Outside (and Inside) Influences

Some years ago I discovered that you can’t be too careful what you read while writing. For example, one day I was writing some dialogue for Dr. Fenimore, my old-fashioned, house call-making, cardiologist-sleuth from Philadelphia, and he sounded like a tough PI from San Francisco. Instead of welcoming his patient with a courteous, “How can I help you today, Mrs. Jones?”, I had written, “Spill it, Sister.”

What was wrong?

Then my gaze wandered to my bedside table and the book I had been reading the night before: THE MALTESE FALCON. Without my realizing it, Dr. Fenimore had morphed into Sam Spade overnight! I hastily switched my reading matter to an Agatha Christie and stuck with her until I’d finished writing my cozy.

I’m also subject to inside influences. Especially when it comes to food and drink. If I’m reading about a gourmet meal, I’m often driven to the fridge to see what’s available. Usually nothing comparable. Once I was reading a short story by Colette in which the characters sat down to a feast of glistening grapes and freshly perked coffee. I had to stop and quench my appetite and thirst. Then there is that scene in THE LONG GOODBYE in which Raymond Chandler describes the opening of a cocktail lounge at dusk and the meticulous preparations of a perfect dry martini. Guess where I headed after reading that?

The moral of this story is: beware of what you read while writing, and when reading--keep your fridge and liquor cabinet well-stocked.

--Robin Hathaway

Strange Interlude

It’s eerie. Robin Hathaway’s column two Mondays ago discussed her irresistible compulsion to enter second-hand bookstores wherever their paths crossed. I’m similarly afflicted but do not limit my horizons to the second-hand-used. This past Monday, Robin analyzed the highs of a random encounter with her first-published novel, The Doctor Digs A Grave, in the hands of a flesh-and-blood person apparently reading it, presumably for pleasure. That very thing happened to me in January, 2008.

Rose and I were on a well-deserved vacation at Velas Vallarta, a lush Old World resort on the beach at Banderas Bay in Puerto Vallarta, in the State of Jalisco, Mexico.

There we were poolside, me sipping a Virgin Narranja in a lounge chair, when I slyly look to my right (on an unfathomable premonition) and I see — one Sarah Grace Partridge I am later to learn — her nose deep in a trade paperback that is strangely, vaguely familiar. Suddenly, I know: she is reading Queens Noir, MY Queens Noir. A collection of original crime fiction (19 stories by 19 authors chosen by me, set in as many neighborhoods in the great Borough of Queens, NYC, the most ethnically diverse county in the U.S., and our home at the time) — which was then on the stands but two months, from my Brooklyn publisher, Akashic Books. I am THE EDITOR, this is MINE, I remember. Thunderstruck, I drop my Virgin Narranja.

“What!!??” Rose says. I explain. “Get over there and introduce yourself,” she says. I cower in my lounge chair. Then I siddle over to the young woman sitting with a middle-aged man (reading his book) and a woman sketching on an artist’s pad (her parents, I am to learn). I intend nonchalance but when I get within finger-wagging distance, I wag, blurting out: “That’s my book! I’m the Editor!!”

Sarah Grace is suitably awe-struck while I am suavely self-deprecating. She is a medical investigator at Maimonides Hospital in Brooklyn, and has read all the titles in the "Noir" series (18 to date, mine being the latest). Jack Partridge, the father, is reading the manuscript of HIS OWN book, Straight Pool, the second in a mystery series set in his home town of Providence, Rhode Island, where he is a senior partner in a venerable law firm. The lady sketching is Sarah’s mom, a well-regarded Providence painter. So we all palled around the rest of the week, taking in the fleshpots of Puerto Vallarta (the restaurants known for good Mexican cuisine, that is).

The next time I ran into the Partridges was at the Edgar Awards Dinner of the Mystery Writers of America in May, 2009, at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in Manhattan. Hung from the ceiling in the Hyatt ballroom were twelve-foot-high TV screens at both ends of the room, streaming the front covers of the books nominated for Best Mystery of 2008, etc., including Anthologies containing short stories nominated as the Best of the Year. To my astonishment and intense delight, the front cover of Queens Noir continually flashed from the screens in sight of the assembled throngs to honor the story, "Buckner’s Error" by Joseph Guglielmelli, the winner of the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award as The Best First Story of 2008. Especially sweet since Joe, along with his perceptive wife Bonnie, were the proprietors of the Best Mystery Book Store in New York, till they had to fold their tent in 2009.

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up. And let’s not forget: What Goes Around Comes Around.

— Robert Knightly

February 2011

I came to the laptop this afternoon with no idea of what to write for tomorrow's blog post. Perhaps, I thought, it would be good to become centered in the moment and talk about the beauty of the now. It's the end of a sunny day. The sun is setting, casting a pale orange glow on the white house across the way behind the dark green hemlocks. Harold is on his computer messing with his music files. He has called up a lovely violin concerto.

The rummaging sound on our porch is not Eric, the UPS guy, delivering yet another expensive, ill-fitting garment that I ordered in a moment of weakness, nor yet the home invader with the tattoo on his neck who attacked a woman on Ferry Street last week, but rather our next-door neighbor cleaning the snow off his boots. The cat has come downstairs. She butts her head against my legs companionably. I'll go and feed her. Presently I'll start our dinner, a quick-cooking meal tonight of tuna steaks and rice.

What could be nicer? A life of peace and quiet. I open the laptop and boot the browser, displaying a picture on the New York Times website. Egyptians are beating on each other.

February is always a strange month. It arrives, and we say, what happened to January? I haven't taken the Christmas decorations down yet. This year, February seems to have a particularly crispy, fragile quality, from the snow piled five feet high on the corners of the intersections, to the desperate unemployed guy who stopped Harold on the street with a plan to do unauthorized masonry work on the historically preserved library, to the strange news from Egypt. People are unhappy in Egypt! Who knew?

Something bad is bound to come of all of this. The snow will melt upriver all at once. We will have the Delaware in our cellars again, some of us in our living rooms as well. The unemployed will--what? Starve? Riot? Knock on our doors, beat us unconscious, and take our jewelry and cell phones? The Egyptians will create a giant cosmic hole and the rest of the Middle East will be sucked into it. More war will come. Congress will bring back the draft.

But that will happen later. Right now it's a crispy February day and things are still good here. Live in the moment. You can never go back, and you probably don't want to go forward.

--Kate Gallison

Yesteryear

I write historical mysteries. It tickles me to delve into the exotic past, especially if it gives the reader a glimpse of quaint and outmoded customs of distant times and remote places. So today I take you to the College of Saint Elizabeth in Convent, New Jersey in 1959. That this is my own past makes it no less strange and unbelievable in my eyes. Here are excerpts from actual instructions distributed to my Freshman class. Bracketed comments in italics are mine:


TO THE FRESHMEN:

During this week you will be hearing a variety of instructions from a variety of sources. It has been suggested* that a listing of the more important regulations might prove beneficial. You are requested to read over the following items and ask for an explanation of any points which may not be clear. Keep this copy convenient for future reference.

{*The author of these rules, identity unknown, was certainly NOT associated with the English Department, where my mentor, Sister Mary Catharine O’Connor (who possessed two PhD's from Columbia University) ruled with an iron mind. She would never have tolerated the use of the passive voice throughout the document.}


I. GENERAL REGULATIONS FOR ALL STUDENTS

Students may patronize all those luncheonettes, tea rooms, coffee shops, and drugstores which maintain proper standards. They may, however, patronize only those restaurants which are on the approved list. Violation of this rule is subject to judicial action by the Student Executive Board.

DRESS

You are to preserve a neat appearance at all times and to observe the following specific instructions:

1. Either stockings or socks must be worn at all times.

2. Sneakers and sweatshirts are part of the gym uniform and are to be worn ONLY for gym activities. THEY ARE TO BE WORN AT NO OTHER TIME.

3. Slacks, dungarees, and shorts are forbidden as campus attire.

COURTESY

Students are expected to be courteous and respectful at all times. They will show this respect by rising immediately when a faculty member or other older person enters the room. It is taken for granted that students will greet members of the faculty when they meet. Exceptional courtesy is to be shown to visiting lecturers and to anyone who may at any time address you.

SOCIAL

1. When a student arrives at a dance, she presents herself and her escort to the chaperones; when leaving she bids them good night.

2. Students do not leave the building in which the dance is held while the dance is in progress. This applies to escorts as well.

3. Students remain at the dance until it is over. All return promptly and directly to the residence hall at the same time.

SAINT JOSEPH HALL

1. The snack bar is not a place for study or wasting valuable time. For this reason no books are to be taken there, and you are to leave promptly after being served.

2. Playing cards is forbidden during class hours.

REGULATIONS FOR RESIDENT STUDENTS

1. Students have the privilege of unlimited lights. Freshman, however, may visit other students between check-in and ten o'clock only with the permission of the proctor and between ten and eleven only with the permission of the sister on the floor. THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO VISITING AFTER ELEVEN O'CLOCK ON ANY NIGHT PRECEDING A CLASS DAY.

The penalty for a violation of the above regulation is a one-week campus including signing in for twenty-one meals, and supervised study from 8:00 until 10:30 each night during the week in a place designated by the sister in charge of the residence hall.**

{**I myself was given "twenty-one meals" for getting caught visiting my friend Fran Maraziti and her roommates after lights out. It was worth it. She is still my dear friend, and I delight in her company whenever we are together. It was she who preserved the handout I excerpt here and sent it to me a few months ago.}

2. On Sundays and holydays students are to wear afternoon dresses or suits, stockings, and dress shoes. Sweaters and skirts, class jackets, socks, and "loafers” are not to be worn. This regulation is also to be followed on certain designated nights for supper.

3. When leaving campus by the train for the weekend, stockings, dress shoes, gloves and a hat are to be worn.***

{***It never occurred to me then, but now I look at this rule and picture droves of young women boarding the 5:26 to Hoboken wearing the required items, and nothing else.}

--Annamaria Alfieri

The Relevance of History

Kelli Stanley is an award-winning author of crime fiction (novels and short stories). She makes her home in Dashiell Hammett's San Francisco, a city she loves to write about. She is the author of two crime fiction series, one set in 1940 San Francisco (featuring hardboiled female PI, Miranda Corbie), the other in first century Roman Britain.

Her novels include City of Dragons, Nox Dormienda, The Curse-Maker, and City of Secrets (September, 2011). "Children's Day", a prequel to City of Dragons, was published in the International Thriller Writers anthology First Thrills: High Octane Stories From the Hottest Thriller Authors. Kelli earned a Master's Degree in Classics, loves jazz, old movies, battered fedoras, Art Deco and speakeasies. You can learn more about her and the worlds she creates at http://www.kellistanley.com.

First, let me thank Kate for inviting me to write for the Crime Writers' Chronicle — I'm happy to be here! Particularly because today — February 1st, 2011 — marks a significant occasion for me. The Curse-Maker — a "reboot" of my "Roman noir" series, and sequel to my out-of-print debut novel, Nox Dormienda — is officially released into the wild, left to forage what it can on its own in a hardscrabble world.

The Curse-Maker is my third published book and the second that I wrote. The setting is first century Roman Britain, and thus millennia apart from City of Dragons and the Miranda Corbie series set in 1940 San Francisco. (For the record, City of Dragons was the third book I wrote and the second to be published. City of Secrets is the fourth book I wrote and will be the fourth to be published when it launches in September.)

What do they have in common? A love of the noir style, used and tweaked and pulled and tucked in very different ways. And, of course, history.

I'm sometimes asked why I write historical mysteries, and the question always surprises me. Maybe I spent too long in the classroom — I earned two Bachelor degrees in Art History and Classics, and a Master's in Classics — but it's hard for me to look at history as something apart from everyday life.

History is a record of the human condition. It's yesterday and all our yesterdays, whether lighted by fools or hallowed by angels. We need to glance at the past occasionally, focus on it, study it, and recognize the forces — and the fools — that shaped it, not hold it at arm's length and memorize dates and names. It can help guide us past contemporary mine fields, help solve the problems of a more complex world ... because no matter how complex the world is, human beings are roughly the same as they've always been, good, bad, indifferent, trying to survive.

For me, history is as much a part of life as breathing. Think of human life as a number line ... we learned about negative numbers at a young age, and moved up and down the number line, tracing integers with a child's finger. Why can't we do the same with time? If we can't literally travel backwards — yet — surely we can do so in our minds.

So I write historical mysteries. And I write them, actually, for the readers who don't normally read them. I try to breathe sensuality and life into the time and place, to transport the reader so that she becomes a part of the action, not a spectator watching a travelogue. I write to overcome the impression of boredom and narrow-minded and immutable opinion that characterizes so many people's experience of history class. I write to overcome the idea that it is a preoccupation of intellectuals and art-lovers and aesthetes, something alien to be roped off and gawked at, spectacle now, forgotten tomorrow.

I want to write other things, of course. A graphic novel. Contemporary crime fiction, too. I struggle against the ghetto of category, and resist type-casting. After all, today is as important to me as ... yesterday.

— Kelli Stanley