“Barbaric Kings and Plodding Imbeciles: Conan Doyle’s Sly Subversion of English Society,” Part 1

 (by Dr. Kenneth Wishnia)

Posted on July 31, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen
I was editing EQMM’s February 2014 issue when this interesting two-part post by Dr. Kenneth Wishnia arrived in my in-box. Each year, EQMM’s February issue contains special Sherlock Holmes features, so the great detective and his creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, were already on my mind. I will confess, though, that I had never seen the Holmes stories in the light the professor shines on them. Ken teaches at Suffolk Community College on Long Island, and says he would love to do a panel someday that reflects the unique perspective he shares with fellow crime-writing Ph.D.’s like Dr. Megan Abbott, Dr. David Bell, and Dr. Christine Jackson. His crime fiction includes many novels and short stories (some published in EQMM), but he believes that The Fifth Servant—more than any of his other fictional works—was influenced by Sherlock Holmes. The novel was nominated for the Sue Feder Historical Memorial Award (Macavity). Be sure to look for Part 2 of Ken Wishnia’s discussion of Sherlock Holmes next Wednesday.—Janet Hutchings

A number of today’s crime writers are also college professors who bring a unique critical approach to reading (and writing) crime fiction. In the course of teaching a college class that covers material stretching from Edgar Allan Poe and Dashiell Hammett to S.J. Rozan and Megan Abbott, I have uncovered evidence of numerous indirect criticisms of English society in the Sherlock Holmes stories, and a propensity for subverting revered Victorian institutions such as the aristocracy, the justice system, and even motherhood itself.

Any Holmes fan is familiar with the scenarios in which the police officials are completely baffled by a case, draw ridiculous conclusions from the available evidence, waste time chasing worthless clues, are stubbornly insistent upon arresting an innocent man, and then claim all the credit when Holmes solves the case.

This is not the cynical world of corrupt police officials found in the later American hardboiled school. In the Holmes stories, the incompetence and arrogance of the police inspectors is usually handled with a humorous wink at the reader. But any competent literary critic will tell you that in rigidly hierarchical societies such as Victorian England, humor is often the best vehicle for social commentary, since a direct attack on such institutions would be met with ostracism and even prosecution in some cases.

Think of that fabulously arch moment in the first published Holmes short story, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” when the king of Bohemia, so overdressed when we first meet him that Watson is unfavorably impressed by his “barbaric opulence,” speaks of Irene Adler:

      “Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

       “From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes, coldly.

Meaning, of course, that she is far superior to the king.

That princes and kings can be cads is not exactly news, but we should take a moment to consider how radical it was to say so in print at the time, even if the criticism was safely displaced onto the Bohemian nobility. While some Victorian readers might have chuckled at the implied inferiority of the Central European nobility to a mere stage actress (and a commoner), many in the audience must have picked up on the indirect criticism of all such spoiled monarchs. The king in question, after all, has a German name—an almost comically absurd one at that—just as Queen Victoria’s mother and husband did (Princess Marie Luise Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, respectively).

Some of these negative attitudes towards the aristocracy and the police are a result of the British class system. The audience for the Holmes stories clearly relished the depiction of the nobility as pompous asses who are every bit as criminal in their behaviors as the lowest thieves, and the besting of the plodding, lower-class British bobbies time and again by an amateur (and a gentleman) who is happy to work for free if the client is needy and the case has one or two points of interest, as Holmes himself would say.

However, if we recall that Victorian Britain considered itself to be the very pinnacle of civilization at the time—the aristocratic characters repeatedly treat police inspectors (and even Holmes himself) as mere servants who are there to serve their “superiors”—it is possible to perceive the sly subversion of that society in these unflattering portrayals of the noble classes and the criminal justice system. (Perhaps that is also one of the reasons Holmes keeps quoting French terms and catchphrases in the early stories as well.)

These carefully crafted critiques may also reflect Conan Doyle’s own experiences as the Scottish-born child of an Irish family (yes, they were an oppressed minority) living in England, who couldn’t directly attack the social structure that he desperately needed to be a part of, and as a young doctor who, despite his excellent medical qualifications, struggled for many years to gain recognition and build a client base, much like Holmes himself in the early stories. (In later stories, once his reputation has been better established, Holmes is shown working in closer collaboration with the police.)

Consider the case of Mr. Jabez Wilson in “The Red-Headed League.” As a businessman and a shopkeeper, he can be said to represent the very backbone of English middle-class society. He is also described as “a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair.” In other words, he very much resembles John Bull, the symbol of England personified, especially in the original black-and-white illustrations by Sidney Paget. If we combine this image with Napoleon’s famous dictum that England is “a nation of shopkeepers,” Mr. Wilson can indeed be said to symbolize England. Yet Watson tells us that Mr. Wilson “bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous and slow.”

So a symbolic representative of the average Englishman is obese, pompous and slow—so slow that he doesn’t even recognize Holmes’s genius: “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all,” says Wilson, chuckling with self-satisfaction.

Once we leave 221B Baker Street, the main action of “The Red-Headed League” takes place in Saxe-Coburg Square (the surnames of Queen Victoria’s closest relatives), where we are introduced to Merryweather, a bank director dressed in an “oppressively respectable frock-coat” (now there’s a curious phrase) who apparently cares more about missing his card game than preventing a bank robbery, a police agent named Jones whom Holmes calls “an absolute imbecile,” and a criminal, John Clay, who as he is apprehended declares, apparently without irony: “I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands. You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness also when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”

No wonder Holmes declares near the end: “My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence.” After all, his remarkable gifts go unrecognized by the “oppressively respectable” and hypocritical society of his time. (To top it off, Holmes’s final remark is a quotation from Flaubert—another Frenchman.)

Crime so often shows the worst of human nature, so depicting an evil mother is not to be taken as a condemnation of all mothers. But consider the mother in “A Case of Identity” who connives with her second husband to take advantage of her daughter’s “short sight.” Not only is the Victorian ideal of the self-sacrificing mother inverted here, but even the daughter comes in for poor treatment. Watson tells us that Miss Mary Southerland has a “somewhat vacuous face,” gives a “rambling and inconsequential narrative,” and wears a “preposterous hat.” Watson notes her “vacuous” face twice and her shortsightedness several times. So much for the idealized image of the young woman as innocent victim of criminal deception.

In “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” an innocent man has been charged. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,” says Watson. “Many men have been wrongfully hanged,” Holmes replies, questioning and subverting the exalted principles of British jurisprudence.

Naturally, Inspector Lestrade dismisses Holmes’s methods:

     “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies.”

      “You are right,” said Holmes, demurely; “you do find it very hard to tackle the facts.”

Holmes calls Lestrade an “imbecile” later in the story.

Some of Holmes’s frustration at being dismissed by those with inferior minds is derived from Poe’s Dupin, another man with a brilliant mind who is forced to waste his time dealing with ignorant and unappreciative people. But Dupin’s contempt was displaced from Poe’s America and aimed at the Prefect of the Parisian police. Doyle was writing about his own society.

One might even suggest that the happy ending of this Holmes story, in which the young couple will live “in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past,” is a veiled condemnation of the average Briton’s ignorance of (or indifference to) the ravages of British colonialism, since the germ of the story’s conflict began years before in the diamond mines in Victoria, Australia. (Victoria, you say? Gee, that name sounds familiar…)

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WRAPPING IT UP

Posted on July 24, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen

This week I’d like to expand on a post I made on November 8, 2010, on EQMM’s Web-site forum, concerning confession scenes. They’re a staple of our genre, so much so that I suspect most writers of crime fiction have resorted to one at least once to wrap up a story. I’m sympathetic: a confession scene must sometimes seem irresistible to an author struggling to bring a particularly vexing plot to resolution. But it’s precisely when it’s used for that reason that this literary device causes me to groan—and I’ll bet every reader has had that reaction at one time or another to a killer’s spilling of the solution. My disappointment in this type of denouement doesn’t only derive from the fact that it replaces a display of deductive brilliance. Often, it’s that the psychology of the whole business is either absent or just doesn’t feel right.

You know the kind of scene I’m thinking of: upstanding pillar of society suddenly turns a gun on the nosy sleuth he’s convinced is about to finger him for the crime. But before despatching the detective, he can’t resist bragging about his cleverness. Such conscienceless pride over heinous acts is, in the real world, behavior typically associated with sociopaths, and despite the fact that sociopaths are known to be extremely adept at appearing “normal,” I always feel that if a fiction writer is going to hang the story on such a personality, some groundwork should be laid.

Not all confessions in fiction come from the mouths of sociopaths, of course. Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Tell-Tale Heart,” which involves perhaps the best-known confession in fiction, centers around a tortured conscience—something a sociopath, by definition, does not have. When I first posted on this subject I had just learned that Poe’s famous story was inspired by a real murder case that occurred in Salem, Massachusetts in 1830. The Smithsonian had just run an article by E.J. Wagner about the murder of Joseph White, an elderly former sea captain, and the subsequent trial of the men who conspired to kill him. White was a man of considerable fortune, with only nephews and a niece to inherit his estate were he to die intestate. Like many a wealthy old curmudgeon in mystery fiction, White was apparently fond of tormenting his family with changes to his will, and despite the picture newspapers painted of him as a “beloved old man,” he inspired hatred in some of his nearest and dearest.

What makes the case so interesting from the standpoint of mystery writing is that the perpetrators, in effect, led themselves to justice. It was their indiscretion in talking about the crime to at least one person who would later attempt to blackmail them—along with their own missteps in attempting to deflect suspicion—which led to their demise. The prosecutor on the case was the famous Daniel Webster—U.S. congressman and senator and twice Secretary of State. Regarded as the leading orator of his time, Webster was asked by a relative of the victim to assist the prosecution in the trial of one of the conspirators. After reading the Smithsonian article, I found a fuller text of Webster’s summation to the jury online, and I think it’s something every writer of confession scenes, at least of the non-sociopathological variety, should read.

According to E.J. Wagner, Samuel McCall, another lawyer and statesman of the time, called Webster’s speech “the greatest argument ever addressed to a jury.” It included these passages on the matter of conscience:

“He has done the murder. No eye has seen him . . . The secret is his own, and it is safe! Ah! Gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake . . . such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that ‘murder will out.’ . . . the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself, or rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torrent which it dare not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him, and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes . . . it breaks down his courage . . . When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed, it will be confessed . . .”

Anyone who’s read “The Tell-Tale Heart” will have no trouble agreeing with Poe scholars that Webster’s words, which apparently would have been known to Poe, probably inspired the famous short story. And it wasn’t only Poe who was influenced by Webster’s eloquent speech. Wagner points out that Nathaniel Hawthorne was living in Salem at the time of the trial and contributing stories to the local newspaper. He says: “I discovered the murder case had even found its way into some of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s works, with its themes of tainted family fortunes, torrential guilt and ensuing retribution.” More specifically, some scholars have connected the influence of Webster’s speech on Hawthorne to the need Hawthorne’s character Dimmesdale feels to confess in The Scarlet Letter.

What this all leads me to is a plea to writers concluding their stories with confession scenes: If you must use this device, try to do it with a degree of psychological realism. The interesting killer —to me, at least—is a character conflicted over his crime. He or she may have an egotistical desire so boast of the cleverness of what’s been done. Webster notes this is his speech. He says: “Such is human nature, that some persons lose their abhorrence of crime in their admiration of its magnificent exhibitions. Ordinary vice is reprobated by them, but extraordinary guilt, exquisite wickedness, the high flights of poetry and crime, seize on the imagination, and lead them to forget the depths of the guilt, in admiration of the excellence of the performance. . . ” Webster is addressing those who admire the criminal, but the same point pertains to the criminal’s self admiration. And Webster is very clear that alongside that glorification of the crime is the guilt that abides and grows in the soul. In modern terms we would say that if not for that—if not for conscience— we’d be dealing with a sociopath, and the sociopath is a type of character that is interesting to me, in fiction, primarily as a freak. He or she can be fascinating, of course, but not in the way a human character compels our interest.

The type of confession scene that makes me groan is that in which there’s been a kind of “cop out.” The plot has been resolved, but at the expense of making any sense of the character. That upstanding pillar of society who turns the gun on the nosy sleuth without any remorse and with a gloating pleasure in recounting his exploits is a cipher in the character department. If a story is going to be resolved by a confession, I want to see something of the inner conflict that leads to it.—Janet Hutchings

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“The Desert Island Mystery” (by James Powell)

Posted on July 17, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen
James Powell is one of very few writers to be found these days writing exclusively at short-story length, and his unique blend of mystery, fantasy, humor, and historical fact sets him apart even within the fraternity of short-story writers. But he isn’t really an unsung hero. He’s a winner of EQMM’s Readers Award, a recipient of Canada’s highest mystery award, the Arthur Ellis, and probably the person most often nominated for that award in the short story category (at least ten times!). 134 of his stories have appeared in EQMM. You have to pay attention to fully appreciate a Powell story—they’re rich with allusions and puns—but it’s well worth the effort. He’s one of the genre’s best entertainers—as you’ll see . . . —Janet Hutchings

I hope you’ll forgive me if I consider the mystery short-story writer the unsung hero of murder and mayhem. Mystery novelists earn fame and fortune writing books where four or five characters are killed at most. The short story writer of the genre eliminates that many characters every morning before breakfast.

I am not complaining. It’s what we do. Besides, I’m a Canadian and for us the unsung hero is the best of all. We even have an organization called Unsung Heroes Anonymous with chapters all across the country. I can’t tell you if I am a member or not because our bylaws prohibit it.

The heart (or heartlessness if you prefer) of the short story is its small cast of characters. Not for us the novelist’s convenient red herring the stately butler, for with him come the maids, footmen, and the whole damned Downton Abbey crowd. Off with all their heads! No room for Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, either. They’re just more heads to roll before we can begin. Yes, the mystery short-story writer is wading in blood before he sets his first word to paper.

Nor is there any room in a short story for even a mention of War and Peace. (Nor, Canadians take note, even for the War of 1812. Believe me, I’ve tried.)

The closest I’ve ever come to a well-populated story was one that appeared in EQMM thirty-eight years ago called “Bianca and the Seven Sleuths” which in addition to the heroine and her evil stepmother boasted a Disneyesque septet of private detectives, Pappy, Doughboy, Doc (who was actually a dentist and P.I. groupie) Ah Choo, Sandman, Grundig, and Shyster. Hiho! Hiho! (In part I was able to pull this off by providing one of these characters a day job as a deliveryman for a diaper service, which gave him the use of a stepvan to cart everybody around.)

But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. If you want to find out if that story was a success or not you can dig up the June, 1975 issue of EQMM and judge for yourself. Wait, let me spare you all that trouble. By lucky chance I just happen to have reprinted “Bianca and the Seven Sleuths” in my latest collection of stories A Dirge for Clowntown by James Powell (Kindle e-book, 2012). By the way, I did pull one of my dwarf crew out of this story for a career on his own. Harry Grundig’s several adventures also appear in the same collection, where he operates Aardvark Investigations, a name he chose in order to give himself top place in the P.I. listings in the telephone book. And you’ll also get to meet Inspector Bozo of the Clowntown police and see how many clowns he can get out of a compact short story.

But back to business. Though it isn’t a mystery story, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Man in the Crowd” may be the short story at it’s best, for there are really only two characters, the man and the crowd. (Speaking of Poe, it has been a long time since the Sherlock Holmsing pigeon drove the Raven “nevermoring” all the way, from its perch on the bust of Pallas just above Poe’s chamber door only to come back to us again as a good part of Johnny Depp’s Tonto headgear in the new Lone Ranger movie. Sherlock’s pigeon would be replaced a few years later by the Maltese Falcon. I wonder what kind of bird will come next to roost on that well-encrusted and put upon piece of statuary?)

Though again it is not a mystery story—some even call it a novella—you might say Robert Louis Stevenson goes Poe even one better (or one less) with “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” where there is essentially only one character.

Ideally, I guess the best mystery story would involve that favorite of magazine cartoonists everywhere, two people on a desert island. One of them ends up dead. Is it murder? Did the coconut fall from the tree or had it been pushed? Did the stingaroo, the deadly leaping jellyfish, leap out of the water or had it been thrown? (And just in case this bit of information might come in handy some day, they can be thrown. The trick is to grab them by their dorsal fin, spin them over your head several times, and throw.) To get back to our castaways, could one of them hate the other enough that the thought of being marooned there forever might be enough to drive him to suicide. But his hatred runs so deep that he plans the act so that it looks like murder so if rescue ever came his rival would be charged with the crime and spend the rest of his life in prison. Another possibility, let’s suppose they both get this idea and kill themselves at the same time. There’s the perfect short story. Two dead bodies. Well, people die everywhere. Even on desert islands. No characters at all, right. The only problem is where’s the detective? You can’t have a mystery without a detective.

Wait, what’s that bobbing off shore? Is it a shipwrecked Sam Spade clinging to a case of scotch or Inspector Maigret clinging to a loaf of French bread? No, it’s not even Hercule Poirot. “Zut alors, you idiot, Belgian bread!”

No, it’s a bottle, a pot-bellied glass bottle, and it’s heading this way. When it comes ashore the cork pops out and what have we got? A cloud of smoke that condenses into Inspector Genie of the Arabian Knights as that country’s crack police force is called. Now we’re getting somewhere. He’s pacing up and down examining the corpses, counting the coconuts in the tree, scanning the waters for the dorsal fin of the deadly stingaroo. He’ll solve this case in no time at all.

Hold it. He’s on his cell phone. He’s calling for backup. Can you believe it? In a moment there’s going to be the clicking of a thousand bottles washing up on this little island.

Okay, look, give me a fleet of stepvans and I think maybe I could handle Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Maybe. But a thousand and one Arabian Knights? No thank you. This looks like a case for Captain Balloon-Juice, champion of the long-winded. Somebody call a novelist. Hiho, hiho, it’s off to work on another short story this writer goes!

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“Why I Love the Policial: Brazil’s Bonanza of Crime Fiction” (by Clifford E. Landers)

Posted on July 10, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen
Translator Cliff Landers’s work for EQMM goes back many decades.  He’s also a professor—now professor emeritus at New Jersey City University—whose knowledge of Brazilian literature is extensive. He has translated from Brazilian Portuguese novels by Rubem Fonseca, Jorge Amado, João Ubaldo Ribeiro, Patrícia Melo, Jô Soares, Chico Buarque, Marcos Rey, Paulo Coelho, and José de Alencar as well as short stories by Lima Barreto, Rachel de Queiroz, Osman Lins, Moacyr Scliar, and Raphael Montes. In 1999, he received the Mário Ferreira Award for his work and in 2004, a Prose Translation grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. His latest book-length translation project in the crime field is Winning the Game and Other Stories by Rubem Fonseca. His insights into the current state of Brazilian crime fiction left me wanting to know more. . . . —Janet Hutchings

Crime fiction was long thought of as the privileged—if not exclusive—province of English-speaking writers. The detective/mystery genre that began with Edgar Allan Poe, an American, achieved maturity at the hands of British authors like Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and more recently P. D. James. Add in such classic American figures as Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and James M. Cain and it’s easy to understand why French, German, and even Latin American authors looked to the Anglophone world as a source of inspiration and technique.

That exclusivity is rapidly disappearing. More and more, writers outside the Anglo-American sphere are producing quality fiction in the genre—need I mention Stieg Larsson? Today I want to talk about a country more associated in the public mind with real-life crime than with crime fiction—Brazil.

For over 25 years I’ve been a translator of Brazilian works in all genres, from scholarly studies by leading academicians to cheery works for young adults. But of all the millions of words I’ve brought into English from Portuguese, the most gratifying—and most enjoyable—has been prose focusing on crime in all its guises.

Beyond the megalopolises of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, smaller cities and even the rural countryside serve as backdrop for a panoply of homicide and lesser transgressions. It is, however, urban crime that gets the headlines and makes the TV newscasts, where, as in the U.S., “if it bleeds, it leads.”

Unfortunately for the foreign aficionado of Brazilian crime fiction, the number of works translated into English is limited. In part this reflects the well-known (and lamentable) disinclination of Americans to read translations —and the subsequent reluctance of American publishers to take a chance on them. But they can be found; check your local library or Amazon.com.

The undisputed master of the genre known in Brazil as the policial is Rubem Fonseca. He has won every major literary prize in Latin America, including the Camões Prize in 2003, known as the Portuguese-language Nobel. An octogenarian who has been producing edgy, controversial fiction since the 1960s, he has inspired numerous younger writers. At the risk of appearing self-serving, I would like to call attention to two collections of his works still in print in this country. (Full disclosure: I am the translator of both, along with three of his novels.)

The Taker and Other Stories was published by Open Letter in 2008, the first collection of Fonseca stories available in English—fifteen tales of conflict and tension, leavened by the occasional foray into black humor. “Night Drive,” published in EQMM’s Prime Crimes anthology, is the embodiment of Hannah Arendt’s concept of the banality of evil: an unexceptional executive finds relief from ennui by nocturnal excursions in his high-performance car to run over luckless victims on deserted streets. The title story, “The Taker,” explores the acts of a psychopath whose random slaughter is channeled by a woman’s love into systematic terrorism. “Trials of a Young Writer” is a velocity exercise, a single eleven-page paragraph narrated by a hapless wannabe author whose thirst for glory leads to a death, a forged suicide note, and dubious fame. The protagonist of “Angels of the Marquees” (which first appeared in EQMM) learns to his regret that truly no good deed goes unpunished. “Happy New Year” led to the book in which it was published being banned by the military dictatorship that ruled Brazil from 1964 to 1985; it depicts in graphic terms the horrific upshot of the invasion of an upper-class Rio home on December 31 by a criminal gang. Much lighter in tone, “The Notebook” recounts how a cynical womanizer uses a small red notebook in furtherance of his sexual conquests.

Earlier this year, Winning the Game and Other Stories, comprising seventeen of Fonseca’s shorter works, was brought out by Tagus Press. The title story was published in EQMM and relates how, to quote the cover matter, “A loser elaborates a lethal plan to become, in his mind, a winner.” As in the earlier collection, the author’s somber view of humanity is lightened by flashes of humor. “Lonelyhearts” is the hilarious tale of a (male) former police reporter reduced to writing for a woman’s periodical under a feminine pseudonym. “The Game of Dead Men,” the first Portuguese-language work that I translated, is a chilling account of death-squad activities in Rio de Janeiro. “Belle,” “Xania,” and “Guardian Angel” feature a hit man, known only as José, a surprisingly complex personality who recurs in several of Fonseca’s works. “Mandrake” (the eponymous character is a lawyer with his own moral code) is a homage to American noir of the thirties and forties; the attentive reader will spot an allusion to The Big Sleep and perhaps to Farewell, My Lovely. More lighthearted is “Be My Valentine,” which takes place on Valentine’s Day and involves a rich banker on the prowl in his Mercedes, a transvestite, and Mandrake, called in to save the day when things turn ugly.

Fonseca’s novel Crimes of August (Agosto) is a recognized masterwork. Both a popular and critical success when published in 1990, it is an expert commingling of fact (the political intrigue leading to the suicide of President Getúlio Vargas in August 1954) and fiction (a bloody, possibly sex-related murder). It is forthcoming from Tagus Press.

Rubem Fonseca’s influence has now impacted two generations of Brazilian writers. Patrícia Melo, the leading female creator of Brazilian crime novels (The Killer and its sequel Lost World, Inferno, and In Praise of Lies—all available in English) found inspiration in Fonseca, and he in turn is a great admirer of her literary production. And a young phenom named Raphael Montes, whose novel Suicides was written when he was 19 and published at 21, readily acknowledges his admiration for Fonseca as well as the sway his work has exerted. (Montes’s story “Statement No. 060.719-67” is scheduled to appear in EQMM’s November 2013 issue.)

There is much more to say about the topic than space permits. I am currently organizing what I believe to be the first anthology of Brazilian crime fiction in English translation, which will include works by 25 authors ranging from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century. Including, needless to say, Rubem Fonseca.

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DIGITAL-EDITION SAVINGS

Posted on July 8, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen

Missed our last promotion? Fear not! From now until July 10th, you can receive 50% off a digital subscription to EQMM, only through Magzter.

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In Praise of Short Stories: Why Should a Prospective Novelist Start by Writing Short Stories? (by John F. Dobbyn)

Posted on July 3, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen
Last week author Twist Phelan talked about some of the different challenges involved in writing short stories and novels.  This week, author John F. Dobbyn argues that even writers interested primarily in becoming novelists should begin by writing short stories. EQMM continues to publish several authors who specialize almost exclusively in the short story—something that was much more common when there were more paying markets for short-story writers than there are today. Although I deplore the tendency some new writers have to view the short story as a lesser art form than the novel—just think of the late great Stanley Ellin and the masterful short stories he labored over for months and months at a time—I’ll certainly concede that anyone who seeks to make a living writing fiction today has got to aim for regular publication at novel-length. And John Dobbyn, who has successfully written every type of fiction, from short stories in verse form to short prose fiction to full-length thriller novels, is in the perfect position to tell aspiring novelists why attention should be paid to the skills needed for short story writing even in such a marketplace.  He illustrates by example too: He’s got a new short story, “Bright Diamond,” coming up soon in EQMM, and a new novel, Deadly Diamonds, scheduled for publication in September.—Janet Hutchings

Talent is a sweet commodity. It is an essential ingredient in the stew that brews a good writer. But by itself it is like a rough diamond—a shapeless, milky chunk of inert, uninspiring rock. A rough diamond requires time-consuming, arduous cutting and polishing before it can capture, focus, and emit light. So does good writing.

The question, then, is how best to shape a raw talent for writing into the ability to grab a reader by the throat with the first sentence and never let him/her loose until he/she is ready to drop back into the chair, moved, excited, and edified by the tale you’ve spun. May I suggest the best answer I have ever discovered—the short mystery story.

Consider this. Thirty-some years ago, I took my first step into the world of mystery-fiction writing. It was an assignment in a creative writing course that I took practically by accident. I veered from the assignment a bit by opting to write a short murder mystery using a blind criminology professor as the detective. At the teacher’s suggestion, I sent it to Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine. They bought it. I was stunned, shocked, and hooked.

The fact is, it was a fluke. I knew nothing about the technique of mystery-fiction writing. In fact, the magazine died a short time later. If there was a connection, I don’t want to know it.

Conclusive proof of my writing infancy was the fact that for the next six years I continued to throw short-story manuscripts over every transom of every magazine in the country. I collected enough rejection slips to paper our second floor. But . . . with every rejection slip, and the self-analysis that followed, I learned a new facet of the real art and technique of mystery-fiction writing.

I finally got a rejection slip from the editor of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (the wonderful Eleanor Sullivan, God love her) with a personal note —“You’re getting close. Don’t quit.”

She bought the next one, and Ellery Queen went on to publish the twenty short stories that followed, many under the capable editing of her successor, Janet Hutchings. And the writing of every one of those stories taught me something new. By the time I was ready to climb Mount Everest and write my first novel, Neon Dragon, whatever it may have had to recommend it was not an accident.

That leaves us with two questions: Why use the short story as basic training rather than following the strong temptation to jump right into a novel? And what exactly is it that writing short stories can teach anyway?

Stephen King once shared his observation that the average time between a beginning writer’s typing Chapter One of a first novel and the date of publication is—brace yourself—ten years. That confirms that it is a learned discipline and not an intuitive gift.

On average, it takes me two years to write and polish a novel. A short story takes me roughly three weeks (I teach law full time as well). So do the math. In the time it would take me to write a first full trial-balloon novel, which could easily be taking me down an unpublishable path, I could write roughly thirty-four and a half short stories. That means I would get thirty-four doses of feedback from short stories over the two-year period. Even form rejection slips at least tell me that I’m doing something wrong, and I can get back on the horse and try again.

And best of all, whatever feedback I do get is from professional editors, as opposed to the advice of equally neophyte members of my writing club, or my wife (who has always loved every word that dripped from my pen—thank God for her bias).

As to the particular disciplines taught by writing short stories, beyond the general training in telling a gripping story, I am most grateful for two. First, brevity. It cannot be ingrained too deeply in the writer’s psyche.

Before sending it to my current publisher, I once sent a novel manuscript to a wonderful, now deceased, editor at a major publishing house. The novel ran 110,000 words. She sent it back with the comment that it was 20,000 words too long, and, she stated, “I say that without reading one word of it.”

She was dead right. Before it could be published, at the demand of my current insightful editor at Oceanview Publications, I cut 20,000 words. It lost nothing and was twice as engaging. I had to go back to the fundamental lesson of short-story writing. Not one single word gets a free ride. If a word, or phrase, or paragraph does not advance the story or character development directly, it is amputated. It may be the cutest phrase I have ever written and cause my heart to bleed when I hit the delete button. It goes. And the reader says, “Thank you for not distracting me.”

My second most favorite benefit from short-story writing is more particularized. When I reached the point of crossing from short stories to my first novel, I started by conjuring the two main characters I intended to use in a legal thriller/mystery series. One was a young criminal defense trial attorney who would tell the story in the first person—Michael Knight. The second was a tough, craggy old lion of the criminal defense bar—Lex Devlin—with whom I would pair Michael ultimately in partnership.

The problem was that I did not know either of them so intimately that I could hear their voices in every situation into which I thrust them. To the rescue—the short-story format. I wrote three short stories, each of which was published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, test marketing and “breezing,” to use a horse-racing term, the two characters. By the time I brought the third short story to a conclusion, the characters were so deeply ingrained in my conscious and sub-conscious mind that they had a life of their own. And I could hear their voices clearly.

For all of the above reasons and more, I thank God that magazines like Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine still give new writers a training camp, and old writers a chance to re-hone the most basic skills.

Posted in Books, Characters, Editing, Fiction, Guest, Magazine, Novels, Publishing, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

INDEPENDENCE DAY DIGITAL-EDITION SALE

Posted on June 28, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen

Still looking for the perfect vacation reading? From July 1 through July 7, you can enjoy 50% off on digital subscriptions to both EQMM and AHMM. Available only through Zinio with the code SAVE50.

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“Writing Novels Versus Stories: It’s Not About the Word Count (well, just a little)” (by Twist Phelan)

Posted on June 26, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen
Twist Phelan is a former plaintiff’s attorney whose novels, but not her short stories, often make use of her legal background. Perhaps that’s because, as you’ll see in this post, her approach to short stories is very different from her approach when writing a novel. She’s received equally strong recognition for her short and long fiction—earning an International Thriller Award for Best Short Story for the EQMM tale “A Stab in the Heart” (February 2009) and nominations for several mystery awards for her novels. That makes her experience of the travails of working with these different literary forms (which she compares to endurance sports) all the more compelling.—Janet Hutchings

I’m writing this on stage one of my honeymoon—me, my husband, and 1,998 other cyclists are riding 550 miles from Telluride to Colorado Springs. Each rider has his or her unique athletic metabolism, a distinctive speed and efficiency with which he or she converts pedal strokes into forward movement. As the terrain varies, so does the riding style. For me, the best way to get up the mountains is to downshift and pedal at a high cadence. I sacrifice some speed but save my legs for the long haul. On the flats and descents, I push bigger gears, letting the power in my quads and hamstrings eat up the miles more quickly.

I have my own creative metabolism, too, when it comes to writing novels and short stories. Just like on the bike, I am focused on getting to the finish line, but depending on the route to be traveled, my methods—and thus my speed and technique—are different.

My novels always involve several major characters, subplots, at least one distinctive setting, and many conflicts and twists. The action is of considerable duration and length, in which the plot moves forward by various characters’ actions and thoughts and the results thereof. When writing a book, I’m prepared to go the distance.

In contrast, my short stories usually are centered on a single event or the tale of one particular character. The plots are tighter, the twists and conflicts fewer. I do try for an element of deception in my stories that I don’t seek to achieve in my mystery or thriller novels. I want a reader to begin a story thinking it is about one thing and that the tale is going in a certain direction but discover upon finishing that the story was about another thing and did not end up at all as expected. I’m not talking about a plot twist or a surprise ending. I mean the experience was completely different than anticipated, leaving the reader in an out-of-body state, gasping and slightly dazed like after a lung-burning time trial.

With a novel, I start with a situation that intrigues me, usually sparked by a news story or observation from life. In Doubt, my latest thriller, it was seeing a televised white-collar perp walk. It wasn’t the FBI agents escorting the accused down his mansion’s stone walk who interested me. Nor was it the Ponzi-schemer himself, despite his looting of $400 million of investor funds. No, it was the pale-faced, assisted-blond wife standing beside the front door who caught my eye, fingering the strand of pearls at her neck with one hand, clutching her Lilly Pulitzer sweater closed with the other, while agents searched her home. What if, I wondered, when the agents had arrived, her hedge-fund-honcho husband and his secretary were in the wind? What if, despite all evidence to the contrary, she still believed in his innocence?

Once I come up with the initial scenario, I create as a protagonist the person who is most ill suited to deal with it. In the case of Doubt, it was someone the wife wasn’t close to: her older sister, a corporate spy. I made notes on plot and character and setting, divided those ideas into three acts, further refined them into a detailed chapter outline, and began writing. Even though I knew I would rewrite it when the first draft was done, I did several versions of Chapter One. Although it helped me establish my narrative voice, getting past those false starts was one of the hardest parts of writing the book. I think of them as embarrassing baby photos, ones that thankfully won’t be posted on any real or virtual wall. Once the first draft was finished, I put it aside for a week or so before beginning rewrites. I revisited the entire book in several passes, looking for particular problems or weaknesses. When that was completed, I put it aside for another week, read it one more time, and sent it off to my agent. I’d completed the equivalent of a 550-mile ride over varied terrain and conditions.

This method doesn’t work when it comes to the mad dash that is a short story. Stories are a sprint, even the ones that are upwards of 15,000 words. I usually write stories in a two-step process. First, I think about them long enough to develop a narrative voice, identify my protagonist, and come up with the apparent problem, the one the reader will initially think the story is about. I’m pushing my creativity hard during this phase, mentally doing the equivalent of a series of muscle-searing intervals. Sometimes it takes me hours to get there, other times, days. But once this phase is done, I can sit down and write the first draft of the story in a couple of hours. I don’t make notes, I don’t outline. I just write the story, and then revise it after the fact. I make more passes on a story than I do on a novel, because there’s less margin for error. You can tarry too long at an aid station over the course of a century bike ride without appreciably altering the experience. But one wrong word or lazy metaphor can kill your story just like a mis-shift can doom a time-trial sprint.

I prefer cycling long distances, but sprint work is a necessary part of training: It increases my endurance capacity. So, too, do stories strengthen my novel-writing muscles, getting them in better shape to write precise dialogue and taut descriptions. Perhaps cycling and writing are closer than I think! I came up with an idea on my honeymoon bike trip for another Henri Karubje story. (He’s the Congolese-born New York detective in my Ellery Queen series.) I dictated the bursts of ideas generated by my imagination into my phone while keeping up the even pace needed to travel 90 miles across a valley in a crosswind. I saved the actual writing for when I was back at my computer. Some things you just can’t do on a bike.

Posted in Adventure, Books, Editing, Fiction, Guest, Novels, Setting, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

Posted on June 19, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen

At the Malice Domestice Convention this year, I met Wildside Press publisher John Betancourt in the book room and received from him a gift of his 1993 anthology Swashbuckling Editor Stories. In John’s introduction, after noting that editors are “underpaid, overworked, their labor usually unacknowledged . . ., [and are] risking eyestrain and blindness . . . , stress-induced strokes from sales conferences, and heart attacks from constant pressure . . . ,” he says that nevertheless “eager young would-be editors flood the streets of Publisher’s Row by the thousands.”

I have no idea whether it’s still true today—twenty years after John’s book went to press—that new college English graduates are pounding the pavements looking for entry-level editorial positions. We have too little turnover at the Dell fiction magazines to gauge how many such job seekers there are out there. But one thing is certain: If publishing retains its romantic aura for new graduates, this is the season (university terms just ended) that they’ll be out there in their swarms. So I thought I’d devote this week to offering a few reflections that may help—or maybe even give pause to—some of those young editors in the making.

Not long after I started in publishing I received an irate letter from an author whose novel I’d rejected that denounced the insularity of New York editors, who were, he claimed, disconnected from the rest of the country. As a Midwesterner who was proud to come from “flyover country,” I found his assertion ridiculous—never mind that just about everyone else I’d met in publishing was also from some other part of the country. The writer was clearly off base thinking there’s a bias in New York publishing against manuscripts from beyond the boundaries of the city’s boroughs. But in a strange way, his complaint came close to hitting on a truth.

Coming to New York to work is almost like passing into another country—and it’s one from which, more often than not, newcomers don’t return. It’s been said many times before in one way or another, but it’s probably worth restating: New York has a gravity that isn’t easily resisted. I’ve known many people who came to New York publishing from elsewhere; I’ve known few who’ve ever left the city’s orbit, within a few hours’ ground travel away. It’s hard to turn away from this city’s powerful energy. So beware, new graduates: You might not want to start on this journey unless you envision a life in or near the Big Apple. Technology is changing somewhat the need for a geographical center for publishing, but a newcomer’s best bet is still to be at the center of things, and for publishing, that’s still New York.

For those who decide life in the big city is for them, the next thing to consider is what kind of preparation is required to land an entry-level job. I came to EQMM midway through the magazine’s 50th anniversary year— a time of celebration that included a Bouchercon Convention panel devoted entirely to EQMM and its history. It was held in a large room, which, astonishingly, was packed full of readers, many of whom had come equipped with file cards—I kid you not— full of questions they intended to ask about stories published two, three, four, five decades past. I may have been EQMM’s editor, but I spent the first forty minutes of that panel swiveling my head back and forth between the experts around me, and thanking my luck that they could answer the questions. It was only in the last few minutes of the session that a question was addressed to me that could not be deflected to my more knowledgeable co-panelists. ‘This may be off topic,’ the member of the audience said—and here I paraphrase, ‘but I want to ask you, as a writer whose work you rejected both when you were a book editor and, more recently, at the magazine: What qualifications do you bring to the job?’

If you’ve ever suffered from nerves over public speaking, try that one on as a surprise question. Did this young writer want my resume? Would it give him satisfaction to know that I only got my first job because someone in Doubleday’s personnel department took pity on me after I’d failed the mandatory typing test twice and set the egg timer for more than the stipulated minutes?

I can’t remember how I answered my questioner on that occasion, but I know how I’d reply now.  Students come out of colleges expecting that employers are going to be assessing the knowledge they’ve accumulated or their intellectual abilities and talents. In fact, the step in the door is rarely taken that way: before computers, expert typing was essential (for man or woman) and often a successful proofreading test. At our magazines, the latter is still entry-level job criteria number one. But it’s once the would-be editor is in the door that the real determination of qualifications begins. Experienced editors assign new editorial assistants manuscripts to report on. The decision whether an assistant will make the cut when opportunities for promotion open up is generally based in large part on those manuscript reports.

But it isn’t just literary judgment that’s in question: the market also speaks. The first editorial meetings I attended, as an assistant, were large affairs headed by an editor-in-chief who one day asked whether there was anyone in the room who didn’t have a TV. She didn’t want anyone (like me) who didn’t have a TV reading manuscripts, she said.  She explained her requirement by challenging us to say how we could know what people were going to want to read—what books they’d buy—if we weren’t aware of what was attracting them in other cultural mediums. I’ve never been without a TV since, and I’ve never forgotten her point. It’s the editors who can pick the books or stories people want to read who find a place in the business.

An editor doesn’t just acquire books or stories, however. Much of the job involves interaction with authors and that, I guess, is what publishing’s reputation as a “glamour” business derives from.  Some of those authors are bound either to be famous or to become so—and isn’t it a movie cliché that intimate editorial discussions with authors are held in exclusive restaurants over three-martini lunches? The cocktails part—way too many—is the one remnant of that old-time publishing picture that still survived when I started out, but even that’s mostly gone now. And even if it weren’t, no one who’s attracted to the business primarily by the opportunity to hobnob is going to last long. Most of an editor’s job is quiet, solitary, and taxing both mentally and emotionally.

It’s mentally taxing because of the wide range of subjects an editor has either to know something about or be willing to delve into enough to check facts; it’s emotionally taxing because the decisions that have to be made affect other people’s dreams.  One of our magazines once received a submission from a prison chaplain on behalf of a prisoner on death row. The story came with a note imploring that a reply be sent quickly, because the prisoner didn’t have long to live. I think the absurdity of it would have made more of our staff laugh than did if it hadn’t been for the pitiable nature of that last hope—but it isn’t only the desperate to whom an editor’s decisions matter. I was at a conference once where I heard a very well published author state that she had felt more pleasure over the publication of her first novel than she did over the births of any of her children. Perhaps there was an element of narcissism in that, but it’s also possible that the author was simply expressing how powerful the urge for creative expression was in her.

An editor who doesn’t understand the force of that need to make a creative connection to the world, or who fails to understand how vulnerable a writer becomes in offering the products of his or her imagination to the world, is probably not going to gather to him- or herself a productive circle of authors.  Empathy for the writer laboring over a creative work—no matter what level of quality is achieved—is, in my opinion, an essential qualification for this career.  Certainly there is no point in encouraging false hopes in those who clearly don’t have the talent for publication; nevertheless, there’s an urge behind almost all fiction writing, good or bad, that deserves respect.

In John’s tongue-in-cheek introduction to Swashbuckling Editor Stories, he hits on some genuine hazards to the editorial profession. But worse than any of those commonly acknowledged downsides, in my view, is the necessity the job places upon one to dash hopes. On days when I’m writing rejecting letters—hands down my worst days—I’m almost always in a dark mood. Somewhere I read—perhaps on a writers’ forum, I can’t remember—the comment that editors are always looking for reasons to send a story back.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Who in their right mind would go into a profession with all the disadvantages John describes but for the thrill of discovery it simultaneously affords. To come across a great novel, a wonderful story, or a new writer with a distinctive voice, and then to have the happiness of bringing that as yet undiscovered treasure to others—that’s what it’s all about.

I was thinking that just the other day as I was reading submissions and chanced on several stories in a row that took me completely out of myself.  I’d have paid, gladly, to read each one of those stories, and instead, someone was paying me to read them. When it comes to careers, it’s hard to beat that. If you think so too, new graduates, it’s time to get out there and knock on some doors.—Janet Hutchings

Posted in Anthologies, Books, Business, Editing, Fiction, Publishing, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Free Advice from James Lincoln Warren

Posted on June 12, 2013 by somethingisgoingtohappen
On this site posts seldom involve explicit advice to writers, but James Lincoln Warren wrote an engaging piece for Criminal Brief, a blog site he founded, several years ago that we thought readers as well as writers would enjoy. He has updated and revised the column for us. Unfortunately, Criminal Brief, a site devoted to short stories, has closed, but some of its contributors are now posting regularly on SleuthSayers. James Lincoln Warren is one of those rare writers (much valued by the Dell fiction magazines) who specialize in the short story. He is a winner of the Black Orchid Novella Award, given jointly by AHMM and the Wolfe Pack (a society devoted to all things related to the immortal Rex Stout character Nero Wolfe). —Janet Hutchings

Here, completely free, is some advice for aspiring short story writers of crime fiction. These are all little things, but then again, a fatal bullet is a little thing, too. Yeah, I know that free advice is worth exactly what one pays for it, especially as I will not pay you for following my advice, unlike an actual editor who may send you a check for following her advice. So I appeal to you in my capacity as a devoted reader rather than as a professional writer, by letting you know what makes my eyes roll. (And who wants a reader’s eyes ever leave the page?)

Don’t let your research show.

Sometimes the most fun I have in writing a story is doing research for it. I’ll always find much more than I need, and being of a somewhat curious nature, by which I mean inquisitive rather than eccentric, although the latter sense is pretty accurate, too—anyway, being of a somewhat curious nature, I am frequently deeply fascinated by what I find, and feel the strong temptation to share all my new-found and riveting knowledge. But I restrain myself. Usually.

It’s a cardinal rule of writing short stories that only those things essential to the tale should be told. What makes this particularly true of research is that research is like a brassiere. Its purpose is to give support to the story, but you don’t want the straps showing. When it’s really standing up on the job, it’s invisible. Otherwise, it’s distracting as hell.

Gratuitous sex and violence are, well, gratuitous.

I’m not saying that a story should never have any sex or violence in it, but I promise you that explicit violence in a story won’t affect you as strongly as real violence will, and explicit sex in a story is never as much fun as the real thing, although the author is very likely to lie about how it is. But a good short story doesn’t have room for anything gratuitous.

What’s interesting about visceral experiences in story-telling isn’t the effect on the reader, but rather the effect on the characters, since it’s the characters that actually affect the reader. Gratuitous sex and violence do not develop character.

Bloated exposition and description are also gratuitous, although they’re less controversial because they’re dull, which is rarely the case with sex and violence. But when something is present only to titillate, we usually call that pornography.

If you use a thesaurus to find a synonym, look up the synonym in the dictionary before you use it.

The sad truth is that synonyms are rarely 100% interchangeable. I once read a story where the author used the word consanguinity in lieu of relationship to describe the confluence of a number of factors in determining an outcome. This is a misusage.

Consanguinity is a type of relationship, but in its literal sense it means a relationship by blood. Metaphorically, it means a relationship by way of descent from a common origin, the relationship between things that share similar characteristics, rather than the relationship between things that interact. You and your cousin may be friends, but being cousins and being friends are two different kinds of relationship—only the former is consanguineal. The author could have used marriage to describe different factors working together, and gotten away with it, but in the context used, consanguinity made no sense.

Not only is it not necessary to have a twist ending, usually it’s a bad idea.

A story should stand on its own merits. The most frequent problem with twist endings is that the vast majority of the time, the reader can see it coming. He will be thinking, “Surely the ending won’t be that obvious, will it?” and then be irritated that he wasted his time slogging through the whole story to get there when it is.

Unless you are Jeffery Deaver, O. Henry, or a few others I can think of, you should not attempt this at home without professional supervision. Most really good short stories don’t have surprise endings. Name me one Sherlock Holmes story that does.

Stories about the commission of a crime, instead of how it is solved, are rarely as interesting as you think they are.

It’s a lot easier to commit a crime than to solve one. By extension, it’s a lot easier to write about committing a crime than solving one. Taking the easy way out usually shows. I make an exception for capers, which are engaging because the crime must be so fiendishly clever. Yes, admittedly there are lots of great straight crime stories out there, especially if you are James M. Cain or Lawrence Block, but those guys happen to be James M. Cain and Lawrence Block.

I particularly dislike most revenge stories—revenge as a motive is often obsessively monotonous. Every good revenge story I can think of actually hangs its hat on some other quality of the story than its protagonist’s motive.

And last but not least . . .

Don’t ever begin your story with, “It was a dark and stormy night …”

It is not clever, even if it’s supposed to be funny. It is categorically impossible to write a good story that begins with that phrase unless you are Snoopy, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, or Madeleine L’Engle.

Clichés at any time are bad, but to use one to introduce yourself to your reader is like having eye-watering B.O. when you meet someone for your first date. No matter how charming, witty, brilliant, and beautiful you are the rest of the evening, there is nothing that can rescue you from that devastating first impression.

Look, I don’t care if your story actually begins with a dark and stormy night or not, Elmore Leonard’s famous dictum to never begin a story with the weather notwithstanding, but if it does, make your point some other way. Write “Lightning flashed, limning the horizon against the black sky,” if you want. Or maybe “Rain pelted the roof, and looked like it would keep coming until morning.” Anything but those Deadly Seven Words. Please.

Posted in Business, Editing, Fiction, Genre, Guest, Setting, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments