“What we have here is a failure to communicate!”

By Mark W. Danielson

I just returned from another successful Men of Mystery event in Irvine, California.  In my twelfth consecutive year and with Alexander “Sandy” McCall Smith and Scott Turow as primary speakers, the event sold out fifteen percent beyond its planned capacity.  As always, our guest speakers and wonderful hosts made it another memorable event.

During my time there, I swapped tales with fellow authors and recalled memorable scenes and characters from my stories with mystery lovers.  When several people at my table began discussing trains in Europe, my mind flashed back to train ride from Paris to Domaine De Chantilly. 

My co-pilot spoke French so I gave him the lead to get us there.  Looking on, I was impressed with his communicative skills as he purchased tickets for the two of us.  We easily navigated our way through the train station and enjoyed the view as the train headed north.  Predictably, the commuter train stopped several times along the way while my cohort and I talked and enjoyed the beauty.  Most stops had been short, but one seemed curiously long.  The scene became even more peculiar as we found ourselves alone with one sleeping passenger.  Being optimists, we stayed and continued to chat in spite of the oddity. 

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, people began to embark again.  Five minutes later, we were underway – heading south!  Needless to say, we got off at the first stop, bought new tickets and boarded the next train going north.  Upon arriving in Chantilly, we were lectured by the ticket agent because we had not purchased the correct tickets.  (I didn’t need to speak French to understand her anger.)  Lumbering into town, stinging from the train adventure, our excitement returned as we came upon a magnificent structure we soon learned was the horse barn in the above photo.  Beyond that was the castle, complete with moat.  Smiling again, touring the ground proved well worth the frustration.  Sadly, our misadventures were not over.

Having purchased the correct tickets this time, I looked forward to an easy return trip.  All was well until my astute first officer failed to notice our stop until the train pulled away from the station.  Less than amused at repeating our northbound flub, we disembarked at the next stop, bought new train tickets and headed back to Paris.  Once we left the train station, I told my FO I was resuming the lead and led him back to the hotel.  We joked about the experience on our return pond crossing. 

The moral of this story is you may be able to speak a language, but that doesn’t mean you can communicate.  As writers, it is our mission to ensure we convey clear thoughts in an entertaining manner.  Sounds easy, right?  If it was, everyone would be a published author.  Choose your words carefully and keep writing.           

Lego Cities

By Mark W. Danielson

From thirty-five thousand feet, farmed fields become tapestries, cars move like ants. At night, Australian outback fires and Japanese fishing fleets look like cities, the aurora borealis dance, and constellations blend into the Milky Way. Up here, political borders are recognized only by their airspace restrictions.  Lego cities abound. I call them Lego cities because from my vantage they resemble stacked blocks. You can find high rise cities throughout Europe and Asia, but in the more remote areas of Russia, Kazakhstan, and China, the outline of some these industrial cities resemble Medieval walled cities.

 Many cringe at mass housing developments, but high rise cities are actually quite efficient. Their concept dates back hundreds of years when walled cities protected citizens and used the surrounding land for farming. Modern adaptations of this lower energy costs, require less infrastructure, and minimize commutes because people are closer to their work place. A side benefit may be a greater sense of community. No doubt Lego cities would cease to exist if they didn’t work.

Of course, the US has cities that fit this description. Manhattan certainly qualifies, and Boston’s row houses precede The Revolutionary War.  Mass housing works well in these cities because both encourage inner city living with convenient transportation, and nearby theaters, restaurants, and corner markets. The demand for inner city living has spread to many others cities, which has led to redeveloping abandoned warehouses as loft housing. Younger people crave these apartments not only because of their convenience, but because downtowns have become such happening places. What a great way to preserve historic buildings.

 In many cases, cities must go vertical development because there is no more available land. An island city such as Hong Kong (pictured above) is a prime example. Of course, this would apply anywhere that topography limits development. Paris is among those cities that perfected mass housing centuries ago and has minimally strayed from that course. Their concept of standard height courthouse buildings set the bar for beautiful architecture while remaining functional. High rise apartments may not suit everyone, but they can certainly be a model of efficiency.


No doubt more cities will go vertical because there is no room left to expand, but the amenities in these communities rival some resorts. Next time you’re surrounded by high rises, sit down and take note of how this microcosm functions. It might be helpful if you’re writing an inner city story.

(Hong Kong image courtesy YouCities)

Don't Mess With Texas

By Mark W. Danielson

I love Texas for its attitude as well as its landscapes. Texas is “The Lone Star State” because it was once the Republic of Texas. Paris, France, still commemorates the Ambassade Du Texas, 1842-1843, as shown in the photo. Interestingly, the Republic of Texas’ relationship with France was strong enough to warrant naming one of its towns after the City of Light. Love it or leave it, Texas is one unique state.

I spent many years living in Texas, and from its panhandle to the Gulf, Texans are full of pride. The “Don’t Mess With Texas” signs that dot its highways warn outsiders of its no-littering policy, but truthfully, this slogan is also an anthem. Where else but Texas would you find a semi-automatic pistol mailbox? ’Nuff said.

Writers love creating Texas characters because of their distinctive qualities. Movies and TV shows love to portray oil barons as rotund, boozing, loud-mouthed middle-aged men who wear cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and drive Caddies with bull horns on their hoods, and while I’ve seen plenty of Texas businessmen in boots and hats with their suits, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a bull-horned Cadillac on the street. Now gun-toting pickups are a whole different animal, and they’re certainly not on the endangered list.

Because of its stereotypes, people may not realize that Texas has as much geographical variety as California, and along with its topography, its dialects can vary by city. Even towns that are physically close like Fort Worth and Dallas have completely different feels, so if you’re going to write Texas characters into your stories, you had better know what you’re talking about. You’ll find Dallas is as cosmopolitan as Chicago while Fort Worth rivals any cow town. I suspect that Fort Worth’s “Billy Bob’s” is where the country group Alabama realized that “if you’re gonna play in Texas, you gotta have a fiddle in the band.” Of course, some might compare Houston to Nashville because it’s turned out so many country musicians.

The point to all of this is that researching characters is as important as researching locations. Sometimes stereotypes are suitable, but most of the time they’re not, and thinking that Hollywood has done its homework is simply naïve. For example, when some Navy friends of mine spoke to the director of the movie Topgun about its inaccuracies, the director replied, “We’re not making a documentary.” While it’s true that fiction writers make up their stories, unless you’re writing fantasy, it’s best to keep your characters and locations believable. Doing so makes it easier for the reader to put themselves in the setting and become emotionally attached to your characters.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

By Mark W. Danielson

Personally, winter isn’t my favorite season, nor is it for many Americans who live in colder climates. After all, it’s much easier staying inside, basking in the warmth of our homes. The adventurous may drive to the mall. The less adventurous only go out to retrieve their mail. But overseas, winter takes on a whole different light. The cold doesn't bother the city residents; it merely provides different scenery.

Last Sunday was a chilly day in Paris, but the sky was clear and the wind mild. Since my Montparnasse hotel is located a couple of miles from the River Seine, I don’t walk there as often as I did when our hotel was near the Louvre, but after enjoying lunch in the Latin district, I decided to take the long way back to Montparnasse. It was a wonderful experience.

After crossing the Seine, I made my way through the Louvre area, past the embassies near Place Concorde, and on to the Pont Alexander III Bridge. (Photo above.) Everywhere you look, Paris is magnificent, but this isn’t about its monuments. Rather, it’s about its people. Thousands of them were out enjoying the day in spite of the chill. Children rode Merry-Go-Rounds, played on swings, and ice skated at an outdoor rink while couples walked hand-in-hand, smooching. The parks were full, and smiles abundant. It is truly magnificent seeing so many people outside, enjoying their day off.

On my way past The Invalides, hundreds of roller bladders were out on a different kind of adventure. Their two-city-block procession was being chased by an ambulance and police vehicle. This well-organized event allowed its participants to skate comfortably enough to take pictures and shoot video as they rolled. It was another marvelous display of locals shunning winter. Monday brought snow, which is rare for Paris, so the school kids were out tossing snow balls and making snow angles. No, sir, Old Man Winter won't keep these people inside.

But such enthusiasm for the outdoors isn’t limited to France. I saw plenty of people walking in Almaty (see above) where the temperatures were significantly lower. Night time is play time over there, and the cold is just a way of life. It's the same in China, so what keeps Americans from taking a walk in the winter? I suppose everyone has their own reasons, but the next time you’re bored, rather then stay cooped up inside, why not take a walk through your own winter wonderland? Go visit a park that you haven’t seen in a while. Chances are good that there won’t be many people out, but that shouldn't keep you from enjoying it. Besides, you just might burn off a few of those holiday calories.

A Day In The Life

By Mark W. Danielson

People often ask me what it’s like being an international airline pilot. In a nut shell, it’s like being a celebrity. Kids ask for my autograph, women clamor over me, strangers flock to have their picture taken with me . . . Well, maybe that was true for a Pan Am captain during the Golden Age of Aviation, but it doesn’t happen now. Fifty years ago, First Class was exactly that. Passengers dressed up, and no kids were allowed. Attractive stewardesses greeted you, waiting on you as though in a fine restaurant, and pilots flew their airplanes from the cockpit. So much has changed since then.

Nowadays, the cockpit is the flight deck, stewardesses are known as flight attendants and pursers, and pilots are captains and first officers. Sadly, First Class turned into Romper Room, and respect seems to be a thing of the past. So, no—kids don’t ask for my autograph, women don’t fight over me, and I’m the one offering to take pictures so that couples can be photographed together.

I wrote this from Frankfurt after four hours of sleep. I was gone a week and never slept longer than five hours at a time during my entire trip around the world. When I landed in Memphis just before midnight, I had traveled twenty-four time zones in eight days, and then spent the rest of the night jump-seating home to Denver.

Our MD-11s are equipped with the finest navigation systems available. Our “electronic flight bags” display instrument approaches and route maps for any airport in our global data base. FedEx is also installing infra-red heads-up displays so that I can see through the dark and weather, and lower our already near-zero visibility landing requirements to better deliver “The World On Time.” We are well catered in flight, and when we land, our transportation is ready to whisk us off to our world class hotel. To the layman, we seem spoiled.

Flights over eight hours require an extra pilot. Add one more when it exceeds twelve. This allows us to rotate sleep periods because for some reason, the FAA determined it was wise if we are awake for the landing and taxi in. (I’m pretty sure that happens most of the time, but sometimes I’m too dazed to remember.) To accommodate our sleep, we have the finest rest facilities available—a floor mat. (See photo.) Okay, a few airplanes do have a retractable bunk bed that resembles a giant Tylenol capsule when extended, but those are normally reserved for the double-crewed airplanes.

Since we sleep on the floor, we change into grubby clothes once we are leveled off. This is acceptable because our wrinkled, drooled on uniforms wouldn’t enhance our image at the hotel. Of course, sleeping on the floor does offer its perks. The leaks around the door provide plenty of fresh air; so much so that it wouldn’t matter if someone shot a hole in our airplane. So, after plugging the leak with an airline blanket, which more closely resembles an oversized bib, I build my nest with as many blankets as I can find, don my sleep mask, and start counting backwards from one hundred hoping to fall asleep. But getting a turbulence massage is only half the fun. When my time is up, I switch places with another pilot and spend the next twenty minutes waking up, trying to determine where I am and what I’m doing. By that time, I’m sleepy again.

Sometimes washing my face helps, except our airplane’s water level has been minimized to save weight (AKA fuel), so I get splattered when I press the faucet lever. But the fun really starts when I’m flying an animal charter. You see, FedEx flies anything and everything, and animal charters generate big bucks. Unfortunately for the crew, these horses and cattle also generate big smells. In fact, it is so bad that we have to wrap our suitcases in plastic bags before the flight or their stench will permeate its contents. Afterwards, we get a fantastic greeting at the hotel. So much so that other customers step aside just to give us priority service. Heck, we even get our own private elevators! Ah yes—home on the range never smelled so good.

On rare occasions, things don’t always go smoothly. Recently, I stayed at an international hotel where a notice was slid under my door stating that I had overstayed my visit, and they need me out of my room in two hours. Their note said they would be “happy to assist me with storing my belongings.” Never mind that my airplane wouldn’t arrive for another forty hours. Hmmm, do I call the company, or should I stay at the embassy suites—as in U.S. Embassy? Oh, the decisions to be made when I’m bleary eyed. The language issues only complicate matters.

Controlling my hotel room’s temperature is only part of my sleep problem. Actually, temperature control implies that I have the means of doing so, but that isn’t always the case. Opening my door provides cooler air, but then the noise keeps me awake, even with earplugs and my head buried in pillows. Closing the door dampens the noise, but then it’s too hot, so instead of sleeping, I end up reliving Goldilocks episodes, struggling to find an acceptable balance. When my layover is up, I will spend three or more hours getting to the airport, through security, reviewing the weather, loading my flight plan, and finally getting airborne so that I can fly for seven hours.

I know; it’s a hard life. Blah, blah, whine, whine—would I like some cheese with that? But seriously, I love my job. There is no better profession, especially for a writer. What other job gives me so much undistracted free time? And on those rare occasions when I have an extended layover in a great location like Paris, Frankfurt, Sydney, or Honolulu, it almost becomes a paid vacation. Did I say I loved my job? I can't imagine doing anything else. Oh, and those kids who want my autograph? Well, that still only happens in my dreams.