The Most Dreaded Word

By Mark W. Danielson

It’s funny how certain things cross your mind. Sometimes they are pleasant. Other times, not as much. Perhaps it was because I was flying to Guadalajara where drug lords had just delivered another message by dumping twenty-three bodies around the city that got me onto this subject. Or maybe it was the news story of a light plane crash that killed six people, three of whom were children. Whatever the reason, it got me thinking about the word was and how it plays into stories. In a narrative story, it is essential. When used to describe people, it means death.

The last thing I want is for my loved ones to read I was a good writer, or I was a good pilot because both are used in the past tense. Words written post-mortem describing what was once my life. When you think in these terms, this word becomes rather sobering.

The 2011 holiday season kicked off with a vengeance, first, with a woman pepper-spraying WalMart customers on Black Friday, and then with news of more fights in stores. Such events not only reflect poorly on our society, they lead to neighbors saying, “I have no idea what happened. He/she was such a nice person.” Although no one died in these acts of stupidity, the lives of the guilty parties were changed forever.

Every day, the papers are riddled with obituaries that use was to describe people. Whether they died in combat, automobile crashes, or from cancer is a moot point because dead is dead, and now the most dreaded word is printed in their honor. Please keep this in mind as you travel to visit your loved ones. Don’t drink or text while driving. Always be aware of your surroundings so that you and everyone else can enjoy a safe and happy holiday season. Above all, have a very Merry Christmas.

Writers' identities

I wrote this before reading June's posting last Saturday so it's serendipitous that it turns out to be my extended answer to the question she posed. First, though - Cliché alert – ‘No two writers are the same’. OK, good to get that out of my system, but there’s more because I also think that ‘No ONE writer is the same’. Here’s what I mean.

We all know the publishing business has changed significantly and increasingly quickly over the past five years or so. When I started writing novels as opposed to plays, you polished your MS, printed out a copy (not cheap if it ran to 300-odd pages) and sent it out to agents and/or publishers. Postage wasn’t cheap either, (you also had to cover the costs for its return if they didn’t like it). Then, through the (sometimes) months you waited for them to reply, you got on with the next novel. Meantime, you also had your day job and you were a husband, wife, lover, significant other, hermit, father, mother, son, daughter, outcast, or whatever other roles your social situation imposed on you. See what I mean? There were (and are) several people inhabiting your body. But, back then, the writer bit was just that – you wrote, sent your stuff away, waited patiently but eagerly for a reply, got rejected and did it all again.

Today, though, even that writing bit has fragmented. Being a writer doesn’t just involve the one role. There’s still the writing (the best bit), but there’s also:

• the PR person, desperately trying to create and project a cuddly profile;
• the fish out of water, trying to learn and apply marketing techniques;
• the social networker, scrolling through tweets and Facebook comments with all the other writers;
• the blogger, trying to sell books;
• the prostitute, willing to do just about anything to be published or nudged higher up the sales lists;
• the reviewer;
• and, mostly, the unrecognised genius, whose blockbuster novel will change the course of humanity but lies misunderstood in the depths of a computer.

I exaggerate, of course, but only on the basis of fairly common experiences shared by many.

But why am I saying stuff you all know anyway? Because what I’m really doing (with very little subtlety) is boast. I’ve already sent out a few tweets and FB comments saying how wonderful I am, and this is another because yet another ‘self’ has been added to my list. I am now … (discreet but still quite loud fanfare) … an ‘award-winning author’. My publisher, Diane Nelson of Pfoxmoor Publishing, submitted two of my books to the 2011 Forward National Literature Awards. The Sparrow Conundrum was the winner in the ‘Humor’ category, and The Darkness came second in the ‘Mystery’ category. OK, trumpet blown, so what?

First, the news made me behave like a six year old on Christmas Eve. And yet, objectively, I’m not comfortable with the idea of ‘competitive literature’. Even though I know there are terrible novels out there as well as terrific ones, I applaud anyone who’s had the stamina and the commitment to actually write one and see it through to the end. But if I deny that it’s a competitive business, where do sales figures fit in? In the end, being able to add that little ‘award-winning’ tag to me and two of my books theoretically gives me a wee marketing edge. I say ‘theoretically’ because I don’t yet know whether that’ll be the case and, anyway, it’ll be up to me (the sloth) to make it happen.

Perhaps more importantly, though, it opens up another tricky area when it comes to the various ‘selves’ I was speaking of. My two awards were for very different books. The Sparrow Conundrum is a spoof ; its sole purpose is to make readers laugh. The Darkness, on the other hand, is a stark revenge/vigilante story with a pretty chilling resolution. It's still got jokes but its intentions are darker. So what does that make me? A funny man or a scary man? And what about the other stuff, the police procedurals, the historical, the non-fiction and the kids’ books? Multiplying your ‘selves’ can be counter-productive.

Readers, naturally enough, like to know what to expect when they buy a book. If they’ve enjoyed your gore-saturated slasher mystery, they’ll probably feel cheated if your follow-up is a light-hearted romantic romp through the tulips. In a way, then, they impose an identity on you – and they have every right to do so. But what happens if it’s not you but the characters in the follow-up who decide that they’ve gone off the idea of being serial killers and instead want to fall in love and skip through a field outside Amsterdam?

As I keep saying, ‘Hell is other people’ but it’s also readers and our characters.

On the other hand, to end on another cliché, I wouldn’t change it for the world.

My Tooth Is Killing...You

by Ben Small

Why do serious toothaches always seem to strike when no dentist is available?

It began so innocently, a bit of grit on my tongue. Probing with a pinky, I pulled out a bit of something that looked like metal. I'd gone shooting that day and wondered if somehow I'd injected a piece of torn cartridge. But I'd been shooting rifles, not pistols, and all my rifle cartridges are made of brass. Besides, I hadn't felt anything, and torn cartridges are rare, a sign of catastrophic failure -- the kind that kills people. There'd been no pool of blood in the dirt.

That was Thursday. Friday, about Noon, my tongue found a new edge on a molar. As it rolled over its ivory neighbors, savoring last vestiges of double cheeseburger, my tongue caught a snag.

Had I lost a filling? Goodness, I've only had three and all are over fifty years old. I'd forgotten I had them.

I found a magnifying mirror and opened my mouth. Perfect pearlies on the upper, the Grand Canyon on a lower.

Uh oh.

But no pain whatsoever. Nada.

So I'd worry about it later. My toofers are so good, I haven't seen a dentist in years, two states away. Gum disease? Not me. Why have a dentist when I can do whitening myself? Indeed, the only dentist I know these days is my brother in law, who's actually a periodontist, and he's three thousand miles away. He once opened my mouth, hopeful of a windfall, then closed it again with a frustrated obscenity, telling me to go away.

So I blew it off, figured I'd worry about it sometime next week...or month. What harm could it do? To my knowledge, I hadn't swallowed any of that metal. Besides, I had more important things to do. Indiana was playing arch-rival and No.1 ranked Kentucky the next day. Why worry about teeth? Kentuckians don't have any.

So, at 4 P.M. on Friday, the pain began, at first subtle as I sipped some cold pop. But then it grew. In an hour, I'd transformed from a genial giant to a raging Cujo. The pain moved from my tooth, now raised by swelling underneath, to my head. Even my eyes hurt. And a lump stood out on the side of my face.

A friend called, to make sure the game's invite was still on. I growled at him, said he'd best wear Kevlar.

Frantically, I pulled out the yellow pages, turned to the Ds. Scanned ad after ad. Discovered dentists don't work on Saturdays. Heck, most didn't work on Fridays.

I called my doctor, desperate for a pain-killer. Maybe Demerol, something strong. He'd closed up for the weekend.

Then I remembered I had some Hydrocodone somewhere. I went searching, pulling out drawers, overturning furniture like the FBI conducting a search warrant on a serial killer's residence. I found the container under a chair, covered in dust-bunnies. Two pills left, I guzzled them without water, because water's cold and cold was my enemy. Hell, even breathing sent cold shock waves through my jaw, eyes  and head.

That damn tooth.

I eyed my Culver saber, wondered if I could wedge it under my tooth and pop it out. Decided to defer. Too much collateral damage for first choice.

How could I last until Monday, when I could make an appointment? And could I get an appointment? I don't know any dentists in Tucson.

So I called a friend, asked him for the name of his dentist. Asked what he thought it would cost me to bribe that guy to come in NOW.  He gave me the name and number, then asked me how much money I have.

I snapped at him, warned him, too, to wear Kevlar.

You don't piss off Cujo.

I called the dentist, and surprise! his recorded message offered an emergency number. I dialed it. Actually got him on the phone.

About then, the Hydrocodone hit, like a blast-wave of ahhhhh. Yeah, I still felt the pain, but I no longer cared. I could cut off my arm and wave it around laughing.

Slurring my words now, I told the dentist my problem. He asked a few questions, to ensure, I guess, that I wasn't just some drunk pulling a tease, then told me he'd take care of me right away...on Monday.

Monday? 

I had no more painkillers. How would I last that long? Hell, by Monday, I'd be on a tower somewhere, shooting at anything that moved. Or I'd have turned to that saber after all.

He said my biggest worry was infection, that he'd prescribe some antibiotics.

I corrected him. No, my biggest problem was the pain.
Do not forget the pain.

The dentist laughed. He actually laughed. I wondered how funny he'd find my AR-15 stuck in his mouth.

He told me he was skiing in Colorado, wouldn't be back until Monday. I think I offered to charter a jet, but I'm not sure. The Hydrocodone, remember.

He told me I likely had both an exposed root and an infection. He said the antibiotic would handle the infection, and that I could buy some temporary filling material at the pharmacy that would cover the root. The pain would magically disappear. He'd see me Monday.

While I can't exactly remember, I think I said something about his mother around then. Temporary filling? Yeah, sure, that'll work. Y'or momma!

But it did work. And the pain disappeared, sparing the lives of many. And the Hoosiers beat No. 1 Kentucky, no teeth and all.

Cujo is at rest.

Now all I gotta worry about is how much that mother insult will cost me...

Humorous Mysteries

I love humorous mysteries. Of course that's why I chose to write some.

Why wouldn't anyone like to read or write something that makes them smile? Or laugh? Why would anyone want to be serious all the time?

I've heard agents and authors of highly successful humorous romances say those are out now. Readers don't want them.

Of course that's not true. The latest book written by Robin Wells,an extremely successful author of funny romances from my writers' group in New Orleans, was just a finalist for the Rita for Best Romance of the Year.

Many leaders in the mystery genre say serious work is more highly rated. Of course maybe they've stood in lines around the block to have Janet Evanovitch sign her latest work for them?

The romantic comedies of long ago (like when I was a teen)were loved by people of all sexes and ages. I don't believe everyone's taste has changed. There is, of course, lots and lots of serious crime everywhere. Just turn on the TV. Open a newspaper. Check your computer screen.

In the meantime, I believe that at least for a while, I will keep writing work that makes me smile or even chuckle. That's fun, which I enjoy.

Do you like any humor in books you read?

Wyoming Firsts

by Jean Henry Mead

I recently edited an unusual book, Wyoming Historical Trivia by J. J. Hammond, which contains some interesting, disturbing and amusing facts about Wyoming, including the state's many "firsts".

Which state first gave women the right to vote?

A bill granting Wyoming women the right to vote was signed into law by John Campbell, first territorial governor or December 10, 1869, but it was a Utah woman who cast the first vote on February 14, 1870. The Utah Territorial Legislature had passed its suffrage law four days earlier. Wyoming women didn’t vote until August of that year, but they, unlike Utah women, were allowed to hold public office.

Who was this nation’s first woman bailiff?

Mary Atkinson of Albany County, Wyoming, was appointed to her job in 1870, as was Esther Hobart Morris, this nation’s first woman justice of the peace.

When did the first all-women jury serve?

They were sworn in on March 7, 1870, in the town of Laramie, Wyoming.

Which Wyoming town was governed entirely by women?

Jackson was governed from 1920-1921 entirely by women. Grace Miller was elected mayor and Rose Crabtree defeated her husband, Henry, the former mayor, for a city council seat. The all-women council also approved the election of Pearl Williams as town marshal and Edna Huff as the Jackson health officer, among others.

Who was Wyoming’s first woman doctor?

Lillian Heath Nelson was one of three doctors in 1881 to perform an autopsy on outlaw George Manuse, aka “Big Nose George” Parrott. The autopsy was performed by removing the top of the outlaw’s skull to determine any criminal abnormalities. None apparently was found. Nelson reportedly dressed like a man and wore pistols strapped to her hips while studying obstetrics with a Wyoming doctor. (I’m not making this up.)

Who had shoes made from Big Nose George’s hide?

Dr. J. E. Osborne, who performed the outlaw’s autopsy, had shoes and a medical bag crafted from” Big Nose” George’s hide. The doctor, who became Wyoming’s governor (1893-95) is said to have worn the shoes while holding office. The shoes and George’s skull are on display at the Carbon County Museum. (I believe that’s another first, and hopefully the only time it happened.)

There are many other firsts: Yellowstone Park was the first nationally designated park, Devil’s Tower the first national monument, and the nation’s first ranger station was established 30 miles west of Cody, Wyoming, in 1903 in the Shoshone National Forest. Also, the first library system was established in Laramie County in 1886.

And last but certainly not least, the first woman governor, Nellie Tayloe Ross, was elected in 1925 and was later appointed by FDR to head the U.S. Mint, a position she held until 1953.

Wyoming Historical Trivia is on sale for 99 cents on Kindle and Nook and will be available in print before Christmas.

Writing characters from one series into another...?

by Carola


I'm writing about lifeboats at present--a rescue from a cave. Both these types of boat are involved.

D-class inflatable inshore boat

I've had a lot of discussion on Facebook and on my website as to whether it's kosher to name the three lifeboats in my Cornish series mystery after characters in my Daisy Dalrymple series: the Daisy D., the Belinda, and the Lucy. These people, from the 1920s setting, would be in their 50s/70s by the time of the Cornish series.










The Royal National Lifeboat Institute is a volunteer organisation. RNLI boats are usually named after the donor(s) or fundraisers of the donations that paid for them. Daisy, her friend Lucy, and her stepdaughter, Belinda, could well have done this.

This is the actual Padstow lifeboat at the time of my story, now retired to Land's End.

The Oakley class--this is a 37'; Padstow actually had a 44', as pictured above.

Lots of readers liked the idea of a nod to the Daisy series. A few didn't like it, but those few had very strong opinions on the subject.


What do you think? Is it a mistake to intrude one series on another, in such a minor way? Maybe next I'll have an older Daisy turn up in Cornwall and meet Eleanor...

All photos courtesy of RNLI

Research in Depth

By Chester Campbell

I suppose I've become lazy the past few years while I continued to write PI mysteries set around Nashville. They haven't required much research as I'm writing about a city I've known intimately for most of my life. If I need to refresh my memory on something, all it takes is a little drive-by "research." I've also chosen subjects I'm familiar with that needed little more than Googling.

It wasn't always like this. When I started writing mystery novels in earnest, after retiring in 1989, I chose the subgenre I'd read avidly since the end of World War II, the spy story. I wrote a trilogy of international thrillers set at the end of the Cold War. They feature a disgraced former FBI agent who gets involved in espionage. None of the three sold, far a variety of reasons (I had a different agent for each of them). I've been revising them lately with an eye to putting them up as ebooks.

During this process, I've been fascinated at recalling the amount of research I did on these books. I had read extensively about the CIA and the KGB, and I bought several newer books for background. One major challenge was the variety of locations around the globe. I spent a lot of time at the library going over travel books and memoirs by people who had lived in the areas.

Locations my characters visited in the first two books included Tel Aviv, Hong Kong, Seoul, and Chiang Mai, Thailand. At the time I wrote the stories, I had never been to Israel. Having toured the country and seen Tel Aviv in 1998, I was quite pleased at how well I had described the setting. I only made a few tweaks based on firsthand knowledge.

I toured the Southeast Asian locations in 1987 when my wife and I joined our younger son (then with Army Special Forces) and his wife on a 30-day junket that included Korea, Okinawa, Singapore, Thailand, Hong Kong, and the Philippines. Of course, I had also spent a year in Seoul at Fifth Air Force Headquarters in 1952-3 during the Korean War. I did additional reading on the areas while researching my spy stories.

Most of the U.S. cities in the books were ones I was familiar with. One fictional location I created was a small island off the Florida Gulf Coast. I visited the area and consulted with seamen at the Apalachicola, Florida Coast Guard Station to keep things realistic.

The last book in the trilogy has the most areas I've never seen. It includes a remote corner of Iran, parts of Ukraine, and Minsk, Belarus. It is set in the early nineties, and I did extensive research on conditions in the areas.  I also used parts of Mexico, some of which I had visited. The stories include many technical details that I researched extensively, much of it in cooperation with my "technical adviser," brother Jim, an electrical engineer.