The Paris Review - A Literary Wonderland
From one of the most classic literary journals of all time, famous for its author interviews (among other things), comes the PR feed. Grab your coffee and conjure your most literary mindset cause you're going to need it. Academics and shut-ins will wet their pants over this. Ya gotta love it!
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Illustration: Elisabeth Boehm. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. Aunt Galya, my father’s sister, died. She was just over eighty. We hadn’t been close—there was an uneasiness between the families and a history of perceived snubs. My parents had what you might call troubled dealings with Aunt Galya, and we almost never saw her. As a result I had little chance to form my own relationship with her. We met infrequently, we had the odd phone call, but toward the end she unplugged her phone, saying “I don’t want to talk to anyone.” Then she disappeared entirely into the world she had built for herself: layered strata of possessions, objects, and trinkets in the cave of her …
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Spread from The Lost Soul, illustrated by Joanna Concejo. Courtesy of Seven Stories Press. There are very few children in my life right now, but if there are in the future, I look forward to sitting down with them to read Olga Tokarczuk’s beautiful and melancholy The Lost Soul. Illustrated by Joanna Concejo and translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones, it is the brief tale of a man who, by moving too fast in life, has lost his soul. As a wise doctor explains to the man: “Souls move at a much slower speed than bodies. They were born at the dawn of time, just after the Big Bang, when the cosmos wasn’t yet in such a rush.” All is not lost: the man moves to the countryside and, as …
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Najwan Darwish. Photo: Veronique Vercheval. Courtesy of New York Review Books. If I could come back, I wouldn’t come under any other banner. I’d still embrace you with two severed hands. I don’t want wings in paradise, I just want your graves by the river. I want eternity at the breakfast table with the bread and oil. I want you— earth, my defeated banner. This poem, “My Defeated Banner,” is from the fifth section of the Palestinian poet Najwan Darwish’s latest collection, Exhausted on the Cross, and in its devastating beauty, it represents one of the peak moments of his poetry as well as of the writing of our time. As in all of Darwish’s poetry, this defeated…
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In the early stages of quarantine, a lot of people ordered War and Peace. I hesitated. I am not a doctor, or a delivery person, or a health care worker, I thought. I have no god’s-eye view on the real suffering taking place. In the end I reached for Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers, a lurid masturbation epic first drafted in prison on brown paper bags. Because while a lot of us, in these uncertain times, could use some Tolstoyan omniscience, even more of us could use some sex. Don’t be shy, don’t be ashamed! Reminder that when Shakespeare was quarantined, he definitely masturbated. As with romance and God, so has mankind been motivated to aesthetic heights by “traffi…
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In 1963, with the civil rights movement in full swing, a group of New York City–based Black photographers began meeting regularly to talk shop, listen to jazz, discuss politics, critique one another’s work, and bond over the power of their shared medium. Thus, the Kamoinge Workshop was born, a collective whose members pursued wildly varying aesthetic interests but held a mutual commitment to photography’s value as art. “Working Together,” an exhibition featuring work by fourteen key members of the Kamoinge Workshop, will be on view at the Whitney Museum of American Art through March 28. A selection of images from the show appears below. Anthony Barboza, Kamoinge Members,…
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If navigating the internet were an Olympic sport, Patricia Lockwood would sweep the medals. She is not a coder or a programmer (though surely she could be). She doesn’t live in the internet but upon it. She sails along on trends and tweets, a fisher of men, understanding, as she writes, that “everyday their attention must turn, like the shine on a school of fish, all at once.” As the tides shift, she is always be one twist ahead of the internet’s dangers, such as overexposure and cancellation. We here at The Paris Review are often made aware of her one important question we have yet to answer: Lockwood is not only the quiet queen of twitter, she is also a poet, memoiri…
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Every week, the editors of The Paris Review lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine’s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by signing up for the Redux newsletter. Simone de Beauvoir. This week at The Paris Review, we’re celebrating Valentine’s Day and dwelling on both the highs and lows of love. Read on for Simone de Beauvoir’s Art of Fiction interview, Akhil Sharma’s short story “The Well,” Frank O’Hara’s poem “Love,” and Eric Fischl’s portfolio “Couples.” If you enjoy these free interviews, stories, and poems, why not subscribe to The Paris Review? Or take advantage…
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Gwendolyn Brooks at her typewriter. Often, when I look back at the poems that have found their sudden ways to me—the ones that have chosen me in particular, to move through me and onto the page—it is hard to imagine they are related to one another. It is hard to believe the poems that sprawl wide, the poems that play their tricks, the poems that exhume and resurrect, that breathe strange and speak with different tongues, all share a common denominator. It is hard to believe all the differently hued poems I’ve written have come from my own throat, born of the same place but perhaps of a different season, fruit of the same tree perched on a different branch. How is one o…
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Ernest Lawson, Garden Landscape, ca. 1915, oil on canvas, 20 x 24″. Public domain, via Wikimedia commons. Ma thought it was a good idea. That we work together in the garden. But it wasn’t a garden then, just a long rectangle of funky-smelling earth behind a two-story apartment house in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. An elderly couple named Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz owned the house and backyard. This was in the early seventies, and already the Jews were moving out. I was ten or twelve the summer we worked in the earth. The Schwartzes lived downstairs from us in that house, and on Fridays their apartment went semidark because of the Sabbath. What a beautiful word for someth…
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Still from Black Bear. Courtesy of Tandem Pictures. Lawrence Michael Levine’s fourth feature, Black Bear, really messed with my equilibrium. I first saw the film as part of Nightstream, a collaborative virtual horror film festival, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it stirred up something deep in my psyche. The plot unfolds in three distinct strands. One follows a filmmaker and former actress named Allison (Aubrey Plaza) who heads to a wooded retreat to seek inspiration for her next film while navigating the awkward tension of the cabin’s caretakers, Gabe (Christopher Abbott) and Blair (Sarah Gadon). The second departs from almost everything established by the fir…
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Jean-Antoine Houdon, Madame His, 1775, marble, 31 1/2″ tall. Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Victor Thaw, 2007. There are few uncooler-sounding words than “eighteenth-century marble portraiture.” Even typing these words makes me feel like I’m prepping for the PSAT. But eighteenth-century marble portraiture—specifically that of Jean-Antoine Houdon, known for his uncool likenesses of Voltaire and George Washington—can be extraordinarily strange. Furthermore, the examples here are nearly nowhere to be found on your phone except in lo-res preview form. In other words, you have to actually go to the Frick to see them. Two busts, sculpted within two years of each other, are paire…
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The following essay appears in But Still, It Turns, edited by Paul Graham and published by MACK earlier this month. The book accompanies an exhibition of the same name showing at International Center of Photography (ICP) until May 9. Gregory Halpern. Image from ZZYZX (MACK, 2016), in But Still, It Turns, edited by Paul Graham (MACK, 2021). Courtesy of the artist and MACK. Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality, has no such simple effect upon the mind of man. The mind of man, moreover, works with equal strangeness upon the body of time. An hour, once it lodges in the queer element of the human spirit, may be st…
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Ottilie Mulzet on how her adoptive heritage lead her to a life of and in translation. Learning a language is a kind of practice, as anyone who’s ever learned one will tell you. It has its own drills, milestones, peaks, and valleys. Its own rituals, such as repeating phrases aloud three times so they will register in your ears, the choreography embedded into the interface of tongue and palate. The reverberations echo in your skull—even if forgotten five minutes later, a residue remains. One ploughs through printed dictionaries and delights in their idiosyncrasies, which are missing from the online versions. There are “found poems” in certain dictionary entries. There’s …
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“Don’t you think it’s funny how now the people making these ads get it?” I say to my best friend, my voice cradling the words “get it” with invisible quotation marks. We’re watching television, something we do together often now, grateful to be in each other’s bubble. “What?” she replies, looking up from her phone. “The models,” I say. “Oh, I know,” she says. We’ve been friends for twenty-eight years. She knows what I mean without my having to explain. After yet another murder, one salve seemed to be representation. Between announcements of our crumbling democracy and more and more people dying, there were now ads with smiling Black faces. Black girls with crowns of 4c c…
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This morning, PEN America released the 2021 Literary Awards Finalists. More than forty-five imprints and presses are featured on the list, with half of the titles coming from university and indie presses. Twenty books are from writers making their literary debuts, and half the titles among the open-genre awards are poetry collections. Chosen by a cohort of judges representing a wide range of disciplines, backgrounds, identities, and aesthetic lineages, these fifty-five Finalist books represent a humbling selection of the year’s finest examples of literary excellence. The stories on the Finalists lists are about parents, grandparents, and grandchildren, about siblings and…
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Photo: Mairead Small Staid In the torpor of the last ten months, I’ve found myself missing most those things I rarely did before. I miss the grand galleries of art museums, though the nearest are more than an hour away and trips have always been sporadic. I daydream about travel, about the tenuous camaraderie of the airport screening line, the stratus-brushed horizon beyond the window, the world narrowed to a seat, a tray, a book, a bubble of time removed from the world and set ever so gently aside. What I miss, I think, is less action itself than the likelihood of action—or of accident. Even as the pandemic spans four seasons, some underlying transformation (or its pote…
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Every week, the editors of The Paris Review lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine’s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by signing up for the Redux newsletter. Maya Angelou. This week at The Paris Review, we’re highlighting work by Black American writers in honor of Black History Month. Read on for Maya Angelou’s Art of Fiction interview, John Edgar Wideman’s short story “Sightings,” and Lucille Clifton’s poem “bouquet.” If you enjoy these free interviews, stories, and poems, why not subscribe to The Paris Review? Or take advantage of our current subscription off…
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Photo: © 3asy60lf / Adobe Stock. Michael Jordan is facing the camera. It’s May 7, 1989, and Jordan has just made the winning shot in Game 5 of the first round of the NBA playoffs. He is rising, effortless, his legs swinging open like scissors. Craig Ehlo, behind and to the left of Jordan, is sinking, crumpling into profile, making himself thin. Jordan swings his arm in sync with Ehlo; they are nearly perfect mirror images of each other. They hit the ground, magically, at almost exactly the same time, drifting in the same temporal current. Time in a sporting event is, like accordion bellows, structural and flexible. On some throws the ball seems to stay suspended in the …
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Promotional still from Ethos. As I searched for new shows to binge during quarantine this fall, I kept forgetting the title of the most recent Turkish Netflix drama. Ethics? Event? Euphoria (no), Eulogy … Ego … What was that show friends had told me to watch? The English title is Ethos, but the words you see in the opening credits are, of course, in Turkish: Bir Başkadır. Episode after episode, I would rack my brain for a suitable translation—one that fit the idea of ethos, but also matched the delicate world of the show. “It’s Something Else,” I ventured to my partner. Or, “There’s One More Thing.” Or, maybe, simply, “The Other,” as in, an-other-ness? Something about t…
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In Valerie Stivers’s Eat Your Words series, she cooks up recipes drawn from the works of various writers. Photo: Erica MacLean. A police inspector wakes up in his beachfront apartment in Sicily and goes for a long swim, then to the office to confront his day of paperwork and complications: the corrupt officials, the jealous girlfriend, the frequent corpses. He has barely started before it’s time for lunch at the kind of restaurant he likes—one with no decor and the owner’s wife in the kitchen. The inspector is an aggressive, tightly wound man who does his job well. The pleasure that he takes in his food is an escape of a kind, an embrace of life by a person who regularl…
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In Reel Bay: A Cinematic Essay, Jana Larson recounts her longtime pursuit of the truth about Takako Konishi, a Japanese woman who, as the urban legend goes, froze to death in the Minnesota snow while trying to find a buried suitcase of money featured in the film Fargo. An excerpt from the book, which was published by Coffee House this past month, appears below. Photo: © romantsubin / Adobe Stock. Bismarck, North Dakota, is a six-hour drive from Minneapolis, but it takes about ten hours by bus. You sit toward the back, next to an old man who sleeps with his mouth hanging open and an older woman with a red checkered shirt and dyed black hair in curlers. She reads a coupon…
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In his column Notes on Hoops, Hanif Abdurraqib revisits the golden age of basketball movies, shot by shot. Still from White Men Can’t Jump. © 20th Century Studios. I can always tell which one of my friends didn’t grow up around hustlers by how they look up and lock eyes with the person at the mall kiosk, who—by virtue of that enchanting eye contact—doesn’t even have to wave them over. They drift into the grasp of the salesperson without even being aware of it. And that’s when their money is no longer theirs. On the street in a city my pal had never been to, a woman sells her a bracelet before she even knows what’s happening. Compliments her skin tone and lays the bracel…
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Edward Hirsch with his father before a football game at Grinnell College, 1971. Courtesy of Edward Hirsch. It has been nearly fifty years since I played college football, but sometimes I still wake up on Saturday with the old feeling. It’s fall, there’s a certain chill in the air, and suddenly I am catapulted back into the bruised light of my dorm room in the early morning, a brisk day dawning in rural Iowa, football weather. I can feel the tingle of anticipation as soon as I open my eyes—a day for running routes and catching passes, blocking down on tackles, hitting, and getting hit. I was a pass receiver. All night I ran the patterns in my mind until they seemed like …
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Kansas, Alabama, Illinois, New York—wherever Gordon Parks (1912–2006) traveled, he captured with striking composition the lives of Black Americans in the twentieth century. From his first portraits for the Farm Security Administration in the early forties to his essential documentation of the civil rights movement for Life magazine, he produced an astonishing range of work. In his photographs we see protests and inequality and pain but also love, joy, boredom, traffic in Harlem, skinny-dips at the watering hole, idle days passed on porches, summer afternoons spent baking in the Southern sun. With “Half and the Whole,” on view through February 20, Jack Shainman Gallery pre…
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Every week, the editors of The Paris Review lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine’s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by signing up for the Redux newsletter. John Hall Wheelock. Photo: Rowland Scherman. This week at The Paris Review, we’re peering through windows. Read on for John Hall Wheelock’s Art of Poetry interview, an excerpt from Gerald Murnane’s Border Districts, and Forough Farrokhzad’s poem “Window.” If you enjoy these free interviews, stories, and poems, why not subscribe to The Paris Review? Or take advantage of our new subscription bundle, bringing y…
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ALGONKIAN SUCCESS STORIES
WTF is Wrong With Stephen King?
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Opening scene which introduces the main conflict, without providing too many details, as well as introduces the main character and provides some hints to her personality: There’s a quote that’s been lingering in the back of my mind, after everything that’s happened. It’s cliche to start off a letter with a quote, I know, especially one that anyone whose been following my career has heard. But it’s worth repeating, given who I am and what I do. “There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” It’s from Aldous Huxley, he was a British writer back in the early 20th century. It’s echoed in everything I’ve done, since witnessing the dangers of an idea. How it can take the likeness of a drop, touch oceans of history and culture in a community, and spreads until it has become the tides themselves. It’s the ten-year anniversary of when the world lost its gods. If you’re American, then you probably only saw how it impacted America. You saw the economy go down, the celebrities and politicians commenting either in support or opposition. As I watched the recent coverage of the damage done, during that time, it occurred to me just how much of the reporting illustrated the broader story of the TX12 and everything that resulted from it. The big stories and the big numbers, that scared or inspired readers, were told. But the smaller tales, the ones with elements that are too sharp to be crafted into entertainment and too dull to be cautionary tales, those weren’t. And they probably never will be. That’s how news that needs to be sold works. That’s why I’m writing this, in the hope that someone who was impacted by what happened reads it and feels that however, it affected them mattered. I know that my story is one of the millions that only thousands may relate to but I’d rather reach someone while failing to reach everyone. This is how it happened and hopefully, someone will read this and sees enough of their story in my experience. Behind a scattered collection of gray colds, sunlight bled through every part of the sky that they didn’t cover. Light rain dropped silently crashed into the neighborhood, without a sound and barely visible, the only proof that they landed in the puddles that they congregate into. Though mildly entertained, I looked at myself in my car, checking every detail on my newly braided hair, makeup that complimented my dark skin, and my near-perfect lips except for the little bit of skin hanging off, an annoying reminder of the habit but a more annoying reminder that I’ll keep doing it. If I saw this face on another woman, I’d probably think she was pretty. I looked out my foggy window and see that gray clouds were gone along with the wind. The sun was now out, without any hindrance; its light reflected in the leftover rain, making the neighborhood a little too bright to look at. I watched crowds of people, whose various black, brown, and amber shades were organized together into a moving color palette, strolling down the street. Black people, with streaks of white in their hair and pauses before their step, walked side by side as the red doors to the church opened. Some of them held the hands of black children, who moved uncomfortably in suits and dresses and yawned without covering their mouths. A blast of an organ erupted from the building, while the line moved steadily with people eagerly moving inside. As I watched them enter, a few random thoughts, apathetic of my feelings, across my mind and found themselves at its forefront. This is going to go wrong, you don’t know how but it will. You’re already about to fired and soon and you’ll probably take Marc down with you. A few more, just as loud and honest, followed their trail. I wonder how you’ll pay your bill without a job. I closed my eyes. -
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Getting Down to Business
Stories about AI led the news in May, both the pros and cons, mostly cons. More sad news about book bans, with a highly regarded poem thrown out for good measure, but there are also signs of a growing push back. So, dig in! AI We’d all better be paying closer attention to how AI is going to play out in the future, both as writers and as humans. It’s making headlines as the potential for pluses and problems appear to be infinite. Google’s new editor helping to perfect fakery Is AI paving the path to email hell? Do we need an AI manifesto? Scribd changes its terms in response to AI The best AI-powered apps—if you’re so inclined UK is launching a review of AI’s impact on consumers Biden and Harris meet with CEOs about AI risks Bookwire integrates chatgpt Is AI already replacing writers? A boom in AI-written books on Amazon Laws governing AI are like the wild, wild west AI analyzes Charles Dickens The Urgent Risk of AI Hard work, not AI is the key to success Book Banning Libraries, inauguration poems, textbooks—book banners have them all in their sites. Most banned authors of all time The fight against book bans Librarians, publishers, bookstores join lawsuit in Arkansas Amanda Gorman poem banned in Florida Publishers suing Florida school district over book bans Book Banning in America has never been worse Publishing Book shows, editorial turnover at New Leaf Books and others, commentaries on the state of publishing, and Trump vs Woodward. Amazon publishing stats Book business could be a better lgbtq ally Industry news, trade shows, events from Publishers Weekly New York book show US needs its own book fair New Leaf issues update for authors When your publisher gets the cover very wrong The current state of being a published writer—weird and worrisome Publishing people roundup—who’s in, who’s out? Trump vs Simon & Schuster and Woodward Ten Speed Press launches graphic book imprint Wave of resignations at Coffee House Press Bookstores It’s all about Barnes & Noble. Now that it seems to be on the come back, employees want to unionize. One take on Barnes & Noble “makeover” Flagship Barnes & Noble in NYC launches union drive Brooklyn’s Park Slope Barnes & Noble files for union election; Massachusetts store votes yes for unionization Social Media In a head-to-head with Twitter, Snapchat, Tiktok and Reddit, Linked In comes out on top? LinkedIn driving content discovery for publishers What say you about AI? Are concerns justified or is the hand wringing unnecessary? If you have any sources on the topic you’d like to share for next month, I’d love to hear about them. [url={url}]View the full article[/url] -
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The Need for Respect Between Writers and Editors
Photo by Yan Krukau (Pexels) I took part in a nasty email exchange recently. I didn’t start it, and I certainly didn’t want to continue it. This dust-up began when I submitted a CNF essay to a print journal. I had received one of those “Open to Submissions” digests through email. You know the kind. It’s similar to the sidebars we include in each monthly WOW! Markets newsletter, alerting writers to open calls for submissions. * This round-up I’m referencing was not, for the record, included in the WOW! Markets newsletter. Anyway, this particular round-up noted that one journal—a name I was not familiar with, a print magazine—was open to original work, as well as reprints. It’s rare to find journals open to reprints, so I immediately took notice. I have a CNF essay that is very dear to me, published three years ago in an online journal. I always keep my eyes open for reprint opportunities because I’d love to hold this essay in a print publication. It’s about my sister-in-law’s suicide, and it’s one of the most bittersweet pieces I’ve ever written. I sent my essay to the print journal on a Monday morning. I clearly noted at the top that it was a reprint, and cited where and when it had been published online. Three days later, I got an email from them. I was surprised at the speed of the reply, and wasn’t sure if I should take it as a good or bad sign that they were getting back to me so quickly. Prior to submitting my reprint, I had visited the journal’s website to see if they published any pieces online. Some print journals have been known to post a few sample pieces, to help give writers a flavor of what they publish. With print, it’s sometimes harder to get a sense of what a particular journal likes when one does not have a paid subscription. Their website did not have any sample pieces posted. I also did not see in their submission guidelines where they said they accepted reprints. I wanted to cover my bases to show that I was not randomly spraying out essays without reading guidelines. As an online journal editor myself, I appreciate the importance of following guidelines to the letter. I pointed out in my cover letter that the submissions round-up email had indicated reprints were accepted. I opened their reply with my usual expectation of a 50/50 coin toss. They were either going to thank me for considering them and tell me they were not interested in my piece, or they might surprise me and say that they wanted to republish it. What I was not expecting was the sarcastic reply I read: Print magazine editors are weary of junk submissions from people who have not read an issue. “Junk” submissions? Ouch! Where the hell did that come from? This editor—as it turns out, when I Googled him—is white and male and older, judging by his photo. Not a good look, this email reply of his, especially in an industry that has a history of literary gatekeeping. An industry that consistently and unabashedly valued male (and almost always white) writers and all but ignored, well, everyone else: females, people of color, the LGBTQ community, neurodivergent writers, and on and on. For, um, centuries. But, this is not a discussion about white male privilege. It’s actually just a discussion about rudeness. About sarcastic, conceited dismissal. Stick with me. We’re getting to that part. He went on to scold me that they do not accept previously published work, and that the digest that included that guidance was clearly in error. What I read between the lines was that he, in his haughty wisdom, dismissed them as well for being sloppy. He continued: Visit our website. And read the magazine. Though I found his email off-putting, and though I rarely respond to editors when I receive a rejection, I felt this called for some kind of reply. I let him know that I had, in fact, visited the journal’s website before submitting and I had tried to read some of their published work, but that I could not find any writing in any shape or form published on their website. (The only thing I saw was instructions on how to purchase back copies, or sign up for an annual subscription.) I also apologized for sending my reprint in error, then mentioned in closing how I’ve seen some print journals publish samples, which helps those writers who may not have money to buy subscriptions to every publication. I’m pretty sure that’s the point where our email conversation went from unpleasant to ugly. His reply, a half hour later: Like other magazines, XX receives many submissions from people who have not read it. When I call this fact to their attention, they reply as you did that they cannot buy every magazine to which they submit. Why not? If a magazine is good enough to publish your work, it is good enough for you to buy a copy. Please save your advice on how to run the magazine, and what to put on the website. Editors rarely welcome such comments from writers. I sat there, stewing over his condescension. I thought about how I had apologized to him and was sincere in owning up to my mistake. The onus was on me after all, as the submitter, to fact-check what I’d read in an erroneous third-party round-up that said this particular journal did accept reprints. I’ll be sure to file your emails in my Pompous Ass folder, I replied. Get over yourself. I was not proud of my snark. OK, who am I kidding, you’re damn right I was proud. I assumed that would be the end of it. It was not. Minutes later, I got another scorching email. And I’ll be sure to pass your name to other editors as a writer to avoid! I'll do you one better, I wrote back, and share with the journal for which I am an editor to keep your name in mind as one to avoid. I hit the Send button, but soon regretted engaging in a juvenile tit-for-tat with some gray-haired, bespectacled man who oozed grandiosity. While Googling him, I saw that he crowed about his Ivy-League education, and listed a handful of what he considered higher-tier—and therefore worthy, in his esteemed opinion—journals in which he’d been published. My Inbox dinged five minutes later. He’d apparently also Googled me, because he called out by name both the literary journal where I volunteer as a Flash CNF editor, and the WOW! Women on Writing community where I write newsletter columns. His comments about both put his ugliness on full display. Barren Magazine? Are you kidding me? Women on Writing? Am I a woman? He rattled off a few more insults and closed his rant with the question: Who do you think you are? I was floored. And, done. I filed his nasty-grams away in an archived folder, and reflected on what had gone down. I’m not sure I have any answers, certainly not any that can excuse this person’s overblown response to a legitimate mistake in thinking their journal accepted reprints. I regretted stooping to his level, as he baited me with his hostility. Even more so, I regretted sending him my essay about my deceased sister-in-law. An essay he in all likelihood never read, but felt compelled to call "junk." The whole experience left me feeling a bit brokenhearted. When writers and editors can’t or won’t respect one other, when someone like this boor dismisses another writer and editor, when he stoops to lording it over other journals and lashes out with a sexist comment about an entire community, it sucks the joy out of this thing we we all work so hard at capturing. How to relate to each other. Getting to universal truths. Here’s a truth about that editor. He is, indeed, a pompous ass. And if his journal’s mission in any way reflects his own ugliness, it’s not a journal I’d ever want to be in. Ann Kathryn Kelly writes from New Hampshire’s Seacoast region. https://annkkelly.com (C) Copyright wow-womenonwriting.com Visit WOW! Women On Writing for lively interviews and how-tos. Check out WOW!'s Classroom and learn something new. Enter the Quarterly Writing Contests. Open Now![url={url}]View the full article[/url] -
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Kickass Women in History: Queen Amanirenas
The Kingdom of Kush existed along the Nile Valley in what is now parts of Sudan and Egypt. It included the city-states of Kerma, Napata, and Meroë. The inhabitants of this kingdom spoke and wrote in the Meroitic language, a language that is currently almost completely untranslated. Kush existed for over 3,000 years, and during much of that time it was ruled by women. Queen Amanirenas is famous for having successfully resisted the Roman army’s invasion of the kingdom. Most of the information we have about her is either written in Meroitic, which we can’t read, or comes to us from a Greek historian named Strabo who writes from a place of bias. Still, we know enough to firmly place Queen Amanirenas in the ranks of Kickass Women. Amanirenas was a Kandake, the Meroitic word for female ruler. She ruled from around 40-10BC. Once the Roman Augustus Caesar established dominion over Egypt, he marched on Kush, desiring its supply of gold. Queen Amanirenas is said to have sent him ten golden arrows and a message stating: “If you want peace, this is a token of warmth and friendship. If you want war, keep the arrows, because you are going to need them.” Queen Amanirenas’ army was much smaller than that of the Romans so strategy was crucial. Queen Amanirenas was an archer as were many women from the kingdom. Many women fought in her army. In an early battle, Queen Amanirenas’ husband was killed. In a later battle she lost an eye. She fought with her son at her side, rebounded after some devastating losses, and used battle tactics of surprise and fear. After three years, she forced the Romans to sign a peace treaty which removed taxes from the Meroë and withdrew Roman forces almost all the way back to Egypt. A temple in Meroë that is dedicated to victory contained a bronze sculpture of Caesar Augustus’s head, buried beneath the temple steps so all could tread upon it. History.com elaborates: The temple in Meroë is also decorated with drawings of Roman prisoners and victorious Nubian queens. Solange Ashby, Egyptologist and Post-Doctoral Fellow at The University of California, says such depictions are typical for the period and indicative of a wider culture where femininity and willingness to engage in warfare were not contradictory. Because we have to rely almost entirely on the words of a single person for details about the war, it’s difficult to interpret what did and didn’t happen. Paintings of Amanirenas show her riding a war elephant and feeding prisoners to lions – propaganda created to instill fear, or true reporting of the actions of a ruthless leader? What we do know is that Amanirenas made tremendous gains and maintained the kingdom’s independence. The kingdom endured for another 400 years. Here’s a video about this amazing woman: And here are some sources: “The Nubian Queen Who Fought Back Caesar’s Army” History.com “Amanirenas: The One-Eyed Queen Who Fought Rome Tooth and Nail” Rejectedprincesses.com https://artsandculture.google.com/story/queen-amanirenas-the-story-of-the-white-nile-nubi-archeress/bALSN3WTK_YEJA View the full article -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Part of the first chapter - introduction to the protagonist, some world building, and background to support the antagonist's motivation. Acalia flashed her canines at the amber Etherwolf trying to push past her. Fueled by anger, her ethereal white fur bristling up to give her more height to intimidate with. “The nerve. Trying to muscle through. Not even from my clan.” She widened to a more aggressive stance on the hard, rocky ground. The harsh terrain only broken up by impact craters of various sizes as far as the eye could see. The minerals in the stagnant dirt glinted shocks of white among the gray boulders on her home in the Moon Goddess given dimension of Etherluna. Above flowed ribbons of colors ebbing in the celestial winds filling the area with a spectrum light show of blends of greens, reds and blues. The colorful prisms were powered by the Goddess’ energy surfing on waves of colliding gases creating wondrous belts of iridescent hues. An opalescent veil dividing them from the low hanging, starry heavens. The Moon Goddess had created a home for Her children across Her celestial body. Acalia caught a fierce smile from her friend, Bethena, in acknowledgment that she showed that interloper who the more dominant one was. A flash of red cut to the side knocking Bethena out of the way. Acalia spun around and did a hard shoulder check into the trespasser and knocked her off all four of her paws. Acalia was very protective of her friends. With her translucent, sandy brown fur raised up to full height in irritation, Bethena was still one of the smallest Etherwolves. Even some from their own clan tried to take advantage of her size and push her around. One of those incidents was when their friendship was cemented. Acalia came across two of the more dominant clan brothers demanding someone make way through a tight, constricted, cutout passageway. Their southern clan territory was carved out by deep, dry, lava sculpted, river beds and closed in craters with high, rippled ridges. The small, tawny Etherwolf had stood her ground. Her short, flaxen, wispy fur stood straight, barely giving an extra couple of inches of height. Acalia admired the small bundle of fierceness and joined her side of the blockade. After the two more dominant Etherwolves mopped the floor with them they had laid on the ground laughing and crying together over their shared pain and stubbornness. This feisty bundle of sandy fur and her have been close friends ever since. The crimson form cowered on the ground with all her translucent fur flattened and ears pinned back. She raised her snout in one finale defiant attempt. “Your lot always think your better than everyone else. Leaving scraps behind for us to fight over.” Acalia pulled her lips back and gave a small growl showing some teeth at the pushy, whiny, insubordinate ball of fur. She gave up her bluster and showed her throat as all thoughts of taking advantage of Acalia and her friend given up in the face of a more powerful Etherwolf. Satisfied her friend was safe, Acalia made a point of dismissively turning her back on the downed would be gatecrasher. She returned her friend’s smile with a mischievous one knowing giving her backside gave insult to injury to the defeated intruder. “I might not be the most dominant, but I’m not going to let anyone push my friends around.” She gave a quick look out of the corner of her eye just in case she was going to have to get more violent, then she wiped her back paws at the properly cowed Etherwolf. The rest of the Etherwolves jockeyed for the best position to receive the full moon’s gift when Acalia’s clan’s shaman channeled the Goddesses’ blessing.Her clan created the inner circle around him. His own semitransparent, pale fur flowed in the cosmic currents as the magic began to build. It was their turn to lead the blessed ceremony that rejuvenated the Etherwolves on Etherluna and the others with their matches on Gaia. The ones on Gaia will raise their devoted snouts and bask in the mystical energy sent down the brimming beams of the full moon. The shaman threw his nose to the bright stars and let loose a loud howl from deep in his throat. The chorus grew louder as each voice joined in. The encompassing melody reverberated through space pounding against her demanding she throw hers into the mix. Their cries older than time telling her she belonged and that they were one. This was what it meant to be clan. She felt her own howl build from deep within herself. A fleeting memory of other times she howled during the full moon surfaced long enough to make her pause. A flash of a time when she was corporal. Of another life before she was returned to Etherluna. It quickly faded as the clan pulled her back in. It was a full moon. A time when their spirits called down to their brothers and sisters that were fortunate enough to have claimed a joining. A time the Moon Goddess shared her full face with her children down on Gaia. Acalia leaped and danced among the glowing moon beams. She felt the ardor of the light caress her airy wolf form. Her white, opaque fur waved in the empyreal breezes. She threw her head back and laughed while dodging between her brethren. Their joyous yips joining hers. She looked down the moon beams to Gaia’s surface, a window to those that had found their soul matches. Their souls glowed as they filled with the power of Etherluna, with the magic of the Goddess. The brightness blurred the flesh coating of their bonded ones. Their connection with the land beings older than time. A soft blond figure brushed up against her. “Acalia, watch out. You almost ran across dark space. It hides in the shadows of the crater ridges and mountain ranges.” “Thanks Bethena. Your turn to save me.” “Us clan sisters have to watch out for each other.” “Speaking of clan sisters, I was looking down for Charra. She’s been gone for so long.,” Acalia replied. “Looks like she doesn’t wish to shorten her time with her soul match.,” answered Bethena. “I don’t begrudge her the match. I just miss her. I also miss a connection to my own match. I have flashes of my life with my land being and feel the loss of it.,” Acalia said. Bethena lowered her snout and rubbed against her cheek in sympathy, “They come so far and few for us. Is it no wonder we fight for one.” The glow of the white beams intensified as the moon’s fullness reached its peak changing the usual gray surface of the moon into a giant, reflective, source of power. The clan paused and looked center. Acalia’s thoughts fill with pride as her chieftain stood at the axis of the clan. Etherluna’s chosen shaman as the full moon cast down on one of Sister Gaia’s northern continents, the one the landers call America. His fur more silver than white mirrored the moon’s intense glow. She watched as his now fluid essence swirled in and out gathering the celestial energies filling until he was a glowing orb. Just as he became too bright to bear witness he flung the bursting power out from him and through the waiting clan. The force of clan magic broke through the barrier to reach those on Gaia. Acalia swelled with the enhanced energies. The familiar metallic taste signaled the intense power passing through her to share with those waiting below. The land locked had changed into their Moon Mother honoring forms of wolves in preparation to receive the life giving force from Etherluna. The howls of enriched gratitude rose up from the blue world below and lasted for hours into the long night. Acalia watched as the soul matched went off into pack groups to sleep off their empowering night of re-energized libation from the Goddess’ blessing. “Come Acalia. We only have a short time with Charra before her match has need of her.” “Coming.”, Acalia replied. Swiftly falling in line with Bethena’s lead as they padded towards the Entra Soul Gate. The gate is made of the same depthless dark matter that Acalia almost carelessly stepped in. Condensed arches of obsidian, negative space swirled in its own confounding energies. A dark force effecting universal changes with its own set of alien rules. Any accidental contact with the dark matter can easily vacuum slivers of life force into the oblivion. With one misstep parts of the ethereal form could be abruptly sliced away into the blackness severed forever. The Entra Soul Gate is one of two dark matter gates. Both the Entra Soul Gate and the Ounto Soul Gate out date any memory of their origins or any that anyone will admit to. It is taught “The only thing older than the gates is Mother Moon herself.” Acalia believes the gates were Mother Moon’s birth gifts to her Ethereal children. The gifted gates are the only known access to find their soul matches in the corporeal dimension. The second gate is used by Etherwolves bonding with their soul match. Entra Soul Gate is used by those who have already sealed their match. Though the bonded can use different celestial energy to return home most prefer to use the full moon. Charra’s bonded one is susceptible to the energies of the full moon and would usually find a safe spot to sleep it off. They have been a werewolf for a very long time and are feeling the weight of their age and the changes in the centuries. Charra didn’t like to leave her match to her own waking thoughts for long. The Entra Gate perch firmly on the edge of a large, flat bottom crater and with one side facing the larger Sister celestial being below. The center of the dark arches teased with a reflective shimmer of the moon’s glow. Acalia always felt a tingle run across her shoulders when she was near the magic that kept the gate in place and powered the door. Streams of pigmentation spilled above either side of the entrance to the welcoming crater bowl as if the darkness of the gate kept the Goddess’ ribbons of color at bay. Acalia walked through the entrance into the basin of the greeting crater. They arrived at the gate just in time to see Charra sail through. Her crimson, areal form floated down to the smooth surface of the bowl. She threw Acalia a quick smile before running off to the Vortex Siphon. Charra’s red tail thread extended back down through the receiving gate linking her to her chosen one. You always knew where a bonded one was as they were given away by their tail thread weaving its way through Etherluna maintaining their mental bond to their match down on Sister Gaia. Acalia knew it would be awhile before Charra was cleaned of Gaia’s clae. Bonded ones brought back the essence of Gaia as an offering to Mother Moon. The matched Etherwolves collect heavy essences from their bonded ones and their travels on Mother Moon’s larger sister Gaia. To the land walkers, Sister Gaia was called Mother Earth as they were made from her flesh. The sharing of the energies of the clae and moonbeams kept the Sisters connected. Charra leaped into the Vortex Siphon. The astral gusts whipped through her red, gossamer form. It gathered all of Gaia’s soils and offered it up to the Moon Goddess to feed the Sisters’ symbiotic relationship. Acalia sighed as she remember the sensation of release as the clae was blown through her floating fur. She glanced around. She noticed her fellow Etherwolves waiting for their loved ones to visit through the gate. A twinge of sympathy went through her as she noticed Arnou stood off to the side by himself. His light gray form hung low and lacked his normal luster. It has been over five full moons since Kiba had visited through the gate. Acalia went over to him. “Don’t worry Arnou. I’m sure Kiba will visit soon. You know how easy it is to get caught up in your match’s life and lose track of time down there.” “I know. I just didn’t expect her to forget her mate when she found a match.” ‘There are so many more of us than opportunities for a match. I’m sure she will come to her senses soon and visit.,” she said. “At first, I was mad at her. Now, I just miss her.” She rubbed her side against his for comfort allowing their aerial fur to mingle.“She’ll have to return with a clae offering soon. She can only hold so much before it gets painful. Then you can have a good long talk,” she replied. She leaned harder against him. Her alabaster fur intermixing with his light smokey colored fur. Just as he was relaxing into her care she felt his energy tense up. She looked up to see a large, dark slate colored Etherwolf heading for them. His dappled fur a swirl of gray colors often reflecting his churlish mood. His mood when it came to them anyways. She asked, “What does Diak want now?” “The same thing he always wants, trouble.,” he replied. Diak stopped a few inches from Arnou and looked down on him. Diak’s head was a good foot above his. “Why do you wast your time Arnou? Kiba has probably found a land bound mate. Your acting like an Earth dog waiting moon after moon for someone who doesn’t care anymore. Your whining offends me. Go from here and wait out of my sight.” Acalia heard a low growl start from Arnou. As much as she would like to see someone wipe the ground with Diak she knew Arnou was no match for him. At least undying obedience to a pack leader was only a land magic requirement. Etherwolves did have a hierarchy of dominance and Diak was pretty high. That made him dangerous, but not in charge. She step between them and said, “I’m surprise to see you without your little lackeys. Did they get tired of you bossing them around?” “I’m surprise to see you hanging around a loser. Did you want a lap dog?” “You keep referring to dogs as if you’ve seen one. You haven’t though have you. You haven’t had a Soul Match yet. Your clan brothers, but not you.,” she replied. Diak loomed even larger as he filled with anger. He stepped closer. “Your lucky your chieftain was shaman tonight and your clan is moon honored or I would show you where your place is.” She wasn’t sure her clans standing was going to be enough to dissuade Diak from beating Arnou down, but she was hoping as she stepped between them. “Your place is in a dog house.,” Arnou snarled back at Diak. She inwardly groaned as she had just defused the situation enough to send Diak on his way. He knocked her aside and leaped for Arnou. “I’m going to beat you like a ..” Before Diak could finish his threat a huge, dark form darted through the gate crashing directly into him, somersaulting him six feet past them. “Hey clan brother. Where you waiting up to greet me?” Durrak’s excited mass of shadow and fur easily pinned Diak’s. Every time he tried to respond Durrak would shake his fur hitting him in the mouth with a chunk of clae. “What’s the matter little brother, got dirt in your mouth? Aren’t you going to great me?” Durrak’s smoky tail thread waved with each shake of his fur. “Get off me you big, smelly goof. Quit breathing on me. You have dog breath.” “Is that anyway to great a clan brother?” Durrak allowed him to push him off. He sat on his haunches with a big toothy grin. He forgot all about Arnou’s comment as he and his clan brother pushed and nipped at each other on their way to the Vortex Siphon. “Good to remember there is always someone bigger than Diak.,” she said. Arnou replied, “How can we get him to fly out of nowhere to tackle Diak whenever we need him to?” They leaned into each other and began to laugh, more from relief than humor. -
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Algonkian Retreats and Workshops 2023 - Assignments
FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. Even if she must defy the Moon Goddess, Acalia will make every personal sacrifice to stop the soul thieves to redeem herself and save all those she loves back home on Etherluna and here on Gaia. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. Kernt’s discontent had been building up for centuries as he watched members of other clans bath in the blessings from the Goddess. The discontent slowly turned to anger as unsettled whispers from other clan members lent justification to his thoughts of unfairness. The loud complaints of rejection after rejection from one he swore to protect emphasized a need to force a change to their situation. He was primed to become a cult follower when approached to take destructive action to raise himself up to the level and power he felt he was entitled too. He was quick to latch onto the demented moon witch who’s own twisted logic played into his own skewed reasoning validating his decisions to destroy anyone in his way. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). Soul Matched Soul Thieves Abomination FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Read this NWOE article on comparables then return here. - Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? The authors’ books my story is comparable to have strong, ongoing series with beloved characters that readers cling to during the wild misadventure and triumphs over one adversary after another with a twist that gives fresh eyes to the genre. Like Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson series, my story has relatable, endearing characters that have their own problems that keep the reader rooting for their success and in tears over their losses. My side characters’ lives are complex with their own juicy problems that make the reader want to be their best friend to help fix it or drink a big glass of wine to commiserate with them. Ann Bishops’ Others’ series reinvented the fantasy genre with the voice of the wild, magical creatures saving the world while the humans are trying to prove they aren't the plague that needs destroy. My story’s twist gives a voice to the dark, dangerous, creature from inside the magical Soul Match and revels the world behind the wolf side as no other book has. Invested fans are on the edge of their desire for the next book to be released in Briggs and Bishops series, I know because I’m one, and my series will have the readers hoping the story never ends and craving more. FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. Tormented from being tricked into destroying and replacing Bellanna as the wolf side of the Soul Matched werewolf pair drives Acalia to use her Goddess forbidden knowledge from Etherluna to stop the disillusioned Etherwolf, Kernt, and his demented witch from destroying all that she holds dear. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Acalia narrowly escapes her own destruction by accidentally participating in the elimination of another innocent Etherwolf. She has always felt compelled to help and stand up for others. Now she finds herself the source of inconsolable pain. She can’t even sacrifice herself to undo the damage and death she was a party of. During each step she takes to stop and punish the ones responsible she is faced with another individual that feels the loss and emptiness her action helped to create. Her guilt compels her to protect those that she she has caused irreparable harm. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? Treont was blessed to not only find a soul match, but also a soul mate. The long lived life of a werewolf can become lonesome and tiresome. He was fortunate the lander he merged with saw the beauty in Bellana’s lander as he knew she was his as soon as his eyes locked onto hers. His gazed poured down past the lander’s mundane brown irises and connected with the amber flame of Bellana’s soul. Their passion endured for centuries until his soul was torn apart by her abrupt loss when Acalia replaced her in the body of the lander he knew as his. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. Etherluna – Acalia felt sorry for those of the lander dimension who can’t see past their non-magical noses even when they have finally found a way to set their undeserving feet on the Mother Goddess’ bosom. Their realistic filtered senses only fathom a cold, hard lifeless, stagnant gray ball surrounded by engulfing, smothering black. Their eyes cannot see into Acalia’s home of the Moon Goddess given dimension called Etherluna. They are denied sight of what brakes up the continuous mundane terrain as Etherluna is filled with shooting white sparkles Her pent up magic randomly explodes across the tundra or gently glitters among the minerals coating Her heavenly body. Their environmental muting suits blocks them from seeing and feeling the magic and warmth that lays across the upper atmosphere in colorful ribbons of streaming mixes of greens, reds, and blues photons that ride across the solar winds creates a veil between them and the vast heavens. Through the visor of their helmets they can see carved out, dry, river beds that were formed during Her youth when magma poured from insides out and across Her flesh weaving among the deep impact craters with wrinkled ridges and mountain ranges that had exploded during her bloom. Only those in the Ether world can see and transverse the rivers of white vapor, nebula energy pouring down the carved channels. The landers are rejected by the Goddess as foreign invaders from discovering the underground basalt formed shoots and tunnels to her children's dens. They believe She is a solid, hard, compact, barren orb, they view in the night sky of their Earth bound home, but they still feel compelled to meet her in the heavens where she is still out of their true reach. -
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Podcast 565, Your Transcript has Arrived!
The transcript for Podcast 565. Once More with Feeling, with Elissa Sussman has been posted! This podcast transcript was handcrafted with meticulous skill by Garlic Knitter. Many thanks. ❤ Click here to subscribe to The Podcast → View the full article -
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Nam Le and Nancy Lemann Recommend
Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. The pandemic seemed like a good time to read the ninety-odd novels of Balzac that comprise The Human Comedy. (Which you can get on your Kindle for ninety-nine cents, by the way.) I was definitely obsessed with Balzac in my first youth. Some lines and ideas of his were then emblazoned on my brain: the ruthless mastery an artist must have over his material to boldly cut and shape it; “the impetuous courage of the South;” the “tenacity of purpose which works miracles when it is single-minded.” Once, in my first youth (I probably got the phrase “first youth” from Balzac), I was having dinner with my brother, Nick Lemann, and about a dozen of his friends, all journalists like him; I was sitting right smack in the middle of the table, and I was, as I recall it, the only girl. They kept talking about politics, of course, and I wasn’t interested in politics at all and still know nothing about them, so eventually I fished out a Balzac novel from my purse and started pointedly reading it in the middle of dinner at the table, amid their conversation. It was like saying, You can be interested in politics, I am interested in Balzac. I have no regrets about it. I was making a point! The scene is emblazoned on my brain. It was the only way I could assert myself in that context! It got their attention. —Nancy Lemann, author of “Diary of Remorse” Read Nancy Lemann on opera and The Palace Papers. There’s a moment in the Ken Burns documentary series Muhammad Ali when—it’s ridiculous to say, four hours in and after however much (kinetic, absorbing) footage of boxing—I was suddenly shocked by how hard Ali was punching, and getting punched. It’s the “Thrilla in Manila,” the third and deciding fight between Ali and Joe Frazier, and it’s maybe 120 degrees in the ring under the TV lights and totally, unventilatedly humid under the metal roof. We’re in the ninth round or so and both men are already swollen and sagging and staggering, and then some new footage slides in, archival this time, of the two wearily trading punches, and in grainy sixteen-millimeter Technicolor it’s as if a screen’s been yanked off: you’re riding Ali’s shoulder (these shots were taken from the apron, just outside the ring) and everything you thought you knew about the speed and weight of punches at this level (even these subpar, exhausted punches), their impact against flesh and bone, needs to be scaled up about a thousand percent. What happened? How does this archival footage feel so real? It got me thinking: all the proximity offered by our modern cameras—extreme zoom, hi-res and -frame rates, 360-degree angle capabilities—works to a counterpurpose: it makes mastery look easy, plausible. Or is that the deeper purpose? To make the average Joe believe that they too could do that—take that punch, hit that forehand, drive, or curveball? I was reminded of a passage by the great art critic Peter Schjeldahl, one of his last: One drunken night, a superb painter let me take a brush to a canvas that she said she was abandoning. I tried to continue a simple black stroke that she had started. The contrast between the controlled pressure of her touch and my flaccid smear shocked me, physically. It was like shaking hands with a small person who flips you across a room. I love this shock, this awe, from someone whose whole life is art and artmaking. I love the idea that consummate skill remains inaccessible, even to the consummate expert looking at it or for it. You’re either in it or you’re not. So what about writing? It’s hard to imagine any literary critic being judo-flipped by a superb writer in quite the same way. By the whole of a work, sure, or by an organized effect, but not by whatever’s the technical equivalent of a painter painting a basic line (or a boxer throwing a punch, or a violinist playing a note). A word is a word is a word: identical, replicable, accessible, whether put down by a master or a novice. And the putting down of words seems fairly shut off from the kind of sensory epiphany that might shake up your sense of the whole shebang—no way could I take that punch, control that brush or bow. Still, writing takes no less skill than anything else. For me, the Ali footage was stunning access to what may as well have been God-mode, and it shares with Schjeldahl’s moment more than just a glimpse of mastery in full flow: of what you think you know but you don’t. What if, I wonder, we could access the mastery of the writer Alis out there? What if we could shunt ourselves—shock ourselves—even for a moment, into a real embodiment of the intensity and risk and artistry of their talent at work? What would it feel like? What might it change? Would it matter? Should it? We can only imagine. —Nam Le, author of “from ‘36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem’ ” View the full article -
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Heists, Fae, & More
Iron and Magic Iron and Magic by Ilona Andrews is $3.49! This is the first book in a new series by Andrews and features a hero who was a bit of a villain in the Kate Daniels series. Did you read and enjoy this one? Can it be read without the KD series? No day is ordinary in a world where Technology and Magic compete for supremacy…But no matter which force is winning, in the apocalypse, a sword will always work. Hugh d’Ambray, Preceptor of the Iron Dogs, Warlord of the Builder of Towers, served only one man. Now his immortal, nearly omnipotent master has cast him aside. Hugh is a shadow of the warrior he was, but when he learns that the Iron Dogs, soldiers who would follow him anywhere, are being hunted down and murdered, he must make a choice: to fade away or to be the leader he was born to be. Hugh knows he must carve a new place for himself and his people, but they have no money, no shelter, and no food, and the necromancers are coming. Fast. Elara Harper is a creature who should not exist. Her enemies call her Abomination; her people call her White Lady. Tasked with their protection, she’s trapped between the magical heavyweights about to collide and plunge the state of Kentucky into a war that humans have no power to stop. Desperate to shield her people and their simple way of life, she would accept help from the devil himself—and Hugh d’Ambray might qualify. Hugh needs a base, Elara needs soldiers. Both are infamous for betraying their allies, so how can they create a believable alliance to meet the challenge of their enemies? As the prophet says: “It is better to marry than to burn.” Hugh and Elara may do both. Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. The Duke Heist The Duke Heist by Erica Ridley is 99c! This is book one in a new series and was mentioned on a previous Hide Your Wallet. Elyse was super excited about the heist element and I feel like the other books in the series have been talked about positively here. A NYT bestselling author kicks off a new Regency series of “irresistible romance and a family of delightful scoundrels” as a woman looking to recover a stolen painting accidentally kidnaps a duke instead. (Eloisa James) Chloe Wynchester is completely forgettable—a curse that gives her the ability to blend into any crowd. When the only father she’s ever known makes a dying wish for his adopted family of orphans to recover a missing painting, she’s the first one her siblings turn to for stealing it back. No one expects that in doing so, she’ll also abduct a handsome duke. Lawrence Gosling, the Duke of Faircliffe, is tortured by his father’s mistakes. To repair his estate’s ruined reputation, he must wed a highborn heiress. Yet when he finds himself in a carriage being driven hell-for-leather down the cobblestone streets of London by a beautiful woman who refuses to heed his commands, he fears his heart is hers. But how can he sacrifice his family’s legacy to follow true love? Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. A Dance with the Fae Prince A Dance with the Fae Prince by Elise Kova is $2.99! This is book two in the Married to Magic series. I think this series has some gorgeous covers and Elyse mentioned this one on a previous Hide Your Wallet. Cinderella meets The Cruel Prince in this stand-alone fantasy romance about a human girl and her marriage to the prince of the fae. She knew her hand in marriage would be sold. She had no idea a fae prince was the buyer. Katria swore she’d never fall in love. She’s seen what “love” means through the cruelty of her family. So when she’s married off to the mysterious Lord Fenwood for a handsome price, all Katria wants is a better life than the one she’s leaving. Feelings are off the table. But her new husband makes not falling in love difficult. As their attraction begins to grow, so too do the oddities within her new life: strange rules, screams in the night, and attacks by fae that Katria never thought were real. When she witnesses a ritual not meant for human eyes, Katria finds herself spirited away to the land of Midscape. Surviving the fae wilds as a human is hard enough. Katria must survive as a human who accidently pilfered the magic of ancient kings – magic a bloodthirsty king is ready to kill her for in order to keep his stolen throne – and her new husband is the rightful heir in hiding. The power to save the fae is in her hands. But who will save her from a love she vowed never to feel? A Dance with the Fae Prince is a complete, *stand-alone novel*, inspired by the tales of Psyche and Eros, as well as Cinderella, with a “happily ever after” ending. It’s perfect for romantic fantasy readers who enjoyed of A Court of Silver Flames and An Enchantment of Ravens. A Dance with the Fae Prince features a slow-burn romance, swoon-worthy couple, and steaminess that ranges from simmering to sizzling. Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. She Gets the Girl She Gets the Girl by Rachael Lippincott and Alyson Derrick is $1.99! This is a new adult romance that was mentioned on both Cover Awe and Hide Your Wallet (Tara’s pick!). Did any of you pick this one up? She’s All That meets What If It’s Us in this swoon-worthy hate-to-love YA romantic comedy from #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Five Feet Apart Rachael Lippincott and debut writer Alyson Derrick. Alex Blackwood is a little bit headstrong, with a dash of chaos and a whole lot of flirt. She knows how to get the girl. Keeping her on the other hand…not so much. Molly Parker has everything in her life totally in control, except for her complete awkwardness with just about anyone besides her mom. She knows she’s in love with the impossibly cool Cora Myers. She just…hasn’t actually talked to her yet. Alex and Molly don’t belong on the same planet, let alone the same college campus. But when Alex, fresh off a bad (but hopefully not permanent) breakup, discovers Molly’s hidden crush as their paths cross the night before classes start, they realize they might have a common interest after all. Because maybe if Alex volunteers to help Molly learn how to get her dream girl to fall for her, she can prove to her ex that she’s not a selfish flirt. That she’s ready for an actual commitment. And while Alex is the last person Molly would ever think she could trust, she can’t deny Alex knows what she’s doing with girls, unlike her. As the two embark on their five-step plans to get their girls to fall for them, though, they both begin to wonder if maybe they’re the ones falling…for each other. Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. View the full article -
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“Then Things Went Bad”: How I Won $264 at Preakness
Photograph by Tarpley Hitt. There’s a shortage of good signs en route to the Preakness Stakes, the annual horse race in Baltimore best known as the Kentucky Derby’s older, less attended sibling. By good, I mean the useful types that tell you where to go. There are plenty of other kinds: ads stationed outside delis; DIY posters offering lawns, driveways, and other car-size surfaces as extremely pricey parking options; at least two hotel-related banners on propeller planes; and roving sandwich boards affixed to scalpers, which read, counterintuitively, I NEED TICKETS. The result is a ring of confused, directionless traffic around the track, where it’s easy to forget that everyone has come for a spectacle essentially premised on speed. The lack of organization at the Preakness is appropriate; horse racing is America’s least centralized sport. There is no MLB or NFL or NBA or NHL for this game. There is a panoply of jockey clubs, trainers groups, state racing boards, owners associations, and veterinarian organizations. The racing rules change from state to state. The racing seasons change from track to track. Even the kind of race a horse runs may fluctuate with the weather. This tradition of casually maintained chaos is almost a point of pride. In 2020, when Congress passed the Horseracing Integrity and Safety Act (HISA)—a modest attempt to standardize antidoping rules across the industry—it was met with three years of bitter infighting, five federal lawsuits challenging its constitutionality, and most recently, an exquisitely melodramatic public letter from the U.S. Trotting Association that opens with a Thomas Paine quote. That is to say, it’s in the spirit of horse racing that, this past Saturday, as I approached the venue, I had no idea where to go or who was in charge, and neither, seemingly, did anyone there. The venue was Pimlico Race Course. Of the many contrasts to be drawn between the Derby and the Preakness, most land in the former’s favor. The track is one of them. The Kentucky Derby is run at Churchill Downs—a 147-acre complex in Louisville whose 170,000-person capacity, hexagonal twin spires, and $121 million Bush Jr.–era renovation make it one of the largest, most recognizable, and most opulent race courses in the country; Pimlico isn’t even the nicest option in Maryland. It’s the second oldest racetrack in the U.S. and doesn’t look a day younger, though parts of it technically are. The original clubhouse—a “Steamboat Gothic-era” “rambling wooden Victorian confection,” as one Baltimore Sun article put it—burned to the ground in a 1966 electrical fire, leaving only a horse-and-jockey-shaped weather vane behind. The newer clubhouse, built a few years before the fire, seems to take most of its architectural influence from high school gymnasiums and the DMV. It is also, however, awesome, if you like these things more for the money and big fast animals than for the antebellum theatrics. The clubhouse was white, brick, and not entirely full. Live racing attendance has been on a downward slide since the Reagan administration, and the pandemic and the rise of online betting platforms have only sped up the process. In 2022, Pimlico’s owners—a company formerly known as the Stronach Group, now operating under the dubiously pronounceable name 1/ST—made a play for younger audiences by setting up a music festival just off the track. This sounds like a good idea, and last year, with Megan Thee Stallion headlining alongside Lauryn Hill, it may have succeeded in bringing the median age of attendees down by a decade (in 2021, it was sixty-five). This year’s bill featured Sofi Tukker—a dance music duo comprised of a girl named Sophie and a guy named Tucker, which broke out seven years ago with a single called “Drinkee”—and Bruno Mars, an artist with fifteen Grammys and, based on the turnout, maybe as many fans. Between Friday and Saturday, racetrack and festival, this year’s event drew just 65,000 people—barely a third of the 182,000 who came out in 2019. As far as I was concerned, fewer people was a plus. I’d come mainly to eavesdrop and maybe make some money. Both goals turned out to be somewhat optimistic. I like to think of myself as a gambler, but it’s one of those semiflattering self-assessments that holds more water in theory than in practice. In theory, I love fast payouts, their stereotypical accessories (casinos, croupiers, the outfits croupiers wear at casinos), and pretty much every movie about those things. In practice, I follow sports and stocks absentmindedly at most and, during various stretches in Vegas, lost more money at the in-house Starbucks than at any card table. I am a sore loser and constitutionally cheap, meaning most of my bets are low in value, long in odds, and cashed out quickly. Photograph by Tarpley Hitt. As far as eavesdropping, the acoustics seemed best suited for minding your own business. Even with the lower turnout, the place sounded packed. I’d hoped to hear gossip about the eight horses that had died at Churchill Downs since April, or about the return of the disgraced trainer Bob Baffert, who was suspended from last year’s Triple Crown races after his Derby-winning horse, Medina Spirit, tested positive for pain meds in 2021. It wouldn’t have hurt if guests had thrown in some sad musings about the declining state of the sport. But the audible conversation proved a little more literal. “I’m wearing my big hat,” a woman in a big hat said to her boyfriend, “for good luck.” The food vendors trailed lines of men in identical beige caps; they all read MAGE, for the Kentucky Derby winner who would be running later that night. “I called my investment manager the other day and told him to put everything in money-market funds,” one guy told the MAGE men. “He says to me, ‘Those only yield five percent.’ And I say, ‘Exactly.’ ” At the ticket windows, would-be winners barked long lists of bets—exactas (on the first- and second-place finishers in a single race), trios (on the first three finishers in a single race), and daily doubles (on first-place finishers in two consecutive races), as an MSNBC presenter gestured at racing stats for TV cameras nearby. “That’s the election guy,” one girl announced to her group. It was. If Steve Kornacki was giving good advice, no one could hear it. But few cared about Preakness stats anyway. The goofiest part of horse racing is how short it is; from starting bell to finish line, a race lasts all of two minutes. If everyone came just for the main event, they’d be headed home as soon as they parked. The Preakness program is stacked instead with undercards boasting smaller purses and cryptic names (the $200,000 “Dinner Party Stakes”). It gives the day a predictable rhythm: twenty minutes of research, betting, and crab-cake buying; ten minutes of finding a clear view of the finish line; one minute of watching; thirty seconds of screaming variations of “COME ON, NUMBER NINE!” It’s easy to get swept up in this cyclical game to the point where its harsher realities barely register. During the sixth race, for example, a horse was rounding the home stretch when it stumbled. The jockey fell to the dirt. But the bay colt—a Bob Baffert horse named, with unfortunate foresight, Havnameltdown—kept running without a rider. There was something off about his stride; he was lagging from the pack with a visible limp. As he galloped, you could hear the onlookers’ uncertainty from the pitch of the cheers. The upbeat roar became a more somber howl. It passed quickly, though. The front-runner won and the shrieks came back. The crowd streamed out to the betting windows. Havnameltdown, I found out later, had broken his left forelock so badly he had to be put down. The lack of clear signage, which characterized the clubhouse as much as it did the parking lot, had some upsides. It was never clear which areas were off-limits. My media pass mostly got me access to the press pit—an enclosed, standing-room-only dirt patch with a sole seat reserved for NBC. But no one stopped me or my boyfriend, whom I’d passed off as a photographer despite his lack of a camera, from wandering into the winner’s paddock, where owners posed for pictures next to overheated horses; or into the member’s clubhouse, where two older men were picking a fight with a group of frat guys for taking too long to place bets. The downside was that it took us well into the eleventh race to realize that we’d missed out on a whole other half of the grounds. Between sprints, backstretch workers would lower a bridge across the dirt so that guests could cross from the grandstand to a series of tents at the center of the track. This was where you found the music festival, though the combination of electro swing and direct sunlight kept me from staying long. It was also where the VIPs and private parties were set up. The entrance to those tents was unmarked, but also unguarded. Anyone could walk in, grab some broiled salmon, and watch the race mere feet from the starting gate. This was a notable level up. Gayle King was chatting by the simulcast screens. At one point, Odell Beckham Jr., I learned from pictures later, was standing near where I chowed on shrimp cocktail. The tents were equipped with giant ceiling fans, perhaps thanks to one of the event’s sponsors, Big Ass Fans. The hats seemed bigger here, and their wearers, having paid for the open bar, drunker. Photograph by Tarpley Hitt. We had been betting all day, picking horses based on a feigned grasp of what racing statistics mean and occasionally on whichever horse’s name seemed to say more about its owner (I’m the Boss of Me, Bipartisanship, Taxed). This, it turned out, was not a good strategy. We had exclusively lost money, but a woman in a plush horse head hat was having better luck. She was gripping a fresh wad of fives, mimicking club music (“oontz oontz oontz”), and pretending to rain the bills over her friend’s matching hat. I was tired, sober, and down ninety dollars. But the twelfth race, of thirteen, was about to start, and here was a reminder that not only was winning possible, it was very fun. A decision was made; we would give betting one more go and give up any pretense of expertise. We bought a one-dollar Superfecta (a bet on the first four finishers in a race) and played it safe; we picked the program’s recommendations and “boxed” them, meaning that we paid a dollar for every possible place combination of the program’s chosen four—the unremarkably named Nagirroc, Kingfish Stevens, Funtastic Again, and Circle the Drain—for a total of twenty-four dollars. The starting bell rang and the contenders leapt from their stalls. Horses do not need signs to know where to go; some miracle combination of training and having a heel dug into their side gets them moving right on cue. That does not mean they always go in the way that you’d like. By then, we had seen enough races that the commentator’s unintelligible narration, delivered in the pauseless monologues of an old cattle auctioneer, seemed to reveal itself as a series of recognizable words strung into sentences. Specifically, I could decipher “Not a good beginning for Circle the Drain”—enough to understand that our selection seemed poised to suck. Nagirroc and Funtastic Again were leading the pack, but Circle the Drain and Kingfish Stevens seemed stoned on slow juice. If they didn’t place, neither would we. But at the final quarter-mile mark, Kingfish Stevens broke out from the pack, gaining on the top two by just a few feet. At the half-mile mark, Circle the Drain surged up along the rail, overtaking horse no. 8 (Wonderful Justice) and horse no. 2 (Fadethenoise), squeezing between horse no. 3 (A Western Yarn) and horse no. 6 (Moonstrike), and finally, pushing past horse no. 4 (Top Recruit) until he was tied with Kingfish Stevens. In roughly twenty seconds, our piece of paper with four semirandom picks was worth $264. We cashed out and ran off to beat the postrace rush. The roads were absolutely carless. We watched the actual Preakness from my phone; a Baffert contender, National Treasure, finished in first place. The day marked Baffert’s eighth Preakness win and, counting Havnameltdown’s collapse earlier, at least his seventy-fifth horse death. “This day was like a roller coaster,” Baffert told the Los Angeles Times. “Started out great. Then things went bad.” The badness didn’t seem to weigh on him too long. “We get rewarded for how hard everybody in my team works,” he said. “To me, that’s mainly what it’s about.” Tarpley Hitt is a freelance writer and an editor of The Drift. She is currently at work on a book about Barbie. View the full article -
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MOTHTOWN by Caroline Hardaker (BOOK REVIEW)
“Melt everything down to a great white blank. Eat anything that oozes out. No one knows how it all goes in Mothtown, and no one ever comes back to tell us. So, all you can do is practice being nothing and then hope that when you get there, you disappear.” Mothtown by Caroline Hardaker is a book which begs not be defined into one single category. Is this sci-fi, horror, coming of age, fantasy or mystery? Well, on the surface it weaves together all those genres, but underneath it is much more. Hardaker superbly immerses readers into a story that is both strange and haunting but also raw and incredibly tender. Something is very wrong with our world. Disappearances are becoming more frequent, bodies are being found in remote places, “The Modern Problem” is spreading and encroaching upon all. As a young child, David Porter doesn’t understand what’s happening, his mother and father turn off the news in a bid to shelter him from the darkness, his sister Emily refuses to share her knowledge, and the darkness begins to creep in anyway. The only person who truly understands David is his grandfather, Francis Porter. To David his grandfather is his home, so when he’s suddenly no longer around David’s world is turned upside down. His parents say his grandfather died, but this is not something David can accept. For Francis was researching into other worlds and if he’s found a new world to escape into then David wants to join him. The novel simultaneously switches between ‘After’, where we witness David as an adult and ‘Before’ where we meander through David’s childhood, giving readers an in-depth view of his life. Through young David’s eyes we get a picture of him as incredibly lonely; his mother and father largely ignore him, becoming frustrated when he doesn’t conform to their social expectations, his sister Emily, whom he adores and looks up to, in the throws of being a teenager blows hot and cold towards him and the children at school avoid him, laugh at him. His only companion in an otherwise isolated life was his grandfather who David utterly idolised. Their closeness is something Hardaker portrays as quite special, having their own little world with their own language of clicks and looks. The fateful day when he disappeared left a hole in David’s life, one which never healed. “Grandad smelled like iron. Like something unearthed and laid in the light. I used to think it strange that one place can be home to one person, but not to another. Grandad’s office at the university was my cave.” In a lot of ways Mothtown reminded me of the absolutely stunning Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. Both have an otherworldly element to them, they both touch upon themes of loneliness, grief and belonging, they both have amazing lyrical prose. An electric charge hums throughout this novel, you can feel it building and escalating as more of David’s journey develops, the more he disconnects from the world around him the more his fixations become intense, a sense of surrealism permeates, a sense of slowly drowning in a world where he doesn’t quite fit, as he desperately searches for doorways to other places to belong. David was a character my heart broke for, if only someone had truly tried to help him, had tried to make him feel seen, heard, loved. How different could his life have been? There’s so much that’s thought-provoking and powerful about his character. “Couldn’t they see me falling? Why weren’t they looking?” Hardaker mirrors the increasing disappearance of people throughout Britain, which runs throughout the backdrop of this story, to David rapidly disappearing inside of himself, losing himself to mental decline. David is different, his thoughts, feelings and ways of seeing the world are different to those around him and without his grandad to anchor him, David ultimately unravels. Of course in his childhood this is something that’s noticed but never really addressed properly. Yet Hardaker doesn’t just limit the portrayal of depression, loneliness and grief to David alone. David sees it in those around his village, the ‘mudmen’ and those sent to ‘the blue house’. Neighbours and priests pass the afflictions off as ‘The Modern Problem’, without ever seriously looking at what that is. How true to life is that? How often does mental health, autism and hidden disabilities get overlooked, dismissed, passed off as something that only happens to other people? This is what’s so special about Mothtown, Hardaker uses fantasy concepts to reflect upon dark, sorrowful themes. “I sometimes feel like I’m locked in a circle. What’s that creature, the worm that swallows its own tail? The ouroboros. Which bit is the beginning, and which is the end? And when they meet so seamlessly, what difference does it make?” This leads me to discuss why I find Hardaker’s stories so compelling, though I cannot pinpoint it to one single aspect. She’s an author who can invoke our senses, and in Mothtown this is done particularly well. From visualising the bright orange of David’s grandad’s jumper, which contrasts the otherwise grey and dismal setting, to the smells of rust and coffee, to the sounds of rustling and beating wings. The accompanying illustrations by Chris Riddell also heighten the story, visually representing the light and dark parts of David’s life, the things which haunted or comforted him. The illustrations help to immerse the reader further, to truly see the world as David had. I also loved that we often gain meaning in new and surprising ways—for example there’s a scene where Hardaker describes visiting a foreign place like Mothtown as so alien that anything you take from it is essentially stealing, even the air you breathe, which I had never really thought of before but found so true. In fact Moths hold much meaning throughout but in a myriad of ambiguous ways, and what is real and what is metaphorical is left to the reader to decide. Hardaker is an author who tells a story using imagery, symbolism and allegory, building a puzzle readers can dig deep into, interpret and watch unfold. What unfolds in this novel is incredibly sad, I sobbed my eyes out at the end, but we are also left with a great sense of hope. Layer after layer Hardaker builds a beautifully poignant and mournful tale of the bond between a grandson and his grandfather, of escaping worlds and journeys of transformation. Ultimately, Mothtown is a tale about discovering how to belong. Hardaker doesn’t write a book you simply read, she delivers a book you experience. “Why won’t you catch my eye? Is it my honesty that makes your skin crawl or is it what you see when you look at me? I dare you. Look at me.” ARC provided by Caroline at Angry Robot Books in exchange for an honest review. Thank you for the copy. All quotes used are taken from an early ARC and are subject to change upon publication. Mothtown will be released 14th November 2023 but you can pre-order your copy HERE The post MOTHTOWN by Caroline Hardaker (BOOK REVIEW) appeared first on The Fantasy Hive. View the full article -
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HONEY BOO BOO, PART II: INCLUDING GRAMMAR CONFESSIONS AND A COCKTAIL RECIPE
From the Flickr of briantvogt, INFphoto.com.Ref: infusmi-20/21|sp My last article, in March, addressed the process of finding and hiring a professional editor for a novel manuscript, comparing the insecurity this sparked as akin to entering one’s dolled-up toddler in a baby beauty contest. There might be harsh criticism and unflattering light. My metaphor was similar to one I’ve used to describe the sensation of having a novel launch into the world: It’s like pushing one’s naked toddler out into traffic to cross a busy intersection alone, while one can only watch what happens from the curb (and one is also naked). So, yeah. Anxiety is involved. I promised an update in this installation, and I know that millions of you have been on the edge of your seats waiting to hear how it’s going. It’s going well. Thanks for asking. As I mentioned last time, there are many ways to find a professional editor. I’ve heard recommendations from writing bloggers, and there are many options available through reputable sources, such as Poets & Writers magazine and The Author’s Guild (if you’re a member). HERE are some great articles and advice from the WU archives. I asked some fellow historical novelists about their experiences with editors-for-hire. Denny S. Bryce’s next novel, THE OTHER PRINCESS: A NOVEL OF QUEEN VICTORIA’S GODDAUGHTER, comes out in October from Harper Collins. Denny had this to say: “For my first novel, I hired a developmental editor. I wanted to work with someone who had been an editor at a traditional house and could help me with character arcs, turning points, and conflict. I considered the decision an investment in my writing career, and working with her one-on-one definitely contributed to my growth as a writer and the success of my first novel: WILD WOMEN AND THE BLUES.” (Kensington, 2021). For me, a conversation with a fellow historical novelist led me to an introduction. Have you ever “met” a fellow writer on social media, and instantly liked their vibe, and then loved their book, and struck up some sort of friendship? That happened with me and Tori Whitaker, author of MILLICENT GLENN’S LAST WISH (Lake Union, 2020) and A MATTER OF HAPPINESS (Lake Union, 2022) when we bonded over launching books during a pandemic. Tori is a bourbon aficionado and perhaps something of an expert on the subject. I asked her to contribute a cocktail recipe to my annual series of December Instagram posts called “The Twelve Cocktails of Christmas”. (Tori’s Holiday Old Fashioned recipe was excellent, BTW). Tori had this to say about her choice to hire an editor: “I retained a trusted developmental editor whose work I admired and who brought 20+ years’ experience teaching writing. That decision was indispensable in finally landing a deal for my debut novel—rather than having another book stuck in a drawer.” Since Tori writes historical novels, I trusted her personal recommendation and contacted her editor, Jenna Blum. Jenna requested five pages of my manuscript and while waiting to hear if she thought it would be a good fit for her, I began listening to the audiobook of her novel THE LOST FAMILY (Harper, 2018). We seemed to be a good match. Jenna is a New York Times and international bestselling novelist. She’s also CEO and co-founder of A Mighty Blaze, the volunteer-run book promotion organization formed during the pandemic to get the word out about new books and debut authors. She has taught at Grub Street Writers in Boston for over twenty years. Aside from her many accolades and accomplishments, she has super powers as an editor. As I said in my last post, I was initially impressed by Jenna’s professionalism and transparency about what she offered and what she charges. She offers several tiers of editing and says she can’t help but do line edits as she goes along. And she has a sharp eye, let me tell you. When we left off in March, a bound-and-printed copy of my manuscript was winging its way to Jenna. Along with the draft, I included six or seven specific questions I was wrangling with, such as using actual people as characters, sex scenes (yeah? nay? tame? graphic?), screen time for secondary characters, and so on. Then I had to wait, because these things take time. When you hire an editor, remember that you might not be first in line. A good editor will budget his or her editing time and concentrate on each project. In my view, an editor who has a waiting line is worth waiting for. Jenna’s email, some weeks later, telling me she was mailing the pages back to me, mentioned that she found the plot “interesting” and the pages were clean (meaning few typos). What nice things to say, I might have thought. But no, my impostor-syndrome demon Dobby was reading over my shoulder, whispering in my ear, Is that ALL she can think of to say that’s positive? When my baby arrived back at home sporting some fresh ink, a quick flip through the 375 pages found penned hearts, exclamation marks, smiley faces, and some frowny ones, too. Goody! thought I. Now I have some work to do. Concurrent to my receipt of the printed draft with her line edits, Jenna emailed me a Word document with eight pages (single spaced!) of comments. I began reading her editorial letter with bated breath. Honestly, I held my breath. By page two, there were tears. Not of despair, but fat, roly-poly tears of gratitude. This person really got what I was trying to do with this story. Her comments were insightful, creative, innovative, and problem-solving. And they were not all about my comma issues. Her critiques were macro and micro, and delivered in a very kind, digestible manner. Some nice things were said about the work, and there was a balance of suggestions and questions that made me think YES! OF COURSE! And also, I COULD TRY THAT! and occasionally, WHY DID I NOT SEE THAT? After a few days of processing and pondering on my part, we followed up with an hour-long Zoom, where I was able to ask more questions about Jenna’s comments and brainstorm a plan for moving forward. At the end, I felt uplifted and inspired, and also knew there was a chunk of work ahead of me. Since our conversation, there has been almost zero time to work on revisions, only snatched half-hours here and there to go through Jenna’s inked line edits and make corrections in the Scrivener draft. That’s the first step, fixing the easy stuff. You know how sometimes you just cannot spell one particular word correctly to save your life? Like fuschia? Fuchsia. After the tenth instance of correcting the plural possessive of one couple’s last name, it is now etched—correctly—in my brain. Of course, this polishing work makes a manuscript look more professional. I am grateful for Jenna’s eagle eye. But what I’m most grateful for is her insight, and her understanding of my character’s journey and arc. A deep dive into revisions will be starting about the time this article comes out. I’m hoping for one of those sparkly, magical chunks of time where the world recedes and words bolt from my fingertips like lightning; where plot pieces click into place like perfect ice cubes into a cut-crystal bourbon glass. You know what I mean. Thanks to some good editing advice, I’m excited about where this project is going. Have you used a creative editor? How did you choose one? [url={url}]View the full article[/url] -
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7 True Crime Podcasts You Need to Listen to This Summer
Are you worried about the future of, well, just about everything, given the decidedly-not-creeping rise of AI? The way concepts like “deep learning” and “neural networks” will soon worm their way into all manner of media, from podcasting to my own dearly beloved scribbling? I know that AI is nothing new (Philip K. Dick was writing about the concept way back in the ‘60s), that the current model upon which the open-use version of ChatGPT is based is not “new” itself. Instead, it’s stuck in a Palm Springs-style time loop of sorts (its knowledge base stops at September 2021.) Back in September 2021, generative AI was the furthest thing from my mind. I was fresh off a road trip to Key West, where I ate what I will attest to my dying day was the best piece of key lime pie in human history. I still dream about that cold, creamy slice of citric heaven (and the grainy slab of graham cracker crumble upon which it sat). A few years from now, could I “feed” a text-based prompt to an AI, describing the exact texture of pie’s sandy (but in a good way) bottom, the rich filling’s tang, the way crust and filling intermingled to create a veritable symphony of unforgettable flavor, and have the AI make me an exact replica of that pie? (Okay, I know what purple prose is, that it is something generally to be avoided, and that a large-language model [LLM] reading this would probably flag the above paragraph as such, but I simply do not care. The pie was that good.) In all seriousness, I am somewhat afraid. On-demand pie is one thing. The death of the writing profession is quite another. I am all for any LLM that wants to make me pie, but the day AI outpaces the abilities of human writers such as myself is one I’m not looking forward to in the slightest. Out of curiosity, I recently fed ChatGPT the synopsis of my novel-in-progress, which I’ve been working on for the past three and a half years or so. (In typical Zil fashion, the book is far from finished, though I do have pretty solid flap copy!) I won’t tell you what it’s about, but I will share that my favorite two writers are Ottessa Moshfegh and Alissa Nutting, so that should give you a bit of an idea of the direction my book is going in. Anyway, the prompt I gave ChatGPT was something like, “Write a 137-page novella with the following synopsis…” followed by the synopsis of my novel. When ChatGPT informed me that writing an entire novella was not within its powers, instead of springing for GPT4, I cut my request down to a 1000-word short story. What resulted? Well, it was something that sort of resembled my novel. The general contours were about the same, but the whole direction the AI took my novel in (think heavy doses of therapy and positive self-actualization for the wayward narrator) were decidedly not what I had in mind. Self-improvement? Please. My characters and I prefer to soak in Olympic-sized pools of self-loathing and disgust. In all seriousness, I am a big proponent of therapy. But I don’t want my novel to resemble my “real” life because my real life is actually quite boring. You know what? I had so much fun writing this intro. If a machine wants to take that away from me, well, to employ a turn of phrase any halfway decent LLM would label as “clichéd,” he/she/it will have to pry my sticker-covered, missing-a-bunch-of-keys laptop from my cold, dead, unmanicured hands. Freeway Phantom (Tenderfoot TV/Black Bar Mitzvah/iHeartPodcasts) Premiered May 17, 2023. New episodes every Wednesday. Carol Spinks, age 13. Darlenia Johnson, age 16. Brenda Crockett, age 10. Nenomoshia Yates, age 12. Brenda Woodard, age 18. If you don’t know their names, you should. They belong to five young Black girls and women, all of whom were murdered during a 17-month period, their bodies left along highways in the Washington, DC area. More than five decades later, their cases still have not been solved—racial inequity is rife in the criminal justice system, and cold cases involving people of color go unsolved at alarming rates —but host Celeste Headlee (a long-time radio journalist based in DC whose work has appeared on NPR, PBS, and TEDx) and executive producer Jay Ellis (Insecure, Top Gun: Maverick) are working to change that. Freeway Phantom is the result of two years of writing, research, and reporting on—years poring over original case files, visiting important sites from the case, interviewing people connected to the case, and working closely with Romaine Jenkins, the now-retired DC police detective who dedicated years of her life to bringing justice and closure to the victims’ families. The still-uncaught perpetrator, who earned the moniker the “Freeway Phantom” and is said to be DC’s first serial killer, terrorized victims’ families with phone calls and authored a note claiming responsibility for the murders. Over the course of this ten-episode series, Headlee dives head-first into the details of the case, painting a picture not only of the murders but also of the precious lives these young girls and women were robbed of. Check out the teaser trailer here. The Debutante (Audible Originals) Premiered April 2023 As you can probably guess from the title of this podcast, the person at the center of Jon Ronson’s (So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, The Psychopath Test) newest project was a debutante. An award-winning equestrienne and daughter of wealthy parents, Carol Howe’s path veered very much away from the world of Tulsa high society as she entered adulthood. After graduating from high school, Howe fell in with a violent band of Neo-Nazis, began dating infamous right-wing terrorist Dennis Mahon, and lived for a time in a white-supremacist compound called Elohim City. Though it in no way makes up for her utterly reprehensible viewpoints and actions, Howe later became a confidential ATF informant, documenting the white-supremacy movement’s activities in meticulous detail and passing info along to the feds. Among that information was an Elohim City plot to bomb Oklahoma federal buildings, which Howe shared with her handlers just months before the fatal April 1995 Oklahoma City Bombing. What were the links between Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh and Elohim City residents? Could the 1995 tragedy possibly have been averted? Did the feds take Howe’s tip seriously, and if not, why? Why was Howe “deactivated” as an informant not long after she shared news of the bombing plot with feds? That’s what Ronson (in his excellent British accent) is here to find out. Who Killed Strawberry? (Audacy) Premiered March 2023 Politics and true crime are a deliciously devious (not to mention delectable) duo, and this next podcast serves both up: Who Killed Strawberry is one part deep-dive into one of Detroit’s most notorious unsolved (technically speaking, but we’ll get to that in a minute) murder cases, one part political corruption thriller. Two decades ago, Tamara Greene was a mother of three who was attending school to become a nurse. The twenty-seven year-old, who used the stage name “Strawberry,” worked as a high-end exotic dancer to support her family. Tragically, her life was cut short in 2003 when she was killed in a drive-by shooting on Detroit’s west side. Some sources say that the intended target was Greene’s boyfriend, that her murder was an unfortunate “wrong-place, wrong-time” incident. Others will tell you…well…a very different story, one with very House of Cards vibes. You see, four months before her death, Greene allegedly (there’s so much disagreement surrounding the particulars of this case, you can basically stick an “allegedly” in front of every active verb moving forward) danced for then-mayor Kwame Kilpatrick at the Manoogian Mansion (for those of you who aren’t Michiganders, the Manoogian Mansion is the mayor of Detroit’s official residence.) According to some, the very-much married Kilpatrick’s wife showed up, did not like the fact that Greene was giving the mayor a lap dance, and proceeded to beat Greene with a baseball bat. Or a high-heeled shoe. It depends on whom you ask. Was Greene’s death connected to what has become known in Detroit news circles as the “never-proven Manoogian Mansion party”? True, the Kilpatrick administration was involved in some very shady dealings. (In 2013, Kilpatrick—and I promise these things aren’t spoilers since they’re not related to Greene’s case—would be convicted of wire fraud, mail fraud, and racketeering and sentenced to 28 years in prison.) But a murder cover-up? Who Killed Strawberry dives into the conflicting viewpoints surrounding this case by interviewing those who were directly involved in the case (including the person who is currently the number-one suspect in Greene’s murder.) Smoke Screen: Just Say You’re Sorry (Sony Music Entertainment/Marshall Project) Premiered May 1, 2023 I’ve always been fascinated by false confessions. What prompts someone to confess to a crime he or she did not commit? Assuming the person is not confessing in pursuit of fame and notoriety (as was likely the case with John Mark Karr, who in 2006 confessed to the murder of JonBenét Ramsey—DNA testing revealed his confession to be false), why would someone do such a thing? What circumstances need to be in place (or, more specifically, what kinds of unethical psychological techniques would law enforcement need to use) for a false confession to take place? In Smoke Screen’s sixth season, criminal justice journalist Maurice Chammah (author of Let the Lord Sort Them: The Life and Death of the Death Penalty and a staff writer for The Marshall Project, a nonprofit news organization focusing on the criminal justice system–definitely recommend checking out their long-form investigative articles) tackles the case of Air Force veteran Larry Driskill, who in 2015 confessed to the murder of Bobbie Sue Hill, a 29-year-old mother of five living in the Fort Worth Area. Driskill’s confession was extracted by one James “Jimmy” Holland, a Texas Ranger who gained a reputation as a “serial killer whisperer” on account of his ability to coax information out of supposed criminals. You may not have heard of Holland before, but if you’re a true-crime addict like I am, you’ve probably heard of the person largely responsible for solidifying his reputation: Samuel Little, the US’s most prolific serial killer to date. Over the course of 700 hours (and shared helpings of grits and milkshakes), Holland got Little to confess to no fewer than 93 murders (as of publication time, FBI officials have confirmed Little’s involvement in 60 of those murders.) In Smoke Screen: Just Say You’re Sorry, Chammah pulls back the curtain on the shocking, manipulative—but legal—tactics Holland used with Driskill, including hypnotism, lies, and brutal interrogation techniques. In so doing, Chammah reveals not only how one false confession came to be (one that would wind up sending the innocent Driskill to prison for a 15-year bid), but also the terrifying way such interrogation techniques have become part and parcel of the modern criminal justice system. Witnessed: Devil in the Ditch (Campside Media) Premiered April 3, 2023 So, I wanted to do a cool intro to this next pod by mentioning the fact that Donna Tartt (author of The Secret History, The Little Friend, and The Goldfinch) is from the same town in which the murder in question took place, but… Well, let’s just say my knowledge of Mississippi geography extends more to fictional places like Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County than real towns. Turns out Madame Tartt (would she mind if I called her this? Maybe “Lady” or “Duchess” would be a better honorific for the veritable grand dame of Southern Gothic noir) is from Greenwood, whereas Witnessed: Devil in the Ditch takes place in Greenville. Plans to impress you with my literary knowledge foiled, I shall now give you the general contours of this next pod, which seems ripe for a big screen adaptation by none other than Tartt herself. (Does she do screenwriting? Or are such plebeian pursuits beneath her?) In Greenville, MS, which is exactly one-hour due west of Tartt’s hometown of Greenwood, a brutal murder of a beloved grandmother has remained unsolved for nearly two decades. In 2003, Larrison Campbell’s 85 year-old grandmother Presh was discovered bludgeoned to death in the parlor of her home. Campbell, a journalist (who attended my alma mater of Wesleyan University!), spent the last year “trying to figure out why the person who murdered my grandmother is probably walking around free.” The result is this podcast, Campbell’s own investigation into her grandmother’s murder, one that will take Campbell back to her hometown, a pocket of the Deep South where as many as 80% of homicides remain unsolved. The New England Gothic (Cait Ford) Premiered January 2023. New episodes every Friday. if you’ve ever snuck a peek at my Pinterest (I have no shame in admitting that I am an extremely dedicated user of what I recently learned is the world’s 14th most popular social media platform—I’m @lizzymeowmeow if you wanna be friends or whatever), you’ll see that a good chunk of my boards and pins revolve around the following themes: autumn, witches, pumpkins, and Halloween. I spent a large portion of quarantine in rural Massachusetts (and I’m talking very rural—as I think I’ve mentioned before, our closest neighbors were of the bovine persuasion), where I traded in my obsession with all things Floridian for a love of New England spookiness. While I may have since moved back to NYC, I’ve kept up with my #NewEnglandGothic pinning, which is why I was so happy to learn that a podcast of the exact same name. Halloween may be more than five months away (not that I’m counting down the days to my favorite holiday…but actually I do have an orange countdown timer on desktop whose purpose will remain classified), but luckily, I can bask in all things spooky thanks to this new-in-2023 podcast. On the menu? “Jolly” Jane Toppan, a Victorian-era nurse-turned-murderess who terrorized the Boston area with her deadly exploits (and confessed to a total of 21 killings). Also check out host Cait Ford’s episode on the Borden family (turns out Lizzie isn’t the only Borden with some sordid tales in her past—the family tree is sprawling and has more than enough nefariousness to go around.) The Last Ride (WGCU Public Media/NPR) Premiered April 4, 2023. New episodes every Tuesday You didn’t think you were getting out of here without a Florida podcast recommendation, did you? The Last Ride, which explores the negligence and systemic racism at the heart of the Sunshine State’s criminal justice system, is one of my favorites this season, and not just because it examines a set of cases that took place not far from where I grew up. It’s October 2003. George W. Bush is president. The Iraq War is barely seven months old. Stateside, Nelly, P. Diddy, and Murphy Lee’s “Shake Ya Tailfeather” dominates the airwaves while Kill Bill: Vol. 1 is raking it in at the box office. In the early morning hours of October 14th in Naples, Florida, Felipe Santos, a 24-year-old new father, is involved in a minor traffic accident while on his way to work. Because Felipe was driving without a license or insurance, responding officer Steve Calkins takes him away in his patrol car. Calkins insists that he “unarrested” Felipe not long after picking him up and dropped him off at a nearby Circle K. Felipe, a devoted father with a four-month-old daughter at home, is never seen or heard from again. Three months later, an eerily incident occurs. Terrance Williams, a 27-year-old Tennessee transplant, disappears after an interaction with Calkins. Calkins claims once again that he “unarrested” Williams (who had been driving without a valid driver’s license and expired registration), dropping him off a Circle K. In both cases, Calkins’s story of dropping each man off at a Circle K could not be corroborated. Nearly two decades later, neither Santos nor Williams has ever been located, nor has Calkins ever been charged with any crime in connection with the two men’s disappearances. What happened to these two young men of color? Why did law enforcement fail to solve their likely murders? Why were their stories ignored by the media for so long? Hosted by award-winning journalist Janine Zeitlin and featuring reporting by the Naples Daily News and Fort Myers News-Press, The Last Ride includes exclusive interviews with Tyler Perry (who became involved in the case in 2018), legendary civil rights attorney Ben Crump, and investigators who were involved in the two men’s cases. What’s more? You’ll get to hear original polygraph audio direct from the case files. View the full article -
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The Moms of Mystery: Six Books About Motherhood and Crime
If I could have one person with me in an emergency, it would be a mother. Mothers, shepherds of the toddlers, the most chaotic group to herd. Mothers, whose bags are filled with every conceivable tool plus snacks. Mothers, whose transition into motherhood is such a total and radical transformation, and yet, they find ways to adapt. While my debut novel, The Perfect Ones, centers on the mysterious disappearance of an online influencer on a promotional trip to Iceland, I think the heart of the book is motherhood and the profound effect it has on women. I wanted to explore how motherhood drives the women in my story—and how, sometimes, it doesn’t. Because as a mother, I think it’s important that mothers are portrayed in fiction as the immensely complex beings we are. We exist as mothers, but we also exist as people outside of our children. It’s a delicate, oftentimes maddening balance, but in my opinion, it’s what makes moms magical. In this list, I’ve rounded up my six favorite mysteries with moms smack-dab at the center. The women in these novels are resourceful, funny, sharp, brave, and uniquely flawed. They are powerful, but they’re also human. They are moms. Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty Let’s start with the queen of mom-mysteries: Liane Moriarty. She has authored several winners, but I think Big Little Lies sits at the top. The story follows a group of upper-class mothers after the shocking death of a fellow parent at their children’s prestigious elementary school. As the mystery unfolds, the web of the mothers’ sometimes shocking, sometimes shockingly ordinary personal lives begins to tangle. Liane Moriarty is known for her laugh out loud humor, and this novel is no exception, but where this novel really shines is the balance between these upper-class antics and deeper conversations about motherhood. I Have Some Questions for You by Rebecca Makkai I Have Some Questions for You is an ode to the incredible versatility of mothers—including the parts of a mother that have nothing to do with her child. Rebecca Makkai tells the story of a popular podcaster, Bodie, who returns to her elite boarding school as a teacher and instead finds herself embroiled in the reinvestigation of the decades-old murder of her former roommate. It’s a gripping mystery with the lightest touch of social commentary as Bodie navigates the question every working mother inevitably hears: who’s watching your kids? The Husbands by Chandler Baker The Husbands follows an overworked and stressed-out attorney named Nora as she balances motherhood, pregnancy, and a wrongful-death lawsuit over a fatal house fire at a peculiar community called Dynasty Ranch. Somewhat of a “reverse Stepford Wives,” the story is both tense and funny, veering into magical realism while still feeling unexpectedly real. The mystery of the fire (and the motives for its potential coverup) keep the reader turning pages, but I think Chandler Baker’s real strength is her ability to give voice to all the things we as mothers know but often feel we can’t say. Perhaps no mother will experience what Nora does, but nearly all will feel seen. The School for Good Mothers by Jessamine Chan In The School for Good Mothers, a Chinese immigrant to the US named Frida finds herself at a state-run facility for bad mothers after a “very bad day.” I’ll be upfront: this book made me tear up. As a mother, I found the ending particularly difficult to read. And yet, despite this—or maybe because of it—I consider it a must-read. The story itself is compelling, and the characters are all so wonderfully awful, but the heart of this book is the conversation happening between the lines. Jessamine Chan forces a critical eye on what makes a “good mother” in our society and whether we have created a standard that no woman can live up to. Northern Spy by Flynn Berry In Northern Spy, Flynn Berry examines The Troubles of Northern Ireland through the lens of Tessa, a single mother who finds herself unexpectedly involved in the conflict when her sister goes missing. As someone who knew very little about The Troubles before starting this novel, I found this intimate perspective both captivating and unexpectedly heartbreaking. I wasn’t learning about history from a distance; I was there. I could feel the simmering nature of a country on the brink, and when Tessa is faced with certain decisions—particularly those involving her baby—it felt almost too real. I don’t think it is necessary to be a mother to enjoy this story, but for a mom, it really hits home. The Golden Couple by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen The Golden Couple begins with golden couple Marissa and Matthew seeking the help of unlicensed (and highly unconventional) therapist Avery to save their marriage. Told from the perspectives of both Marissa and Avery, the story is a master class on slow burning tension. There are multiple twists, some of which made me audibly gasp, and the ending made me rethink everything I had just read. It’s a story that doesn’t hinge on Marissa’s motherhood, although this aspect of her life certainly plays a large part. Like any mother, Marissa often puts her child’s safety above everything else, including herself. *** Featured image: On the Beach, Joaquín Sorolla View the full article -
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Top 6 Fictional Serial Killer Books
I have a confession to make: I can’t watch horror films. As an author of dark and violent novels, you would have thought I would devour them but no. They scare the crap out of me. But what I do love are serial killer books. I save them for the downtime. For the gaps in between writing when my life is taken up with the minutiae of life I’ve forgotten about while I’ve been buried, trying to hit a deadline. I store novels like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter, waiting for the time when it’s safe to catch up on what I’ve missed; when I’m sure I’m not going to subconsciously feed a plot line into my current work in progress. Why the difference? Who knows. Maybe, when I read, I enjoy the safety of being able to put a book down, while a film comes at you, zombies and murderers leaping out of the screen. And a book has the space to explore where a screenplay, with just dialogue, might not be able to, to dig into their deepest, darkest thoughts. To really take a look at what’s going on. Anyone who has read The Echo Man or my latest, The Twenty, will know I am fascinated by the bleaker side of humanity. By the people who kill and maim and torture and – most importantly – why. My favourite fiction explores this psychology. Either from the victim’s perspective, the killers’, or those left behind. A wonderful example of this is Notes on an Execution by Danya Kukafka. Following three women affected by serial killer Ansel Packer, in the hours before he’s scheduled to die on death row, it shines a light on the history of the tragedy and the lives of those left in his wake. Of Lavender, Ansel’s mother; Saffy, the detective on his trail; and Hazel, twin sister to his wife, who can only watch helplessly as events unfold. It’s poignant, tense and beautifully written as it digs deep into the life of violent men like Ansel. Another character-focused novel is Real Easy, by Marie Rutoski. We are transported to the Lovely Lady strip club, and the women that dance there as a killer preys in their midst. Rutoski’s prose is gritty and real, with one of the most heart-breaking chapter endings I have had the privilege of reading as Detective Holly Meylin numbly staggers through life, trying to track down the killer. So, let’s talk about the detectives. The broken, beaten and damaged, who gather the evidence in a serial killer’s wake. While the detective-with-a-past is a well-worn course, it’s popular for a reason – a well-adjusted copper just doesn’t hold the same thrall. My favourite of these has to be DI Jack Caffrey from Mo Hayder’s novels, beginning with Birdman as Caffrey investigates ritualistically murdered women in Greenwich, Southeast London. And Caffrey has a past – a brother that disappeared when they were boys, taken by a killer living behind his very own childhood home. Hayder’s writing is unflinching, blood-curdling and pitch-black dark, no more so than in The Treatment, the second book in the series. She pulls no punches, embracing a dingy, disturbing path that most crime writers, including myself, fear to tread. The serial killers themselves are a source of great fascination. While researching The Echo Man I read over two dozen biographies and accounts of true crime, searching for the psyche behind the murderer. And on this subject, no list would be complete without a mention of Hannibal Lector and The Silence of the Lambs by Robert Hunter. Published in 1988, it is still the gold standard of serial killer novels as the cunning Lector is pitted against innocent FBI agent Clarice Starling. The dangerous but devious killer behind bars is another trope authors can’t resist, one I explore myself in The Twenty in the form of Elijah Cole, and done to great effect by Nadine Matheson in The Jigsaw Man. I’m a big fan of Matheson’s books, wholeheartedly embracing The Jigsaw Man and its follow up, The Binding Room. This series follows DI Anjelica Henley and the Serial Crimes Unit as they investigate murders in a gritty East London. Matheson’s background as a criminal lawyer really comes to the fore in her attention to detail and it’s this, plus the wonderful characterisation, that immerses us in the story so fully that Henley and the team come to feel like friends. The reverse of this fond characterisation has to be one of the first serial killer books I ever read – American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. I discovered it while I was at university and was so terrified I didn’t go out for a week. Bloody, bone-chilling and brutal, Patrick Bateman is the narcissistic killer of the age, focused only on ego and rivalry. With a twist that subverts all expectations I adored it – but haven’t mustered the courage to read it again since. These books have all influenced my writing, one way or another. I have my own disturbed detectives – in the shape of DS Nate Griffin in The Echo Man and DCI Adam Bishop in The Twenty – who I absolutely adore putting through the wringer. I prefer not to sanitise the nastiness and violence of serial killers, and have embraced the darkness, while hopefully applying the detailed psychology and character-driven plots I have enjoyed in the novels mentioned here. But I am always on the lookout for the new and the gripping as well as trying to push myself further as a writer. I’d love to write the novel that turns the genre on its head, that attracts a new crowd of fans to the serial killer thriller. Maybe I’ve achieved that with The Twenty. Maybe not. But in the meantime, do let me know what you’ve enjoyed. And I hope you find a new favourite here. *** View the full article -
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How to be a Regency Lady Sleuth
Sleuthing in Regency England is a tough gig, especially for a lady. And even more so for that that lady’s creator. Namely me. Like most writers of historical mysteries, I had to solve several problems created by the realities of my historical setting to write my Regency lady sleuths in The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies. The ‘Ladies” of the novel are Lady Augusta and Lady Julia Colebrook, two fierce 42-year-old spinster sisters who use their privilege and invisibility as ‘old maids’ to solve mysteries and extract other women out of perilous situations in 1812. I call the novel a serious romp, and I chose to reach for a very high level of historical authenticity and accuracy; if it was not possible in the Regency, then it didn’t make it into the novel. A real problem when some of the basic tropes of the sleuthing story were not even in existence. For instance, the Regency era – officially from 1811 to 1820—was well before England had a police force. So where does a lady sleuth get her official back up and assistance? What’s more, record keeping was patchy at best and, if it did exist, was not centralised or easy to access. This was particularly the case for women because a vast majority of them could not read. Education, my dear fellow, is wasted on women—or at least that was the majority opinion of the time. How then, does a lady sleuth track down the information she needs to solve her mysteries? So, when it came to written information, my lady sleuths had to be the kind of women of that era who would be feasibly taught to read, and secondly have access to the various places these records were kept. That is why I decided to make Lady Augusta (aka Gus), and Lady Julia part of the highest rank in Regency society, the aristocracy. At this rank, they would have a chance of some education, as well as having access to private libraries (public libraries as we know them were not yet in existence). They would also have the social clout and contacts to obtain information from other sources. At that time, most of the government officials were men from the gentry class or the aristocracy and since Gus and Julia move in those circles, they literally have friends in high place: excellent sources of information. I also wanted Gus and Julia to have independent financial resources which was a possibility for aristocratic ladies. Even so, it would still have not been that common since a woman—even a highly-bred one—handed over all her assets, including her own body and legal identity, when she married. This bit of nefarious misogyny was called Coverture and parts of it still exist even today in some of the attitudes towards women and the way women’s bodies are treated by the law. Aha, but now you see my cunning plan. Gus and Julia are spinsters, and so have control over their own inherited money. In the Regency, the idea of a woman earning her living was only for the lower classes. A middling or upper-class woman was expected to marry and if she did not, her options were very limited: either she became a governess, a paid companion, or a burden upon her family. Thus, Gus and Julia are very much amateur sleuths who use the prejudice against unmarried and older women—the invisibility of the old maid—to their advantage. In terms of police support, the best that Lady Gus and Lady Julia can do is find an ally in the Bow Street Runners, a very small group of men who worked for the London magistrate courts to bring criminals to justice. Interestingly, the Runners were initially formed by the author Henry Fielding who was also a magistrate. London’s population was growing at an extraordinary rate when Richardson headed the Bow Street Court in the 1750’s and he noted the criminal world growing gangbusters alongside it. In response, he formed the Runners, who initially were little better than the criminals they chased, but eventually became a more coherent and trustworthy group of lawmen. And so, in my novel, I created Mr Kent, known around town as Kent the Gent, who becomes a reluctant ally of Lady Gus and Lady Julia. But sometimes sleuthing requires one to investigate amongst the lower ranks. How then, would an aristocratic lady sleuth gain access to such ruffians? Why, by accidentally shooting a highwayman, of course. And not any old highwayman, but a disgraced son of a marquess who was transported twenty years ago and is now back in England for his own reasons. Enter Lord Evan Belford, charming purveyor of banter and guide to the criminal class. And, although it pains my egalitarian sensibilities to say so, it would probably have been easier for an upper-class person to investigate within the middling and lower classes, than someone from the lower ranks trying to access the uppermost echelons of society. As you can see by the above, creating a feasible and authentic lady sleuth in the Regency era is not impossible, but does take some intense research about the society and its values. As I research, I always look for the threads of my characters’ beliefs and abilities within the possibilities of the era. For example, Lady Gus is an apostate—a person who has lost her faith—and I was able to include that aspect of her character because the threads of atheism are present in Regency society. In fact, the poet Shelley was expelled from university in 1811 for writing about atheism. By grabbing hold of these types of threads, you can develop a character who has the agency, beliefs and abilities that sit authentically in the era you are writing about but is still accessible to a modern reader. So, I invite you to hang on to your bonnets and hats and enter the authentic 1812 world of Lady Gus and Lady Julia as they sleuth and romp their way around Regency England. *** View the full article
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