We've Come a Long Way

by Jean Henry Mead

Women reporters have come a long way since the early days of journalism. Fresh out of college, I began working as a news reporter for a California daily newspaper. At that time, manual typewriters were the only means of getting our stories to press. Never a great typist, I bought an Olivetti electric which I hauled back and forth to work. It wasn’t long before everyone in the news room had one.

Computers were a God send and I bought my first in 1981. When newspapers finally discovered their versatility, they were called video display terminals or VDTs. By then I was freelancing and editing an instate magazine.

Before the 1960s, women news reporters were mainly confined to the society pages or as copy editors. Later, those of us “lucky” enough to be on the police beat--which meant chasing ambulances and investigating train wrecks--were not allowed to dress casually. Even slacks were prohibited and certainly not tennis shoes or jeans. I remember arriving at a horrific train wreck with box cars piled on top of one another, wearing a dress, nylons and heels. I returned to the office looking as though I had been in the train wreck.

Police officers ignored my questions because women weren’t supposed to report on accidents and robberies. The same was true at city hall. So when the mayor was suspected of illegal practices, I went after him in print with every bit of evidence I could gather. He was subsequently relieved of his duties.

One of my aticles helped the F.B.I. capture a bank robber, but my accomplishments pale compared to those of a broadcast journalist that I admire. Hank Phillippi Ryan (pictured above) works for Boston’s NBC affiliate, 7News. Her investigative reporting has resulted in new laws enacted, people sent to prison, homes removed from foreclosures and millions of dollars paid in restitution.

Hank has won an astounding 26 Emmys, ten Edward R. Murrow Awards and dozens of other journalistic kudos. She began her career as a political reporter in 1975 in Indianapolis, and was later assigned to beats such as medical, movie critic and on-the-road feature reporter in Atlanta, where every Monday morning she would close her eyes and point to a map. That’s where she’d go to find a feature story, or what reporters call a “kicker.”

She said, “They called me ‘something out of nothing productions’ because I could find a story anywhere.” In 1988 she was assigned to write the long-form “think pieces” for presidential conventions. From that time on, she was an investigative reporter.

“Over the past thirty years I’ve wired myself with hidden cameras, chased down criminals and confronted corrupt politicians—and had many a door slammed in my face. But the idea that I can change lives and even change laws is so gratifying. It’s a big responsibility, which I take very seriously. But when a tough story comes through and changes are made as a result—the rewards are immense.”

Hank has also found time to write four mystery novels. Her Prme Time book won the Agatha Award for first novel and Air Time has been nominated for another Agatha.

The Sticky Parts

By Beth Terrell

Writer's block. Some writers believe in it; others don't. Some say it's a manifestation of fear of success. Some say it's the Muse's way of telling you, "Hold on. Pietro and Penelope don't need to fall into each other's arms yet. That's too easy. They need to miss each other at the marketplace. And Umberto's jeep needs to have a flat tire on the way to his assignation with Clementine. STOP! YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"

Some say writer's block is an excuse not to produce, that there is no such thing as plumber's block or widget-maker's block, so you should just get off your duff (or on it, in front of your computer), and write something. Some say there are many different types of writer's block, some more serious than others, and all with different underlying causes. Sometimes it's not writer's block at all, they say. The block is just a symptom of the real problem. For example, a person battling severe depression isn't blocked; he's depressed. Treat the depression, and the block will take care of itself.

I don't claim to be an expert on writer's block and whether or not it exists, but I do know that, if I go a few days without writing, it gets easier to go a few more days and harder to sit back down at the computer and crank out words. Sometimes when that happens, it's because life has gotten in the way, but often it's because I've come to what I call a sticky part--a place in the book where the writing gets tough, the emotion gets too intense, or I'm not sure which way to go next. I put off writing one scene for weeks, because I knew it was going to break Jared's heart--and mine. Whatever the reason, cranking out words is exactly what I need to do.

So I pick up an empty spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen, imagine calling Jared (my protagonist) over to sit beside me, and ask him, "And then what happened?" From there, it's like taking dictation. He talks, and I scribble down what he says. When he stops talking, I ask him a question to start the ball rolling again. "What did that look like? How did you feel when that happened? And then what did she do?"

I know that what comes out will be rough and raw and in no shape to be shown to anyone. I know that parts of the story will change, sometimes dramatically. But the exercise gets me moving again. It adds to the block of metaphorical clay from which the real story will be shaped, and it gets me past the sticky parts so that writing can be a joy again.

How about you? What helps you get past the sticky parts?

Buzz Job

By Mark W. Danielson

They say one photo is worth a thousand words. This one can stir many or be limited to a couple. (As in Holy Sh . .!) My buddy recently sent me this photo of an F-4 doing a low pass over a Canadian lake. F-4 Phantoms are long gone from the US inventory, but they were sure fun to fly. It was very interesting to see how this F-4 looked from the boat’s perspective. You see, I made a similar pass over a guy standing in his tiny boat, and when I looked in my mirrors, the boat was empty. After sharing a laugh, my back-seater and I focused on our next turn point. Oh, come on -- it was funny! It was also unplanned. Too many years have passed since that buzz job, so I guess it’s safe to tell my side of the story. (Sure wish I could hear the Filipino’s.)

At the time, I was stationed with the 80th Tactical Fighter Squadron at Kunsan Air Base, Korea, and was operating out of Clark Air Force Base in Luzon, Philippines, for the Cope Thunder “war games”. To understand how this happened, I always flew as if I was going to war, and saw no reason to operate any other way. On this particular day I was the “ground spare”, armed with six inert five-hundred pound bombs and a live 20 mm cannon. The “war” went on without me, but then they decided to let me take off, fly the low level, and drop my bombs on the target airfield -- solo. Very cool.

The sky was overcast with embedded rain showers; typical for the monsoon season. And since wars don’t care about the weather, I flew under the clouds, which got lower the further north I flew. I was comfortable flying at 520 miles per hour at treetop level under a seventy-five foot overcast until the mountainous terrain forced me up to my minimum safe altitude. The interesting thing about flying low and fast is you can see monkeys sitting in trees directly in front of you, but everything to the sides is a blur. That phenomenon is called tunnel vision.

I flew in the clouds navigating by an inertial computer until a hole appeared in front of me. Now over water, I dove for the deck, leveling at fifteen feet on my radar altimeter when directly in front of me was this fisherman standing up in his boat. If you notice in the above photo, the water below the F-4 is disturbed by the air pressure. I’m sure this was the also case with my fly-by. Most likely, the fisherman never heard me coming and was probably blown overboard by this air pressure, or if he heard and saw me, he may have dived overboard. Either way, he got wet. Too bad, so sad. Like I said, it wasn’t planned. Sorry, dude.

The rest of my low level was uneventful. When I arrived at my predetermined point, I pulled the nose up, climbed for a few seconds, then rolled over and pulled the nose around to the target airfield. After checking my dive angle and nose position, I released my bombs, pulled up, and egressed without knowing where the bombs hit. When I got back to base, I heard my bombs cut a nice diagonal through the targeted runway. (Remember, these were cement bombs dropped in a practice area. No one got hurt.) The best part was a peer in my sister squadron witnessed my “glorious” attack. It was truly one of my most memorable flights in the Phantom. Seeing this photo brought it all back.

Now, before you criticize, think about this – do you want fighter pilots who are trained to deliver ordnance in wartime, or pilots that fly at unrealistic altitudes and get shot down when they have to face their opponent? I thought so.

Video Chatting and Mystery Writing

Artwork from USA Today

By Chester Campbell

I read an article in the newspaper this morning about the video-chat revolution. Using programs like iChat, Skype, ooVoo, and Chatroulette, more and more people (especially teens) are talking face-to-face on-screen instead of holding a phone to their ear and staring at the ceiling.

In a survey last fall, 45 percent of respondents said that in five to ten years, they expect to use live Internet video frequently to communicate with family, friends, or colleagues. Right now it's mostly computers with webcams, but the big screen is coming. Panasonic, Samsung, and LG began selling TVs equipped with Skype this year. A webcam and mike are extra, but soon they'll be built-in.

Think of the possibilities for mystery writers. Detectives can talk to each other and view evidence in places far removed. With the TV on and a DVD in the recorder, you might even pick up a murder live. Not every detail, of course. We'd have to hide most of the bad guy's identity. Just enough to provide the telling clue.

From what I read, Chatroulette is a controversial site created by Andrey Ternovskiy, a seventeen-year-old Moscow student. When you sign on, it randomly pairs you with someone unknown from anywhere around the world. It began with twenty users, and in a matter of months mushroomed to 30 million unique visitors. The news story said it sometimes produces X-rated results.

I can see it now: a guy logs onto Chatroulette and up pops someone from across the globe. The face on the screen stares at him, lifts a .45 Glock and says, "Bang! You're dead." Two days later the guy turns up a corpse. Ah, the intrigue.

The article writer, a reporter for USA Today, compares the trend among teenagers to what us oldies remember from the sixties with Judy Jetson, the animated space-traveling kid in The Jetsons TV series. But, as she points out, it no longer requires bulky hardware and a corkscrew antenna. You can read the full article here.

I can see other uses for the video chat. How about talking to your editor and holding up manuscript pages for her or him to check? "Why don't you take out that word there," she says, pointing, "and change it to..."

It would be a great research tool to interview someone miles away as though you were sitting in the office with them. If it were me, I might want to clean  up my desk a bit before exposing my rat's nest to strangers. That's just one of the hazards of modern technology. Just think of all the advantages. In fact, why not put your thoughts in a comment?

I'm waiting.

Deserving Cinderfella

by Ben Small

I'm gonna depart from the usual and write today about something not mystery-related. Gotta rest my trigger finger... for the clicker, as I watch Butler win the NCAA National Men's Basketball Championship. Replays, you know. I plan to make my own.

And there's more: I'm on the lam. Dog-catchers... Dog-catchers sporting blue horns -- just like Coach K. Guess somebody didn't like my barking around the neighborhood.

Musta called him,. Coach K. Ratface the UNC folks call him.

Yeah, somebody ratted me out.


Why on the woof? I was born and raised a Hoosier, which means I was raised with a basketball as my best friend. I slept with one, rolled one under my feet as I ate, and played basketball every day after school, snow or not. We played on cement, gravel and dirt, even on uneven ground or hilly driveways. The surface didn't matter. Hoop and ball, that's all we required.

My best buddy's father had season tickets to Butler Bulldogs games during the sixties, which meant I was a frequent attendee. Plus, Butler Fieldhouse was the home of Indiana High School Basketball. It was where tiny Milan High School made history, beating mighty Muncie Central for the state championship in 1954, a feat made legendary on the same floor by the movie Hoosiers.  But contrary to the movie, Milan's victory was no fluke. The year before, Milan had been the state's highest ranking team, small though they were, and Milan beat the awesome Crispus Attucks team, which started the Robertson brothers, Oscar and Bailey. Milan didn't win in 1953, however, their year was 1954. A few years later, the Milan coach, Marvin Wood left the smallest school in the state for the largest, my high school. I knew Marvin Wood; he was my coach and my Driver's Ed instructor. A nice guy who got lucky.

The Milan tradition, the pride, lives on, and this year, Butler is the Milan of college basketball. Butler has only 4200 students, and they're playing for the national championship just six miles from what is now Hinkle Fieldhouse, Butler's home floor.

How's that for cool?

Every basketball kid in Indiana knows about Butler basketball and about Tony Hinkle, for whom Butler Fieldhouse was re-named. Tony was Butler's coach forever, it seemed, and what a coach he was. Tark the Shark was famous in part for towels in his mouth. Tony Hinkle pulled on his white socks; he had to change them at every halftime.

Tony Hinkle didn't get the talent the big name schools got, schools like Indiana, Notre Dame and Purdue. Tony got what Indiana talent was left over after the name schools ran out of scholarships.  His center was often only about six-foot-five. Tony got by with strategy  and gamesmanship, and his kids went to class. No team played with more intensity than the Butler Bulldogs, and the Bulldogs were tough to beat. Indiana and Notre Dame wouldn't play Butler; they didn't want to lose. Each year Tony would schedule the Hoosier Classic Tournament, and he'd invite Indiana, Purdue and Notre Dame. Since Indiana and Notre Dame wouldn't accept the invitation, he'd replace them with Ohio State and Northwestern. And Butler would fare well in the tournament, despite facing the likes of Jerry Lucas and Terry Dischinger, future all-pros. Butler even won some of these games.

Butler made the NCAA tournament once during the sixties, back when the tournament was only about sixteen teams, but it lost its first round game. Who cared? Butler had made the tournament, and all of Indiana celebrated.

But there is more to the Tony Hinkle story. During WWII, some coaches who were drafted or enlisted were assigned coaching positions according to merit. Branch McCracken, Indiana University's legendary basketball coach was assigned to a secondary Army soccer team. Tony Hinkle became coach of the Army's primary basketball team.  He was that good.

And Tony Hinkle loved kids. As a friend reminded me the other day, Tony cut a hole in the fence behind the Butler Bowl, where Butler played football, so kids could sneak in. And during basketball season, Tony cracked open a door in the back of Butler Fieldhouse, by the heating plant and utility facilities.

Needless to say, every kid in Indianapolis loved Tony Hinkle.

Like John Wooden, a close friend of his, Tony was a soft-spoken guy. I never saw Tony raise his voice. He'd show his concern by tugging on those white socks.

Tony Hinkle is gone now, but his legacy lives on. And so does the legacy of Butler Basketball, except now, Butler is playing for a national championship, something that's long overdue.

In this age of one year players, shoe contracts, shots behind the NBA arc instead of the college arc, World Wide Wes, faked SATs and John Calipari's sleaze, Butler is a throwback to days gone by.

But don't bet against Butler. And don't be surprised to hear the name Tony Hinkle. The legacy lives on.

Hollywood Meets the Heartland at Hinkle

Gonna Study War No More

By Pat Browning


Gonna lay down my burdens/
Down by the riverside/
Down by the riverside/
Gonna lay down my burdens/
Down by the riverside/
Ain’t gonna study war no more.
…….. Old gospel song


The TV special, "War in the Pacific," is almost too cruel to watch. Now a relative has directed me to a YouTube video of the official Japanese surrender aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay, Sept. 2, 1945, and it really rattled my chain.


I thought of my old cotton-picking buddy from my days as a skinny kid in the Oklahoma boonies. He was a Marine, killed at Iwo Jima. Couldn’t have been more than 18 years old. I thought of my cousin Rudy, who joined the Navy at age 16 as a machinist’s mate and was discharged in 1946 as a chief petty officer. On Sept. 2, 1945 he was aboard the USS Cleveland at Okinawa. The ship left Okinawa on Sept. 9 to cover the evacuation of Allied prisoners of war from Wakayama.


My cotton picking buddy and my cousin are dead, but an old high school friend who was the radar operator on a B-29 in the Pacific is very much alive and kicking. His B-29 was in the swarm of bombers that did a flyover of the USS Missouri after the surrender ceremony.


He lives in Colorado now. I e-mailed him to ask about that long-ago flyover in Tokyo Bay. The vehemence of his reply almost knocked me off my chair. The memory is still raw after 65 years. In fact, getting him to talk about the war at all is like pulling teeth.


Quoting his e-mailed reply (it was in caps and the color red):
***
Yes, Patricia, I was there. Every B-29 that could fly was there. We went north of Tokyo then turned south. We flew over mile after mile of ash and rubble … not much left of Tokyo. We flew low over the battleship Missouri during the signing. I have a picture of the battleship, taken with a cheap Brownie Hawkeye camera … no long range photo lens, of course.


The Marines hated MacArthur. We thought he was a pr**k of the first order. He let the U.S. Air Force be destroyed on the ground at Clark Field on December 8 … a full day after Pearl Harbor. He left all his supplies north of Manila when he should have stored them at Bataan.


During the Korean War he sent Marines to the Chosen Reservoir where it was impossible to resupply them or to enable their escape when the Chinese came in. Mac assured us that the Chinese would never enter the war – he knew the Oriental mind!!! I will give him credit for success in post-war Japan.
***
(end quote)


The YouTube video, a newsreel that is remarkably sharp and audible after so many years, is at
http://tinyurl.com/yayqs45

MacArthur was the Supreme General Commander of Allied Forces. On deck with him that day to sign the agreement were Allied representatives from Australia, Canada, China, France, The Netherlands, New Zealand, Russia, the UK and the US.


MacArthur’s closing words were: “Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world, and that God will preserve it always.”


It’s a bit of a jolt to read gossip columnist Liz Smith’s column in wowowow.com for Feb. 20, 2010. Speaking of the movie “The Hurt Locker” Smith writes:
(quote)
***
Isn’t it also time that we acknowledge once again that war is the world’s business and, particularly, it has been America’s business over and over. So, perhaps we should be paying much more attention to the results of war and its perils and aftermath; as seen in "The Hurt Locker."


WHEN I say that war is America’s business, I am thinking of Dwight D. Eisenhower warning us that we might be taken over by the military industrial complex and we surely have been, despite his warning.


Beginning in 1775, we have been involved in
* The Revolution,
* the War of 1812,
* the Indian Wars,
* the Mexican War,
* the Civil War,
* the Spanish-American War,
* World Wars I and II,
* the Korean War,
* the Vietnam War,
* Desert Shield/Desert Storm,
* the Iraq War
* and now we are in Afghanistan in an ongoing war against terror.
***
(emphasis mine, end quote)


War seems to be always with us. Only the combatants change. As one footnote to World War II – Wakayama, former campsite of Allied prisoners, is now a Sister City to Bakersfield, California and Richmond, British Columbia, Canada.


Photo from Wikimedia Commons on the Web.

Make Every Word Count

by Jean Henry Mead

I recall a workshop where the instructor impressed upon his students that each word committed to paper should pull its own weight. And that every unnecessary word needs culling from the plot.

Writers have to engage their readers, not simply enlighten and entertain them. Creating word images that readers can relate to is preferable to forcing them to fill in the blanks. A Hummer H2 conveys a much stronger image than having your protagonist ride to the rescue in a Volkswagen.

Strong verbs are necessary to give one’s plot a dynamic, energetic tone: words such as massacre instead of kill, horde instead of bunch, or terrorize instead of bully. And as we’ve all been told, stay away from the verb to be in all its forms because it’s the weakest of words.

Adverbs that end in –ly also weaken prose. On the other hand, strong specific verbs give writing vitality. I’m reminded of my interview with A.B. Guthrie, Jr. who said, “The adjective is the enemy of the noun and the adverb is the enemy of damn near everything else. Writers use too many descriptive words." As for adjectives, author Lois J. Peterson once said, “One well-chosen adjective can be more effective than two or more, which used together might weaken the idea or image.”

Do we really need adverbs? Not unless it's impossible to come up with strong verbs, such as substituting rumbled for drove noisily. Cull the adverbs in your second draft and replace them with muscular verbs. As for adjectives, the rundown house can be rewritten as a hovel.

Word choices affect the plot’s pace. If every symphony movement maintained the same pace, the audience would either be exhausted or asleep before the finale. So writers need to think of themselves as conductors, controlling the pace with word choices, syntax and variety. Long sentences and paragraphs slow the pace and seem introspective while short, choppy sentences are much more dramatic and conducive of action scenes. So, in order to keep your reader reading, alternate your sentences and paragraphs in a variety of lengths.

Sentence rhythm is also important. Make sure to read your work aloud before committing it to a final draft. Some word choices bring a sentence to an abrupt halt and should be rewritten or replaced, along with all unnecessary words. The musical analogy is a good one because sentence flow is so important.

In other words, make every word count and the best choice possible.

Artwork: Wikipedia