H.P. Oliver


Born
San Francisco, California, The United States
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The golden ages of pulp fiction and film noir.


H. P. Oliver began his career with a degree in journalism from San Jose State University and spent the next thirty-some years writing award-winning entertainment and educational media. Now he applies his creativity and imagination to writing historical mysteries.

About mystery writing, Oliver says, "To be truly engrossing, a mystery needs a little meat on its bones—something more than just figuring out 'who done the evil deed.' Taking a story back in time or even basing it on actual historical events is a great way to endow a good yarn with color and depth. Historical periods and locations give the writer an opportunity to take readers where they've never been before."

H. P. Oliver lives in California and spends much of his time working on pr
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H.P. Oliver isn't a Goodreads Author (yet), but he does have a blog, so here are some recent posts imported from his feed.

Writing Historical Fiction

It seems historical fiction is becoming an increasingly popular book genre', and that's good for me because historical fiction is what I write. In fact I've been writing historical fiction for about ten of the 30 years I've earned my daily bread in the writing craft.

During my decade of "living in the past," I've come to some conclusions about what it takes to write interesting yarns set in the... Read more of this blog post »
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Published on June 09, 2015 08:27 Tags: historical-fiction
Average rating: 4.61 · 70 ratings · 24 reviews · 17 distinct works
The Truth Be Told

4.17 avg rating — 12 ratings — published 2010 — 3 editions
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Revolver

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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Goodnight, San Francisco

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 7 ratings — published 2014 — 3 editions
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Pacifica

4.67 avg rating — 6 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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Silents!

4.63 avg rating — 8 ratings — published 2011 — 3 editions
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Winging IT

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 4 ratings — published 2014
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Johnny Spicer: The First Ca...

4.25 avg rating — 8 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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And The Angels Sing

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 2012
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So Long, L A

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 3 ratings
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Winging It

4.60 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 2014 — 2 editions
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More books by H.P. Oliver…

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“In the wee small hours, California Highway One north of Half Moon Bay is about as desolate as it gets. The narrow, twisting road was etched from sheer cliff faces that towered above me on the right and dropped away a hundred feet to the Pacific Ocean on my left.

A soggy wool blanket of San Francisco's famous fog hung a few feet above the roadway, obscuring the stars and dribbling tiny spots of mist on my windshield. My headlights bored through the gap between road and fog, drilling an endless tunnel through the darkness.

So far as I could tell, there were only two other cars on the entire planet that night—actually, one car and a produce truck. They'd flashed by, one after the other, heading south just past Moss Beach. Their headlights glared in my eyes and made the road seem even narrower, but half an hour later, I was wishing for more signs of life just to help keep my drooping eyelids from slamming shut altogether. It was the wrong thing to wish for.

She appeared suddenly out of the fog on the opposite side of the road. Only, she wasn't in a car. This gal was smack dab in the middle of the southbound lane and running for all she was worth. She wore a white dress and no coat, and that was about all I had time to take in before she was gone and I was alone in the endless tunnel again.”
H.P. Oliver, Goodnight, San Francisco

“You are not an "author," you are a writer. If your books are still selling like hotcakes ten years after your demise, THEN you're an author.”
H.P. Oliver

“Excerpted From Chapter 18

The most famous sign in the world was only a few hundred yards above me, and the sight of it stopped me in my tracks. The light bulbs surrounding the letters must have been controlled by a timer of some kind because they were off now. But what shocked me was the scale. I was used to seeing the sign from a distance. From this perspective there was no sense of the word HOLLYWOODLAND. All I saw were gigantic letters looming dimly above me in the moonlight like ancient monoliths erected in tribute to the gods of some long-extinct tribe.

A primal feeling of foreboding prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. I could imagine the traveler of an earlier age coming across Stonehenge in the dark and experiencing a similar sensation.”
H.P. Oliver, The Truth Be Told



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