FIREWORKS

by James Lincoln Warren

Happy Birthday, U.S.A.

Yesterday, a friend of mine, Carlos Gonzalez, sent a message on a listserv I subscribe to celebrating the American Declaration of Independence as the most momentous event in world history. Carlos was raised in Castro’s Cuba and has a deeper and more personal appreciation of what it means to be an American that most of us natives, and I found his paean to be very moving.

There was one thing he wrote that I found particularly interesting. He stated in rather unequivocal terms that the definition of “modern history” as dating from the French Revolution instead of the American Revolution was a leftist fallacy. To support his claim, he pointed out that whereas the First Republic, despite its motto of “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” (still the national motto of France) devolved into an imperial dictatorship with a tyrannical conqueror at the helm, the American democracy has endured and evolved in the contrary direction, toward more civil liberty and stability. I can’t say that I necessarily agree with this assessment on every level, since we had our own internal blood-soaked contre-temps less than a century after the Declaration, but I fully appreciate and endorse its sentiment.

I do, however, completely disagree with his claim that the standard definition of “modern history” was chosen by historians because of any leftist leanings. Historians, whether left or right, selected that moment because France was at the center of world events in 1789, when North America was still essentially a political backwater. We date America’s independence from July 4, 1776, and it is right that we should do so, but from a practical point of view, a more accurate date would be October 17, 1781, when at the Siege of Yorktown the British commander, General Cornwallis, sued for peace, thereby ensuring the survival of the United States as an independent political entity.

Americans are infamous for having selective memories when it comes to our own history, and short ones regarding the history of anyone else. A distinguishing feature of the Siege of Yorktown is that is was not purely an American victory. To be blunt, it was at least two-thirds French.

Warfare is always complex, and the summary of the final defeat of the British in the colonies which follows is extremely simplified, but essentially what happened was this. Cornwallis was ordered by his superior, General Sir Henry Clinton (with whom he had a contentious relationship), to occupy and fortify a deep-water port in Virginia for reasons which must have seemed very good to Clinton at the time. Cornwallis selected Yorktown, Virginia, on Chesapeake Bay, and on his way there was shadowed and harassed by the Marquis de Lafayette leading Continental (American) soldiers. About the same time, the French sent an army led by the Comte de Rochambeau to assist Washington in the north. After consultations with the Comte de Grasse, the French admiral whose fleet had transported the French army, the three leaders came up with a brilliant plan. Instead of attacking New York, then controlled by the British and the avowed purpose of the French reinforcements, they decided to join forces with Lafayette and take on Cornwallis in Virginia. In executing this stratagem, they managed to completely deceive the British regarding their intentions.

The presence of the French troops actually doubled the strength of the American forces, especially after de Grasse disembarked even more French troops in Virginia—there were as many French troops at Yorktown, possibly more, than American ones. Furthermore, de Grasse’s fleet blockaded the entrance to Chesapeake Bay in the Battle of the Virgina Capes, preventing the British fleet from reinforcing Cornwallis. (As far as I know, it is the only large fleet action in history where La Royalle defeated the Royal Navy, although they had many smaller triumphs, especially in the Indian Ocean under Suffren, one of the most brilliant naval commanders in history.)1 If the French Navy had lost that naval engagement, Washington and de Rochambeau would have been repulsed, and the British would have controlled the entire seaboard. The United States would most likely have collapsed.

Fireworks, indeed.

This was more than decade before the Tricolour became the national flag of France. The French (Lafayette excepted) were not remotely interested in the success of democracy. They were interested in the defeat of Britain. One might think that the British loss of the American colonies might have had a crippling effect on British world aspirations, but one would be wrong. The British government were more interested in India than in America, as is demonstrated by the Boston Tea Party incident. The real showdown was sometime later: since La Royalle was dominated by aristocratic officers, the French Revolution had a pronounced and deleterious effect on France’s ability to wage war at sea, since so many French naval officers ended up keeping appointments with Madame la Guillotine. This, along with Jervis’s defeat of the Armada at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent in 1797 and Nelson’s great victories against Napoleon’s reconstituted navy at the Nile (1798) and Trafalgar (1805), effectively led up to the long-lived British domination of the seas in the 19th century, and by extension, to the dominance of the British Empire over the entire globe in Victorian times. Losing the Thirteen Colonies was a bad sting, but it wasn’t the kind of defining moment in history that changed everything everywhere all at once.

The American Revolution succeeded because our fledgling republic enjoyed vital support from much more potent foreign powers (Spain was in the mix, too, by the way) who were allies operating in their own interests. The French Revolution, by contrast, had support from no one, not even the U.S., which was not then in any position to engage on the world stage. It was entirely an internal affair, and its immediate repercussions resonated in the world like a great bronze bell. I would go so far as to argue that the Napoleonic Wars helped ensure the survival of the U.S., because if the British hadn’t been more concerned with Bonaparte than with Madison, the War of 1812 would have gone very differently.

Don’t get me wrong. I am an American and a veteran, and I am very proud of my nation and what it stands for. My great great great great great (that’s five, in case you’ve lost count) grandfather, Gideon Warren, was an officer in Ethan Allen’s Green Mountain Boys and the Colonel of the Fifth Regiment of Vermont Militia, and actually had a fort named after him in 1778. I fly the Stars and Stripes off my balcony on the Fourth (as well as on other patriotic holidays) with deep-seated reverence.

But this slice of history teaches an important lesson, one which as a writer of crime fiction I find critical to my trade: Perception is distinct from reality. This is true on so many levels it almost boggles the mind. Washington and de Rochambeau manipulated Clinton’s perceptions, enabling them to achieve their goals. The common American historical view of our victory at Yorktown is seriously flawed, underestimating the influences that were at work, unjustifiably supporting a cultural go-it-alone attitude that has never served us well. Power, or at least potency, comes with the dispelling of illusion and the recognition of truth.

That’s what a detective’s job is, after all.

1. In a rematch in April of 1782 in the Caribbean known as the Battle of the Saintes, the selfsame British fleet that had been bested at the Virgina Capes decisively defeated de Grasse and took him prisoner. [↩]

PROFESSIONAL TIPS – Dennis Palumbo

by Leigh Lundin

Traditional mysteries with clues fairly presented started me on a lifelong romance of the genre, enjoying the chase, the puzzle. Whereas I’m not fond of hinging a story upon so-called ‘psychological clues’, I appreciate the art of profiling and the psychology of well-drawn good guys and bad guys. Wouldn’t it delight us to engineer fantasy match-ups between, say, Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and Hannibal Lector?

Psychotherapist Dennis Palumbo is also a screenwriter, blogger, and mystery author. He applies his professional training to writing, giving his character, Daniel Rinaldi, a psychologist with an edge.

Dennis also writes about the craft in Writing From The Inside Out. In another of our Writing Tips series, we peek at some of his tips– check his articles and his book for in-depth tutoring.

Three Cosmic Rules of Writing

1. You are enough.
   • Even the best writers struggle. Some may have more practice experience, but nothing is wrong with you.
2. Work with what you’re given.
• See the world around you, and use it in your writing.
3. Writing begets writing.
• If you’re stuck, write anyway. Use your frustrated emotions in your characters.

Drilling down, Dennis provides three additional guidelines for writing mysteries. Again, refer to the articles for particulars.

Three Rules of Mystery Writing

1. Establish the unique character of the protagonist.
   • The real mystery readers want is that between the characters and how order will be restored.
2. Make narrative use of the world in which the story takes place.
• Use a sense of scene to build dimension in your story.
3. Plant clues (only a few) derived from unique aspects of that world.
• Exploit your world to provide background, red herrings, and clues for your readers.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

by John M. Floyd

Question: How do you feel about stories with unresolved endings?

Rick DeMarinis, in his book The Art and Craft of the Short Story, says: “Chekhov, Joyce, Sherwood Anderson, among others less well known, created a new trend: the open-ended story, the story in which plot is almost nonexistent and character is everything.” He goes on to say: “By open-ended I mean that the ‘resolution’ of the story is not dramatically conclusive.”

I understand why some like that kind of thing. The best fiction reflects real life, and in real life things are almost always unresolved. And I can appreciate as well as the next guy a gut-wrenching, soul-searching drama that makes us take a long hard look at ourselves and our problems. But I also enjoy the dumb, escapist, I-know-it’s-a-fantasy-but-who-cares kind of entertainment. I like it when E.T. finds his way home, and Chief Brody kills the shark, and Rocky somehow does “go the distance.”

Opposite extremes

There are always exceptions to this “unplotted and unresolved” concept. Some stories don’t have much of a plot but do have definite endings. Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises is an example. It’s a tale of sad and disillusioned people who get together for a holiday in Spain, and while there’s plenty of levels of conflict there’s no clear plotline — but when all’s said and done, the male and female leads somehow wind up together. It’s anyone’s guess whether they’ll stay together — to say they have issues is an understatement — but they’ve finally found each other again.

Other stories have wonderful, clear, edge-of-your-seat plots and vague endings. One of these was No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy. I loved the novel and the film, but a friend of mine who went with me to see it in the theatre told me afterward, “That damn movie didn’t end. It just stopped.”

That’s entertainment . . . or is it?

DeMarinis again: “The readers of magazine fiction fifty years ago wanted tidy endings. They wanted wholesome, life-affirming entertainment. They didn’t want to be confused, or disturbed, or left hanging. But contemporary short story writers disturb and confuse and leave you up in the air.”

Actually, I usually do want entertainment, wholesome or not, life-affirming or not, and I usually don’t want to be overly confused or left hanging. I’m confused enough as it is; I don’t need to have mind-numbing fiction adding to my problems. But maybe that’s just me. (As I have admitted before, anyone who enjoyed Blazing Saddles more than Schindler’s List might have an unconventional view of what’s good and what’s bad. Who except me would choose — in this case at least — Mel Brooks over Spielberg?)

The end justifies the scenes

I sometimes find myself liking or disliking a movie based on the way it ends. I realize that’s not fair, but if the ending is satisfying, I’m usually pleased with the story as a whole — and I think it has a better chance of being satisfying if it’s straightforward and understandable and resolved. Especially if it’s a mystery/crime story.

And since we’re talking about clarity, let me clarify something. A satisfying and resolved ending doesn’t have to be a “happy” ending. In the movie Witness, the guy didn’t get the girl; she stayed on the farm, he went back to the city. It wasn’t necessarily the way I wanted it to end, but it was the way it had to end. It made sense. Same thing applies to Casablanca, Butch Cassidy, The Green Mile, Cool Hand Luke, etc.

This area of discussion reminds me of Elmore Leonard’s reply years ago, when asked in an interview why his short stories had never appeared in The New Yorker. “My stories,” he answered, “have endings.”

Give ’em hell, Dutch.

TRIPPING 90 (part one)

by Steven Steinbock

My last two columns had been written in haste a week before they were posted. At the time I was preparing for a cross-country road trip with my son.

Nate starts school at the University of Washington in Seattle this fall. Some kids have security blankets. Others have Teddy bears. My son has a Subaru Impreza Sport. He’s happy to leave his parents and his younger brother behind, but the thought of being without his car was too much to bear. So two weeks ago we loaded his car, filled up the gas tank, and hit the road.

It might have been more poetic had we taken Route 66, or even better followed the route of John Steinbeck and his dog Charley. But Interstate 90, stretching from Boston to Seattle, was much more convenient and practical. We stuck to I-90 most of the way.

We took our time. The trip took us nine days. But if had I to do it again (which is something I look forward to), I’d give myself at least two weeks.

Friday, June 17, 2011

We left our home in Maine around 9am, and drove south to New Hampshire and into Massachusetts to catch I-90. The countryside in the Berkshires and in most of upstate New York is beautiful. We stopped in Rochester, New York, and checked in to the Holiday Inn Express in Greece, a suburb of Rochester. Nate and I then went to visit Patricia Hoch (wife of the short-fiction marvel Edward Hoch). We took Pat to dinner at Crescent Beach, a big family restaurant where she had taken Nate and me last winter when we’d visited her. Afterwards, back at her house, Pat let me peruse Ed’s library, where I was able to find magazines containing two stories that have never been reprinted and which I’ve been trying to track down.

Saturday, June 18

Left Rochester and drove west on I-90, stopping in Buffalo to meet up with one of Nate’s “Socket 939” buddies. (Socket 939 is a CPU format designed by AMD a number of years ago. When I was his age, I was into the Beatles and Farrah Fawcett. He’s into Subarus and CPU sockets. Go figure).

After lunch, Nate and his friend spent some time playing Gran Turismo 5 (as if he hadn’t been at the wheel enough already). Then we followed the southern shore of Lake Erie through a sliver of Pennsylvania, through Ohio, and into Indiana. We stopped in Angola, Indiana, to find a room for the night. Unfortunately, there was some kind of auto racing event going on and every redneck and his beer cooler had taken every hotel room within twenty miles. So we went twenty-one miles north to Coldwater, Michigan. There were still a lot of NASCAR fans, but at least we found a room. By the time we settled in, all the restaurants that were worth eating at had closed up for the night, so we sated our hunger by splitting a veggie foot-long from Subway.

Sunday, June 19

We got up and drove south, back across the Michigan-Indiana border to catch I-90 and drove west until we reached Chicago around lunchtime. We got off the Chicago Skyway and drove toward Lake Michigan. We didn’t want to leave the car alone—full of our summer supplies and three computers—on the streets of Chicago, but I wanted Nate to see downtown Chicago.

We pulled into the Field Museum parking area and looked around. Nate got off a couple interesting snapshots. Then we drove north on Lakeshore Drive to the Navy Pier and then west to the Magnificent Mile and south on Michigan Ave. I pointed out the Chicago Art Institute. We wandered the streets a little more so Nate could take in the architecture, and then hopped back on the Skyway. This was the only part of I-90 where we hit a serious traffic snag.

From Chicago we drove North by Northwest to Madison. Having learned the lesson from the night before, we had already booked a hotel room in Deforest, Wisconsin, about fifteen miles north of Madison. It was a cute little town, and the name reminded me of DeForest Kelley (Dr. McCoy from Star Trek). We ate at the Deforest Family Restaurant.

Monday, June 20

After checking out, we walked across the street to Ehlenbach’s Cheese Chalet, sort of a Hickory-Farms-style tourist stop filled with gourmet cheeses, meats, and gifts.

I-90 took us north for about eighty miles before turning west again, through Minnesota. We passed through a town called Blue Earth, but it didn’t look very blue to us. The sign said that they had a 60 foot tall Jolly Green Giant.

Around dinner time we stopped in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and stayed in an actual hotel (as opposed to a motel) in the town center of Sioux Falls. Cute town, but not especially memorable. We did, however, eat dinner at a place called Chedds, which is a gourmet grilled cheese joint. There were lots of choices of cheese and bread, as well as additional fillings of meat and vegetables.

Tuesday, June 21

We fell in love with South Dakota. Not only is it pretty country, but it has some of the coolest and most unusual tourist stops. Mid-morning we stopped at the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. This Moorish Revival style pavilion-auditorium is decorated completely with corn. The entire exterior is redesigned each year (artists compete to have their designs selected), and the façade covered in different colored varieties of corn to color complete the design. It was stunning in a really weird way.

The weirdness continued at Wall Drug where we stopped for lunch. To call Wall Drug just another roadside attraction is like calling the Rocky Mountains just a hill. Once just a pharmacy in the middle of nowhere, in the early 1930s the owners decided to advertize Free Ice Water for travelers on their way to see Mount Rushmore. It quickly expanded into a restaurant, a gift shop, and then a bizarre cowboy-themed shopping mall with a large open courtyard. You can even find dinosaurs and a jackalope. Coffee is five cents a cup. Well worth the nickel.

Stay tuned next week as the adventure continues with Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Devil’s Tower, and Yellowstone.

IN RAPTURE WITH A HORROR AUTHOR

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

I’ve just returned from an intensive week long workshop with Bram Stoker and Anthony Award Nominee, Alexandra Sokoloff. Alex won ITW’s Thriller Award for Best Short Fiction with her story, “The Edge of Seventeen.” It is my opinion that we never stop learning—or rather, we should never stop learning. So, every once in a while, I take off my published writer hat and don one of apprentice. (Alex’s class was “Screenwriting Tricks for Authors” which I highly recommend to any writer.)

I had asked a fellow student who’d completed another workshop offered last summer at WTA&M University if I needed to bring a completed screenplay to this class. I had two partial scripts in the beginning stages and their treatments were already written, but I certainly didn’t have a completed screenplay to bring. When my friend assured me I didn’t need to worry about it, I believed her.

I should have asked the instructor. Please, learn from my mistake. The Boy Scouts are correct: it’s better to be prepared.

Alex began a Yahoo group for the class members prior to the classes and asked for introductions and what we were working on, etc. This should have prepared me for the intensity of the classroom, but heady with the idea of kicking back with some writer friends I hadn’t seen in some time and meeting new ones, I didn’t catch on until the first class, when all our feet were held to the fire. Alex spent time on each student’s screenplay or novel from premise to THE END. Everyone seemed prepared but me.

I admit to being the dunce hat wearer for the first class, but feel I improved daily and left with not just a better plan for my book, but a potentially much better book. In fact, I think all of us ended up with publisher-loving stories. Alex was great at asking questions that made us devise stronger text, characters, plotlines, and pacing skills.

At the book signing following the customary banquet dinner, I purchased Alex’s thriller, The Price, a novel about a devil stalking the halls of a Boston hospital asking who wanted to deal with him—quite a fiendish Deal or No Deal dilemma. I thought this was an amazing premise and though I know it will scare me to read it, I can’t wait to dig in.

In the class, we discussed all sorts of genres from romance to thrillers. Surprisingly enough, Alex said my story seemed bound more for the literary market and that women would easily identify with my female characters. Let’s make it clear: that’s not usually what I write, but I look upon it as a challenge.

Alex is known more for her screenplays, thrillers, and horror stories, and yet she recognized solutions for the romance novelist, too. She is a great teacher and a well-rounded author. My time in her class was well spent.

If you decide to pick up one of her novels, (The Harrowing, The Unseen, The Price), the illustrated anthology of noir superhero and fantasy stories (The Darker Mask: Heroes from the Shadows) or her workbook for novelists (Screenwriting Tricks for Authors), I know you won’t be disappointed.

In fact, you’ll take an exciting trip along with me as I learn something new about and from a truly spellbinding author.

CRIME WAVE

by Rob Lopresti

Today I am going to bring you up to date on some crime news from the Evergreen State. Why should I let Leigh and Florida have all the fun? We’ll start at the north end and slide down.

Don’t let your little light shine

Whatcom County, where I live, bumps up against the Canadian border. This is a blessing and a curse. When the exchange rate is favorable we get a lot of foreigners heading south of the border to spend their money. On the other hand, when someone does something stupid at the crossing (a regular event) we get the privilege of finding jail space for them.

For people who live way up near that border line things can be more problematic. In April a man named Wayne P. Groen was convicted in federal court of incapacitating the pilot of an aircraft. Back in September a Customs helicopter had been patrolling near Lynden, WA around 9:30 PM. Groen was awakened by the noise over is backyard, went outside, and shone a spotlight on the chopper. The pilot, who was wearing night vision goggles, was blinded by the light and says he was disoriented.

My assumption was that Groen’s neighbors would be a little cranky with him for endangering the lives of a government pilot and, potentially, everyone in the homes the chopper was flying over. Apparently not, though. Lynden residents have been protesting (see the photo above) and urging that Groen not get a prison sentence (he could theoretically get 20 years). They say the flashing was the result of government officials harassing them to distraction.

At the very least we can all agree that the Border Patrol has a public relations problem.

Neighborly

This is a song by Chuck Brodsky about the friction between long-time residents of a rural area and the newcomers who come from the city.

       The come heres live in cabins – the been heres live in shacks
       They’ll say hello in passing – talk behind each others’ backs . . .
       The come heres & the been heres – there’s talk about a fence
       The whole town is divided – half for and half against

I suspect that this sort of resentment is at the root of this story from the Seattle Times about a feud between two families in Sultan, WA, in rural Snohomish County, a bit north of King County (home of Seattle). Gayle and Ray Harvie live in a 3,200-foot house. The Pepperell family next door live in a smaller manufactured home. It was the eighteen-year-old son of that family who stole, and crashed, the Harvie’s $12,000 motorcycle. The Harvies pressed charges and things went to merry hell after that. Six years so far, and counting.

Two of the Harvies dogs were apparently poisoned, one fatally. (They owned eight 170-pound Tibetan mastiffs, and there have been complaints of noise and one bite.) The Harvies installed a $60,000 security system and hired a private detective. They learned that Caroline Pepperell had been fired from a previous job for misusing a law enforcement database, but was now working for the Sultan Police Department. She was later fired from that job, reinstated, fired again, and then “settled with the city for $15,000 and agreed not to sue, according to court documents.”

After an investigation the police chief resigned and pled guilty to lying to a public official. A year later the entire police force was disbanded.

The Harvies and Pepperell sued and countersued each other in Snohomish County, with the Harvies accusing Pepperell of poisoning their dogs. Pepperell, who also goes by the last name Feldmann, claimed “severe public humiliation,” said she was unable to get another job and, in a strange twist, accused the Harvies of convincing her own son, the motorcycle thief, to steal documents from her home.

Before the thread closed automatically, the Seattle Times story had acquired 480 comments.

It makes you think your neighbor’s noisy stereo is not such a big deal…

The otter truth

Next we go south and west to Grays Harbor County on the Pacific coast. Hoquiam is a charming little town of 9,000, and I’m sure it’s immune from the weirdness of the metropolitan regions further north. It stands to — Uh, what was that, Seattle Times?

Police say a man was carrying a dead weasel when he burst into a Hoquiam apartment and assaulted a man.

The victim asked, “Why are you carrying a weasel?” Police said the attacker said, “It’s not a weasel, it’s a martin,” then punched him in the nose and fled.

The police caught up with the martin man and he had an explanation for the home invasion (trust me, it’s not worth going into), but he declined to explain why he left a dead martin in the flat. The article ends with this helpful tidbit:

A martin is a member of the weasel family.

So now you know.

The deadliest snatch

Okay, I admit that Los Angeles is not technically in Washington. But there is a connection.

On May 20th a truck driver arrived at the Los Angeles Cold Storage Company to pick up 25,000 pounds of Russian king crab destined for Seattle (See?). Later the driver called, supposedly from Oregon, to say he was having mechanical trouble. That was the last anyone heard from driver or crab.

Turns out his paperwork was all fraudulent, his company didn’t exist, and $400,000 worth of crab is gone for good.

And so is whatever time you spent reading this. I hope you don’t regret it.

MELODIE’S MEANDERINGS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

It is summer and time to bring out the garden furniture. But wait! Something evil lurks!

FOLDING CHAIR FRUSTRATION

What? You don’t have Folding Chair Frustration? It’s a new syndrome. At least according to the commercial I just watched. It’s the trauma one encounters when attempting to unfold a folding chair. But before you up your meds there is the new POCKET FOLDING CHAIR to take away all your anxiety.

What does it do? It easily unfolds into a very tiny chair where you can place your very tiny derrière (one hopes) and sit with your chin resting on your knees. But Wait! It’s a pocketsize portable chair that folds up to fit into your handbag, glove compartment, fishing kit, anywhere but in your pocket. Unless you have deep pockets; then you don’t need the Pocket Folding Chair because you can afford a valet to trail behind you with an antique Napoleon era-leather traveling chair.

I bet you’re thinking, “What does this have to do with short stories or the genre we all love so much? “ Well I have eked out tenuous connection. In The Thin Man Goes Home there is a hilarious scene where Myrna Lloyd struggles with a garden folding chair while William Powell eyes her wryly from the comfort of his hammock. Needless to say, they both end up flat on their backs on the ground.

Speaking of movies, in the musical The Bandwagon there is dance sequence featuring Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse that is a delightful send up of pulp detective novels. Beautifully choreographed, danced, and narrated by Fred Astaire, who plays private eye Rod Riley, this is worth taking a look at.

Again, apropos of absolutely nothing, I read an article that stated people who receive a lot of Botox injections in their faces have less empathy for other people. The Swedes, I think it was they (it usually is), did a test where they injected one group with Botox and the other group with a placebo. Those who had the real stuff could care less about others. Those who didn’t did. What does this mean?

It seems that when your face is as stiff as a corpse you can’t read other people’s facial expressions as well. The article was not written with much depth, maybe because of the people they were dealing with. But I think what they were saying was that if you are lifted to the high-heavens and puffed up with a numbing serum you are unable to facially express your own emotions. Ergo you have a hard time picking up other people’s expressions. Even though the Botoxed person can still see these expressions she/he can’t interpret them. I found this fascinating. You can talk all you want and say all the right things, but if you can’t ape another’s sorrow or hurt you can’t feel for them. I see a new legal defense building here. The murder defendant took too much Botox and couldn’t move her face, rendering her incapable of understanding that killing her ninety-year-old billionaire husband was a bad thing. It could equal the Twinkie defense or the Casey Anthony defense of My Daddy Made Me Do It.

I wonder if a person smoothed out on Botox is able to experience Folding Chair Frustration?

Finally, this is for all the teachers and writers everywhere: