DUST BUNNIES OF THE BRAIN

by James Lincoln Warren

We’ve all seen them and shuddered with horror at the eldritch confrontation: agglutinations of dust and hair that mysteriously appear under furniture or sometimes brazenly on an open floor, almost as insubstantial as fading nightmares.

Dust bunnies. Ghost turds. At Officer Candidate School, back yonder when I was starting my naval career in the spring of 1980, they were called NRDLs (pronounced “nerdles”, an abbreviation for “non-regulation dust and lint”), a passionless and clinical soubriquet intended to deprive them of the bone-chilling dread they might otherwise inspire. (Military officers are expected to be brave.)

Nobody knows where they come from or how they are formed, these Lilliputian storm clouds invading our most retired domestic recesses, although I suspect having two cats constantly shedding strands of gossamer-fine fur might have something to do with it. But never mind that.

Yes, you may fight them, arm yourself with the devastating roar of a vacuum cleaner and mercilessly attack. You can hold them at bay. But they will return as relentlessly and as unwelcome as the most hackneyed cliché, as an embarrassing chronic skin disease without cure, as a neutronium-dense regifted Christmas fruitcake, as a sappy and sentimental chain email illustrated with sickeningly cute animated cartoons that closes with a direct threat of reprisal if you do not propagate it to everybody in your address book within five hours.

Yes, a veritable plague. One may well wonder why they aren’t even mentioned in the book of Revelation.

Imprecise thought is often attributed to having mental cobwebs. Either that or bad hangovers. There may be some justification for the Bad Hangover Theory, but I utterly reject the Mental Cobweb Hypothesis. Cobwebs are made by spiders, that much we do know. Spiders do not spontaneously appear out of chaos. Can the same be said for NRDLs? I think not. For my money, fuzzy thinking comes from dust bunnies forming in your frontal lobes, cutting off contact with the rest of the central nervous system. They are attracted to this likewise retired recess because it is very difficult to vacuum your brain. (Although the brains of certain of my acquaintances do seem to consist almost entirely of vacuum. This may be why those with vacuous minds are the people who are the most inflexibly certain of their opinions, because the ghost turds fail to form.)

I blame Neurological NRDLs for every bad idea I’ve ever had. I’m sure all of you, or at least those of you who sometimes aspire to eloquence, have had the experience of reading something you wrote you regarded as searingly brilliant at its inception, but which at second glance presents irrefutable evidence of a pathological sloth in the arena of mental housekeeping. (“@#$%! I can’t believe I wrote such crap! It’s hopeless!”)

There are countermeasures, though. Like the vacuum cleaner, they are not permanent solutions, but they may help alleviate spectral scatological influences in the short run.

ONE: Slap yourself violently on the forehead.

TWO: Delete the offending passage immediately.

THREE: Perform some strenuous intellectual exercise to cleanse the bilious aftertaste from your mental palate. I find Minesweeper or Computer Solitaire ideal for this purpose, but your approach may be different. (Do not under any circumstances, however, play Facebook games. They are succubi and will annihilate your free will.) It may require repeated applications. Sooner or later, an acceptable substitution will present itself.

FOUR: Apply the new passage to your deathless prose. Click SAVE.

FIVE: Reward yourself. (Try not to reward yourself with a shot of tequila, though, since you should never write while under the influence, unless that’s the only way you can write.) This is a very important step, because it provides positive reinforcement for murdering your depraved brainchildren, an act which might otherwise violate your literary maternal instinct.

SIX: Vigorously vacuum your workspace. Other dust bunnies may be lurking, waiting for the chance to invade your head. (I should note that lining your hat with aluminum foil to deny them entry is a mere placebo. To truly armor your brain, you should sit down and read something really good.)

This advice could save your life. All right, so it won’t save your life, but it’s Monday and my brain hasn’t started to work yet, and it seemed like a good idea when I started. Unless . . . am I even now under their influence? “Warren” is a word meaning a colony of rabbits. Maybe it’s congenital.

Never mind.

PROFESSIONAL POISE

by Leigh Lundin

I met a number of special people at my first MWA conference: James, Janet Hutchings, Linda Landrigan, Otto Penzler, Ed Hoch, Doug Allyn, and a host of others. At the cocktail party, one of the characters was Fran Rizer, an ex-teacher who faced the retirement choice of moving to Florida or writing novels. She chose novels.

I’m amazed by swift writers and Fran released three novels in thirteen months. So much for retirement. Most impressive, she has fan clubs, among the most recent a library group. After a prolific start, publishing came to a halt until her fourth novel arrived last week. Fran chose Criminal Brief to tell fans why.

A word of warning: A CB reader recently told me Sunday readers expect a slyly skewed view of the world and off-beat sense of humor. That’s true, but I’m also compassionate and you’ll need every ounce of compassion for Fran’s article. You’ll see what I mean as I introduce you to …

Fran Rizer

Fran’s FAQs of Life and Death

by Fran Rizer

I asked Leigh what to write about for CriminalBrief. “Crime or writing, something of interest to Criminal Brief fans,” he answered.

Writing? The main thing I remember about Moby Dick is that it’s a book, not an STD. After college, I learned fewer than fifty copies of that now world-wide classic sold during Herman Melville’s lifetime. 

I wrote the opening paragraph above, then got lost choosing a specific topic. I began to think about questions I’m frequently asked.

What inspired you to begin writing after retiring? 

The final day of my twenty-five years of teaching, one of my fifth-grade students, stopped at the door and said, “Ms. Rizer, you said you might write a book after you retire. I want to tell you the same thing you always say to us.” She paused. “Don’t give up.”

“Thank you, Kim,” I answered.

“I mean it,” she said. “Did you know Dr. Seuss was turned down by twenty-eight publishers?”

“Where did you learn that?”

“On television.”

I smiled, pleased at least one of my students watched educational programs.

“What show?” I asked.

“MTV,” she said and walked to the big yellow school bus that took her out of my life.

How did you decide to write murder mysteries?

My favorite reads were always mysteries, so I decided to kill people— on paper. Considering students I’d taught in elementary school were not yet out of high school, I chose to write what I thought was a cozy. My rules: no cussing, no overt sex, no dead pets— only two deaths per book and neither could be a child or elderly lady.

I’d read that the main character should have an unusual occupation. My first thought was a funeral home, but I didn’t want to deal with detailed descriptions of embalming. 

Sitting at my laptop, the duties of a cosmetician jumped to my mind— making the decedent attractive for a final visit with loved ones. With that, I quit thinking and got cracking or, in this case, writing. 

Callie Parrish, born Calamine Lotion Parrish thirty-two years earlier in her small hometown on the coast of South Carolina, jumped to life on my computer screen. The youngest child and only daughter of six children reared by her Larry-the-Cable-Guy-type dad, Callie made two important life decisions when she graduated from the University of South Carolina in Columbia— she married and became a teacher.

After a few years, Callie had enough of both. She divorced her husband and returned to her home town. She gave up teaching kindergarten because she grew tired of five-year-olds who wouldn’t lie still and be quiet during naptime. Using the cosmetology license she’d earned through voc-ed in high school, Callie began working at Middleton’s Mortuary where her clients lie still, are always quiet, and don’t have to tee-tee every five minutes. 

I finished the first Callie book in 2007. The thought of seeking an agent and publisher was daunting. My friend Linda reminded me the folks at the Grand Ole Opry told Elvis Presley he should go back to driving a truck in Memphis. Decca Records turned down the Beatles because, “Guitar groups are on their way out.” The Rolling Stones were cautioned they’d never get anywhere unless they replaced Mick Jagger with a better looking singer.

I was fortunate enough to strike pay dirt with a great New York agent, who led me to a three-book contract with Berkley Prime Crime.

A Tisket, a Tasket, a Fancy Stolen Casket was released 25 September 2007. Hey, Diddle, Diddle, the Corpse and the Fiddle came out 4 March 2008, and Casket Case on 7 October 2008.

Linda Derrick

You mention Linda?

One of my closest life-long friends and neighbors has been Linda Derrick. She’s a wonderful person who always had a smile and the greatest laugh I’ve ever heard. We’d go to the Waffle House and talk about what I was writing and what I planned to write.

Linda organized Callie’s first fan club when my first book was published. In October 2008, I arrived at Barnes & Noble in a chauffeured Corvette to sign the new book. Linda and my first fans met me wearing black dresses and sequined funeral veils, carrying “We love Callie” signs.

My goal is to give readers chuckles and a few belly laughs and we thought those sequined funeral veils were hilarious! We had a wonderful time and BN sold out my books. 

You published three books in just over a year, then went two years before the next book. Why?

I never believed in ‘writer’s block’. My credo was, “Just put your tush in the chair and write.”

But life changed.

Linda retired from her state job in November 2008. She had great plans for the coming year including traveling with our friend Lucy and me to signings, readings, and book talks. 

The fourth Callie book was half-written by the beginning of 2009. That book— Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, There’s a Body in the Car— was released 3 January 2011, twenty-five months after the third.

Why the long wait?  Did you have Writer’s Block?

Gentle readers, there’s no easy way to say this.

On the last day of January 2009, Linda, my neighbor, my confidante, my friend since childhood, was murdered during a home invasion.

* * *

I could no longer sit at the computer, kill people, and create fun at funeral homes. When I sat to write, I pulled up photos of that signing with Linda and all the sweet fans in their black veils and widow’s weeds at Barnes & Noble. When I helped Linda’s daughter prepare her house for sale, we found a big bag full of new black sequined funeral veils. Linda was an optimistic lady!

In the middle of 2010, I tried to write again. At first, it was agonizing because I constantly wanted to pick up the phone to tell Linda what Callie was doing.

I recalled Linda’s words about Elvis and the Beatles— not that I expect to ever reach anywhere near their levels of accomplishments. (But I am as pretty as Mick Jagger.) I remembered Kim telling me, “Don’t give up.”

Never give up.

The fourth Callie Parrish mystery was released 3 January 2011 by Bella Rosa Books. It’s available through Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and other major bookstores. At the beginning of the book is a page that reads, “Dedicated to the memory of Linda C. Derrick, 1946–2009.”

That’s the rest of the story.

Fran and Fans

THE BEST-LAID PLANS

And so have you, as a writer.

Steve Steinbock will return next week. In the meantime, here’s an amusing piece of personal history from one of our favorite colleagues. I might mention that almost exactly the same phenomenon described below happened to me, except that it took me fifteen years longer and I’m older than Brendan. (Some folks are just slower.) —JLW

HOW I ENTERED A LIFE OF CRIME

by Brendan DuBois

Left to right: Brendan DuBois, Melodie Johnson Howe (Angela Zeman behind her), Bones Howe, and Janet Hutchings at Bouchercon 2010. Photo by Steve Steinbock.

There’s a funny scene in an old Seinfeld episode where Jerry is pressured to wear a pirate shirt for an appearance on the “Today” show, because of a promise he had allegedly made. Jerry’s classic response is, “But I don’t wanna be a pirate!”

And that phrase rings true for me, for — and don’t be shocked — “I didn’t wanna be a mystery short story author!”

But somehow that happened — unplanned, unforeseen, but in the end, richly rewarding.

However, I must warn you all: kids, don’t try this at home.

Since I was 12 or thereabouts, I knew I wanted to be a writer. But my first and only love wasn’t mystery fiction; it was science fiction. This was in the early 1970s, just after the moon landings and first real explorations of the solar system. I didn’t read a lot of science fiction; I inhaled it. Heinlein, Asimov, Bradbury, DeCamp and so many others. Then I discovered science fiction fandom and science fiction magazines — Analog, Galaxy, If, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction — and I thought, hey, I can write a short story. How hard could it be?

Er, pretty hard, as it turned out.

Writing at first on an ancient Royal typewriter with an elite typeface, and then graduating to an electric typewriter with a pica typeface purchased when I was a senior in high school (one of the more exciting things that happened to me as a high school senior, which shows you what a wildly exciting teenager I was), I kept writing awful science fiction short stories and sending them out to the magazines. Stories with such arresting titles as “Two Light Years to Doom” or “Just Add Water,” they kept on getting rejected. Soon I had a pretty fair pile of rejection slips, but I kept at it.

And at it.

And at it.

Off and on, through high school, college and my first job as a newspaper reporter, I wrote scores and scores of science fiction short stories, and kept receiving a matching number of rejection slips. Sometimes the slips would have a little handwritten note from the editor, giving me that faint hope that I was making progress. And I played the counting game: “Let’s see, I submitted the story six weeks ago, the editorial guidelines say a response within four weeks, I haven’t heard yet, maybe a contract is coming my way . . .”

Er, not really.

But I never did give up. Then, in a flash of inspiration — or desperation — I quit journalism for a more regular nine-to-five job as a tech writer, so I could set up a regular schedule for writing short fiction. My grand plan was to sell some science fiction short stories, get some notice, and then write a great science fiction novel.

Didn’t quite happen that way.

One day, I had a short story called “The Stalker” (I like to think I’ve improved in my title naming skills since then) that had been rejected by all the science fiction magazines. I thought it was a pretty good story, and then I realized, heck, there was an element of mystery in it. There should be mystery magazines out there, right? And I hope I don’t get hate mail from any True Mystery Fans out there, but at that time, I had a vague notion of the mystery field. Sherlock Holmes, of course, and Agatha Christie, and… wait, Sam Spade. Maltese Falcon and all that.

So I went through my trusty “Writer’s Guide to Markets” and saw that there two prominent mystery magazines in the field: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. EQMM promised a response in four weeks; AHMM promised a response in eight weeks. And I thought, well, if I’m going to be rejected, might was well get it over quickly. “The Stalker” then went off to EQMM.

That’s what I meant by “Kids, don’t try this at home.” I didn’t research the markets, didn’t read the magazine, and I was as ignorant of the mystery field as my cat is of quantum physics.

But maybe ignorance is bliss. A couple of weeks later, I nearly had a coronary when I saw a little envelope with the return address of EQMM. No nine-by-twelve manila envelope with my own handwritten address on the outside. Nope, a lovely note to me from the editor, Eleanor Sullivan (God bless her), who liked the story and asked me if I would perhaps take the time to make one little change.

I made the change that night, sent it out the next day, and a week or so later, got my first short story contract.

And that’s when I decided I wanted to be a mystery writer.

RESEARCHING

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Many writers swear they enjoy researching a story even more than the actual writing. I’m more of a seat of the pants writer who likes to find out what’s happening just before the reader does (except for the ending, the who, and the why that a mystery writer probably always has to know before beginning a story.) In Writing the Private Eye Novel, Parnell Hall said, “I hate research and do as little of it as possible.”

I enjoy thinking about the What if . . . scenarios and observe the theories of what might happen next. Still, within the story, a writer must know what he’s talking about or he’ll lose his readers. That’s never a good thing.

Details must be correct and that often requires at least some research. If I need to do research, there’s nothing as quick as the Internet, but sometimes, you can’t trust what you read. A teacher advised me to never trust anything on the Internet without at least three bona fide sources. Without fail, it seems that if I’m in a quandary to find a certain miniscule fact that everything else my story hinges on, I can’t find where to start the research. Even Google doesn’t always know the answer to every question.

The most researched article I’ve written for Criminal Brief was likely the one about Nick Carter: In the Nick of Time. I faced roadblock after roadblock researching that subject. Libraries couldn’t find the books I needed to verify this one great piece of information I found on the Internet. I finally tracked down Bill Crider, who has actually written several books in the Nick Carter series, to confirm the guy was right and I could use it this fascinating fact in my article. At that point, I realized what my Research Lover friends meant. I wanted to keep reading more and more about Nick Carter and was sad when I could find nothing left to discover. Researching is like finding clues that lead to other clues until you have the answer to the puzzle.

There is a great book by Ellen Metter that should be in every writer’s library, although people who like trivia may enjoy it too. Facts in a Flash: A Research Guide for Writers is perfect for the person who likes to draw from public records to international government publications to legal lingo and marketing and advertising data . Metter says not everything is on the Internet or found in a library. “If you want to access the known information in the universe, don’t restrict yourself to one method of research,” she said.

Do you know what a Gazetteer is? Metter’s book explains that they are geographical dictionaries and provide information on established places, both physical and cultural.

Did you know Buzzard Day is celebrated on the first Sunday after March 15 near Hinckley, Ohio, when a flock of redheaded turkey buzzards return to Hinckley Ridge each year? I’m already imagining the people who attend such a celebration. Surely there’s a story waiting to be told.

If you have a theology question that stumps your usual seminary sources, you may find the answer in the ALTA Religion Database, which is an index to journal articles, book reviews and collections of essays in many fields of religion.

It isn’t that research can’t be interesting once you begin chasing a thread of information. In fact, it might lead to a delicious yarn to spin. Or at least be fodder for a song sung by someone like Parnell Hall and that’s always great fun.

TOP OF THE POPS

by Rob Lopresti

For the second year in a row I am providing you lucky people with a list of the best short mysteries of the last 12-months, as determined by me using the highly objective, scientifically accurate, ILTB System.1

Before we get into the details let me point out there is an important bit of news at the very end of this piece. So if you decide to skim, don’ t miss that part.

I am delighted to report that 2010 was 21% better than 2009, as proven by the fact that 17 stories made my list, as opposed to 14 last time. Two authors repeated their triumphs: Loren D. Estleman and James Powell. Two stories were written by German authors. Seven tales came from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, and four from Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Two stories came from The Dark Side of the Street, an anthology edited by Jonathan Santlofer and S.J. Rozan. Two came from Akashic’ s Noir series, and two from Otto Penzler’ s spy extravaganza Agents of Deception..

And here are the categories of the stories, based on their main characters

Criminal 5
Multiple 3
Amateur detective 2
Lawyer 2
Victim 2
Police 1
Private eye 1
Spy 1

With no further ado, here are the winners in alphabetical order:

Benton, Caroline. “A Small Technical Problem.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. May. Two TV writers argue about the plausibility of a plot device and decide to test it out. Unfortunately this requires burying someone alive… You are pretty sure that things are going to go pear-shaped, but you don’ t know to who, why, or how. And speaking of the “how,” well, if you’ re claustrophobic, just skip this one.

Block, Lawrence. “Who Knows Where It Goes.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. The Grand Master offers a fiendish story of a hit man following a perfectly reasonable bit of management advice. Clever and chilling.

Child, Lee. “Section 7 (a) (Operational).” Agents of Treachery. I didn’ t think this story would make the best-of list, but I couldn’ t get it out of my head. The narrator, a shrewd and thoughtful man, is recruiting a group of operatives for a secret mission in Iran. A tricky story that deserves a reread.

Connelly, Michael. “The Perfect Triangle.” The Dark End of the Street. A stripper goes swimming and gets arrested for indecent exposure. I know; it sounds like a set-up for a joke. This story made the list partly because of the cleverness of the legal twist, but mostly because of two supposedly-opposing attorneys working together to hammer a piece of law into a rough semblance of justice.

Estleman, Loren D. “Death Without Parole.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. October. I like Estleman’ s stories of the Four Horsemen, AKA the Detroit Vice Squad during World War II. The Commissioner would like to fire them, but that would make them eligible for the draft, and the Horsemen are determined to stay in Motor City. In this episode they have to babysit a cop-killer who has been released on a technicality. The plot and background are terrific but best is the wonderfully snappy dialog, like this discussion between Judge Springer and Lieutenant Zagreb, the head of the squad.

“It was a stay of deportation, not a release. Can’ t you read?”

“If I knew there was a literacy test I’ d’ ve joined the Merchant Marine.”

“Don’ t give up the dream,” Springer said.

Gore, Stephen. “Three Strikes.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. November. When is murder a lesser crime than burglary and arson? When a convict and his lawyer roll the dice in a risky legal strategy. Because their scheme depends on a certain election going their way the judge dryly refers to the attorney’ s “co-counsel Mr. Gallup, Mr. Harris, Mr. Pew, and Ms. L.A. Times..”

Herron, Mick. “Mirror Images.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. June, I have to get around to reading some of Herron’ s novels. He writes about a pair of P.I.’ s in Oxford. Zoe Boehm is smart, cynical, and a computer whiz. Her husband Joe Silvermann is older. plodding, and empathetic. She’ s the brains, but he’ s the soul. In this story Joe tries to help a man who has become convinced there is something wrong about one of the his many murder victims. Murder victims? Well, it’ s complicated. And very funny.

Itell, Jennifer. “Inevitable.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. November. There is a broad term, experimental fiction, to describe any tale that strays too far from standard narrative style. If you go far enough in that direction you have what I say is not a story but an exercise. But Itell, to my mind, hits the mark precisely in this meditation on the ancient question of the perfect ending: how do you make the climax seem both surprising and inevitable? Her main character is a ghost writer who specializes in finishing books for struggling writers. When she meets a mysterious woman who seems fascinated with the writer’ s young child everything seems a little too perfect. Isn’ t it, well, inevitable that something goes wrong?

Law, Janice. “Madame Selina.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. June. This is not the best plot I read in 2010, but what a wonderful setting. At the end of the Civil War a boy gets hired out of an orphanage to be a spiritualist’ s assistant. Together they solve the whereabouts of a wealthy woman’ s missing soldier husband. I hope Law brings them back for an encore.

Lawton, John. “East of Suez, West of Charing Cross Road” Agents of Treachery. A funny and sadly plausible story of cold war craziness. Captain George Horsfield has a depressing dead end job in the British military, shipping pots and pans to army bases. His life gets interesting (and terrifying) when the Russians mistake him for a colonel with the same name who ships nuclear weapons. My favorite line is about the aftermath of the famous Profumo sex scandal: “Lord Denning had published his report entitled unambiguously ‘ Lord Denning’ s Report.’ ” Ah, those wacky Brits.

Lippman, Laura. “Tricks.” The Dark End of the Street. In lovely New Orleans a scoundrel prepares to marry his thirteenth wife. Obviously this is going to be a biter-bit story, but the details of the trap are clever and nicely set up..

Maddox, Lawrence. “Old, Cold Hand.” Orange County Noir. Maybe it’ s because of my job, but I’ m a sucker for stories about the seamy side of academia. It doesn’ t get much seamier than this one. Josh is a professor who spent years creating a documentary film about prisoners who survived decades in a maximum security pen. He’ s going to need everything he learned from the felons when his department chair blackmails him into helping to burgle the apartment of the chair’ s teenage lover. Wonderful use of language: “Nothing makes one feel more like a man than buying one’ s wife a nice house. Except banging twins in said house when wifey goes to spa.”

Merchant, Judith. “Monopoly.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. March/April. A one night stand with the wrong person can be a deadly mistake, as this German author demonstrates. Some stories need to be told in straight-line fashion. But this tale, with it’ s flashbacks and alcoholic blur, takes a series of clever detours.

Motz, Jutta. “The Clearing.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. August. Not quite a mystery. Not quite a crime story. Damned well done, whatever it is. An elderly man sees the authorities disinterring a skeleton at the German-Swiss border. In a series of flashbacks we learn about the event that changed his life..

Powell, James. “The Black Whatever.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. January. This story might be happier in a fantasy magazine. There’ s crime in it, but is it a crime story? Hmm…. But have you ever heard yourself complaining that the Christmas season starts earlier every year? Turns out it’ s part of a conspiracy, and you ain’ t seen nothing yet.

Rusch, Kristine Kathryn. “The Case of the Vanishing Boy.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Rusch is one of the best authors of mystery shorts working today. This story manages to be a pastiche of any number of mystery traditions while being, at the same time, wholly original. Two heroes, known only by their nicknames, meet for what we can hope is the first of many adventures. Spade is a grossly overweight computer millionaire who uses his skills to manage the finances for science fiction conventions. Palladin is a beautiful young woman who takes a two-fisted approach to convention security. Can this relationship go anywhere? I want to read more and find out.

Yi, Melissa. “Indian Time.” Indian Country Noir. A Mohawk man gets out of jail and hopes to bond with his two young sons, but the white mother of his dead girlfriend doesn’ t want her grandsons polluted by native culture. The story is well-written but I kept wondering when and how the crime would show up. When it did, it caught me by surprise, even though – and this is what I love – I used the same gimmick in one of my stories.

A glutton for punishment

Apparently being part of two blogs is not enough for me, because I just started a new one. The mission of Little Big Crimes is a simple one: review the best mystery story I read each week. Drop by and maybe you’ ll see a preview of next year’s best-of list.

1. I Liked Them Best. [↩]

BABBLE BOOKS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

In the Los Angles Times Business section, December 29, 2010, was an article titled “The Book as Collaboration.” The subtitle was: “Bob Stein foresees the evolution of reading from solitary pursuit into communal activity.”

The subtitle is misleading. Mr. Stein is not talking about book clubs, but about what he calls “social reading and writing.” The reporter, Nathaniel Popper, explains, “In the world imagined by Stein, readers and authors will be in such constant communication that the line between them will begin to disappear.”

Stein, 64, has been on the cutting edge of computer technology for years. He foresaw the Internet before there was one. And pre-Kindle, he had developed software for the laptop that allowed you (the user) to turn pages and read content like a book. He is the head of the Institute for the Future of the Book (all irony intended?), which receives funds from the MacArthur Foundation and is affiliated with USC.

According to the article, Stein foresees the time when an author and readers can write a book together on the Internet. Yes. Soon a reader will be able to make notations in the margins of an author’s work (à la Kindle), not for their own benefit but for the writers. Mr. Stein says, “We’re leaving the age of the individual. . . . We’re heading toward a much more collaborative culture.”

The reporter states, “The institute also published a book on a website where readers could help shape the final product by commenting while the author was still writing.”

Now we have the author as the head of a board meeting of readers. So instead of Treasure Island, we’ll get something like the reality show Survivor. Or The Great Gatsby becomes The Bachelor. Madame Bovary is now Desperate Housewives. I could go on and on.

Please understand I am not putting down readers, I am an avid reader myself. BUT I didn’t know I wanted to read about Phillip Marlow until Raymond Chandler created him. Again, I could go on naming famous characters and their single creators.

Collaboration has always existed in movies, the theater, and even books. The difference is that all these collaborators have one word in common: professional. They know their art, their craft. So to me this new nerdy concept is either populism run amok or it’s socialism, which always runs amok.

Mr. Stein does not seem concerned about losing the artist as an individual. He’s excited about creating a book as if it’s a game of Scrabble. He has nothing against books, in fact his picture is taken sitting in front of shelves filled with them. He said that he still likes books, especially when you go into somebody’s house—you can tell what they like and don’t like by the books they have. “ . . . it’s as much about social glue as it is about the content of the book.” So books are relegated to the level of, “what’s your sign?” in order to break the ice? I guess a lone Kindle on a long empty shelf doesn’t work for Mr. Stein because the titles of the book are hidden inside and that’s not good for social conversation. Can this man just knock back a martini and relax?

I was going to say that Mr. Stein means well, but as a writer I can’t say that. I don’t think he means well for the arts. For what it takes to be an artist. Or to be a working writer. I don’t think he cares at all for the author’s intent, let alone the author’s voice. Or should I now say voices. Nor does he seem to bother with that ugly word money. Is no one to get paid for his or her creative work? Or will the author and the readers all get paid? I’ll talk to my accountant and get back to you on that.

Maybe Mr. Stein never foresaw one author, one artist. Maybe that cutting edge concept doesn’t fit in the bandwidth of his brain. All I know is if what he foresees becomes a reality he will have created a new genre: Babble Books.

Slightly off topic. How do you dedicate a novel to your grandchild if they only read from a Kindle? I treasure my gift of Little Women that my grandmother gave me many years ago. But I treasure her inscription more.

RIP

I just read that the actress Anne Francis died. She will mostly be remembered for the science fiction movie Forbidden Planet and for the Spencer Tracy vehicle Bad Day at Black Rock. But I’ll remember her for the TV show “Honey West.” A sexy PI driving a Cobra. She was my idol. Honey West and Modesty Blaise are two great fictional heroines.