Lea Wait's Blog, page 320

What Was I Thinking?

Hey all. Gerry Boyle here. And I want to tell you about my new assignment. In 20 years of writing mystery novels, it’s a first.

My new publisher, Islandport Press, has asked me to write introductions to my early books, which Islandport will begin reissuing this fall. This is a great thing, as anyone who has been in this business for a while will tell you. After a couple of decades the early books get scarce. And if you’re writing a continuing series, in this case my Jack McMorrow novels, that’s a problem. A new series book is a tougher sell if the early books are out of print.

So thank you, Islandport Press. Those introductions are on the way.

But I’ve never written retrospectively about  any of my books. This assignment called for me to get them out and reread them, including time spent staring at the jacket photo of me with brown hair and a cherubic look. Okay, maybe just the brown hair.

The assignment also calls for me to try to recall writing these books more than 20 years ago, and to ask myself: what was I thinking?

I don’t know about you but I’m sort of a forward-looking writer. The next chapter. The next book. The next series, even. I don’t presume that readers have prior knowledge so I tend not to refer to earlier books in later ones. Just a matter of taste.

So not only had I not written about these early titles. I hadn’t dwelled on them of late, either.

This is a little embarrassing to admit. Sometimes I do a book talk and I look out and I see someone with a copy of the first or second book and I get a little nervous. Will they ask me about some small plot detail? Will they bring up a minor character by name? Will I be left standing there like the flummoxed kid in the spelling bee? (Could you please repeat that character’s name in a sentence?)

They say hindsight is 20-20 but only after it’s in focus. And that’s what I’ve been doing, in between writing a new book: refocusing on work I did early in my career.

I won’t keep you too long here, but a few observations:

* I don’t recall a moment where a muse visited, and the plot was revealed. I do remember deciding to start to write a novel and then refusing to give up until it was done.

* I don’t recall where the characters’ names came from, not specifically. McMorrow? I didn’t know any McMorrows when I came up with that one. I vaguely remember deciding to go with a Celtic surname. But McMorrow’s partner, Roxanne—where did that come from? Hard to say. Maybe I should have kept a journal, but hey, I was busy writing a book.

* I do recall the places that inspired the settings, wonderful towns like Rumford, Maine, a fascinating steam-belching paper mill town that provided much of my early education.

* I do recall the inspiration I got from mysteries I was reading then: John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee novels. Very early Dick Francis. The first Spenser novel, The Godwulf Manuscript. I decided I had to try this myself, on the chance that some of the magic in those books would rub off.

* And— this is important for writers in the early stages of this effort— I remember that when it came to writing a book, I just plunged in. No hesitation or calculation. No consideration of markets or the hot theme of the time. Just the seed of an idea that turned into a story. We’re storytellers, after all. Nothing more.

*Lastly, I remember the thrill of getting the news that somebody wanted to publish my first book. I wasn’t crazy after all. It was a long slog but it actually worked. Many books followed but none of them replicated that moment. What a rush. Think of that, you first-time writers. That moment makes all of it worthwhile.

So back to work on my intros for DEADLINE and BLOODLINE. Writer of 2014, meet the writer of 1990. We’re not the same people or even the same writers but we’re glad to get reacquainted.

A Journey to India: The Anita Ray Mysteries

Susan Oleksiw: When Kate Flora invited me to introduce the Anita Ray series to readers of the Maine Crime Writers blog, I was delighted. Anita Ray is one of my favorite characters, and she’s the logical end of many years of loving India. Why India? First, the series.

Anita Ray is an Indian American photographer living in South India in her aunt’s tourist hotel. Kovalam is a resort area, once a quiet village, on the Southwest coast of India, almost at the tip of the subcontinent. The climate is subtropical, and at its coldest the temperature never drops below seventy degrees at night.

Anita’s mother is Indian, her father Irish-American. She has spent most of her life in India and plans to stay there. Deprived of her own daughter, who lives in the States and plans to stay there, Auntie Meena does her best to mother Anita, which means finding her a husband. The idea does not appeal to Anita, and she has so far avoided all comers.

Between the machinations of her large extended family and the ineptitudes of foreign guests, Anita is assured of dead bodies to investigate. The third in the series, For the Love of Parvati, will be available in May. In this outing Anita travels into the hills of Central Kerala to visit Aunt Lalita and her family. The northeast monsoon is raging, the police are searching every vehicle at roadblocks, and Lalita’s family is in disarray. The two adult children, Valli and Prakash, each have life-changing secrets, and Lalita has hired a new maidservant who has a secret that endangers everyone in the household.

One aspect of the story that proves important in the murder investigation is the various practices relating to certain pilgrimages. The story opens during the Sabarimala season, when men travel to the shrine to Ayappa, located in the hills. Men make arrangements to go in groups from their office, village, extended family, but always they go in groups. Young girls and older women past menopause can also make the pilgrimage and participate in the religious rites, but no women who are still of childbearing age can attend. I often saw a group of nine or ten men traveling together with perhaps one or two daughters. All the pilgrims dress in black, so they are easily identifiable in the cities and villages they pass through. When Anita learns that a pilgrim she is following is not part of the group soon leaving for Sabarimala and another man is not among those who are going, she fears another murder.

The first novel-length story featuring Anita Ray was Under the Eye of Kali (2010), about the murder of a guest staying at Auntie Meena’s Hotel Delite. I had a lot of fun with this one because it gave me a chance to touch on the numerous reactions foreigners have to India and the things that can and do happen there. The story is set in Kovalam, an area I know well and have watched grow from an isolated beach to a world-renowned tourist attraction. In the midst of all this commercialism is a small temple dedicated to Balabhadrakali, Kali as a young girl. And every year, the temple holds a festival to honor Kali, taking her down to the beach for a sea bath.

The first book was followed by The Wrath of Shiva (2012), about the decline of an old family and the loss of holy images. The story is set on an estate whose buildings are designed on very traditional lines, and it explores the close connections between lifelong servants and the family. One maidservant has visions that are disturbing, and problems in the lives of old family employees are corrupting family life. The loss of sacred materials from Indian temples and estates is a serious problem, and involves a network of smugglers. But as Anita discovers, the least likely people can be involved, and the smuggling happens right under our noses. In this story the tradition of the Kavu, or sacred grove, plays a pivotal role. Large family estates always contained jungle land that could not be entered or violated in any way. This land belonged to the gods, and in this case to Bhairava, the wrathful form of the Great God Shiva. But not everyone respects the old traditions, and Anita is faced with the challenge of catching a murderer and preserving an ancient and sacred tradition.

Anita appeared first in a series of short stories published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and Level Best Books anthologies. The first story, “A Murder Made in India,” set the pattern. Anita investigates a suspicious death whose solution involves an aspect of traditional Indian marriage. The Anita stories are especially fun to write for the predicaments the characters get themselves into but also for the opportunity they give me to showcase aspects of traditional culture.

So, why India? Why not continue to write the Mellingham series, which is set in New England? Or how about a series set in Philadelphia, where I lived for many years? Or Tucson, where I also lived briefly? Or rural New England, where I also lived?

My love affair with India began with a children’s collection of stories set in Asia, and continued throughout my education, in prep school where I studied Indian history, in college where I studied Indian art, and in graduate school where I fell in love with Sanskrit, the classical language of India. As a graduate student and later as a research scholar I went to India to study Sanskrit drama, and that meant Kerala, where the only traditional form of Sanskrit drama survives. The fact that Kerala included beautiful palm-tree-lined beaches and cities and villages where older customs and practices thrived was certainly a bonus. I confess to falling in love with Kerala, even more passionately than with Sanskrit, and I try to visit the state every year. I call this research.

This progression through the ages, so to speak, seemed the logical reason for my undying interest in India, but I may be wrong. It may run deeper than that.

When I cleaned out my mother’s house after her death in 2002, I unpacked a trunk that had been closed up for perhaps sixty years, maybe longer. In it I found costumes from my mother’s college years (1930s), quilts made from old men’s suits (1920s), a few books, lots and lots of photographs, some dating to before 1900, and an embroidered Indian shawl, which seems to be an antique Aksi shawl. The term aksi means reflection. In this type, considered the finest among several Northern forms, the design is produced on one side by splitting the warp threads into half, leaving the other side plain or embroidered with another pattern. The trunk included other antique pieces from India but the shawl was the finest. I was dumbfounded when I unwrapped the tissue paper and there it was.

So perhaps my interest in India isn’t the result of years of liberal education but just karma and DNA, or something like that. Either way, the Anita Ray series is loads of fun, especially when you’d rather be someplace warm and breezy than in the cold New England winter.

If you have read this far, I am offering an ARC of For the Love of Parvati to one reader who leaves a comment, to be selected at random.

Susan Oleksiw writes the Anita Ray series featuring an Indian American photographer living at her aunt’s tourist hotel in South India (Under the Eye of Kali, 2010, The Wrath of Shiva, 2012, and For the Love of Parvati, 2014). She also writes the Mellingham series featuring Chief of Police Joe Silva (introduced in Murder in Mellingham, 1993). Susan is well known for her articles on crime fiction; her first publication in this area was A Reader’s Guide to the Classic British Mystery. Her short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and numerous anthologies. Susan lives and writes outside Boston, MA.

 

 

Weekend Update: April 5-6, 2014

Next week at Maine Crime Writers we’ll be featuring posts Gerry Boyle (Tuesday), Kaitlyn Dunnett, blogging as Kathy Lynn Emerson (Wednesday), Vicki Doudera (Thursday), and Lea Wait (Friday), with a special guest post from Susan Oleksiw on Monday. 

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

Vicki Doudera:  Book Launch Party for Deal Killer is finally (almost) here!  This Thursday, April 10th, at Cappy’s Chowder House, 1 Main Street in Camden, from 5 to 7 pm. Come say hi, get your newest Darby Farr Mystery, and enjoy refreshments. Now on to our other news…

Kathy Lynn Emerson: Big news from me this week. As Kaitlyn Dunnett, I’ll still be writing the Liss MacCrimmon Scottish-American Heritage series, but (drum roll, please) under my own name, I am now officially writing the Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries for Severn House, starting with Murder in the Queen’s Wardrobe, set in 1582/3 in England and Russia, which was then called Muscovy. Look for more details in my post on Wednesday.

Lea Wait:  Hurrah, Kathy! Can hardly wait to read the new series! Meanwhile, my week is busy .. today (Saturday the 5th) I’ll be signing at the Children’s Book Cellar on Main Street in Waterville, Maine, from 10 until 12. Sunday, April 6, the publisher of my Uncertain Glory is hosting a launch party for the book at Le Garage Restaurant, on Water Street in Wiscasset, from 4-5:30 … refreshments and cash bar. I’ll speak a little on Wiscasset and the Civil War. Then Thursday, April 9, I’ll be on a panel at Reading Roundup, a conference for Maine children’s librarians in Augusta. And on Saturday, April 12, I’ll be one of many children’s authors and illustrators signing books at the Cape Author Festival at Cape Elizabeth High School from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m. Hope I see many of you along the way!

Barb Ross: Two book launches this week! We are busy crew. My news is “Give Me a Dollar,” Ray Daniel’s entry in Best New England Crime Stories 2014: Stone Cold won the Derringer Award for Best Long Story from the Short Mystery Fiction Society. It’s a great story featuring Ray’s character, uber-hacker Tucker who will appear in a series of mystery novels starting with Terminated in August.

Now that she’s finished the book she’s been working on, Sarah Graves will be rejoining us as a regular blogger next month. Welcome back, Sarah!.

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora: kateflora@gmail.com

 

Sugar Bears

In which Dorothy Cannell discovers that they are not something you should eat . . .

SUGAR BEARS

There are instances (admittedly few and far between) when I think I deserve elevation to sainthood.  Last evening was one of those times.  I’ve been spending the past couple of weeks in the Midwest on a visit with children and grandchildren, dividing my time between the ones in Illinois and those in St. Louis, where I currently am.  My base here is at my daughter and her partner’s home with their three children Trevor, Jordan and Hope.  My oldest grandson Julian and his sister Mariah live a few miles away with their father.  They’ve spent lots of overnights here during my visit and it’s all been heaps of ordinary, everyday, fun.

Julian is twenty.  He’s been great about doing some of chauffeuring when we’ve gone out to eat, primarily at Steak & Shake or Panera’s.  I pine for them in Maine; and the kids are happy wherever we go.  A few days ago Julian went with fifteen-year-old Jordan to one of the malls.  On their return there was talk about Sugar Bears.  Julian asked me if I knew about them.  Assuming they were candies, I said I’d never tried them but as I love gummy bears I’d probably find them very tasty.  It was then explained to me by a number of eager voices that Sugar Bears are small-sized Real Live animals.  What had stirred Julian’s interest was having seen and held a couple of them at the mall where a company had representatives demonstrating their charms.   Chief of which is they can go everywhere with you in a shirt or pant pocket without fear of attempted escape due to the extraordinary bond between pet and owner.  I was shown a phone photo and my mind screamed ‘Rodent.’  You only have to say the word ‘Mouse’ to have me leaping for the chandelier.  Wrong concept.  Sugar Bears are marsupials from the Australian rain forests; as such they can be safely integrated with dogs or cats.  I pictured our cat Vicki’s cynical smirk as I explained that though a Sugar Bear might look like fast food it wouldn’t taste like it.

The conversation changed and that was that, until Julian, Mariah, Jordan, Hope and I were about to leave Panera’s.  Julian asked if I’d like to go the mall, and I was only too pleased to accept because I’d been wanting to buy a long-sleeved white t-shirt.  But I can’t claim misrepresentation.  When we were walking to the car Julian told me that the Sugar Bears would only be for sale there until nine o’clock that night.  I was in no doubt where this was teetering – he was almost ready to buy one, but wanted encouragement to do so.

I later learned that Sugar Bears are not inexpensive pets – let’s think the cost of a pretty decent sofa , and Julian has always been thrifty.  It didn’t surprise me he had enough on his debit card to buy two; in fact, he considered that option before deciding on one for the time being.  “Very reasonable,” I said, blocking the vision of my husband’s appalled face at my being such dreadful influence.

Through the mall we went until reaching a group of people gathered around a man with two little creatures running up and down his arm. Think skinny looking chipmunks.  I can deal with this, I thought, until one dived inside his shirt and wriggled downward.  Still I managed to lock in my smile.  Where the sainthood came in was when Julian asked I’d like to stroke the one that was still visible.  Greater love hath no grandmother, I thought on extending a finger.  The selection was made from a number of eight-week-olds and borne away by Julian in a pouch around his neck.  Included in the cost was a cage and other necessities.

So, our new family member is a boy, as yet unnamed.  On our return, my daughter Shana said to Julian, “I’m not saying a Sugar Bear isn’t welcome here, I’m cool!  But he’ll have to stay in his cage.  I just can’t deal with him flying around the room.”

It was her turn to be educated.  Mariah explained that Sugar Bears don’t fly – “they glide,” to which Shana replied, “If you shot a paper plane in the air, it makes no difference whether you called if gliding or flying.”

I couldn’t have agreed more, but kept my saintly smile and said nothing.

 

 

 

John’s New Job

New mom, new baby

One of the things I remember best about library school was the management class taught by Dr. Charles Curran, AKA Dr. Chuckie. His dry sense of humor and booming voice disconcerted more than one Mainer taking the class over satellite TV. He taught us two things that still echo through my head on a regular basis. #1: “Librarians buy stuff.” He couldn’t emphasize strongly enough that a big part of earning our paycheck involved purchasing stuff (generally with a limited budget) that patrons would want to get their hands on, so we better know what the hell they wanted.

Russ and Sara at the beginning of the journey

The second thing was far more interesting. Chuck said that no college experience could prepare you for everything that would happen in the workplace, so he was going to have us go into the real world and interview a librarian who had gotten his/her MLIS within the previous three years. We were to ask them about the biggest situation they’d faced that library school left them completely unprepared for. The exercise was called the ‘Roof Leaks’ experience. When we met as a group several weeks later, the shared experiences were all over the place and absolutely reinforced what Chuck had been telling us about the unpredictability of our future job experiences. I wish, in hindsight, that more people had been that frank about new jobs like the one I’ve just begun.

Holy crap, there’s a world here, Mom.

Fast forward to last Labor Day weekend. Beth and I were celebrating our 36th wedding anniversary. Older daughter Sara and her husband Russ had come to make us lunch. We had told them not to bring presents, but while we were waiting for food to hit the table, sara pulled out a small box and set it in front of us. Inside were two simple picture frames that had no photos in them. One was labeled Grandma, the other, grandpa.

That was our heads-up that we were soon to become grandparents. Beth was in 7th heaven. I was pleased, but the fact was more an abstract reality than something that had me stirred up. Remember, I’m the guy who once told the world he would be dead before turning 26, so momentous events don’t tend to get me too wound up at 66. My grandparents were never much more than hazy memories. Both of my grandfathers died when I was fairly young and while my maternal grandmother, Della Look Clark, lived in Union for several years when she got old, she also died when I was a freshman in college. Even my grandmother, Martha Ingersol Carman, while she lived until I was in my 30s, was distant, both physically and emotionally. In sum, experiences with my own grandparents hadn’t been anything exciting.

Piper practicing for her first Patriot’s game

When Beth and I became parents, we pretty much flew solo when the girls were little. Neither set of parents was really involved once the babies were born, nor did they offer to take them for a few days so we could have some ‘us’ time when the girls got older. I will say that my mother was really good about spending time with Sara and Lisa when they got old enough to explore Sennebec Hill Farm. She would head out on nature expeditions and have just as much fun as they did

All those experiences didn’t help me develop a mindset that enabled me to have the slightest idea how I’d turn out when my time came to assume the Granddad role. Sara was due around March 17th, but because of breech issues, she had a C-section on March 3rd. That decision continued a family tradition that makes birthdays a snap to remember. Sara was born the day after Beth’s birthday, while our new granddaughter, Piper Alexis Lozefski, was born the day after mine. Super convenient.

Dr. Clark will be babysitting very soon

I’ll admit that my first inclination was to stay home when I knew Sara was ready to have Piper, but I changed my mind pretty fast and was in the recovery room when she was brought there for new dad, Russ to hold her. We all took tons of photos and got a chance to hold her. I can’t describe the felling that filled me, save to say it was unexpected and amazing.

Beth and I returned the next day and were there to help out a week later when Sara came home from the hospital. Somewhere during that time, I discovered that sitting quietly and just holding my new granddaughter was an unbelievably satisfying feeling. Some of that comes from being an observer of my fellow humans. Between my time in mental health and in the various libraries I’ve worked in, I’ve had plenty of time to watch people feel and interact. Much of what I’ve seen hasn’t looked particularly happy. I understand unhappy and it sucks. Happy is way preferable. Beth and I have talked about the differences between the beginnings when we were little, when were were new parents and this time around. I think we’ve both used some of the insight we’ve gained, so we’re looking to do the next right thing for Sara, Russ and Piper.

I spent last Monday afternoon holding my granddaughter while listening to new mom, Sara vent and talk about how completely unprepared she was despite doing everything right. I know the feeling, so it was good to be there for her as a supportive sounding board. I hope that type of usefulness continues. While Piped napped, I semi-dozed myself, imagining how much fun she’ll be in a year or two when she’s fully engaged with the world. Yes, it’s early in the game, but I have a feeling I’m gonna love this grandfather job…A lot.

Missouri Compromise Void, Maine Re-annexed by Massachusetts

In a surprise move yesterday, the State of Missouri announced that it is “consciously uncoupling” from the United States. “With a congressional approval rating of 12.5% and a presidential approval rating of 41%, we thought it was time to reassess our relationship,” said Missouri Governor Jay Nixon’s spokesperson, Scott Holste. When questioned about the difficulty of establishing a currency, central bank and military defense, Holste said, “Whoa, whoa. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s just say ‘we’re on a break’ and leave it at that.” Holste added that Missouri might be “open to counseling.”

For however long the break lasts, the move had far-ranging consequences across the country in New England. In a little known provision, the Missouri Compromise, the law that brought both Missouri and Maine into being, requires that if Missouri ceases to exist, Maine must be rejoined with its former colonial master, Massachusetts.

The shocking development brought consternation in Augusta and Boston, where Liberal Democrat Duval Patrick will be forced to co-govern with Tea Party darling Paul LePage.

“I’m sure we’ll do fine,” LePage said. “Patrick, he’s an Irish guy, right?”

“I plan to spend most of my time in Iowa and New Hampshire, anyway,” said lame duck Patrick. “LePage, that’s Haitian, right?”

In an early compromise, Patrick announced that Maine residents could sign up for health insurance via the Mass Connector website. While widely seen as a defeat for LePage, LePage responded, “My understanding is the Mass website functions so poorly this move will have little practical effect.”

For his part, LePage demanded that if he was going to work at the State House in Boston, the plaque honoring slain Labor Leader Edward Cohen would have to be removed. LePage gave no reason except that the plaque gave him the “Heebie McJeebies.”

“I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out by Patriots’ Day,” Patrick said.

“Patriot’s Day,” LePage corrected.

“That’s what I said. Patriots’ Day,” Patrick agreed. “It is going to be a long couple of weeks, though.”

In Maine, man on the street Hubie Newell was preparing for the reunification. “I’ve traded my Outback in for a Saab and I’ve been practicing racing down Route One blindfolded with a brick duct-taped to my right foot,” Newell said. “That way I’ll be ready for’em when they come.”

Asked in Copley Square how he expected the reunification to effect his life, Bay Stater Bard Finster said, “Wait, what is happening?”

In an unrelated development, the State of New Hampshire raised the passenger car rate at the Hampton toll to $50.

Weekend Update: March 29-30, 2014

Next week at Maine Crime Writers we’ll be featuring posts from Al Lamanda (Monday) Barb Ross (Tuesday), Dorothy Cannell (Wednesday), John Clark (Thursday), and Kate Flora (Friday). 

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

Lea Wait: You’re invited! To the launch of my newest historical, UNCERTAIN GLORY! I’m thrilled that my wonderful publisher, Islandport Press, is hosting a launch party for Uncertain Glory on Sunday, April 6, from 4 until 5:30 at Le Garage Restaurant on Water Street in Wiscasset, Maine. There’ll be refreshments, I’ll speak (a little) and there’ll be a cash bar. And, of course, there’ll be copies of Uncertain Glory! Hope to see many of you there!

And, if you can’t make the launch, I’ll also be signing copies of UNCERTAIN GLORY at the Children’s Book Cellar in Waterville, Saturday, April 5, from 10 until 12.

And for those of you who’ve been waiting … SHADOWS OF A MAINE CHRISTMAS (which won’t be published until September) is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Strange to think of a Christmas mystery when we still have snow on the ground from last Christmas .. but that’s the way it is. Happy spring everyone!

Kate Flora: Here’s a picture of Lea, Al Lamanda, and Jim Hayman from their panel at the Kennebunkport Library this week. They look like they’re very engaged in their discussion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora: kateflora@gmail.com

 

Thirsty

(Now living away from Maine, today’s guest, writer Noelle Carle misses what we take for granted–our ocean, lakes, and streams)

My youngest sister lived for several years in Colorado. While there, she wrote longingly of the bodies of water that she missed, rendering to them an almost human status. She spoke of the blue waters of our lake welcoming her, holding her, buoying her, embracing her. While I agreed with her on the necessity  of water for our existence, I really didn’t understand what she meant about the dryness of her soul that resulted from living so far from the sight, sound or influence of water.

Now I know. Although I never saw the ocean until I was quite old, I lived within easy distance of some lake, stream or river. New England is abundantly blessed with water, a liquid portion of the country, so as an adult I have almost always been near enough the ocean to at least see it or drive to it.

I remember our first experience actually living where I could see ocean every day, in Nova Scotia. It was then that it became a necessary component to my “soul health”, although I didn’t recognize that fact. From our front window was a vista of such changing and magnificent splendor that I rarely grew tired of gazing at it. I wasn’t a native, but I grew to enjoy the deep, almost cobalt blue of the Atlantic on a sun drenched morning; the churning green when the wind strove against it; the stormy gray of a late winter afternoon. I sensed a powerful presence and sweet peace just by being near it, or even looking at it from afar.

A move overseas to New Zealand in the 1990’s impressed on me the sheer magnitude of the Pacific and acquainted me with a variety of different waters. The Pacific proved a sensual, warm and sometimes pushy companion, while the Tasman was boisterous, even frightening in its colder and darker aggression. Lake Taupo was a silent deep inscrutable place that seemed alluring yet aloof. These waters affected the daily weather patterns and general atmosphere of the area with a drenching, sometimes overwhelming presence.

For the last five years I lived close enough to a particular lake in Maine, the lake of my sister’s longing, to understand the connection between that body of water and her soul. Whenever I felt disturbed, needy or anxious, I found tranquility there by the lake. The kiss of the waves, the expanse of calm blue on a still morning, the smell of the water as I indulged in a canoe ride across the cove, the twilight call of the loons as the sun was setting, the solitude of a frozen winter there – these all lodged in my heart as rich and lustrous components of every day.

Now I have moved to the Midwest, a needful move but difficult. In seven months I’ve seen less than seven days of rain. The landscape of Oklahoma is as foreign as if I’d gone to Mars, and as just dry. Winter has enhanced that sensation with the grass a dull brown, the trees bare of leaves and the soil a rusty red color. The air lacks moisture so that even my husband, who has never had a problem, has dry skin. Getting up from our micro fiber couch charges us enough that we might be able to power a small city. Did I already say that it’s dry?

We were heading south to visit family in Texas and I saw on the map that we were approaching the Canadian River. That sounded promising. Visions of a sparkling blue jolt of color through the forever brown filled me with anticipation. Perhaps a cacophony of white water tumbling over boulders awaited as we crossed the bridge. I think I actually slumped when I saw the pittance of meandering red-brown water that was barely more than a slick of mud. Maybe the ones who named it the Canadian River were ever hopeful.

I’ve read enough about the Dust Bowl to be profoundly thankful that conditions are much improved. Technically there is drought here, but not so severe as in years past. There is a mighty aquifer, the Ogallala, that stretches from South Dakota down through Texas. It supplies my drinking water, and that of almost everyone who lives in this High Plains area. I believe it’s there, however, I can’t see it unless I watch it come out of my tap. Somehow sitting by a bathtub of water will never compare with the powerful sense of calm and inspiration that comes from a sojourn beside my lake.

I fully understand now that thirst that seems to pervade the soul; the sense of longing for a glimpse of sparkling whitecaps, the sound of chuckling waves or the particular heady scent of a New England lake surrounded by pine, cedar and spruce trees. In our town here in Oklahoma there is a small man-made pond of cramped proportions and murky water. If I squint in the sunlight, it almost looks like…well, definitely not an ocean, but nearly a lake. I’m so dry…it will to do for now.

Noelle Carle grew up in northern Maine, the setting for this book. She is the fourth child and third daughter in a large family. She married at eighteen and lived with her husband, a pastor, throughout New England, Canada, New Zealand, and now in the Midwest. They have enjoyed the beauty and variety of exotic places, but Maine has always been a touchstone for them. Writing about the woods, water and fields helped assuage Noelle’s homesickness and inform her sense of place. Her husband is her favorite preacher, and while she has occasionally done public speaking, she prefers writing. It gives her much more time to think of exactly the right word.  They have three children and four and a half grandchildren.

 

 

Getting Away With Murder

James Hayman:  It wasn’t really McCabe’s kind of place. Or Maggie’s either.  A dreary little hangout on the edge of town somewhere in rural Georgia where a few hardcore drinkers started downing shots at about eight in the morning and kept on downing them well into the day.  There was a brief surge of lunchtime traffic between twelve and one. Most of the lunchtime crowd didn’t order more than a beer or two before heading back to work.  After that things quieted down till four or five o’clock in the afternoon when a bunch of the regulars who had real jobs at the local auto parts plant would drift in as soon as their shifts were over. They’d start drinking and keep on drinking  right up until the time they knew they had to head home to face angry spouses, ignored children or, among the lonelier, dogs, cats,  goldfish or parakeets who had gone over the brink.

Most of the shift workers drank beer. Usually Bud or PBR because it was cheap.  Sometimes Terrapin or SweetWater because it was local and some of the better off among them cared about supporting local. Some of the drinkers, many of them leftovers from the morning and afternoon crowds, went for the harder stuff.  Bourbon. J.W. Dant or Jim Beam being the favorites. Or rye. George Dickel the one most asked for. Occasionally somebody unknown would wander in and ask for something more expensive.  A vodka or gin martini or if it was a woman a cosmo or the latest fruit cocktail dreamed up by the barkeep.

For a long time things had stayed pretty peaceful.  There were, of course,  disagreements among customers.  Sometimes one jerk would make a slightly clumsy and usually drunken pass at another jerk’s wife or girlfriend. Or some other jerk would make a stupid remark that would piss yet another jerk off .   Maybe the disagreement grew out of somebody spilling somebody else’s beer and refusing to apologize or pay for it.  Maybe it grew out of nothing.

Frequently these disagreements led first to nasty remarks and then to fisticuffs. But things didn’t usually get too far out of hand because everybody knew the barkeep kept a 34 inch, solid ash Louisville Slugger under the bar and wasn’t afraid to use it to keep unruly or overly aggressive customers under control and convince them that it was time to go home before any real damage was done either to themselves or to others.

Then, weirdly, after the Newtown, Connecticut massacre, everything changed.  And not in the way one would have expected.  Among other weird outcomes, the State of Georgia passed a “carry anywhere” law that allowed people to openly carry guns into bars, hospitals, schools  or pretty much anywhere else they wanted. More or less at the same time twenty-three out of the fifty states approved  “stand your ground” laws like the one that led to the death of teenager Trayvon Martin in Florida.

What that meant for the dreary little hangout on the edge of town was that many, maybe most, of the customers were packing heat. Which in turn meant anytime one of the drunks got pissed off, the barkeep’s Louisville Slugger didn’t cut much ice.

All the drunk had to do was pull his gun before the other drunk could pull his and bang-bang, just like that, somebody was dead.  And because the one who was still alive could say he thought he was being threatened by the one who was dead, no crime had been committed.  In other words legalized murder.  And cops like Mike McCabe or Maggie Savage couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

In places like Georgia, I suspect the body count has only begun to rise.  But never fear, legalized murder in America is just getting started as a growth industry.  Where it will stop no one can predict.  For those of you interested in such things, here’s a list of the states that have passed both open carry and  “Stand your ground” laws.  Read it and weep.

Alabama
Alaska
Arizona
Florida
Georgia
Indiana
Kansas
Kentucky
Louisiana
Michigan
Mississippi
Montana
Nevada
New Hampshire
North Carolina
Oklahoma
Pennsylvania
South Carolina
South Dakota
Tennessee
Texas
Utah
West Virginia

Bringing People (Back) to Life

Lea Wait, here, very close to celebrating the publication (April 4) of my latest historical for young people ages 8 and up, Uncertain Glory. As people have heard about the book (the latest in the books I’ve written set in 19th century Wiscasset: Stopping to Home, Seaward Born, Wintering Well and Finest Kind) the question I’ve gotten most often is: how do you write about real people?

Before Uncertain Glory, although I’ve always had both fictional and real people in my books for children, my main characters and their families were fictional. It was the minor characters who’d really lived and worked in Wiscasset in the years I set my stories.

My books focus on children, women, and ordinary men … I once told a class that George Washington would never ride through one of my books. I wanted to focus on the everyday life of Americans in different eras.

I first broke that self-imposed rule In one of my Shadows mysteries (Shadows of a Down East Summer,) in which Winslow Homer is a major character. I loved the challenge of focusing on HIS every day life … his daily schedule; what he ate; who he was surrounded by; where he lived. My fictional characters in that book borrowed the identities of two young Maine women who posed for Homer in the summer of 1890. (I apologized to the actual women in my acknowledgements.) And now, in Uncertain Glory, the major character is also a real person. Not as well-known as Winslow Homer, certainly, but a major figure in the world of 19th century Maine newspaper publishing.

Joseph Wood came from the small town of Wiscasset, where he published his first newspaper, a weekly called the Wiscasset Herald, for almost a year when he was a teenager. Later, after apprenticing a few years in Portland, he returned to Wiscasset and published the Seaside Oracle from 1869-1876.  After that he published newspapers in Bath, Skowhegan, and Bar Harbor. He remained involved with Maine newspapers until he died in 1923. The idea of a teenaged boy who published a town newspaper intrigued me. I wanted to share his story.

But I needed more. Joe Wood actually published his newspaper in 1859. I set my first draft of Uncertain Glory then, in the dead of winter, when ice and snow were daily challenges. I added in Nell, a 12-year-old girl who was a traveling spiritualist. Her character is fictional, but based on the lives of several well-known spiritualists of that period.

But I needed more. I knew the story was too thin. I put the manuscript aside for several years, but it was always in the back of my mind. Then, checking dates for another project, I realized that 1859 was close to 1861. (Sometimes I’m really focused …!) How much more exciting would it be if Joe not only had personal issues, but also was trying to cover the beginning of the Civil War? I hesitated a little –  but then remembered what one of my editors had once told me when I was similarly stuck on a point of history versus fiction. She reminded me I was writing historical fiction.

I went ahead and did all the research I could on what was happening in Maine in April of 1861, and was thrilled to discover a group of letters that described what happened in Wiscasset at that time.

I added another character: Owen, a nine-year-old African-American boy who helped Joe at the newspaper, and I modified the role of Joe’s (real) friend Charlie Farrar. Finally, I was ready to write my story.

So — Joe and Charlie are actual people. So are many of the minor characters in Uncertain Glory. Nell and Owen are fictional, but based on people who lived in 1861. And Joe really published his paper in 1859. I cover all of that in my historical notes to Uncertain Glory.

The only thing I changed was the year. I didn’t change the personalities of the characters, or what they did, or what was happening in the nation or the state.

Uncertain Glory. And, yes: it is historical fiction.

And I invite everyone to join me and my editor for refreshments at a launch party for Uncertain Glory on Sunday afternoon, April 6, from 4 until 5:30 p.m. at Le Garage, a restaurant on Water Street in Wiscasset. I’ll be talking a little about my research process — but, I hope, not long enough to bore anyone! Just enough for you to know what it was like in a small town in Maine, far from Fort Sumter, but changed forever by what happened there 153 years ago.