LITTLE THINGS

by James Lincoln Warren

Last November, I wrote a column about finding characters’ voices. You can find it here. In particular, I discussed a problem I was having in finding a particular character’s voice in a Work In Progress. Erica H. Wooding, my heroine, is young and sassy and extremely female. I, on the other hand, am old (well to be charitable to myself, let’s say I’m in late middle age) and staid (all right, I admit to a certain vanity in dress and a penchant for sarcastic one liners) and very male (but not macho—more the kind of guy who likes cigars, plays poker with his buddies, and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything pink). I’m not really very much like Erica, and the problem I was having was that she sounded to me almost exactly like my series character Carmine Ferrari, who actually is a bit macho.

Here’s the problem passage:

     Dad desperately wanted me back—you know what some fathers are like when it comes to their little princesses, not that I’m remotely little or have ever been anything like a princess—but he wanted me home, in Fresno in general and at Sherwood Brothers in particular. I might mention that our name isn’t Sherwood and I don’t have any brothers, but when Dad formed the business, he decided there should be “wood” in the name somewhere, and the Robin Hood and his Merry Men angle struck him as cute. Like cute is a big part of the bail bonds business. As far as I’m concerned, drop the Robins and what you’re left with is the Hoods.

I’m still plugging away at the story, because I think I have found Erica’s voice. Much to my surprise, the Ferrari-esque passage remained mostly intact, but some little changes made a big difference. Here’s the revised opening to the story:

     The job started with a bang, an explosive fireball erupting on the ocean. I didn’t know anything about that at first. If anything, my life at the time was more of a whimper. Living in Los Angeles was turning out to be a lot more expensive than I had figured, and to complicate things I’d just been fired. Pete Grady, the P.I. who had hired and then canned me, said our “relationship” wasn’t working out, and he was right, because there was no way I was going to let that cheesy fat sleaze bucket get in my pants. Standards, I got ’em.
     But it was still a big blow to my meager finances and I was feeling angry and sorry for myself. So when I got the call asking me downtown for an interview, I was cheered up enough to break into spontaneous dance, much to the annoyance of my downstairs neighbor. The call said nothing at all about explosive fireballs. All I knew was that I finally had an appointment with a potential client. And man, did I need a client.
     Dad desperately wanted me back—you know what some fathers are like when it comes to their little princesses, not that at five foot ten I’m remotely little, or have ever been anything like a princess unless princesses routinely skin their knees falling out of trees—but he wanted me home, in Fresno in general and at Sherwood Brothers in particular. I might mention that our name isn’t Sherwood and I don’t have any brothers, but when Dad started the business, he decided there should be “wood” in the name somewhere, and the Robin Hood and his Happy Thieving Forest Fraternity angle struck him as cute. Like cute is a big part of the bail bonds business. But that’s so him.

The Gentle Reader may disagree, but I think there is a substantive change in tone between the two passages, even though the second largely incorporates the first. That’s because I had some insight into her character and the differences between her and Carmine.

First, Erica is a lot less self-conscious than Carmine. Part of this comes from her being so much younger, but most of it comes from personality. Carmine wears Armani suits. He’s a former cop with a cop’s jaundiced eye. His idea of a workout is at the gym. He tells stories because he thinks he could write a bestseller someday. Erica wears jeans and tank tops. She has the idealism and ebullience of youth. Her idea of exercise is surfing and beach volleyball. She tells stories because she likes to talk.

Although Carmine is not any kind of pompous jerk and communicates in an informal way, Erica had to be even less formal, not so aware of her word choices—more conversational. In a way, Carmine’s writing is very calculated, but not so Erica’s. So this meant adding some phrases consistent with her essentially oral tone, e.g., “Standards, I got ’em” and “But that’s so him.” She also tacks her heart on her sleeve with much more readiness than Carmine would, lacking his caution in giving too much of himself away: “ . . . I was feeling angry and sorry for myself.” Carmine might admit that he was angry, but he would never admit that he felt sorry for himself. He’s about as likely to break into spontaneous dance as he would be to watch The View.

The Gentle Reader may recall that I am a slave to narrative technique, that in being a very slow writer, I parse everything I write carefully and deliberately for effect. So in a technical sense, what strikes me about the changes made to Erica’s opening salvo was how minor they were, and yet how profound their effects turned out to be. Yes, I added two paragraphs to help set up the original opening, but one of the reasons I did that was to introduce an element of action, i.e., the fireball, which the first draft was sadly lacking. The second reason was to put her father’s plea for her to come home in a stronger context, to give the G.R. a better feel for her situation.

The only changes to the original passage are switching “Merry Men” with the sassier “Happy Thieving Forest Fraternity,” expanding the “Daddy’s little princess” reference to limn Erica more clearly, and losing “As far as I’m concerned, drop the Robins and what you’re left with is the Hoods,” which as an example of wit is hopelessly forced and arch, in favor of the much more natural, “But that’s so him.” The last also shows that on balance, Erica loves her father—it’s an expression of exasperation borne out of affection, which I perceive rightly or wrongly as a very female attitude, or at least an attitude that wives frequently have for their husbands or sisters for their brothers, he said, having grown up with two sisters who are now very accomplished women and having tied the knot himself more than twenty-five years ago, thus honestly having attained some experience with how wives think of their husbands.

I guess the moral is that before a writer jettisons something, he or she should see how what’s already been committed to paper can be turned to reflect a different light than the one originally shining on it. The cliché, of course, is that big things come in little packages, but as someone also once remarked, it wouldn’t be a truism if it weren’t true. I suppose this is only to be expected in a medium were economy of expression is the Cardinal Rule, which means, of course, packing as much meaning in as tight a space as one can.

BONFIRE of the VANITIES

by Leigh Lundin

Two weeks ago, the world of self-publishing witnessed an authorial meltdown. I won’t mention the writer’s name (though readily apparent in the links) who received more than enough torment. Beyond feeling a modicum of sympathy for her, I don’t believe this article is worth writing if we can’t add value– preferably something positive– to the blogosphere.

The Vanities

From the mire of dubious aggrandizement, the self-publishing industry has built a remarkable marketing machine. The vanity presses, often noted for victimizing their clients, managed to turn their clients into an army of promotion for the ’cause’. Using terms like ‘democratization’, ‘indy authors’, ‘establishment’, and ‘gatekeepers’, they leveraged their disadvantage into a huge marketing trump card– for the publishers, not necessarily their authors.

Thanks to this marketing groundswell, many self-pubbers argue the ‘dying’ ‘traditional’ publishing industry is engaged in a conspiracy to keep top-flight books out of the public’s hands. They point to a series of ‘gatekeepers’ as proof: editors, agents, and ‘traditional’ brick-and-mortar bookstores who conspire to keep good novels out of the marketplace.

All the good and bad reasons for self-publishing remain as do its inherent problems. Vanity presses haven’t gone away and they haven’t resolved most of their issues. Along with technology, they simply improved their marketing. In many ways, the self-publishing industry sets up writers to fail.

Statistics suggest about 2% of mainstream fiction is trash and about 2% of self-published fictional work isn’t trash. Some argue the ratio is 5 versus 5% to an extreme of 20 v 20%. While exact numbers can’t be pinned down, the quality of mainstream releases radically overshadows that of vanity presses.

As I mentioned before, there are several good reasons for self-publishing non-fiction but very few for fiction. Many indies don’t realize self-publishing is usually a losing proposition. One of the most common figures is that the median sales of self-published novel is six copies. With more and more ePublishers entering the market, that number may increase, but for authors other than JA Konrath and Blake Crouch, the figure is likely to remain low, very low. Pessimism is advised: One writer, determined to beat the odds, spent $20,000 in promotion and received sales of $10,000.

University Pressure

In recent years, I haven’t heard much from degree and diploma mills prevalent in the 1980s. By chance, I happened to receive a couple of spam mails, which might signal a rise in such ‘institutions’. The ad for one struck me as familiar. It referred to ‘gatekeepers’ of ‘traditional’ universities and decried the expense of attending ‘traditional old-fashioned classes.’ It promoted the advantages of obtaining a degree open to everyone, not just a ‘select few’.

Thanks to DipScam investigations and tightening of regulations, we’ll probably never again see degree fraud on a large scale. While obtaining a diploma for a fistful of dollars is legally frowned upon, we all know of ‘PubScam’ publishers and agencies that pander to people desirous of publishing their book at any price. Sadly, not all customers are cognizant of the Faustian pact they enter in to.

Vanity Fare

One of the obstacles self-pubbers have to deal with is reviews. Most reviewers didn’t and still don’t trouble themselves with ‘indy authors’. As a RWA writer said, "Who wants a diet of crap?"

Sly entrepreneurs noted this and began a cottage industry of offering only positive reviews– offering them for sale. For $30 or $50, $75 or $200, a self-pubber could ship his (or her) opus for review, safely knowing their novel would receive a glowing appraisal. While positive reviews are still offered for sale, a number of factors reduced their effectiveness.

Their decline may have begun when mainstream authors exposed and ridiculed the practice, but the real problem was an underlying resentment from readers who bought trash based upon falsely positive reviews. While such ‘reviewers’ processed up to two or three dozen novels a day, it became obvious books weren’t read. With each exchange of shekels, vanity became ever more entrenched in vanity publishing.

Vanity Unfair

To offset these problems, truly independent reviewers like Red Adept sprang up. One such reviewer is BooksAndPals blog spot run by BigAl.

He appears to be a genial, even-handed man. I don’t agree with everything on his site– he uses some of the same marketing terms as vanity presses, verbiage such as ‘indie’ and ‘traditional publishing’. He further defines ‘indie’ as anyone who isn’t published by the ‘Big Six’ publishers, which might come as a surprise to most of us here. He makes at least one jaw-dropping pronouncement in the last sentence of this paragraph:

"Grammar and typographical errors still happen in traditionally published books – very few books achieve perfection in this area. … Most [self-published books] reach the same standard as a traditionally published work, but many fall short."

Really? Okay, that’s opinion and quibbling aside, BigAl donates a useful service without charge and he comes off as polite, fair, and level-headed. But, you can’t please everybody and BigAl became famous last week for reasons he didn’t want or anticipate.

Like Red Adept, he’d become a gatekeeper.

The Review

The episode began with BigAl’s two-star review of an adventure romance, The Greek Seaman. He wrote in part:

"If you read The Greek Seaman from the start until you click next page for the last time I think you’ll find the story compelling and interesting. … However, odds of making that final click are slim. One reason is the spelling and grammar errors, which come so quickly that, especially in the first several chapters, it’s difficult to get into the book without being jarred back to reality as you attempt unraveling what the author meant. … Chances are one of the [good] sections originally pulled you so deeply into Katy’s world. Then you’ll run into one that doesn’t work and get derailed again. Reading shouldn’t be that hard."

We can understand how the author might be disappointed, but it’s also clear the reviewer went out of his way to be fair. Certainly he exhibited more patience than many of us.

Unfortunately, the author didn’t see it that way. She launched desperately and defensively into entreaty and attack upon BigAl. He didn’t deserve it and I suggest that in the final result of her blind upset, the poor author didn’t either.

But for the Grace of God

The first time I received a rejection, I wondered what the editor was thinking. Surely my work of genius was at least the equal of published stories, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it really?

I’ve noticed many authors– especially indy authors– possess a huge blind spot regarding the quality of their work. I’m not referring to proof-reading, but to the value and readability of a story. Many of us– myself included– who have a tale in us can’t tell when one of our stories is really, really good or really, really bad. That’s why editors are important. So important that writer and educator Elizabeth King says readers can’t live without them.

I learned to finish a story and set it aside to ‘age’. I might think the writing is brilliant, but weeks or months later, I return to the story and gasp in horror at the ghastly string of words on the page. I want to blame evil elves for transforming my once beautiful prose into barbaric runes of debased language, but I sit down and once more edit my own writing. And again and again– shampoo, rinse, repeat. As if on a mathematical asymptote, several of these sessions gradually transform a story into something resembling readability.

T-Ball

Many indy writers consider their novels works of genius without realizing the painful lessons most of us have learned. For some reason– perhaps because we all use language in our everyday lives– many people believe they can dash off a story ‘if they really wanted to.’ Many people dream of becoming a famous sports figure or a rock star, but most realize those crafts take a little talent. That reasoning doesn’t seem to apply to writing. In the T-ball analogy,

Everyone gets a chance at bat, gets a hit, and takes home a trophy.
But don’t expect anyone other than your mom to applaud.

At my first MWA conference, two different authors spoke of a ten-year learning curve. At least one of my CB colleagues doesn’t ascribe to it, but I’ve come to believe in the common wisdom of, well, its common wisdom. Obvious exceptions aside, this not-hard-and-fast rule goes something like this: "It takes the average writer ten years to become readable, and, " some add, "a little longer to become publishable."

Self-pubbers don’t believe this adage and it shows.

The Unfortunate Author

Back to our hapless indy author, I envision her curled in an emotional fetal position as she tries to absorb the pain, not just of a two-star review but of her desperate public meltdown playing out across the globe. Early on, most commenters, Emma Petersen for one, were kind and urged her to listen to what was being said and to stop commenting herself. Shortly, a few snide commenters began to sneer and gloat, which surely added to her suffering. Naturally, she lashed out. Some unkind soul even came up with a mug ‘commemorating’ the situation. Only a rumor that literary agents and publishers might be actively perusing the blog gave some pause.

If I could advise her beyond offering a therapeutic hug, I’d tell her not to fold her tent and slip away into the night. Instead, I’d urge her to close the tent flap and invest time in learning to write. Turn the debacle into a positive experience and come back in three years or ten years– whatever it takes– and deliver a newly written story.

Of course the lady might use a pseudonym, but she could turn a harsh lesson into a marketing boon, that of a hard-worn indy writer who made good. Deep in our hearts, most of us root for the underdog. If she sets aside her embarrassment and creates a novel even a bit above average, most of us would like to see her succeed.

It Doesn’t Have To Be This Hard

A few weeks ago, a creative friend approached me. She’d long been a singer and songwriter, but her voice was giving out as were her funds in this economy. Creativity will out and Claire turned her attention from writing songs to writing fiction. She asked me if I would serve as proofreader and editor for her MG/YA novella.

I was reluctant because deep editing can be a quick way to ruin a friendship. After considering circumstances, I agreed and set to work.

It’s been relatively painless– for me, at least, and Claire gets the credit. Perhaps because she was coming out of another artistic field, she didn’t exhibit the ego issues so many of us have. She was patient with my idiosyncrasies and caught my own typos such as when I keyed ‘shone’ instead of ‘shown’.

As Southerners say, bless her heart. Not once did she respond defensively to suggestions. She did as professional writers should do and embraced suggestions that fit her vision of the story and set aside advice that didn’t. I hadn’t looked at writing this way before, but she set her story above self. That’s an amazing feat, especially for a first-time writer.

Rôle Model

These days, self-pubbers point to JA Konrath as a writer who’s making a splash in the world of self-publishing. As much as I like Konrath’s books, I argue he’s not the author indy writers should be emulating. Joe isn’t self-publishing; he’s simply establishing his own publishing house with himself as primary client. He can easily afford a staff of editors, proofers, artists, cover designers, page layout experts, web producers, printers, secretarial assistants, accountants, and marketing agents. Whether his budget is $20,000 or ten times that, he can afford it because (a) he’s already well-established, (b) he fully intends to turn a profit, and (c) he understands how to use social media.

I suggest a foot soldier in the trenches like Claire would make a better model. She knows how hard it is to be published, especially when stories fall outside the mainstream. It was her niece, Elizabeth King, who wrote the article on gatekeepers mentioned above.

Although Claire recognizes she’ll probably turn to Book Baby to self-publish her first story, she hasn’t given up the idea of landing an agent. Either way, she wants what’s best for her story. I doubt indy writers will flock to this article, but Claire could serve as a model: a writer determined to see her book published, but a writer also set on doing it as right as she possibly can.

HEY, YOU! YES, YOU!!

by John M. Floyd

As you probably realize by now, we Criminal Brief folks occasionally veer off the plainly marked mystery/crime/suspense pathway to cavort in the wildflowery fields of other subjects. This is one of those detours. I invite you today to relive with me those incredibly dull high-school classes where I stared out the window and dreamed of — ah, excuse me, what I meant to say was, those fascinating high-school classes where we were instructed in the proper use of punctuation and grammar. My previous columns in that area have covered topics like apostrophes, hyphens, colons, and semicolons. This time we’ll be discussing — tell me it ain’t so! — the exclamation point.

It’s such a diabolical mark of punctuation it’s not called a mark at all, except in England, and what do they know about English anyway? I actually find the name “point” to be appropriate, since it’s something that, if misused, can jab you squarely in your writing career, and puncture any dream you might’ve once entertained about selling what you’ve so lovingly created.

In fact, misuse in this case almost always means overuse. Sprinkling your writing with too many exclamation points is fine if you’re passing love notes in study hall, or even e-mailing your old college buddy (I consider e-mails to be about as formal as shouting down a dormitory hallway anyhow, which is one reason I enjoy e-mailing). But if you’re writing a manuscript for a short story or novel, or composing a cover letter to an editor or a query letter to an agent or publisher, make sure you leave those exclamation points at the bottom of your writer’s toolbox, where they belong. Now and then, someone in your story will need to say “Your hair’s on fire!” or “Look out — it’s a werewolf!” or “Halt or I’ll shoot!” or “The dog peed on the sandwiches!” If so, dig one out and plug it in. But that shouldn’t happen often.

Don’t take my word for it. Here are some views from those in the know:

Noah Lukeman, A Dash of Style: “The exclamation point has been referred to as ‘the period that blew its top’ . . . it’s the bright green dress, the flaming pink scarf. There may be an occasion, once every five years, when it’s needed; until then, like those clothes, it’s best left in the closet.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald: “An exclamation mark is like laughing at your own joke.”

Renni Browne and Dave King, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: “Exclamation points should be reserved for moments when a character is physically shouting (or experiences the mental equivalent). When you use them frequently, you begin to look as if you are trying desperately to infuse your dialogue or narration with an excitement it lacks.”

Strunk and White, The Elements of Style: “The exclamation mark is to be reserved for use after true exclamations or commands.”

H. W. Fowler: “An excessive use of exclamation marks is a certain indication of an unpracticed writer or of one who wants to add a spurious dash of sensation to something unsensational.”

Noah Lukeman, The First Five Pages: “The abundance of exclamation points is usually an indicator of melodrama.”

Lynne Truss, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: “Ever since it came along, grammarians have warned us to be wary of the exclamation mark, mainly because, even when we try to muffle it with brackets (!), it still shouts, flashes like neon, and jumps up and down.”

Patricia T. O’Conner, Woe Is I: “The exclamation point is like the horn on your car — use it only when you have to.”

That’s good advice. I don’t remember our English teachers telling us that, but they should have. Or maybe they did, while I was staring out the window . . .

I can’t end this discussion without mentioning the use of exclamation points in the titles of movies. Here are a few that come to mind:

Hatari!
Airplane!
That Thing You Do!
Mamma Mia!
Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot
Oliver!
The Informant!
Hello, Dolly!
Mars Attacks!
Oklahoma!
Help!
McLintock!
Tora! Tora! Tora!

You’ll notice that all of them except the last one are comedies or musicals or at least lighthearted fare; the exclamation point’s presence is almost a signal not to take the subject too seriously. And I can’t think of a single one of those titles that wouldn’t have looked better without the punctuation — except maybe Help!. Or Airplane! There isn’t anything I’d want to change about Airplane!.

In summary, think of it this way: in writing, as in real life, don’t shout unless it’s necessary. Use exclamation points only when the baby’s coming, or when the brakes fail going downhill, or when that thing poking out of the water turns out to be a shark’s fin. Otherwise, keep calm and write accordingly. A cobra’s escaped from the Bronx Zoo? They’ll find it. Stop that screaming.

Everyone will take you — and your work — more seriously.

MR. FORTUNE BLOGGING

by Steven Steinbock

Most subscribers to EQMM (Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine) should by now have received their June issue. Mine arrived last week, and I was giddy as I opened it to find my first “Jury Box” column.

One of the great advantages of reviewing is the exposure to new material and new authors. The big negative of reviewing is that it doesn’t leave much time for reading the old stuff. A visitor to my office need only glance at my shelves to see my fondness for crime fiction of the first half of the 20th century.

I keep telling myself that reading-for-review is a different process than reading-for-pleasure. I tell myself, but I don’t always listen. Pleasure reading is best done supine. It’s a passive process well suited to an easy chair, a bed, or an afternoon at the beach.

Review reading, by contrast, is ideally performed hunched forward at a desk. Review reading is a task rather than a pastime. The goal is to get through the book quickly, recording comments and impressions on index cards, and then moving on to the next book.

More often than not, though, my hunched shoulders relax against the back of the chair and I find myself enjoying the book too much to rush forward. My review reading becomes a pleasure. But I digress.

About four months back, just before launching into the reading for my first Jury Box column, I picked one last old book off the shelf to read. It was a paperback science fiction novel by John D. MacDonald called Planet of the Dreamers. It was surprisingly good. Since it was MacDonald, I expected it to be fun, but I didn’t think it would be as smart as it was.

Since then I’ve read thirty-one books for review. That’s somewhere over two-and-a-half million words, all published within the past year. Of course, I take periodic breaks from the review-reading with bits of non-fiction and short stories. Sitting with an open old issue of EQMM or AHMM is having an open bag of pretzels on my lap.

Earlier this week I decided to take a real break. I pulled H.C. Bailey’s Shadow on the Wall down from my shelves, opened its musty covers, and began to read. Published in 1934, it was the first novel to feature the cherubic middle-aged physician, Mr. Reginald Fortune. Prior to that, Mr. Fortune had appeared in more than fifty short stories collected in eight anthologies. These stories are considered most of his fans to be H.C. Bailey’s best work.

The Mr. Fortune stories and novels – as well as eleven novels featuring the Psalm-quoting defense attorney Mr. Joshua Clunk – are clever and well plotted examples of the Golden Age of Detection at its best – and its worst. I say the best because Bailey was able to weave profound plots that weren’t overly complex, and people them with richly drawn characters. He also wasn’t shy about dealing with drug addiction, child abuse, and corruption all seen through the intuitive eyes of Mr. Fortune (or the deftly manipulative and unscrupulous perspective of Mr. Clunk).

The downside is that to get to the plot, the twenty-first century reader has to wade through thick brambles of exposition like the following (which gives Mr. Fortune’s impressions at a fancy-dress ball):

He made his way through an incongruous medley of all the fashions of the last century which rarely found a twentieth-century body or head to look natural in them. Frocks cut so low that they asked for a white amplitude of shoulders and bosom displayed lean and square boyish rigors, and above the ballooning gowns meant to be crowned by ringlets or chignons, short heads became small and mean.

or this one:

It is one of the deepest convictions of Mr. Fortune that he was born to live in the country. Settled as a general practitioner in a countryside of good hills, some water and far prospect, he would have attained, so he will pathetically argue, the perfect happiness which comes only from exact adaptation of ability and duty – given a partner to do the surgery. He never made any effort to test this forecast.

It isn’t that the passages are hard to understand – although I’m not saying they’re easy. It’s the odd phrasings and rambling sentences that pose a challenge. Bailey’s writing is too good-natured to be pompous, but it is intellectual and obtuse. Reading Bailey is like hiking a Yorkshire dale after a heavy rain. The scenery is lovely, but your boots get stuck in a lot of muck.

Reggie Fortune has been compared to Lord Peter Wimsey. He has a habit of droppin’ his gs and when he gets excited, repeatedly using expressions like:

“Oh, no. No!”
“Oh, yes. Yes!”
“My only aunt!”
and “Oh my hat!”

With that caveat set before you, I do recommend Bailey’s work, especially his short stories. Rue Morgue Press has the first two “Mr. Fortune” novels available. As far as I know, none of his story collections are currently in print, but you can find the first anthology, Call Mr. Fortune as a free ebook here: Call Mr Fortune.

TALKING WITHOUT WORDS

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

In the Sixties, everything was “groovy.” In the Seventies, that cutie you were hanging with was “smoochie.” In the Eighties, everyone and everything was termed as “awesome.” In the Nineties, we were all wearing “bling.” And in the 2000’s, we’re too busy with our Smart Phones texting something like “idk,” “rofl” and most often “LOL.” I’m wondering if everyone was really always groovy, smoochie, awesome, bling-wearing and rolling on the floor laughing?

For those who are confused about the new text language, here are some for your own 2000+ dictionary. I think we should be saving a lot of trees, don’t you? W00T!

AAK – alive and kicking
ABCP – a bad computer professional
ACK – acknowledged
AFAIC – as far as I’m concerned
AH – at home
AHFY – always here for you
AI – as if
ALOL – actually laughing out loud
AMS – ask me something
ASL – age/sex/location
AWHFY – are we having fun yet?
AZM – awesome
BAC – back at computer
BCNU – be seeing you
BFF- best friends forever
BFFL – best friends for life
BH – bloody hell
BIC – butt in chair
BIL – boss is listening
BOL – be on later
BOS – brat over shoulder
CD9 – parents are watching
CMIIW – correct me if I’m wrong
CU2MR – see you tomorrow
D8- date
DBS—dad behind shoulder
Ded _ dead
DIKU- Do I know you?
DLTCU- Don’t let them catch you
EAK – eating at keyboard
EOD – end of discussion
F2T – free to talk
FLA – four letter acronym
FORD—found on road dead
FUBAR – fouled up beyond all recognition
G2G – got to go
G2PB – got to pee badly
GAG – got ay gossip?
GBTW – get back to work
GNO – girl’s night out
GP – go private
GUFN – grounded until further notice
HAN – how about now?
HHIS – hanging head in shame
HOS – husband over shoulder
I8U – I hate you
IDC—I don’t care
IMHO – In my humble opinion
IPN – I’m posting naked
JFGI – Just flipping Google it
KAS – kicking and screaming
KMSO – knocked my socks off
LAM – leave a message
LFM – looking for more
LLTA – Lots and lots of thunderous applause
M$- Microsoft
MDIAC – my dad is a cop
MMAMP – meet me at my place
NAC – not a chance
OMDB – over my dead body
OMM – on my mind
OTW – on the way
P911—Parent alert
PM – private message
Q4U – question for you
QQN- looking
RBAY – right back at you
Rents – parents
ROBL – rolling on back laughing
RT – real time
SERP – search engine results page
SINBAD – single income, no boyfriend, absolutely desperate
SNMP – so not my problem
ST2M – stop talking to me
TBY– teacher behind you
TDTM – talk dirty to me
TMI – too much information
TOL – thinking of laughing
U2U – up to you
UNADR – you need a doctor
VE – very emotional
VSC – very soft chuckle
W00T – joy and excitement
WADITWB – we always did it that way before
Wdk – wicked
WOMBAT – waste of money, brains and talent
Xit – exit
XXX- kisses
YBS – you’ll be sorry
YG2BJ – You’ve got to be joking
Z – zero
ZZZ — sleeping

BEAT COP
or
So, here’s a new thought about long story titles

by Rob Lopresti

Recently I read a story by Peter Turnbull in the March/April issue of EQMM. The title is “The Man Who Took his Hat Off to the Driver of the Train.” It was an interesting piece but I’m mostly concerned with the title. There are two things to notice about it.

One, and this probably occurred to you already, is that it is very long. The other is less obvious, although I’m sure that at least John, our poet in residence, has already spotted. For anyone who hasn’t, let me rewrite the title.

The MAN who took his HAT off to the DRIVer of the TRAIN.

It scans. It is basically three paeonic feet, with one extra syllable each at the beginning and the end (and you will be relieved to know that’s the last time I will throw that type of jargon at you). You can even make an argument that the rhythm sounds like a train, or at least the sound of an old-fashioned choo-choo that people my age carry in our heads.

But I would like to argue that if you are dreaming up a title of more than, say, six syllables, you might want to ask yourself: does it scan? Which means: does it sound well? Does it roll off the tongue? Let’s take a few examples out for a test drive.

Sing a song of murder

First of all, there is a category of titles that tend to scan pretty well because they are, or are based on, lines from songs or poems. Here are a few:

At Some Disputed Barricade — Anne Perry

The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side — Agatha Christie

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy — John LeCarre

When the Sacred Ginmill Closes — Lawrence Block

It don’t mean a thing if it don’t got that swing

Here are some titles that, to my ear, scan well. Keep in mind, an extra syllable or end at the beginning doesn’t count.

The Ape That Guards The Balance — Elizabeth Peters

The Cat Who Went Into The Closet — Lilian Jackson Braun

The Defection of A.J. LeWinter — Robert Littell

Don’t Turn Your Back On The Ocean — Janet Dawson

A Drink Before The War — Dennis Lehane

Harvard Has A Homicide — Timothy Fuller

I Know a Trick Worth Two of That — Samuel Holt

Inspector Ghote Hunts The Peacock — H.R.F. Keating

Miss Zukas and the Stroke of Death — Jo Dereske

Murder at Five Finger Light — Sue Henry

Murder on the Orient Express — Agatha Christie

Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home — Harry Kemelman

Time For the Death of a King — Ann Dukthas

The Tragedy at Tiverton — Raymond Paul

Don’t got that swing

And here are some examples of what I am suggesting you avoid.

The Assassination of Mozart — David Weiss

Death in the Fifth Position — Edgar Box

In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead — James Lee Burke

Murder at the Museum of Natural History — Michael Jahn

Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry — Harry Kemelman

The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog — Elizabeth Peters

And so, all you authors out there, I have provided you a brand new thing to worry about. You’re welcome.

FAN MAIL

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I get fan mail. Some for my writing, but most from having been an actress. Let’s face it, a sexy actress. All of my movie fan mail is from men. The fan mail for my writing is from women. Most of the women want to know if there will be a new Claire Conrad/Maggie Hill novel and what’s going to happen between Maggie and Boulton. They have a romantic longing for Maggie and Boulton to make love, fall in love, fall out of love, but have love. As a writer I am honored and proud to have these letters.

The emails I receive form the men share a similar kind of longing that the women have for my fictional characters, except that yearning is transferred to me. The young me. Not me now. There are only a few that verge on the overtly sexual and those I save and keep in my scrap book. Just joking. I delete them. As an actress I am honored and proud to have these letters written to me.

The young men who write say directly that they wish I were their age now meaning the age I was back then. Or they wish they had lived when I was young. One wanted women his age to look like they did back in the sixties/seventies. He didn’t like the muscled arms, sinewy necks and taunt bellies. He was confiding to his fantasy about his fantasy.

These young men are not being unkind; it’s difficult for them to have an ideal sexual object that in reality is old.

This came home to me recently as I was leaning over putting groceries in the trunk of my car and I heard a male voice behind me say, “great ass.”

I whirled around. A teenage box boy with a wispy beard growing between his pimples stood in front of me holding onto the empty carts he’d been collecting. His mouth fell open and he gaped at me with a shocked expression that verged on terror. Or maybe horror. It was difficult to tell at that moment.

I smiled and said, “Thank you.”

Flushing, he fled pushing his rattling carts at a high speed. I wanted to tell him it was okay to complement a woman on her ass even if she was old enough to be his grandmother. He might have chosen his words better, but I had entered his overly sexed, myopic world by mistake and this is what he’d say to a girl his age.

Driving home I thought about the giant abyss between our fantasies and reality. That abyss which permeates my fan letters. I also wondered if another kid who made the same mistake might act differently, not so appalled as if he’d just committed an act of incest.

Once home, I tried to look at my “great ass” in the mirror. When my husband asked me what I was doing I decided I had my own fantasy/reality problems.

The men my age who write me have a different kind of longing. Time shared. Time lost. There is a sense of lives lived. Many Viet Nam vets, who as one put it, “didn’t have time to go to the moves” back in the sixties and seventies have discovered me on the internet and downloaded my movies. Some have read my books. Writing me, or the young woman I once was, gives them a freedom to express themselves and I’m grateful for that.

On the other hand an English teacher I had in junior high wrote that he saw me in the movie Coogan’s Bluff. He never mentioned anything about my being a writer. Something’s don’t change.

Sometimes I think about taking the women who want to know if Maggie and Boulton will ever go to bed with each other, and fix them up with the men who write to the fantasy me but . . .