Michael Allan Scott's Blog, page 8

Ghostly Flyers of WWII– Research for a Mystery Novel

Mystery and suspense, like any other commercially published genre, has an obligation to engage its readers. Writers on whole are a lazy bunch (and I should know.) We are always looking for the shortest way from “A” (a good premise for a story) to “B” (greater acceptance of our work.)

Question is, how?

Out of a WWII aircraft graveyard, the answer presented itself to me, hovering in the ether nearly undetected. More of a reminder, really . . . lest I forget.

Research and the Reality Factor

Years and years and years ago I learned that good research is the foundation to a credible story. And without credibility, readers won’t bother. It’s what I like to call the “Reality Factor.” Yes, as writers we make shit up—it’s our job, man. And a great job it is. However, to get words on a page to transform into an engaging story, it is imperative that we write with a high degree of reality.

Unfortunately, there’s no shortcut for this. It simply requires good research.

So buckle up.

The True Test—What Do Readers Think

I recently sent an excerpt from the second in my Lance Underphal murder mystery series to my dear friend (and sister by another mother), B.K. It’s just a snippet, used to enhance the protagonist’s “reality”—a pleasurable scene I recalled from childhood.

Here’s a bit of it:

“Ol’ Wilber was a packrat by nature and an opportunist by trade, always makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’. And behind his Shooting Star Motel he had more junk than a young lad’s eye could easily take in—acres of it. Concrete drain pipe you could walk through upright, a steel tank the size of a house, an old rusted derrick reaching to the sky, tractor tires you could jump through without touching their sides, their tread chunking and crumbling from sun rot. A veritable wonderland for a small boy. Weird and wild, I could spend all day there.

But the best part were the planes. WWII trainers and bombers, their mammoth carcasses partially gutted for scrap-metal and parts, engine cowls empty, propellers the size of windmills laying in the dirt. Huge toys, left behind by some giant child that had carelessly dropped them in a hurry to run off and play, or so it seemed. And I was the lucky stiff who found them. Finders keepers.

An old AT-6 Trainer was a favorite. Nose tilted in the air, landing gear partially collapsed, one wingtip leaning into a clump of weeds while the other soared high above the desert floor, perpetually banking into a steep turn. Crawl inside its cavernous fuselage and it was bare to its aluminum ribs, dust and tumbleweeds it’s only cargo. I’d run up the long wing and climb into the open cockpit, it’s metal-frame canopy frozen open, panes of glass cracked and shattered or missing altogether. I’d drop down into the torn and weathered seat, sinking behind a wondrous array of switches, black knobs and round-faced gauges—the rotted rubber-handled control stick between my scrawny legs, ready for takeoff. It was there I first communed with the dead.”

B.K. was appreciative of the work and inadvertently sent me off to do my homework, referring me to a website with info on the WWII planes parked at the then Army airfield in Kingman, Arizonahttp://www.depot41.com. The website is an brief overview of the airfield and its history, listing several WWII-era aircraft, but nary an AT-6  Trainer. . . Oops! Time to roll up my proverbial sleeves and do some digging.

So What? It’s a Murder Mystery, Not a History Book

A small point, granted. And I could take artistic license, since it was my father that mentioned the AT-6 Trainer. Still, I find that it is often the details of a story that make it work—make it real.

Trust me, readers will notice.

The Real Deal

Turns out my father was right.

An excerpt from the Kingman Army Air Field & Depot 41site – http://kingmanaafdepot41.weebly.com/1943.html:

“March – The aircraft count on the base was rising. By this time, there were 15 AT-6As, 21 AT-6Cs . . .”

I’m still not sure if the plane ‘ol Lance Underphal sat in as a small boy was an AT-6A or an AT-6C.

AT-6 is close enough.

No Excuses

Compared to our predecessors, we writers are damn lucky. It’s faster and easier than ever to do good research. The days of having to go to the local library and comb through endless volumes, searching for needles in haystacks is long gone, dead and buried. The internet gives us instant access to more resources than we’ll ever use. Once you separate out the misinformation from the facts, the rest is easy.

We’re writing for real, now!

Murder and Psychic Phenomena – a Wicked Mix

Popular opinion (subject to the propaganda of vested interests) would have you believe that anything having to do with the paranormal, ESP, psychic phenomena and the like is sheer fantasy. Okay, well, you’ll have to determine the validity of such experiences for yourself. Yet many who’ve had such experiences will swear by them. And is it really all that fantastical?

Why Incorporate Psychic Phenomena Into a Murder Mystery?

Yes, it seemingly complicates matters, weaving paranormal aspects into reality-based storytelling. After all, Dark Side of Sunset Pointe is a murder mystery loosely based on real events. And keeping it real is essential—probably foremost—for any good story. The term is known as “suspension of disbelief.”

Perhaps I’m too easily bored with artificial limits, but I write for my own enjoyment first. I figure that if I’m not enjoying the writing, how could a reader possibly enjoy it. And for me, writing another plain ol’ vanilla murder mystery isn’t all that interesting.

Too Incredible

Not only does the paranormal aspect of my mystery books make them more interesting, it adds an additional layer of intrigue. Controversial? . . . Maybe. More mysterious? Definitely. Not horrific, murder is horrific enough. Not necessarily ghostly—broader, more expansive than a mere ghost story. It incorporates a largely ignored facet of everyday living—the spiritual nature of our existence.

The Thin Fabric of Reality Tears All Too Easily

Looking at it from the sheer volume of data ingrained in the cultures of Man, spiritual references abound. Organized religion aside, very few people will deny having had some sort of a brush with the paranormal. We all have our little tales—even those secreted away that we dare not examine in the light of day. And it hardly seems as though mere coincidence is capable of explaining all away.

What If ?

Let’s suppose for a moment that there is a rational explanation for all this so called “superstitious nonsense.” Looking at it logically and without prejudice, we can easily take reports of paranormal happenings as fact.

Not that people don’t lie—hell, as a writer of fiction, it’s my stock and trade. Sure, there are charlatans with their own agenda and plenty of carny cons. Houdini did his best to debunk spiritualism, easily demonstrating P.T. Barnum’s purported catch phrase, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” Ah, the price we pay for naiveté . . . However, fear of getting caught with our pants down is no excuse for compulsive skepticism.

Assuming that humans possess various levels of awareness much like we possess different degrees of intelligence, it’s likely some are more in tune with extra sensory perceptions than others—not much of a stretch. And that brings us full circle.

You are the only one that determines its validity for you.

If you dare, look for yourself and tell us what you see.

Fathers & Sons . . . Endings & Beginnings

There is nothing else like it—the special bond between fathers and sons. For some, it’s agony, tearing them apart. For some, it’s the closest they’ll ever be to another human. For many of us, it’s both.

My Father

Ernest E. Scott, Jr.

1923 – 2012

What can you say about a guy who gave you your start in life—who was there for you through the terrors and trauma of childhood, sharing its joys and laughter, guiding you, doing his best to keep you on the right path? While our relationship was strained during my teenage years, when I finally wised up, he turned out to be the best friend I ever had. He was always there for me.

An Everyman’s Hero

Ernie was one helluva guy. Mechanically/electrically inclined, he could fix anything, as any of his friends would tell you. Active and interested in life, caring and adventurous, he set an excellent example. He used to fly a WWII Trainer to L.A. on his days off to date my mother. When he married her, just after WWII, he took her to Kingman Arizona and called it home.

He bought a couple of abandoned Army barracks, moved them to a lot he bought for fifty bucks, and by hand, transformed them into our home. He ran his own business, working many evenings and weekends to make ends meet. Yet he made time for his family, friends and hobbies. Active with several community groups, I best remember him for his contribution to the Boy Scouts.

My dad built his own dark room in the basement to develop his photos—a skillful and creative photographer (and later, videographer) most of his life. He took up astronomy, put together a six-inch reflecting telescope, grinding the mirrors by hand. And then to my amazement and delight, showed me the craters of the Moon and the rings around Saturn.

Ernie took us camping and fishing, exploring the desert, mountains and lakes along the Colorado River basin, taking us off-road in his Ford station-wagon. He bought a boat and outboard motor, taught us how to water ski and ran whitewater rapids in the depths of the Grand Canyon. In his spare time he polished stones and hand-crafted gold and silver jewelry.

My father, my brother and I took up Scuba diving in the early 1970s—my father, the first of us to earn his Scuba instructor’s certification. Ernie dove with research groups across the globe, taking pictures of underwater worlds in Mexico, Hawaii, Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, Paula, Belize, throughout the Caribbean and even the Red Sea. He hand-built his first underwater housing for his video camera and became a prolific underwater videographer.

He was active and full of life well into his 80s. In his early 70s at the time, we left the shores of Costa Rica and steamed out into the vastness of the Pacific until a jungle island emerged from the mist. Anchoring off Cocos Island, he and I spent several days diving with schools of hammerheads and white-tip reef sharks—strong currents, sweeping us into their midst. We got it all on video tape, and it took everything I had to keep up with him.

His last few years were misery. But in his usual style, he gritted his teeth, rarely complaining, fighting it all the way to the end. It was tough to watch him go.

He is survived by his wife, two sons and a handful of grandchildren.

Farewell

Though a small gesture, I’ve dedicated my first published novel to him. I know he’d be proud.

Only one thing left to say: Until we meet again . . .