A question of identity

by Carola Dunn

When I speak to an audience of readers, the question I hear most often is: "Where do you get your ideas?" The second most frequent is: "How do you pronounce your name?" That's much easier to answer!

Carola--just like Carol or Carolyn or Caroline. NOT Ca-Roll-a, let alone Corolla, Crayola or any similar trademark. However, I do forgive people who say it wrong--the first four or five times.

The next thing people say is "I've never heard it before. Did your mother make it up?"

No, she didn't. If I remember correctly (which I frequently don't), she once told me she named me after a favourite book called Life as Carola, by Joan Grant.

This is one of an interesting series supposedly describing one of her own incarnations, as was her first book, Winged Pharoah, set in ancient Egypt. I read and loved Winged Pharoah, but I could never quite bring myself to read Life as Carola--altogether too weird!

I've met several Carolas, too. My godmother had a cousin called Carola. After I left school (Friends' School Saffron Walden), I understand another Carola arrived there. When I lived in Carlsbad, California, I had a call from a lady called Carola who'd read about me in the local paper. And in Eugene, where I live now, the head of the area's forestry service police turned up at a book-signing, not because she was interested in the book but because her name was Carola. So we're not common (Heaven forbid), but I am not alone.

I've met a Carola in at least one mystery series: Robert Barnard's Charlie Peace has a daughter of that name. And another mystery connection--this is an old poster for a phonograph, owned by Larry Karp, author of The Ragtime Kid.

Here are some other Carolas:

Carola's Parotia Bird of Paradise. Do check out this link and see them dance.

Historian Carola Oman, author of one of the best biographies of Nelson ever written, or so I understand.

Another queen: A Swedish princess who became queen of Saxony. There's a port in New Guinea called Queen Carola's Harbour, which I think must be named after her, but I couldn't get a picture of it. The Parotia may also be named for her. I like the look of her!

I just googled images of Queen Carola's Harbour and found a pic of me and several of my book covers! Also a painting by Paul Wyeth, on sale at Christie's, of his wife and daughters, Mrs Titula Wyeth, Carina and Carola in the Studio.

And then there's the Swedish singer Carola, who won the Eurovision song contest in 2006!

So, you see, I'm in good company, though I have to admit I don't know how any of these Carolas pronounced our name.

PS I hate to boast, but I just heard from my UK editor that according to The Bookseller:

"This week's number one [on The Accelerators list]... is A Mourning Wedding, Carola Dunn's 13th 1920s-set Daisy Dalrymple mystery [increase in sales 406%]. Publishers Robinson has just completed its mission of publishing all 19 books in the series, beginning with Death at Wentwater Court two years ago. Book 20, Gone West, hits shelves in February."
[And Die Laughing is at #5!]
The accelerators chart comprises books that have been out for at least two full weeks and have experienced the biggest week-on-week sales boost. All data derived from Nielsen BookScan

I'm not sure of the significance, but it sounds good!

The Perils of Plotting

Maybe perils is a bit melodramatic, but it's eye-catching. How about dilemmas? Okay, still a little heavy, but it carries the connotation of difficulty. Things don't always pan out the way we plan. Take my new book, whose cover appears here. As I've said before (likely too many times), I'm a "pantser" when it comes to plotting. I start with a basic idea and jump in feet first.

With this book, the second Sid Chance entry, I did a bit of cogitating and came up with the idea of building the story around the subject of Medicare fraud. I got the impetus from a CBS news piece about FBI agents in Miami tracking down storefront scammers who billed Medicare for durable medical equipment, like power chairs and such. It has been a lucrative business, but I didn't recall any mystery novels delving into it. I know, somebody will write that they've read a dozen of them, but I haven't.

Anyway, I researched the subject, learning the requirements for setting us an operation able to bill Medicare. I read about the new regulations aimed at making it more difficult for fraudsters. I learned that some drug traffickers were finding it more lucrative than selling dope.

Before I plopped down on my recliner with laptop on lap, the local paper ran a few stories about the problem of killers who are kids getting tried in Criminal Court and sentenced to prison. If they weren't genuine ciminals when they went in, they probably would be when they came out. In juvenile correctional facilities, they get guidance designed for people their age.

The main story featured Nashville's youngest murderer of recent memory, a black boy who shot a man during a drug deal at age twelve. He was released from prison at twenty-five after spending more than half his life behind bars. He vowed to lead a changed life now, though he hadn't been able to find a job. I read a few months later that he'd been arrested for beating up a girlfriend, but I already had my character who vowed to go straight.

My man, Djuan Burden, appears at a Medicare scam shop in the process of closing and ready to skip town. The owner had just been shot, causing Djuan to flee in panic. A pair of Metro Nashville homicide detectives with his description and license number, plus a paper he'd left on the desk with his fingerprints and his grandmother's address, promptly arrest him for the murder.

PI Sid Chance is hired by the grandmother, who had reason to believe in Djuan's innocence, to prove he didn't murder the shop owner. Sid and his sometimes partner, Jaz LeMieux, find evidence of Medicare fraud which the cops missed because they were only interested in the homicide. Sid turns it over to an FBI agent who is a key contact as the story progresses.

Great so far, but at this point the plot switches gears. Sayonara Medicare fraud. The story turns into a tale of bad cops and other villains involved in murder and revenge and similar nastiness. There are good cops, too, of course, including Homicide Detective Bart Masterson and Patrol Sgt. Wick Stanley, who along with Sid and Jaz are members of the Miss Demeanor and Five Felons Poker Club. While writing the book, I attended the Metro Nashville Citizen Police Academy. It prompted me to dedicate the book to the men and women who wear the badge and risk their necks day and night to keep us safe.

I suppose what happened with the plot to this book illustrates why I prefer the "seat of the pants" method of plotting. I had no idea things would turn out they way they did. It's exciting to learn what characters wind up doing and how they steer the story into new dimensions.

You'll find more about the new book here at my website.

Range Snobs

by Ben Small

You know who you are...

The guy who trots along all firing stations, oil can and screwdrivers in hand, during every break in firing.


The guy who stares at all my cammo'd gear, Molle-bags, ammo containers and piles of magazines before snorting, "Beginner."

The guy who then retreats, adding "Park close?" over his shoulder.


The guy who takes a look at your target, your rifle and your rests and scopes, and sadly shakes his head.

The guy who goes back to his shooting station and tells his buddies, who then all come down to look and chuckle.

The guy who, on one pass through, tells me controlled-feed bolts are more accurate than the direct-feed crap I'm shooting.

The guy who fingers my Wal-Mart Winny White Box round and says, "I make my own."

The guy who tells me smudging my scope may improve my aim.

The guy who claims I flinch with a television clicker.

The guy who taunts me at a target change, saying, "Why bother? You didn't hit it."

The guy who then adds, "Need to move it closer?"

The guy who, on another pass through, touches my steel, blows on his fingers and says, "This barrel won't last long."

The guy who told the range master I'd said the woman next to me had a nice ass. I swear; I said, "She's a nice lass!" There was no stalking...

The guy who got all smarty-pants-pissed-off just because I bumped his original Winchester 1873 Carbine off the rack and onto the concrete. How'd I know Jimmy Stewart once fired it?

The guy I told, "Well, it won't work now..."

JURY DUTY

By June Shaw
Have you ever served on a jury?

How do you feel about jury duty? Would you want to serve, or dread it as much as having three wisdom teeth yanked out without deadening?

I always told people I would never want to serve on a jury. I was adamant. And this was even before we were watching so many trials go one for weeks and hearing about all that on TV. Some jurors were locked up for days with little or no contact with the outside world—their families or jobs. They had to make major decisions that could not be taken back. And now, especially, we see so many cases in which we believe the jurors made poor decisions.

Why in the world would I want to serve?

And then I was called.

Goodness, I received a notice that I would have to show up at the courthouse in town, and I’d possibly be called on to become a juror.

I dreaded it. There was no way that I would decide to convict anyone of a crime. If I did, suppose I made a mistake that could affect the rest of that person’s life?

Thank goodness the first time I made a last-minute call and discovered the case was settled out of court. I didn’t have to go. Yay!

A few months later I was again summoned. This time attorneys on both sides questioned me. They told me the case concerned someone with drugs and wanted to know whether I had strong feelings about drug use.

Wow, how easy for me to respond. My middle son had been hooked on marijuana, making our lives miserable for years. Finally, thank God, he’d quit. It took us having to do an intervention – one of the hardest and best things I’d ever done in my life. He was so proud of the years he spent without using pot; we were all proud of him, too. I HATED illegal drugs.

After I said this, the prosecuting attorney wanted me in the jury. The defense attorney said, “Absolutely not.” I went home. The experience hadn’t been too bad.

A year or so after this I was called again. This time I was chosen. I had mixed feelings.
Right away the judge told us the trial concerned a young man charged with armed robbery. The defendant had robbed a drugstore and taken money and drugs. They caught him with the goods soon after he left the store. He did not have a weapon—but he had his finger in his jacket pocket and pointed it, telling everyone in the store that he had a gun.
Even if he did not, he had committed armed robbery, we were told.

Okay, so if they knew all of that, what were we there for?

The judge said we were having the trial because the thief pled not guilty because of temporary insanity: He was high on drugs when he robbed the drugstore.

I couldn’t believe it! I also couldn’t believe that the entire jury didn’t come up with a quick decision after we heard all of the evidence. Gosh, if someone could rob a store and be excused because he was high, then anyone could do anything—rob and kill—and say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I was high.”

Just think of the robberies and murders in this country. Most of them are caused by drug use. I knew that if I were the last juror standing with my feelings, I would not see the accused go free.

We didn’t. The trial was interesting, and the judge made us feel important. I knew I was doing the right thing. The only thing that disappointed me was that once we turned in the Guilty verdict, the judge thanked us and excused us. I was sorry at first that we wouldn’t know what happened to the defendant. But thinking about it afterward, I decided that probably was for the best.

And the only thing that disappointed me for quite awhile afterward was that I didn’t get called again. Surely it will happen. The next time I’ll go with no hesitation.

How about you? What are your feelings about serving on a jury?

A Midsummer Night's Dream

By Mark W. Danielson

It was a hot summer night and sleep eluded me. To be truthful, I had gone without blissful sleep for weeks. In my job, getting five solid hours is a blessing, but since I had been home a while, my unrest was inexcusable. After flipping non-stop like a fish out of water, I rolled out of bed to toil on mycomputer. An hour later and utterly exhausted, I lumbered to the basement bedroom so I wouldn’t disturb anyone. Lying on my back, my dog at my feet, I once again stared into the darkness with eyes wide open.

Busy minds keep bodies awake, and in my case, it was like I consumed sixteen Mountain Dews. Silently counting backwards from one hundred normally drains my brain, but tonight, it merely challenged me to reach zero. I then went through my stress exercises of tightening and relaxing every muscle, but my mind fought back with a vengeance. Then suddenly, miraculously, a new plot came to me about a man so drunk on sleep that he communicates with a spirit. Ah, the perfect sequel to Writer’s Block! At the time, I knew nothing about the real haunting at Fort Worth’s Scott Theater. I learned about that the next day while conducting research, but since my protagonist is a Fort Worth homicide detective, the Scott Theater haunting nicely fits into my story.

Smiling now, I settled into the pillow and closed my eyes, letting my mind drift with the plot. The sequel that I had already begun could wait, for this new story must go forth. After all, who knows sleep deprivation better than an international airline pilot?

Fate has crept into my life in many ways, and I have no better way of explaining this revelation. It wasn’t the first time I received subliminal messages, but I never recalled any being as vivid. So now the fun begins, banging on keys while my subconscious writes this story. I love this stage because nothing has to be perfect. While I have definite ideas on where the story will go, I look forward to my characters taking me there. Months will pass before this story sees its first edit, but that’s not a problem since Writer’s Block won’t be released until this fall. In this regard, perhaps there is some value in sleepless nights. Then again, it would be nice waking up feeling refreshed.

An ignorant take on fantasy

My first ever request to write a guest blog was for a site called Who Said Pixies Are Rational Creatures? It’s aimed at writers and readers of fantasy and historical fiction. OK, I’ve written a historical novel, a historical short story, some kids’ stories about a fairy called Stanley who lives under the dripping tap in my bedroom and recently, to my surprise, I had a short story accepted for a fantasy/sci-fi anthology. In other words, while not totally ignorant of the fantasy genre, I know precious little about it really. But they trusted me, and this was the result.

A warning, I have difficulty in taking things seriously. Not those which involve compassion, sympathy, tragedy and all the other personal things, but all those heavy outpourings which clog up the news. But I don’t intend to judge, undermine, satirize or otherwise criticize the fantasy genre. I have many friends who write romantic novels and, just like crime novelists, they’re constantly having to put up with seemingly innocent observations which suggest that they’re somehow involved in an inferior form of literature. No doubt fantasy writers experience the same thing. I don’t intend to add to it.

All I want to do is try to imagine myself as someone exploring the genre and give myself a brief fantasy experience. So, without any real experience of writing fantasy, and with an unfortunate absence of belief in anything supernatural, what can I think of as a potential fantastical subject in my immediate surroundings (which is where all my other writing ideas are conceived)? How would I set about finding a story and the characters who drive it?

I imagine that, first of all, I’d have to suspend my normal beliefs and perceptions and that they’d be replaced by others which I’d have to invent. Fantasy no doubt frees you but it simultaneously creates other restraints arising from its settings and conventions. And yet, surely, all I have to do is free the various objects about me and let them be what they want. The paper knife on the desk will shine and glow when I leave this evening and, as the darkness creeps in, it’ll be picked up by the small creature which left it there early this morning. He, she or it will look from the desk’s plateau across the void to the model boats sitting on the little table, bucking and rocking under the cliffs of books. The carved wooden eagle perched among the flowers outside the window will stretch its wings and carry the creature and its sword to the bottom of the garden, where the granite wall will open and show the fires flickering up from its depths onto the undersides of the clouds. And then there’ll be the songs and voices, the cries of prisoners, the gropings of blind, lost sisters, the unearthly growling of the ebony dogs.

And suddenly, I get a sort of intimation of the strength of fantasy. When I draw back from my imaginings, what am I left with? Predictability. Everything around me has a function, a specific, defined purpose. Even me. And it makes no concessions to the magic that makes the grasses and flowers outside appear each spring. The clouds aren’t billowing sails of aerial galleons but mere water vapour. The faint tick of the clock is simply an inevitable, mechanical fact, whereas I now know that, at night, it will separate itself from the clock, become the pulse of something, supply the rhythm of a creature’s advance.

I said I have no beliefs in the supernatural. This isn’t that, it’s natural. We carry all these race memories, dreams, imaginings; we can release people and things from their restricted functions. Maybe fantasy is simply a means of relaxing our grip on experience, a way to deny chronology and inevitability. Maybe it’s just a less uptight reality.

House Hunters International

By Shane Cashion

I couldn’t agree more with Susan’s last post and Jean’s reply lauding the mood-elevating effects of reading. The panacea for my doldrums would have been choice D: exercise. As much as I love a good book, I’ve always turned to physical activity to lift my mood. At any rate, I would most certainly pick reading over television, especially now where satellite has only multiplied the number of inane shows. That said I still watch way too much TV. When the heat index is in the mid 150s, there’s not much else to do. Read, eat, complain, argue, and flip channels. It’s too hot to exercise.

So with that as a backdrop, I thought I’d “plug” a TV show that I’ve been watching a lot lately. It’s called House Hunters International. For those who haven’t seen it, the premise is pretty simple. In each half hour episode, the viewer follows a couple seeking to buy real estate in a foreign country. The couple is presented with three properties and at the end of each show the viewer gets to see which property the couple chooses. Through the magic of TV land, all the red tape that attends buying property is eliminated; ensuring that the chosen couple can close on their new home in less than twenty minutes.

What’s great about the show is the variety of cities and countries showcased. In the dozen or so episodes I’ve watched, they’ve gone to Israel, Kenya, Fiji, Amsterdam, Iceland, and the Cayman Islands. The beauty of these foreign lands always steals the show, but what often shocks me is how expensive it is to live abroad. Here in St. Louis, the nation’s most dangerous city, you can buy a new three thousand square foot house for pretty cheap. Want that same house in Noosa Australia? Forget it! It would cost you a couple million bucks!

Occasionally, the buyers themselves can be pretty entertaining, too.

Agent: “This house is priced competitively at 9.7 million dollars. Naturally, the home is beautiful, but it’s the exquisite view that you’re paying for.”

Buyer: “Well it certainly is a beautiful view. I just don’t know about the drapes. And that yellow’s way too bright in the eighth bedroom.”

Agent: “You can always replace the drapes, and paint’s cheap.”

Buyer: “Hmmm. I guess that’s true. Let’s look at the next house all the same.”

Real estate agents have a tough job. The buying public would send me straight to the nervous hospital. At any rate, if you’re waiting for that next great book to arrive in the mail, or feel like catching a half hour of television before calling it a night, check out House Hunters International. Between it and Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations you can learn where to eat and what to buy in just about every city in the world, which is certainly better than the rest of the excrement that’s on.