SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN

by James Lincoln Warren

“Brevity,” ironically quoth Polonius (Hamlet, Act I scene ii), perhaps the most voluble windbag in all of literature, “is the soul of wit.”

And as this website is called Criminal Brief, the Gentle Reader may excuse me for being uncharacteristically succinct this week.

A lot of advice for writers out there concerns routine. Among the proffered gems are that you should write in the morning, you should write in the evening, you should write 500 words a day, you should write 5 pages a day, you should have a detailed and specific outline, you should follow the Muse whither she leads, you should write until exhausted, you should have a defined “writing time” and quit when you have reached the end of it, you should define your existence in terms of your art (if you are serious, that is), you should treat writing like any other regular job, you should listen to inspiring music, you should write in total silence, you should emulate writers you admire, you should never deliberately imitate anybody, you should write according to the demands of the market, you should ignore current trends, and blah blah blah.

Bollocks.

I do not know any two writers who work the same way.

This is my advice:

Find something that works and stick with it. If it ain’t working, try something else, experimenting until you find something that does work. Never define your worth as a person by what you do, and judge your work according to its own merit and not for what it says about you. The audience is more important than you are, but do not compromise your standards. Writing fiction is not the same thing as manufacturing widgets, but neither is it exclusively the gift of inspiration and genius.

I don’t care if you’re inspired or hacking away at it. I don’t care if you have persistence and vision or if you are a complete whinging loser. All I care about is whether or not you give the Gentle Reader something worth his time. If you aren’t doing that, then either keep writing until you do or quit and do something else. If you lack inspiration, then you are probably in the wrong business. If you lack industry, you are definitely in the wrong business.

But don’t let anybody tell you there is only one way to be a writer, unless what they mean is that the only way is your own way.

That’s all.

4^th of July

by Leigh Lundin

The rockets red glare…
The bombs bursting in air…

What a tempting backdrop for a crime story! As I started a very different column for today, my mind switched to another track: I realized I couldn’t identify a single Fourth of July mystery story, not one.

I could think of mysteries with Christmas settings and New Year plots. I felt sure authors had written crime stories about Halloween. Sports-theme and historical mysteries abound and we see stories based upon locations and even cat cosies, but I could not think of one Independence Day mystery.

I couldn’t have been more wrong as our friends Bill Crider, Jeffrey Deaver, and Sharon Wildwind could tell you– they’ve contributed to the genre. Before I get around to listing stories, here are a couple of special links you might want to know about.

Mayoral Murder

Jack Pachuta has written a couple of dozen dinner mysteries for fun and profit, including The 4th of July Murder Mystery Party Game. Send him $40 and he’ll send an assassination party kit for Elmtown’s mayor. Tell him to send me 10%.

Young Blood

Most of us admit to cutting our teeth on mysteries as kids, but we too rarely reach back to help younger readers along. The Mystery Place discussed this and we may be overlooking the next generation. Helium addressed this issue with its (mostly) juvenile Fourth of July mystery collection. They are written (mostly) by amateurs, but I’m not so far out of amateur status to be critical. Some show streaks of excellent wordsmithing, such as the last one, "Out with a Bang", by Shasta Daisy McCarty. I’ve read only a sampling of stories, so your children may find hidden gems.

Not a Holiday John Floyd List™

And now, a list of mysteries to get you through the holiday:

Have a safe and happy holiday!

Before lighting the grill, I must give credit to Jeff Baker, Janet Rudolph at MysteryReadersInc and the ladies at MyShelf, augmented by the gnomes at Barnes & Nobel and Amazon search facilities.

Now, drive safely and enjoy our 234^th birthday.

BIO MECHANICS

by John M. Floyd

Easy question: when is talking about yourself not fun? Answer: when you’re writing a bio.

What’s a bio? That’s easy too: if you’re an author, it’s a brief summary of you, your background, and your writing credits. It might include a list of previous publications and awards, and (occasionally) a few words about employment or place of residence. Writers are often asked to supply bios to anthologies, magazines, book publishers, conferences, the media, etc.

But how brief, exactly, should it be? How much about you and your background should you include? How many writing credits, and which ones?

Those questions aren’t so easy. (Actually, the questions are; the answers aren’t.)

Avoiding bio hazards

Sometimes the instructions or guidelines will give you a length requirement for the bio of, say, fifty words, or a hundred words, or three lines — that makes the task less difficult. But usually the length is left up to the writer.

Most writers know, and publishers realize that they know, to keep it short and sweet.
I typically provide two or three sentences, which include several previous short-story credits and a mention of awards received and books published.

Look at it this way. If you’re a writer, even of short fiction, you’ve had to create a synopsis at one time or another, right? Well, an author bio is a mini-synopsis of you and your literary career.

Where I go, ego

Most aspiring writers fear bios because they feel they don’t yet have enough information to include. In truth, though, too much information can be worse than too little. I don’t like to read long bios, and I sure don’t like to write them. (What I like and don’t like, of course, doesn’t matter much; what does matter is that I’ve heard editors and publishers and other readers say they don’t like long bios either.)

Have you ever noticed, especially at parties and other social events, that the people who dispense the most advice and the loudest opinions are often the very people who shouldn’t? I think the same is true here. The longer bios seem to be written by those who have accomplished the least. There’s probably a deep and profound lesson there on the human condition, but mostly it’s just an observance of fact.

Controlling your substance

To be fair, I should point out that longwinded bio-writers aren’t necessarily being arrogant or pompous; they might just be trying to overcompensate. Beginning writers, since they as yet have few publications to their credit, tend to include entire paragraphs about their pets and their relatives and their outside interests, none of which have a thing to do with writing. Or they include the fact that they once helped produce their church newsletter or served as recording secretary for meetings of the swim team.

That’s not all bad. Bios, whether they are intended to be seen by an editor, publisher, agent, or one of their employees, should serve as an “introduction” of sorts. My mother, an avid reader of The Upper Room devotionals, says one of the things she enjoys is the sometimes personal information in the author bio section at the back of each book. She says it makes her feel a closer connection to the author who wrote the piece she has just read, or is about to read. But how much information is too much?

Hello, good bio

Here’s what I consider a sensible rule to follow: Like a job resume, an author bio should present your strongest points without stretching the truth.

Consider this example. A writer with three dozen short-story rejections and only two acceptances (a four-line poem in a literary journal and a humorous essay in her city’s newspaper, neither of which were fiction) might include the following bio sentence in her cover letter to accompany a fiction submission: “My previous work has appeared in The Louisiana Review and The Times-Picayune.” In doing this, she would be making a true statement while putting the best possible spin on what she has to work with.

NOTE 1: I’ve often heard that (for short story writers) it’s a good idea to include three to five previous publications, if you have them. If you don’t, don’t point it out; just say something like “I was raised in northern Michigan and enjoy writing about that area and its history.”

NOTE 2: For the past few years, I’ve been writing my bios in third person. It seems to make it easier for the publication you’re submitting to — or the conference organizers, if that’s the case — to lift it out and use it exactly as written.

Closing questions/arguments

What are your thoughts? What do you think should be included in an author bio? What should be left out? Do you enjoy reading about a person’s cats or hamsters, or does it put you off? Do you care whether he takes pharmacy courses by day and drives a taxi by night? Is it important to you that she has two children and four grandchildren?

I’m not being sarcastic, here. Again, some folks do care about hearing personal details in an author bio, and in fact some had rather hear that than a lot of literary background info. The fact that I’m usually not interested in someone’s home life and extracurricular activities doesn’t mean others aren’t interested. I admit that the mention of pets and outside interests does make the writer seem more like a real person than merely a writing machine, and sometimes a writer’s day job or hobby has an effect on what he writes. (If I’m reading a mystery story and the writer is an assistant D.A., or FBI agent, or retired cop, I like knowing about that.) I also like a little humor now and then, in a bio, although that can sometimes backfire. What works for some authors might not work for others.

But whatever kind of information you choose to include, I still think less is better.

Which might’ve been good advice to follow myself, when writing this column . . .

SOLEMN VOWS?

by Steven Steinbock

Elaine Viets revealed a new side of herself to me this week. Anyone who knows Elaine knows that she’s wonderfully nuts. Her “Dead-End Jobs” series is a good indication of it. In order to do the research for every dead-end job her heroine Helen Hawthorn has taken, Elaine has tried her hand at selling septic-tank cleaner as a telemarketer, selling bustiers to bimbos, selling wedding dresses to spoiled daughters, and cleaning up Chihuahua pee at a doggie boutique.

Now Elaine has topped it off. And not even as research. Last May I sat down with Elaine and author Sally Goldenbaum, Elaine pointed out that Sally was once a nun, and that I was a graduate of a seminary. Elaine then admitted that she was an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church. I don’t know how many box-tops Elaine had to mail in to get that ordination, but it’s legal. She has the authority to perform marriages in all fifty states. So to celebrate the marriage of her fictional sleuth Helen to her PI boyfriend, Elaine posted a contest on her website, the prize being that she would perform the marriage ceremony for the winners.

Read it in Elaine’s own words:

This spring, I started the Happily Ever After contest to promote my new Dead-End Job mystery, “Half-Price Homicide.” I joked about murder and marriage going hand in hand.

Until Carl and Lia won. They were seriously in love. I was going to marry them – seriously. I flew from Fort Lauderdale to Baltimore Saturday morning.

That afternoon, Carl and Lia stood before me in a Maryland garden. Lia wore her mother’s wedding dress. Carl had a dark tux.

You can read the whole story in Elaine’s column at The Lipstick Chronicles, a blog which she shares with thirteen other self-proclaimed Book Tarts. Elaine, I salute you. Or in this case, would a blessing be more apropos?

IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT ME?

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Summer elbowed my favorite season out of the way and it was too hot to want to be anywhere except in a pool or in front of an air conditioner. My family abandoned me for the week with pursuits of their own out-of-state and out-of-country and I was left alone with two cats refusing to tell me why they stared at me with odd expressions. (I keep saying I wish they could talk to me so I’d know what they were thinking and my daughter keeps telling me I should be happy they can’t. She may be right, but I’m still curious.) At practically the last minute, I decided to attend a nearby writer’s conference.

Frontiers in Writing offered a day and a half of quality programs at a minimal price along with opportunities to dine with and talk to other writers. I needed to be rejuvenated, inspired and rekindle friendships.

While there I met some magnificent writers including Joy Jordan-Lake and Frank Ball, both who shared insights on how we could enhance our storytelling. Their suggestions kept me scribbling barely-readable notes throughout the conference. I already knew author Diane Sagan and agent/author Terry Burns.

Terry and I had recently spent several hours side-by-side at a library sponsored book signing in Clarendon, Texas, just down the road from Greenbelt Lake. About 8 authors representing genres for every taste were surrounded by great people who actually liked to read. My table was nestled between Terry’s and Jodi Thomas’, so I had a choice position for traffic. Terry always has great stories to share about his travels about the country for Hartline Literary Agency and Jodi’s group is always fun.

Although I have been a speaker at Frontiers in Writing in the past, this time I enjoyed being just another writer in search of acquiring new information about how books are written and sold. I wanted to spend time with friends and make some new ones. Conference attendance is usually an “all about me” networking sales tool and hopefully proving ourselves as being a valuable commodity to book buyers.

Meeting Thomas Umstattd, CEO of Umstattd Media and AuthorTechTips.com, was probably one of the most eye-opening experiences for me this time around. In his workshop, “Effective Author Web Sites,” Thomas stated, “It’s not all about you.”

Maybe that’s what the cats are conveying to me telepathically. It would explain so much.

I’ve learned not to hesitate too long when considering an opportunity — especially a free one. This practice has gotten me a few free lunches along with some that weren’t really free at all, but that’s the risk. Thomas offered a free critique of author web sites and knowing time allowed only a couple, I quickly volunteered mine at ExpressedImagination.com

When my home page popped up on the big screen, I almost choked. I’d never seen my photo so large. Thomas looked at it, then at me and asked, “What’s your web site about?” I proudly said, “All about me, Thomas. It’s all about the author, isn’t it?” The audience laughed and Thomas smiled.

I forgot to mention Thomas always smiles, even when he’s disagreeing. It’s hard to disagree with someone who smiles so much, especially when he’s correct.

Thomas explained the reason people go to any web site is to receive something back for their time whether it be for gathering information or just for entertainment. The goal of the web site owner is to over-deliver on the promise we make to our readership.

One of the redeeming factors on my personal web site was the immediate link on the home page to Criminal Brief. Thomas agreed what we offer here is appealing to the public. We deliver something worthy for your time spent in our company. I’ve always been proud of being in this group of writers and his validation was nice to hear.

In my opinion, every personal encounter should provide a lesson. Sometimes we are the giver, sometimes the receiver of information. It’s not always easy to be open to new lessons, but it is always to our benefit. If it isn’t a lesson, at least we should be fun to be around.

Smiles, compliments and pats on the back are free. Free is good. I’m not absolutely sure that on some days I wouldn’t pay for someone’s lunch who gave me encouragement when I really needed one. Oh wait. I think I may have already.

Whether we’re together in person, or sharing via a web site, I want you to feel at home. Kick off your shoes and let’s just chat. If you’re reading a story I’ve written, I want it to be just as much about your enjoyment as mine was in creating the characters and the plot.

Thomas was right: It isn’t really all about me. I want you to have a good time, too.

BUT I’VE TOLD YOU THIS BEFORE

by Rob Lopresti

Some time ago I wrote in this very spot about trying to write a follow-up to one of my published short stories. Actually, I said I was trying to write “a sort of companion or sequel.” That was my way of saying that these two tales were not intended to be the beginning of a series.

In the case of my original story I had been determined not to turn it into a series. I wanted it to stand on its own. But now I had come up with a plot that complemented the first one and sort of completed it.

After that blog appeared I received an email from Neil Schofield, an author of many excellent short stories. He has given me permission to share part of it with you.

Some time ago, I seem to remember, you were talking about the problem of writing a sequel to a story of yours published some time before, years, in fact. How are you doing?

No — how are you doing it?

I’m somewhat in the same case. One of my AHMM stories seems to want a second episode, or at least the main characters do.

My main difficulty is — how do you get over the back story problem? Do you vomit it all out at the outset — this seems logical because back story after all explains how the characters got to where they are now.

But having spread the story out on the dining room table — which is what I do because I am terrible at reading a sheaf of pages, and that way I can look down on the whole thing like God and it helps me spot lumps and an empty bit there, that could be better filled with a section from here — the back story looks indigestible and plonking. So try again, this time feed the back story out in spoonsful as and when. Trouble here is, the as and when sometimes doesn’t turn up until late in the story when the piece of back story seems like a late addition. . . .

Do I have to explain the whole back story? After all, if the reader remembers the first, he doesn’t need back story. If he doesn’t, then he probably doesn’t care anyway.

A really good question (and boy, do I love the part about looking down like God on your manuscript). After a lot of thought I replied in part as follows:

What I concluded was this: ignore the fact that the character appeared in an earlier story. He or she has backstory that has to be told; lots of characters do. So you figure out the best place and time to tell it. (it could be several places and times). . . . My feeling is that if I get the story published one reader in ten will say, oh yeah, I vaguely remember that earlier one. The other nine won’t feel like they are missing anything.

Which is what I am doing in the sequel. I have to reveal the ending of the first story, because it explains the behavior of my hero. But you have to assume the reader doesn’t know or remember what happened. Of course, if the story was to appear in a collection of my stories (don’t hold your breath, you’ll hurt yourself) I would change that part.

The bigger question is whether the story will ever see publication anywhere. Fingers and toes crossed. . . .

But what about you, writers of the world? Any thoughts for Neil and me?

Here is the second installment of Edgar Wallace’s 1910 short story,“The Greek Poropulos”. You can read Part I here.

THE GREEK POROPULOS Part II

by Edgar Wallace

   One forgets things in war time. I joined the Imperial Light Horse and went to the front. The doctor passed me as sound, so I suppose that all that is claimed for the climate of Africa is true.
   We went into Ladysmith1, and I survived the siege. I was promoted for bringing an officer out of action under fire. I earned a reputation for daring, which I did not deserve, because always I was courting swift death, and taking risks to that end.
   Before Buller’s2 force had pushed a way through the stubborn lines to our relief, I had received my commission. More wonderful to me, I found myself a perfectly healthy man, as hard as nails, as callous as the most-experienced soldier. Only, somewhere down in my heart, a little worm gnawed all the time; sleeping or waking, fighting or resting, I thought of Lillian, and wondered, wondered, wondered.
   Ladysmith was relieved. We marched on toward Pretoria. I was transferred to Hampton’s Horse with the rank of major, and for eighteen months I moved up and down the Eastern Transvaal chasing a will-othe-wisp of a commandant, who was embarrassing the blockhouse lines.
   Then one day I came upon Poropulos.
   We were encamped outside Standerton when he rode in on a sorry-looking Burnto pony3. He had been in the country during the war, he said, buying and selling horses. He did not mention Lioski’s name to me, and so studiously did he avoid referring to the man, that I saw at once that he knew.
   It was brought home to me by his manner that he had a liking for me that I had never guessed. In what way I had earned his regard I cannot say, but it was evident he entertained a real affection for me.
   We parted after an hour’s chat—he was going back to Carolina. He had a scheme for opening an officers’ club in that town, where there was always a large garrison, and to which the wandering columns came from time to time to be re-equipped.
   As for me, I continued the weary chase of the flying commando. Trek, trek, trek, in fierce heat, in torrential downpour, over smooth veldt and broken hills, skirmishing, sniping, and now and then a sharp engagement, with a dozen casualties on either side.
   Four months passed, and the column was ordered into Carolina for a refit. I went without qualms, though I knew she was there, and Lioski was there.
   We got into Carolina in a thunderstorm, and the men were glad to reach a place that bore some semblance of civilization. My brother officers, after our long and profitless trek, were overjoyed at the prospect of a decent dinner—for Poropulos’s club was already famous among the columns.
   My horse picked up a stone and went dead lame, so I stayed behind to doctor him, and rode to Carolina two hours after the rest of the column had arrived.
   It was raining heavily as I came over a fold of the hill that showed the straggling township. There was no human being in sight save a woman who stood by the roadside, waiting, and I knew instinctively, long before I reached her, that it was Lillian. I cantered toward her. Her face was turned in my direction, and she stood motionless as I drew rein and swung myself to the ground.
   She was changed, not as I expected, for sorrow and suffering had etherealized her. Her big eyes burned in a face that was paler than ever, her lips, once so red and full, were almost white.
   “I have been waiting for you,” she said.
   “Have you, dear? You are wet.”
   She shook her head impatiently. I slipped off my mackintosh and put it about her.
   “He has turned me out,” she said.
   She did not cry. I think she had not recovered from the shock. Something stirred from the thin cloak she was wearing; a feeble cry was muffled by the wrapping.
   “I have got a little girl,” she said, “but she is dying.” She began to cry silently, the tears running down her wet face in streams.
   I took her into Carolina, and found a Dutchwoman who put her and the baby to bed, and gave her some coffee.
   I went up to the officers’ club just after sunset and met Poropulos coming down.
   He was in a terrible rage, and was muttering to himself in some tongue I could not understand.
   “Oh, here you are!”—he almost spat the words in his anger—“that dog Lioski—”
   He was about to say something, but checked himself. I think it was about Lillian that he intended to speak at first, but he changed the subject to another grievance. “I was brought before the magistrate and fined £100 for selling field-force tobacco. My club will be ruined—Lioski informed the police—by—”
   He was incoherent in his passion. I gather that he had been engaged in some shady business, and that Lioski had detected him. He almost danced before me in the rain.
   “Shylock dies tonight,” he said, and waved his enemy out of the world with one sweep of his hand. “He dies tonight—I am weary of him—for eighteen—nineteen years I have known him, and he’s dirt right through—”
   He went out without another word. I stood on the slope of the hill watching him.
   I dined at the club, and went straight back to the house where I had left my wife. She was sleeping—but the baby was dead. Poor little mortal! I owed it no grudge, but I was glad when they told me.
   All the next day I sat by her bed listening to Lillian’s mutterings, for she was very ill. I suffered all the tortures of a damned soul sitting there, for she spoke of Lioski—“Arthur” she called him—prayed to him for mercy—told him she loved him—
   I was late for dinner at the club. There was a noisy crowd there. Young Harvey of my own regiment had had too much to drink, and I avoided his table.
   My hand shook as I poured out a glass of wine, and somebody remarked on it.
   I did not see Poropulos until the dinner was halfway through. Curiously enough, I looked at the clock as he came in, and the hands pointed to half past eight.
   The Greek was steward of the club, and was serving the wine. He was calm, impassive, remarkably serene, I thought. He exchanged jokes with the officers who were grumbling that they had had to wait for the fulfillment of their orders.
   “It was ten to eight when I ordered this,” grumbled one man.
   Then, suddenly, Harvey, who had been regarding Poropulos with drunken gravity, pointed downward.
   “He’s changed his boots,” he said, and chuckled. Poropulos smiled amiably and went on serving. “He’s changed his boots!” repeated Harvey, concentrating his mind upon trivialities as only a drunken man can. The men laughed. “Oh, dry up, Harvey!” said somebody.
   “He’s changed—”
   He got no further. Through the door came a military policeman, splashed from head to foot with mud.
   “District Commandant here, sir?” he demanded. “There’s been a man murdered.”
   “Soldier?” asked a dozen voices.
   “No, sir—storekeeper, name of Lioski—shot dead half an hour ago.”
   I do not propose to tell in detail all that happened following that. Two smart C.I.D. men came down from Johannesburg, made a few inquiries, and arrested Poropulos. He was expecting the arrest, and half an hour before the officers came he asked me to go to him.
   I spent a quarter of an hour with him, and what we said is no man’s business but ours. He told me something that startled me—he loved Lillian, too. I had never guessed it, but I did not doubt him. But it was finally for Lillian’s sake that he made me swear an oath so dreadful that I cannot bring myself to write it down—an oath so unwholesome, and so against the grain of a man, that life after it could only be a matter of sickness and shame.
   Then the police came and took him away.
   Lioski had been shot dead in the store by some person who had walked in when the store was empty, at a time when there was nobody in the street. This person had shot the Jew dead and walked out again. The police theory was that Poropulos had gone straight from the club, in the very middle of dinner, had committed the murder, and returned to continue his serving, and the crowning evidence was the discovery that he had changed his boots between 7.30 and 8.30. The mud-stained boots were found in a cellar, and the chain of evidence was completed by the statement of a trooper who had seen the Greek walking from the direction of the store, at 8.10, with a revolver in his hand.
   Poropulos was cheerful to the last—cheerful through the trial, through the days of waiting in the fort at Johannesburg.
   “I confess nothing,” he said to the Greek priest. “I hated Lioski, and I am glad that he is dead, that is all. It is true that I went down to kill him, but it was too late.”
   When they pinioned him he turned to me.
   “I have left my money to you,” he said. “There is about four thousand pounds. You will look after her.”
   “That is the only reason I am alive.”
   “Did you murder Arthur Lioski?” said the priest again.
   “No,” said Poropulos, and smiled as he went to his death. And what he said was true, as I know. I shot Lioski.

1. One of the most famous battles of the Second Boer War in 1900. An account can be found here. [↩]
2. General Sir Redvers Henry Buller, VC, GCB, GCMG (1839–1908) [↩]
3. I have been unable to obtain any information concerning a breed by this name; I suspect Burnto is a typographical error for Basuto. The Basuto or Basotho pony is native to Lesotho. —JLW [↩]