“Engaging an Audience: Components of the Thriller Writer’s Art” (by Mike Cooper)

Joining us this week is Mike Cooper, one of our 2012 Barry Award nominees, for the short story “Whiz Bang” (EQMM Sept/Oct 2011). That stellar story is a locked-room mystery, but its author is better known as a thriller writer. Mike Cooper is the pseudonym of a former jack-of-all-trades. Under a different name (which he used for his previous EQMM stories) his work has received wide recognition, including a Shamus Award, a Thriller nomination, and inclusion in Best American Mystery Stories. The sequel to his novel Clawback will be published by Viking in 2013. Mike lives outside Boston with his family. He spends a lot of time with his kids—as you’d guess from his post!—Janet Hutchings

At Bouchercon earlier this month, I sat on a panel discussing thrillers. That’s the sort of novel I write, but talking about one’s own work isn’t all that interesting. Instead, I prepared by reviewing some of the great writers in the genre. Eventually I chose one author, whose bestsellers are among the most widely read books in America, and whose writing exemplifies several aspects of the thriller. Based on an informal survey of the audience, he may also be one of those rare authors that everyone has actually read (besides Lee Child, naturally).

Of course I’m talking about Dav Pilkey, author of the phenomenal Captain Underpants series.

For readers of a certain age, few superheroes match the exuberant heroics of Captain Underpants. Disdained by grade-school teachers and librarians everywhere, not to mention parents who’ve had to read the books over and over to their preliterate offspring, The Adventures of Captain Underpants and its sequels are a riot of absurd action, gross-out humor, and potty jokes.

But the stories also demonstrate numerous components of the thriller writer’s art. Before transcending reader expectations, a good thriller, like any genre novel, must first fulfill them. Breaking down the structural elements of Pilkey’s stories can help us learn how it’s done.

Ordinary Heroes

Setting aside military and spy plots for a moment, a key element of many thrillers is their everyday, ordinary-Joe protagonist. A regular guy (or woman) is yanked out of his mundane routine, forced to run for his life, confront dangers and terrors he barely knew existed, find resources deep within himself, and defeat powerful enemies.

George and Harold fit the bill exactly. Fourth graders, they do well enough at school but chafe at the rules, find their classes uninspiring, and feud with the humorless disciplinarian Principal Krupp. Their primary amusements are silly pranks—itching powder in the football team’s uniforms, for example—and drawing comic books.

Not Superman, in other words, but Everyman.

Supremely Powerful Enemies

A thriller’s tension can only be ratcheted as high as the strength of the opposition, and Captain Underpants faces down villains of typically planet-wrecking capability. Dr. Diaper, for instance:

“In exactly twenty minutes, this laser beam will blow up the moon and send huge chunks of it crashing down upon every major city in the world!” laughed Dr. Diaper. “Then, I will rise from the rubble and take over the planet!”

Or Wicked Wedge Woman, with unstoppable bionic superpowers. Bionic Booger Boy, the Radioactive Robo-Boxers, and more . . . the list of supervillains appears limited only by Pilkey’s publishing schedule.

Educational Elements

Part of the appeal of a good thriller, perhaps ironically for a genre considered escapist, is the chance to learn something new. A foreign locale, espionage techniques, unusual skills—or simply the jargon and activities of unfamiliar professions. Among all the fart jokes and fighting robots, Captain Underpants occasionally slips in improving snippets.

For example, the boys’ repeated prank of rearranging letters on outdoor signs. “Joe’s Furniture—Come In And See Our Pretty Armchairs” becomes “Come See Our Hairy Armpits!” At school, “See Our Big Football Game Today” becomes “Boy Our Feet Smell Bad!” Who knows, perhaps our son’s current Scrabble enthusiasm stems in part from Captain Underpants word games.

Often the inside information has to do with our next topic . . .

Cutting-Edge Technology

Many thrillers include the newest, deadliest, coolest gadgetry—and in this sphere above all, Captain Underpants cannot be beat. From the Laser-Matic 2000 to the Robo Plunger (powered by Photo-Atomic Trans-Somgobulatory Yectofantriplutoniczanziptic energy), villains and heroes alike are armed with the most advanced machines science has to offer.

And really, did James Bond ever have to face down an army of sentient, steel-toothed Talking Toilets?

Complicated, Well-Developed Characters

If you’re in the small group of people who’ve never read Captain Underpants, the depth of Pilkey’s characterization might surprise you. Some of the action is cartoonish, sure, and the plots are absurd. But even his villains can have emotionally resonant backstories. Professor Poopypants, for example, is a brilliant scientist but teased for his name; when he becomes a science teacher at George and Harold’s school, it is unrelenting mockery from the students that finally drives him to a maddened attempt to take over the world.

Or take Dr. Diaper, who is defeated not by violence but by embarrassment (carefully placed rubber dog-doo convinces the doctor that he’s had an accident, and he flees in shame).

Even some of Pilkey’s asides are tellingly insightful:

It’s been said that adults spend the first two years of their children’s lives trying to make them walk and talk . . . and the next sixteen years trying to get them to sit down and shut up.

It’s the same way with potty training: Most adults spend the first few years of a child’s life cheerfully discussing pee and poopies, and how important it is to learn to put your pee-pee and poo-poo in the potty like big people do.

But once children have mastered the art of toilet training, they are immediately forbidden to ever talk about poop, pee, toilets, and other bathroom-related subjects again.

One day you’re a superstar because you pooped in the toilet like a big boy, and the next day you’re sitting in the principal’s office because you said the word “poopy” in class.

His conclusion—“adults are totally bonkers”—seems valid.

I suppose I’m not being entirely serious. Although I have read every word of Pilkey’s oeuvre I can’t say they’re truly classics, destined for generations of young-adult attention and lit-crit analysis. But that’s not the point. Many children, especially boys, really really love Captain Underpants. They read the books over and over and talk about them with their friends. They get excited to know a new one is coming next month. Heck, they write fanfic!—by making up their own comics in Captain Underpants style.

As a writer engaging an audience, Dav Pilkey has more than succeeded. It’s worth paying attention to how he’s done so.

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Are you an iPad user?

If so, you may be able to take advantage of a special offer good only through Sunday, October 28. By special arrangement with Zinio Newsstand, all new subscribers can get a three-month trial subscription to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine at 25% off the regular price. You’ll find the offer here. —Janet Hutchings

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“The American Regional Mystery” (by Marvin Lachman)

Last week’s post inspired some discussion on the role of fans within the mystery community.  This week’s guest post is by one of our genre’s most distinguished fans, Marvin Lachman. In addition to the work he mentions in his post, Marv has written reviews of mystery short stories, collections, and anthologies; he regularly assists in the selection of nominees for the Barry Awards (which requires reading virtually every mystery short story published each year); and he produced the sequel to John Nieminski’s index of EQMM, which he updates yearly.
In his reply to last week’s post, J.F. Norris said: “People have no idea what kind of exciting discussions can take place if they would take the time to pay homage to those who came before the current crop of writers.”  Anyone who’s ever had a chance to talk mysteries with Marv Lachman will know how true that is. . . . Janet Hutchings

Though my book, The American Regional Mystery, was published in 2000, I still receive questions about regional mysteries. Someone even labeled me “Mr. Regional Mystery.”

Now, virtually every American mystery novel has a regional component, with considerable space devoted to the geography, speech, climate, and environmental problems that are peculiar to the book’s setting. That wasn’t the case in 1969, when puzzle and plot predominated. That year, in The Mystery Lover’s Newsletter, I began a series on regional mysteries with an article on New England. I continued my series there until they ceased publication in 1973, and then I finished the series in The Armchair Detective through 1977.

Many years went by. I retired from my “day job,” allowing me to read and process the many regional mysteries published in the 1980s and 1990s. Finally, I finished my book, which managed to win the Macavity Award and an Agatha nomination for 2000. Ironically, by that time I began to have some reservations about regional mysteries.

I began to believe that overlong regional mystery descriptions were increasingly becoming a substitute for strong plotting and puzzle, the elements so prominent in the work of Ellery Queen. Their mysteries attracted me to this genre way back in 1943. Though I decried some regional mysteries, I was well aware that the best mysteries combine detection and local atmosphere. Examples include Queen’s Cat of Many Tails (1949) and their Wrightsville series about New England.

Among the many other regional mysteries I recommend are the following:

NEW ENGLAND—Jane Langton’s The Transcendental Murder (1964; reprinted as The Minuteman Murder, 1976), a book combining history and detection).

BOSTON—Robert B. Parker: Most of his Spenser series, especially Ceremony (1982), and his non-series book All Our Yesterdays (1994).

NEW YORK CITY—Annette Meyers’s The Big Killing (1989), with its accurate picture of Wall Street, and most of the books of Linda Fairstein, beginning with Final Jeopardy (1996).

ALBANY—For the site of next year’s Bouchercon, try Richard Stevenson’s mysteries, beginning with Ice Blues (1986). They emphasize the politics of New York’s capital.

WASHINGTON, D.C.—Though their books may have been ghostwritten, the mysteries of two Presidential offspring, Margaret Truman and Elliott Roosevelt, contain much good regional material.

VIRGINIA—Leslie Ford’s The Town Cried Murder (1939), regarding colonial Williamsburg, and Rita Mae Brown’s Murder at Monticello (1994).

FLORIDA—Almost anything by John D. MacDonald, especially A Flash of Green(1962), probably the first ecological crime novel.

CLEVELAND—Those who attended the 2012 Bouchercon were probably introduced to the work of Les Roberts, whose The Cleveland Connection (1993) refers to the time when the city had so much pollution that its Cuyahoga River “caught fire” when sparks ignited debris there.

MICHIGAN—Until now I have only mentioned novels. The short stories of Doug Allyn contain much regional description (plus superior plotting) of its Upper Peninsula. An example is his “Icewater Mansions” (EQMM January 1992, set along Lake Huron. In 1995 it was expanded into a novel with the same name).

DETROIT—Recently, Loren D. Estleman has been writing short stories about Hollywood and old films, but his series about private eye Amos Walker contains some of the best descriptions of Detroit. He has also written five novels, beginning with Whiskey River (1990), about sixty years of Detroit’s crime history.

TEXAS—Full disclosure: Bill Crider is a friend and has been for over thirty years. I can’t allow that to keep me from recommending his many series, especially the one about Sheriff Dan Rhodes of rural “Blacklin” County.

NEW MEXICO—When I first read Tony Hillerman, I lived in New York and didn’t fully appreciate until I moved to New Mexico what a good job Hillerman did on capturing the three cultures (Hispanic, American Indian, and Anglo) in that state. Start by reading the first, The Blessing Way (1970), and go on from there. For other pictures of New Mexico, try Walter Satterthwait’s The Hanged Man (1993) on Santa Fe style and any of the books of Michael McGarrity.

LAS VEGAS—Writing of that city, Don Winslow, in While Drowning in the Desert (1996), calls it “a combination of unlimited space and unlimited money unconstrained by common sense or good taste.”

UTAH—Though his religion has not become a major issue, Mitt Romney’s presidential campaign has made people somewhat more aware of the Mormon faith.  Robert Irvine’s mysteries, such as Baptism for the Dead (1988), emphasize that “Life in present-day Utah continues to be inextricably intertwined with Mormonism.”

LOS ANGELES—The lifestyle of that city is largely based on the automobile. Charlotte Armstrong’s short story “The Case for Miss Peacock” (EQMM February 1965) involves a retiree, newly moved there, who is questioned by the police because she is walking and cannot produce a driver’s license for identification. They are not impressed when she offers to show them her library card. Of course, Raymond Chandler was perhaps the first great regional writer, and his books depict Los Angeles during the 1930s and 1940s. Many decades later, it is Michael Connelly who is the great L.A. writer.

SAN FRANCISCO—Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade and that city are closely connected, so much so that someone once spray-painted “Miles Archer was shot here,” on a sidewalk in reference to Spade’s partner in The Maltese Falcon (1930). Anthony Boucher, for whom Bouchercon was named, lived in Berkeley, on San Francisco’s East Bay. Best known for his mystery criticism, he also wrote fiction, and his first novel, The Case of the Seven of Calvary (1937), depicts the University of California campus there.

WASHINGTON—Mysteries about Portland, Oregon, and Seattle depict their abundant rainfall. In her Until Proven Guilty (1985), J.A. Jance says, “Seattle is used to the kind of gentle drizzle that lets people walk in the rain for blocks without an umbrella and without getting wet.” However, in Payment in Kind (1991), she places her series character J. P. Beaumont in a drenching downpour.

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Bouchercon XLIII

Last week I was in Cleveland for the forty-third Anthony Boucher Memorial World Mystery Convention, or (as everyone knows it) Bouchercon.  I imagine most readers of this blog are already familiar with Bouchercon, the yearly gathering of mystery fans, writers, publishers, and critics, each time in a different host city; but many will not know that Anthony Boucher, born William Anthony Parker White, had several important connections to Ellery Queen and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

Boucher had already written several short stories that appeared in early issues of EQMM before he was asked, in 1945, to take over the plotting for The Adventures of Ellery Queen radio series. In the partnership that was Ellery Queen, Frederic Dannay had always been responsible for the plotting and his cousin Manfred B. Lee for the writing of the novels, stories, and scripts they produced under the Queen byline. But in 1945, Fred Dannay was unable to keep up with the workload of weekly scripts together with his many other commitments. Boucher stepped in and plotted close to 100 scripts for the series.

During that same period of time Boucher was reviewing mysteries for the San Francisco Chronicle. Later, he became an important reviewer for the New York Times, and, yes, for EQMM.

Boucher’s many other talents included editing, and he was at least as influential in the science fiction field, where he co-founded The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, as he was in mystery. But where he shone perhaps most brightly for EQMM was as a translator.  It was Boucher who submitted to Fred Dannay the first English translation of the work of the great Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges, whose story “The Garden of Forking Paths,” as translated by Boucher, appeared in the August 1948 issue of EQMM. That first appearance in English of a major figure in world literature remains one of the milestones in EQMM’s history of which we are most proud.

I attended my first Bouchercon in 1989, before I was editor of EQMM, and before I knew anything about Boucher’s connections to the magazine or Ellery Queen.  Anthony Boucher’s widow, Phyllis White, was sometimes at the conventions in those days, and I wish now that I’d known enough to ask her about her husband and his work for Ellery Queen.

Bouchercons today are larger than they were when I started going, and it seems to me that there are fewer fans and more writers and aspiring writers than there used to be. That’s an impression, not something I could document, but one validated for me at this year’s short story panel, where the audience was asked how many were attending because they were readers of short stories and how many because they wanted to write them. Almost every hand went up at the call for the latter.

This is not necessarily a bad thing, of course. Conventions are ideally suited to helping new writers learn things they’ll need to know to become successful, and to allowing established writers to connect with each other and their publishers and other business people. But I will admit to feeling a little disappointed that at our short story panel, no one from the audience either commented about or brought up the work of any of our genre’s classic short story writers. A convention should also be, I believe, a place to remember, celebrate, and discuss the work of those who’ve achieved the highest standards in the genre, and maybe that requires more “fan” panels.  (My thinking on that also derives from the surprisingly good turnout for this year’s panel devoted to Rex Stout, which was opposite panels with a couple of bestselling contemporary authors on them.)

Overall, the Cleveland Bouchercon was a high-energy affair, starting with the opening ceremonies Thursday at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, where toastmaster John Connolly rocked the crowd with his humor and moved the awards presentations along at a pace that pleased everyone. It was a good night for the Dell mystery magazines, with Jeffrey Cohen claiming the Barry Award for his story in AHMM, “The Gun Also Rises,” and Dana Cameron winning the Macavity for her EQMM story “Disarming” (available for reading on our Web site). Two Derringer Awards went to stories from EQMM:  “A Drowning at Snow’s Cut” by Art Taylor and “Brea’s Tale” by Karen Pullen.

The congratulations of everyone at Dell Magazines go to all of the winners and also to those contributors who were nominated for Thursday evening’s awards. From EQMM, they are: Mike Cooper for “Whiz Bang,” (for the Barry); Trina Cory for “Facts Exhibiting Wantonness” (for the Barry and the Macavity); James Powell for “Last Laugh in Floogle Park” (for the Barry); Peter Turnbull for “The Man Who Took His Hat Off to the Driver of the Train” (for the Macavity). From AHMM, they are: Doug Allyn for “Thicker Than Blood” and Eric Rutter for “Purge.”

A Friday of podcasting and panels wound up for me and my colleague from AHMM, Linda Landrigan, with a river and lake dinner cruise on the Nautica Queen with the Private Eye Writers of America, who presented the Shamus Awards onboard.  EQMM had four nominees for the Shamus: Terence Faherty for “A Bullet From Yesterday,” Lee Goldberg for “Mr. Monk and the Sunday Paper,” Michael Haskins for “Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West,” and Michael Z. Lewin for “Who I Am.”  L.A. Wilson, Jr. completed the line-up of nominees with his AHMM story “Dancer in a Storm.” The Shamus went to Michael Z. Lewin. Hearty congrautlations to him, and to all of the other nominees!

I wish I’d had time to tour more of Cleveland during the weekend but a full schedule, rain, and wind all conspired against it. Many people did seem to get out and see the sights, though, and thanks to the scouting of EQMM contributor Marilyn Todd and her husband Kevin I managed to see a little of Cleveland’s East Fourth Street neighborhood and dine with them at one of its restaurants on Saturday night—after seeing Dana Cameron win the Anthony Award for her EQMM story “Disarming.” Congratulations are certainly due to Dana: The Anthony is the third award her story has received!

Bouchercons, when it comes down to it, are about conversations, and I was fortunate in having the opportunity this time to sit down with a number of EQMM’s authors, including Charlaine Harris, Toni Kelner, Dana Cameron, Jack Fredrickson, Terry Faherty and his wife Jan, Dave Zeltserman, Mike Cooper, Karen Pullen, Mary Jane Maffini, Terrie Farley Moran, new writer Suzanne Rorhus, and Josh Pachter and his wife Laurie. I’m leaving out many other EQMM writers whom I had a chance to see only briefly, but check out the websites of these few. If you’ve never been to a Bouchercon, it will give you an idea of the range of types of authors who attend this large and seemingly ever-growing convention. Who knows, maybe we’ll see you there next time. . . .

Janet Hutchings

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“Writing About What You Want to Know” (by Janice Law)

An Edgar Allan Poe Award nominee for her mystery fiction, Janice Law has always also written mainstream novels and stories, so her perspective on fiction writing is wide. She has taught writing, and she blogs regularly on Janice Law, writer, and as a guest on SleuthSayers.  She joins us today with some reflections on the old adage “Write what you know.” Her latest novel is The Fires of London. —Janet Hutchings

One of the cliches of the writing business, and standard advice for young writers, is write what you know. This is simply good sense, ignorance not being bliss in the writing game. The problem is that writing what you know is often construed too narrowly. If we only wrote what we knew, there would be a lot fewer spy novels and torrid romances. Many a cowboy would never leave the corral, and fairy princesses and Middle-earth types would be thin on the ground.

Fortunately, we need never worry that a lack of personal experience is going to curtail our favorite genres. Writers not only write what they know but to discover what they want to know, and, in the case of certain minds, to discover what they think but haven’t verbalized. Yet, write what you know remains good advice. Writers just need to discover connections between what they know for sure of sounds, smells, sights, emotions, and what they do not know for sure or know only at second hand.

This is the job of the imagination, and like other facets of writing, it improves with practice and with sacrifices to the Muse in the form of long hours at the keyboard or the writing desk. It also requires an alert recognition of potential interest even in areas outside one’s comfort zone.

I’ve been thinking about this, as my latest novel, The Fires of London, represents an interesting balance of what I know, what I decided to discover, and what, subconsciously—or gift of the Muse, take your pick—had been lurking in the back of my mind. The novel is a category mystery—the first I’ve written in a number of years—so that was familiar ground.

It’s set in London during the Blitz. I’m old, but not ancient enough to remember the Battle of Britain, but some of my earliest memories are of my parents packing up big parcels of coffee, chocolate, woolens, even garden seeds to ship back to Scotland, and of the anxiety that accompanied every news broadcast. I was too small to understand the battle reports, but for years I had a deep distaste for listening to radio news.

As for the details of the battle and the duties of an ARP warden, which my hero was going to be, these fell into the things-to-be-discovered category, a category easier now with the many WWII websites. I’d also done research in the same period for an earlier novel and still remembered a visit to the Imperial War Museum in London. So far, so good.

The sticking point, at least initially, was my hero and the raison d’être for the book: Francis Bacon. No, not the Tudor figure of scientific-method fame and putative ghostwriter for Shakespeare, but the twentieth-century Anglo-Irish Francis Bacon, a gay, promiscuous, alcoholic, genius painter.How are we different? Let me count the ways!

Here, discovery came to my assistance. Biographer Michael Peppiatt has written two fine books on the painter. I was much attracted by his account of the artist’s life, although at first there seemed to be nothing in the “what I know” category. Bacon was on his own from the time he was sixteen and caught trying on his mother’s underwear. He was sent off to Germany with what proved to be a “funny uncle” and shortly abandoned in Berlin to earn his living as best he could as a rent boy.

Amazingly resilient, he got himself to Paris, where his family had some fancy connections, and, thanks to a series of artistic lovers, he acquired the rudiments of oil painting and support to set himself up as a furniture designer. It wasn’t until I considered one of the key relationships in his life, his love for his ruthlessly devoted old nanny, that I found the passage from what I know to what I’d have to imagine. I must thank Bacon’s Nan for the resulting novel.

I grew up downstairs on a big upstairs/ downstairs estate, and the close, and conflicted, ties between children and their nannies was something I had observed closely. I thought I could understand Nan, though the domestics I knew were far more respectable than Bacon’s nanny, who vetted his paid companions and went shoplifting, despite being half blind, when they were on their uppers.

Still, one takes what one can get in the knowledge line. And then, despite his hard drinking and boisterous living and his fondness for rough trade and dubious types like the infamous Kray brothers, the real Bacon was a hard-working painter, up and busy in his studio first thing in the morning. He had a strong work ethic—and I guess an overwhelming need for the structure that art gave an otherwise rackety life.

As a long time writer and painter, I felt I had enough of a handle on his personality to begin a novel and see if discoveries in both the library and the subconscious would be sufficient. They were. And this is both delightful and—sometimes—a bit startling. It is always surprising which characters write easily. An extremely timid and peaceable personality, I am sometimes taken aback by the ease with which literary homicide surfaces in the little stories I write for EQMM and its sister publication AHMM, among others (and collected recently in Blood in the Water from Wildside).

My Francis developed very nicely with a minimum of fuss. Even his rather gaudy sex life did not prove the obstacle that I feared it might. His story got to 60 pages, then 120, and then on to novel length. I stuck fairly close to the events of his life, except for involving him in a murder investigation, and I tried to be accurate with the details of his milieu and of his friends.

Of course, at some point, probably rather early on, my Francis parted company with his historical inspiration. He became, as he had to, a character in a novel not personality analyzed in a biography. I suspect he is a bit nicer than the original and probably not as imaginative—who, after all, can conjure genius?

But I know what it feels like to face an empty canvas and to dream of images, and I discovered enough to understand a little corner of the horrors of the Blitz and of the terrible accidents occasioned by the Blackout. As the book developed, I grew acquainted with the smell of brick and stone dust and burning districts. I became familiar with bombed-out streets and death from the air via a variety of sinister weapons and with black-out regulations and fire-watching. I experienced these the writerly way, as a compound of reality and imagination, of what I knew and what I could discover.

I hung it all on the ever-flexible mystery framework, had Francis unluckily stumble over both a corpse and a seriously bent copper, and then, since I never plot out a novel and would be too bored to finish it if I did, waited to see what would happen. The Fires of London was the result.

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“Does It Ever Get Easier?” (by Michael Z. Lewin)

An award-winning writer of novels, short stories, poems, radio plays, and stage plays, Michael Z. Lewin has the experience to speak knowledgably of the writing life. In his post this week he considers a writer’s need to connect with other writers. The timing of his piece could not be better, for in a few days more than a thousand writers and mystery-fiction fans will be gathering in Cleveland for the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention. One of Michael Z. Lewin’s EQMM stories (“Who I  Am”) is nominated for a Shamus Award at that convention. His latest novel is Family Way (Five Star Press). —Janet Hutchings

It was eight years after I published my first mystery that it finally occurred to me to meet with someone else who was doing the same thing. Anyone with any sense knows there are pleasures to be had and perceptions to be shared by talking shop. But there are lots of areas of my life in which I’ve been a slow learner.

The writer I sought out was Ross Macdonald and I met with him in Santa Barbara, California. I was already living in England, but when I planned a trip to visit my mother, who lived in L.A., I wrote to Macdonald. Not only had he written a generous review of my second novel, it was one of his books that got me started writing detective fiction in the first place.

I never read mysteries until my mid-twenties. When I did, it was P.I. fiction that appealed to me, but the plots left me puzzling. I just never remembered early details of the intricate and winding journey the stories took when they were explained at the end. Was it me, or were these P.I. writers just conning readers by throwing piles of facts at them that didn’t add up?

Now I look at that as the question of a cynical innocent—one truly ignorant of how much effort writers put into their books. But in 1969 I decided to find out. I took one of Ross Macdonald’s novels and outlined it, page by page. And, surprise surprise, I discovered that the story was indeed a coherent whole. It was me, the reader, who was deficient.

I’d picked the Macdonald novel for much more than its plot complexity. I enjoyed his literate writing and wit. And when I applied myself to his book this way I found that the detective stuff stuck in my mind. The result was, I began a jokey short story. That story failed to finish itself in a couple of weeks. It became my first Albert Samson novel, Ask the Right Question, the plot of which takes an intricate and winding journey. . . .

So, accompanied by my two children, I met Ross Macdonald by the pool at the Santa Barbara club where he regularly took his lunch. By then, I’d written six mysteries. And I asked him my burning question. “Does it ever get easier?”

“No,” he said.

Many years have passed since that lunch. I have written many, many words. And although I’ve learned that talking with other writers makes life pleasing and less lonely, I’ve also learned that Macdonald didn’t lie. It doesn’t get easier. I’ve even learned that I’m not the only young writer to hope that it did. For instance, Liza Cody tells me that she once asked the legendary H.R.F. Keating the exact same question. And Harry Keating gave her the exact same answer that Ross Macdonald gave me.

And I know the truth of it now. I may have learned how to do a few things more easily that I used to find hard. Like what to do if my plot is weak (leave explanation of it as late as possible and write “The end” quickly) or learning that it’s less confusing for readers if characters’ names begin with different letters.

But writing doesn’t get easier. Because your own standards get higher. And higher.

I was working on my current book this morning. I’ve gone through the text half a dozen times. Today I found a place on page 225 that contradicts something on page 87. The contradiction was subtle and not very important. And should a reader get as far as 225 he or she would—I hope—be so swept up in the gathering pace and revelations that a mini-goof on page 87 would be long brushed away. And how can anyone remember all the details of a complex story after just one reading anyway? This writer certainly can’t. Who knows what I’ll find on the seventh reading.

But that subtle contradiction mattered to me. As will the one I fear I will find tomorrow. But I will search for it. Because I need what I write—novels, stories or blog contributions—to be as good as I can make them on the day. Not Shakespeare good, but clear, and with a decent chance of a reader being able to get at what I mean to say. Should he or she be interested.

Wise man, Ross Macdonald, as well as a fine and complex writer.

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“Discovering a Character” (by Melodie Johnson Howe)

Melodie Johnson Howe’s fiction has been recognized at both novel and short-story length with nominations for the Edgar, Anthony, Agatha, and Barry Awards. Though her output is not large, she is one of our genre’s most dependable writers in terms of quality. The appearance of a new novel from her next spring, after many years devoted exclusively to short stories, is something to look forward to (see City of Mirrors: A Diana Poole Thriller from Pegasus Books).—Janet Hutchings

Every time I finish a short story I feel as if I just completed a magic trick; pulled a rabbit out of a hat; turned a scarf into a dove. I’m the hapless magician who doesn’t know how the rabbit got into the hat in the first place. Yes, I’m a professional writer, meaning I get paid for my work, and therefore I should understand exactly what I’m doing—but I don’t.

When I was an actress I had a script. I knew where the camera was. I knew my marks. I knew if I kept my focus and listened, or at least pretended to listen, to the other actors in the scene I could create a sense of reality. I also knew the camera loved me. And if the camera loves you, in Hollywood little else matters.

There is no camera, not even a net, when I’m writing. I sit in my chair and I begin. Poof! A rabbit. Poof! No rabbit! A good shake of the hat. Still no rabbit. File the story away.

In spring 2013, City of Mirrors, A Diana Poole Thriller, will be published. Diana Poole would not exist without the short stories I wrote about her for EQMM.

When I first began to write the novel I thought great, I have my rabbit in a hat. I’ll just plop Diana Poole down in a brand-new, suspense-ridden plot and I’ll be off to the races. But like so many of my ideas about writing, this didn’t work out that easily. I quickly learned that Diana Poole was born out of the short-story form. She was in essence a short-story character. What do I mean by that? A few sharp brushstrokes described her: “My husband Colin, a screenwriter, had died suddenly of a heart attack over a year ago. He left me with what the realtors euphemistically call a ‘tear-down’ in Malibu, an old Jaguar, two Oscars—each for Best Screenplay—an empty bank account, and an emptier heart. So I had gone back to what I had been doing before I married him—acting. Except now I was older and the parts were fewer.”

That is all I know about her. When I placed her against a much larger canvas, Diana dwindled. There was no rabbit in my hat.

Where did Diana come from? She needed to be fleshed out. I spent days trying to figure out how to do this. Give her a sister? A mother? A father? Multiple lovers? She had to have some connection to the real world. But if I gave her family members, then her aloneness would disappear and she’d just be barraged with the problems of relatives. Then I had an idea.

In an old manuscript I could never make work, I had created a wonderful character—an aging, ex-movie star. She had smarts, and a ruthless flair. I’d always regretted that she languished in a file on my desktop. So I took her out, dusted her off, and put her in the novel as a friend of Diana’s. But that didn’t work either. As friends, the scenes didn’t go anywhere: There was no tension. I couldn’t connect her to Diana’s life or, for that matter, the plot.

This is where hard work pays off. I had an epiphany. (My moments of insight rarely happen without the tossing away of many stupid ideas.) I would double-down, to use a popular phrase. If Diana had a dead husband why couldn’t she have a recently dead mother? A mother that had been a famous movie star. Diana’s early life was set. She grew up alone in boarding schools, coming home on vacations. Home was wherever her mother was filming at the time. And the house was always rented. And with each new house there was a new strange man. Diana earned her singularity and grit early in life.

The novel opens with her returning to one of these houses and sets the tone for the entire book.

If a dead husband is painful, a dead mother is powerful. Diana is riddled with memories. The character I rescued from an unfinished book not only defined Diana’s past, but also opened up the novel in unexpected and surprising ways. Because of these discoveries I was able to make connections that turned my narrative into a multi-layered piece. And isn’t this why writers write?

Will I still feel like a magician on tightrope the next time I sit down to write? Yes. I’ll be shaking that hat looking for the rabbit. After all, writers are always beginning.

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“The Human Condition” (by David Dean)

A contributor to EQMM for more than twenty years, David Dean has won the magazine’s Readers Award and been nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award for his EQMM stories.  His significant body of work was accomplished while also serving as a full-time police officer, most recently as chief of police for one of New Jersey’s popular resort towns. Now retired from police work, he is writing not only short stories but novels, the first of which, The Thirteenth Child, will be released in paperback and e-book on October 5th.—Janet Hutchings 

In her introduction to my story “Jenny’s Ghost,” in the June 2012 issue of EQMM, Janet Hutchings mentioned that the police were rarely central figures in my writings. She posited that perhaps this was because my stories concern themselves less with the solving of crimes than with the effects of crime upon its practitioners and victims. She was right on both counts. It’s not that I ignore the police—I spent twenty-five years being one, and one of my recurring characters is Chief Julian Hall of the Camelot Beach P.D.—but I do have an insider’s appreciation of their role and limitations.

The police tend to be the “middleman” when it comes to crime, being neither the criminal nor the victim. Generally, the crime itself has already been committed before an officer is ever involved, and once there, his primary job is to ensure the safety of those at the scene, identify witnesses, and secure the site for evidence-gathering. If possible, he makes an arrest. After the processing of the accused, the case slips from the officer’s control and arrives on a prosecutor’s desk. His role after this is relegated to that of witness. No matter how spectacular the arrest may have been, the officer is no longer in the driver’s seat; it’s up to a jury.

The police also get to leave at the end of their watch. Only the victim and, sometimes, the perpetrator, is left with the residual effects of what has been done. It’s not that police officers are unaffected—far from it, but the crime didn’t happen to them, and they didn’t commit it. So, when it comes to writing about it all, I do often favor the other characters over my stalwart, wise chief of police and his officers. It was not always thus.

My first several stories, way back in the early nineties, featured Julian Hall as a young patrolman and, not surprisingly, were police procedurals—a subgenre I still enjoy reading because of its focus on the officers themselves. However, as a writer, I wanted more room to grow the psychological and moral dimension of my stories. In Chief Hall’s later years, I gave him an unofficial partner in the person of Father Gregory Savartha, which allowed me to kill two birds with one stone—write about police and crime, while having access to more esoteric issues. In most of their outings, the priest has figured more largely than his police friend.

Some writers sidestep my conundrum by having their officers more “involved” with both criminals and victims, sometimes to the point where my ability to believe is strained to the breaking point—put a private-eye in the same situation and I have no problem. I guess it’s just a cop thing.

My overall concern as a writer, just as it was as a cop, is the human condition. Everything about police work is generated by people and their actions, just as everything that truly concerns a writer is about the same. What people, or characters, do and say is why I write . . . and read, for that matter. No one ever wrote about an empty cardboard box, unless that box had some significance, or impact, upon a human being. Simply describing the aesthetics of cardboard boxes is dreary. But reveal that the box once contained an urgently needed children’s vaccine, now gone missing, and you have the beginnings of something worthwhile.

Crime fiction is particularly good at focusing the reader on the various facets of human nature. The stressor of crime and its ramifications tends to clear the deck of the extraneous. It also brings character into sharp relief. Of course, there are many other avenues for writers to accomplish the same result, such as natural catastrophes, family tragedies, and war. But the fear of crime, particularly violent crime, is shared by most people, whatever their walk of life or status. In fiction, the expedient of crime allows the writer the freedom of exploration into the human psyche and soul.

A good friend of mine, who passed away a few years ago, once remarked, “Human behavior is very complicated, but the motivations for that behavior are very simple.” He had been a clinical psychologist within the prison system for many years, and knew a thing or two about people. I found his observation helpful whenever I interviewed suspects, and even more so when writing. No matter how convoluted a person’s actions may be you can usually reduce their motive for doing them down to a single sentence, or even a single word. Father Gregory might point to the Cardinal Sins for a listing of what gets people into trouble: greed, lust, envy, gluttony (include drugs and alcohol with this one), wrath, sloth, and, the most insidious of all, pride—the great enabler.

And true to my late friend’s observation, the behavior to mask these motives is couched in lies, denials, and pretense. How many of us have envied a colleague’s success and yet forced a smile to our lips when greeting them? Think of the elaborate schemes cheating spouses concoct in order to continue their liaisons; the deceptions practiced by the secret alcoholic. And none of these failings are even crimes. Just think if your freedom, or your very life, depended on it. What wouldn’t you do, or say?

Many people who are arrested for crimes are just like you and me. They didn’t set out to do anything wrong, but somehow it happened. Somehow, during the course of a normal day, events conspired against them. Their lives began to spin out of control. Something happened that shouldn’t have. At least, this is how they frame their new and altered reality. Mostly it’s self-justification. But, often there is a grain of truth in it. A new, or misunderstood, set of circumstances exposed their weaknesses and forever changed their lives, and those of their victims. Mostly, these are the criminals I write about: the hit-and-run driver of “Road Hazard,” who wants to settle a score with a bully; the young kleptomaniac in “The Vengeance Of Kali,” who steals something he should have left alone; or the husband in “The Wisdom Of Serpents,” who determines to kill his best friend over his mistaken belief that he is having an affair with his wife. Not a single Moriarty among them.

I have little interest in true career criminals simply because they tend to be so predictable. Sociopaths can be wily, of course, but in the end they cannot stop repeating themselves; they are slaves to their own psychopathy. The only skin they have in the game is the freedom to continue their behavior; lacking a true conscience and the capacity for remorse, they are as robotic as they are unrelenting. Admittedly, these characteristics can be exciting in crime fiction, but more for the shock value and juxtaposition with the protagonist than for the person—Hannibal Lector is one of the great villains of modern crime fiction, but more monster than man.

As for victims, I find I write more about them than any other character. In many of my stories, the criminal is a victim as well as a perpetrator. Much of what I have written is concerned with victims, or victims-to-be, coming to terms with their new, unwanted lives, such as the Marine in “Ibrahim’s Eyes,” who can’t quite accept his own survival. Sometimes, like the errant, drunken father of “Stolen,” they have materially contributed to their unwelcome status as victim, while others have misunderstood the clues, misinterpreted the warning signs along their path, like the young man in “Tap-Tap” who travels to Belize to investigate his lover’s suicide only to become a murderer. They are seldom completely blameless, and sometimes reemerge as antagonists, other times as heroes.

My time as a police officer, as well as my own personal experiences, has taught me that life is often murky, our way through it hazy and unclear. We look for signposts only to find they are indecipherable. Yet we are still forced to put one foot in front of the other, to take another step down the path. Mostly, we do our best, and that is good enough; sometimes it isn’t. But that is the human condition, and well worth writing about.

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Causes in Fiction

With Labor Day just past and the political season heating up, I thought I’d revisit a topic I made a post about in June 2010, on EQMM’s forum. For many people Labor Day is now nothing but an end-of-summer day off with great back-to-school sales, but when it was created by the union movement at the end of the nineteenth century the reason for the holiday was clearly understood. According to the U.S. Department of Labor, parades whose purpose was to show “the strength and esprit de corps of the trade and labor organizations” were held in many municipalities.  A hundred and thirty years have passed since the first Labor Day celebration, which was held in New York City under the sponsorship of the Central Labor Union. By 1894, the idea had caught on enough for the first Monday in September to become a legislated holiday in many states and, by act of Congress, in the District of Columbia and American territories.

The cause of labor may seem a nearly universal one—aren’t most of us workers of one sort or another?—but I wonder if such a holiday would gain traction in the political climate of our time. You have only to think of the causes of the recent recall election in Wisconsin to be reminded that labor unionism is one of the political hot buttons of the current election cycle. Which brings me to my topic. Writers, including genre writers, tend to write, in one way or another, about issues prominent in the societies to which they belong. Sometimes those issues are front and center in their work; sometimes they are part of the incidental background detail.

Fiction writers who write with the conscious purpose of furthering a cause are nothing new. Sometimes the literary value of such writers’ work can be separated from their success or failure in creating societal change, as with the great novels of Dickens. Sometimes, as with Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a novel (or story) may achieve profound and lasting importance because of its power to effect change and yet not withstand artistic criticism.

Mystery writers in particular have tried, through art, to further their share of causes—sometimes explicitly, sometimes not. Andrew Vachss, a legal advocate for children, has devoted his fiction-writing career to raising awareness of various forms of child abuse; John D. MacDonald was considered by many readers of his Travis McGee novels to be a crusader for the environment; more recently, the Sookie Stackhouse books of Charlaine Harris have been praised for containing a message of tolerance, especially towards sexual minorities. The list goes on.

If a cause is present in a work of fiction, it works best for me if it’s presented in a way that sets it above partisan politics. However, as our society becomes more and more polarized—with cable talk shows seeming to find a partisan slant in just about everything under the sun—it’s becoming more difficult to avoid offending some camp or other. This often presents difficulties for me as the editor of a magazine with a broad readership, especially since our primary purpose is to entertain and not to engage in polemics.

In the days shortly after 9/11, I got into an interesting correspondence with an author I highly respect about a story whose purpose was clearly, and very explicitly, to offer an impassioned critique of a law that had just been passed by Congress. The author’s view was that it was my responsibility to publish the story, as long as it stood up artistically. But as the editor of a magazine that hosts a readership with very diverse backgrounds and opinions, I felt it was, on the contrary, my responsibility to keep politics, as far as possible, out of our pages. And in those days of high emotion, to do otherwise was certain to anger some readers to the point of canceling subscriptions. Were we a journal of news or opinion, I would have seen my responsibilities differently, I’m sure.

But of course, it’s not quite as simple as that, is it? If one were to strip away from almost any work of fiction everything that could possibly be controversial, the author’s passion would go with it. Fiction necessarily (even inadvertently) presents points of view that aren’t going to meet with universal acceptance. But fiction also has the unique potential to show readers things they might not have seen before, where no amount of discussion or argument could. Charlaine Harris’s books are a good example: Readers who love her characters and see for themselves a parallel between their circumstances and those of sexual minorities in the real world may take away from the work something they could never get from debate about the latest proposition or law. If a work of fiction can influence through what it shows us, without comment, it has a better chance of finding a home at EQMM than a story that champions a cause by putting arguments into the mouths of its characters.

Janet Hutchings

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“Black Mask Magazine, Steve Fisher, and The Noir Revolution” by Keith Alan Deutsch

Keith Alan Deutsch is publisher and conservator of Black Mask Magazine, a publication that has a long-established connection to EQMM. He is also the co-author of several reference and scholarly books relating to Black Mask, hardboiled, and noir fiction. They include Black Mask Pulp Story Reader Volumes 1 – 6, Jo Gar’s Casebook, and The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories.  His knowledge of key publications and acquaintance with many of the genre’s writers put him in a position to provide a fascinating overview of the field.Janet Hutchings

It is difficult to remember seventy-five years after the revolution, but Steve Fisher, Cornell Woolrich, and a few other second-wave Black Mask boys of the late 1930s ushered in a sea change in crime-fiction narration.

Fanny Ellsworth, who replaced Joseph Shaw at Black Mask in 1936, favored this change from the objective, hardboiled writing promoted by Shaw and the earlier editors of Black Mask Magazine to the subjective, psychologically and emotionally heightened writing that came in vogue under her guidance.

This little-noticed shift in style in Black Mask fiction, “The Ellsworth Shift,” led to the creation of the film genre we now know as noir through the writings of Steve Fisher, particularly in his film scripts, and through the novels and short fiction of Cornell Woolrich, whose writings we now also call noir, although the term was originally applied only to film.

This dark new style and psychology in crime-fiction narration jumped from magazine and book publications into screenplays, and led in the 1940s to the emergence in Hollywood of the classic age of the noir film thriller.

The obsessive, dreamlike narration favored by Fisher and Woolrich in their tense crime tales was a perfect match for the dark shadows and frightening, expressive camera angles developed in German and Hollywood horror cinema. Narrative fiction style and camera photography styles played against and enriched each other in the development of this new film genre.

In his seminal essay Pulp Literature: Subculture Revolution in the Late 1930s, from the Armchair Detective published in the1970s, Fisher was the first to note this paradigm shift in Black Mask Magazine fiction. The gifted new woman editor Fanny Ellsworth used Fisher and Woolrich to turn the emphasis in Black Mask away from the objective, unemotional, hardboiled writing style Hammett and the first wave of Black Mask writers introduced to the magazine, and for which Black Mask Magazine is celebrated.

Black Mask author William Brandon provides us with the most revealing portrait I know of Joseph Shaw discussing the art of objective writing in the early 1930s, when he was at the height of his influence. Brandon recounts many conversations he had with Shaw in his little-known memoir, “Back in the Old Black Mask” (The Massachusetts Review, Winter 1987):

“Shaw wanted action, naturally, as did any right-thinking pulp, but what Shaw wanted most of all was style.”

“Objectivity was part of what Shaw meant by style—a clean page, a clean line, an uncluttered phrase.”

“There was a lot of talk in those days about objective writing. Dashiell Hammett’s The Glass Key, serialized in Black Mask along about 1930, was the model of the genre. . . .”

“I remember him showing me a couple of lines in a manuscript of Raymond Chandler’s, something such as, ‘I looked into the fire and smoked a cigarette. Then I went to bed.’ This was the key line of the story, Shaw said. In those few minutes watching the fire the protagonist thought the problem through and reached his tough decision. You weren’t told that but you knew it. The line was clean, the effect was subtle but strong.”

“Objective writing was good hard prose as against the spongy prose of subjectivity. . . .”

“Even the illustrations—Shaw called them ‘end pieces’—that Shaw liked were of a certain elegance and were meant to excite the imagination rather than a surface emotion. But traditionally the pulps left nothing to the imagination, and the cruder the emotion the better. I think Shaw would have argued for hard and cruel emotion too but I think he felt it was better effected by clean and plausible and objective subtlety.”

Brandon makes it very clear that Shaw was not interested in character expressed through psychology, but only as it was expressed through external action.

Action, not character, was at the center of Shaw’s esthetic for exciting stories.

Shaw didn’t buy any of Brandon’s detective stories, but he introduced him to “Fanny Ellsworth across the hall, a pretty and witty and red-haired young woman who edited Ranch Romances (“Love Stories of the Real West”), and Fanny started buying—at rare intervals—Western stories I wrote in what I thought was a humorous vein.”

Fanny was comfortable with complexity in the stories she edited. She liked strong emotion and humor in a story, regardless of its genre.

Shaw was uncomfortable with humor, and he mistrusted complexity in his narratives, whether in plot or in psychological states.

By all contemporary accounts, Fanny Ellsworth was one of the great fiction editors of all time. Frank Gruber describes her as one of the brightest, most urbane people he met in New York. Gruber and Steve Fisher both assert that when Fanny Ellsworth took over control of Black Mask she came with a well-mapped vision for a change in the kind of crime fiction the famous magazine would feature.

She immediately started to buy stories from Gruber, who wrote lead stories for her Ranch Romances pulp, and also Steve Fisher, who she recognized had a natural talent for expressing strong and complex emotions. She also increased the number of stories she purchased from Cornell Woolrich, who also had a natural way with twisted, pathological emotional states presented in strange, dark, haunted plots.

Ellsworth quickly established a much more subjective, emotionally driven style of crime writing than Shaw. Commentators on Black Mask’s influence on film and popular culture have not often noticed these changes in style and direction.

Certainly, Curt Siodmak’s science fiction noir masterpiece, Donovan’s Brain, the darkest of obsessive, subjective, first-person narratives, serialized in Black Mask in 1942, years after Fanny Ellsworth had left, would not have made it into Black Mask if the talents of Fisher (nine stories from August 1937 to April 1939) and of Woolrich (twenty-two original stories from January of 1937 to June of 1944) had not first been let loose on its pages.

Black Mask writers and genres influenced Hollywood in more ways than hardboiled dialogue and tough-guy posturing in films based on Hammett’s, Chandler’s, and similar Black Mask writers’ popular series detectives.

The late Curt Siodmak’s work on horror films, especially at Universal scripting and creating The Wolf Man (1941), and with Val Lewton at RKO scripting I Walked with a Zombie (1943) is of interest, particularly with regard to the emergence of a noir film esthetic from out of the shadows of the “horror” films of 1930s and 1940s Hollywood (See my interview with Siodmak about his film experiences, particularly with Val Lewton).

Once the noir film emerged at the beginning of the 1940s, with the production of Steve Fisher’s novel, I Wake Up Screaming (1941), Fisher’s and Woolrich’s noir work flooded Hollywood:

In 1943, the great run of more than two-dozen noir films based on works by Cornell Woolrich, the genius of the dark thriller, began when Val Lewton produced The Leopard Man (1943): Robert Siodmak (Curt’s brother) directed Phantom Lady (1944); The Mark of the Whistler (1944) followed; Clifford Odets scripted Deadline at Dawn (1946); then came Black Angel (1946) and The Chase (1946), followed by The Guilty (1947) and Fear in the Night (1947).

Steve Fisher scripted Cornell Woolrich’s I Wouldn’t Be in Your Shoes (1948) with a telephone call assist from his pal Woolrich. When Fisher couldn’t come up with an appropriate ending for I Wouldn’t Be in Your Shoes, Woolrich suggested that Fisher resurrect the sexually obsessive, psychotic cop from I Wake Up Screaming, and turn him into the culprit, motivated by his lust for the framed man’s wife. Ironically, Fisher originally had based that haunting and haunted police detective, Ed Cornell, on his friend Cornell Woolrich.

The most famous Woolrich-inspired film, of course, is Alfred Hitchcock’s 1954 classic, Rear Window. François Truffaut’s two films based on Woolrich tales are also well known, The Bride Wore Black (1968), and Mississippi Mermaid (1969).

My aim is to mark this sea change in the esthetic of the crime thriller that started to take place in pulp fiction (and some would argue in American cinema) in the late 1930s, and which came of age in Hollywood films in the 1940s; and to note Black Mask’s, Steve Fisher’s, and Fanny Ellsworth’s role in that change.

As Bruce Eder notes in All Movie Guide: I Wake Up Screaming “opened up a whole new genre of psychologically centered crime thrillers, and also became one of the most heavily studied movies of its era.”

In Black Mask Magazine, Fisher and Woolrich shared a talent for presenting aberrant mental states, and for casting suspenseful plots with inventive incidents.

Fisher’s and Woolrich’s best Black Mask fiction set the stage for the noir revolution in popular fiction and popular film. Fisher’s novel, I Wake Up Screaming, created the blueprint, and Black Mask under Fanny Ellsworth was the inspiration, for the full emergence of the noir genre that has had an enduring impact on film and fiction in popular American and world entertainment.

Posted in Guest, History, Magazine, Noir | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments