BREVITY BEING THE SOUL OF WIT . . .

by James Lincoln Warren

Today’s Scribbler is of necessity brief. Criminally brief, if I may say so.

This last week I’ve been busier than the proverbial one-armed paper-hanger. (Can anybody tell me what proverb contains a reference to a one-armed paper-hanger? No? @#$%&!.)

To complicate matters, Bouchercon begins on Thursday. I have not yet begun to pack.

So, Gentle Reader, please excuse me for not waxing prolix as usual. As I am typing, I am expected elsewhere. So let me just share couple of things that have made my life less difficult this week. And it has been a difficult week, but you don’t care about that.

Item the First:

John Floyd informs me that both he and I are the recipients of an unexpected, albeit unremunerated but not therefore unwelcome honor: the new Best American Mystery Stories 2010, edited by Lee Child and Otto Penzler, has listed under “Other Distinguished Mystery Stories of 2009”, both John’s story “The Powder Room” (AHMM Jul/Aug 2009) and my own “Shanghaied” (AHMM Jan/Feb 2009). For both of us, this is a signal honor. I might also mention that in the same issue as “Shanghaied”, John had a story, too: “Remembering Tally”.

Item the Second:

I just sold a story to AHMM called “The Satan League”. (The trailer is shown above.). It’s the first Treviscoe story in five years, and I’m proud of it. It should come out sometime in 2011.

Item the Third:

The Criminal Brief panel at Bouchercon, “In Case of Madness”, will take place this Friday at 4:30 p.m. in the Grand Ballroom at the Hyatt Regency San Francisco, on the Embarcadero. Our panel will be immediately followed by the presentation of the 2009 Derringer Awards. (I will be accepting our regular contributor Hamilton’s on his behalf.)

I have no clue at all what the title of our panel is supposed to mean, but the moderator, Jill Amadio, is an old friend of mine and I’m confident she’ll do a fabulous job. Along with me, Melodie Johnson Howe, Robert Lopresti, Angela Zeman, and Steve Steinbock among CBers are on the panel.

That’s all for now. I’ll be a little more loquacious after the convention. Ciao!

TWEETMENT

by Leigh Lundin

In a recent column about the Apple iPad, I speculated what might happen if Star Trek officers used Twitter:

    @Troi: Leaving Rigel VII; Riker was like so all hands on deck Where’s my iPenicillin?

    @Captain: Secret mission to Alpha Centauri to kick Klingon butt. Don’t tell Worf! LOL

That prompted readers to send their own one-liners, which I’ll share below. First, it turns out Twitter has a lot of comedic talent. I’m not a Twitterer (Tweeter?), so I used TweetDeck feeds to collect one-liners. The following are lightly edited from actual Twitterers. Note that many of them make short stories in 140 characters or less.

Twit or Tweet

    @funnyordie: Celebrating national punctuation day on twitter is like celebrating national fitness day at McDonald’s.

    @funnyordie: Anyone else notice that you never see Christine O’Donnell and Chris O’Donnell in the same place at the same time?

    @thesulk: 5-Second DATELINE: "Things were perfect until she died. But did her boyfriend do it? Yes, he did."

    @tj: It’s amazing how many women on network television prefer to keep their bra on while having sex.

    @clarkekant: I’ve got a 3:30 disappointment that I can’t miss.

    @funnyordie: "Open bar" just means you’re going to pay for it in the morning.

    @Aimee_B_Loved: Whoever decided that chocolate fountains are only for special occasions is no friend of mine.

    @TerminalSingles: I think you all would be really impressed with how many chocolate bars I can fit in my mouth while crying.

    @TwitchingDoubt: Mission accomplished: The bottom of the ice-cream tub has been found. Unfortunately the melancholy remains.

    @Paxochka: Bachelors: flies are nature’s way of saying "wash the dishes."

    @BettyLies: If I keep lying here on the couch and drinking like this, I’ll develop fetal position alcohol syndrome.

    @sensual_elle: Had a lot of chemistry with my high-school science teacher.

    @sensual_elle: They told me just be myself, all the good personalities are taken.

    @donni: Wearing the Pooh Bear costume to my court date today. I have a good feeling about this.

    @donni: I bet the Presidential Seal gets to eat all the fish he wants.

    @donni: Health-conscious cannibals prefer to eat doctors.

    @funnyoneliners: A mathematician’s favorite place in New York City? Times Square

    @CelticWombat: Van Gogh was also a fantastic piano player. He learned to play by ear.

    @shariv67: If my last name was The Ripper, I might have anger management issues, too.

    @Paxochka: My family is nuclear in the explosive sense.

    @TheBosha: So two Muslims walk into a bar and yep, you guessed it, they get stoned.

    @ImAVeronica: OH: My fake plants all died because I did not pretend to water them.

    @cpinck: The wind isn’t actually broken, I just… wait, never mind. It’s definitely not working right.

Note! Bluebird icons on the right link to Twitter tutorials.

    @badbanana: People who live in ivory towers must really hate elephants.

    @badbanana: There must be a trick to fighting fire with fire because my kitchen now has twice as much fire.

    @ImAVeronica: What he said: You’re special. What he meant: You have a vagina.

    @SheBanggs: It’s rude when someone tells me to think outside the box the day after I got my bikini wax.

    @YeahImAshley: It isn’t considered drinking alone if you’re holding your vibrator, right?

    @tackie_jackie: Friends and lovers may come and go, but fingers are forever.

    @blondediva11: Men are going to be out of luck if the next generation of vibrators can take out the garbage.

    @Blue_Crab: My libido feels more like a libidon’t at the moment.

    @TerminalSingles: Old Yeller jokes: Apparently, still too soon.

    @thesulk: James Bond. Great spy? Or guy who gets captured every mission.

    @nicedream: For sale: unmarked windowless van, ski mask, and ropes. Reason for selling: I got a Christmas bonus.

    @funnyoneliners: A good way to get out of a speeding ticket is to confess to a murder.

    @westoflondon: You know you’re fat when you sit in the bath and the water in the toilet rises.

    @FriedWords: I try to donate to charity, but they keep bringing my kids back.

    @bedheadblonde: I was never a proponent of re-gifting until I had children. My little gifts from Heaven.

    @AristotlesGirl: ‘Maybe’ is just Yes’s way of saying no.

    @BeauBock: I tried living every day as if it was my last, but all that did was ruin my credit.

    @RexHuppke: Illinois has lifted restrictions on the H1N1 vaccine. Now that anyone can get it, I don’t even want it now.

    @PraxisUniversal: I keep in mind that my Credit Score can’t go negative.

    @cpinck: The worst thing about being a poster child is probably the fear of thumbtacks.

    @typooper: I get stressed out when I can’t stress something enough.

    @DDDBU: Expressing my OCD through interpretive dance and anti-bacterial wipes. Yet again.

    @coreyhinds: I can only seem to talk about sad things since my doctor used that tongue depressor on me.

    @SarahKSilverman: On my deathbed I’ll be so glad I watched tons of tv & didn’t travel.

    @blankslate: It is MINUS 37° out! I’m so looking forward to April when the sun reappears along with my testicles.

    @twistedpfister: I was just beating around the bush and had the most amazing orgasm.

    @cpinck: Impressive impersonation of a latex glove snapping, Doc. Can you please turn the lights back on now?

    @EdgellACE: Being on Santa’s naughty list is awesome; we get the best toys ever.

    @twatter: We’ve been married 7 YEARS and I loved every second! We will probably stay together for at least another 7 to 10 business days.

    @GaryDelaney: Breaking News: Hide and seek champion found dead.

    @badbanana: And that’s why you don’t go shopping at the pet store while hungry.

    @Moltz: I get motorboating and waterboarding mixed up sometimes. Thank God for safe words!

    @gordonshumway: The doctor just described my breasts as "unremarkable." Apparently he’s talked to every guy I’ve ever dated.

    @badbanana: I’m starting to think the CIA programmed me to kill upon hearing the song ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’

    @badbanana: Christmas shopping can be so frustrating. Why don’t they sell frankincense at the same stores they sell the myrrh?

    @rands: It appears I have two music modes: listening to a song endlessly and looking for a song to listen to endlessly.

    @lurkey: Trust me. It was small. It only had a threeskin.

    @davegorum: Me: Living fossil says what? Coelacanth: Very funny.

    @blankslate: How come no one asks the hard questions like – who did Adam and Eve’s kids make babies with?

    @abigvictory: Your eye shadow is a lovely shade of 1985.

    @pattonoswalt: You: "Why me?" The Universe: "And you are…?"

    @SteveMartinToGo: I have the strangest feeling that I’m being followed.

And finally…

    @SethMacFarlane: You know the economy’s in trouble when America’s main export is tweets.

    @juskewitch: Burning a book will never lighten the darkness that is terrifying you. Reading it might.

Local Talent

Following are home-grown entries, partly mine and partly other contributors. Quips fell mostly into (mildly ir)religious and historical categories.

Religious

    @Adam: Hello? Hellooooo? WTF?

    @Eve: Speedo… fig leaf… He just won’t listen.
    @Eve: Just got this fab apple wine recipe.
    @Eve: My boys, such dweebs. Another Saturday night without a date.

    @Jonah: Dudes, that krill thing– don’t believe it.

    @Lot: Hey, go easy on the sodium, babe.

    @LittleJoe: Parental unit bought me new sports coat. It’s neon! Gotta show the bros.

    @Noah: So how was I to know the unicorns were gay?

    @Noah: Sh*t! Sh*t! Sh*t! Sh*t!

    @Danny: My self-pubbed new book now on AuthorHouse: Your Cat and YOU.

    @Josh: Shattered a glass with my trumpet! Too cool!

    @wiseman3: Larry and Phil NEVER ask directions. What’s up with On*Star?

    @wiseman3: Told Larry and Phil 1 more day on this #!$€@£%* camel and I’ll hump it!

    @wiseman3: What’s a manger, anyway?

Historical

    @M_Curie: @Röntgen’s so transparent. :*
    @Röntgen: Glowing praise coming from you. 😉

    @Khufu: Architect in de Nile; pyramid scheme sounds like a croc to me.

    @BigJulius: March 15th, boring senate hearing. Just once, I’d like to take a stab at some humor.

    @Botticelli: Give Girolamo Savonarola one bonfire and he just asks for s’more.

    @A_Boleyn: Lunch today with Jane. I don’t get this ‘mail air’ thing.
    @A_Boleyn: I figure no preggy no prob, but Henry P.O’d. LOL
    @A_Boleyn: EPT negative.

    @Napoleon: What water, Lou?

    @Mildred: Yuck! Threw away Dr Fleming’s mouldy bread. Man, is Alex ticked.

    @Mildred: Now Tommy Carlyle’s pissed at me. How was I to know that wasn’t scrap paper?

Pop Culture

    @Siegfried: Darn! Roy forgot to buy cat food today!

    @accessory_dog_Tink: Christmas shopping done! I bought Paris Hilton a Segway.

FaceBook

Our friend alisa sent in history (of sorts) from FaceBook:

• General History
• World War II

Your Turn

What would you add?

EASY DOES IT (SOMETIMES)

by John M. Floyd

1

Like all of you, I have favorite authors. All I have to do to list mine is to turn around and look at the books on the shelves of my home office: Coben, King, McMurtry, Conroy, Evanovich, Francis, Barr, Sakey, DeMille, Westlake, Hiaasen, Burke, Block, Leonard, Sandford, Parker, Lippman, Follett, and so on. And, as you might suspect, I read books the way chain-smokers go through cigarettes, lighting a new one off the butt of the old. Those Pony Express guys who hopped over to a fresh ride without even dismounting don’t have a thing on me.

Variety and other spices

Two weeks ago, true to form, I finished Carl Hiaasen’s Star Island and began Stieg Larsson’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo without so much as a moment’s break between the two. Afterward, though, I was intrigued by how totally different those two novels were, and not only in subject matter. The writing styles couldn’t have been farther apart. I enjoyed both, but the first was what one might call an “easy” or “quick” read, while the second required (for me at least) more time and thought—especially the parts about international corporate finance.

In my opinion, the same is true of Robert B. Parker vs. Nevada Barr. The works of both are usually fair-play mysteries, but they have a far different “feel” to them. Parker’s plots always move quickly, with loads of dialogue and minimal exposition; Barr uses not only more description but a more complex sentence structure. Yet I like them both. Another example is the difference between the novels of Nelson DeMille and Martin Cruz Smith. Both contain a brilliant use of wry humor, which I love (I’ve read everything both of them have written), but Smith’s books seem to require more time and concentration than DeMille’s.

I think other “rapid-fire” reads are the works of Westlake, Evanovich, Sakey, Grisham, Coben, and Leonard; more involved are some of those by James Lee Burke, Doug Preston, Lehane, Turow, Ludlum, Le Carre, etc. (I’m leaving out the more obviously “literary” authors like Cheever, Irving, Proulx, Bellow, Conroy, Faulkner, and so on, and referring more to writers of mystery/crime/suspense.)

One thing I don’t usually do is read two novels back-to-back by the same author, or even (if I happen to know, ahead of time) two written in a similar style. But sometimes I do; it all depends on the book and the writer.

Split personalities?

There are even a few authors who manage to write as if they were two different people, with or without pseudonyms. One example is the fiction of Larry McMurtry, which encompasses, at opposite ends of the spectrum, Terms of Endearment and Lonesome Dove; another is the body of work created by Ed McBain/Evan Hunter. One of the many appealing things about Lawrence Block is that I can enjoy his darker, gritty Matt Scudder series just as much as his lighthearted Bernie Rhodenbarr capers. And James Patterson can turn out books as different from each other as the Alex Cross novels on one hand and Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas on the other.

T-shirts vs. suit jackets

Of the two options—quick, laid-back reads or those that are more complicated and thought-provoking—which do you enjoy more? As for me, I’m not sure I have a preference. I’m fond of the lightning-fast Spenser and Jesse Stone and Stephanie Plum mysteries, but I also like elegantly-written, remember-them-long-after-you’ve-read-them crime novels like Mystic River, The Last Child, A Place of Execution, Cimarron Rose, and No Country for Old Men. And I remain in awe of stories that are both entertaining and enlightening: The Godfather, Shane, The Silence of the Lambs, The Stand, To Kill a Mockingbird, and so on. These are among the novels that I think will live forever—and the same is true of short fiction. Short stories that bridge the gap between literary and genre (“The Lottery,” “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” and “The Gift of the Magi” come to mind) are often the best of the best.

Thank goodness there’s enough room on my shelves—or at least on my wish list—for all kinds.

1. Illustration by Joseph Christian Leyendecker (1874 – 1951) for The Saturday Evening Post [↩]

POMEGRANATE SEASON

by Steven Steinbock

1

This isn’t the first time I’ve written about pomegranates. I did it here way back in December, 2008. It bears mention again. In fact, it bears more than mere mention.

I never quite know when to expect pomegranates in the stores. Whenever I’ve asked the produce people at supermarkets, they’re never sure either. The California pomegranate season is October to January. In the Southern Hemisphere, it runs March, April, and May.

The pomegranate is an odd fruit. I run into a lot of people who admit that they’ve never tasted one. Quite a few people wouldn’t know how to eat one if it bit them on the nose. Pomegranate juice has been making an appearance in supermarkets. It’s given a lot of people a taste of pomegranate. But most people are familiar with pomegranate in a way they didn’t realize. Grenadine syrup traditionally has pomegranate as its base. I say traditionally because the most common brand of grenadine syrup, Rose’s, is made entirely from high fructose corn syrup. That’s a shame. Especially considering how the word grenadine comes from the French word for pomegranate.

Ever wonder if there’s a connection between grenadine and grenadiers? Keep reading.

A pomegranate is an apple grenade. In a sense, that’s literally true. The English word pomegranate comes from the Latin words pomum (apple) and granatum (grainy or seedy). There’s the seed of a story in there somewhere.

This really happened: when I was in the seventh grade and attending Hebrew school, the rabbi’s son, who was in my class, brought a pomegranate one day. The rabbi’s son was something of a “bad boy.” You know the kind. He’s the one that all the girls lusted after and all the parents were wary of. Anyhow, when the teacher wasn’t looking, the rabbi’s son hurled the pomegranate at the wall. It burst open, spreading its juice in deep rosy colored floral pattern that was still on that wall when I graduated. It’s probably still there now.

A lot of you may think that the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, the one that Adam and Eve tasted before their own graduation from Eden, was an apple. Not a chance. It was a pomegranate. I know. I was there. (You were, too. Don’t deny it. I saw you there).

In Jewish folklore, a pomegranate has 613 seeds, corresponding to the 613 commandments (or mitzvot) found in the Torah. I’ve never counted all the commandments. I’d never counted pomegranate seeds, either. But a year ago I told that story to a group of kids, and they took it as a challenge to count all the seeds in the pomegranate I brought. They did, but I’m not certain how many seeds went into the kids’ mouths before they were counted.

Ideas are like seeds the seeds of a pomegranate. You can’t eat the fruit right off the produce counter. You have to cut it open, separate the arils (the juice-filled seed casings) from the shell and from the inner membranes. Sometimes, when you’re not sure what to do, it might be helpful to throw the ideas against the wall (preferably on a big sheet of paper) and see where the juice falls.

When I have more ideas than I have time to cultivate, I jot down notes to myself on index cards. God bless index cards.

Pomegranates, like story ideas, have a long shelf-life. Weeks, sometimes months after you bring them home, they are still fresh. But here’s an interesting trick if you want to save your pomegranate seeds for an off season: Set the washed seeds out on a paper towel spread out on a big plate or cookie sheet. Roll everything around to make sure all the seeds (arils, actually) are relatively dry. Replace the paper towel if necessary. Stick it in the freezer for an hour. Carefully pour the frozen arils into a plastic bag and keep it in the freezer. They’re delicious frozen.

1. Proserpine, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1874) [↩]

SEDUCED FROM THE PATH

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

“Depend upon it, after all, Thomas, Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path.”

—Edgar Allan Poe to Frederick W. Thomas (February 14, 1849)

This week the unimaginable happened; I was seduced from my writing time to do (shudder!) other things. The problem was this kept happening.

Obstacles preventing me from quality time alone with my computer. Elbowing their way into my schedule, my planned timetable was methodically hacked to death.

I kept moving my main writing project aside, not so much hoping to get back to it later as praying I’d find the scene causing so much trouble magically written when I next looked. So far, the Writing Fairy has not stepped in and patted her wand upon my computer screen. The blank page has continued on as the blank page. The blinking cursor accusatorial in its tick, tock finger-shaking.

The most noble of professions is not as easy as one might think. Some of my friends have waited impatiently as I scribbled notes to myself concerning an idea for a story. I am usually writing fast so I can get back to our visit and before my coffee grows cold or a salad begins to go limp. For some reason, my friends believe my writing is accomplished quickly and needs little of my time. They believe when I am undisturbed in front of my computer, my keyboard is practically smoking. Often I sit with my fingers on the keys eagerly awaiting inspiration to strike. Sometimes, inspiration is instead on strike.

Poe believed writing to be a noble profession. I agree. It’s also at times exasperating, frustrating and just plain hard. I’m sure Poe would have agreed with me about that.

When the words finally come and a piece is polished and sent off, there is the waiting game. In this scenario, all players are not equal. The editors and agents have more time at bat, but when they connect, it is sudden whether it is a home run or a foul ball.

One project at a time. One scene, one paragraph, one sentence. It all begins with a seduction. Does this mean I should change into something more comfortable?

THE LONG RED LIGHT

by Rob Lopresti

So, I am bicycling home. I reach the busiest corner on the trip, one of the busiest intersections in this small city. There are three lanes in each direction. I arrive just as the light is turning yellow, a little too late to go through, so I know I am going to have a wait of perhaps two minutes.

I look to the right. There are cars in each lane of the cross street. The only vehicle in the middle row is a police car.

The light changes and the cars in the left lane start turning left. Eventually the main light turns and the cars in the right lane start moving. The cop car stays in place.

Well, that’s odd, I think. I peer at the police car but I can’t see through the shaded glass.

The light turns yellow and I hear a zzzzz as a bicycle comes racing up behind me and shoots right through our red light.

You’re in for it, now I think. I expect the cop car to light up the cherry top and the siren and take off after the cyclist. Nope. The patrol car just sits there. Now there are three cars behind it.

The left hand signal turns green in my direction and cars start to move. I watch the police car until my light turns green. I apply some torque and move across the street. Then I stop and look behind me.

When the light turns again the last car behind the police car hits his horn. Apparently he doesn’t realize who’s slowing down the show.

Reluctantly I pedal away. I never find out what happened, but before I get home my brain has offered me five explanations.

• Something very bad has happened to the health of that police officer.
• The cop is asleep.
• The cop is taking a personal call from a desperate relative and is too occupied to even notice the changing of the light.
• The cop is getting an urgent message from headquarters and is writing down the details before rushing off on a desperate mission.
• The cop is having an existential crisis and can’t bear to go off on one more domestic, DUI, or stupid shoplifter call. The cop is trying to decide how to tell his family that he has decided to quit his job and go back on the road as a blues guitarist.

There you have it. The opening scenes of five short stories, and I don’t have time to write any of them.

Mr. Lopresti, where do you get your ideas?

The corner of Lakeway and Lincoln. Why do you ask?

PEDICURE

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I’m sitting in a large, beige, leather massage chair. A young Asian woman whose name is Diane is giving me a pedicure. My life is frantic. My daughter is getting married this Saturday, and I am deep in revisions of my new novel. I have come here to relax and get my toes painted red.

But the chair is doing something strange to my body like rolling large hard marbles up and down my spine. Then without warning it thumps me in the lower back, and I lurch forward.

“I hurt you?” Diane looks up from my toes.

“No, no.”

The seat of the chair folds into me, pressing my thighs together. I jerk my hands up from my lap. I’m suddenly feeling claustrophobic. I wait for the chair to release my lower body. Slowly, very slowly, it lets go.

Settling back, I try to enjoy being massaged instead of fighting it. I must learn to give up control. I listen to the voices of the Asian women working here. Their singsong cadence reminds me of wind chimes. The chair is squeezing my thighs again. I wonder if it is secretly molesting me in some perverted-chair way. The balls are running up and down my back. Diane begins to thump my right foot with her fists. My eyes pop open.

“Good circulation,” she singsongs. “You have flu shot yet?”

“No.”

The chair is still pressing into my thighs. I peer at the controls and push what looks like an off button. It’s not. The chair is now kneading and vibrating me. I wonder if I should call Gloria Allred.

A man sits down next to me and takes his shoes off. He’s getting his feet done? Okay, I’m a sexist. I don’t want men to get pedicures. At least not sitting next to me.
What’s happened to men?! I must’ve been gawking because he smiles at me. I smile back. The young woman is digging into the cuticles on my big toe as if she’s exploring for some ancient relic. I jerk my foot back.

“Hurt?” she asks.

I nod.

“Not too long.”

She goes back to probing.

“Ouch!” I yell.

Nobody seems to have heard my scream. They’re all singsonging to each other. The chair seat is rubbing against my thighs again in some illicit way. The man is rolling up his pant legs revealing big, veined, hairy calves. He places his feet into the tub of water his pedicurist has filled for him. He lets out a sigh and turns his chair on. Now both of our bodies are shuddering and rolling. The seat of my chair finally releases me. I want to slap it.

The man turns his head toward me. “Wonderful, isn’t?”

I nod.

His belly is shaking from the vibration. I look at mine. Oh my God, my stomach is moving. This is embarrassing.

“What do you do?” He asks me.

Both of us are undulating, I turn my head toward him. I feel like we’re lying in bed together. I’m waiting for him to light a cigarette and ask, “Was it good for you?”

He asks again, “What do you do?”

I think of telling him I’m a veterinarian. My pedicurist is now talking on her cell while terrorizing my other foot.

Wincing, I dutifully reply, “I’m a writer.”

“I knew you were,” he says, proudly.

“How? The glasses?” I ask, tersely.

“No your whole persona.”

I wonder if this is a new kind of line. If I said I was a vet would he have said the same thing?

He continues, “It’s the way you talk, the way you handle yourself. I’m very observant.” Pleased with himself he leans back and closes his eyes. Oh my God, he’s acting as if we’re married.
His pedicurist sits down and lifts one of his large feet out of the water.

“How do you turn this thing of?” I snap at mine.

She points to a red button. It’s always the red button. I push it and my chair abruptly stops, catapulting me into a very erect sitting position.

“Comfortable?” Diane asks

“Oh, yes.”

I glare at the man, still undulating next to me, and say, “I don’t know any writer who has the persona of a writer. “

But the man is snoring contentedly.