A.R. Simmons's Blog: Musings and Mutterings, page 10

My love of Reading

As long as I can remember, I’ve loved reading. I pity the people who don’t. As spring comes around, I think once again of the ones who gave that to me, Mom and Dad. My father was a country boy whose highest academic achievement was passing the County 8th grade graduation test. He did that twice, once as a 7th grader. Despite going no further in school, he became one of the smartest and most knowledgeable men I knew. He always read the newspaper and watched the news on TV. He also loved novels, from Zane Grey to Erle Stanley Gardner to James Michener.

My mother, a girl from Chicago, went two grades further in school than my father, but didn’t graduate from high school. When they got married, they moved to Missouri to live on my grandparents' small farm. She didn’t read much, and it angered her that Dad spent so much time reading. One spring, she happened upon a humorous book based on the experiences of a newlywed trying to acclimate to life on a small chicken farm operated by her husband’s family. It struck a chord. Betty MacDonald’s “The Egg and I*” was the first book she ever completed, the first of many. My mother became, like my father, an avid reader.





Each spring, Mom celebrated her love of reading by re-reading “The Egg and I.” I hope that each of you find that kind of joy in reading.













(*Some of you, the older ones, may be familiar with two of the characters from MacDonald’s book: Ma and Pa Kettle.)

Opening of 2017 Richard Carter novel

Rural Hawthorn County, the Missouri Ozarks

Flashes backlit what he could see of the ruined buildings through the dingy cracked window. A stale, gray snowfall of dust filtered down from the rafters as the mortar rounds marched toward the gutted building where they had dug in for the night.

Someone gripped his arm.

He swung his M-16 around.

Richard Carter jolted awake with Jill’s fingers digging into his left biceps.

A series of distant explosions erupted, rattling the window glass—the mortar rounds of his quickly fading dream.

“What is that?” his wife gasped. “What’s happening?”

He glanced at the clock. It was only two. “I’m not sure.”

He threw off the covers and went to the window. “There’s fire and smoke coming from town. I can’t think of what might be exploding though.”

“Could a tanker train have derailed?”

“I don’t think the explosions are big enough for that,” he said as he pulled on yesterday’s pants and shirt. “I’m going out on the deck for a better look. No. I have to go to the courthouse. Whatever it is, Shug will need me.”

“I’ll get Mirabelle to keep her from being scared,” said Jill, already out of bed and headed for her daughter’s room.

Mark Twain National Forest, 2:04 AM

Has the sky caught fire? he wondered.

The boy heard a rustling in the dead leaves. Looking back, he saw a fireball reflected in his sister’s wide dark eyes. A moment later, a thunderous boom crashed through the forest, shaking the earth.

She cried out, and he pulled her close, wrapping his thin arms around her.

I’ll take you home, he vowed.

But the land of the rain people was far away.

I don’t even know where we are. Now this. What does it mean?

Richard stared toward town as he adjusted the belt holding his pistol and taser. A sudden billow of red-tinted smoke bloomed above the tree line. Moments later, a hollow boom reached the cabin, rattling the window glass through which he was looking.

Lucky, the hairy member of the family, stood tensely beside him, looking up for a clue. He didn’t sense a threat, but if the leader of the pack did, then there was a reason to worry.

“That was large enough to be an exploding tanker car,” he muttered just as there was a knock at the door.

“Richard!” Shane had come down the hill from the cabin he and his wife rented from the Carters.

He opened the door to let his young friend in. Shane was dressed in his fatigues.

“Has the Guard called you in already?” Richard asked him.

“No. But whatever this is, I’m sure they will. Has the sheriff called you yet?”

Shane’s cell phone rang. “It’s my unit,” he said.

“Daddy! Is it the terrorists?” asked Mirabelle as she and her mother came into the front room.

“No. I’m sure it’s not that, honey.”

“It’s a fire in old town,” said Shane over his shoulder as he went out through the door. “They want me at the armory.”

Richard watched him limp back up the hill on his surgically repaired ankle, a souvenir from Iraq.

Then his phone buzzed as the expected call came.

“Richard?” It was the sheriff. “We’ve got a bad situation here. I’m calling everybody in. We’re going to evacuate everyone close to old town. Stuff is landing all around down there.”

“What is it, Shug?”

“A bad fire and exploding gas bottles we think. Come on in, but don’t get near the fire or Front Street. Take Main straight to the courthouse.”

Hawthorn County Courthouse, 2:24 AM

Flames were visible above the single and two-story buildings. Flickering light painted the courthouse a sickly orange as Richard turned into the lot and parked.

He exited his cruiser and saw a short, stocky man coming up the east street, his friend and fellow deputy, Ron Guidry.

A hollow boom detonated like a Class B fireworks mortar.
Guidry flinched, but Richard reflexively dropped to make himself a smaller target. His mind knew that no one was trying to kill him, but his combat-trained endocrine and nervous systems thought they knew better.

“You okay, Carter?” called Guidry.

Richard stood and tried to slow his heart, but memories from Somalia had turbocharged his system. “Fine. Just combat nerves. How about you?”

“I need caffeine,” he said as he caught up. “I hope we’re not drafted to help put the damned fire out.”

“I imagine we’re just here to keep people away. We’ll soon find out.”

“Since the boss called us in so early, maybe I’ll get a pass on wearing yesterday’s uniform and not shaving.”
Guidry looked about the way he always did. The razor-shy faux Cajun was a much better investigator than his slovenly appearance suggested.

“How long have you been up, Ron?”

“Ever since the damned phone rang. Lead me to the coffee pot.”

Excerpt: Jill (from Journey Man)

Two melatonin tablets failed to summon sleep. The curse of being both highly intelligent and well-read is that sometimes a person knows too much for their own good. A modicum of ignorance truly can be bliss. Jill knew why she couldn’t sleep, and she also knew that she could do nothing about it.

It’s free-floating anxiety, she told herself. Anxiety unattached to a particular cause.
Yes, and it’s also called “generalized anxiety disorder.” And I’m being pedantic with myself. I could bore a whole classroom to sleep like that. Too bad it doesn’t work on oneself.

She took her blanket to the living room couch and wrapped up. The fire flared briefly in the fireplace, a spent ember releasing its last gasp of volatile gas. An indistinct sound came from outside. Jill barely heard, but Lucky perked up his ears.

“Is something out there, boy?” she asked softly.

Lucky cocked his head. He got up and went to the door and reared up to look through the glass. A moment later, his ears relaxed, and he dropped to the floor.

“I guess not,” she said as the big dog did a couple of slow-motion spins before settling onto the rug again.
Tingling with an unease that wouldn’t still, she shifted her position. Then she remembered that she hadn’t made a copy of the gun safe key.

It’s still in my jeans!

She went to the utility room, rummaged through the hamper in the dark, found her jeans and looked through the pockets, exhaling in relief when she found the key.

It would be just like me to lose it.

She held it in her hand a moment, wondering where to put it so that she wouldn’t misplace it.

On your key chain, of course. What’s wrong with you?

It was an odd key, one with a hollow barrel shaft with a slot in it. Suddenly, she imagined herself needing to open the little safe and being unable to. She went to the bedroom and took the heavy box down from the shelf in the closet. Placing it on the bed, she inserted the key. It wouldn’t turn.

She went to flip the lights on, but hesitated.

If someone is outside, he can see in.

Although there was no way anyone could see in through the drawn curtains, she was still afraid to flip on the lights.

I must learn to unlock it in the dark anyway, she rationalized.

She tried turning the key in various ways to no avail.

Finally, she pushed it in and twisted. The spring-loaded lid flew upward, startling her. The box slipped from her hands and dropped to the bed. She heard the pistol hit the floor with a loud thud.

She held her breath, waiting for Mirabelle to call out. Instead, she heard Lucky come into the room. Backlit by the dim light of the living room, he cocked his head and whined.

“It’s okay, Lucky. Go on back to the living room,” she told him.

He trotted dutifully back to the hearth, and Jill felt around the floor until she encountered Richard’s old .45 service automatic. She remembered the one time she fired it, when she and Richard were on Bonne Femme Island.

It has a touchy trigger. If I drop it, I could shoot myself.
I’ll take it back to the couch and . . .
You’re paranoid. As jittery as you are, you have no business with a gun in your hand, especially if you fall asleep with it in your lap.

Jill closed her hand on the cold steel. It had comforted her once, and it did so now. She stood, braced the .45 with both hands and took a wide shooter’s stance, aiming at the window.

The army developed the pistol to drop charging Philippine insurgents in their tracks. That’s what I need if— If what? What’s wrong with you?

She carefully placed the automatic back in the lock box, and then went to find the flashlight. Using it, she got down on her hands and knees and picked up the scattered ammunition and extra clip. She shut the box and put it back on the shelf in the closet. Then she found her purse, and put the key on her keychain

Road Shrines. Weak Cover?

Road Shrines is the 8th book in the series. It's cover is apropos, but apparently not too arresting. The following poster ad is not appropriate for a cover design, but might pique your interest.

The story begins almost twenty years prior to the events unfolding in Hawthorn County. Here is the newspaper from that time.



.......................................................................................................

The contemporary story starts with an unauthorized exhumation at Baskie Cemetery. (Yes. Something like that could happen in the county.)

That bizarre event initiates a series of discoveries that bring in the Feds and shunt Richard Carter to the investigation of an apparent teenage runaway.

Of course, that is not the way the plot unfolds. An emo group with midnight rituals complicate matters as does an incident involving a young deputy from another county.

About Journey Man

Sometimes a story is too good to be true.

Some stories are too fantastic to believe.






















This is Nicole Whitmer. She comes to Blue Creek with a strange story and a lot of questions. Is she a valuable witness, or is she wasting Richard's time? She certainly knows a lot about Journey Man. So is she his first victim, or simply a delusional woman desperately seeking attention after the collapse of her marriage?

Journey Man

Blue Creek Mysteries Dedicated Blog

For those of you who may want more detailed information about Richard and Jill Carter, Hawthorn County, or Blue Creek, check my Wordpress Blog.

https://mrarsimmons.wordpress.com/

Here you can find character sketches, vignettes, and other information from inside the series.

Authors! Reviewers!

Authors, are you looking for a way to separate your wheat from the chaff accruing out there?

Reviewers, would you like to have books vetted by other authors and reviewers before you spend your valuable time reading something that may not be ready for review?

You choose the genre that interests you, and only the genre that interests you.

Check out Book Vetter at the address below, and see if you wish to join the team.

http://www.bookvetter.com/index.html

The Latest Richard Carter novel is availble (Kindle)

Blurb for “JOURNEY MAN” [Available as Kindle book this month, June]

The tombstone reads “Richard Carter.” It has a fine Latin inscription and a death date. Unlike his wife Jill, Richard finds it easy to dismiss as a prank. He’s more concerned with the “Jane Doe” who turns up asphyxiated and shockingly posed. This is the unmistakable signature of a sexual predator, a monster deep into his fantasy, a man probably already seeking his next victim.







An FBI friend tells Richard that the Bureau is tracking a coast-to-coast serial killer with an identical MO and signature, a killer who leaves immaculate crime scenes that tell investigators only what the killer wants them to know: how clever he is.

Is the local killer the FBI’s “Journey Man,” or only a copycat? Does it matter? How can Richard find the invisible? He needs a pattern, a clue, but all he has is a woman who might have been a victim.









While he struggles to find connections, Richard is unaware of something at home, something begun with the arrival of his tombstone. His wife Jill’s past, combined with what is happening, breathes new life into the smoldering coals of her emotional distress. As the killer strikes closer to home, she hurtles toward an abyss. Jill is nothing if not strong, but is she strong enough to bear this alone? Or will she become “collateral damage” of the Journey Man’s rampage through Hawthorn County?

Legendary Detectives: Charlie Chan

Say “Charlie Chan” and duck. A brickbat is on the way as soon as you mention Earl Derr Biggers’s Chinese-American detective. Yes, I know about demeaning stereotypes—scratch that and just say “stereotypes.” They are all demeaning. However, please try to judge an author, a book, a character, even a stereotype in the setting of the era to which they belong.






The House Without A Key is an old fashioned murder mystery in which Earl Der Biggers introduces us to both early 20th century Hawaii and the finest detective on the police department, Charlie Chan. In the book, Chan is not the main character, but he plays the pivotal role.

The author also presents the cultural diversity of the island territory. This is a successful launch of career for a detective beloved by readers and much more so by movie goers.

Chan emerges as a non-threatening, amiable, hyphenated American possessed of the supposedly "oriental" traits: stoicism and quiet persistence.






George Kuwa a Japanese-American was the first to portray Chan in movies. The House Without a Key. (1926) pic below



















Every new hero needs a hook, something that makes him interestingly unique. Der Biggers gave Chan his ethnicity as an arresting image. At the time, the stereotype of the "Yellow Peril" was widespread in the US (think Fu Manchu).

Charlie Chan was the "benign" half of the stereotype. He was the wily, inscrutable, proverb-uttering Chinaman. His flawed syntactic English was a sop to the genteel bigotry of early 20th century American culture. It made him "acceptable" in the same way as employing the Swedish actor Warner Oland to portray him in most of the movies.






















So we have the faux Confucius proverbs spoken to explain his thinking and the eventual undoing of the criminals he brought to justice. Chan was so beloved that virtually all children in the US grew up with a panoply of "Confucius say . . ." one-liners. The thing about "benign" stereotypes is that they are unconscious and not at all intended to offend—yet they did and do.


Still, Der Biggers' Chinese-American sleuth adds something new to the detective genre—humor. Charlie Chan gives us perhaps more humor than any of his predecessors.

He is an engaging man, not at all the "wily Oriental gentleman" of British colonial stereotyping . His charm lies in his use of aphoristic wisdom stated in faux-Confusion sayings. Chan actually is a sort of classic sage.

Sometimes he uses his “proverbs” to reveal what he has deduced and to explain motives, but also uses them to respond to the prejudice that he encounters. He is wise, calm, and as proper at Hercule Poroit. And like Poroit and Father Brown, he deliberately lets people underestimate him.

The House Without a Key

Writing Rx and Overdose (4)

“. . . tips are like aspirin. One may do you good, but if you swallow the whole bottle you will be lucky to survive.”

—Harvey Pennick, Harvey Pennick’s Little Red Book


.................Rule 10 Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip................
.
Good medicine—if you can find the diseased areas. We are talking surgery here. (The most important part of the “blue pencil” is the eraser.)

Edit to remove everything that does not serve your purpose: the telling of a story that grabs and holds your reader’s attention. To do that you must write so as to remain invisible to the reader.













(“The Invisible Author” will be addressed in a future post. This is the “Philosopher’s Stone” of writing.)