The Orphan Scrivener: 2005

Thursday, December 15, 2005

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER - ISSUE # THIRTY-SIX -- l5 DECEMBER 2005

Although we're not yet officially in bleak midwinter, frosty winds have certainly been making moan across our first significant fall of snow. Yes, the landscape here and in wide swathes of the country now features much frolic architecture, as Ralph Waldo Emerson characterized the effect of those frozen flakes. We have a good example right outside the front door, where our buggy sits snugly encased, the white mound on its roof topped with a wind-driven twig of spruce, putting us in mind of an enormous (if misshapen) Christmas pudding.

We're all familiar with that eerie hush snow carries in the fold of its bleached-out mantle. Today, however, will be less quiet, for a chorus of dismay will soon begin to arise hither and yon as this issue of Orphan Scrivener hits the aether and -- akin to unsuspecting pedestrians slipping on those patches of pathway certain gamins assiduously doused with water in the winters of our misspent youth -- slides in its unbalanced way willy nilly into your email box.

ERIC'S BIT or BETWEEN A TURKEY AND A HARD PLACE

We're right smack in the middle of the holidays, halfway between the turkey platter descending onto the table and that big ball crashing down on Times Square, fortunately a long way from us.

Once upon a time I'd be choking down the last turkey-salad sandwich while wrapping the first Christmas presents. Yes, I was lucky I didn't die of "waste not, want not", otherwise known, in the case of three-week old chopped fowl and mayo, as ptomaine poisoning. At least it belatedly gave me things to be thankful about. Not only my survival, but the last sight of gobbler for another year.

These days Mary and I are vegetarians and say whatever else you want about them, wheat gluten and soy protein "chicken" slices don't fill up the fridge with life threatening leftovers.

Admittedly, I have a jaundiced view of the whole Christmas season. The tasteful lights my Dad used to string around the house matched my perception. Not that they were yellow. The lights were blue. But you get my drift. I only wish you could've come and got the snow drifts those blue lights illuminated.

That's right. I'm not a big fan of snow either.

Isn't there anything I like about the holidays, you might be asking, unless you've already thrown this essay across the room in disgust? (Or should I say turned off the monitor. Surely you wouldn't throw the monitor?) Of course. Lots of things. Well, some things.

For example, at a young age I was enthralled by an Advent calendar. I could hardly wait for each day's installment. There was something wonderful and mysterious about a story hidden behind doors. I admit, part of the thrill was all that stuff about shepherds watching their flocks and wise men and mangers ended up with Santa arriving.

Not that that ever worked out exactly the way I imagined. One year the grocery store was selling toys for some reason. Way up above the meats, where you couldn't examine it closely, they had a Cape Canaveral set. From my vantage point just south of the pork chops, it was a wonder -- moveable gantries and launch pads and rockets of all varieties, trucks for hauling liquid oxygen (with moveable hoses and probably the tanks actually held water), a control tower (and I'll bet it had batteries and lights and went *LIFTOFF!*), technicians and astronauts, seagulls to scatter as the rockets thundered into the sky. Well, I think there were seagulls.

My young heart's desire -- a space program in a box.

Unfortunately the Santa who serviced my house cut the NASA budget that year.

That's what I hate most about Christmas. No Santa. I don't like holidays that lie to me. It makes me angry.

And that reminds me of the fruitcakes everyone mocks. You know the jokes, how they're best used for doorstops and no one eats them and they put them away to give to someone else next year? What I hate is hearing those jokes.

Fruitcakes are one of the few things I like about Christmas!

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

This month the BSP Ticker is stuffed as full as the festive turkey, so please help yourself!

MINING GOLD or A PAIR OF PICKS

Six For Gold is now published and doubtless lurking on a store shelf not far from you. We are happy to say it has been kindly received. Indeed, John's latest adventure was Jeff Kingston Pierce's Pick of the Week for the week of 28 November 2005 over at January Magazine http://www.januarymagazine.com/crfiction/piercepicks.html

We were thrilled to see the company John's keeping, Jeff's previous Picks having included such luminaries as Ruth Rendell and P. D. James -- not to mention Priscilla Royal, fellow PPP scrivener, whose Tyrant of The Mind received the nod for the week of l3 December 2004.

In addition, Book Sense, which represents the independent bookstores of America, has chosen Sixfer as one of its December Notable Books.

http://www.booksense.com

All we can say is a very grateful woohoo!

HOW JOHN WAS BORN or FORGING AHEAD

Eric's been blogging for some time, but last month Mary dipped her toes into the water for the first time with a contribution to the Back Story feature on M. J. Rose's blog. Her essay addressed how John came into being and why we intend to claim the first short story about our protagonist was forged by that old gossip Procopius. For the skinny, see:

http://mjroseblog.typepad.com/backstory/2005/11/mary_reeds_back.html

ERIC'S AWARD or A SITE TO SEE

Last month Predators and Editors notified us our website had been recognized with their November Authors' Site of Excellence Award.

http://www.anotherealm.com/prededitors/peasda.htm

Sites chosen for this award are those judged to contain entertainment value rather than just advertising literary or other wares. Naturally we are thrilled, the more so since Eric, donning his hat as Apprentice Web Master, not only set it up himself but also continues to run it unaided. So conga rats to my co-scribbler.

KITTIES A-HOY or FAR-FLUNG FELINE FAME

No, we haven't been testing the proverbial no room to swing a cat by flinging one around, although hoy is a portmanteau word meaning "Hey, I want your attention!" as well as "throw" in the Geordie dialect spoken in Mary's home city of Newcastle-on-Tyne. However, resident kitty Sabrina and her departed buddy Rachel have not been left out of the general excitement at Casa Maywrite. Both appear in The Mystery Writers' Mews by Elaine Viets, http://www.elaineviets.com, author of the Dead-End Job series. Her article has just appeared in Mystery Scene Magazine Holiday Issue # 92 2005.

http://www.mysteryscenemag.com/

Our thanks on behalf of both felines for their first appearance in national print under their own names!

MARY'S BIT or FRUIT OF THE YULE

As Eric notes above, fruitcake is much mocked. Not by me, however, for whenever I see one it reminds me of my first Christmas in this country.

At the time I was living in Florida. The state's beaches may be golden, but there wasn't much silver in the bank when the festive season rolled around. Of course it was hot, making tinsel and carols and Get Your Photo Taken With Santa seem out of place in malls largely patronised by shoppers wearing shorts and sandals and no doubt as likely to be looking for more sunscreen or postcards of orange groves to send north than sweaters embroidered with monograms or boxed selections of cheese and sausage.

As mentioned, the piggy bank was somewhat lean, so when it came time to deck the hall improvisation was the mother of invention. By snipping cardboard (having first coloured it with green marker) into two zigzag-edged tree shapes and then contriving a slot running from the apex to the halfway point on one cut-out and a matching slit running up from the base to the midway mark on the other, inserting Part A into Part B, the result was a jolly 3D faux Christmas tree. Even if it was somewhat unsteady and had a tendency to fall over every time someone walked past it or the door was opened.

The little tree was festively dressed in what interior designers describe as minimalist fashion, which is to say hung with thin strips of aluminum foil and paper stars cut from seasonally printed napkins, plus several shells picked up from the beach across the road and strung on embroidery thread.

This handiwork was interrupted by a knock on the door. The unexpected visitor turned out to be the son of a friend, and he arrived bearing gifts -- several branches cut from their over-tall Christmas tree (it was apparently a case of pruning it or removing the ceiling) and a large, homemade fruitcake! Which was put into the fridge after the cardboard tree was picked up and re-erected.

Tying the fragrant branches into a bundle and settling it into an old tin filled with pebbles, the new greenery was adorned in similar fashion to its smaller companion, and the flat filled with the fresh scent of pine, so closely linked with Yuletide celebrations.

Admiration of the general effect was interrupted by another tap on the door. This time it was a neighbour with a tiny portable TV to loan for the holiday. Unasked, I may add. Having righted the cardboard tree yet again, I looked over the set. While it would have been difficult to watch a tennis match on it, for the screen was exceeding small, it provided excellent entertainment over the holiday, including not only multiple screenings of It's A Wonderful Life on every channel it pulled in but also the chance to see again, Help, an unusual choice for Yuletide programming. Of course, its transmission did begin at two in the morning. Naturally I stayed up to see it, and just hearing those broad Scouse accents was a real tonic, for I had not heard a British voice in a long time.

However, as it turned out, this was to change. For on the afternoon of the 25th, sitting on the sofa eating a slice of fruitcake and staring at a sea twinkling like white fairy lights underneath long strings of pelicans flying past on invisible roller coasters, pennies were counted and there were enough after all to be able to make brief calls to family in the UK. Those who are or have been separated from theirs by long distances will know how much that meant.

The shell ornaments are still in my possession and, years later and far from that sunny state, they are a constant reminder that simple kindness is the best gift for any season or any reason.

As for the fruitcake, it was delicious.

AND FINALLY

It's long been traditional to tell ghost stories at Christmas. One of our favourite spinners of supernatural tales is M.R. James, who among other things was Provost of King's College, Cambridge. The college has another long standing connection with the season because from the late l920s the BBC have broadcast their Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols worldwide, live from the college chapel. It goes out on Christmas Eve and for many unofficially marks the beginning of the holiday. While we can't carry a tune in a bucket, we've boldly taken a stab at a Jamesian story and it's newly online for your perusal at:

http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/thorn05.htm

It's our first attempt at this type of yarn, so in the spirit of the festivities, be kind!

We're fast approaching the gate of the year and when we lift its sneb to pass through into 2006, the creaking of wicket hinges will be masked by a cacophony of ships' hooters, car horns, numerous renditions of the chorus of Auld Lang Syne, peals of bells, firecrackers, and all manner of noisemakers announcing and welcoming the arrival of the new year.

May the coming twelve months bring many good things for our subscribers. We can't really claim the next issue of Orphan Scrivener will be one of them, but either way it'll be emailed on l5th February. See you then!

Best wishes
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a list of author freebies, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

Saturday, October 15, 2005

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER - ISSUE # THIRTY-FIVE - l5 OCTOBER 2005

The dog days of summer were yelping in overheated packs across an increasingly arid landscape when our previous issue flitted to your cyber doorstep. As this edition goes to press, however, here on the east coast the hitherto pleasant autumn weather has begun (in Charles Dickens' immortal phrase) to go to the demnition bow-wows.

Despite much rain and wind, most of the deciduous foliage is still doggedly hanging on to its twigs. Richard Le Gallienne termed this season the third act in the eternal play, describing fall's reappearance as emblazoned on trees in Chinese yellow. Many find contemplating the slow, stately spread of splashes of autumnal gold and scarlet across a menacing background of sinister, dark pines to be curiously calming. It's a pity the serenity of such subscribers must be disturbed by the arrival of this latest Orphan Scrivener, but such, alas, is how the chips fall.

MARY'S BIT or LEAPS, FOOT, AND LEAVES

That common autumn sight of leaves falling or gusting past the window puts me in mind of my sole public appearance as an interpretive dancer.

It was during the time I attended grammar school, the British equivalent of the American high school, and it all began because dancing lessons were on the curriculum. Unlike the US today, we were not permitted to choose what subjects we would study and so a class always took the same lessons together.

Naturally, all my classmates suffered from the usual teen self-consciousness, but my angst was exacerbated by being the tallest. Since the student body was all female, my height meant when learning various popular dances I always had to lead my partner. This choreographic role reversal ingrained itself to such an extent that in later years any male daring to attempt to hoof through, say, a valeta with me as his partner found himself in an ambulatory wrestling match set to music because each of us automatically tried to steer the other.

If I say so myself, I'm still not too shabby at Stripping the Willow or whooping my way through the Gay Gordons, but I never quite got the hang of the genteel waltz. I finally wrassled it into submission by dancing it as a slower version of the robust polka, a particular favourite because its faster execution masked any multitude of missteps. Overall, however, while John Dryden ventured the opinion that dancing was poetry of the foot, for me it was mostly a case of putting my foot in it -- and I don't mean while doing the hokey cokey.

The lessons I most dreaded were those devoted to the interpretative dance, which I viewed in the same light as algebra and lab science, that is to say as not likely to be needed after I left school. Which shows how much I knew, since algebra has proved useful when dividing pizzas or apple pies into equal portions, and if I am ever called upon to scientifically demonstrate the effects of creating a vacuum give me a miniature petrol tin and a hoover and I could probably oblige. Just remember when the tin collapses in on itself there will be a loud noise.

In my mind's eye I see again the waxed wooden floor and narrow windows of the echoing hall where morning assemblies were held and dance instruction took place. Memory's ear remembers our teacher calling on groups of three or four to traverse the length of this hall in a fashion conveying the death throes of a swan. It's fair to say my effort, valiant attempt though it was, would best be described as depicting a windmill in full sail in the grip of a force ten gale. The high ceilinged space seemed to take much longer to cover than usual, as if its narrow oak planks had turned into a wooden conveyor belt running backward, and the mournful gramophone accompaniment to our expiring avians seemed somehow...mocking.

But worse was in store.

Not long afterwards, the school's annual parents' day began to hove into view, and my class was informed it was to perform as part of the entertainment. To my horror, our contribution to the jamboree would be...an interpretative dance depicting the arrival of autumn and the fate of falling foliage.

While this now conjures up visions of Millais' beautiful if melancholy Autumn Leaves, unlike the somber young ladies in the painting, most of the class was kitted out in above the knee tunics dyed various shades of russet or mahogany. One or two were dressed in yellow or dark red, while four girls in blue represented the fierce autumn winds which would make us leaves flutter down from our twigs and then blow around on the ground. Finally, two girls in ordinary garb were to appear, sweep the leaves into a pile, and mime setting the resulting heap afire, whereupon we'd all be burnt to a crisp.

Ladies and gentlemen, I say let Lord Byron write all he wants about dancing on in unconfin'd joy. He never cavorted barefoot across the gritty asphalt surface of an outdoor tennis court on a cold, windy day or twirled around in skimpy attire under an overcast sky from which fell occasional drops of rain. Or if he did, he never let on.

To make matters worse, our falling-drifting-burning cues were difficult to hear, between heavy passing traffic, noise from the river across the road at the foot of the hill, and the dissipation of notes in the open air, even though the music was played fortissimo on an upright piano parked on the sideline. The instrument loomed large in the assembly hall, but looked small and forlorn outside, as if it needed a pint glass or two making rings on its varnished lid to cheer it up a wee bit.

Thus that particular year the appearance of autumn was heralded by chords and glissandos. Scads of pinch-faced leaves fluttered here and drifted there on callous winds sweeping in from all directions while puffing mightily and scooping air in grand, sweeping gestures. Brown Leaf Reed, that rebellious scrap of vegetation, gamely leapt and clockworked up and down the court's base line to her own beat, all flailing arms and goospimples, until finally captured by the breezy quartet and swept to the heap of her classmates. There she subtly conveyed her opinion about the entire proceedings by being among the last leaves to perish in the ensuing symbolic conflagration, and even went so far as to leap up for one last flare as soon as the sweepers turned their backs on the supposed pile of ashes.

Saturday night dances apart, this public performance as a disgruntled leaf was my terpsichorean swan song until my co-scribbler and I danced the Time Warp at our nuptials.

Fortunately nobody set fire to us.

Every year when the leaves start of fall I recall, as a kid, donning a costume to go trick or treating. In my part of the country the Puritans apparently got hold of the pagan ritual and all of us aliens, ghouls, princesses, and cartoon characters had to perform for our candy corn, apples, and liquorice whips. Some sang, or told a joke. I recited the poem Black and Gold, which is all about yellow candlelight and moon and black cats and inky shadows -- pretty much like sixth century Constantinople.

Those chilly Halloween evenings account for most of my public performances. That's unfortunate because these days authors need to be entertainers. It isn't enough for their books to entertain. No, the authors themselves must be witty or moving or inspirational, or sing or dance or pull rabbits out of hats, or so the "reasoning" seems to go according to many. Luckily not Poisoned Pen Press, since this newsletter is about as close as Mary and I care to come to public events.

What does an author's thespian abilities or personal appearance have to do with what's in his or her book? Why would a reader choose a book based on the writer's acting ability? You don't see a photo of the screenwriter on posters for a movie. It's the actors who count. The characters authors create are their actors. When you read a book it's the characters you see on screen, not the writer --- and a good thing too.

I have trod the boards, and it wasn't a pretty sight. As a grade-schooler I had not yet become self-conscious and was thrilled when my friends and I were given the chance to stage plays for the monthly assembly. Adding to the thrill was the gym where the assemblies were held boasted an honest to goodness stage, complete with heavy curtains, spotlights, and even some sheet metal backstage for sound effects.

Our most memorable production was The Mad Bomber. As head writer, I, naturally, portrayed the mad bomber. Who else could I have trusted to bring out the subtle nuances of the character? Even for me it was difficult. Try rolling your eyes, wringing your hands, and laughing diabolically for ten minutes straight. The plot was just an excuse to get to the part where the bomb went off so the stagehands could flash the lights and shake the sheet metal.

I'd guess today you won't see many grade school productions about mad bombers, but it was a hit. Kids will always roll on the floor at the sight of other kids acting like idiots.

Another production featured an alien -- me in my Halloween costume. The plot consisted of earthlings meeting the alien and fleeing in fear, somewhat like the few book signings we've done except at bookstores I wasn't wearing a big, purple papier-mâché head. I only felt as if I was.

You can see why I don't do appearances. Imagine me at Bouchercon. What could I do? Roll my eyes, wring my hands, laugh diabolically, and recite Black and Gold?

Then again, maybe it would sell books.

AND FINALLY

When Mary read Eric's contribution to this performing arts issue of the newsletter she immediately challenged him to recite Black and Gold. She hereby certifies that he did just that and with minimal hesitation, so if any subscribers should meet him, ask away...

Jane Austen thought pens other than hers should dwell on misery and guilt. As a public service, the well-mannered Orphan Scrivener always tries to avoid such topics and will continue to strive to do so on l5th December, when the next issue will arrive at your in-box. See you then!

Best wishes
Mary R and Eric

Monday, August 15, 2005

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # THIRTY-FOUR -- l5 AUGUST 2005

We sent in the corrected ARC for Six For Gold a couple of weeks ago, so the presses start rolling soon. Publication date has been moved up slightly, and Sixfer will now appear around Halloween, as if that celebration was not scary enough.

Having dealt with the in, now the out. And what is out is our second story with Herodotus as sleuth (mentioned in Eric's Bit above) now gracing bookstore shelves in The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits: Volume III (The Mammoth Book of New Historical Whodunnits in the US) ed Mike Ashley. Stories in this collection span three thousand years and we show up early in the roll call with an account of how a strange Egyptian ritual helps Herodotus solve a mysterious death.

Having cited an in and an out and told you what it's all about, we now suggest a short break while readers do the hokey-cokey. Just don't get into arguments about whether it's cokey or pokey, if you please.

MARY'S BIT or A STRANGE CASE

Reading l9th century obituaries is fascinating because of the light they shed in passing on different times and social conditions. For example, what we now regard as relatively minor childhood illnesses could and did carry off half a family, clothing catching fire was a common cause of death for both adult and child, and with little industrial regulation fatal accidents, particularly in railway shunting yards, are repeatedly recorded.

There were also, as today, less natural deaths. A month or so ago I read an obituary relating an interesting sequence of events, which had it not been a real life tragedy would make a good basis for a short mystery story.

Late in the l890s neighbours realised animals on the farm next door were neglected. Investigating, they went around the back of the house and saw a ladder next to the window of the second floor bedroom wherein slept the farm owner. The dwelling had been ransacked and the farmer was found murdered in his room, having been strangled, shot, and his head battered.

The day before, the farmer had reportedly quarrelled with his housekeeper, who left in a huff to reside elsewhere. There had also been some trouble between the farmer and the housekeeper's son, who at one time also resided in the house but was now working at a nearby location. Two days after the murder, the son was arrested and a hearing set for the beginning of the following week.

According to a war injury census taken eight years before the farmer died, he was suffering impairment to both hearing and sight as well as some paralysis as a result of military service in the Civil War. In his mid-60s at the time of his death, he was described as being a peaceful, honest person -- although with a bit of a taste for liquor.

It was established that not long before he died, the farmer had travelled to a nearby settlement where a large debt owed to him was settled in cash. It seems he foolishly exhibited this money during a visit to a saloon on his return home.

The farmer was fairly well off, and his will, made about six months before he died, left all he possessed to his brother. The obituary ended with the strange comment that this will was likely to be contested, but the reporter did not say why or by whom.

Supposing this outline formed the basis for a fictional account of a crime, its writer could certainly point out a few clues. For example, placing the ladder next to the bedroom window demonstrates some knowledge of the layout of the house, for most burglars would surely creep in downstairs. On the other hand, they might decide to enter the house in that fashion if they knew the farmer was incapacitated as described above and the downstairs windows and doors were securely bolted. This suggests someone who knew the man.

Alternatively, there is the possibility the murderer was someone who was not a personal acquaintance, but had seen his display of wealth at the saloon, followed him home, waited until he retired, and then entered the house and (going by the dreadful injuries) tried to force him to tell where he had hidden the cash. It appears he did not reveal its whereabouts since the house had been ransacked, and it seems unlikely it would be searched and the ladder only then put in place.

On the other hand, while the person responsible could hardly have arrived with a ladder, it was a fair bet one could be found on a farm. It may be the ladder was set by the window as a red herring, since the farmer would surely welcome a visit if someone he knew came calling that night and there would be no need to enter the house by the window -- or was it used as a means to *exit* the building? Was the money located and taken away? No mention is made of any being found in the ransacked house.

There is also the distinct possibility the quarrels and the departure of both the housekeeper and her son was common knowledge locally, and the way gossip travels in small settlements it's fairly certain a fair number in the area knew this elderly, semi-paralysed man who had come into a large sum of money was currently living alone.

Then there is the odd hint someone might challenge the will. According to a census taken some 50 years earlier, the brother named as sole heir was the first born child, two years older than the farmer. Was there someone with a closer relationship who could challenge his inheritance?

The murdered man's closest relatives appear to be his siblings. The farmer was the second child, and there were three younger children -- a brother and two sisters. There may have been others born after the census was taken, of course. The parents might have still been alive, but it's doubtful given by the time of the murder they would both be in their lower 90s.

Is it possible there was an unknown wife and/or child(ren)? The obituary stated that the farmer had been born on the farm and always lived there. This is not to say that a wife and family could not also have resided with him, but no mention is made of either. Even if there were such relatives and they came forward to challenge the will, it does not seem likely they would prevail if the will was correctly drawn up and witnessed. And then one might well ask what information was known to the reporter to lead him to state that such a challenge was likely? Why was the housekeeper's son arrested for the murder? What caused the quarrel with the housekeeper the day before the farmer died, and what was the nature of the trouble between him and the housekeeper's son? How many knew about the large sum of money the farmer had at the time? Could there have been other motives for the crime?

I wish I could tell you the answer to these questions, but I haven't been able to find further information or establish the end of this strange story.

Yet.

AND FINALLY

Two months hence memories of the torrid summer for 2005 will be fading as fast as its suntans and we'll be enjoying the cooler weather and glowing colours of autumn. Now, as a brazen sun rises day after day, bent on hammering the earth into submission on its iron anvil, we find some relief in thinking it will not be much longer before fall arrives, for the nights are already noticeably drawing in as another year rolls along its appointed round.

And speaking of appointed rounds, William Cowper described the postman as a whistling, light-hearted wretch bringing grief to thousands and joy to a few. The same could well be said of the electronic mail server which will bring you the next issue of Orphan Scrivener on l5th October. But never mind, you still have time to move or at least change your email address. Otherwise, we'll see you then.

Best wishes
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/ There you'll find the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a list of author freebies, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # THIRTY-THREE -- l5 JUNE 2005

June is upon us and the fresh greens of spring are beginning to be veiled with the dust of summer as the thermometer declares higher temperatures each day. It's the sort of weather where cars roll up the tarmac on their wheels, and most folk feel wrung out, crumpled, and decidedly crabby even before they start reading this latest issue of Orphan Scrivener.

Whereas Jane Austen remarked in a September l796 letter that their current hot weather was keeping her in a continually inelegant state, Thomas Hood complained in a more robust manner of parched feet and burning eyeballs, asking why then should he be joyful at the return of June? Subscribers to our newsletter will doubtless nod in sympathy, given today brings this latest eyescorching issue, hot-foot off the keyboard.

MARY'S BIT or MAYOR THE BEST MAN WIN

My abiding interests include British folk customs, and June is positively awash with them.

A particular favourite is the annual election of the Mayor of Ock Street, in Abingdon, Oxfordshire, on the Saturday on or before the 20th of the month. Only residents of the street can vote, and candidates for office are restricted to members of the Abingdon Morris Men, of whom the mayor becomes leader by virtue of his office.

After votes are counted, the newly elected mayor is chaired by the morris men from pub to pub down the street. The procession is led by a man bearing the pole on which a magnificent pair of ox horns are mounted, while the mayor holds a sword and goblet as symbols of his office. As well as the Abingdon dancers, other morris "sides" perform during the day to add to the celebrationary atmosphere.

The custom grew up, so it is said, as the consequence of a dispute at an ox roast in l700. According to the story, a fight broke out between those living in Ock Street and a another bunch from a different part of town. A cudgel-wielding Ock Street resident, Mr Hemmings, took possession of the horns and carried them off in triumph. Why the horns were such desirable items I have yet to discover, but in any event these trophies of war were mounted on a wooden mask of a bull and the faux bovine head attached to a pole.

Through the following generations, members of the Hemmings family not only served as mayor numerous times, but also single-handedly kept local morris dancing alive until scholarly interest in the form revived morris and it again flourished. There is a splendid photo taken about l9l0 of two of the Hemmings, one of them in mayoral regalia displaying cup and sword and holding the horns here http://www.streetswing.com/histmain/gif/morris-espernc1.jpg

The real mayor of Abingdon figures in another interesting custom, to wit, throwing buns off the roof of the old county hall. This jamboree is however spasmodic in nature, since it's usually held to celebrate royal or important national events. The practice supposedly dates back three centuries, when free loafs were distributed to the populace in l760 in celebration of the accession of George III. Whoever had the idea of throwing Hanoverian Hovis off the roof or when buns were substituted I haven't been able to establish, but buns were flung to the winds in l820 to mark the coronation of George IV, and since then have fallen manna-like to mark various royal weddings, the l00th birthday of the Queen Mother, and the gold and silver jubilee anniversaries of the accession of Elizabeth II, who was also treated to a special bun throw when she visited the town in the mid l950s. There's a collection of them in the local museum.

The event begins with a procession by the mayor and various office holders up to the roof. After the ceremonial mace bearer has led three cheers for the current sovereign, the mayor throws out the first bun and the rest follow.

However, if you are the mayor of High Wycombe, in nearby Buckinghamshire, don't eat too many buns! Each year the mayor, aldermen, and councilors are weighed -- individually of course -- in a chair attached to a tripod scale, to check to see if he or she has grown heavier at taxpayer expense, the various officials having been weighed right after taking office. The results announced by the corporation's mace bearer. Weight is stated as being so many pounds "and no more" if it's remained stable since the previous year or so many pounds "and some more" if not. The crowd responds with good-natured catcalls or cheers as the occasion warrants, unlike former occasions when offenders were likely to be showered with mouldy fruit. As with many such customs, medieval origins are claimed. It is certainly old, having been revived in the late l890s, discontinued during WWI, and reinstated in l9l7.

Since ceremonial regalia is worn during the weighing, the chains of office certainly weigh heavily on this occasion!

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

Lots of news this time around, so we'll dive right in!

FIVEFER HONOURED or APPLAUSE FROM AZ

In mid May the Arizona Book Publishing Association presented its Glyph Awards, honouring books published in 2003 and 2004. We're happy to report that Poisoned Pen Press came away with a wheelbarrow of awards and honourable mentions. To our amazement and delight, Five For Silver (John's most recently published adventure, set in plague-ridden Constantinople) galloped off with the Glyph Award for best book in a series. Thank you, ABPA!

You can see some photos of the ceremonies via the ABPA awards page: http://www.azbookpub.com/awards.html

FIRST EDITIONS or LIVING ON THE TWILIGHT EDGE

As if that wasn't enough glory, the very next day we learnt One For Sorrow was mentioned in the April issue of Rare Book Review. In an article entitled Murder, Mystery and the Medieval Sleuth, anthologist and editor Mike Ashley described John's world beautifully as "on the twilight edge of the Roman world, at the dawn of the Byzantine Empire". Naturally Onefer has yet to reach the sort of first edition prices other writers of historical mysteries command, but we are honoured to report Mike marked it as "one to watch". AUTHOR GIVEAWAYS or KEEPING A BEADY EYE ON FREEBIES Many readers are interested in freebies offered by their favourite mystery writers. Mary provided info on a fair selection of giveaways offered by such authors, including such disparate items as recipes, fridge magnets, autographed bookplates and bookmarks, pens, pencils, and Mardi Gras type beads -- not to mention newsletters -- in an article in the May issue of Gayle Trent's Writing Up A Storm newsletter. WUAS is available through Gayle's e-list, details to be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WritingUpAStorm

IN THE HOT SEAT or GRILLING A WRITER

Mary's been all over the literary landscape of late, having also been grilled by Alan J. Bishop for his Criminal History website. This wasn't because she has a rap sheet as long as her arm but because Alan's site is devoted to historical mysteries. Subjects included John's personality and how it evolved. To Learn All About It as well as other topics point your clicker to http://www.criminal-history.co.uk/page20.html

HERODOTUS RETURNS or SLEUTHING IN THE SAND

This month brought forth publication of The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits: Volume III (The Mammoth Book of New Historical Whodunnits in the US) edited by the afore mentioned Mike Ashley. Stories in this collection span three thousand years and we show up early in the roll call with The Oracle of Amun, another tale featuring Herodotus as sleuth. This time a strange Egyptian ritual helps Herodotus solve a mysterious death.

ERIC'S BIT or THE GIANT SLINGSHOT

I'm debating whether to rejoin the Mystery Writers of America.

Mary and I both joined the MWA back when we first met the professional qualifications. Later, we decided that a double membership was somewhat redundant for married writers, so we let my membership lapse, but I still carry the faded and expired MWA card in my wallet. Belonging to the MWA is pretty cool. So is having belonged...

When I was a kid I was a card-carrying member of the Horseshoe Club. That card was more colorful than the MWA's. Mystery writers could improve their MWA cards by hand coloring them with crayons, which is what we did for the Horseshoe Club. Gold and silver is an especially impressive combination. Impressive enough even for a professional author, I would think. Creating our official credentials was one of our major achievements.

It was a by-invitation-only organization. Actually by-my-invitation-only since we met in my parents' basement. My friends and I had come across a rusty old horseshoe out in the barn, which was as good an excuse as any to form a club. Kids love to organize as much as adults.

I can't recall what the club's goals were, or most of what we did. At our first meeting we drew up rules for an election, at our second we held an election. At our third we wrote a history, because by then we had a history, i.e. "At it's first meeting the Horseshoe Club drew up rules. Officers were elected at the second meeting." Then we drew up more rules and held another election, to see who would succeed me as president. (Well, remember, it was my parents' basement) This meant that the history had to be updated. We also ate chips and Cheese Curls and drank soda.

At some point we drew those membership cards. It's hard to remember everything, we had so much to do.

One subject that I recollect came up repeatedly was the Giant Slingshot of Destruction. We'd discovered in the woods a "Y" shaped piece of limb about two feet in length. It was immediately obvious that if we attached a deflated spare tire and mounted the limb in our treehouse we'd be able to fire bricks with deadly force across half the length of the lawn. An appealing notion indeed. I don't know who, exactly, we expected to be attacking our treehouse, but they wouldn't make it past the middle of the lawn.

This great weapon turned out to be more exciting to talk about than to construct.

At some point, however, we formulated a project which we actually carried out. We buried the club history and other artifacts in a time capsule (a zip-log bag) at the edge of the swamp, a half-mile up the railroad tracks, ten paces from the big stump. We did it for posterity. About eight months later, having become posterity, we dug the time capsule up.

The papers were waterlogged and the ink had smeared but the preservation committee managed to get them unfolded and dried out and encased every item in protective saran wrap, in case posterity wanted to examine the "Vote Eric - Experience Counts" campaign button or peruse our discussion of where to obtain deflated spare tires.

I kept the contents of the time capsule for many years but I'm not sure what happened to them or how the Horseshoe Club finally ended.

AND FINALLY

Horseshoes are traditionally lucky, but some folk (and we can all think of one or two) wouldn't be satisfied even if a whole row of cast off equine footwear was nailed above their front door. Thomas Hardy characterised such people as those who want butter on their luck. By August, when the next issue of Orphan Scrivener gallops into subscribers' in-boxes, we'll be in the heart of butter-melt days. Whether readers consider our next appearance good fortune or not, see you all then!

Best wishes
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/ There you'll find the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a list of author freebies, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

Friday, April 15, 2005

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # THIRTY-TWO -- l5 APRIL 2005

Spring is finally stirring as these lines are written, although we've yet to catch so much as a glimpse of Wordsworth's harbinger of the season, the pensive but venturesome snowdrop. Nor have we heard that other herald of the departure of winter, to wit, the honks of approaching geese winging it back from their southern sojourn.

Even so, we propose that, since US tax returns are due today, l5th April be renamed Goosedown Day given Jean Baptiste Colbert was of the opinion tax authorities should pluck the goose in such a way as to obtain the most feathers with the least hissing. Then too, given the nature of this annual penance, many taxpayers must feel akin to the unfortunate bird depicted on signs announcing public houses named the Goose and Gridiron.

Even if you don't care for the proposal, since Orphan Scrivener is a lot less taxing to read than the Form l040 instructions, now you've got this far you might as well take a gander at the rest of it. So read on, and hopefully this issue won't ruffle your feathers too much!

ERIC'S BIT or SALARY AND EGG SANDWICH

Yesterday I ate an egg salad sandwich and as I bit through the soft bread and crunched into the chopped celery in the egg and mayonnaise, I was transported back to a county law library in New Jersey. I worked there for 48 weeks and shortly after noon each day I sat at my desk and ate an egg salad sandwich. The first day on the job I ordered one from the cafeteria menu, and the second day as well. By the third day the lady at the counter seemed so pleased at being able to guess what I wanted the moment I came into view that I never thereafter had the heart to disappoint her.

As a kid I loved the library. I'd cart home tall stacks of picture books in the morning and return for a second stack in the afternoon. But I'd never considered being a librarian until rising tuition costs forced me to finish law school by going to night classes and finding a day job. The law library was not exactly like my home town library, although the endless rows of brown West reporters and the stolid jurisprudences contained things just as wacky as any Dr. Seus books, albeit they seemed to be from the Grinch's point of view. This particular law library was traditionally in the hands of a third year law student. It was suitable employment since it consisted mostly of sitting at the front desk, on call, studying.

I was the chief librarian and my staff consisted of myself. It had been made plain that the whole population of the county prison next door to the courthouse was at my beck and call should I need assistance in rearranging books or what-not but I was never keen to take advantage.

Because the library was only open to lawyers and district court judges (which is to say the clerks the judges sent to the library to fetch what they needed and do their research) I rarely had to explain to anyone how to use a publication and only occasionally had to locate one. My main duties were to make sure books were signed out, replace the toner in the photocopy machine, water the purple-leafed plant which served as the library mascot, refuse to purchase anything from the legal publishers' salesmen who called regularly, and avoid paying bills for materials which had already been obtained.

Although I was under orders to never purchase anything from the salesmen who showed up every week I was, from time to time, allowed to order an extra copy of a New Jersey reporter for a judge who had had one of his decisions reprinted. Even judges like to see their by-line. The only time I ever heard from the judges was around the turn of the year when a number of them called to make sure the salesmen had delivered the free legal calendars/planners on schedule.

Sometimes I fantasized about locking myself inside the library, putting the law beyond the reach of judges and lawyers, bringing the courts to a screeching halt. What I did was water my plant, and study, and put toner in the photocopy machine.

Once I did some legal research for a fellow my own age who was running for his late father's school board seat. He was fending off an attempt to move his name (familiar to the voters) from the first column on the ballot to the second. We won the case on the basis that he was already, irreparably, out of pocket $24 for campaign handouts showing the original ballot -- and he was duly elected.

When my time at the library was up, I became a legal editor instead of a lawyer. I took with me a cutting from the purple-leafed plant. Years later I would sit in my office at lunch time and contemplate my own purple-leafed plant while eating the sandwich I'd packed, usually Spam on toast. I avoided egg salad. It is only recently I have begun to eat egg salad again.

As for my purple-leafed plant, when I left the company I took it with me. Despite good care, it eventually died and thus was cut the last link on that particular chain.

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

The ticker was deathly quiet until two days before this issue was to be released upon an unsuspecting world. Then came a slew of news, so here's the skinny:

SUMMING UP or FOUR AND SIX MAKE THREE

Editions, that is.

Poisoned Pen Press will issue their trade paperback edition of Four For A Boy on lst November 2005. To refresh your memory, Fourfer is the prequel to John's adventures and relates not only how he came to set his boots on the ladder to his current high office, but also (among other things) how he first met poet about town Anatolius, the Egyptian madam Isis, and Felix, then a rank and file excubitor.

The same date sees publication of Six For Gold in hardback as well as in a large type trade paperback edition for the visually impaired. Sixfer relates John's adventures in Egypt, whence Justinian inexplicably sends him to discover why sheep in a remote village are cutting their own throats -- and this at the very time John desperately needs to clear himself of accusations he murdered a senator in the Hippodrome.

Mehenopolis, a pilgrim destination thanks to its ancient shrine to a snake deity as well as the home of the late sheep, is nearly as Byzantine in its ways and undercurrents as Constantinople. Among suspicious characters John encounters are a pretentious local landowner battling a self-styled magician for control of the lucrative shrine, an exiled heretical cleric, an itinerant bee-keeper, and a disgraced charioteer. Meanwhile, in Constantinople, John's friend Anatolius does his best to trace the senator's murderer. At stake are not only John's honor and his head, but also the family with whom he recently reunited, now in danger of being broken apart -- or worse.

MARY'S BIT or GRINDING OUT A LIVING

Perusing the colourless list of occupational codes in the 1040 instruction booklet, my attention began to wander and I started to think about jobs that were once common street sights.

Where now, I pondered, might be seen cats-meat men, organ grinders, jugglers and dancers, roving silhouette cutters or menders of umbrellas? Faded into history or at least gone indoors to ply their skill, it seems, along with most of their fellow open air tradesmen -- strolling sellers of bird cages, violets, pin cushions, broadsheets and stationery, matches, toys, and brooms, not to mention all manner of household necessaries ranging from rat poison, cigars, dolls, tea trays, ornaments and trinket boxes to combs, pipes, griddles, bootlaces, buttons, sponges, penknives, and crockery.

Peripatetic purveyors of packets of pornography containing only cut-up sheets of old newspaper -- secure in the knowledge few cheated customers would dare complain to the authorities -- no longer lurk in dark corners with a wink and a nod and a leer, having to a large degree moved online. Sweepers of crossings, pickers-over of ashes and dust heaps, and collectors of bones and offal are gone, and so are most of the mudlarks who scratched out a living from whatever they uncovered along river margins, including what remained in the pockets of the dead washed ashore. These and similar dangerous and dirty occupations have been largely taken over, if not actually destroyed, by intervention of local sanitary and public works departments.

Yet on reflection it occurred to me that a fair number of these old trades do in fact persist, albeit in modified forms. The busker loudly works a cinema queue or moves out of the rain to play in an Underground station corridor. One man bands are not completely unknown, and a friend reported seeing a girl dancing for money on a London street. Like those shifty customers who smilingly invite the unwary to spot the dried pea hidden under a particular thimble, sharp salesmen (often offering faux name brand watches as their stock in trade, another scam that is popular on the Web) linger on kerbs beside cunningly constructed suitcases-on-folding-legs, one eye alert for approaching constables and the other sizing up passersby for possible marks.

Outdoor byways everywhere host sellers of food and drink ranging from soup to nuts -- my favourite is a mobile fish and chip shop trading from a converted ice cream van, though I would not want to be aboard when taking sharp corners at a fair clip with a vat of boiling oil bubbling in the back. And of course there are hundreds of open air markets selling fruit, vegetables, antiques, old clothes, silverware, linen, china, flowers, and just about all of the commodities once hawked through the streets by footsore vendors. Even yet, the occasional rag and bone collector or sandwich man can be spied crossing the far distance, while a few Punch and Judy men continue squawking and dealing out puppet mayhem at seaside resorts and the occasional village fair.

It was a time ago, but a knife and scissor sharpener carting along his foot-driven grindstone occasionally passed down our street. However, before we obtained a steel poker-like cutlery sharpener my father always honed our carving knife on the back step so the unfortunate grinder got no custom from the Reed household. Bike-riding and beret-sporting onion sellers festooned with strings of their pungent wares are a familiar sight to this day. On the other hand, while it's been years since I heard a tinker shouting willingness to mend pots and pans as he drove his horse and cart past, there are still gypsy ladies who tap at the door now and then, selling hand-made clothes pegs or offering bunches of white heather for good luck.

If the last mentioned entrepreneurs were common in the US they'd do a fair trade in the white heather business at this time of year, seeing as large numbers of folk are about to peg out from exhaustion after wading through the dense prose of the tax booklets and then finding out, only a day or so before the l5th -- as happened to us this year -- that the IRS had omitted to send all the needed forms.

AND FINALLY

Talking about occupations brings to mind that in the last issue of Orphan Scrivener Eric set out our reasoning for presenting Cornelia and her daughter Europa as performing in recreations of the ancient art of bull leaping. We have just heard from Catfish Guru author Mark Terry that less than a fortnight after that newsletter appeared, USA Today ran a series about the ten worst jobs in sports. It included a piece about bullfighters (as rodeo clowns are now called) in which an interviewee said that occasionally bullfighters jump over the bull as part of their fun. http://www.usatoday.com/sports/tenworstjobs-3-bullfighter.htm

We rests our case, m'lud.

Friedrich Nietzsche characterised postmen as intermediaries for impolite surprises -- apparently he considered letters as unannounced visits. While we wouldn't wish to leap to hasty conclusions, this statement perhaps reveals more about the nature of his correspondence than he realised, but since it's not our intent to impolitely jump into your email in-box without due warning, let it be known the next Orphan Scrivener will be transmitted into the aether on l5th June. See you then!

Best wishes
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/ There you'll find the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a list of author freebies, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # THIRTY-ONE -- l5 FEBRUARY 2005

On a cold February day we arrive at your in-box with this latest issue, which marks five full years of publication of Orphan Scrivener.

According to that strange song Green Grow The Rushes, Oh, five represents the symbols at your door while V, the Latin numeral five, has been characterised as a hook. This being so, our hook to drag you further into this newsletter is to advise you to forget about the rivals, gospel-makers, and lily white boys that memorably throng the song. Instead, do continue reading and in return we promise not to be too noisy, just in case the symbols on your threshold are, as some claim, cymbals.

MARY'S BIT or ANOTHER SORT OF GOOD CHARACTER

The sense of an era is sometimes conveyed in subtle ways. Glancing over Herbert Fry's Royal Guide to the London Charities (l9l7) when researching for a project recently, I noticed many charities were founded in Victorian times and thus indirectly provide a snapshot of the work London society at least felt was important enough to support.

Needless to say, there were numerous benevolent societies providing financial and other aid to workers in various trades, as well as dispensaries, convalescent homes, and hospitals treating the poor. Organisations to benefit children offered food, clothing, medical aid and housing, and educated and trained them for various trades as well as assisting some to voluntarily emigrate to the far reaches of the empire. Care was provided for stray cats and dogs, while the Home of Rest for Horses (l886) recalls the huge number of working equines in the city. There were homes for the inebriated and help was available for discharged prisoners of both sexes.

As one might expect, several societies assisted fallen women. The object of the Battersea Mission House (l880) was saving "young women in perilous circumstances, and to receive the fallen, especially first maternity cases", while the London Female Guardian Society (l807) provided "an asylum for the rescue, reclamation, and protection of betrayed and fallen women".

There are hints of class consideration even among those helping these unfortunate. The Anchorage Mission of Hope and Help (l878) noted they assisted penitent young women, but added "Especial provision for better class cases". Single women who entered St Mary Magdalene's Home (l865) received shelter for a year after the birth of their first child, but were considered only "if previously of good character."

Those from the better class who fell on hard times could also apply for relief to the Distressed Gentlefolks' Aid Association (l897). The Royal United Kingdom Beneficent Association (l863) provided annuities to persons from the upper and middle class in reduced circumstances, provided they were over 40, sound of mind, and unable to earn a living due to bodily infirmities.

Religious and missionary organisations naturally abounded, working both at home and abroad. For example, while the Hoxton Coster's Mission (l86l) evangelized and helped street-traders and slum dwellers -- I do wonder why they would mention donkey shows as part of their work -- the Baptist Missionary Society (l792) did not hesitate to take a global view, for their stated intent was "To diffuse Christianity throughout the world".

Some charitable institutions listed exist to this day, such as the Anti-Vivisection Society, St John Ambulance Association, YMCA and YWCA, and the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. Others are very much of their time -- the Anti-Slavery and Aborigines Protection Society (l837) which looked after "interests of native races, especially in countries under British rule" or the Irish Distressed Ladies' Fund (l887) for relieving ladies who, because of changes in Irish landed properties, had no income and had been reduced to poverty.

And finally, one charity that must surely resonate with subscribers is the Royal Literary Fund, founded in l790 and incorporated in l8l8. Its aim was to assist "authors of published works of approved literary merit, and authors of important contributions to periodical literature, who may be in want or distress, their widows, orphans, mothers, or sisters."

While this is an enterprise readers and writers alike will applaud, doubtless subscribers have noticed immediately the authors' fathers apparently had to shift for themselves, not to mention that the prospectus description strongly suggests authors were always male. Perhaps I should look into the Royal Literary Fund and if they are still in existence apply for a grant, just for the heck of it.

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

In keeping with this fifth anniversary edition, we have a quintet of news items this time around, so dive right in!

FIVEFER RESURFACES or ALEXANDER, A GREAT AWARD

Speaking of fives, Five For Silver has been nominated for the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery Award for the best 2004 historical mystery, the winning book to be announced at Left Coast Crime at the end of the month.

Appropriately, a total of five Poisoned Pen authors have been nominated for awards to be announced at LCC. The other three PPP nominees for works published in 2004 are Ruth Dudley Edwards for the Lefty Award (most humorous mystery) for Carnage on the Committee, fellow historical mystery author Priscilla Royal was also nominated for the Bruce Alexander Award for Tyrant of the Mind, and Twist Phelan is nominated for the Calavera Award (best mystery set in the geographical area covered by Left Coast Crime) for Family Claims.

FIVEFER AGAIN or COVERING ALL THE FACES

Readers fond of a different sort of puzzle might enjoy the new jigsaw on our website. It features the subtle grey cover of Five For Silver. Point your clicker to http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/jig.htm

FUN AND GAMES OUR WEBSITE or THE TICKING KITTY

Your cat is ticking! Hurry! Do something! Eric has written Doom Cat, a very short interactive game you can play online at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/doom.htm

Speaking of which, Eric's interactive fiction game WAX WORX was voted winner in the Most unusual Adrift setting/plot category of the 2004 InsideAdrift Awards. It also finished second in the game of the year category. If you'd like to try it, check out http://baf.wurb.com/if/game/2352

HERODOTUS RETURNS or AN HISTORICAL ORACLE

We're pleased to announce that The Oracle of Amun, our second short story featuring Herodotus as sleuth, will appear in Mike Ashley's new anthology The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits: Third Collection. This time around our companion scriveners include Ed Hoch, Peter Tremayne, Sharan Newman, Margaret Frazer, Edward Marston, Lynda S. Robinson, and Ian Rankin. It will be published in July by Constable-Robinson in the UK with an American edition from Carroll & Graf -- we'll pass along the date of publication for the latter in due course.

MORE MAYER MUSINGS or BLOGS AHOY

Eric's now running a blog. Entries deal with topics all over the landscape, so subscribers may like to sample a page or two at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

ERIC'S BIT or DON'T LEAP TO THE WRONG CONCLUSION

I recently came across an article of interest in the online sf magazine, Strange Horizons. In Bull-Leaping in Bronze Age Crete http://www.strangehorizons.com/2005/20050124/bull-leaping-a.shtml Marie Brennan details what is known, and not known, about the ancient sport. What was the purpose of bull-leaping? Who engaged in it? What evidence survives?

The question that interested me most was whether it is possible to face down a charging bull, grab its horns, and somersault up onto the creature's back, which is the popular conception, not surprisingly since it’s what surviving images seem to show. Expert opinion is mixed, but leans strongly toward "no way!"

This piqued my curiosity because in our mystery novels John’s daughter, Europa, and her mother, Cornelia, are bull-leapers. To be precise, 6th century Cretans who recreate the even then ancient sport for the entertainment of Byzantine era audiences.

Mary and I never worried much about bull-leaping technique, except insofar as we didn't want to get it wrong. (Ah...now there's trouble brewing I've brought Mary into it, notice...) We figured we'd be safe if we had our bull leapers recreate what they would have been able to see in the same frescoes that shape our own picture of the practice. If historians suddenly proved that people today have been misinterpreting those images, well, our characters made the same mistake! And what’s more, the Byzantine audience would expect to see bull-leapers doing what those old frescoes showed them doing and not what some professor, 1,500 years in the future, was going to decide they’d been doing.

Sheer, physical impossibly was another matter. It is pretty hard to justify characters doing the impossible, even if it has been considered possible for thousands of years. As a writer interested in historical accuracy my first thought was, naturally, oh no! I hope we never showed them leaping? Did we ever show them leaping?

Unfortunately, yes. In the very first chapter of the very first book. But how detailed had we been? What did we say? Maybe we were vague. Let’s hope we were vague. I couldn't remember, so I looked and found:

"The bull bellowed. Suddenly it was in motion, hooves hammering the ground.

"The girl stood her ground as the animal closed in.

"At the last instant the bull lowered its head, its gilded horns flashing murderous intent in the sunlight. For a moment John's eyes blurred. He blinked rapidly, and when he focused on the girl again she had left the earth as easily as a sparrow, vaulting over the onrushing animal's head, grabbing its deadly horns to land lightly on its back."

Ouch! Could we have got that wrong?

Well, let's not be too hasty! Whatever the weight of opinion might be, some authorities still take the images literally. (Please don’t ask whether they’re living...) Mary and I are always open to learned opinions which coincide with our dramatic impulses.

Moreover, there are some who postulate that the bulls were specially trained. One of the main arguments of the bull-leaping spoilsports is that it would be impossible to grab the horns of a charging bull because the bull sweeps its horns back and forth in a goring motion.

Notice that our magnificently trained taurine performer only lowers his head. His horns merely flash. Nothing is said about them sweeping. No, they are right there for the grabbing -- and what's more, although the bull is in "motion" there is no indication that this motion is rapid. John is able to blink a few times while the girl executes her maneuver. In fact, it is quite possible he does not actually see her grab the horns, but only has the impression she did so. She may just have leapt over the bull's purposefully lowered head.

Phew! That was a close call. Luckily writers of historicals always think of everything....

AND FINALLY

As Simon and Garfunkel memorably sang years ago, April *will* come, but unfortunately for US subscribers at least April l5th will be a two-aspirin date since it's not only Tax Return Day, but will also bring the next issue of Orphan Scrivener. See you then!

Best wishes
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the aether at:
http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/
Therein you'll find the usual suspects, including more personal essays and a list of author freebies as well as the features mentioned above. For those new to the subscription list there's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned!

Thursday, December 15, 2005

ERIC'S BIT or BETWEEN A TURKEY AND A HARD PLACE

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

MINING GOLD or A PAIR OF PICKS

HOW JOHN WAS BORN or FORGING AHEAD

ERIC'S AWARD or A SITE TO SEE

KITTIES A-HOY or FAR-FLUNG FELINE FAME

MARY'S BIT or FRUIT OF THE YULE

AND FINALLY

Saturday, October 15, 2005

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

SERIES-OUS COMMENTARY or NOT TO BE HIST-MYST

NEWS OF REVIEWS or TO THE HILLS! TO THE HILLS!

AND FINALLY

Monday, August 15, 2005

MARY'S BIT or A STRANGE CASE

AND FINALLY

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

MARY'S BIT or MAYOR THE BEST MAN WIN

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

FIVEFER HONOURED or APPLAUSE FROM AZ

FIRST EDITIONS or LIVING ON THE TWILIGHT EDGE

IN THE HOT SEAT or GRILLING A WRITER

HERODOTUS RETURNS or SLEUTHING IN THE SAND

ERIC'S BIT or THE GIANT SLINGSHOT

AND FINALLY

Friday, April 15, 2005

ERIC'S BIT or SALARY AND EGG SANDWICH

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

SUMMING UP or FOUR AND SIX MAKE THREE

MARY'S BIT or GRINDING OUT A LIVING

AND FINALLY

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

MARY'S BIT or ANOTHER SORT OF GOOD CHARACTER

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

FIVEFER RESURFACES or ALEXANDER, A GREAT AWARD

FIVEFER AGAIN or COVERING ALL THE FACES

FUN AND GAMES OUR WEBSITE or THE TICKING KITTY

HERODOTUS RETURNS or AN HISTORICAL ORACLE

MORE MAYER MUSINGS or BLOGS AHOY

ERIC'S BIT or DON'T LEAP TO THE WRONG CONCLUSION

AND FINALLY