My Muse

Feb 16 Terry here, answer our week's question: Is there a non-writer whose work inspires your writing? Tell us about it. 

 It’s no secret that my grandfather was my inspiration for Samuel Craddock. If he had gone beyond the third grade, maybe he would have been a writer, but he was out on his own at the age of twelve and spent the rest of his life as a hard-working man, married at sixteen and the father of eight children. 

 The reason I think he might have been a writer is that he was a great story-teller. I still picture him at the big, family table surrounded by relatives, telling stories. One I remember was about some local kids who dared each other to go into a vacant house. To prove they weren’t afraid, they had to go into the bathroom and touch the tub. One guy finally said he would. One of the other kids ran around and climbed into the bathroom through the window and lay down in the tub, and when the kid touched the tub, he reached out and grabbed his hand. I remember my grandfather slapping his knee as he laughed when he said the kid ran out of the house with such force that he broke down the screen door. Then there was the one about the kid raised by wolves (I kid you not.)

My grandfather, standing with my grandmother in the store and cafe they owned.

   That doesn’t mean my grandfather wasn’t “educated.” By the time I knew him, he read everything he could get his hands on. My mother told me that once he rounded up the kids and told them that the library in the county sea was cleaning out a bunch of books, and they were going to go get some. She said they came back with boxes of books. He felt like he had won the lottery. 

 But more important than his knowledge and his thirst for knowledge, was his sense of fairness. He was no angel, but he didn’t like for anyone to get a raw deal. I remember once being outside with my mother and grandfather and a Black man came into the yard. My grandfather asked what he wanted and he said that he had done some work for a local woman and that she refused to pay him. My grandfather said not to worry, he’d take care of it. Later, I asked my mother why the man had come to my grandfather. She said, “He was the town mayor once, and people trust him because he’s fair.” 

When I decided to set a series in the town where my grandparents lived, a place I knew intimately, I decided to make my grandfather the protagonist. I didn’t want him to be the mayor, because that might not be interesting enough. I wanted him to be a former chief of police, and that people would still call him “Chief” because they trusted him. 

 I think if he were still alive, he would be proud of the man I fashioned from his cloth. I think of him so often--his wit, his determination, his strength. Samuel Craddock has a lot of live up to. And one last note. Some people call Samuel Craddock "Sam," but he isn't Sam. That was my grandfather. Craddock will always be "Samuel."

Giving Thanks

Who is someone in your life who has been supportive of your writing? What was their impact?

Good Monday morning! Brenda Chapman kicking off this week's question.

There have been many, many people who have supported my writing journey so it is difficult to pick just one. How much thanks do I owe my family ... my husband Ted Weagle and daughters Lisa and Julia ... and these are just my immediate family. If you'd like the full list, just look in the acknowledgements in any of my books!

And then there are my friends and readers. The ones who buy my books, come out to my launches, purchase my books for Christmas gifts, retweet and repost my social media news, send kind words in emails, post reviews ... everyone keeps me writing.

Friends filled the pub at my Turning Secrets launch

But the question asks me to choose one person. In the spirit of this week's question, I am going to acknowledge the wonderful, warm, and lovely Sylvia McConnell, the first publisher who saw something in my writing that warranted making it into print, and a friend to this day.

Sylvia started up Napoleon & Company with the RendezVous Crime imprint. I was lucky enough to have Sylvia and her editor Allister Thompson accept my middle school mystery Running Scared. Sylvia guided me through the publishing process and got me started on publicizing my book. She went on to accept three more books in the series, my first adult mystery In Winter's Grip, and a teen mystery Second Chances.

Allister Thompson & Sylvia McConnell

The early days - with Sylvia at her office in Toronto

Sylvia was always encouraging, kind and supportive, balancing this with a business mindset, an approach I greatly appreciated. We once met for lunch in Toronto and I remember her passion for books and publishing, her respect for her authors, her warmth. She honestly wanted us to succeed. Sylvia and Allister are responsible for many crime writer careers and made a big impact on the publishing scene in Canada. Her many contributions were recognized by Crime Writers of Canada when they presented her with the prestigious Derrick Murdoch Award in 2015.

Sylvia with author Mary Jane Maffini

After twenty-two years in the book publishing business, Sylvia decided to retire. Instead of simply folding up shop, she sold her publishing house to the much larger Dundurn in 2011, making sure that her authors had a new home. Sylvia continued to do freelance book editing and worked as an acquisitions editor so our paths continued to cross.

As writers, we all appreciate those people in the business who stand by us through thick and thin. Sylvia understood that authors need time to grow their craft and to build an audience of readers. She was willing to take the time to develop her authors and to give us latitude to succeed. I will forever be grateful for her friendship and wise counsel not to mention that first email telling me that Napoleon Publishing wanted to publish my book.

Website: www.brendachapman.ca

Instagram: BrendaChapmanAuthor

The Question That Can Not Be Named

What interview question do you wish someone would ask you but never has? What’s the answer?

by Paul D. Marks

How does it feel to win an Edgar Award? No one’s ever asked because I’ve never won or been nominated for an Edgar, but I wish I was in that position to be asked that question.

But seriously I’ve done a lot of interviews both as the interviewer and the interviewee, I’ve moderated panels and had to come up with questions, so I’ve asked and answered a lot of questions. The truth is I wish someone would ask me a question that would surprise me. One I’ve never heard before and never even thought of. So I don’t know what that question is, cause I haven’t thought of it yet, but I’ll be excited and happy to answer it when it happens.

But since that doesn’t really address the blog question here, I’ll say one question that I would like to be asked: what other things besides books have inspired your writing? I probably have been asked that question in some form, but it’s one I don’t think I’ve ever fully answered. 

I think to really answer the question would probably take at least 1,000 pages so I’ll try to be brief:

1) The art of Edward Hopper. I like the loneliness and alienation depicted in his pictures. Probably the same reason I like noir films from the 30s and 40s. 

2) The music of the sixties, the Beatles in particular. Although I love lots of different kinds of music. The music of the sixties probably influences me the most. It was a time of a lot of creativity and change in the music world. I remember the excitement of waiting for a new album to be released and rushing out to buy it or calling in to radio stations and asking them to play a certain song. Everything was fresh and new and changing all the time. 

Peace, Love, and Crime anthology edited by Sandra Murphy
 and including my story "Can't Find My Way Home"

3) The films of the 30s and 40s. Film Noir in particular. See #1 above. 

4) My life experiences. I think my life experiences have drawn me towards writing about people who are outsiders, noir anti-heroes. Not because I grew up on any mean streets, but because I grew up in an abusive environment and I guess I want to see justice. And if not justice then at least revenge. That’s one of the reasons I love the Count of Monte Cristo. Revenge at it’s best.

So that’s short version of my answer. Now ask me about that Edgar!

~.~.~

And now for the usual BSP:

I just sold my short story "A.K.A. Ross Landy" to Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Stay tuned for more.

Please join me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/paul.d.marks and check out my website  www.PaulDMarks.com

Click here to: Subscribe to my Newsletter

First Lines from the Lefty Historical shortlist. By Catriona

Catriona writes: this job is never thankless – we get rounds of applause, actual stars beside reviews, bouquets of flowers, sweet emails, free books and royalties. And then there are days like today when Jim’s and my “job” is to welcome the other Historical Lefty nominees -  Susanna Calkins, Dianne Freeman, Laurie R King, and Ann Parker - to the Thursday blog. And the questions we decided to answer* are about first lines.

 (*“decided to answer” or “Catriona mixed up the weeks” – you tell me.)

To kick off: what's the first line in your nominated book? And did it come easy?

The Fate of a Flapper, by Susanna Calkins

 

“The black delivery truck pulled up to Mr. Rosenstein’s drugstore, its movements stealthy and smooth as it parked, not a squeaking brake or rattling screw to be heard.”

Suzie writes: My intention was to open the novel with a key image of 1929 Chicago—the illicit deliveries of alcohol to a speakeasy in the guise of dropping off routine supplies to a local pharmacy. The premise of my book revolves around the commonness of alcohol poisoning and I was hoping to set the tone early. Generally, I do find it challenging to write an evocative opening sentence, and now that I’m publicly self-analyzing my work (ha!), I’m going to try even harder to get it ‘right.’

 

Riviera Gold, by Laurie R. King

Laurie writes: Well, that depends on what you mean by “first line.”  Of the preface, or the flashback first chapter, or the story itself?

Take your pick:

Why had I never considered the possibility that an arms dealer might wield actual arms?

or:

The warm air smelled of honey.

or:

Venice had been…unexpected.

That the book ended up with a preface, then two chapters in different timelines and points of view, may indicate that a certain amount of shuffling about took place. Leap into the action….or begin with the oldest part…or pick up the story as it actually begins? I think the only time I haven’t struggled with the opening line is with the first Russell & Holmes story (The Beekeeper’s Apprentice)—and even that has a preface and a forward to it!

 

Turn to Stone, by James W. Ziskin

"MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1963. The young lady in the blue pillbox hat tore the outbound coupon from my ticket, handed the booklet back to me, and wished me a pleasant flight."

Jim writes: this is the original first line I’d written months before.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 11, 1963 Mosquitoes. No one had warned me of this misery, the scourge of sultry Florentine nights that frustrated all attempts to sleep. 

 A couple of items of note here.

First, I changed the date, pushed my story ahead about six weeks in time. Why? August simply didn’t work for an academic symposium—the backdrop for the story—in Florence, Italy. Universities are not in session and the Florentines have abandoned the city to the tourists.

Second, I realized I didn’t want to start my book with mosquitoes, even if they are “the scourge of sultry Florentine nights.”

Third, I liked the idea of opening with an airline agent tearing the flight coupon from a ticket booklet. (Remember those?) I think it creates a splash of nostalgia and conjures the early 1960s for the reader. Furthermore, the blue pillbox hat calls to mind vintage Pan Am livery, as well as the romance and excitement of international air travel in a bygone era. Alas, in the scene that follows, that romance and excitement are spoiled. My heroine, Ellie Stone, ends up trapped in a seat next to a middle-aged blowhard in a tight seersucker suit. A reprieve from his unwanted attentions comes only once he passes out from too many Old Fashioneds.

 

Mortal Music, by Ann Parker

“There had been occasions in the past when Inez Stannert had looked a man—and even, once, a woman—straight in the eye and felt justified in pulling the trigger.” 

Ann writes: There you have it, the opening line of MORTAL MUSIC. In general, the first line of a book tends to come easy for me. Usually, after mulling over the idea/premise of a book at length—pop!—there it is. Once I write it down, I may tinker a little, but it usually stays close to the original wording. (The rest of the book? Not so easy.)

 A Lady’s Guide to Mischief and Murder, by Dianne Freeman

Why does it always happen that just when I begin to feel life simply couldn’t get any better, fate drops a disaster into my path to prove me right?

Dianne writes: I hope it made you smile, or nod in agreement, and most importantly, want to read further.

I used to struggle to get my first lines to pull their weight. Now, I employ the lost keys trick—once I stop searching, they show up. It’s not quite that easy, but once I’ve finished the story, or more commonly, the second or third draft, that first line becomes much more obvious.

The Turning Tide, by Catriona McPherson

“I don’t know, Alec,” I said. “It’s hardly the Riviera.”

Catriona writes: I just checked drafts 1-4 to see how much the first line of the book had changed in the many edits. Here’s what I discovered: at some point someone made me start spelling “Riviera” with a capital R.  I checked a few other books and found the same thing. So. It turns out I find first lines easy. Huh. Who knew?

The other possibility is that I write terrible first lines but no one calls me on it. I don’t think so. I quite like this one, anyway. It’s pure Dandy Gilver: she’s having a low-level bicker with her side-kick and they’ve evidently fetched up in some godforsaken bit of Scotland. Again. I think it sets the tone okay.

So that’s our own first lines and how much they tax us as writers. What about when we’re readers? We all pitched in our favourites and guess what?  There’s a reason bestsellers are bestsellers and classics are classics.

LAURIE: I love the rhythm of Rebecca’s first line: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

ANN: As for favorite first lines from other authors, I have so many . . . or so I thought! When I started looking them up, I realized that what I loved were the opening scenes, not necessarily the opening lines. However, I found two, very different in tone and much separated in time, but connected through their Western settings and sentiments. From Willa Cathers’ O PIONEERS!: “One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away.” And from Steve Hockensmith’s HOLMES ON THE RANGE: “There are two things you can’t escape out here in the West: dust and death.”

                                                                Photo credit: Bill Ziskin

JIM: One of my favorite openings comes from Alan Bradley’s first Flavia de Luce novel, THE SWEETNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PIE. “It was as black in the closet as old blood.” When you consider that the narrator of this wickedly funny series is an eleven-year-old girl, and it’s her older sisters who have locked her in the closet, this is a bold beginning. I love these books and the delightfully precocious Flavia de Luce.

CATRIONA: “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.” is the opening line of Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle. It’s so precious to her devoted fans that, when the novel was adapted for the big screen, there was an audible sigh of relief as – after a nerve-wracking few minutes of establishing shots – Cassie says the words in voice-over.

SUZIE: One of my favorite opening lines, of any genre, comes from the storytelling master, Stephen King. I still remember, as a teenager, I was blown away by this line: “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” I find this sentence from The Gunslinger (the first in his Dark Tower series) to be brilliant for several reasons. First, it hooks the reader. Second, it raises key questions—who is this man in black? Why is the gunslinger following him? And third, it sets up the central tension between the protagonist and antagonist, and you don’t know which is which at this point.

DIANNE: My favorite first lines provide an inkling of the story, some insight to the narrator, and set the tone. If they also hold some wit or irony, even better. The reader is hooked the moment he smiles or nods in agreement. For me, Jane Austen’s first line from Pride and Prejudice; “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” does it all.

Catriona again. Ah, this was lovely! The Lefty we’re all up for - the Bruce Alexander Memorial Award - is usually given at Left Coast Crime. This year it’s being given without food, drink, airplanes, hotels, or hugs. But there is a panel! We are all getting together later this month to scratch each other’s eyes out in a battle for votes. Check here for details about when and how to join us.

 

Guest Bios:

Laurie R. King is the New York Times bestselling author of 27 novels and other works, including the Mary Russell-Sherlock Holmes stories (from The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, named one of the 20th century’s best crime novels by the IMBA, to 2018’s Island of the Mad).  She has won an alphabet of prizes from Agatha to Wolfe, been chosen as guest of honor at several crime conventions, and is probably the only writer to have both an Edgar and an honorary doctorate in theology. She was inducted into the Baker Street Irregulars in 2010, as “The Red Circle.”

Susanna Calkins, a historian and educator, writes the award-winning Lucy Campion historical mysteries set in 17^th century London and the Speakeasy Murders set in 1920s Chicago. Her fiction has been nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award, as well as the Agatha, Anthony, and the Lefty awards, and she received the Sue Feder Historical Mystery Award (Macavity). Born and raised in Philadelphia, she lives in the Chicago area now, with her husband and two sons.  Check out her website at www.susannacalkins.com.

 Ann Parker writes the award-winning Silver Rush mystery series, set in the 1880s “Victorian West,” primarily in the silver boomtown of Leadville, Colorado, and in San Francisco, California. Mortal Music is the seventh in the series. www.annparker.net

 

Dianne Freeman is the acclaimed author of the Agatha and Lefty award winning Countess of Harleigh Mystery series. After thirty years of working in corporate accounting and finance, she now writes full-time. She and her husband split their time between Michigan and Arizona. Visit her at www.DiFreeman.com.

 

 

 

Speaking of which... by Cathy Ace

What is one interview question that you wish someone would ask you but rarely, if ever, has? What’s the answer?

Q: “How does it feel to have had a book topping both the NY Times and the UK's Sunday Times bestseller lists for the past month?”

A: “The first time it happened I couldn't believe it - and this third time is just as wonderful.” 

Ah well, back to reality.

To be honest, I’m not sure I’m terribly good at interviews. If they’re written interviews (where the questioner sends you written questions and you supply written answers) I spend ages pondering each word, then I read them when they’re published and am wracked with horror at what I’ve said, or at least how I've said it.

If I’m asked something face-to-face, I tend to respond rapidly and from the heart…which usually means I spend ages afterwards wishing I’d said something more witty/pithy. These days, with interviews being recorded for podcasts, Zoom events etc., I choose to NOT re-watch my performance. Too terrifying.  

Either way, I know I’m quite a serious/earnest person (yes, it’s true) so I worry that my answers might not be entertaining enough, even if they’re truthful/from the heart. And that can be a bit of an issue, because – usually – the interviewer wants an entertainer interviewee, and folks attend interviews to be entertained. So I become really nervous before interviews - a bit like I do when I know I have to go to the dentist. Oh joy! What always surprises me is when I say stuff and folks find it amusing - you see, I don't think I'm funny at all. I'm just me. But, if folks find me being me entertaining, well that's great...and a great relief.

So I hope you've been entertained by any interview I’ve given that you've seen, heard or read. Know I'll be sooooooo pleased that was the outcome.

As for the question I’m supposed to answer today: to be honest, I can’t think of any REAL question I’d like to be asked that I haven’t already been asked. But, if you’re an interviewer, or if you’re not an interviewer but are reading this and would like to become one, maybe you’d like to ask me something in the comments below – in which case, I’ll do my best to answer 😊

Meanwhile, if you'd rather just read my books, you can find out more about them at my website: CLICK HERE

 

Let Me Ask You This...

What is one interview question that you wish someone would ask you but rarely, if ever, has? What’s the answer?

From Frank

Sayeth the Interviewer: "You retired after a twenty-year career in law enforcement?"

I reply: "I did."

Q: "One would think you have a positive view towards your colleagues?"

A:"I did, and I do. They're men and women who are bravely dedicated to doing a job that is increasingly more difficult and critical to our society."

Q: "So here's my question: if that's the case, why have you written a number of novels and stories that contain officers with unadmirable qualities, who fail, or are even corrupt? Isn't there a disconnect there between your real-life experience and the fiction you've presented?"

A: "Well -- "

Q: "And since you're writing from a position of institutional knowledge, does your background give more weight to those negative depictions?"

A: "Good question."

***

It is. And while I've been asked a lot about my police fiction and just about as much about my police experiences, no one has yet hit me with this seeming paradox.

I wish they would.

I have an answer. It's not a perfect one. It's not short, or simple, either. So in a way, maybe it's lucky I haven't been asked this in a setting that wouldn't allow for a meaningful answer. But I have a little space here today, so...

Look, there's some part of me that has to acknowledge that my work has, at times, been one more trickling stream that has fed the raging torrent of police tropes. Fiction just be that way, I guess. Sometimes I write simply to tell an entertaining or moving story. 

Other times, I have more in mind. 

One of the things I've tried to accomplish over the course of my River City series is to show the humanity of the police officers. This includes their weaknesses as well as their nobility, their failures right along with their successes. My hope has always been that in doing so, perhaps more people will look at cops and see a person first and then a uniform second rather than the other way around. Anytime we focus on what someone is instead of who they are, it creates a distance.

The Charlie-316 series isn't as clear in this regard. Virtually every character in these novels, whether in uniform or not, is painted in shades of gray. Why? Because that's real life. And while heavily dramatized, that is what my co-author and I wanted to show. Are there corrupt cops in this series? Yes. At least three who are unquestionably corrupt. But all the other characters (and there's an ensemble cast over the course of four books) lie somewhere on the spectrum between corrupt and incorruptible. We ask questions about ends and means, intent and outcome. It's not pretty. It's also not meant as an indictment of law enforcement but as an examination of human nature.

The polarity between these two series, though, is representative of my own personal stance on the topic. I am at once supportive of the overwhelming majority of officers who are dedicated, work hard, and have noble intent ever day they go out into the world to do this job... while I also believe there is a need for reform in policing in the U.S. I've seen the same horrific events the rest of the nation has watched and I'm just as outraged about them. 

This unpopular view usually doesn't make me look reasonable; it just makes both sides of the discussion (if one can call the screaming discourse going both directions a discussion) angry at me. I'm a traitor to one side, an apologist to the other, and a fence-sitter to both. 

I'd like to say I don't care, but let's face it - if you're human, you care how people think of you to some degree. So I care. But I also can't shy away from how I see it.

Going further in this conversation is beyond the scope a single blog post, so I need to either stop here or write another 10K words. Suffice it to say that I think we've become a world that likes simple lines of demarcation and easy solutions to all our problems. Complex issues don't work that way. Reforming what we want from our police and how that is accomplished? Rooting out the few bad actors in the profession and giving appropriate training and support to the rest? Changing our methods, our institutions, our culture?

Complex.

Until we see the issues accurately, instead of becoming entrenched in whatever polarized (and to my mind, ridiculously simplified) viewpoint we adhere to ("cops are the problem!" "back the blue!"), we won't even begin to put together potential solutions for meaningful - and beneficial - change.

***

No blatant self-promotion this time around, folks. If anyone is interested in my stuff, I'm easy to find. Instead, let me post a picture of something I remain proud of.

You're Too Kind, I Am Humbled

 What is one interview question that you wish someone would ask you but rarely, if ever, has? What’s the answer?

- from Susan

 

 

NPR INTERVIEWER: “How does it feel to be a New York Times bestselling author and to have your book being made into a Netflix film with Lily James starring?”

 

SUSAN SHEA: “I adore Lily. We met over tea in New York last week, and she really understands my protagonist, who is young, spirited, and lovely just like Lily. And to have Janelle Monae playing her co-investigator is just perfect. She’s a major talent, and we bonded over diner in LA. I could not be happier. As to the book being number one for ten weeks, I can only say there are so many fabulous readers and booksellers to thank. “

 

NPR: Did you ever think this would happen? I mean, so many writers toil for pittances and can only dream of making a portion of your success.

 

SHEA: But wait. I toiled for pittances for years. I nibbled at the edges of making it big but it never happened. This is hardly an overnight success.”

 

NPR: What do you think made the difference with this book?

 

SHEA: I hired Michelle Obama’s public relations firm. Had to take out a second mortgage on my house and stop buying premium cat food, but it was worth it.

 

NPR: Um. So, what’s your next book about?

 

SHEA: Lily and Janelle are begging me to make this one the first in a series. Netflix offered me a bazillion dollars to do it, so I say, why not? The writer’s life is a crap shoot but when you throw the dice perfectly, you have to roll with it, right?

 

 

 

 

Festival Fever

 by Abir

It’s your first writer’s conference after the Covid-19 crisis has been contained – what are the first three things you do after checking in to the hotel?

Now this is a wonderful question. Unexpected, and at the same time, joy-inducing. Looking forward to the days when this global nightmare is behind us has helped put a smile on my face. It’s been so long now that part of me has forgotten the simple pleasures of rocking up at a writer’s conference and getting rat-arsed blind drunk to know people, that I might have to use my imagination a bit.

 

The first thing to say is that it depends on where the festival is, and whether I’ve been there before. If it’s somewhere I’ve never been before and where I don’t know people, like Bouchercon or Russia, I tend to have all the grace and social skills of a six year old on his first day at a new school. I will stand shyly in the corner, too scared to speak to anyone in case they think I’m a) a wierdo, b) Billy No-mates, or c) a waiter; and I’ll drink until I fall over or grow a pair of dutch courages.

 

But if it’s a festival that I know well, like Harrogate or Bloody Scotland, or pretty much any crime festival in the UK, then things will be different. I’ll walk in with all the swagger of a big boy who knows the ropes. I’ll mosey into reception, fling a nod to another writer, maybe give a smile to another, just to show them that, hey, this ain’t my first rodeo, and that I’m one cool cowboy.

 

While waiting to check in, I’ll cast the odd glance around, see who’s about. Is that Ian Rankin over there, talking to Mark Billingham? Oh…they’ve seen me staring. Play it cool, Mukherjee, play it cool – don’t come across as the fawning fanboy you really are. Are they waving? GOD! IAN RANKIN AND MARK BILLINGHAM ARE WAVING AT ME!! CRIME FICTION ROYALTY IS WAVING AT ME!!!

 

 “Oh hi, Ian, hi Mark,” I’ll say, and give a little wave back, “I didn’t see you there. Me? Yeah, I’m good, man. I’m good, I-,’ 

 

Oh, they weren’t waving at me. They were waving at Lee Child who’s standing behind me. OH MY GOD! LEE CHILD IS STANDING IN THE CHECK-IN QUEUE RIGHT BEHIND ME!!! 

 

Should I say something? What should I say? Should I offer him my place in the queue? Why is it suddenly so hot in here?! Play it cool, Mukhers. Play it cool. Just turn round, face the front and mind your own busines.

 

I glance to the right and spot a knot of other authors – feisty mid-listers like me – a combo of the wizened old forty and fifty-somethings and the beautiful, up-and-coming, hot young things, whom the wizened forty somethings both secretly envy and, at the same time, feel sorry for. Because we too were all hot young things once, and look how that turned out. This is my tribe. I am not intimidated by them as I am by the crime fiction royalty over on the left and standing behind me in the queue. IS THAT LEE CHILD’S SHADOW FALLING ON ME? IN THE NAME OF LORD KRISHNA, I HOPE SOME OF HIS TALENT FALLS FROM HIS SHADOW ONTO ME!! 

 

Alas, the talent contained in Lee Child’s shadow has scant opportunity to bless me, cos the queue is moving now. Only one person now between me and the check-in desk. Alas it’s a newbie. A writer who’s never been to a festival before. He’s looking around him with that wide-eyed look of wonder, like he’s just been handed the keys to the executive toilets. Everything is new to him. He’s marvelling at the sparkling porcelain, inhaling the rarified aroma of those special, executive urinal cakes. I remember that I was like him once and chide myself for a moment of cynicism. Being a writer, I remember, is an honour. It really is a privilege to be allowed to do what we do. 

 

The newbie is turning round. God, he’s so young…and handsome. Like Will Dean a couple of years ago. Wait. I’ve seen his face before. He was in all the papers last week. Didn’t he just get a seven figure advance on his debut novel about a parking warden who’s turns out to be a psychopath? According to his publisher, it’s a seminal novel that will change the way we think about the men and women who issue us parking tickets. Or is it psychopaths? Either way I’m sure it was money well spent.

The beautiful Ruth Ware and the devastatingly handsome Will Dean....and me

He’s looking at me. Why’s he staring at me? Have I met him before? Did I promise to give him a blurb and then forget all about it because I’m so f*&$ing disorganised? If he asks, I’ll blame the kids and my full schedule, but really, it’s because I’m just a bit rubbish at everything. Actually, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t asked to blurb any book about a psycho parking warden. That’s exactly the sort of thing I usually remember. So why is he staring at me? He probably recognises me. I’m one of the very few brown crime fiction writers in this country after all. Not that that means much. There’s only about five of us and white people still get confused between us all. He probably thinks I’m Imran Mahmood or Alex Caan, or that angry fellow AA Dhand, or, God forbid, that idiot Vaseem Khan. I mean, come on white people, how difficult is it really? It’s not like we look anything alike. For one thing, my mum says I’m more handsome than any of them.

 

I just realised. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Lee Child. OH MY WORD, LEE CHILD IS STILL STANDING BEHIND ME IN THIS QUEUE!!! You’d think they’d have a separate queue for writers like him. A VIP queue, for Lee Child and Ian Rankin and Val McDermid, with a red carpet and one of those velour ropes. But they’re all too nice. Too down to earth. Even if there was a special queue, they probably wouldn’t use it. I tell you, I wouldn’t be standing in this queue if I had their sales. I’d probably insist on kerb-side check-in. Do it from the comfort of my chauffeur driven limousine. And I wouldn’t turn up at any festival unless they guaranteed they’d taken ALL of the blue M&M’s out of the complimentary packet in my room (the Presidential Suite or nearest equivalent, please) because blue M&Ms are unnatural and an abomination.

 

The newbie has checked in. They’ve given him his tote bag and he’s…oh, he’s going through it right there, like a kid and his stocking on Christmas morning. He’s already found his name tag. And now he’s taking out the complimentary book. Looks like he got that new one by Vaseem Khan. He’s turning round, holding it up and smiling at me. I smile back.

 

Ba£$%%rd. Utter, utter ba£$%%rd.

 

My throat is rasping. I need a drink. But I still need to check in. It’s my turn though, so I step suavely up to the desk.

 

‘Mukherjee,’ I say. The chap behind the desk looks at me as if I’ve just sneezed. ‘Mukherjee,’ I repeat. ‘M-U-K,’

‘Oh,’ he smiles as the penny drops. ‘Could you spell that?’

Wasn’t that what I was just doing? I want to murder him. But if I murdered every receptionist who asked me to re-spell Mukherjee the British hotel industry would have a recruitment problem that would make Brexit look like a picnic and I’d get the death penalty. So I don’t murder him. Instead I give him a smile, but I make sure it’s a frosty one. God, I hate myself sometimes.

He’s checking the computer screen. His face crumples into consternation, then looks back at me as if it’s my fault. ‘I can’t find any Mucky-gee.’

‘Try Abir,’ I say. ‘It’s my first name.’

‘A beer?’

‘Abir.’

‘AAbreer?’

‘Abir.’

‘Ah, here we are. AA Dhand.’

‘No,’ I say with a smile, but I’m dying a little inside. I spell it for him. ‘A-B-I-R.’

‘Found it!’ he says, as though he’s exceeded his own expectations. He prints off a form and passes it across. ‘Please sign it.’

It reads Ms. Abir Muckergee. 

I sigh and sign it, and smile. But the little things add up: the mis-spellings, the mispronunciations and the mistaken identities. Others have it far worse, but it’s still death by a thousand slights.

 

I look on the bright side. At least I have a room. I remember the festival I turned up to, at that place in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place where if they see a brown face they normally call the police. It would probably have been ok if they hadn’t also invited that buffoon, Vaseem Khan, but the idea of having two brown people there at the same time must have confused someone, because the hotel only had a reservation for Vaseem Mukherjee. We were forced to share a room, like a British comedy duo for the seventies, or a brown Bing Crosby and Bobe Hope in the Road to Nowhere. (I was Crosby).

 

I make my way to my room and place the stupid plastic card in the door and pull it back out. A red light goes on.

‘Hell.’ 

I try again. Same result. The red lights, I feel, are mocking me.

Why can’t they just have keys? What’s wrong with good old fashioned keys? If it’s good enough for your house, why’s it not good enough for a hotel room?

I try one more time, holding my breath and trying not to jiggle the card, but it’s no use. The thing is buggered. Maybe the guy at reception programmed it for the wrong room? Or have I held it too close to my credit card and demagnetised it? It’s probably the latter. 

Well, enough of this. I decide to leave my bag at reception and head down to the bar.

 

It’s just gone noon, but the bar is already packed - like Glasgow on a Friday night – or any night for that matter. I fight my way to the bar and order myself a whisky. Don’t judge me – it’s medicinal. I take out my credit card and hand it over. A minute later, the bar lady hands it back.

‘I’m afraid it’s not working.’

‘What?’

‘Your card,’ she smiles. ‘It’s not going through.’

OH GOD HAVE I DEMAGNETISED MY CREDIT CARD TOO?

I ask her to try it again, but I have this sinking feeling. 

‘Nope,’ she says. ‘Still not working.’ I think she’s looking at me as though I’m some sort of serial fraudster. I wouldn’t blame her. Most authors are. But not me!

I have to think quick. I’ve got no cash and I’m here for the next three days. I could try to charge it to my room, but I can’t remember the number and anyway, I can’t even get in the door. I scan the room, looking for a friendly face, and then I see him, my saviour. That wonderful, beautiful Vaseem Khan, sitting in the corner by himself, nursing his glass of milk.

I wave and give him a smile. ‘Mate!’ I shout. ‘You couldn’t help me out, could you?’

The ridiculously talented Vaseem Khan scowling at me

We’ll Meet Again... from James W. Ziskin

It’s your first writer’s conference after the Covid-19 crisis has been contained – what are the first three things you do after checking in to the hotel?

1. Go to my room.

2. Unpack.

3. Change clothes.

Now that the fascinating stuff is out of the way... 

If it’s not too late, I’ll go downstairs to to pick up my badge. Then I’ll stop by the bar. Just for a while. No more than several hours, really. Five or six. Maybe seven. Certainly not past closing time. Come on, I’m not desperate. Plus I always have my king-size flask with me.

Don’t get me wrong. The hotel bar is more than a watering hole. It’s the best place to meet and greet at a writers conference. I find it’s infinitely preferable to cornering fellow scribblers for a chat in the men’s room. And there are no drink minimums in the bar. That means teetotalers are as welcome as the revelers with lampshades on their heads.

 

Since there are always so many dear friends in the bar—readers and writers alike—I like to mingle. Make the rounds and chat with as many people as I can. At the last conference I attended, however, I ended up parking myself at a table with the lovely Ann Mason. I do not exaggerate when I say that a seat at our table became the hottest ticket in the place that night. Thanks to Ann, not me. Writer after writer passed by, stopped to introduce themselves or catch up, then pulled up a chair and ended up staying. It was a great time.

I’ll probably stay up a later than I should, but I have one hard-and-fast rule: always answer the bell in the morning. I go to these conferences to listen and learn, so I’m not going to sleep in. The socializing is great, but it’s gravy, not the main course. I love attending the panels, and often have to make difficult choices. You can’t be in two places at once, after all. That’s why I plan ahead, circling the panels in the program that look especially interesting to me so I won’t miss them. Sometimes I have to duck out of one session to catch part of another. Whenever possible, I sit near the front of the room to see better. Often I like to ask a question of the panel. A real question, not a long-winded pontification or a plug for my own writing.

I’m not big on eating at conferences, at least not during the day. I often skip lunch. Coffee, sure, but little else. Until the sun goes down, or the last panel ends. Then I’m back in my office (the bar) until—if I’m lucky—someone takes pity on me and suggests dinner.

The book room is one of my usual haunts. I usually buy books at conferences and get them signed by the authors.

Not all conferences host a banquet, but if there is one, I like to go. A last chance to meet good friends. 

Sunday morning is the saddest day at a conference. So many people leave early. But even if you stay till the bitter end, you still have to pack and get out of the hotel. Until next time.

I love writers conferences. Bouchercon, Left Coast, Malice, California Crime Writers, Thrillerfest, et al. I hope to test the waters at others, too, in the future. When things get back to normal. And then maybe we’ll raise a glass and sing, “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when...”