Thursday, October 15, 2009

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # FIFTY-NINE -- l5 OCTOBER 2009

Colour began creeping slowly across the landscape while this issue was being assembled, with several recent colder nights giving impetus to its spread. We estimate it will be at its full glory within a week, unless high winds strip the trees first. Today, however, under a glowering grey sky trees already sporting yellow foliage flare out against the dark green pines around them, with here and there scarlet, orange, and ruby tints just beginning to appear.

Yesterday was warmer than the previous misty, raining-like-stair-rods days and a plump groundhog took his opportunity to waddle round the back lawn sampling the remains of the wood asters. Soon he will be drawing his burrow curtains for his winter hibernation, for as Henry David Thoreau remarked this month is the sunset of the year, and November the later twilight.

In his beautifully rendered though somber painting of girls piling up Autumn Leaves at twilight John Everett Millais captured the pensive musings brought on by the closing days of fall, but this year -- this very month, in fact -- a cheery new jamboree will brighten October's darkening days.

More about that as subscribers, we hope, read on.


MARY'S BIT or 200,000 FEET AND THEN UNDER THE SEA

It was a blazing autumn morning in Florida. Fifty miles away queues were already forming at Disney World and where was I?

Under a brassy sun in a cloudless sky, travelling an otherwise deserted minor road threading a vast expense of palmetto scrub land on Cape Canaveral.

For I was on my way to launch a rocket.

A weather rocket, that is.

It was a privilege not extended to everyone and these days doubtless no longer extended at all. But back then, having passed the check at the gate, an hour or so later I found myself sitting about a hundred yards from the ocean in a block house, so small and cramped it's been described as a block cottage, in an isolated area of the USAF base on the tip of the Cape.

I had watched two white-coveralled Pan Am technicians prepare what was probably to them just another rocket in a procession of taking routine meteorological observations.

To me of course it was an extraordinary event. So I beamed on them as my dinky little rocket -- about five feet long and somewhat less than three inches in diameter -- was made ready. And though I call it a rocket, I'm reliably informed by a weather wallah that its technical name is a rocket motor. Whatever you care to call it, however, its nose was now loosely fitted with a dart about three feet long, carrying an instrument probe attached to a small parachute.

What I shall continue to call rockets are launched about once every three days or daily near the time of a major launch. They're sent on their way via an adjustable framework metal launcher resembling nothing so much as a Victorian era open-work telescope:

http://www.phy.mtu.edu/rocket/superlok.html

As a preliminary step, wind observations are made using a small balloon in order to calculate the correct elevation and azimuth to launch the rocket so its body will fall safely out to sea. Sometimes, however, they fall back onto land, usually into the scrub but occasionally into the sand between block house and launcher.

So much for the technical details. Now back to the block house.

Preparations completed, everyone had retired to the small slit-windowed building. A number of personnel were present but being familiar with the routine they were not, like me, boggling about in amazement but just stood about talking to their colleagues.

Whereas I was given a seat at the control panel along with detailed instructions about what I was about to do and how to do it.

Then we were off to the races.

First, the entire area, isolated though it was, was sealed off and then to my amusement a loudspeaker began to broadcast a count-down. It's just like the big rocket launches, I thought, and began to feel nervous. My part of the proceedings was to press the arming button and then on the ze- when zero was announced to push back the cover over the launch toggle, and on -ro pull that toggle down.

But what if I fumbled it?

Fortunately I did not.

I confess I was staring like all get out through the narrow horizontal window as I pulled the toggle on -ro, but alas I did not see my rocket rise majestically into the air as I had anticipated. They move at such speed their departure is marked only by a puff of white smoke and a whoosh. However, being faster than the eye, cameras can catch a launch and this one did, with the launcher discernible in the smoke trail:

http://www.phy.mtu.edu/rocket/lokilaunch2.html

And so my rocket reached about 5,000 feet in a couple of seconds, at which point the motor burnt out while the aerodynamically stable and streamlined dart continued upward at undiminished speed to the astonishing height of 200,000 feet. At that point a charge of compressed air pushed out the loosely sitting probe, the dart fell away, and the probe began its parachute descent, radioing temperature data to a ground station on the Cape while the parachute was tracked by radar to determine wind speed and direction during its descent.

And while it leisurely drifted to earth, down in the block house I couldn't help grinning so widely I nigh dislocated my cheekbones.

Fortunately for Anglo-American relations my rocket behaved itself and so far as I know resides in the water off the Cape even unto this day.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

In our introduction we hinted at a cheery jamboree, and the first few feet of the issue's ticker is devoted to that very topic. Read on!

THE WEBCON HOVES INTO VIEW or OCTOBER EXCITEMENT ON THE HORIZON

Much of the past month or two has been spent lending a hand in organising the first live mystery conference to be held online.

It's not long now to October 24th, when the Webcon, co-sponsored by Poisoned Pen Press and the Poisoned Pen Bookstore, sets sail. Interested parties may check the Webcon site at http://www.ppwebcon.com for information and announcements about this international event, including the names of twenty registrants who won a chance to pitch to an editor. Orphan Scrivener subscribers may have missed the boat on that opportunity but never mind, all attendees will receive an electronic goody bag containing dozens of items donated by attending authors.

The programme will offer numerous text, live, and prerecorded audio and video presentations, panels, and interviews, not to mention broadcasts featuring GoHs Dana Stabenow, Lee Child, Kate Miciak, Adrian Muller, Tom and Enid Schantz, and Kate Stine. As residents of Luddite Corner we'll be represented by electronic ink and by contributing to the goody bag, but we do plan to drop into the day long coffee shop live chat room now and then, so perhaps we'll see you there?

MYSTERY HINTS FOR LIBRARIANS or A NEW RESOURCE

At the end of October Kris Swank's article advising librarians who wish to write mysteries will appear when Writing & Publishing: The Librarian's Handbook, edited by Carol Smallwood, is published by the American Library Association: http://tinyurl.com/yl6h9qo

Her article contains tips and examples from several mystery writers and two of them were us! Our thanks to Kris for including us in this useful resource.

RUNNING RIOT or NOT YOUR USUAL NIKAS

And speaking of mysteries, Eightfer's handsome cover has now been revealed, and it's a real corker. See the cover on Eric's blog: http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

John's latest adventure is set in January 532, during a period when the mob ruled Constantinople. Against a murderous backdrop lit by raging fires, he must find those seeking to use the Nika Riots to dethrone the emperor. But are the ringleaders still in the city -- or even alive?

Porphyrius, the most famous charioteer of his time, may know more than he tells about the mysterious disappearance of two men under imperial guard. What roles are a pair of brothers with a distant claim to the throne playing? Does a headstrong young girl hold the key to the mystery? With the fate of the empire at stake will General Belisarius and his armed troops side with the rioters or remain loyal to Justinian?

The answers to these and other questions will be revealed in April next year!

STOP PRESS

As this issue of Orphan Scrivener was written, we learned that Poisoned Pen Press works are becoming available in various formats for the visually impaired via http://www.ReadHowYouWant.com RHYW produces large print editions with varying type sizes as well as Daisy and Braille versions, and we are pleased to announce that Four For A Boy, prequel to the series, is available from this source.


ERIC'S BIT or AMUSEMENT FOR INFERIOR MINDS

I'm no Sherlock Holmes. Not even Gideon Fell. Recently, when I read John Dickson Carr's classic locked room mystery The Hollow Man (also known as The Three Coffins) I made no particular effort to figure out the solution before Dr Fell. A man shot to death in his study, the only door to the room locked from the inside, with people present in the hall and both the ground below the window and the roof above covered with unbroken snow. I was stumped.

I learned long ago that trying to solve locked room puzzles is a fool's errand, at least if I'm the fool reading. Nevertheless I enjoyed being perplexed and anticipating the explanation. It's rather as if I watched a magician cut his lovely assistant in half and reassemble her and he then took me backstage and revealed the trick boxes, screens, and mirrors used to create the illusion. When Dr Fell described the "trick" behind the murder I was impressed by the author's ingenuity.

In our writing collaborations Mary is usually the magician in charge of creating the trick that will, hopefully, fool the reader. Which is odd. By all rights, she ought to be the lovely assistant. I'm not really the lovely assistant type, although I guess I do tend to supply a lot of the scenery and misdirection to hold the reader's attention while Mary's working the apparatus.

Not surprisingly, Mary is also one of those readers who actively competes with the detective and delights in reasoning out who the murderer is before the author reveals the guilty party.

But I am not alone, as a reader, in preferring to leave the brain-work to the detective. In his Notes on the Mystery Story, Raymond Chandler, author of classics like The Big Sleep, says "I, in the role of reader, almost never try to guess the solution to a mystery. I simply don't regard the contest between the writer and myself as important. To be frank I regard it as the amusement of an inferior type of mind."

I'm not sure I would agree with the last sentence, and I suspect Mary would take umbrage, but it is good to know that I at least read mysteries like Raymond Chandler.

As a writer I like the whodunit puzzle because it creates the basis for the mystery format which offers an excellent framework on which to hang some writing. Finding a murderer gives the protagonist something to do, a chance to visit interesting places such as dark alleys, and to talk to fascinating people. Murder suspects are always interesting, aren't they? Finding a murderer gives the protagonist a compelling goal, and it isn't hard to introduce an element of danger when dealing with some unknown person who has already killed.

A disadvantage of the mystery genre is that the circumstances and events leading up the murder are often more interesting and dramatic than the investigation can be. Yet it is the investigation which is front and center, while the drama of the murder is only revealed retrospectively in bits and pieces. In addition, the murderer and the victim are usually strong characters. Yet we can know the deceased victim only second-hand and since the murderer cannot be revealed until the end, he or she occupies far less of the book than the character's role as instigator of the whole story actually warrants.

R. Austin Freeman provided a way to get around these weaknesses when he invented what he called the inverted detective story in his 1912 collection of short stories The Singing Bone.

"Some years ago," said Freeman, "I devised, as an experiment, an inverted detective story in two parts. The first part was a minute and detailed description of a crime, setting forth the antecedents, motives, and all attendant circumstances. The reader had seen the crime committed, knew all about the criminal, and was in possession of all the facts. It would have seemed that there was nothing left to tell, but I calculated that the reader would be so occupied with the crime that he would overlook the evidence. And so it turned out. The second part, which described the investigation of the crime, had to most readers the effect of new matter."

Freeman's In the Shadow of the Wolf, an example of such a mystery, begins with a murder on a yacht at sea -- what the killer imagines to be a perfect, undetectable crime. However, he has not reckoned on the crime-solving skills of the medico-legal Doctor Thorndyke who employs both Holmsian reasoning and up-to date (for the early twentieth century) forensic analysis.

It was fascinating to watch him in action. But thanks to the inverted format I also got a full portrait, through the entire narrative, of the killer and the motivations for a crime which is rooted in complex personal and psychological relationships worthy of Georges Simenon.

And all without having to beat myself over the head for not trying to spot clues and being unable to out-think Thorndyke. A perfect sort of mystery format for readers like me.


AND FINALLY

Sir Walter Scott once observed that the dark and gloomy days of December take away the joys of autumn. However, now they've read this far there's two months of joy left for subscribers before Orphan Scrivener returns to cast a pall over their December days, for the next issue will not flap into their in-boxes until the 15th of that month.

See you then!

Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the web at http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, lists of author freebies and mystery-related newsletters, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and our growing pages of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/


Saturday, August 15, 2009

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # FIFTY-EIGHT -- l5 AUGUST 2009

Dr Johnson advised remembering the calamities we've escaped when one catches up with us. We regret to report we did not follow this wise counsel but rather uttered robust language when a pair of nasty computer viruses ganged up and came a-calling at Casa Maywrite last week.

In The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot talks about measuring life out in coffee spoons, but this crisis de jour was resolved with tinkering fueled by ladles of black Brazilian roast, and so this issue appears on schedule after all. Read on!


ERIC'S BIT or RETURNING TO READING (NOT THE TOWN IN BERKSHIRE)

During the past year I've made an effort to read more books. Those rather long and complex collections of words I grew up with, rather than the short bursts of simple information endlessly available in cyberspace, the endlessly distracting but not very substantial world news, sports scores, political commentary, blogs, Yahoo groups. Words that do little more than temporarily fill and quickly pass through the mind. Intellectual Olestra.

It's embarrassing for a writer to confess that for years he hasn't read many books. It's true though, and my lack of reading predates the Internet. The Internet is only the newest slayer of books in my life. Starting in the early seventies I began increasingly to spend my diminishing spare time on my own creative efforts. When I got to law school I was barely on nodding terms with real reading. Sure, I had to read, but appellate court cases and legal treatises don't have much in common with things written in English.

Job and family responsibilities followed. After days filled with eye-glazing memos and departmental meetings which lasted till the heat death of the universe, or seemed to, I went home to an everlasting Big Bang of incontinent infants and rampaging toddlers. What few spare hours were left I devoted to my own writing which included mini-comics, small press, magazine and newspaper articles, newsletters for the local zoo and orienteering club, programming computer text adventures, and, eventually, co-writing stories and books with Mary. I am a slow writer. I hate to think how many novels I could read in the time it takes me to co-write one short mystery.

Hard as it is to believe, for most of my life I haven't been much of a reader. Less than two decades passed between my hauling stacks of Doctor Seuss back from the library and shoving aside books in order to pound away on my manual Smith Corona instead.

Even so, I suspect all the science fiction and fantasy I absorbed in that short but formative period went a long way toward forming my attitudes. I've never believed the world has to be the way it is. I spent too much of my youth reading about alternatives.

I read other genres, to be sure. As early as high school I went on a Steinbeck spree. As my reading diminished I turned to mysteries. I once had collected from used book stores, thrift stores, and library and yard sales nearly 100 paperbacks by John D. MacDonald. But a couple years ago, I realized that I rarely looked at a book anymore. And suddenly, for the first time in years, I missed reading.

The six books a month I've managed this year wouldn't have kept me going for a week in the old days. And deciding what, exactly, to read has been a problem as well. I have no favorite genre. One week I embark on a study of philosophy with Pragmatism by William James and Will Durant's The Story of Philosophy. Then I'm diverted by some fifties Gold Medal type crime novels and from there lurch into some mysteries by Simenon, Tey, John Dickson Carr. Next I decide to read a few classics I never got around to. Even after Moby Dick, To the Lighthouse, and Appointment at Samarra, there are a lot of all-time great books left. And I haven't neglected my first love, fantasy. William Hope Hodgson's The Nightland is still as awe-inspiring (and in parts as mind-numbing) as it was when I first encountered it, and At the Mountains of Madness is great fun too although Lovecraft's debt to Hodgson shows.

Although genre isn't very important to me, I've noticed I prefer older books. There's something about the style or attitude or who knows what of current books that puts me off, although I sometimes find exceptions such as the remarkable sf/mystery The City and the City by China Mieville. So I tend to stick to things written in the mid-sixties or earlier. I am perfectly comfortable with novels penned back in the dark ages of the nineteen-thirties and my favorite science fiction is from the Golden Age.

Maybe this is because early on I devoured the books that were on the shelves of the local library. Most of those were probably written before I was born but to me they were brand new and they formed my taste.

But enough of this. There's a man dead in his study. The door was locked. There are no footprints in the snow outside the window. The murder's inexplicable. The heck with finding a clever ending for this essay. I've got to get back to my reading.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

We've a mixed bag of news this time around, and one event was a surprise to us! Keep reading for details of this and other happenings since our last issue.

A DOG BLOG or GRAPHIC WRITING

Christine Verstraete, author of Searching For A Starry Night, recently began a First Graphs series for Wednesday entries on her Candid Canine blog. Earlier this month she featured an excerpt from our Locked In Death, an Inspector Dorj outing in The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, edited by Mike Ashley. Here's the link: http://candidcanine.blogspot.com/2009/08/first-graphs-locked-in-death-by-eric.html

A WOO WOO WOOHOO or CZECH THIS OUT

Talk about serendipity! The very day after the prior paragraph was scribbled we received a copy of the hardback Czech edition of the same anthology. Not speaking the language we are unable to give its foreign title or publisher, but nonetheless we can doubtless be excused for a woohoo at this prime example of literary woo woo!

FREE SAMPLE or SEVENFER TO THE FORE

We recently discovered Blackstone Audio are offering a free sample of their recording of Seven For A Secret. The reader is James Adams, formerly CEO of UPI and managing editor of the Sunday Times, so the recording has a British accent well to the fore. Click on this link at Blackstone's site to hear the snippet http://tinyurl.com/nzh9ww

MORE ON THE PP WEBCON or GET OUT YOUR BUNNY SLIPPERS

Planning proceeds apace for the Poisoned Pen Webcon, to be held on October 24th. Alphabetically, guests of honour are Dana Stabenow, Lee Child, Kate Miciak, Adrian Muller, Tom and Enid Schantz, and Kate Stine. The conference will be entirely online and there will be panels and discussions, live chats, video and audio presentations, an electronic goody bag containing e-books with stories, samplers, and other material from mystery authors, interviews, and much more. Registration is $25, $20 of which will be returned in the form of a book voucher valid at the Poisoned Pen bookstore. You can attend in your jammies and bunny slippers if inclined -- and if that doesn't appeal how about the chance to pitch an idea to an editor at a publishing house? In addition, 100% of all profits will go to a public library to be chosen at random from registrants' nominations. Point your clicker to http://www.ppwebcon.com/ for full details of this exciting mystery jamboree!

YET MORE REVELATIONS or TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE

On July 8th we were featured in what Caitlyn Hunter, author of Snow Shadows, dubbed a double-barreled, two-for-the-price-of-one extravaganza over on the Dames of Dialogue blog. Our lengthy interview covered such revelations as sources of inspiration, handling promotion, and how a name mentioned on the acknowledgement page of one of our novels was instrumental in reuniting two old friends who had lost touch with each other. Read all about it here http://damesofdialogue.wordpress.com/2009/07/08/mary-reed-eric-mayer-answer-the-dames-dozen/


MARY'S BIT or NO SIREN SONG FOR US

When Sir Thomas Browne mused back in the 1600s concerning what song the Sirens sang, he wasn't thinking of bursts of noise from an ambulance, police car, or fire engine, or wartime's WAHwahWAHwahWAH warning of advancing enemy bombers and the blessed continual wail of the all clear, or the poignant British summons bracketing the annual country-wide two minute silence remembering the war dead.

Then there's the alert for the imminent arrival of a tornado.

As it happens, the closest brush we ever had with a devil's spinning top was unheralded by a siren's song because we lived out of hearing of the nearest installation boasting such equipment, and even if we've been within range the power had been out for some time so a warning could not have been sounded. Thus we were alerted late one night when a neighbour who'd heard the announcement via her battery-driven radio rang up.

"Get into your basement immediately, a tornado is coming straight for us," she said quickly and hastily rang off.

We took her advice and, grabbing important items - the cat, my mug of coffee, a couple of torches, a candle in an old pierced tin lantern, and the box of important family papers - we moved downstairs to an inner room with no windows.

The cat, which had been acting strangely that evening as if it sensed its napping was going to be rudely disturbed, leapt out of my one-armed grasp as I descended and raced away to hide in the darkness under the stairs. We shut ourselves into the small room and set the lantern on top of a chest of drawers. I perched on an old chest next to an antique pot, swigging cold coffee and wondering if our computers would be damaged if the worst happened. The lantern threw sunflower-shaped shadows on the ceiling as shadows gamboled in the corners and the wind rose to a shriek, howling around the house. It roared with a shrill, high sound of rage, punctuated by dull thuds and crashes as the bin of recyclables fell over, loosing a multitude of tins to join garden chairs and the barbecue grill rolling round the garden or smacking into the side of the building.

It's been said in times of mortal stress we review our lives in the course of a few seconds. However, despite the imminent danger to life and limb, I did not find this to be so. Rather, a combination of excitement and apprehension produced an unreal sense of calm curiosity. I remember looking down at the decorative pot beside me and feeling sorry it would get smashed if touchdown happened to be in our footprint, and further hoping if disaster befell us the cat would not be killed.

It wasn't the first time I'd experienced this strange effect. The IRA were carrying out a letter-bombing campaign in London during the time I was passing through the immigration process. One winter evening I arrived at my underground station for the main line to catch a train home. I was on a tight schedule as it had already gone 5 PM and I had to be at my suburban doctor's office at 7 PM for the required medical, my commute taking one and a half hours. But the railway station was shut down because a suspicious parcel had been spotted and nobody was allowed up there until the package had been taken away by the bomb squad and defused if necessary.

A milling crowd of disgruntled travelers was therefore gathered underneath the main station and waiting with them I suddenly thought how terribly embarrassing it would be if there was an explosion, the roof came down on us, and the full specimen bottle in my handbag was broken, distributing its contents all over the place. At the time it simply never occurred me that possibility would be the least of my worries if the worst happened. In the event, the parcel was removed and normal commuter service resumed. I arrived at my appointment just in time, but the US Embassy would not accept my clean bill of health because, as it turned out, the medical had not been performed by one of their approved doctors. As for the strange package, I checked in the London paper over the next few days but saw nothing further about it.

Returning to the meteorological excitement unspooling some years later, there we were, sitting in the basement waiting to see how events played out. Suddenly an eerie hush fell, an unnatural silence more menacing than anything we'd heard all night. What those few seconds of dead calm meant I've never been able to establish, but the wind picked up again and departed in a dwindling, disappointed wail, grumbling away over the hill.

The rest of the night we took turns bailing out the well holding the basement pump until the power returned. Then we went out and started picking up tins.


AND FINALLY

Honore de Balzac was of the opinion that misfortune is the headiest wine, and since much of this newsletter seems to be devoted to disasters, we'll stay on theme and point out subscribers' next catastrophe may well fall on October l5th, when issue 59 of Orphan Scrivener flies out of the aether and into their in-box.

See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the web at http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, lists of author freebies and mystery-related newsletters, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and our growing pages of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

Monday, June 15, 2009

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # FIFTY-SEVEN -- l5 JUNE 2009

Of late the rustic life for us ink-stained wretches has not been as smooth as that Shakespeare claimed for monumental alabaster.

We've had to change servers.

This naturally involved moving the website, a stark horror even Lovecraft would have found difficult to describe in adequate terms, although exquisite morbidity and cacodaemoniacal ghastliness, applied to certain musical instruments in The Hound, suggests itself as a good beginning. For it was a dog of a job, now thankfully completed.

This means, however, while wrassling with the Internet was as rough as nutmeg graters this past week, it's now our subscribers' turn because we've somehow managed to get another issue of the Orphan Scrivener pinned together. Let us assure those reading this newsletter that what sounds like distant maddening piping on a loathsome flute is merely the plumbing playing up, so they should just read on.....


MARY'S BIT or BREAD AND CHEESE AND MONEY, OH MY

I've often thought it's a pity so many old customs are dying out, though my family are doing their bit to stem the tide by keeping up those common to our home area, including here in the New World.

The majority of customs world wide revolve around the major milestones of life, once described as hatching, matching, and despatching, all events accompanied by various superstitions and customs. Yet even in a country as small as the UK, they are not familiar to all counties.

Take weddings, for example. In Newcastle it was the custom to throw pennies from the taxi taking the wedding party to church. This was possibly the only time people in our street rode in a such a vehicle, except perhaps for a funeral. Scattering pennies was said to bring good luck. It certainly brought it to us guttersnipes, since we scoured nearby streets for wedding parties on Saturdays, the most popular day for nuptials, and often picked up as much as sixpence or so that way. Wedding parties could be spotted at fifty paces because the taxis, unlike those transporting a family to a funeral, inevitably had white ribbons stretched from the top corners of the windshield down to the centre of the bonnet. Yet when we moved south and my younger sister married, scattering pennies from the taxi was greeted with amazed stares.

Then there are the pranks played where families had access to the couple's flat or house. Newlyweds arriving at their future home could expect to find such harmless silliness as sugar in the salt cellar and vice versa, pennies fusing the lights, butter beans or similar bumpy objects scattered under the bottom sheet of the nuptial bed, usually also short sheeted, and so on, all to be met with good humour and a shrug of the shoulders.

Similarly various customs attend births. The first thing a new mother was expected to do after her baby was born, be it after returning from hospital, or in the case of a home birth leaving the house, was to be churched. It was considered to bring bad luck to any house visited by the new mother until this was done, and although there was something of the sense of the Victorian idea of cleansing after birth, it was also a thanksgiving for the child and for a safe birth. The service in the Anglican prayer book emphasises this aspect. I was once in conversation with an American Anglican vicar about this custom and he mentioned in all his years of ministry he had only been asked to conduct the service twice, and both requests were from working class mothers.

The first time we met a new baby, we did not look at it unless we had a silver coin to put in its grasping little fist for good luck -- a sixpence or for the better off a shilling served the purpose.

When the family set off to the christening, it was customary to present a bag containing bread and cheese and a coin to the first child met on the way to church. Nowadays this would be viewed with great suspicion and I have no doubt it is in the process of dying out, if it's not already dead. One layer of a tiered wedding cake was sometimes kept towards a possible christening, though I have no idea if it lasted well enough to be edible and although the same type of rich, dark fruitcake made for Christmas, in retrospect it seems a dangerous practice. On the other hand, after hearing jokes about the longevity of the American Christmas fruitcake....

Then there was the welcome accorded to a new year. Ships on the Tyne greeted the death of the old year with cacophonous hooting and peals of church bells were not uncommon, though I confess even so I was not prepared for the sound of gunfire at midnight on December 31st in this country! The celebration up north for most families featured the arrival of the first foot, meaning the first person across the threshold after midnight tolled. The first footer had to be a dark-haired man and so for years my brother did not see the new year in indoors, being thrust out into the night a few minutes to midnight to wait for the year to turn. As was traditional, he came back in carrying a small chunk of coal, a coin, and a piece of cake or bread, thus bringing with him the promise of warmth, food, and wealth for the household in the coming twelve months. Being dark-haired, Eric's resume now includes the job of first footer at Casa Maywrite.

A woman's foot first across the threshold was anathema and a red-haired man's was considered unlucky too. Indeed, families with no dark-haired man reportedly refused to open their doors after midnight to anyone but a dark-haired male in order to ensure the right sort of person crossed the threshold first. However, since many neighbourly visits back and forth took place on New Year's Day, such families would not be long without their first footer.

When a family member died, mirrors were often covered or turned to the wall, and before the funeral party departed from the home, the neighbours drew their curtains, generally explained to be as a mark of respect to the deceased. In tandem with mirror shrouding, though, it is certainly suggestive.

So, in the end of a life, this essay ends.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

A farrago of news items this time round, so let's get to it.

JOHN RETURNS or ETERNITY FOLLOWS

Despite our header John's not going to take the ferry with Charon in his next adventure, but rather its title is Eight For Eternity. Readers may recall we always said we would make up our own lines when the counting rhyme providing titles ran out, and since it ran out screaming at Seven For A Secret, we've boldly done just that. And yes, the reason for the title is given in the novel. Poisoned Pen Press will be publishing Eightfer in April next year and we'll say more about John's approaching outing as the time nears.

TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE or WRITING DUOS SPEAK

We had the honour of being quoted in a feature by Susan Higginbotham about historical fiction writing duos in the May 2009 issue of the Historical Novels Review, a print publication of the Historical Novel Society (http://www.historicalnovelsociety.org/). We were in sterling company as other contributors to her article included Charles and Caroline Todd, the Clare sisters, and Judith Miller and Tracie Peterson. Our thanks to Susan (http://www.susanhigginbotham.com/), the author of Traitor's Wife: A Novel of the Reign of Edward II and Hugh and Bess, both set in fourteenth-century England.

SEEKING KNOWLEDGE or WHEN RESEARCH IS (K)NOBBLED

Gayle Trent's Virtual Writers' Conference http://virtualwritersconference.blogspot.com/ was held May 19th to 22nd. Authors, publishers, marketers, and publicists provided expert advice -- there were even two agents seeking submissions in attendance. Mary contributed thoughts on our search for info on Roman doorknobs http://virtualwritersconference.blogspot.com/2009/05/writing-historical-mysteries-by-mary.html) and if you don't fancy learning about ancient entrance hardware, you might enjoy her closing link to a contemporary carving of a dear little kitty peering out from a (knobless) Roman door. Gayle tells us she hopes to use the site to host another writers' conference in the future. Stay tuned!

MYSTERIOUS THOUGHTS or IF WE DID NOT WRITE

Jean Henry Mead is the author of the senior sleuth novels A Village Shattered and Diary of Murder. Currently in the middle of moving house, she is offering past interviews on her Mysterious People blog http://mysteriouspeople.blogspot.com Our January chat will be run on June 22nd and among other topics we talk about what we'd do if we were not writing and real people who appear in our works. It was more fun than a trunk full of monkeys! We'll also be serving as guest blog hosts the same day at http://advicefromeditors.blogspot.com/. Our thanks to Jean for our summer rerun!


ERIC'S BIT or BURN-OUT OF ANOTHER SORT

Thinking about some of the books I've read recently, I'm shocked -- shocked I tell you! -- by how badly so many of them are written. Talk about inept:

John O'Hara pretty much gives away the ending to Appointment in Samarra in the introductory matter, before he even gets to the first chapter.

Herman Melville keeps interrupting Captain Ahab's action-packed hunt for the great white whale with Moby Dick size info-dumps about whales and whaling.

In Silas Marner George Eliot blatantly relies on coincidences repeatedly, particularly having Marner just happen to leave the cottage door open at exactly the right time.

Albert Camus' The Stranger lacks sufficient motivation for his actions.

At no point in her rather slow moving To the Lighthouse does Virginia Woolf have a man enter with a gun.

Kafka's The Trial doesn't make a lick of sense.

These poor souls obviously paid no attention to the advice of editors, agents, and the legions of authors who endlessly explain how it has to be done. I guess they didn't care about being rejected by publishers.

Well, okay, maybe Virginia Woolf didn't have to care since she and her husband published To the Lighthouse through their own Hogarth Press. But you can tell the book was never professionally edited, the way she switches willy-nilly from one point of view to another.

Still, you have to admit, they all did pretty well for themselves. I'm sure I could think of a lot of other classic novels which violate all of today's requirements for publishable books. It could make a good parlor game.

In my opinion, today's writing "rules" probably result in more bad writing than good. Do we really need still more cookie-cutter books?

On the other hand, I am not one of those writers who is convinced that his creative muse is being smothered, kicked, drowned, beaten, etc. (poor thing!) by the publishing industry. I'm no literary genius -- even in my own mind -- who would awe the world if only he were allowed to do so.

That being the case, I am perfectly happy to have available a mystery genre framework, on whose sturdy artificial limbs I can hang what little oddments I keep on my skills shelf: slightly cracked insights, shabby descriptions, bright, twinkly little strings of ideas with half their bulbs burned out, and sparkling, paper-thin philosophy tinsel.

Of course the framework itself comes with some assembly required. But luckily Mary is able to insert Clue A into Red Herring B and so forth better than I can.

If I had to start from scratch and design and build my own framework -- not a mystery, or some other genre -- I'd be lost, just like so many wannabe genius writers who break all the rules. So I'm about as likely to write a non-genre novel as I am to construct a computer from assorted parts.

Still, even working within a genre, it is probably acceptable, and actually a good idea, to ignore the dictates of publishing professionals from time to time.

So how do we know when and whether we should break the rules? Alas, there's no rule about that.


AND FINALLY

Frank Lloyd Wright declared in favour of keeping dangerous weapons away from fools. At the time he was thinking about beginning with typewriters. Nowadays he would probably start with computer keyboards. And while Lord Byron had harsh words for monthly scribblers of low lampoons, he couldn't apply them to we Orphan Scriveners, given we only darken your inbox every two months. The next issue will therefore wing its way to you on August 15th.

See you then!

Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the web at http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, lists of author freebies and mystery-related newsletters, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver, and our growing pages of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

The Orphan Scrivener -- Issue # One Hundred and Sixty -- 15 August 2026

While in north Africa years ago, a member of the family demonstrated it is indeed possible to fry an egg on a vehicle bonnet although wheth...