MOVIE TALK

by John M. Floyd

My name’s Friday. I carry a badge.

Just kidding. Actually my name’s Floyd and I carry a cell phone. But I’ve always found it interesting that lines of dialogue from movies and TV can work their way into our language, and as a writer I’ve found that observing fictional characters’ dialogue is not only fun, it’s worthwhile. I’ve even made it the subject of two of my columns at this blog: “Dialogue Is Like a Box of Chocolates” (March 15, 2008) and “Another Box of Chocolates” (September 26, 2009).

Anyhow, since those boxes are big ones and since I was inspired by Rob’s piece last week about catchphrases and since I find myself in need of a column idea for this week, here is a third selection of what I consider to be memorable lines of film dialogue. About half of these are from crime/suspense movies, but the only thing the quotes really have in common is that I like them.

The list is once again presented in quiz format: try to identify the movies these fifty quotes came from, and if you do well, treat yourself to the next Midnight Double Feature at your local Cineplex. If you’re so inclined, try also to identify who said what, and to whom. As before, some of the quotes are easy and some are hard. If you don’t recognize any of them, I congratulate you, since that means you spend your time at more worthwhile endeavors; if you answer only a few, you’re probably the typical American moviegoer; if you get most of them, please send me your e-mail address so we can play Siskel-and-Ebert sometime; and if you correctly answer all of them, you should seek immediate psychiatric help.

Okay, let’s get this moveable feast on the road — after all, I’m just a poor corrupt official, and I’m not going to Mordor alone. It’s time to order a Code Red on Santiago, throw the next one at the mascot, bring me Solo and the Wookiee, and then hi ho, it’s off to work we go. I know the freeway isn’t finished, but Mama says these is magic shoes; they’ll take me anywhere. Besides, I speak jive, and it looks like we’re one horse shy.

So swing away, Merrill — where we’re going we don’t need roads. (And don’t point that finger at me unless you intend to use it . . .)

1. Michael, we’re bigger than U.S. Steel.

2. How could a degenerated person like that have reached a position of responsibility in the Army Medical Corps? / He got drafted.

3. What is it? / The stuff that dreams are made of.

4. My eyes are ceramic. Caught a bazooka round at Little Big Horn. Or was it Okinawa?

5. Nine million terrorists in the world and I gotta kill one with feet smaller than my sister.

6. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? / So help me Me.

7. Where is your commanding officer? / Blowed up, SIR.

8. A lie keeps growing and growing until it’s as clear as the nose on your face.

9. Is that how a warped brain like yours gets its kicks? By planning the death of innocent people? / No, by causing the death of innocent people.

10. You talkin’ to me?

11. All you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, and charge me for a chicken salad sandwich. / You want me to hold the chicken? / I want you to hold it between your knees.

12. The horse is too small, the jockey’s too big, the trainer’s too old, and I’m too dumb to know the difference.

13. Made it, Ma! Top o’ the world!

14. When do we land? / I can’t tell. / You can tell me, I’m a doctor.

15. Step away from your busted-ass vehicle and put your hands on your head.

16. What happened to the old bank? — It was beautiful. / People kept robbing it. / Small price to pay for beauty.

17. I do believe Marsellus Wallace, my husband, your boss, told you to take me out and do whatever I wanted. Now I wanna dance. I wanna win. I want that trophy. So dance good.

18. Keaton always said, “I don’t believe in God, but I’m afraid of him.” Well, I believe in God, and the only thing that scares me is Keyser Soze.

19. Was that Wilson? / That was him — that was Wilson, all right, and he was fast, fast on the draw.

20. Apollo Creed vs. the Italian Stallion. Sounds like a damn monster movie.

21. What are you looking at? / I was just wondering where you hide your firearm. Don’t tell me, let me guess.

22. Moneypenny, what would I do without you? / My problem is, you never do anything with me.

23. Roger O. Thornhill. What does the O stand for? / Nothing.

24. Whenever we needed money, we’d rob the airport. To us, it was better than Citibank.

25. How’d you do it? / Do what? / Manage to give a woman flowers and be President at the same time. / Well, it turns out I’ve got a rose garden.

26. What in the wide, wide world of sports is goin’ on here?

27. I coulda been a contender.

28. When I was nineteen, I did a guy in Laos with a rifle shot at a thousand yards in high wind.

29. How would you feel about another year of high school? Under my close personal supervision.

30. You go in, find the President, bring him out in less than 24 hours, and you’re a free man.

31. I have a new play. / What’s it called? / Romeo and Ethel the Pirate’s Daughter.

32. Here are your names: Mr. Brown, Mr. White, Mr. Blond, Mr. Blue, Mr. Orange, and Mr. Pink.

33. You got ten seconds to run like hell. Then dynamite, not faith, will move that mountain into this pass.

34. I should probably tell you that I’m taking the bus because I had my driver’s license revoked. / What for? / Speeding.

35. Don’t start flirting with me — I’m not one of your plantation beaus.

36. The report read “Routine retirement of a replicant.” That didn’t make me feel any better about shooting a woman in the back.

37. Why, you speak treason! / Fluently.

38. I keep telling you, this isn’t “a few birds”! These are gulls, crows, swifts . . .

39. Please welcome, the very excellent barbarian . . . Mr. Genghis Khan!

40. Here we are, millions of miles from earth, and we can still send out for pizza.

41. What in the hell you doing with that lawn mower blade? / I aim to kill you with it.

42. I don’t understand. All my life I’ve been waiting for someone, and when I find her . . . she’s a fish.

43. I can’t drive you around while you’re killing folks. It ain’t my job! / Tonight it is.

44. You know what makes this bird go up? Funding makes this bird go up. / He’s right. No bucks, no Buck Rogers.

45. If you build what, who will come? / He didn’t say.

46. Swee’Pea is the worst name I’ve ever heard on a baby. / Well, what do you wants me to call him? Baby Oyl?

47. They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. That’s the Chicago way, and that’s how you get Capone.

48. We killed a man, Drew. Shot him in the back. A mountain man. A cracker.

49. I’m sorry we won’t be able to invite you to the wedding, Benjamin, but the arrangements have been so rushed.

50. Good luck with your layoffs, all right? I hope your firings go really well.

And I hope your answers go really well. I’ll be providing them as a part of my columns over the next three weeks. (In other words . . . I’ll be back.)

Now, go out there and win one for the Gipper.

WHERE AND WHEN

by Steven Steinbock

It wasn’t until the late 1700s that science began to reconcile that space and time were the same stuff. “Stuff,” incidentally, isn’t a scientific term; nor, as a noun, is it a very helpful literary term. But sometimes no other English word will do. Twenty-three hundred years ago, Euclid of Alexandria posited that there are three dimensions of space, and ever since, it’s been hard for most scientists and other linear-thinking humans to wrap their brains around time as a dimension.

Human consciousness, as expressed in two of its offspring, Language and Religion, has always known about spacetime. In English, the expressions forever and infinite don’t discriminate against space or time. In Hebrew, the word olam means “world.” But add the prefix l’ (“to” or “for”) and l’olam means “forever” in both spatial and temporal dimensions. My understanding is that the Incas had similar notions.

What does all this have to do with storytelling? Damned if I know. But it was fun thinking about it. Then again. . . .

Time and space are typically compressed in a short story. All the action takes place in a fairly concentrated chunk of time and real-estate. An epic, on the other hand, is set in unbridled space and time.

There aren’t any hard and fast rules about timespace in novels, but most detective stories, suspense novels, and thrillers are set in a rather confined span of time. My impression has always been that the action should all take place in less than a week.

But is that really true? I’m currently reading a Julian Symons novel (A Three Pipe Problem) in which the murders occur in one week intervals. And it seems to be working.

I’m also currently writing a novel that, for plot-relevant reason, must take place over a period of months. At first I was ready to throw in the towel. It couldn’t work, I told myself. The action of a mystery can’t span five months. (I’ll take advice and suggestions from anyone out there who has something to offer). I’m still not sure whether or not it will work, but I think I came up with a good workaround. I’ve confined the central action to a period of about a week. The book opens during that period with the action already underway. Then I use the next ten chapters to take readers from the initial period (more than two months earlier) up to the period of the main action. The final one or two chapters of the book, assuming I haven’t lost my readers by then, take up the action two months further down the road.

Again, if any CB readers or regulars have any experience or can think of any examples that might help me, I’d be obliged.

Serendipitous Meetings in Time and Space

Last weekend, spatial and temporal dimensions converged for a mini-Criminal Brief gathering in north Seattle. I was in the Pacific Northwest with my two sons. My stable-mate, Robert Lopresti, was driving with his wife Terri from Olympia (a couple hours south of Seattle) to their home in Bellingham (a couple hours north of Seattle).

We met at Saffron Grill, a lovely Indian/Middle Eastern restaurant resting on what I’m convinced is the exact real estate where, thirty years earlier, stood a Denny’s restaurant where I was in the habit of taking my backpack for regular late-night study sessions.

A great time was had by all, and we both look forward to the next meeting at Bouchercon in San Francisco this fall.

I’ll see the rest of you somewhere in Spacetime.

IN SEARCH OF A PERFECT NAME

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

One thing about being a mystery writer is nothing is a chance encounter. Anything could lead to a crime and most important, people are most interesting when they don’t realize I’m a writer who is taking mental notes for future reference. I don’t write a character from any one person I know, but many people say they “see” themselves in my stories. I usually smile and that makes them think they are correct. They aren’t. Characters grow out of nuances that settle in my mind just waiting for an idea to fester into a story. Today I found another one loitering for too long that required a story to be written about her.

She isn’t a composition of any two people I could name, but composed like Frankenstein, bits and pieces pulled from many encounters made within my life span. She has the shyness of the supermarket clerk who was obviously told by a manager to push a special on the $1 soft drink plus a candy bar. Her spiel was practiced, but she couldn’t make eye contact. I didn’t feel her heart was in the campaign, though keeping her job may have been.

She is the woman at the motor vehicle department who is tired from waiting in line only to be told she needs to move to another even longer one and meekly does as told.

She is fed up with people taking advantage of her and is surprised as anyone when she snaps in an inappropriate manner in an inappropriate way with someone who has done nothing but treat her with unexpected kindness.

She’s been known to take scraps and never complain though she wants more.

She gave away the only new coat she’s ever owned simply because she felt someone else might need it more at the mission.

She keeps secrets from everyone, but confesses to a blind woman who panhandles at the corner.

Those who think they know her believe her to be someone she isn’t and will be shocked at the headlines in tomorrow’s paper.

She has finally found a hobby that makes her happy, but comes at a price she isn’t prepared to pay.

She’s buried one man in her backyard too many, but no one knows that yet, especially not the rookie police detective with a chip on his shoulder coming up her walk.

She is no one and everyone. She lives near all of us, yet apart. She is evil touched with kindness.

I haven’t given her a name yet. Nothing seems to fit. It’s like the new mother who’s picked out the perfect name for her child then finds when she first holds her: this isn’t the right name at all. I need something perfect just for her.

DEPARTMENT OF ODD SOCKS VIII

by Rob Lopresti

You can’t argue with success they say, so I suppose I have no business criticizing the working style of a man who manages to rip people off for three million bucks, but seriously. . . . If you were in the U.S and trying to pull off the Spanish Prisoner (also known as the 419 scam) wouldn’t Nigeria be the last place you mention?

According to The Seattle Times, Scott Allan Stuart of Blaine, Washington, allegedly squeezed $3.2 million out of investors by convincing them that he needed their help to get thirty million dollars out of Nigeria.

. . . Stuart, [the] prosecutor says, was able convince a number of investors that the money was waiting for him in a Canadian bank, where it was left by his father, who had gotten rich building an oil pipeline in Nigeria. All he had to do was pay the taxes, he explained, and the money would be released to him so he could pay them a premium for their help.

According to an indictment issued by a Seattle grand jury earlier this week and unsealed Friday, the “loans” ranged from $500 to $450,000, and several investors gave him $100,000 or more. Others were encouraged to recruit friends to invest, the indictment says.

The article does not explain where he found the investors but I believe P. T. Barnum reported that one of them is born every minute.

Your chance to help me with my homework

A cozy is a mystery in which someone gets killed but nobody gets hurt.

You have probably heard that definition before. Anyone know who came up with it? If so, please inform me. But what I would really like are more examples of its type: pithy or humorous definitions for types of tales in our genre. What exactly is a “had-I-but-known mystery?” What is the difference, if any, between a thriller and a suspense novel? If you can offer such a definition or comparison put it in the comments or email it to me. Be sure to include the author if known. Just to be clear, I’m not looking for scholarly definitions. I’m looking for panache.

Leading with a Jack

In recent months we have written occasionally here at CB about the TV series 24. If you are a fan, you owe it to yourself to get your hands on Dave Barry’s new book I’ll Mature When I’m Dead. These are long essays, now that he is free from his weekly newspaper column, and one of the best is a script for you-know-what TV series.

It is full of those plot twists we came to expect from the show.

The Vice President (peering at the president): Wait a minute. You’re a kangaroo.

The President: Yes. The writers already did an African-American president and a woman president, so this season they were thinking, ‘Maybe a Jewish president?’ And then they thought, “Nah, too unrealistic.” So they went kangaroo.

But my favorite moment was this over-the-phone reunion of two beloved characters:

Chloe: Jack? I thought you were decapitated and consumed by boars.

Jack: Not anymore.

Slevin up

There is a reason no one invites me to vote on the Oscars. I would always pick the wrong movies. For example, I recently saw two crime movies made in 2006. Martin Scorsese’s The Departed won four Oscars. Paul McGuigan’s Lucky Number Slevin didn’t even get an Edgar nomination. Guess which one I liked better?

Here’s the story: A young man named Slevin Kelevra visits New York and two crime lords mistake him for a guy who owes them huge amounts of money. Suddenly his life is in danger, and, oh yes, he meets a beautiful woman the same day.

Maybe that sounds familiar. It is the plot of many movies including (as one character notes) North By Northwest. But don’t tune out; without leaving New York this witty flick gets complicated enough to make Hitchcock’s cross-country jaunt look like a stroll across the street.

For example, the movie begins in what looks like a waiting room for the afterlife with one character telling a stranger a story about the Kansas City Shuffle. This is a clue that the movie is all about story-telling. Slevin can’t assume anyone is telling the truth, and neither can the viewer.

And the movie is beautiful. Almost every room has elaborate, even gaudy, wallpaper. Speaking of gaudy, take a look at the cast: Josh Hartnett, Ben Kingsley, Morgan Freeman, Bruce Willis, Lucy Liu, Stanley Tucci . . . even walk-on parts are played by Robert Forster and Danny freaking Aiello.

Then there’s the dialog. Slevin answering the inevitable question about going to the police: “These guys buy cops like cops buy donuts.” And this wonderful pick-up line, delivered by Lucy Liu: “I was just thinking that if you’re still alive when I get back from work tonight, maybe we could, I don’t know, go to dinner or something?”

But the best line is: “Sometimes there’s more to life than just living.” I know, that sounds a bit pollyanna-ish. But you have to understand that the character is saying it to someone he just killed.

A wild ride. I recommend it.

Originally, the word novel was merely a synonym for novelty. Its application to literature comes to us courtesy of the Italian Renaissance author and humanist Giovanni Boccaccio (1313-1375), who used it in the sense of “amusement” to represent an engaging tale—as with the century of short tales he wrote in his magnum opus, The Decameron, which consists of stories told, ten each night over ten nights, at a castle in the country where several members of the gentry are attempting to avoid the Black Death raging in the city. So the first “novels” were actually short stories! (The application of the term to a book-length story popped up in the 17th c.)

Most of the stories in The Decameron deal with the exigencies of love, but it features a considerable numbers of crimes strewn along the path—murders, kidnappings, and suicides leading the way. The following story, however, the eleventh in Boccaccio’s collection, is one of the few non-amatory offerings, and tells of a completely different sort of crime. It’s about a con.

The translation is by James Macmullen Rigg (1855-1926), best known during his lifetime as one of the primary contributors to the National Dictionary of Biography, a.k.a “the DNB”, a standard reference published by the Oxford University Press which is essentially “Who’s Who in British History”. His version of The Decameron was originally published in 1903.

THE DECAMERON Second Day, Novel One

by Giovanni Boccaccio

¹

      Often has it happened, dearest ladies, that one who has studied to raise a laugh at others’ expense, especially in regard of things worthy to be had in reverence, has found the laugh turn against himself, and sometimes to his loss: as, in obedience to the queen’s command, and by way of introducing our theme, I am about to shew you, by the narrative of an adventure which befell one of our own citizens, and after a course of evil fortune had an entirely unexpected and very felicitous issue.
      Not long ago there was at Treviso² a German, named Arrigo, a poor man who got his living as a common hired porter, but though of so humble a condition, was respected by all, being accounted not only an honest but a most holy man; insomuch that, whether truly or falsely I know not, the Trevisans affirm, that on his decease all the bells of the cathedral of Treviso began to toll of their own accord. Which being accounted a miracle, this Arrigo was generally reputed a saint; and all the people of the city gathered before the house where his body lay, and bore it, with a saint’s honours, into the cathedral, and brought thither the halt and paralytic and blind, and others afflicted with disease or bodily defects, as hoping that by contact with this holy body they would all be healed.
      The people thus tumultuously thronging the church, it so chanced that there arrived in Treviso three of our own citizens, of whom one was named Stecchi, another Martellino, and the third Marchese; all three being men whose habit it was to frequent the courts of the nobles and afford spectators amusement by assuming disguises and personating other men. Being entire strangers to the place, and seeing everybody running to and fro, they were much astonished, and having learned the why and wherefore, were curious to go see what was to be seen.
      So at the inn, where they put up, Marchese began:—“We would fain go see this saint; but for my part I know not how we are to reach the spot, for I hear the piazza is full of Germans and other armed men, posted there by the Lord who rules here to prevent an uproar, and moreover the church, so far as one may learn, is so full of folk that scarce another soul may enter it.”
      Whereupon Martellino, who was bent on seeing what was to be seen, said:—“Let not this deter us; I will assuredly find a way of getting to the saint’s body.”
      “How?” rejoined Marchese.
      “I will tell you,” replied Martellino; “I will counterfeit a paralytic, and thou wilt support me on one side and Stecchi on the other, as if I were not able to go alone, and so you will enter the church, making it appear as if you were leading me up to the body of the saint that he may heal me, and all that see will make way and give us free passage.”
      Marchese and Stecchi approved the plan; so all three forthwith left the inn and repaired to a lonely place, where Martellino distorted his hands, his fingers, his arms, his legs, and also his mouth and eyes and his entire face in a manner horrible to contemplate; so that no stranger that saw him could have doubted that he was impotent and paralysed in every part of his body. In this guise Marchese and Stecchi laid hold of him, and led him towards the church, assuming a most piteous air, and humbly beseeching everybody for God’s sake to make way for them. Their request was readily granted; and, in short, observed by all, and crying out at almost every step, “make way, make way,” they reached the place where St. Arrigo’s body was laid.
      Whereupon some gentlemen who stood by, hoisted Martellino on to the saint’s body, that thereby he might receive the boon of health. There he lay still for a while, the eyes of all in the church being riveted upon him in expectation of the result; then, being a very practised performer, he stretched, first, one of his fingers, next a hand, afterwards an arm, and so forth, making as if he gradually recovered the use of all his natural powers. Which the people observing raised such a clamour in honour of St. Arrigo that even thunder would have been inaudible.
      Now it chanced that hard by stood a Florentine, who knew Martellino well, though he had failed to recognise him, when, in such strange guise, he was led into the church; but now, seeing him resume his natural shape, the Florentine recognised him, and at once said with a laugh, “God’s curse upon him. Who that saw him come but would have believed that he was really paralysed?”
      These words were overheard by some of the Trevisans, who began forthwith to question the Florentine.
      “How?” said they; “was he then not paralysed?”
      “No, by God,” returned the Florentine, “he has always been as straight as any of us; he has merely shewn you that he knows better than any man alive how to play this trick of putting on any counterfeit semblance that he chooses.”
      Thereupon the Trevisans, without further parley, made a rush, clearing the way and crying out as they went:—“Seize this traitor who mocks at God and His saints; who, being no paralytic, has come hither in the guise of a paralytic to deride our patron saint and us.”
      So saying, they laid hands on him, dragged him down from where he stood, seized him by the hair, tore the clothes from his back, and fell to beating and kicking him, so that it seemed to him as if all the world were upon him.
      He cried out:—“Pity, for God’s sake,” and defended himself as best he could: all in vain, however; the press became thicker and thicker moment by moment. Which Stecchi and Marchese observing began to say one to the other that ’twas a bad business; yet, being apprehensive on their own account, they did not venture to come to his assistance, but cried out with the rest that he ought to die, at the same time, however, casting about how they might find the means to rescue him from the hands of the people, who would certainly have killed him, but for a diversion which Marchese hastily effected.
      The entire posse of the signory being just outside, he ran off at full speed to the Podesta’s lieutenant, and said to him:—“Help, for God’s sake; there is a villain here that has cut my purse with full a hundred florins of gold in it; prithee have him arrested that I may have my own again.”
      Whereupon, twelve sergeants or more ran forthwith to the place where hapless Martellino was being carded without a comb, and, forcing their way with the utmost difficulty through the throng, rescued him all bruised and battered from their hands, and led him to the palace; whither he was followed by many who, resenting what he had done, and hearing that he was arrested as a cutpurse, and lacking better pretext for harassing him, began one and all to charge him with having cut their purses.
      All which the deputy of the Podesta had no sooner heard, than, being a harsh man, he straightway took Martellino aside and began to examine him. Martellino answered his questions in a bantering tone, making light of the arrest; whereat the deputy, losing patience, had him bound to the strappado³, and caused him to receive a few hints of the cord with intent to extort from him a confession of his guilt, by way of preliminary to hanging him.
      Taken down from the strappado, and questioned by the deputy if what his accusers said were true, Martellino, as nothing was to be gained by denial, answered:—“My lord, I am ready to confess the truth; let but my accusers say, each of them, when and where I cut his purse, and I will tell you what I have and what I have not done.”
      “So be it,” said the deputy, and caused a few of them to be summoned.
      Whereupon Martellino, being charged with having cut this, that or the other man’s purse eight, six or four days ago, while others averred that he had cut their purses that very day, answered thus:– “My lord, these men lie in the throat, and for token that I speak true, I tell you that, so far from having been here as long as they make out, it is but very lately that I came into these parts, where I never was before; and no sooner was I come, than, as my ill-luck would have it, I went to see the body of this saint, and so have been carded as you see; and that what I say is true, his Lordship’s intendant of arrivals, and his book, and also my host may certify. Wherefore, if you find that even so it is as I say, hearken not to these wicked men, and spare me the torture and death which they would have you inflict.”
      In this posture of affairs Marchese and Stecchi, learning that the Podesta’s deputy was dealing rigorously with Martellino, and had already put him to the strappado, grew mightily alarmed.
      “We have made a mess of it,” they said to themselves; “we have only taken him out of the frying-pan to toss him into the fire.”
      So, hurrying hither and thither with the utmost zeal, they made diligent search until they found their host, and told him how matters stood. The host had his laugh over the affair, and then brought them to one Sandro Agolanti, who dwelt in Treviso and had great interest with the Lord of the place. The host laid the whole matter before Sandro, and, backed by Marchese and Stecchi, besought him to undertake Martellino’s cause. Sandro, after many a hearty laugh, hied him to the Lord, who at his instance sent for Martellino.
      The messengers found Martellino still in his shirt before the deputy, at his wits’ end, and all but beside himself with fear, because the deputy would hear nothing that he said in his defence. Indeed, the deputy, having a spite against Florentines, had quite made up his mind to have him hanged; he was therefore in the last degree reluctant to surrender him to the Lord, and only did so upon compulsion. Brought at length before the Lord, Martellino detailed to him the whole affair, and prayed him as the greatest of favours to let him depart in peace. The Lord had a hearty laugh over the adventure, and bestowed a tunic on each of the three. So, congratulating themselves on their unexpected deliverance from so great a peril, they returned home safe and sound.

1. Portrait by Andrea del Castagno (1451-1457).
2. A city less than 20 miles due north of Venice.
3. A form of punishment or of torture to extort confession in which the victim’s hands were tied across his back and secured to a pulley; he was then hoisted from the ground and let down half way with a jerk; also an application of this punishment or torture; also the instrument used. —OED

EDITOR! EDITOR!

by James Lincoln Warren

I am fond of claiming that a writer without an editor is like a criminal defendant without a defense attorney. If you don’t have one, you’re probably going down. And along the same lines, the writer who steadfastly insists on being the sole editor of his own work has a fool for a client.¹

The other day, John wrote about biographical blurbs. My standard 100-word bio provided for public appearances includes the following phrase:

He is the founder and editor of “Criminal Brief: The Mystery Short Story Web Log Project” . . .

This is a slight stretch, because although it was I who came up with the original idea, Rob Lopresti had as much to do with its nascence as I did. I’ve written before that the first three writers lined up for the project were Rob, Melodie Johnson Howe, and me, but when Leigh and Deborah and Steve swelled the ranks—John came a few scant months later, as relief for Angela Zeman, who was herself a late addition—the task of putting it all together fell to me, so I did feel somewhat justified in assuming the cognomen of editor. Getting CB up and running followed a rather steep learning curve, and some of the writers were concerned that their knowledge of computers was inadequate to post their columns, so I told them simply to send their offerings to me each week and I would take care of the technical end of things. After the site had been up for several weeks, I offered each writer the opportunity to post their own columns instead of sending them to me to post, which actually turned out to be a rather simple procedure, but everybody except Leigh, who as most of you probably know is an absolute whiz at the web, chose to keep me in the loop. So in a strictly informal sense, I was elected editor anyway.

It hath been said that the best way to learn a subject is to teach it to someone else. Well, I can absolutely attest that the best way to learn how to effectively edit one’s own writing is to edit other folks’ work. Nothing I can think of will better stimulate a keen critical eye to one’s own scribblings. This is because while an editor has to implicitly believe in his own judgment, he also has to maintain a strictly ego-free disinterest. Being a good editor means straddling a razor’s edge dividing an almost supreme self-confidence and and an utterly selfless humility. The confidence comes in firmly trusting one’s own inclinations and decisions, and the selflessness comes in making sure that the editor’s touch remains forever invisible and never, ever defaces the author’s work. An editor is always the midwife and never the mother.

Not that editing CB is anything but a joy, the writers here being so exceptional and each having such a distinct voice. I don’t really do much—I correct for diction, style (in a strictly technical sense, i.e. punctuation, parallelism, visual appearance, etc.), grammar, and in rare instances, clarity, and most of the time the submissions require no intervention whatsoever. When I do apply changes, I try very hard to keep the authorial voice consistent with the rest of the piece, and except for really minor changes, such as correcting misspellings, I always seek the author’s permission to make any alterations.

In addition, I usually provide the illustrations, making new ones if I don’t find anything suitable and readily available on the web, usually sending them to the author before publishing the column for approval. Steve frequently provides his own, and Rob and Deborah occasionally provide images for particular pieces. John always sends me a very short list of illustration suggestions, leaving the final choice to me, but I will still get his imprimatur before posting any particular installment of Mississippi Mud. Leigh, as I mentioned, is completely autonomous, which explains why his columns usually look a little different than the others and have more web features and illustrations per column.

So much for specifics, but I’m getting a little off the track. The point I’m trying to make is that doing the actual work of editing is an enlightening experience, because it perforce makes one reflect over what one reads. Now, I think that this is important. The best advice I ever received for keeping out of trouble is to think before speaking. The complement to that is to think after reading, to take the time to make sure one understands exactly what is being said. Not only does this lead to an improved comprehension of content, it also increases sensitivity to the nuances of expression.

1. This is not to say that it is absolutely necessary to vet your work or circulate it among people whose opinions you respect for commentary before you send it in for consideration—at least, not if the person you are sending it to is an editor. I’m one of those who never submits a manuscript until it has survived the scrutiny of at least four sets of eyes in addition to my own, though, and I find that this custom has been of enormous benefit to me.

STAMPING out CRIME

by Leigh Lundin

Swedish Crime Academy

key                 (artist: H. Lauritzen)  1. Lord Peter Wimsey (Dorothy L. Sayers)   2. Jane Marple (Agatha Christie)    3. Gideon Fell (John Dickson Carr)     4. Father Brown (G. K. Chesterton)      5. Jules Maigret (Georges Simenon)       6. Auguste Dupin (Edgar Allan Poe)        7. Sherlock Holmes (Arthur Conan Doyle)         8. Hercule Poirot (Agatha Christie)          9. Charlie Chan (Earl Derr Biggers)           10. Ellery Queen (Ellery QUeen)            11. Nero Wolfe (Rex Stout)

As Dell’s The Mystery Place discussed and we touched upon here, we see a burst in foreign mystery writers. That’s not to say the Swedish Crime Academy is the new kid on the block. Started four decades ago, they bear an analogue of our own Mystery Writers of America. The SCA’s structure is different– they have 24 honorary and elected chairs– but their purpose is the same. Like the MWA, they anthologize and they award, giving out a Grand Master Diploma and the Martin Beck Award named after the famed detective in the Sjöwall and Wahlöö series.

Martin Beck? You may remember The Laughing Policeman, which earned a Best Novel Edgar Award from the MWA and was made into a so-so Canadian-American film in 1973.

From the artist Henry Lauritzen (Honorary President of the Danish Baker Street Irregulars), we present the Swedish Crime Academy’s picture quiz. (And thanks to Holmesian researcher and biographer Anna Mia Stampe Lagergaard.)

A puzzle within a stamp.

Glued to Mysteries

I came across the Swedish Crime Academy in my usual peripatetic way. One of our readers (Hi, Rosa!) added fuel to my ADD fire with several interesting links. One link was to a fellow named Steve Trussel who combines his appreciation of mysteries with stamp collecting.

I admire a site where the designer’s love of a topic shines through, although the busy home page isn’t the best example of his work. Take the page on Sherlock Holmes or the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in Botswana. The artist in Steve imbues the subject with a romance of its own. Stepping through the links is like a walk through a detective art gallery.

Check The Mystery of the Sherlock Holmes Stamps puzzle found on this page. Mr. Trussel provided another little mystery group picture from another Scandinavian artist, Danish mystery short story author Robert ‘Storm P’ Petersen.

key               (artist: Storm P)  1. Porfiry Petrovic (Dostoevski)   2. Inspector Maigret (Georges Simenon)    3. Father Brown (G.K. Chesterton)     4. Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)      5. Hercule Poirot (Agatha Christie)       6. Inspector Cardby (David Hume)        7. Lord Peter Wimsey (Dorothy L. Sayers)         8. Reggie Fortune (H.C. Bailey)

Frankly Speaking

Steve’s Sherlock Holmes page is a good read in itself. I learned what cinderella stamps are and, following those links, I discovered the Ffestiniog Railway Letter Service continues to operate.

Although I worked in the UK, I was unaware of this Edwardian era FedEx. Armed with a shilling and a few pence (which then seemed to increase about the time you handed over your packet), you could mail a letter or package at any railway station and have it arrive at any other. (Paris implemented an even faster pneumatic tube service and New York City is famed for its mad bicycle couriers.)

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Steve Trussel and our Scandinavian colleagues, and thanks to Rosa for bringing them to our attention. Enjoy the three puzzles.