THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN -- 15 OCTOBER 201

We are now at that time of the year when mornings are slower to dawn and nightfall is drawing in something shocking. Samuel Taylor Coleridge described the latter indication of advancing winter wonderfully well when he observed that the dark comes at one stride. Another thing that arrives at one stride, although in its case it's via the unlit tubes of the interwebz, is this latest issue of Orphan Scrivener. Click on your lights and read on...

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MARY'S BIT or AT LEAST THERE WERE TREES IN THE CEMETERY

It's about a fortnight to Halloween, when the spirits of the departed are said to pass through the veil between us and them for just that one night. Yet it's possible in some places they don't have to wait for late October to visit our side, given my brother once advised us younger siblings if we happened to be waiting at the bus stop next to the cemetery at the top of our street we should never turn round if someone tapped on our shoulder.

My contention is if such tappers of shoulders were able to make the journey during daylight they would not have to wait until I wanted to catch a bus at night, because while I was never in the cemetery during the dark hours I was quite often there of a weekend afternoon strolling about or tidying up overgrown graves, none of which had any connection with the Reeds since nobody in our family was buried there. Even so, there were neglected resting places requiring attention and I was there so why not do it?

It is sad to think of a family dying out completely or circumstances forcing them to move away, no longer able to keep weeds down or bring a bunch of flowers or talk to their departed loved ones. Then too I have no doubt there are many sad stories to be told of someone falling out with the rest of their relatives, who now cannot bring themselves to at least keep their final resting place in good repair. There's many a tale hidden in cemeteries and not all of them as complimentary as most epitaphs. In fact, when pondering that point we would do well to recall the slogan of the News of the World: all human life is there. Except in this case the lives involved are now extinct.

Newcastle's St John's Cemetery, familiarly known as Elswick Cemetery, covers about twenty acres of sloping terrain facing south, giving a panoramic view of the River Tyne and beyond. It has elaborate gothic gateways and now disused buildings -- a couple of lodges, a chapel for members of the Church of England and another for dissenters -- all in a state in sad disrepair these days.

My favourite monuments were the beautiful, if soot encrusted, angels. Since the cemetery opened in Victorian times, its tombs, gravestones, and memorials were soon blackened, inscriptions flaking away by the action of the acid atmosphere locals enjoyed before the Clean Air Act.

Speaking of angels, my favourite was across the river in Gateshead's Saltwell Park. Whenever there I visited the angel, portrayed with magnificently outspread wings and holding out a chaplet representing peace for the fallen. A memorial to Gateshead men who died in the Boer War, it's situated within sight of Saltwell Towers, an ornate red brick Victorian mansions. As a child I often wished I could live there. I particularly enjoyed strolling along its crenelated walk overlooking a maze created when the original family occupied the Towers. Many's the time I've leaned on that wall looking down into alleys of clipped yews, especially when visitors to the park were fumbling around in them trying to find their way out again. The older me has pondered more than once what a wonderful setting house and maze would be for a murder mystery. One day perhaps.

Crossing back over the river, Elswick Cemetery was one of my childhood favourite places. There were trees! Actual trees! You'd have to trek a fair way from our street to see any trees once outside the cemetery, set as it is amid an urban sea of streets of terraced housing with slate roofs and concrete back yards in a city of shipyards, factories, and foundries. During those years if I was not up in our attic reading, I was most likely to be found somewhere on that quiet twenty acres.

Given my affectionate memories of these places, it's not surprising Elswick Cemetery and the Boer Memorial both make appearances in Ruined Stones, our second Grace Baxter novel. However, it was not until we were writing it that I realised I must have passed by Dr John Hunter Rutherford's grave numerous times when wandering about Elswick Cemetery, not knowing at the time the grammar school I was to attend years later was named after him. In fact, it was not until then I learned the school motto is his clan's motto, engraved on his monument -- nec sorte nec fato, meaning neither by chance nor fate.

And speaking of fate and chance, we've had three narrow escapes from suddenly falling trees somehow missing us, the house, or the buggy. I guess our guardian angels were on the job!

Since a photograph is worth a paragraph or three, interested parties may care to view these excellent examples. Dr Rutherford's grave (scroll down the page)

https://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=982536&page=181

Saltwell Park's Boer Memorial, with a sun-lit Saltwell Towers in the background

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saltwell_Park#/media/File:Boer_War_Memorial,_Saltwell_Park_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1580717.jpg

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

This time around, the ticker is trotting out a fairly fast footage so let's get right to it.

LAUNCHING SOON or AN EMPIRE FOR RAVENS ON THE RUNWAY

In just over a week's time An Empire For Ravens takes flight. While the official publication date is 23rd October, it's already available for pre-order at the usual suspects on and offline. PW gave it a starred review, describing it as outstanding and adding "The cleverness of the plot and the solution to the murder are among the series’s best." Full review here

https://www.publishersweekly.com/978-1-4642-1065-5

STOP PRESS or AN AUTHORIAL CRIMESPREE

We heard this very afternoon Crimespree Magazine has just published our Five Things About... interview, in which we chatted about how we came to be published by Poisoned Pen Press -- an unusual tale as we would be the first to admit -- our co-writing method, and the extensive research needed for An Empire For Ravens, given neither of us have set foot in Rome.

http://crimespreemag.com/five-things-an-empire-for-ravens-by-mary-reed-and-eric-mayer/

AN OVERLOOKED RESOURCE or ADVERTISEMENT: WRITER SEEKS IDEAS

A question often asked of writers is where they find their plot ideas. There are numerous places to stumble over them, but an unusual and somewhat overlooked resource is described in our guest essay for the Writers Who Kill blog -- with several examples even!

https://writerswhokill.blogspot.com/2018/10/advertisement-writer-seeks-ideas-by.html

Founded in 2010 by mystery authors, the Writers Who Kill blog features writers at various stages in their careers, providing a venue for them to discuss aspects of writing and books as well as offering opportunities for guest author interviews and essays.

WORLD RULER MARRIES WORKING GIRL or AN UNLIKELY STORY?

Sounds like a tired trope: world ruler marries working girl, and together they help the downtrodden, living happily ever after. But how many of those couples are later considered saints by the Eastern Orthodox Church? Suzanne Adair's Relevant History blog features guests showing just how non-boring history is, and never mind what you thought about it in high school! Our contribution deals with an unusual and important aspect of the unlikely story of Justinian and Theodora.

http://bit.ly/2OKRaaU

JOHN GRILLED or HIS GREATEST FEAR, AMONG OTHER TOPICS

John was grilled like a kipper by Lois Winston for her Killer Crafts and Crafty Killer blog. Revelations therein include one of the strangest things his biographers had him experience, what he dislikes about himself, and his greatest fear.

https://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com/2018/10/book-club-friday-interview-with-mary.html

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ERIC'S BIT or A NIGHTMARE AT THE MALL

Sometimes I wonder why we aren't afraid to doze off every night. You never know what you're going to run into in your sleep. In my case it usually isn't good.

The other night I came to consciousness abruptly with Mary shaking my shoulder, the final reverberations of a hideous scream still echoing in my ears.

"Are you awake? You were yelling. What was it?"

"A nightmare."

"I gathered that. About what?"

Generally my dreams leak back into my subconscious like a retreating fog before I can recall them, but this time I grabbed hold of a wispy tendril and yanked the nasty thing back into the light.

"We were visiting the mall."

Dawn must have been near because the bedroom windows showed as grey rectangles. Strange how the worst of night's terrors stalk the borders of day. There wasn't enough light yet to see the perplexity on Mary's face but I could hear it in her voice. "I know you don't like shopping but--"

"Well, you see, we went with my parents. My dad had just brought a lion home. The lion went with us too."

"A lion? What did your father want with a lion?"

"I have no idea. If he had an urge for a lion...." I shrugged even though Mary couldn't see me, the same way I gesticulate when I'm on the phone. "Anyhow, on the way to the mall there really wasn't enough room in the back of the car for the two of us and a fully grown lion. Besides, I was a little concerned about whether it was entirely tame."

"Then you started yelling?"

"Nothing happened in the car. Then we were sitting on one of those low, blocky seats they always have in the middle of mall corridors. Like a square, hard ottoman. Is there a name for them?"

"I'll Google it when we get up. I'm surprised everyone fit on the seat."

"Probably it was just the lion perched there. "

"Salivating over the passing shoppers?"

"Actually the place was deserted. Everything was dim, like when they start to turn the lights out at closing time. But I realized that half the money in our bank account had vanished."

Mary agreed that would be enough to make anyone scream and asked how I had found out. I tried to recall but had to admit I couldn't. My dreams invariably give the impression of having stretched far back beyond the final scenes I can remember. "At any rate, I wanted to go to the bank's branch office to see what was going on."

"Perhaps your father bought the lion on your debit card?"

Somewhere in the gray light beyond the window a bird sang out, no doubt causing the hearts of several earthworms to palpitate in terror as my heart still did, provided the aortic arches that serve earthworms as hearts can palpitate. "I needed to find the bank. I walked along the nearest corridor, then turned down another. The whole place was in a weird half-light. Most of the storefronts were boarded up. There seemed to be construction going on. Black plastic tarps hung from the ceiling in places, hiding whatever was behind them."

"Suddenly an eldritch horror burst out from behind one of the tarps?"

"No. Nothing like that. It was a lot worse. I noticed a woman coming along the corridor towards me."

"A hazy indistinct shape?" suggested Mary, a hazy, indistinct shape in the faint light from the gradually brightening windows.

"No, she was just like anyone you'd see at the mall. I wish I could tell you she was a foggy wraith, a noctilucent phantom."

Mary asked me why.

"Because I really like the word noctilucent, don't you? Now, picture it. I'm in this gloomy, empty corridor of boarded-up stores, the mouldering ruins of ancient Merry Go Rounds and Father and Son Shoes. And this woman is coming towards me, the only living thing I've seen here."

"Except for the rest of the family and the lion?"

"They're all out of the story at this point. Dreams are funny that way. So then she walks past me and as she does, she says 'The mall is closed'! Which is when I started screaming."

"'The mall is closed'?"

"Please, don't repeat it. Makes me shiver just remembering it."

"You were screaming because the mall was closed?"

"I guess you had to be there."

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AND FINALLY

We don't know about what's now happening there but since subscribers have arrived here, we'll close with a reminder the next issue of Orphan Scrivener will roar into their 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!

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THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE -- 15 AUGUST 2018

August has been described as summer's last messenger of misery, and we venture to declare most, if not all, of us would nod in weary agreement as heatwaves continue here and abroad. Alas, August is also the month when another issue of Orphan Scrivener slinks forth to add to subscribers' gloom. And here it is...

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ERIC'S BIT or KING OF THE WILD SUMMER VACATION

When I was thirty and writing about my so very recent childhood, I remarked on how summers between school years seemed to stretch on forever as if that was something that anyone who'd ever gone to school or been a child needed to be told. Recently I've come to realize there is a different kind of truth to the old cliche.

In fact, those summers have lasted forever for me. The detail and persistence of my memories of living them have permanently shaped the mythology of my life and my interpretation of everything that has happened to me since. This is true of all my recollected past, but those summers, early and filled with fresh, vivid experiences, have had an especially strong effect.

Just the other evening as I started up the stairs to the office I paused to glance out the back window into a gray twilight, already thickening into night under the bushes and ferns at the border of the woods. At the edge of my vision a flash of green appeared high in the air, vanished, then reappeared closer to the center of the yard for an instant. My mind wanted to draw a dim line of imagined luminescence, a stop-action animation, joining where the flash had been to where it was.

On an another July evening, decades ago, around the edges of the big lawn, in the dark massed brush between a cottage and a creek, in the shadowy bergamot, beneath the black, drooping boughs of hemlocks, a thousand fireflies flashed in and out of existence. Our brains do not like randomness, particularly when it is too big to grasp, so almost immediately, practically before the last pale line of sunset had faded from above the rolling mountains, the insects appeared to have synchronized, like a neon sign, shattered into innumerable tiny pieces yet still blinking in unison. No longer tiny, individual fliers, but a huge, mysterious pattern, beating against the darkness.

After that, how could I ever be satisfied with a single firefly, or even a few? Right then and there was fixed in my mind the ideal summer night, that all summer nights would be judged against.

Similarly how could I be happy with a handful of days off from work once I had experienced the eternity of freedom between third and fourth grade? For that matter, why was it necessary to work so hard for a living when I was used to earning all the money I needed by ambling about, picking up returnable soda cans careless parkgoers left littered next to the brick grills and picnic tables under the birches? It didn't take many five cent deposits to purchase all the red hot Atomic jawbreakers and fudge popsicles I needed.

There was during those summers one instance of great good luck, or so I imagined. It was the year I collected Davy Crockett cards. What a thrill it was to open the crinkly wax paper, pop the hard slab of gum into my mouth, and wipe pink dust off the first card in the pack. What would it be? A picture I'd never seen, or just another of the boring pictures of Davy fighting Indians, of which I already had a dozen duplicates? The bubble gum was too sweet and the flavor barely lasted as long as it took me to go through the five cards. At the beginning of the summer nearly every pack held a new treasure. But as my collection grew so too did my disappointments. More and more often I found only familiar pictures.

The little store that sold the cards and penny candies and other items vacationers might want sat beside the road not far from the park. I recall setting out on my almost daily quest, having saved up a quarter or so from my soda can collecting. At the road I walked alongside the macadam which was hot enough to burn the soles of your feet if you didn't move fast enough.

As the end of summer neared and the unthinkable horror of school loomed, I had found 79 out of the set of 80. I lacked only Number 76 -- A Bullet Finds Its Mark. Week after week (or so it seems in recollection) I looked for that card, only to find more damned Indians. The taste of the gum was practically enough to give me a belly ache. Was #76 rare, like a Mickey Mantle baseball card? But why that card in particular, which I knew from watching the Disney series must show the death of the gambler on the ramparts of the Alamo?

It was the very last day at the park, or near enough, that I trudged to the store in despair and took the pack the proprietor kindly handed to me. I had all but given up hope as I opened the wax paper, pushed the gum aside, and ran a finger through the dust. And to my amazement there he was, Thimblerig the gambler, bent over from the impact of a musket ball to the chest.

Victory!

Years later I was told that the store owner, having heard often enough about the card I lacked, had unwrapped and examined every pack in the cartons he had so he could hand me the appropriate one.

Though the park is long gone, replaced by a gravel parking lot, those childhood summers have stayed with me. As the years have passed I've kept searching, hoping to find that final thing -- whatever it might be -- that will make everything complete.

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

Our anxious waiting period is over! The ticker just coughed out the first notices for An Empire For Ravens and to our delight Publishers Weekly has awarded it a *starred* review. Declaring it to be "outstanding", the reviewer is of the opinion "The cleverness of the plot and the solution to the murder are among the series’s best." Hurrah!

Meantime, Kirkus Reviews thought the novel "places the reader in the middle of the turmoil of sixth-century Rome and into a tense historical mystery."

Available in four editions, An Empire For Ravens appears in October and may be pre-ordered from

Amazon

https://shorturl.at/oCUV0

directly from Poisoned Pen Press

https://poisonedpenpress.com/books/an-empire-for-ravens-a-john-the-lord-chamberlain-mystery-12/

or from the usual suspects on or offline.

A brief description for interested parties:

Emperor Justinian's former Lord Chamberlain, John, receives a letter from his longtime comrade Felix, and, placing loyalty to a friend above his own safety, risks defying imperial edict by leaving his exile in Greece for Rome where Felix is in some kind of trouble.

For years a Captain of the Excubitors at the court in Constantinople, Felix has achieved his ambition to become a general when Justinian sends him to serve under General Diogenes in fighting for Rome against the besieging Goths.

John’s covert entrance into Rome is ambushed, driving him deep into ancient catacombs before he exits into the heart of the city. Arrested and brought before Diogenes, John learns that Felix is missing. It has been two days since he went to call upon Archdeacon Leon, a troublesome man at the heart of Felix’s dispatch to the city.

When sent to lodge at Felix’s quarters, John finds the household in disarray, evidence that Felix has taken a questionable lover and run up his usual debts, and someone is rifling supplies. Then a young woman servant, also missing, is found dead. John has many mysteries to solve before Diogenes’ courier to Justinian can return and prompt John’s immediate execution.

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MARY'S BIT or WHEN APPLIANCES TURN ROGUE

Last summer I described the battle to get our lawnmower to start. I'm happy to report this year the mower has been behaving itself better. Indeed, this week it took only three pulls on the string thingy to get it chugging away.

In retrospect, the lawmmower aggravation could well have been an omen of the distressing pattern now developing at Casa Maywrite. Subscribers will remember in the last newsletter I mentioned they were conspiring to misbehave, although fortunately not in a murderous fashion as in the Benny Hill Show sketch when appliances turned rogue and attacked their owners.

Here, the fridge led the charge. It's an ancient model. So ancient that when we called the manufacturer about replacing a crisper drawer, the customer service representative could not find it in their list. So it's fair to say the model is at least thirty years old but while we can manage with the current crisper, the freezer compartment is more problematic. It works as it should and items remain rock solid in there, well, except ice cream tends not as firm as we might like, but its door is a miracle of improvisation. Its hinge was already broken when we arrived but we've managed to get it to work with a curious arrangement formed of bent wire and stretchy hair bands. We've been seeking a possible replacement for some time now. When the current appliance is retired it could serve as a garage beer cooler, if we ever drank beer and had a garage. But someone might like to take it for that purpose when the time comes.

The problem is the new fridge must be small enough to navigate the space between cooker and the corner of the stairs, since a niche under the latter is the only place it can go. Further, it must be below a certain height, depth, and width to fit the available space. So far all we've been able to find are either too small or too tall. The fellow at the store whence will come our cooker was not hopeful about our finding a model of the right height, given the current available sizes of these appliances. So the search goes on. Wish us luck!

However, the bigger difficulty we have is the gas cooker. A while ago its oven suddenly took to opening with a crash, due to a malfunctioning door rod. Either that or gremlins have taken up residence in the crawl space. Plus now the oven cannot be relied on to maintain the set heat. All in all, it seems a better idea to replace it rather than have it repaired, though spare parts are still available though the model itself is not.

An easy solution, no?

Ha!

For a start, due to the kitchen's configuration there's only space for an apartment sized cooker. These may be ordered online, but that won't work for us because we'd still have to find a gas fitter. Fortuna however smiled and we've just found a local source happy not only to provide a cooker of the right size but also to deliver and install it, and take the old one away. Can't shake a stick at that for service, can you? It may be a few weeks before it's available, since they sends in orders in batches of ten, but should things become really desperate, special delivery is available at additional cost. Stay tuned!

Irony however is not dead. Less than ten minutes after the buggy rolled home after visiting said shop, a small white service van drew up next door, its side boldly announcing it to be from an appliance repair business. The mechanical universe may conspire against us but does it have to taunt us as well?

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THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN -- 15 JUNE 201

Lately our household appliances have been getting together to misbehave, so our recent days have not featured dances of delight (obligatory tip of chapeau to Phil Ochs). Even so, Orphan Scrivener waltzes along and so strike up the band!

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MARY'S BIT or IF YOU WERE A GHOST...

Summer is here and that means an increase in entertaining indoors and out. For the socially shy such occasions can be nerve wracking and the biggest question to be faced is how to start a conversation with a stranger?

When I was in my teens offering a light was a sure-fire way to get the conversational ball rolling, but that possibility is now largely gone with the smoky wind, despite encouragement offered by the Singing Postman's 'A 'Ee Got A Loit, Boy? sung in broad Norfolk dialect -- so much more comfortable than formal dress, no?

I never had much patience for another popular opening, an enquiry about birth signs. However, impatience is a trait astrologers generally connect with Sagittarius -- not my sign, so make of it what you will. If you have the patience.

Many conversations in these jamborees start with a query concerning what the other party does to scratch out a living, why not ask about interesting or comical incidents at their workplace instead?

If asked the latter question I would relate the fraught occasion when I dropped the tray while taking the visiting chairman of the board's light lunch to him. The ham and salad were scattered far and wide, the coffee puddled at my feet. Panic ensued among the other secretaries. It was early closing day and so replacing the all important ham was just not possible. So I washed it extremely well, gave the salad a second thorough sluicing, made more coffee, and brazened it out. When I collected the tray our chairman said it was the best ham he had ever tasted.

Then there was the time I was offered the very nice job on which I had set my sights. I am convinced to this day I snagged it because the boss and I spent most of the hour long interview discussing The Lord of the Rings, both of us being Tolkien fans. How did this meeting of the minds come out? Because I was asked about my hobbies and replied reading was important to me. I am not so sure such a question would even be allowed these days.

Another good conversational opening: the most embarrassing incident the other person saw. For example, when I still lived in England I happened to be in a fish and chip shop among several people standing at the counter chatting to the fryer while waiting for the next batch of chips to be cooked. A fellow came in and gave one of my fellow queuers a hearty boot in the rear. Needless to say, he immediately whipped around and confronted the kicker, who went pale and said "I thought you were someone else!" There has to be a story behind the incident, but I never learnt what it was, alas.

A handful of gambits more recently composed with my immediate thoughts on what I would reply if asked myself. What's on your bucket list? (To see the sea again). I've often wished I could tap dance, how about you? (True, but I don't think my wonky ankle would like it). Ever noticed how the sets of many TV shows or films have a barometer in the background? (We have, and they are more numerous than might be thought. Also, says Eric, sightings of a stuffed bear). What's your favourite remedy for flu? (Try a lemon drink as hot as you can stand it and then off to bed immediately). If you were a ghost, where would you haunt? (Still debating that one).

I do have a natural advantage when beginning conversations with strangers. It's not so much starting one as just listening once the other person hears my accent, for I find a high proportion of people I have met in this country have either been to the UK or would like to visit it. So we get along like a house on fire comparing notes on places they've visited over there or would like to see one day.

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

And now for the first of this year's summer round-ups...

AWAY THEY FLY or NERVOUS DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN

ARCs of An Empire for Ravens are currently flying off to reviewers, and once again the dark talons of anxiety grip us. It's curious, we admit, but no matter the nature of the first review, once it's out the nervous cloud lifts.

Empire's official publication date is October 2nd, but print editions are already available for pre-order from Amazon

shorturl.at/hBEKO

Barnes & Noble

shorturl.at/DJ389

and Poisoned Pen Press

https://poisonedpenpress.com/books/an-empire-for-ravens-a-john-the-lord-chamberlain-mystery-12/

For those who prefer them, the ebook will also become available in the next month or two.

KRL'S NEW VENTURE or A RUINED STONES EXTRACT

Kings River Life Magazine has just announced their new mystery podcast, Mysteryrat's Maze Podcast. Episodes will broadcast short mystery stories and first chapters of mystery novels, read by actors in California's San Joaquin Valley. We've just heard their November 6th podcast will feature an extract from Ruined Stones, published last July under our shadow identity Eric Reed. Those interested in subscribing to these podcasts should point their clicker to http://mysteryratsmaze.podbean.com. To check who'll be featured and when, KRL offer a podcast newsletter at http://tinyletter.com/kingsriverlife

SHORT AND SOMETIMES SWEET or INTERNATIONAL SHORT STORY MONTH

The news arrived too late for the last issue so here's the skinny. Members of the Short Mystery Fiction elist contributed to May's International Short Story Month, we among them with The Thorn (http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/thorn05.htm) and Or Equivalent Experience (http://kingsriverlife.com/10/20/or-equivalent-experience/), the latter inspired by a newspaper advert some years ago seeking participants for a psychic fair.

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ERIC'S BIT or AN UNMUSICAL BRICK

Sunday afternoon I watched a live set by Priests on YouTube. Wikipedia identifies the band as post-punk. Music classifications have proliferated since the Sixties. Back then there was only rock n’ roll and all the other stuff I didn’t listen to. Whatever they are, Priests are loud. I listened while Mary did the laundry. The machine noise spared her from the concert. Don’t think I make my co-author drudge away while I entertain myself. After all, I serve as head cook and bottle washer at Casa Maywrite.

Mary and I do agree on a lot of music. She introduced me to Phil Ochs, the folk/protest singer who was never properly appreciated during his short lifetime. I haven’t quite converted her to punk rock. Oh, I dare say she can bear the Ramones, or at least pretends to. They are one of my favorite bands.

Music fascinates me in a way writing can’t. I’ve spent too much time writing for it to retain any glamor. I know too much about the mechanics. I know too well how tapping out letters one by one on a keyboard can ultimately result in a novel, but to me coaxing a song from guitar strings might as well be magic.

I am as unmusical as a brick. At college I was the only male student who didn’t sport a guitar around campus. When it came to mating rituals I was a peacock without a tail. The high point for my musical career was playing triangle in the fourth grade production of The Anvil Chorus, and not lead triangle either. Around that time my dad wanted me to learn trumpet, the instrument he played in the navy band, but I didn’t have the lung capacity or the interest. And who wants to monkey with an instrument you need to periodically let spit out of anyway?

Those trumpet lessons taught me that I lack the ability to comprehend not just musical notation but the very concept of notes. What are they? Where do they come from? Not out of my mouth, that’s for sure. I’ve got plenty of mumbles in there, and grumbles, rumbles, squawks, and croaks. All sorts of unpleasant noises, but not a single note. Our grade school music teacher taught us “Do Re Mi” but all I got was “Beats Me….”

No matter where I try to start a song it always ends up going too high or low. I’ve suffered a lifetime of public shame, lip syncing the National Anthem and Happy Birthday and The Old Wooden Cross while everyone around me warbled and boomed in joyful tunefulness. I got so much practice moving my lips vaguely I could’ve appeared on American Bandstand.

But the beauty of my musical ignorance is that I can listen uncritically, in amazement, with pure enjoyment. Unlike writing, music retains its mysterious glamour.

I was into rock and the British Invasion back when people were “into” things. The Kinks, Beatles, Doors, Stones.Then in the eighties, going to school in New York City, I toured Village record stores every week searching for the newest punk/new wave singles. I even squeezed in a few visits to the CBGB rock club, seeing Blondie, Wire, and the Dead Boys.

Lately I’ve been listening to music again after being out of touch for many years. It’s remarkable how many great new artists I’ve missed. My generation’s music didn’t have a monopoly on genius. Maybe I ought to take guitar lessons. Then again, why ruin it for myself?

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AND FINALLY

As promised last time, we close with an update on last June's Great Red-Headed Woodpecker War. This year we've occasionally heard his buddies hammering about in the woods, but the dawn visits of a specific bird seeking to practice drum solos on our guttering last summer have not been repeated. These days the sleepy buzz of mowers forms most of what we hear, or at least before August heat makes lawns look forlorn and die off. Meantime, August 15th will see the next issue of Orphan Scrivener buzzing into subscribers' in-boxes.

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!

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