Jeffrey Cohen

Shut up and go away.

Now. Moving along to more important matters:

Yesterday, my wife and I attended a birthday party for her cousin (once removed, and please explain that one to me, because I never got the whole “removed” thing), who turned 100 years old last week. He looked great, by the way, and enjoyed his party immensely, from all outward signals.

It got me to thinking about how different things are now than they were in 1906. Obviously, there have been enormous technological advances, although humans have evolved at a much slower rate. As Will Rogers once said, “you can’t say civilization don’t advance, however, for in every war they kill you in a new way.”

Has there been advancement in mystery novels? I don’t know. We don’t really kill our fictional victims in that many new ways. Guns, knives, poisons, the usual blunt implements. But that leads to a question that I think is central to writing a mystery novel:

Does it matter how the victim dies?

Many mystery writers spend a tremendous amount of energy figuring out exotic ways to off the hapless sap whose demise sets the plot in motion. They come up with poisons found only in the deepest regions of Zambia, knives made from the tusks of African elephants, but only female African elephants, guns that fire bullets made of ice, so that they’ll melt after use (I just thought that one up) or being hit over the head with the tire iron that was only made to fit in the trunk of a 1965 Karmann Ghia.

Are there really people out there saying, “I’ve got to buy that one! They kill the guy off with a frappaccino machine!”?

I’ve always contended (“always” being a relative term: I wasn’t born yelling this) that character is more important than plot details. I’ve gotten myself some really disgusted looks from mystery fans by saying that I’m more interested in characters and, in my case, jokes than in whether the plot always makes 100% sense. People get downright hostile about timelines in my novels that don’t add up, but they almost never say my characters are cardboard figures, or that my dialogue sounds like it belongs in a fourth grade pageant on Our Friends The Trees.

Now, I’m as concerned about telling a tight, interesting story as the next guy. Probably more, if the next guy is a supermarket manager or a house painter. But to me, character is the essential element of any story, mystery or not. You can write an amazing story in which the victim is done in through some intricate, exotic, shocking method I’d never dream of in decades of wracking my brain, but if the characters aren’t interesting, three-dimensional people, I’m probably not going to care.

I read series books less because I must see what crazy plot the author has dreamed up and more because I’ve been fascinated by the characters in the past and want to see how they’ll react to what’s going on in this book. Mystery fans will debate endlessly whether Stephanie Plum should end up with Joe Morelli or with Ranger, but ask them in which book the guy in the bunny suit was stalking our heroine, and they’ll be less likely to give you the title. I always read Robert B. Parker’s series to see whether Spenser is going to reveal more about himself, whether his core principles will be tested, and whether Susan Silverman is going to be less annoying than usual. I check in to get more of Hawk or Paul Giacomin, not to find out whodunnit. I’d have a hard time telling you the plot of any of the last six novels in the series, but I’ll keep coming back for more.

Edmund Wilson once very famously asked in print, “Who cares who killed Roger Ackroyd?” by way of putting mystery novels in the place of cheap, generic (in the worst definition of the word) fiction with disposable characters who did nothing but serve the plot and weren’t interesting on their own merits. Sure, that’s what happens in badly written mysteries, but it’s not endemic to the genre as a whole. Characters can be fascinating, fully living individuals who would carry a story in which nobody meets an unfortunate end, and still function in a high-concept mystery. It can be done, and it often is, if you’re looking in the right place.

Of course, actually doing that, and doing it well, is a talent that can take a long time to develop. But when one has just come back from wishing a sharp, spry gentleman a happy second century, it doesn’t seem impossible.

A little knowledge is said to be a dangerous thing, but what about too much knowledge?  If you’re unsure, just pull up a chair next to a Star Wars geek and ask, “So, Tie-fighter or X-wing fighter—which is better in a dogfight?”

This is the tricky thing about realism.  Readers today are sophisticated.  They won’t take things at face value anymore.  You need to be pretty sure of your facts before you commit them to paper, so being an expert can have a lot of advantages.  If you’re an oncologist, who’s going to fault you on cancer treatments?  If you’re a cop, who’s going to pick holes in your investigation techniques?

That’s the upside.  What about the down?

As an expert, it’s easy to wax lyrical about your specialist subject and fill page after page with detail that only an expert would know.  This makes you sound like an authority on the fictional and factual matters at hand, but God, are you dull.  Suddenly, you’ve turned an exciting novel into a textbook (are you taking note, Tom Clancy?).

Sometimes it’s good to be an outsider to a subject.  You can rationally decide what is relevant and what isn’t.  When you’re an expert, it’s not always easy to remain objective and you have to walk a fine line.  It doesn’t matter whether you’re a nuclear physicist, a cop, a pathologist or even a seamstress.  Give us insight, not a lecture.

Simon Wood

Deni Dietz

I have lots to say about Bouchercon, and cons in general, but I’ll shelve it for a couple of weeks, or until my Bouchercon photos are developed and scanned – whichever comes first 🙂

Meanwhile, I read the following in the Peninsula News Review, a local paper. I immediately contacted the author, MICHAEL CULLEN — his email addy is news@peninsulanewsreview.com — and he graciously gave me permission to "cull" his article and run it on Kibbles & Bits. So, without further ado, I give you:

BLENDING REALITY: Buttercup and the Salem witch hunts

William Goldman’s The Princess Bride has become the benchmark for the classic fantasy romance. What started out as a skillful parody of the faraway story of swashbuckling "twoo wuv" has set itself as the best "romance" fiction ever.

One of the marvelous things about The Princess Bride is the simple manner in which a complete fantasy romance is created. We willingly suspend disbelief and allow people who die to return from the dead, we allow "true love" to flourish without concerns, we allow illogical logic to fall logically, we allow "Cliffs of Insanity" and R.O.U.S. (Rodents of Unusual Size) to become antagonists. And all the while, a prince named Humperdinck, a princess named Buttercup, a rumoured pirate named "Dread Pirate Roberts" and even a horse named "Horse" propel us simply through a world that only exists if we wish it to. And if we have to wish upon a star, or escape once on a special vehicle called "upon a time," well, we touch our noses with our magic dust and our own very special magic finger and go for it.

It makes us happy as we imagine the landscapes of Guilder and Florin. It makes us happy as we follow the escapades of Inigo Montoya as he hunts for the six-fingered man (Count Rugen) who killed his father. We thrill when the battle between the two men plays itself out and Inigo repeats the famous phrase, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

And we nod, yes, when Westley and Buttercup are finally reunited at the castle, jump on white horses and ride off into the "sunset." True love ends "happily ever after."

I guess that’s the dramatic irony for the audience, though. It’s more like "dreamatic." Dramatic irony, as you know, occurs when the audience or reader knows more than the speaker or a situation in a play or a text. The audience knows that Florin and Guilder are not actually city-states; they know that Miracle Max cannot bring Westley back to life; they know that Inigo Montoya should die from the sword wounds inflicted by Count Tyrone Rugen; they know that nothing they are watching or reading "actually" exists. The fantasy romance is in a place called "faraway", just like "Never-Never Land" and witches on the "yellow brick road." We all know that. It’s OK, though, cause that’s the way it is. Or that’s the way it isn’t.

This could raise a problem or two.

One of the concerns, however, happens when a text that’s imaginary gets "actualized." In this way, the metaphor of the story — the figures of speech and the similes, the things that are imagined, and all that stuff — get taken seriously. Whenever that happens, all hell breaks loose.

William Blake, or one of his friends, noted that whenever a metaphor (an "imaginary") actualizes itself, it becomes a monster. The French Revolution is, historically, a perfect example. The Salem witch hunts are another.

Women (characters who are real) were charged with being witches (characters who are not real). The imaginary witches were hanged or burned at  the stake. The whole metaphor of a "witch" was taken as an actual. The result was that a lot of horrible deaths happened in Massachusetts. If the witch hunts had been played out a little later, and in Kansas, the Good Witch of the South and the Wicked Witch of the North would both be piles of carbon.

And Dorothy would have been charged as an accessory.

So when we read The Princess Bride, or watch the movie, we fulfill our expectations of the fantasy. But we don’t go on a quest to find the awful Prince Humperdinck so that we can make his life (which is already "to the pain") more painful. We don’t actualize the metaphor. We don’t impose any of the characters or any of the story to the laws of physics and gravity. If we did, we would create monsters. And we would become monsters.

In some spaces we become incapable of distinguishing between the realm of the fantastical and the realm of the actual. Both are valid arenas, but one is a metaphor and one is a "reasonable."

The world of metaphor, like The Princess Bride, is intended to soothe and to comfort and to suspend time and disbelief. It is not intended to inspire hate, loathing and the nasties. William Goldman’s fantasy is probably on the shelf of those who aspire to impose their will through power, but it should not be referred to and quoted as an excuse to do anything that smacks. It’s supposed to make "twoo luv" an article of faith and "I love you" as easy as a song to say.

Which brings us to Eye of Newt, which is MY world of metaphor. Salem Village, of course, did exist. My three "witches" — Anne, Chastity and Mercy — did not. Furthermore, my readers are free to suspend disbelief and accept that my witch-spells really work. Only two were used to bring other humans "to the pain," and both were uttered at despicable characters.

Of course, that’s no excuse for inflicting pain. Except, without it, I wouldn’t have "conflict" or a plot or a mystery novel.

And that’s what Eye of Newt is — a novel. Salem witches don’t really "reincarnate" to the 21st-Century as cats, dogs and parrots.

Not unless we want them to.

Not unless, as Michael Cullen so aptly put it, we touch our noses with our magic dust and our very special magic finger and go for it.

As you wish,
Deni, who believes that "twoo luv" really exists and that war and violence and all things nasty should come from the realm of the "reasonable." Who also believes that we should never allow a metaphor to become a reason … or an excuse for anything violent and harsh that we do.

by Pari Noskin Taichert

We all know that reading can change us. A fine book can illuminate a dark corner of the heart, spur us to action, or open us to ideas hitherto ignored.

Does writing change the writer?

Nonfiction has always been easy and enjoyable for me. I love to interview and do the research. Stirring up the assimilated material until a perfect lede bubbles to the top is a delight.

Plus, I get paid to learn.

Earlier this week, I tromped around a scruffy acre of organic farmland. It stood as an oasis of wildlife in the middle of a semi-rural neighborhood. With pen in hand, I scribbled notes and followed a young man who has spent the last three years trying to make a living with the crops he grows in this small space.

The interview was for a column called, "Food for thought," a regular feature in a monthly publication distributed in Albuquerque and Santa Fe. This is the second time I’ve written the column. Last month’s topic was New Mexico’s apple industry and its relationship to the rest of the world.

In accepting these assignments, I didn’t anticipate the effect they would have on my world view. Suddenly, I’m beginning to think about where and how people get their food, about the cost of that "organic" tomato from Chile, or how many of our tax dollars (and dubious labor practices) subsidize a cheap potato.

If my nonfiction writing affected me this way, was it possible that my fiction did too?

Sure, on a professional level, I’ve changed. I’m more adept at editing myself, more disciplined about writing. I think about story arcs, plotting, finding just the right words.

I’ve abandoned the romance of inspiration. Faced with zero ideas, I’ll now force myself through hours of slogging to get a good sentence or two.

But this is probably true of any nonfiction author with more than one book under her belt.

Is there anything special about fiction that can change a writer — in a different way?

I think, for me, the answer is "yes."

I’ve been forced to stick with characters and people I don’t like far longer than in a short story. I’ve had to commit. Writing book-length fiction has taught me to fantasize with purpose, to push through dilettantism.

Above my computer now hangs a quotation from Shunryu Suzuki: "You try and you try and you fail, and then you go deeper."

Yep, that’s me.

The biggest change I’ve noticed is, somehow, I’ve developed a philosophy. This wasn’t intentional. It simply happened.

Years ago, an acquaintance of mine who writes literary fiction told me she writes to change the world. Frankly, I thought that was audacious.

Then, I felt guilty because all I really wanted to do was entertain. Where was the nobility in that?

Now, after finishing my third saleable manuscript (it’s my fifth completed one), I still want to entertain. But, I also want to do more.

To use the word mission sounds a bit too heavy-handed, off-putting, bang-the-reader-over-the head. However, I’ve realized lately that I do have underlying goals that have evolved specifically because of my fiction.

Here’s what I’ve added to that initial objective.

I want to
1. introduce my New Mexico to readers.
2. dispel stereotypes about NM.
3. explore important themes in such a way that those that want to find them, can. And those who don’t want to see them, don’t have to. (CLOVIS = family dysfunction/bad communication    BELEN = religiosity vs. spirituality     SOCORRO = the reality of how we relate to each other since 9/11).
4. um . . . to change the world.

I didn’t know I wanted to do any of these things when I originally started writing novels. All I knew then was that I liked Sasha and wanted to see where she’d go. I prayed that readers would enjoy her and want to take the journey, too.

It amazes me that in the process of telling her stories I’ve begun to realize there’s so much more to mine.

Jeffrey Cohen

In my first novel, Aaron Tucker–my doppleganger of a hero, who has my job, my height (or lack thereof), my geographical location and an approximation of my family–sits down for a late-night snack with his wife one night, and he has a bowl of cereal.

For some reason, people seem to think that’s strange. I’ve gotten comments from readers who think cereal is something that is only meant to be eaten in the morning (“they call it breakfast cereal, don’t they?”), and at no other time. I find that odd, personally. There is nothing better to eat at night than a good bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. If you read the numbers the right way, it can even lower your cholesterol. They tell me.

The trick, really, is to choose the proper cereal to eat at night. Anything with tons of fiber–that is, anything with the word “bran” in the name–is a risky choice. Go ahead if you must, but don’t blame me if you don’t sleep through the night.

On the other hand, a snack is meant to be frivolous. The inventor of the late-night snack, whom some people assume to be Dagwood Bumstead, but they’re wrong, had a few simple rules in mind:

1. This must not be something that can be classified as “real food.” Having a T-bone steak is a meal, and I don’t care if you’ve already eaten eight times today. Sure, things with meat in them are snacks, as long as you happen to be a German Shepherd. And by that, I do not mean a man from Munich who herds sheep. So watch yourself.

2. A late-night snack has to be something that can be eaten while watching television. It doesn’t matter if you’re planning on watching television or not on any given night, the snack has to be adaptable to that possibility. Just in case you suddenly decide to clean out your TiVo “Now Playing” list, or check out Turner Classic Movies’ revival of the Dick Cavett interview with… well, what does it matter who he’s interviewing, it’s all going to be about Dick anyway. So you have to have a snack that’s portable. This lets out those who might decide to eat an entire lobster after midnight, or anyone whose idea of a nightcap is a belgian waffle. Stick with small stuff.

3. Your snack should definitely feel like a guilty pleasure. There’s no point in sitting down after dinner and having yourself a salad. Sure, you’ll feel virtuous after you’re finished, but what the heck was the point of that? If you want to feel virtuous while having a snack, eat cereal while reading the Bible. The effect is the same, and you get a satisfying crunch.

4. Anything even vying to be called a late-night snack must include sugar. Yes, too much might keep you awake–if you’re a hyperactive three-year-old–but if you’re going to sit down at night and have something savory or smoky, what the heck did you have for dinner tonight? A package of Yodels?

What possible food group could suit all these criteria? Let’s think: what’s the guiltiest pleasure in the supermarket? Where can you find boxes painted in bright primary colors that remind you of the toy store when you were a child? What, in short, makes you feel like a little kid again?

It ain’t flounder, I’ll tell you that.

Now, you know some contrary wiseguys are going to say, “wait, what about ice cream?” And they’ll do that because they’re contrary wiseguys. They already know that ice cream is going to make your stomach growl the moment you lie down, and that you’ll be up an hour later with a case of acid reflux that would light up the city of Indianapolis. They know, too, that ice cream–in particular the slow-churned Edy’s light kind–is what you should eat (in moderation, health police) immediately after dinner, to make sure your palate is anything but cleansed, and to provide the daily adult allowance of slow-churned-edness recommended by the United States Government, a body that clearly knows what’s good for you better than you do. Just ask them.

No, in order to truly regress to your inner seven-year-old, you have to take a nice leisurely walk down the cereal aisle. It is truly a place of wonder. For some reason, the only brands aimed at adults are the ones you’d never want to eat in your life, and the good stuff is marketed directly at children. Don’t let that bother you. Walk up with your head held high and grab that box of Cap’n Crunch (I prefer without Crunch Berries, but to each his own), then walk away before the principal of your child’s school comes by (but then… what’s she doing by the Cap’n Crunch, anyway? Hmmm?).

If you haven’t actually allowed yourself a trip down the aisle of childhood dreams lately, let me give you a few tips:

First, all the cereals you loved as a child are still there. Some of them are called different things because cereal companies have decided that parents (again, cereals are mistakenly assumed to be purchased strictly for the under-12 set) are going to avoid feeding their children anything enjoyable. So “Sugar Pops” have become “Corn Pops” (they taste exactly the same) and “Sugar Crisp” has become “Golden Crisp,” which makes even less sense. What kind of food is a “golden?”

Try to avoid anything that didn’t used to have marshmallows and now does. Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal of marshmallows in cereal if the cereal is any good at all. Marshmallows do add a rather interesting foam rubber-like texture, if that’s your idea of a good time. On the other hand, if you grew up a Count Chocula fan, don’t let me stop you. Everyone’s favorite marshmallow cocoa vampire is still there, waiting for some help. Frankenberry, on the other hand, seems to have gone the route of Quake, who used to hang out with Quisp. You can still occasionally find Quisp (the space alien cereal that was simply made out of sugar, as far as I can tell) on the more nostalgia-minded shelves, but he seems lonely, somehow, without his pal by his side. It’s a little sad.

Side note: they’ve taken all the sugar out of Alpha Bits. This gives the cereal the distinction of tasting like nothing. Who thought that was a good idea? Did the company really think we were buying that stuff because it looked like letters?

Long-standing favorites like Cocoa Puffs (try to find the ones without marshmallows; they’re still around) and Cocoa Krispies have been joined by cereals that have no business including chocolate, but do anyway. For a while, there were cereals that looked like glazed donuts, chocolate chip cookies, and for all I know, ice cream cones. I say, stick with the classics.

Which brings me to the easiest bet in the cereal aisle: Cheerios. There are now about six hundred varieties of Cheerios (including new “Fruity Cheerios,” a name on which I will not comment, but I guarantee you they taste exactly like Froot Loops), and you can’t go wrong with a one of them. Even the sickening sounding “Yogurt Cheerios” are good.

I’ve been told, although I can’t confirm it, that a box of Cheerios (the original variety) contains more salt than a bag of potato chips. I say, bring it on. With or without milk, in a bowl or out of the box (something you can’t do with, say, Honey Bunches of Oats, a good cereal with a really terrible name), Cheerios provide all you want from a cereal: a crunch, a strong flavor, the ability to float nicely in milk without requiring a magnetic spoon to get the last few, and the immediate desire to eat more. A perfect cereal experience.

I’m mostly a Honey Nut Cheerios fan, but any variety will do. Regular, apple cinnamon, frosted, fruity, you name it, if it’s a little tiny bagel made of oats, I’m all over it.

If you’re reading this late at night, and doing so has at all given you a craving for a certain type of food product, my work here is done. Grab a bowl, get the milk out of the fridge, select your spoon and have at it, I say.

And don’t worry what people will say about you. If they were honest with themselves, they’d be one bowl over.

This piece concludes my little mini-series on crime and punishment.  It deals with a real life experience that ended up becoming a story.

For every seventeen-year-old male in the UK, the number one purchase is a car.  It’s a rite of passage–the first step towards adulthood and independence.

I was in engineering college when I turned seventeen.  My birthday occurred late in the school year and several of my friends had already turned seventeen, passed their test and gotten cars–albeit jalopies for a couple of hundred quid.

Richard was the first of us to get his wheels, a ’72 Ford Cortina.  Instead of running for the train to get to and from college, we rode with Richard.  The convenience of car ownership was all too apparent to me, even by proxy.  The responsibility of this convenience came a few weeks later.  We’d returned back from lunch to the college parking lot.  Richard found a stall behind the science block and went to park.  He backed the car up, doing all the right things, but his skill deserted him and he reversed into the side of the Vauxhall Cavalier.  There was no mistaking the buckling of sheet steel.

We all froze and waited for Richard’s reaction.  Panic spread across his face.  He had just kissed goodbye any possibility of a no claims insurance bonus.

“Do you think anyone saw?” he asked us.

The parking stalls were pretty secluded from the main parking lot. We looked around and saw no one.

“We’re going.  Cool?”

We didn’t reply, just nodded.  Richard burnt rubber and parked on the street a couple of blocks from the college.  We walked back to our afternoon classes.  Richard told us we weren’t to talk about this.  He was stern, but I noticed his hands were shaking.  He knew the crime he’d committed and the one we were accomplices to.

I was beginning to think we’d gotten away with it by mid-afternoon, until the cops interrupted second period.  Two officers walked in with one of the college lecturers and some kid I didn’t know.  One of the cops asked for Richard by name, but not the rest of us. 

My heart was pounding, so I couldn’t imagine what Richard’s was doing.  Unlike most college kids, we had more to lose than the rest.  We were employed by an array of big name companies underwriting our college education and paying us a salary.

Richard came back thirty minutes later, looking sheepish.  We were forced to wait until break to find out what had gone down with the police.  We’d thought our crime had gone undetected but we were wrong.  One of the other lecturers had witnessed the fender bender from the classroom.  The lecturer not only knew us, but he knew the name of the second year student who owned the Cavalier.  Giving the cops their due, they were pretty cool about it all, all things considered.  They weren’t pressing any charges as long as Richard paid for the damage.  They would be checking in with all parties to make sure amends were made.   

Richard made good on his error and the event never made it back to our respective employers or parents.  We all learnt our lesson.  It was a stupid thing to do and we were damn lucky to have gotten away with it.

About a year later, a form of retribution came knocking.  Kevin (who’d been in the car with us) came back from lunch to find a broken headlight and a note under his windshield wiper.  The note said: People think I’m leaving you my name and address.  I’m not.

No one had witnessed the incident and Kevin was left to carry the expenses.

These two incidents have always stuck with me.  It’s one of those situations where I’d been on both sides of the equation, even if it was by proxy.  So when it came to writing my crime story collection, Working Stiffs, and the publisher asked for a signature story that would set the tone for the collection, my thoughts fell upon these two incidents and The Fall Guy was born.  In the short novel, the down on his luck protagonist, Todd Collins, backs into a Porsche and leaves a note not dissimilar to the one Kevin found under his windshield.  This sets in motion a series of calamities, which winds up with Todd being indebted to organized crime and spending the rest of the story trying to get the monkey off his back.

I don’t know if I wrote the story as a penance or a warning to others, but it may have something to do with a theme that occurs in many of my stories.  A crime, even a little one, can’t remain covered up for long.  I learned that when I was seventeen.

Simon Wood
PS: A big hello to everyone I met at Bouchercon last weekend.  I hope you had fun.