Thursday, February 15, 2018

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND NINE -- 15 FEBRUARY 2018

This winter weather has been, and indeed continues to be, hard for many, bringing to mind the proverbial saying to the effect we should reconcile ourselves to present trials because the future may bring worse ones. Meantime, here's another issue of Orphan Scrivener. We leave subscribers to draw their own conclusions...


MARY'S BIT or BEFORE CEILING CAT

It's not too often we need to turn our thoughts to ceilings, except when they develop brown stains which tend to take on strange resemblances to clipper ships or a galloping horse or whatever other image our subconscious suggests to us, accompanied by that sinking feeling the roof must have sprung a leak. Of course, ceilings also loom large in certain mysteries, ghost stories, and horror films, where the strange stain up there is scarlet and...drips.

There was a ceiling mystery of a different kind a year or two back when the extension housing our bathroom developed a leak. The solution was to reroof it and in the process of doing so, the builder discovered that the original roof was still in place below the one visible to the world, so the bathroom in effect had a false ceiling. Not uncommon, of course, but in this case there was a gap between the two roofs a couple of feet high. Needless to say, with a pair of mystery writers in residence the discovery triggered a discussion of how such a situation could have come about and how it could be integrated into a novel. Certainly small items could be temporarily concealed there but as a hiding place for a living person -- my immediate thought until I realised how small the height of the secret place was -- it would be useless. Naturally bodies also sprang to mind, along with remembrance of Kipling's ghost story The Return Of Imray, in which a ceiling is used to great effect.

In a house we previously inhabited there was a false ceiling in the basement. Our cat Sabrina sometimes hid up there and for all we knew slept there as well. She reached it by launching herself from a sink up to a window sill where she liked to sit and survey the outside and then from there into the space between the ceiling and the floor of the room upstairs. This was well before we discovered the intertube's famous Ceiling Cat and so now, catching a glimpse of its frowning feline face reminds us of Sabrina, long gone though she is.

Earlier still my family lived in a Victorian maisonette which still sported traces of faded glory. Though built for the working class, its front room (the equivalent of a parlour) had been constructed with a ceiling featuring a circle of decorative mouldings centred around its original gas light. Not as elaborate as the ceiling compared to a frosted wedding cake in The Great Gatsby perhaps, but striking in an ordinary home. As an aside, let me mention the seance in Ruined Stones, the second Grace Baxter novel, took place in a room modelled after the one just described, so while the maisonette itself is long gone, along with the entire terraced street and its neighbours, the ceiling and other architectural features remain remembered in print at least. While on the topic, the maisonette where Grace takes lodgings is a mirror image of the one in which my older sister began married life, complete with a low sloping ceiling at one end of the kitchen so steep it made the space beneath it virtually useless as living space.

Speaking of low ceilings, they are one of the most striking features of the house where we now live. It is no exaggeration to declare that downstairs a light bulb can be changed without the need of a step stool and while admittedly we are both taller than average for our genders according to official statistics, we still did not expect to occasionally bang our knuckles on the ceiling upstairs when disrobing or getting dressed or being careless when putting on or taking off a sweater.

The low head room upstairs also means a ceiling fan is out of the question since installing one would be dangerous to our heads, although in a different way than Alice found when she drank from a magic bottle -- a danger in itself, one would think, since she did not know what it contained. In any event, the result was Alice found her noggin pressed to the ceiling and was forced to stoop to avoid a broken neck. Another instance is to be found in A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas past revisit Scrooge's former employer Mr Fezziwig, first seen sitting at a high desk. It is noted had he been two inches taller his head would have knocked against the ceiling. Similarly in Crime and Punishment a room is described as low-pitched enough that a man over average height would feel uneasy about the possibility of knocking his head against its ceiling.

So much for the visible. But what of the invisible? Gutenberg.org, that wonderful source of fiction etexts, offers a collection entitled Famous Modern Ghost Stories. Edited by Emily Dorothy Scarborough, its contents include Fitz-James O'Brien's haunting (in both senses of the word) tale What Was It? After reading it, short or tall, you may well find yourself feeling uneasy and glancing up at the ceiling more than usual.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

News of blogs and interviews and similar appearances is scanty on the ground at the moment -- would the same also applied to the last fall of snow, still so frozen footprints hardly register on it! -- given all our available time is currently devoted to completing John's latest adventure. We expect to send it to Poisoned Pen next month, so there should be more news of it in our April newsletter. Stay tuned!


Friday, December 15, 2017

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT -- 15 DECEMBER 2017

This issue of Orphan Scrivener is written to an accompaniment of the constant howl of high wind gusting around Maywrite Towers, bringing with it single digit wind chills and snow rather than playing celestial symphonies such as Longfellow heard at a time of similar meteorological conditions. No, hereabouts his downbent branches representing instrument keys are booming out a dirge for warmer days. And on the theme of dirges, subscribers may consider such aeolian lamentations appropriate as they continue reading....


ERIC'S BIT OR SANTA CLAUS AND MR HYDE

Christmas has always been a mixed bag for me. Or perhaps I should say a mixed stocking, remembering the big red ones I hung on the fireplace as a child. Come the great morning and they'd be filled with treats. There were delightful candy canes and chocolate pieces of eight covered in gold foil. But valuable space in the toe would inevitably be filled with a sour, seedy tangerine.

Is it any wonder Christmas -- as usually practiced -- is such a Jekyll and Hyde when it demands we go on an annual spending spree to celebrate the birth of a man who preached poverty?

I loved my advent calendar with the little doors you opened to read about the story of the birth of Christ in twenty-four gradually revealed snippets. What suspense! To be honest, the calendar mostly served as a countdown, not to the Nativity, but rather the arrival of Santa Claus.

Nothing about Christmas is quite right. All the colored lights are gorgeous and cheering but the holiday colors red and green just don't go together. They grate on me. The music can be as beautiful as Silent Night and as maddeningly horrible as Little Drummer Boy. It's exciting to tear gift wrap off presents, but the wrapping and the disposal of the paper isn't so thrilling.

Then there were those weeks of delicious (well, okay -- greedy) anticipation (maybe too many...) and the blissful orgy of piling up new toys under the tree. Still, I never did get that amazing Cape Canaveral launch center with the gantries, rockets, control tower, technicians, astronauts, and utility vehicles. Everything moved and there were lights that probably flashed and maybe bells, and buzzers, and I'll bet the rockets took off too and had parachutes for re-entry. Somehow. I remember that toy more vividly than most of the gifts I actually received.

Come to think of it I never got a handcar for my model railroad either!

That HO railroad setup was a holiday highlight. We'd hike the woods finding moss and appropriate ferns to cover the tunnel in realistic greenery. Great fun. Except my feet froze from stomping around in the snow.

Christmas trees posed a similar problem. There's nothing merrier than a festive pine all tarted up in blinking lights and tinsel. However, I've always favored natural trees and, in my experience, there's no place on earth colder than a Christmas tree lot in early December. Whenever I venture out to buy a tree you can bet that the temperature will be below that at the North Pole. A brisk wind will be whipping the snow off the rock-hard ground into my face, freezing the tears running down my cheeks as I dig blue spruce and scotch pine out of the drifts with numb hands.

Don't remind me about trying to vacuum up the needles that fall to the floor either. I can never find them all. By July I'm still stepping on them. At least the dead tree is gone by then. Although if you miss the pickup date in many places you've got a problem. I've had to saw up the tree with a hacksaw and burn it in the fireplace. That isn't very festive. Plus, next year I needed to ask Santa for a new hacksaw.

Speaking of Santa, he's the worst problem of all. At some point [CAUTION. SPOILERS AHEAD] we all have to endure the disappointment of discovering he doesn't exist. Even if he did eat the cookies and drink the milk I set out for him. In my case, I also went from the magical fantasy of free toys delivered by a reindeer-drawn sleigh to the miserable reality of trying to play Santa, trudging around crowded malls with maxed-out credit cards.

With Christmas you never know what's going to happen. One year I got a bicycle from my parents. Another year I got a draft notice from Uncle Sam.

Perhaps the biggest Christmas inconsistency is how it can make you appreciate those you share it with while at the same time missing those who are gone.

For me what counts, in the end, is that Mary and I will be celebrating our 25th Christmas together this year. And that at least has no downside.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

It's not drawing our bow at much of a venture to guess many readers have pets and so our sole bit o' BSP this time around deals with that very topic in a December 13th interview conducted by Heather Weidner and published on the Pens, Paws, and Claws blog. Its tag line is Writers And The Animals They Love and so Heather's questions included the most unusual working animals we've created (hint: see Three For A Letter), a favourite book featuring an animal as a central character, how we have used animals in our writing, and more -- including the revelation one of us may be the only mystery writer whose first childhood pet was a budgie with a Geordie accent. Point your clicker to

http://penspawsandclaws.com/meet-mary-reed


MARY'S BIT or STILL A FAVOURITE MANY YEARS LATER

When strings of street lights sprang up in yellowish necklaces dotting along the busy roads and another sooty night began to fall upon Newcastle-on-Tyne, my sister and I would go up to our attic bedroom and draw curtains patterned with castles, ships, and jesters with curly-toed shoes to shut out a darkening urban landscape of slate-roofed dwellings marching down in regular lines to the river. Ungraced by gardens or trees or any growing thing except whatever took root in the cemetery at the top of our street or on bomb-sites left uncleared for years after the war, those long grey terraces of houses stretched away out of sight in all directions, sheltering the inhabitants of the northern English industrial city known proverbially for its coal, not to mention shipyards and factories that in those days rang with the noise of machinery around the clock.

As bed-time approached we'd read for a while before the light was put out -- and for a lot longer afterwards by torchlight under the covers. Books aplenty were available to us between the city's free libraries and Christmas or birthday gifts, for we always received a book to mark each occasion. So it was that at about l2 or l3 I discovered Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, and later on her other novels about the March sisters' adult lives.

One thing about Little Women was rather puzzling. Like us, they lived in financially straitened circumstances and yet had a servant, Hannah, who had been with them for years. As a daughter of the working class, this seemed very strange to me, the more so as my mother had been a parlour maid and the notion of us having a servant was so alien as to be unthinkable, despite the fact that I was always being told that I had too much imagination. One of my favourite scenes is Beth's reaction to the beautiful piano given to her by elderly Mr Laurence, for her expression upon seeing it must surely have been the same as that displayed by my musically gifted sister when our parents managed to get hold of a second-hand upright piano for her. This piano subsequently lived in our scullery next to the copper where the original tenants boiled up their washing, our street and those surrounding it having been built for industrial and pit workers when Queen Victoria still ruled. Graced with high ceilings, picture rails, and ornate iron fireplaces, they are now sold for fabulous sums as artisans' dwellings. When we lived there, there was still a working gas light in our bedroom but the entire place was also extremely damp and the only plumbing was a cold tap in the scullery, the necessary offices being in the back yard -- about as far as you can get from the brown stone March house which, although old and a little shabby, had a garden with roses and vines and stood on a quiet street in the suburbs.

Yet as thousands of readers from numerous countries living in all sorts of housing have discovered, there is much emotional common ground with this delightful tale of a family's ups and downs and its tears and triumphs. I loved Little Women the first time I read it and every year or so I re-read it. The four March sisters -- gentle and ailing Beth, artistic but vain Amy, quiet, dependable Meg, and the tomboy bookworm Jo -- have become old friends. We see them shepherded by Marmee while their father, not strong enough to soldier and too old to be drafted, serves as a chaplain in the Civil War. Then there's their dashing next door neighbour Laurie, his grandfather Mr Laurence, Laurie's tutor John Brooke, the girls' rich but demanding Aunt March with her huge library and disrespectful parrot, plus a bevy of supporting characters, most of them types familiar to us all. Time has made Little Women as familiar and comfortable as a favourite pair of slippers, while that strong sense of the March family's love and emotional support for each other remains as striking as the first time I opened the book and began reading.

It is Jo, generous and good hearted although hasty in her speech until she learns patience, who has always been my favourite of the four sisters. She is the only character with whom I have ever identified and as a youngster I firmly declared that like her I was going to be a writer and furthermore intended to live in a garret. In fact, I said it so many times that it became family legend, one of those humourous stories trotted out whenever we'd gather for celebrations, like the saga of when my brother-in-law lost me at a tender age in the London Tube system.

Now, years later, I live far away from Newcastle-on-Tyne. But I still have my battered old copy of Little Women and I did finally achieve that long-held ambition -- only I scribbled in a basement rather than a garret!


AND FINALLY

Samuel Johnson once remarked that the business of life is to go forward. Doubtless many of us won't be at all sorry to slam the gate on the difficult twelvemonth that has been 2017 with the fervent hope that next year will be better. Only fly in the ointment: the next edition of Orphan Scrivener will buzz into subscribers' inboxes on February 15th.

See you then!rĂ¢€¦ Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found 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, a bibliography, and our growing libraries of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Our joint blog is at http://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/ Intrepid subscribers may also wish to know our noms des Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales Drop in some time!


Sunday, October 15, 2017

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN -- 15 OCTOBER 2017

This issue of Orphan Scrivener is written on a day of dead calm, featuring glowering grey sky against which now advancing fall colour flares. Colder nights this past week have brought out the foliage-painting elves to wield brushes loaded with yellows of various tints in lemon, gold, canary, and even that shade of a person's hair known as flavicomous. Red, scarlet, and ruby will follow if leaves hang on long enough, so while subscribers wait to see the full display they may care to continue reading this latest newsletter....


MARY'S BIT or LIMBURGER OR LAPPI?

It was just a couple of months ago when we stood on the quay waving our hankies and tossing confetti as the good ship Ruined Stone sounded its siren and sailed off to meet its fate.

Once a new book disappears from view over the horizon, we are invariably anxious about its journey -- until we see the first review. However, like the proverbial cheese, once out in the world every book must stand alone. And the first to the cheese board are reviewers. Will they judge our latest literary offering to be akin to lappi or to limburger?

But every time, after that first review appears, whether it's complimentary or critical, we are freed from worry and return to lurching along on our usual erratic course. Others have mentioned this same anxiety until the first review appears. Why it should be so we have no notion, but so it is.

Yet critical reviews are not always necessarily as difficult to cope with as might be thought. They are sometimes useful to the writer if they include a few words dealing with why the reviewer did not care for the work in question. It may sound contradictory at first blush, but those type of comments form a yardstick both for readers who don't share the reviewer's taste in mysteries as well as those who do. The first may well think twice about buying the book in question, not caring for it, and returning it to the seller (is there any other profession where it is possible to sample the goods and then return them for a refund or store credit?) whereas the second will hopefully rely on agreeing with the reviewer's preferences yet again and order it. Sadly, it is been our observation that such constructive criticism, while gold to be mined, tends to be uncommonly found just as in nature.

Perhaps we just don't write the right kind of books?

Of course writers must be able to handle rejection although it may never be an easy task, not least because they will have laboured for months -- or in many cases even longer -- to produce the work under discussion. Going by anecdotal evidence it's usually the memory of a scathing review that lingers much longer than one praising a novel to the skies. Indeed, if any of our subscribers talks to a writer at a conference or book signing, they shouldn't be surprised if they are able to remember and ruefully relate at least one such review.

A well-known anecdote concerning this topic, although concerning a different type of artistic endeavour, involves Morecambe and Wise, who ultimately became what many consider the most popular English comedy double act of any era. Early in their television career they were panned by a writer for The People newspaper in a review defining a TV set as "the box in which they buried Morecambe and Wise." Morecambe (the one with the glasses) is said to have carried that review around with him for the rest of his life.

Like everyone else who's put kalamos to parchment, we've had less than stellar reviews on more than one occasion. So long as the content sticks to the writing that's fair enough. But when a review turns into a personal attack it's a different pan of potatoes and demonstrates a clear attempt to accomplish what H. L. Mencken once described as prejudice made plausible.

Let me mention -- no, I insist! -- an instance of which we are personally aware. Several years ago, a reviewer unknown to us spent most of what he or she had written about one of John's adventures to attack another author, who subsequently revealed to us this was not the first time it had happened. Our collective deduction was whoever was responsible obviously had an axe to grind, although what it could be and why we should have the dubious honour of being chosen as its latest handle none of us ever found out.

Still, our favourite critical review was a classic one-liner emailed directly to us. It stated in total "And for what it's worth, you're writing sucks". As an insult it struck me as weak tea given it's one peculiar to this country, so since it does not form part of my cultural background it was nothing about which I could get in a bate, while my worthy co-writer found it comical on the grounds if you are going to insult someone, it's always a good plan to check your spelling first. We can only suppose our correspondent was cheesed off.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

Speaking of reviews, a few more for Ruined Stones appeared during this last month or two.

A mystery with dark and dangerous undercurrents that will keep you turning the pages. A "Must Read" for any serious fan of historical mysteries. Doward Wilson, Kings River Life News

...a sharp picture of working class life and of criminals flourishing amidst a lack of police...One to enjoy without haste. Ward Saylor, Crime Thru Time

[The authors] mention the selection of Newcastle as a conscious choice as a balance to the London-centric tendency for Blitz stories. The cold and fog makes a suitable adjunct to the chill coming off the old ruins to help sustain the atmosphere of a modern ghost story. The lack of heat or other comforts in a poor area of the city and the need to spend nights underground in cold and damp shelters also does much to create an atmosphere. Chris Roberts, Crime Review

The tone and sense of time and place are near perfect. The town suffers from despair and loss, of plodding ahead because the past is ruined...With this so-cool it chills suspense novel, they may have another success on their hands. Blogger Martin Hill Ortiz


ERIC'S BIT or A WALK TO THE GRAVEYARD

At this time of year, when there aren't many nights between now and Halloween, it's natural our thoughts turn more often to graveyards and those at rest there.

Years ago I considered it a treat to walk with my grandmother to the cemetery a block from where our family lived. When you're six, the end of the street is a long way and the cemetery on the far side of a road you aren't allowed cross by yourself seems even further.

The small cemetery might have been another world, enclosed by a painted, wrought iron fence with a gate that creaked as we entered. Inside was quiet. The sounds of passing traffic did not penetrate the shadows under the old, overgrown yew trees. There we heard only bird calls and the buzzing of the honeybees in the luxuriant clover which half concealed flat grave markers. I'd be thrilled and horrified to find I had set my sneaker, unknowingly, on a slab of polished granite.

At the oldest end of the place, lichened stones leaned against the fence and sat in neat piles, inscriptions too eroded to identify. I was awed by their age. What inconceivable vastness of time would it take to wear away the names and memories of the living?

The family plot was at the edge of the newer end in the sunlight, just beyond the yews. In early summer there were sweet, wild strawberries to be found in the grass.

The night after I watched my grandfather's coffin lowered from view I lay in bed and thought about him out there in the dark, in the cold, alone, so close I could have heard him shout for me.

Then it was different when my grandmother and I walked to the cemetery. Then I was old enough to read the dates on the gravestones. I helped my grandmother tend the geraniums by the grave. When she fussed with the flower bed I saw her straightening my grandfather's tie.

A few years later I watched an aunt buried and in twenty years I returned again -- this time not from the end of the street but from another state -- to see my grandmother join them.

I noticed that the cemetery had expanded but the rusting fence hadn't been extended to replace the vanished trees which had edged the yards beyond. There was no longer any demarcation between house and cemetery lawns. The graves simply petered out a few feet from a children's swing set.

There is room in the family plot still. My instructions, though, are firm. I will be cremated and my ashes scattered far away, perhaps over water, some place no one can walk to.


AND FINALLY

We spoke of leaves at the beginning of this issue and now, having reaching its end, the time has come to take our leave from subscribers until the next Orphan Scrivener, which will appear in in-boxes on 15th December.

See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found 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, a bibliography, and our growing libraries of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Our joint blog is at http://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/ Intrepid subscribers may also wish to know our noms des Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales Drop in some time!


The Orphan Scrivener -- Issue # One Hundred and Fifty-Nine -- 15 June 2026

The noiseless feet of time have been marching in double-quick cadence this last couple of months since in retrospect it seems only a few day...