a first story that grabs the your attention (especially in the library or bookstore or in the Amazon sample) and makes you want to read on. The second and third stories must also make you want to read on, and they must be entirely different from the first and from each other—dark and light, tragedy and humor, horror and cozy, snappy dialogue and brooding narrative. And one of the very best must be saved for last, so you close the book with a smile or a sigh of satisfaction.