In my ongoing series of interviews, today I'm pleased to share my chat with Michael McPherson, author of the Sioux Rock Falls series.. Here's what's going on inside his head...
1. Tell me about your newest release.
I have two books coming out by June 1st:
A Summer of Bridges is an anthology of the Sioux Rock Falls series of short stories that first appeared in Storyteller magazine. Kenny is a teenager sent to work with his uncle's construction crew--five-hundred miles north of Toronto. Kenny's single mother is trying to keep him from hanging out for the summer with a friend that she considers a bad influence. But Kenny finds more trouble in Sioux Rock, and he's forced to make tough choices over the summer that will deeply affect other lives, as well as his own.
Vampire Road is set in a post-apocalyptic future where a disease that causes vampirism has infected over half the population of the planet. I came up with the idea after reading Salem's Lot and thinking: but what if they didn't kill the vampire and he just kept making more vampires? If I make two vampires and they make two vampires, etc, eventually humans will be forced to live in walled towns and fight off armies of vampires.
New religions evolve, as humans stressed to the breaking point fight amongst themselves despite the external threats. Thus our hero, Fitz, finds himself threatened by human enemies as well as vampires, or rippers as he calls them.
Think of the movie, Priest, just released this week, combined with the fall of Constantinople to the Turks.
2. What is the best thing about independent publishing?
Speed and control. I've been working on Vampire Road for over ten years, but when a friend sent me the link to a movie trailer for Priest two weeks ago, pointing out how similar it was to Vampire Road, I could respond quickly to take advantage of the promotional hype of the movie. I sent the manuscript to my editor (Storyteller Magazine's former editor) and called a cover artist.
If I sent Vampire Road to an agent or publisher today, they'd say it was too much like Priest and they wouldn't be able to bring it to market for two years. By then readers will have moved on from vampires, and maybe poltergeists will be back in vogue.
3. What is the worst thing about indie publishing?
Getting past the stigma of self-published. Despite the fact that there are many excellent indie-pubbed authors out there, I hear more often about the bad ones, like Howett, author of The Greek Seaman. She went ballistic on a reviewer for complaining about her poor grammar and non-existent copy editing. She dropped the f-bomb a couple of times. It went viral.
But now that mainstream authors like Barry Eisler are going indie, I think readers will begin to realize that a $2.99 e-book can be a good read. Authors like Amanda Hocking, John Locke and J.A. Konrath are also setting the traditional publishing world on edge by proving that there are quality indie-pubbed authors out there making money on their own--although Hocking has recently signed a seven-figure deal with St. Martins.
4. Who is one of your favourite mystery authors and why?
The fun thing about being on the Crime Writers of Canada is that I've been reading a lot of Canadian mysteries over the last few years. I hate to pick just one though. I'm a big fan of Giles Blunt, not just because he's a great writer, but also because the Algonquin Bay (thinly disguised North Bay) setting is in northern Ontario, an area I know well and love. But I'm also a big fan of Barbara Fradkin's Inspector Green novels. And then there's Mel Bradshaw, Sylvia Multash Warsh. I could go on and on.
5. Which is harder to write: dialogue or description?
Description--especially in action scenes, which is why I rely heavily on beta-readers and an editor. I get carried away with the pace and forget to add the details that give taste and touch. Fortunately I have a grumpy editor who helps me fill in the blanks by asking the right questions.
6. What is the most challenging thing about plot for you?
Staying focused. I have a lot of ideas, so it's easy to run amok on side plots that don't drive the main plot and can be ripped out with no loss to the story. As Michael Crichton said: "novels are not written. They're re-written." I look at each story thread and ask, "if I pull this out, will the reader be missing anything at the end of the novel?" If the answer is no, then it has to go.
7. If you could bring any fictional character (from any genre) to life for just one day, who would it be and why?
Jake, from W.O. Mitchell's Jake and the Kid. I had a similar mentor in my teen years. Mentors are important for boys and young men, and Jake is one of those people who can be trusted to point in the direction. He proves that common sense doesn't require a university degree, and it sometimes comes with very rough edges.
The character Merv in A Summer of Bridges is a lot like Jake. I based Merv on my mentor, a man who could swear up a blue streak and drink a bar dry, but he watched out for me and taught me to think about how my actions could affect other people.
8. Imagine writing a profile for Kenny for an internet dating site. What would it say?
Just went to lavalife to see what an internet dating site looks like. So here's what I would put up there for Kenny.
Kenny: reliable skater-dude available for dating. Age: 18. Body type: slim. Smoking habits: Thinking about it. Drinking habits: Socially. Religion: somewhat Catholic.
9. Canada is too small a country for an artist (any of the arts) to really make it “big”, to become a success. And there are those who say that if an author wants to “make it”, he or she needs to have a setting in the USA. How well do you think American audiences respond to Canadian settings?
They've responded well to Giles Blunt's Algonquin Bay, but as Agent Helen Heller pointed out, that is unusual, and Blunt's novels are great depictions of a part of Canada that is unlike anywhere in the US. I think that Canadian writers should stay out of our more American-like cities. Lonely Planet travel guide describes Toronto as an American city in Canada. It simply isn't an exotic location for American readers, so why bother reading about it?
When I launch, A Summer of Bridges, I intend to market it to Canadians, because it’s set in our backyard, but I am going to take a stab at the American market too, because the far north is unique. It's still a frontier, and frontiers sell well.
10. Whether authors want it to be or not, social media is an important part of being an author. What are your thoughts on Facebook, Twitter, and the like vis vis being a successful author?
Indie published author John Locke has over 20,000 twitter followers and is selling thousands of books. I'm late to social media, so I've a lot of catch-up to do, but clearly this is the marketing that allows an author to connect directly with fans. It's incredible, and it puts indie-authors on the same platform as traditionally published authors.
In fact, publishers that are desperately trying to keep market share in the face of e-books have finally started hiring staff to promote their authors again, a task they have just left up to the authors since the advent of social media.
11. What else would you like readers to know about you?
A friend once described me as a walking contradiction because I was spending my winters working toward a B.Sc in physics and my summers working construction. I think it has given me a unique perspective into our culturally stratified society. I can drink beer and watch the hockey game in a tavern in New Liskeard, Ontario, and yet I would still fit in after a symposium at McLennan Physical Laboratories, sipping wine and discussing particle physics. This helps me bring a wide variety of characters and perspectives to my writing.
For more on Michael McPherson, check him out his website http://www.michaelmcpherson.ca/
You can find Michael's works on Amazon at this link.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Interview with the Super Fantastic Steven Steinbock
Today I am very pleased to share an interview with Steven Steinbock, President of the International Association of Crime Writers (North America).
Interview questions for Steven Steinbock:
1. You have lots of impressive street cred in the world of mystery fiction, as an editor, a critic, a blogger and so on. How did you get to be Prez of Int’l Assoc. of Crime Writers? And are there (or were there) any members who felt the position of Prez ought to have gone to a published mystery novelist?
Thanks. I’m not sure about street cred, but I have been involved in crime fiction for a long time. The path that led me to become president of the North American branch of IACW is a strange one. The short version is that I helped solve a couple of issues we’d been having, and members of the board nominated me. At the time I was nominated I didn’t have any fiction published, but as far as I know, I was the only person who protested.
2. What is your most prized – not necessarily the most valuable – mystery collectible? What elusive mystery or whodunit collectible are you still looking for?
Easy. I spent an afternoon as a guest of Evan Hunter (AKA Ed McBain) a number of years ago. He treated me to lunch and I treated him to an interview. I brought along a small stack of books for him to sign. When he saw the first edition of Blackboard Jungle in my pile, even he was impressed. He paused for a moment of reflection before signing his name to the title page.
Another treasure: I have everything written by Jacques Futrelle, a turn-of-the-previous-century mystery writer who died aboard the Titanic. My copy of Diamond Master is signed by Futrelle. (I got him to sign it before the Titanic hit the iceberg).
3. In your opinion, is the grammar rule about never ending a sentence with a preposition (as in question #2 above) going the way of the dodo bird?
I don’t know the rule about which you are speaking. Seriously? It’s a bunko rule, designed by uninformed pedantics to criticize better writers than themselves. Shakespeare did it, didn’t he? Imagine if Prospero had said, “We are such stuff on which dreams are made.” Shakespeare probably dangled his modifiers, too, and beautifully.
4. If there were one review you could rescind/undo, what one would it be?
When I was writing for the Maine Sunday Telegram in the 1990s I reviewed a first book by a new author (no names) which I thought was badly written. I didn’t like the style. I felt the tone was wooden. Neither the characters nor the plot grabbed me. I gave it a less-than-warm review. It wasn’t a nasty review, mind you. But it would have been clear to anyone reading it that the book didn’t work for me. Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, and the New York Times all gave the book glowing reviews. I’m not sure I’d rescind the review, but it gave me pause.
5. How has your exposure to and involvement with AudioFile changed your view of books/stories/mysteries?
Words are very aural for me. I love the sound of good writing. Pick up a book by James Lee Burke or Gary Phillips and open it to any page and you’ll find words set out like notes in a symphony, words that beg to be savoured on the palate.
I disagree with the people who think audiobooks are for lazy people, that listening is cheating. Audiobooks may not be for everyone, but something that allows me to “read” – to consume books – while I’m driving or working out is a good thing.
6. Surely you have been to many crime fiction events over the years, at locations far and wide. What was the most memorable mystery event/conference/convention you attended? What was unique/special/interesting about it?
That would have to be Bloody Words in 2010, of course. That’s where I met you, Jill! Every mystery event I go to – the Edgars, Bouchercon, Left Coast Crime, Malice Domestic – is memorable. Crime writers are the nicest people on the planet. We commit murder for a living, but when we get together, you won’t find a more affable group anywhere.
7. Without fawning, there surely must be some author somewhere whom you have met who left you feeling a bit star struck, or maybe you even asked for an autograph or a photo op. Which author were you most excited about meeting and why? Ah, go ahead – fawn away…
I’ve known him now for eighteen years, but Lawrence Block still awes me a little. But like I said in response to your earlier question, crime writers are a genial bunch. Even Mary Higgins Clark is laid back and accessible.
8. Tell me about your current work in progress. I am dying to know more about the madman with the lynx and the quixotic rabbi.
It’s a mystery/suspense novel. My hero is a young, idealistic rabbi named Jake Lurie who wants to do the right thing, but isn’t sure he’s man enough. He’s also lonely. Then he meets up with his complete opposite – sort of cross between Joe Pike, Lord Falstaff, and a mountain man. His name is Santelli, and he makes it his mission to educate Jake in the ways of the world. Oh yeah, and he lives with a lynx.
9. What do you think is the best manner of killing/best weapon in a whodunit?
In one of his novels Earl Emerson dispensed with a villain at a dog-food processing plant. I thought that was pretty cool.
10. You have published one short story in Ellery Queen, and you are now working on a novel. What is the most difficult or challenging difference between short stories and novels?
They’re totally different animals. A short story is an idea or incident that is distilled into its essence and unveiled to the reader in the most efficiently elegant way possible. A novel is a series of characters and events woven and expanded toward resolution into something new. That’s what “novel” means, after all. Something new.
11. Your young, idealistic rabbi… (name?) How much is he like you? How much do you wish you were like him?
Jake is a lot like I was at 28. I wouldn’t mind being 28 again, but other than that, no. As I’ve gotten older, I think I’ve become more like Santelli, the madman with the lynx.
12. How many Yiddish words (if any) will you have in the book? You do not need to give the exact number, rounded off to the nearest one-hundredth is fine. I hope you use oy vey at least thrice, fahrklempt (sp?) verklempt (sp?) at least once, and schmuck no less than a dozen times. Have you read much if anything on Yiddish? It fascinates me. This question is more for my own curiosity than for the interview.
Ironically, the person most likely to use Yiddish in my story is the Italian mountain man. I didn’t want the book to turn into a parody of a “Seinfeld” episode. I didn’t want to get caught in Jewish clichés. When a Jew is chomping on a bagel while speaking Yiddish between spittle, it’s cliché. It’s much more interesting when a Korean or a Pakistani calls someone a putz or a shlimiel. An excellent recent book about Yiddish is Born to Kvetch by Michael Wex. It’s informative and clever, and so funny I could almost plotz.
13. I’d like to know more about the transition from theologian to your, ahem, “life of crime”. What do you wish to share? (Not sure how personal this might be and I don’t want to overstep my bounds…)
I rediscovered mysteries while I was attending a seminary in Jerusalem. I found a copy of The Big Sleep and I never looked back. Distilled down to their essences, detective fiction and theology are about the same stuff: chaos and order, crime and justice, and a little sex and intrigue thrown in for good measure.
14. Open ended final question: what else would you like readers to know about you/your writing/your character/your experience in and exposure to the world of crime fiction?
Nothing I can think of. Thanks for the opportunity to chat.
For more on Steven Steinbock, check out:
http://criminalbrief.com/
Interview questions for Steven Steinbock:
1. You have lots of impressive street cred in the world of mystery fiction, as an editor, a critic, a blogger and so on. How did you get to be Prez of Int’l Assoc. of Crime Writers? And are there (or were there) any members who felt the position of Prez ought to have gone to a published mystery novelist?
Thanks. I’m not sure about street cred, but I have been involved in crime fiction for a long time. The path that led me to become president of the North American branch of IACW is a strange one. The short version is that I helped solve a couple of issues we’d been having, and members of the board nominated me. At the time I was nominated I didn’t have any fiction published, but as far as I know, I was the only person who protested.
2. What is your most prized – not necessarily the most valuable – mystery collectible? What elusive mystery or whodunit collectible are you still looking for?
Easy. I spent an afternoon as a guest of Evan Hunter (AKA Ed McBain) a number of years ago. He treated me to lunch and I treated him to an interview. I brought along a small stack of books for him to sign. When he saw the first edition of Blackboard Jungle in my pile, even he was impressed. He paused for a moment of reflection before signing his name to the title page.
Another treasure: I have everything written by Jacques Futrelle, a turn-of-the-previous-century mystery writer who died aboard the Titanic. My copy of Diamond Master is signed by Futrelle. (I got him to sign it before the Titanic hit the iceberg).
3. In your opinion, is the grammar rule about never ending a sentence with a preposition (as in question #2 above) going the way of the dodo bird?
I don’t know the rule about which you are speaking. Seriously? It’s a bunko rule, designed by uninformed pedantics to criticize better writers than themselves. Shakespeare did it, didn’t he? Imagine if Prospero had said, “We are such stuff on which dreams are made.” Shakespeare probably dangled his modifiers, too, and beautifully.
4. If there were one review you could rescind/undo, what one would it be?
When I was writing for the Maine Sunday Telegram in the 1990s I reviewed a first book by a new author (no names) which I thought was badly written. I didn’t like the style. I felt the tone was wooden. Neither the characters nor the plot grabbed me. I gave it a less-than-warm review. It wasn’t a nasty review, mind you. But it would have been clear to anyone reading it that the book didn’t work for me. Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, and the New York Times all gave the book glowing reviews. I’m not sure I’d rescind the review, but it gave me pause.
5. How has your exposure to and involvement with AudioFile changed your view of books/stories/mysteries?
Words are very aural for me. I love the sound of good writing. Pick up a book by James Lee Burke or Gary Phillips and open it to any page and you’ll find words set out like notes in a symphony, words that beg to be savoured on the palate.
I disagree with the people who think audiobooks are for lazy people, that listening is cheating. Audiobooks may not be for everyone, but something that allows me to “read” – to consume books – while I’m driving or working out is a good thing.
6. Surely you have been to many crime fiction events over the years, at locations far and wide. What was the most memorable mystery event/conference/convention you attended? What was unique/special/interesting about it?
That would have to be Bloody Words in 2010, of course. That’s where I met you, Jill! Every mystery event I go to – the Edgars, Bouchercon, Left Coast Crime, Malice Domestic – is memorable. Crime writers are the nicest people on the planet. We commit murder for a living, but when we get together, you won’t find a more affable group anywhere.
7. Without fawning, there surely must be some author somewhere whom you have met who left you feeling a bit star struck, or maybe you even asked for an autograph or a photo op. Which author were you most excited about meeting and why? Ah, go ahead – fawn away…
I’ve known him now for eighteen years, but Lawrence Block still awes me a little. But like I said in response to your earlier question, crime writers are a genial bunch. Even Mary Higgins Clark is laid back and accessible.
8. Tell me about your current work in progress. I am dying to know more about the madman with the lynx and the quixotic rabbi.
It’s a mystery/suspense novel. My hero is a young, idealistic rabbi named Jake Lurie who wants to do the right thing, but isn’t sure he’s man enough. He’s also lonely. Then he meets up with his complete opposite – sort of cross between Joe Pike, Lord Falstaff, and a mountain man. His name is Santelli, and he makes it his mission to educate Jake in the ways of the world. Oh yeah, and he lives with a lynx.
9. What do you think is the best manner of killing/best weapon in a whodunit?
In one of his novels Earl Emerson dispensed with a villain at a dog-food processing plant. I thought that was pretty cool.
10. You have published one short story in Ellery Queen, and you are now working on a novel. What is the most difficult or challenging difference between short stories and novels?
They’re totally different animals. A short story is an idea or incident that is distilled into its essence and unveiled to the reader in the most efficiently elegant way possible. A novel is a series of characters and events woven and expanded toward resolution into something new. That’s what “novel” means, after all. Something new.
11. Your young, idealistic rabbi… (name?) How much is he like you? How much do you wish you were like him?
Jake is a lot like I was at 28. I wouldn’t mind being 28 again, but other than that, no. As I’ve gotten older, I think I’ve become more like Santelli, the madman with the lynx.
12. How many Yiddish words (if any) will you have in the book? You do not need to give the exact number, rounded off to the nearest one-hundredth is fine. I hope you use oy vey at least thrice, fahrklempt (sp?) verklempt (sp?) at least once, and schmuck no less than a dozen times. Have you read much if anything on Yiddish? It fascinates me. This question is more for my own curiosity than for the interview.
Ironically, the person most likely to use Yiddish in my story is the Italian mountain man. I didn’t want the book to turn into a parody of a “Seinfeld” episode. I didn’t want to get caught in Jewish clichés. When a Jew is chomping on a bagel while speaking Yiddish between spittle, it’s cliché. It’s much more interesting when a Korean or a Pakistani calls someone a putz or a shlimiel. An excellent recent book about Yiddish is Born to Kvetch by Michael Wex. It’s informative and clever, and so funny I could almost plotz.
13. I’d like to know more about the transition from theologian to your, ahem, “life of crime”. What do you wish to share? (Not sure how personal this might be and I don’t want to overstep my bounds…)
I rediscovered mysteries while I was attending a seminary in Jerusalem. I found a copy of The Big Sleep and I never looked back. Distilled down to their essences, detective fiction and theology are about the same stuff: chaos and order, crime and justice, and a little sex and intrigue thrown in for good measure.
14. Open ended final question: what else would you like readers to know about you/your writing/your character/your experience in and exposure to the world of crime fiction?
Nothing I can think of. Thanks for the opportunity to chat.
For more on Steven Steinbock, check out:
http://criminalbrief.com/
Updated Profile on Sasha Jackson
The first profile on Sasha was posted so long ago, that it's now time for an update. Here are some bits of trivia about Private Investigator Sasha Jackson:
Last fiction book read: the latest release by Jasper Fforde... what was it called again? Thursday Next is a blast.
Last nonfiction book read: "Beyond the White House" by Jimmy Carter. His post-prez legacy is greater than his years in office.
Pissed off about: missing the Kid Rock summer concert tour. Damn, why do I have to be so far away?
Happy about: going to see Motley Crue and Poison (again). Hair bands rule. Bret is hot! Tommy Lee is uber sexy, No idea why.
Disappointed in: Canadians... for giving Stephen Harper a majority. Can we overthrow him? Stage a coup? Have an out and out revolution?
Three Likes: cheese, palm trees and coffee. Not necessarily in that order.
Three Dislikes: the letter V, the colour orange and cinnamon. Exactly in that order. Cinnamon is okay with apple cider or in sticky buns, sometimes. Orange is never okay. And you can ne-er a-void the letter V e-en if you make a -aliant effort to do so.
Preferences: Coke over Pepsi; BlackBerry over iPhone, McDonalds over Burger King.
Quotes: Walk softly and carry a big stick. Hope is the confusion over the desire of a thing with its probability. Fall down seven times, stand up eight. And of course, Alfred E. Newman saying "What, me worry?" Words to live by.
To-Do List: Learn to drive. Take off chipped nail polish. Figure out my love life. Find a runaway teen. Find out who killed the dude at the fetish party. Get some sleep. Do it all again tomorrow.
Last fiction book read: the latest release by Jasper Fforde... what was it called again? Thursday Next is a blast.
Last nonfiction book read: "Beyond the White House" by Jimmy Carter. His post-prez legacy is greater than his years in office.
Pissed off about: missing the Kid Rock summer concert tour. Damn, why do I have to be so far away?
Happy about: going to see Motley Crue and Poison (again). Hair bands rule. Bret is hot! Tommy Lee is uber sexy, No idea why.
Disappointed in: Canadians... for giving Stephen Harper a majority. Can we overthrow him? Stage a coup? Have an out and out revolution?
Three Likes: cheese, palm trees and coffee. Not necessarily in that order.
Three Dislikes: the letter V, the colour orange and cinnamon. Exactly in that order. Cinnamon is okay with apple cider or in sticky buns, sometimes. Orange is never okay. And you can ne-er a-void the letter V e-en if you make a -aliant effort to do so.
Preferences: Coke over Pepsi; BlackBerry over iPhone, McDonalds over Burger King.
Quotes: Walk softly and carry a big stick. Hope is the confusion over the desire of a thing with its probability. Fall down seven times, stand up eight. And of course, Alfred E. Newman saying "What, me worry?" Words to live by.
To-Do List: Learn to drive. Take off chipped nail polish. Figure out my love life. Find a runaway teen. Find out who killed the dude at the fetish party. Get some sleep. Do it all again tomorrow.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Buffalo High Jump Chicago!
Hey Folks!
Today I am very lucky to have an interview with Howard Shrier. I've met Howard a few times via crime related things (writing about them, not committing them... at least not yet) and he's a pretty awesome guy and a damn fine writer. Here are Howard's answers to the many deep, meaningful, probing, and insightful questions I asked him. (For those who don't have time to read the whole interview, Howard's lucky number is 6, his favourite colour is blue, and he's a sucker for Butter Pecan ice cream).
And now, heeeeeere's Howard Shrier:
1. What can you tell me about your current work in progress?
The book I just finished is Boston Cream, the third in the Jonah Geller series. Still recovering from
post-concussion syndrome, Jonah goes to Boston in search of a missing surgical resident, and winds up in the middle of a murderous conspiracy involving some of Boston’s wealthiest, most powerful people. While I wait to hear from my publishers at Random House, which should be any day, I’m starting research on book four, which is mainly set in Montreal.
2. Name one living and one dead writer whom you were influenced by/whom you emulate. Tell me why.
The dead one is easy: Ross Macdonald. He was the first great detective writer I discovered, quite by accident, when my grandparents cleared out their house of thirty-five years to prepare for a yard sale. I was in my early twenties and with one of his books, plucked from a pile in between customers, began my life-long affair with crime fiction. I demolished every one of his books, went back to Hammett and Chandler, came back to Macdonald and sought him out in California in 1980, as he was the only living author of this great American triumvirate of the private eye novel.
All three influenced me in my choice to write first-person private eye books, but in many ways I consider Macdonald the best. Chandler is the more romantic writer, but it was Macdonald who brought his literary talents and keen insight to bear on the danger and treachery not of mobsters or gangs or police, but of the family, which so far has been more my territory. My voyage to meet him in Santa Barbara, when he was already afflicted by Alzheimer’s disease, was documented in this article I wrote for Concordia University Magazine when he died a few years later.
My favourite living writer is Elmore Leonard, and has been since I discovered his work in 1985. Westerns and all. Yet I don’t write at all in his style, at least not in the Geller series, which is first person. A smart, secular urban Jew isn’t really in Leonard’s palette, and my characters will always in some way be more naïve than his. For style, tone, personality, I’d have to say a bridge of Robert B. Parker and Robert Crais with a twist of Jewish humour. But I treasure Leonard for his uniqueness. He owes nothing to any crime writer who came before him. He simply took the ethos and characters from his Westerns, set them loose in the cities, and created his own world of crime from scratch.
3. How close – give a fraction or a percentage if you want – is Jonah Geller to you?
He is very close to me emotionally: we are both secular, urban Jews with a world view that mixes cynicism with hope. I think we share a sense of humour. I’d say we both have older siblings who are domineering.
Physically, he is miles away: he is six feet tall and one eighty five when in shape. He is a martial artist with a full head of hair. Those who know me will chuckle at that contrast.
4. Name two LIVING famous people (with whom you have no relation or connection) that you’d enjoy having dinner with. Tell me why or what you’d like to discuss with them.
I’ve been fortunate to meet Elmore Leonard before, so I won’t include him. My first choice would be Steve Earle, the singer-songwriter. Talented, productive, political, driven, a raconteur and survivor of many marriages: I think dinner with him would be fascinating. The other might be Sam Shepard, whose plays I devoured as a theatre student; Tom Waits, if I thought I could get a straight answer out of him; Bob Dylan, for a thousand reasons, and if he didn’t mumble his way through it. Dennis Lehane has been very warm and funny at conferences. And if I wanted to laugh all night until it hurt, I’d invite Mark Billingham, the British comic turned crime writer.
5. Worst memory of school (any grade/level).
Like Jonah, I was a very indifferent student in high school and CEGEP (Grades 12 and 13 in Quebec), so I’d say grades nine through 13 were painful. I hadn’t yet found my stride. It was only when I started writing that I began taking life seriously. Fortunately, I found a guidance counsellor at Concordia University who showed me how creative writing and journalism combined could earn me a degree, and it changed my life. I did as well at school as people always suspected I could and found a way out of those teenaged doldrums.
6. The one thing you wish you had known before getting your first book published...?
That no matter how many awards you win or great reviews you get, book sales in Canada won’t support a growing family. I knew I’d earn a lot less at fiction than I did as a corporate writer. How much less was a shock. I also wish I’d known how much the industry was going to change under my feet, how much the onus of promoting books would shift from publisher to author and how the recession would shake so many good people loose from the industry.
7. Who is (are) your favourite minor/supporting character(s), from your own work?
Dante Ryan is my favourite so far. I always feel like he raises the energy when he’s in the room. Because my books have shifted from city to city most other supporting players, for the most part, appear in one book only. I have a special fondness for Gabriel Cross, the Mohawk ironworker in High Chicago; Jonah’s office neighbour, the PR legend Eddie Solomon; Laura Silver, the targeted mother in Buffalo Jump; and Amy Farber, also from Buffalo Jump, a lovely woman who distributes Canadian meds to a circle of fiftyish friends to help pay for her own arthritis prescriptions.
8. Strangest thing a fan/reader has ever said or done to you (online, at a signing, whatever...)
I’ve been lucky so far; all my fan encounters have been very positive. There was, however, one fellow whose manuscript I was asked to evaluate for a miserably small free. I gave him a thorough and professional assessment which he didn’t like. He then posted a poisonous article about Jonah Geller on the net, demeaning the book and Jonah’s actions on a streetcar in the first chapter of Buffalo Jump, which anyone can read on my web site. I happen to love that scene and so do most readers. That was certainly the weirdest thing to happen to me so far, and may it stay that way. Sadly, it put me off evaluating manuscripts, which I generally like doing. Since then I have only done it through U of T’s School of Continuing Studies, where I teach writing courses. Including one week-long workshop in early July, which is still open for registration.
9. Titles. How hard are they to come up with? How important are they to the overall success of the book? Other thoughts on titles...?
I love book titles and am always thinking of them. When I hear a song, a snatch of conversation, a quote from the New or Old Testament, there is often a second where I consider, is that a good title? Is it copyrighted? Has it been used before? I often search the Library of Congress, amazon.ca and other sites to find out if potential titles have been used, and if so, when and in what media. Sometimes I am devastated to find out a great title has been taken. Poisonville, which I wanted for the name of an e-book I’m launching this summer, had been dormant for more than seventy years, since Dashiell Hammett used it in the book Red Harvest. I had gone through dozens of titles easily before coming up with it. A few days after I submitted the draft to my agent, someone got it first. I saw it in a review and nearly choked. So Poisonville was out and the search was on again.
On the other hand, once I came up with Buffalo Jump for my first novel, High Chicago and Boston Cream both followed easily. Book Four, however, may not follow that two word format. There are a few that I’m still juggling.
10. What was or is the hardest thing(s) for you to write.
A: Like Raymond Chandler, I believe the best scenes often involve two people working each other across a desk or table. But when there are three or more characters in the room, I find it gets tricky. Keeping the flow going without having any people drop out for significant time… that’s when I feel I have to switch hats to a degree, from storyteller to playwright, which is not as comfortable a territory for me.
11. What is on your writing “wishlist”? You know, that project you began in 1987 but more or less abandoned, or the project where you say if "I ever have time, I’d like to write..." ?
I spent five years as a writer at what was then called the Addiction Research Foundation, and is now part of the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. I learned a lot in those years and have always wanted to write a somewhat creepy, Gothic novel about a murder at a treatment centre for addicts. I took a writing course with Peter Robinson nearly twenty years ago–so long ago, he only had two Banks novels out–and that’s what I worked on. I have four chapters and an outline somewhere. If I wind up on a desert island that has power, I just might get it done.
You can find Howard's books on Amazon.
Today I am very lucky to have an interview with Howard Shrier. I've met Howard a few times via crime related things (writing about them, not committing them... at least not yet) and he's a pretty awesome guy and a damn fine writer. Here are Howard's answers to the many deep, meaningful, probing, and insightful questions I asked him. (For those who don't have time to read the whole interview, Howard's lucky number is 6, his favourite colour is blue, and he's a sucker for Butter Pecan ice cream).
And now, heeeeeere's Howard Shrier:
1. What can you tell me about your current work in progress?
The book I just finished is Boston Cream, the third in the Jonah Geller series. Still recovering from
2. Name one living and one dead writer whom you were influenced by/whom you emulate. Tell me why.
The dead one is easy: Ross Macdonald. He was the first great detective writer I discovered, quite by accident, when my grandparents cleared out their house of thirty-five years to prepare for a yard sale. I was in my early twenties and with one of his books, plucked from a pile in between customers, began my life-long affair with crime fiction. I demolished every one of his books, went back to Hammett and Chandler, came back to Macdonald and sought him out in California in 1980, as he was the only living author of this great American triumvirate of the private eye novel.
All three influenced me in my choice to write first-person private eye books, but in many ways I consider Macdonald the best. Chandler is the more romantic writer, but it was Macdonald who brought his literary talents and keen insight to bear on the danger and treachery not of mobsters or gangs or police, but of the family, which so far has been more my territory. My voyage to meet him in Santa Barbara, when he was already afflicted by Alzheimer’s disease, was documented in this article I wrote for Concordia University Magazine when he died a few years later.
My favourite living writer is Elmore Leonard, and has been since I discovered his work in 1985. Westerns and all. Yet I don’t write at all in his style, at least not in the Geller series, which is first person. A smart, secular urban Jew isn’t really in Leonard’s palette, and my characters will always in some way be more naïve than his. For style, tone, personality, I’d have to say a bridge of Robert B. Parker and Robert Crais with a twist of Jewish humour. But I treasure Leonard for his uniqueness. He owes nothing to any crime writer who came before him. He simply took the ethos and characters from his Westerns, set them loose in the cities, and created his own world of crime from scratch.
3. How close – give a fraction or a percentage if you want – is Jonah Geller to you?
He is very close to me emotionally: we are both secular, urban Jews with a world view that mixes cynicism with hope. I think we share a sense of humour. I’d say we both have older siblings who are domineering.
Physically, he is miles away: he is six feet tall and one eighty five when in shape. He is a martial artist with a full head of hair. Those who know me will chuckle at that contrast.
4. Name two LIVING famous people (with whom you have no relation or connection) that you’d enjoy having dinner with. Tell me why or what you’d like to discuss with them.
I’ve been fortunate to meet Elmore Leonard before, so I won’t include him. My first choice would be Steve Earle, the singer-songwriter. Talented, productive, political, driven, a raconteur and survivor of many marriages: I think dinner with him would be fascinating. The other might be Sam Shepard, whose plays I devoured as a theatre student; Tom Waits, if I thought I could get a straight answer out of him; Bob Dylan, for a thousand reasons, and if he didn’t mumble his way through it. Dennis Lehane has been very warm and funny at conferences. And if I wanted to laugh all night until it hurt, I’d invite Mark Billingham, the British comic turned crime writer.
5. Worst memory of school (any grade/level).
Like Jonah, I was a very indifferent student in high school and CEGEP (Grades 12 and 13 in Quebec), so I’d say grades nine through 13 were painful. I hadn’t yet found my stride. It was only when I started writing that I began taking life seriously. Fortunately, I found a guidance counsellor at Concordia University who showed me how creative writing and journalism combined could earn me a degree, and it changed my life. I did as well at school as people always suspected I could and found a way out of those teenaged doldrums.
6. The one thing you wish you had known before getting your first book published...?
That no matter how many awards you win or great reviews you get, book sales in Canada won’t support a growing family. I knew I’d earn a lot less at fiction than I did as a corporate writer. How much less was a shock. I also wish I’d known how much the industry was going to change under my feet, how much the onus of promoting books would shift from publisher to author and how the recession would shake so many good people loose from the industry.
7. Who is (are) your favourite minor/supporting character(s), from your own work?
Dante Ryan is my favourite so far. I always feel like he raises the energy when he’s in the room. Because my books have shifted from city to city most other supporting players, for the most part, appear in one book only. I have a special fondness for Gabriel Cross, the Mohawk ironworker in High Chicago; Jonah’s office neighbour, the PR legend Eddie Solomon; Laura Silver, the targeted mother in Buffalo Jump; and Amy Farber, also from Buffalo Jump, a lovely woman who distributes Canadian meds to a circle of fiftyish friends to help pay for her own arthritis prescriptions.
8. Strangest thing a fan/reader has ever said or done to you (online, at a signing, whatever...)
I’ve been lucky so far; all my fan encounters have been very positive. There was, however, one fellow whose manuscript I was asked to evaluate for a miserably small free. I gave him a thorough and professional assessment which he didn’t like. He then posted a poisonous article about Jonah Geller on the net, demeaning the book and Jonah’s actions on a streetcar in the first chapter of Buffalo Jump, which anyone can read on my web site. I happen to love that scene and so do most readers. That was certainly the weirdest thing to happen to me so far, and may it stay that way. Sadly, it put me off evaluating manuscripts, which I generally like doing. Since then I have only done it through U of T’s School of Continuing Studies, where I teach writing courses. Including one week-long workshop in early July, which is still open for registration.
9. Titles. How hard are they to come up with? How important are they to the overall success of the book? Other thoughts on titles...?
I love book titles and am always thinking of them. When I hear a song, a snatch of conversation, a quote from the New or Old Testament, there is often a second where I consider, is that a good title? Is it copyrighted? Has it been used before? I often search the Library of Congress, amazon.ca and other sites to find out if potential titles have been used, and if so, when and in what media. Sometimes I am devastated to find out a great title has been taken. Poisonville, which I wanted for the name of an e-book I’m launching this summer, had been dormant for more than seventy years, since Dashiell Hammett used it in the book Red Harvest. I had gone through dozens of titles easily before coming up with it. A few days after I submitted the draft to my agent, someone got it first. I saw it in a review and nearly choked. So Poisonville was out and the search was on again.
On the other hand, once I came up with Buffalo Jump for my first novel, High Chicago and Boston Cream both followed easily. Book Four, however, may not follow that two word format. There are a few that I’m still juggling.
10. What was or is the hardest thing(s) for you to write.
A: Like Raymond Chandler, I believe the best scenes often involve two people working each other across a desk or table. But when there are three or more characters in the room, I find it gets tricky. Keeping the flow going without having any people drop out for significant time… that’s when I feel I have to switch hats to a degree, from storyteller to playwright, which is not as comfortable a territory for me.
11. What is on your writing “wishlist”? You know, that project you began in 1987 but more or less abandoned, or the project where you say if "I ever have time, I’d like to write..." ?
I spent five years as a writer at what was then called the Addiction Research Foundation, and is now part of the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. I learned a lot in those years and have always wanted to write a somewhat creepy, Gothic novel about a murder at a treatment centre for addicts. I took a writing course with Peter Robinson nearly twenty years ago–so long ago, he only had two Banks novels out–and that’s what I worked on. I have four chapters and an outline somewhere. If I wind up on a desert island that has power, I just might get it done.
You can find Howard's books on Amazon.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Sample of Dead Light District - Chapter Four
Saturday, July 18, 10:33 AM
“I’ll have scrambled eggs, home fries, and white toast, please,” I said. I was famished, and a greasy, starchy breakfast would surely hit the spot.
“I’ll have steak and eggs, medium rare steak and eggs over-easy, please, a side order of bacon, home-fries, and an order of rye toast without butter,” said Lindsey.
Oh yeah, like it’s the butter that made the meal fattening.
“I see you’re feeling very Hindu this morning,” I said.
Lindsey’s real name is Lakshmi. Although she was born in Sri Lanka and raised by devout Hindu parents, she is about as Canuck as they come—bring on the beef and bacon.
“I need protein,” she said. “I’ve been working out. Pilates. You should try it.”
“Exercise? What, are you trying to kill me?” I said.
“Would you two please whisper?” Jessica mumbled. “I’m hungover and you’re giving me a headache. Just bring me a coffee please.” Jessica’s normally bright blue eyes were today a mottled shade of watery red, rimmed by dark circles.
A bitter old waitress in a navy polyester uniform and crooked hairnet silently took our orders and shuffled away without giving any indication that she’d heard our requests at all.
I was sitting in the Danforth Café, which really should be renamed ‘Hardened Arteries Eatery’. ‘Café’ just has too much of a positive connotation for a place that hadn’t had a facelift since its grand opening, back in the days when fire was discovered. I was with Jessica and Lindsey, my two best friends, and in Lindsey’s case, my future sister-in-law. Jessica, Lakshmi/Lindsey and I had all known each other since we were teenyboppers. Our friendship is solid, which is why we can get away with saying anything at all to one another.
Lindsey is my brother’s girlfriend. She and Shane finally became a serious couple around two years ago—about a decade later than they should have. They had flirted and teased each other as teens but were both too young, too shy, and too stupid to do anything about it. Then, in early adulthood, the timing had just never been right – one was travelling, the other was in school, one was single, the other wasn’t, et cetera, et cetera.
Finally, a couple of years ago, at a party involving the lethal combination of a bit too much alcohol plus the sledgehammer subtlety of yours truly, Shane and Lindsey had gotten together at last. Now we were all placing bets on when the wedding would be. Any time I mentioned the nuptials, Lindsey magically shut me up by describing in minute detail the horrific tulle and taffeta, puffed-sleeved, pastel-coloured abomination she wanted the bridesmaids to wear.
Well, okay, then, why don’t you just elope? You’d have my blessing.
Lindsey, Jessica and I try to do brunch at least two or three weekends a month. It’s the ritual and conversation that matters, not the food. Good thing too, because it looked like today’s special was Culinary Armageddon.
“So, you’re looking for a Hispanic goddess who was lured into a life of selling her body, and who has now disappeared?” said Lindsey, handing Mary Carmen’s photo back to me.
I nodded. “Yup. What should I call this one? The Case of the Missing Hooker seems too obvious,” I said.
“The Hooker in Hiding?” suggested Jessica. “The Vanishing Vixen? The Wayward Streetwalker? No, wait, The Streetwalker Who Walked Away?”
“No, no, Jessica, you gotta have the Mexican angle in there,” Lindsey said. “Latino something.”
“It’s Latina, not Latino. O endings are for boys and A endings are for girls. Don’t you know anything?” I said.
Not surprisingly, they both ignored me.
Lindsey shrugged. “Whatever. She truly is gorgeous. I wonder why she didn’t go into modelling or something?”
Jessica picked up the photo. “Yeah, she could almost make me switch teams... and after last night’s date, that’s becoming a more distinct possibility.”
“Honey, you’d strike out with the chicks too,” I said.
“Why are we still friends?”
“What a shame she ended up hooking,” Lindsey said. “What a waste.”
“How the hell do you plan to start looking for her?” Jessica asked. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What makes you think I know? Missing persons cases are tough. I’ll chase down every lead Candace gave me and then I’ll pray or consult a Ouija board or buy a lucky rabbit’s foot,” I said.
“Yeah, the furry little paw was certainly lucky for the rabbit it came from,” Jessica said.
“Is that woman going to bring our food anytime soon? I’m going to die of starvation.” Lindsey was craning her neck around to see if she could spot our unfriendly server.
Jessica sighed. “Who cares about food? I need a lot more caffeine. My head feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire.”
For the next hour we did a fair imitation of Sex and the City. Jessica filled us in on her night out and the reason for this morning’s hangover.
“So, he was a dud?” Lindsey asked Jessica.
“I had to get drunk to keep myself amused. He kept telling the same stories over and over. I couldn’t stop yawning. I dug my fingernails into my palms to keep from falling asleep.”
“Safe to assume then that you didn’t get laid,” I said.
“There’s no way in hell I would have slept with him. Not even with someone else’s pussy.”
“What a charming image,” Lindsey said.
“Well, Sasha, it’ll be interesting to see who gets out of the desert first—you or me,” Jessica said.
“Don’t remind me. It’s been so long since I’ve had my muffin buttered that I think I’ve forgotten how to have sex.”
The unsmiling ‘waitron’ eventually showed up with our food, all of which was either cold and gelatinous or burned to a crisp. I’m sure it takes a special talent to serve food with both ends of the temperature continuum on one plate. Lindsey and I picked at our meals while the three of us talked about men and dating and sex and fashions, then we discussed men and dating and food, after which we chatted about men and sex and shopping. At one point someone mentioned diets and working out, but those veins of conversation were mercifully short lived. Robo Waitress came by with coffee refills, and I dumped four sugars into my cup to make it almost drinkable.
Jessica asked if she could have her coffee served intravenously. The acid-faced server didn’t even pretend to smile.
After a while, I tuned out the girl talk. My mind had started racing. I’d been trying to come up with a plan, and a few—probably not very good—ideas had come to me. I was anxious to finish brunch and get cracking on the Case of the ... what? We still hadn’t come up with a good handle for this one.
Link to Dead Light District on Amazon
“I’ll have scrambled eggs, home fries, and white toast, please,” I said. I was famished, and a greasy, starchy breakfast would surely hit the spot.
“I’ll have steak and eggs, medium rare steak and eggs over-easy, please, a side order of bacon, home-fries, and an order of rye toast without butter,” said Lindsey.
Oh yeah, like it’s the butter that made the meal fattening.
“I see you’re feeling very Hindu this morning,” I said.
Lindsey’s real name is Lakshmi. Although she was born in Sri Lanka and raised by devout Hindu parents, she is about as Canuck as they come—bring on the beef and bacon.
“I need protein,” she said. “I’ve been working out. Pilates. You should try it.”
“Exercise? What, are you trying to kill me?” I said.
“Would you two please whisper?” Jessica mumbled. “I’m hungover and you’re giving me a headache. Just bring me a coffee please.” Jessica’s normally bright blue eyes were today a mottled shade of watery red, rimmed by dark circles.
A bitter old waitress in a navy polyester uniform and crooked hairnet silently took our orders and shuffled away without giving any indication that she’d heard our requests at all.
I was sitting in the Danforth Café, which really should be renamed ‘Hardened Arteries Eatery’. ‘Café’ just has too much of a positive connotation for a place that hadn’t had a facelift since its grand opening, back in the days when fire was discovered. I was with Jessica and Lindsey, my two best friends, and in Lindsey’s case, my future sister-in-law. Jessica, Lakshmi/Lindsey and I had all known each other since we were teenyboppers. Our friendship is solid, which is why we can get away with saying anything at all to one another.
Lindsey is my brother’s girlfriend. She and Shane finally became a serious couple around two years ago—about a decade later than they should have. They had flirted and teased each other as teens but were both too young, too shy, and too stupid to do anything about it. Then, in early adulthood, the timing had just never been right – one was travelling, the other was in school, one was single, the other wasn’t, et cetera, et cetera.
Finally, a couple of years ago, at a party involving the lethal combination of a bit too much alcohol plus the sledgehammer subtlety of yours truly, Shane and Lindsey had gotten together at last. Now we were all placing bets on when the wedding would be. Any time I mentioned the nuptials, Lindsey magically shut me up by describing in minute detail the horrific tulle and taffeta, puffed-sleeved, pastel-coloured abomination she wanted the bridesmaids to wear.
Well, okay, then, why don’t you just elope? You’d have my blessing.
Lindsey, Jessica and I try to do brunch at least two or three weekends a month. It’s the ritual and conversation that matters, not the food. Good thing too, because it looked like today’s special was Culinary Armageddon.
“So, you’re looking for a Hispanic goddess who was lured into a life of selling her body, and who has now disappeared?” said Lindsey, handing Mary Carmen’s photo back to me.
I nodded. “Yup. What should I call this one? The Case of the Missing Hooker seems too obvious,” I said.
“The Hooker in Hiding?” suggested Jessica. “The Vanishing Vixen? The Wayward Streetwalker? No, wait, The Streetwalker Who Walked Away?”
“No, no, Jessica, you gotta have the Mexican angle in there,” Lindsey said. “Latino something.”
“It’s Latina, not Latino. O endings are for boys and A endings are for girls. Don’t you know anything?” I said.
Not surprisingly, they both ignored me.
Lindsey shrugged. “Whatever. She truly is gorgeous. I wonder why she didn’t go into modelling or something?”
Jessica picked up the photo. “Yeah, she could almost make me switch teams... and after last night’s date, that’s becoming a more distinct possibility.”
“Honey, you’d strike out with the chicks too,” I said.
“Why are we still friends?”
“What a shame she ended up hooking,” Lindsey said. “What a waste.”
“How the hell do you plan to start looking for her?” Jessica asked. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What makes you think I know? Missing persons cases are tough. I’ll chase down every lead Candace gave me and then I’ll pray or consult a Ouija board or buy a lucky rabbit’s foot,” I said.
“Yeah, the furry little paw was certainly lucky for the rabbit it came from,” Jessica said.
“Is that woman going to bring our food anytime soon? I’m going to die of starvation.” Lindsey was craning her neck around to see if she could spot our unfriendly server.
Jessica sighed. “Who cares about food? I need a lot more caffeine. My head feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire.”
For the next hour we did a fair imitation of Sex and the City. Jessica filled us in on her night out and the reason for this morning’s hangover.
“So, he was a dud?” Lindsey asked Jessica.
“I had to get drunk to keep myself amused. He kept telling the same stories over and over. I couldn’t stop yawning. I dug my fingernails into my palms to keep from falling asleep.”
“Safe to assume then that you didn’t get laid,” I said.
“There’s no way in hell I would have slept with him. Not even with someone else’s pussy.”
“What a charming image,” Lindsey said.
“Well, Sasha, it’ll be interesting to see who gets out of the desert first—you or me,” Jessica said.
“Don’t remind me. It’s been so long since I’ve had my muffin buttered that I think I’ve forgotten how to have sex.”
The unsmiling ‘waitron’ eventually showed up with our food, all of which was either cold and gelatinous or burned to a crisp. I’m sure it takes a special talent to serve food with both ends of the temperature continuum on one plate. Lindsey and I picked at our meals while the three of us talked about men and dating and sex and fashions, then we discussed men and dating and food, after which we chatted about men and sex and shopping. At one point someone mentioned diets and working out, but those veins of conversation were mercifully short lived. Robo Waitress came by with coffee refills, and I dumped four sugars into my cup to make it almost drinkable.
Jessica asked if she could have her coffee served intravenously. The acid-faced server didn’t even pretend to smile.
After a while, I tuned out the girl talk. My mind had started racing. I’d been trying to come up with a plan, and a few—probably not very good—ideas had come to me. I was anxious to finish brunch and get cracking on the Case of the ... what? We still hadn’t come up with a good handle for this one.
Link to Dead Light District on Amazon
Friday, May 6, 2011
Sample - 3rd Chapter - Dead Light District
Friday, 10:52 PM
Candace had given me a recent photo of Mary Carmen. It was just a head and shoulders shot, but it was a clear, eight-by-ten colour picture of her facing the camera. She was a true head-turner, breathtakingly beautiful: her thickly lashed, deeply set, dusky emerald eyes were absolutely hypnotic.
“She’s a looker, all right, but I ain’t seen her,” said a man in a faded brown maintenance worker’s uniform.
I was traipsing around The Grand Hotel on Jarvis Street, showing Mary Carmen’s photo to every hotel employee I came across. The Grand Hotel reminded me of a quotation from that oh-so-pithy porcine puppet: Miss Piggy. She once said that you never want to stay in a hotel called The Uptowne Royal Olde King George the 5th Regal Châteaux and Suites, or something like that. Her theory was that the longer the hotel name, the greater the disappointment. A good hotel, Miss Piggy claimed, had one name. The Grand Hotel lived up to its mono-moniker: it was classy, bordering on ostentatious, and yet its location was incongruent with its personality. The much hoped for gentrification of this ’hood was still in the embryonic stage.
Jarvis Street is one of Toronto’s seedier areas, home to pawn shops, porn shops, and sketchy diners where one could more easily get a cap of meth than a cup of joe. The street was a favourite of the city’s destitute, drug-addicted, and downtrodden people. It wasn’t altogether surprising to see an abandoned syringe or a soiled condom lying in a saliva and graffiti covered boarded-up doorway. There were panhandlers on any corner that didn’t have a hooker or two trolling whatever cars slowed down in passing. There were dealers and transvestites on the alert to purvey whatever other vices were in demand.
Then, of course, peppered between vacant store fronts and boarded up buildings, there were the charities, religious institutions, and government-funded social services all hoping to rid Toronto of one social blemish at a time.
If you build it, they will come.
The Lighthouse offered hope and rehab to drug addicts; St. Paul’s Mission offered beds for the homeless; The Salvation Army doled out warm meals to those who usually foraged through garbage bins for their three daily squares. Yet, two blocks up from Jarvis Street’s worst stretch stood one of Toronto’s finest hotels, with in-room Jacuzzis, room service delivered on sterling silver trays, and complimentary Egyptian cotton robes and slippers.
The contrasts weren’t lost on me. Obviously nobody had yet told the area’s winos that urban renewal was on the menu.
Knockout that she was, if anyone had seen Mary Carmen, they would certainly have remembered her. But the doormen showed no signs of recognition— ditto the bartenders, waitresses and parking lot employees. Either the staff of The Grand were all involved in an elaborate conspiracy of silence, or they were all very forgetful and possibly visually impaired, or Mary Carmen had never actually been here.
At the front desk, a pimply girl with a bosom that surely must have caused backaches was very helpful and forthcoming, especially after I dropped a fifty-dollar bill in her hand.
“No one checked in. The room was held with a credit card—”
“Name on the card was Candace Curtis, right?” I broke in. “American Express?”
Candace had told me that all hotel room bookings were made under her own name, and guaranteed with her corporate credit card. She later billed the clients for the room, and the, um, extras.
“Yes, that’s right. If people cancel before 6:00 PM then there’s no charge. But if they don’t call to cancel, we hold the room for them, assuming it’ll be a late check in. As far as we’re concerned, the room is sold for that night, whether they show up or not.”
“And you’re sure no one checked in?”
“Yeah. They never came. The file note says ‘no show’ but on the credit card it just goes through like a normal check in.”
“Well, thanks for your help.”
Another fifty dollars got the housekeeping staff to confirm what the desk clerk had said. They were convinced the room had not been occupied at all, and the day shift workers were glad the next day to have one less suite to vacuum and one less bed to change.
Well, I was only a few hours into this case and was already fronting cash that I could hardly spare. I had discussed money with Candace before agreeing to take on her case. She hadn’t even batted an eye when I told her my rates, and that all expenses would have to be covered by her. I immediately wished I had padded my hourly fees. Clients with generous budgets were rare, second only in rarity to clients who paid their bills in full and on time, and didn’t pay me with a bum cheque.
I took a walk along Jarvis, then crossed over to Church Street, and then doubled back to Sherbourne Street. Toronto’s sex trade was contained almost entirely on these three streets, especially Jarvis. I approached hookers on every corner, but few would even look at me, much less talk to me. I suspected I’d have to refine my approach if I was going to pursue this angle.
After batting zero, I decided to call it a night. It was now well past midnight, and I was tired. I had no desire to hang around the neighbourhood once the bars closed for the night and the nocturnal vices and the flesh trade were out in full force.
Stay tuned for the next sample chapter, coming soon!
Link to Dead Light District on Amazon
Candace had given me a recent photo of Mary Carmen. It was just a head and shoulders shot, but it was a clear, eight-by-ten colour picture of her facing the camera. She was a true head-turner, breathtakingly beautiful: her thickly lashed, deeply set, dusky emerald eyes were absolutely hypnotic.
“She’s a looker, all right, but I ain’t seen her,” said a man in a faded brown maintenance worker’s uniform.
I was traipsing around The Grand Hotel on Jarvis Street, showing Mary Carmen’s photo to every hotel employee I came across. The Grand Hotel reminded me of a quotation from that oh-so-pithy porcine puppet: Miss Piggy. She once said that you never want to stay in a hotel called The Uptowne Royal Olde King George the 5th Regal Châteaux and Suites, or something like that. Her theory was that the longer the hotel name, the greater the disappointment. A good hotel, Miss Piggy claimed, had one name. The Grand Hotel lived up to its mono-moniker: it was classy, bordering on ostentatious, and yet its location was incongruent with its personality. The much hoped for gentrification of this ’hood was still in the embryonic stage.
Jarvis Street is one of Toronto’s seedier areas, home to pawn shops, porn shops, and sketchy diners where one could more easily get a cap of meth than a cup of joe. The street was a favourite of the city’s destitute, drug-addicted, and downtrodden people. It wasn’t altogether surprising to see an abandoned syringe or a soiled condom lying in a saliva and graffiti covered boarded-up doorway. There were panhandlers on any corner that didn’t have a hooker or two trolling whatever cars slowed down in passing. There were dealers and transvestites on the alert to purvey whatever other vices were in demand.
Then, of course, peppered between vacant store fronts and boarded up buildings, there were the charities, religious institutions, and government-funded social services all hoping to rid Toronto of one social blemish at a time.
If you build it, they will come.
The Lighthouse offered hope and rehab to drug addicts; St. Paul’s Mission offered beds for the homeless; The Salvation Army doled out warm meals to those who usually foraged through garbage bins for their three daily squares. Yet, two blocks up from Jarvis Street’s worst stretch stood one of Toronto’s finest hotels, with in-room Jacuzzis, room service delivered on sterling silver trays, and complimentary Egyptian cotton robes and slippers.
The contrasts weren’t lost on me. Obviously nobody had yet told the area’s winos that urban renewal was on the menu.
Knockout that she was, if anyone had seen Mary Carmen, they would certainly have remembered her. But the doormen showed no signs of recognition— ditto the bartenders, waitresses and parking lot employees. Either the staff of The Grand were all involved in an elaborate conspiracy of silence, or they were all very forgetful and possibly visually impaired, or Mary Carmen had never actually been here.
At the front desk, a pimply girl with a bosom that surely must have caused backaches was very helpful and forthcoming, especially after I dropped a fifty-dollar bill in her hand.
“No one checked in. The room was held with a credit card—”
“Name on the card was Candace Curtis, right?” I broke in. “American Express?”
Candace had told me that all hotel room bookings were made under her own name, and guaranteed with her corporate credit card. She later billed the clients for the room, and the, um, extras.
“Yes, that’s right. If people cancel before 6:00 PM then there’s no charge. But if they don’t call to cancel, we hold the room for them, assuming it’ll be a late check in. As far as we’re concerned, the room is sold for that night, whether they show up or not.”
“And you’re sure no one checked in?”
“Yeah. They never came. The file note says ‘no show’ but on the credit card it just goes through like a normal check in.”
“Well, thanks for your help.”
Another fifty dollars got the housekeeping staff to confirm what the desk clerk had said. They were convinced the room had not been occupied at all, and the day shift workers were glad the next day to have one less suite to vacuum and one less bed to change.
Well, I was only a few hours into this case and was already fronting cash that I could hardly spare. I had discussed money with Candace before agreeing to take on her case. She hadn’t even batted an eye when I told her my rates, and that all expenses would have to be covered by her. I immediately wished I had padded my hourly fees. Clients with generous budgets were rare, second only in rarity to clients who paid their bills in full and on time, and didn’t pay me with a bum cheque.
I took a walk along Jarvis, then crossed over to Church Street, and then doubled back to Sherbourne Street. Toronto’s sex trade was contained almost entirely on these three streets, especially Jarvis. I approached hookers on every corner, but few would even look at me, much less talk to me. I suspected I’d have to refine my approach if I was going to pursue this angle.
After batting zero, I decided to call it a night. It was now well past midnight, and I was tired. I had no desire to hang around the neighbourhood once the bars closed for the night and the nocturnal vices and the flesh trade were out in full force.
Stay tuned for the next sample chapter, coming soon!
Link to Dead Light District on Amazon
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Sample from Dead Light District - 2nd Chapter
Mary Carmen
¡Puta madre! I think to myself. How in the name of Dios did this monster find me? Where is Dave? What the hell is going on? This cannot be happening to me.
The bastardo stretched his arm way back and then swung his fist forward muy rápido and it slammed into my face and made my ears ring. I could taste the blood of where my teeth cut into my cheeks.
“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to find you? Are you fucking stupid? You dumb fucking Spic whore,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Lo siento. I was scared, please, don’t hurt me again,” I pleaded with him.
I knew it was no good. He used to hitted me and harmed me and hurted me before, and the more I cried, the more I winced in pain, the more I tried to shrink myself into a little ball, the more turned on the bastardo got and the harder his fists on my face was.
“You had no right to run away, bitch. I paid a shitload for you, you useless fucking slut. Your ass is mine, got it? Nobody bails on me. You hear that? Nobody.”
What could I say?
I whimpered and said I was sorry. I made promises to return to him. I asked him to forgive me. All these things, while the pendejo was smacking me around.
¡Dios mío! ¡Jesus Cristo!
He slapped me across the face again, harder. The posts on the back of my earrings digged into my skin. I didn’t taste any new blood because it mixed with the salty taste of the tears running down my face.
“Take your fucking clothes off now, bitch,” he said.
He pulled me by the hair over to the bed and shoved me down. I wasn’t close enough to the bed and slipped down the edge of it onto the floor. The hard corner of the box spring digged into my back.
“Let me help you get undressed, you fucking whore.”
He pulled out his knife, and cut all of my clothes right off of me.
More to come... stay tuned...
Link to Dead Light District on Amazon
¡Puta madre! I think to myself. How in the name of Dios did this monster find me? Where is Dave? What the hell is going on? This cannot be happening to me.
The bastardo stretched his arm way back and then swung his fist forward muy rápido and it slammed into my face and made my ears ring. I could taste the blood of where my teeth cut into my cheeks.
“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to find you? Are you fucking stupid? You dumb fucking Spic whore,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Lo siento. I was scared, please, don’t hurt me again,” I pleaded with him.
I knew it was no good. He used to hitted me and harmed me and hurted me before, and the more I cried, the more I winced in pain, the more I tried to shrink myself into a little ball, the more turned on the bastardo got and the harder his fists on my face was.
“You had no right to run away, bitch. I paid a shitload for you, you useless fucking slut. Your ass is mine, got it? Nobody bails on me. You hear that? Nobody.”
What could I say?
I whimpered and said I was sorry. I made promises to return to him. I asked him to forgive me. All these things, while the pendejo was smacking me around.
¡Dios mío! ¡Jesus Cristo!
He slapped me across the face again, harder. The posts on the back of my earrings digged into my skin. I didn’t taste any new blood because it mixed with the salty taste of the tears running down my face.
“Take your fucking clothes off now, bitch,” he said.
He pulled me by the hair over to the bed and shoved me down. I wasn’t close enough to the bed and slipped down the edge of it onto the floor. The hard corner of the box spring digged into my back.
“Let me help you get undressed, you fucking whore.”
He pulled out his knife, and cut all of my clothes right off of me.
More to come... stay tuned...
Link to Dead Light District on Amazon
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sample from DEAD LIGHT DISTRICT - first chapter
Friday, July 17, 8:57 PM
“So these women get paid to have sex with men?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation.
“Sasha, I know it sounds bad, but it’s not what you think,” said Candace, the expertly coiffed, perfectly groomed madam of the first bordello I’ve ever been inside. I hoped it would also be the last. She seemed matter-of-factly businesslike, almost imperious, sitting there with her legs gracefully crossed at the ankles, absently fingering a thin gold chain as she spoke. Her confident body language was not at all surprising, given that she used her body to make a living. The well-appointed room told me that her confidence was not without merit.
“Sounds to me like it’s degrading, exploitative, unsafe, and a whole bunch of other things,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t want to be judgemental, but I can’t get my head around this.”
“Maybe if you talk to some of my girls, you’ll get a better sense of things. They’re in control. It’s the men who are being used. The girls have a lifestyle here with me that they could never have on the street. For many of them, working here is the only thing that saved their self-respect.”
Never say never, but it was unlikely I would ever get around to seeing things from Candace’s point of view.
“Perhaps for now we should just agree to disagree,” I said. “You might as well tell me why you called me today, since I’m here, anyway. By the way, how did you get my name?”
“Let’s just say we have a client in common. For obvious reasons, I can’t tell you his name. I mentioned to him the other day that Mary Carmen, one of my girls, is missing. We haven’t seen her in just over a week, and no one has heard from her. Our mutual acquaintance suggested I contact you, since, clearly, I can’t go to the police.”
I understood why she wanted to handle things unofficially, but the fact that we shared a client got my curiosity engine going. I’m really stubborn and insatiably curious, two important characteristics for a successful private investigator. I would find out sooner than later which of my clients enjoyed time with Candace’s ‘employees’, but for now I let it go.
“What are the details of the last time you or one of the other girls here saw the missing person?” I asked.
“Last Thursday night. Mary Carmen was here for her regular shift. She usually works Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. She’s slated for the peak hours, from 6:00 PM to 2:00 AM.” Candace was so nonchalant about this that she could have been discussing the cashiers’ schedules at Walmart. “We had a request for an outcall. Terra was on the phones. She said the caller was quite specific about what he wanted. Latina, at least five foot eight, green eyes, long black hair. Mary Carmen came to mind before I even looked at my database.”
“You have a database of hookers?”
A stunning, petite brunette in a black satin bustier and fishnet stockings strutted into the room, grabbed a bottle of single malt scotch and two Baccarat glasses, smiled at us, and sashayed away without saying a word.
Candace paid no mind and kept talking. “Please, don’t call them hookers. Most of the girls use the term intimacy consultant, though some call themselves relaxation therapists. I know they’re euphemisms, but they’re important to the girls’ self esteem.”
“Consultants. Right. Got it.”
I felt as if I were on the set of a Peter Bogdanovich meets Ron Jeremy film and half expected someone to click one of those black things and shout, “Hot, Wet Conslutants, take two! Lights, camera, action!”
“Yes, I have everything on my database. Before I tell you more about it, I should offer you a drink. Do you care for ice wine?”
Does a bear shit in the woods? I absolutely love ice wine and don’t get to love it nearly often enough. At
fifty-plus dollars for a 375-millilitre bottle, it’s way out of my budget. Of course, since she was offering, I cheerfully said yes and hoped she’d pour it into a giant tankard.
While Candace was getting our drinks, I took a better look around the room. It was understatedly elegant. The drawing room—since in my mind that’s what it should have been called—was bigger than the whole first floor of the house I share with my dad, Jack, and my brother, Shane.
Candace had clearly spared no expense on even the most minor details. The coasters were marble, the ashtray was granite, and there was a sterling silver Dunhill lighter beside it. The sofas were the softest leather any cow had ever produced. The sculptures and artwork were all authentic Canadiana originals—something I had learned a lot about on my last case. There was an ebony grand piano in the corner, polished to within an inch of its life (if such could be said about an inanimate object), and there were fresh flowers in every brightly-hued Murano glass vase. The walls were painted in the warmest and richest shade of claret Benjamin Moore had to offer, and the carpet was so plush I thought it would swallow me. Oh yeah, classy joint.
I felt out of place in my faded Levis, amethyst tank top and pewter-toned gladiator sandals. At least I’d recently had a pedicure, so all ten little piggies—painted as they were in Mauve Magic—looked really cute.
Candace returned bearing a tray of goodies. She set the platter of flatbreads and artisan cheeses on the coffee table. She then handed me a flute of chilled ice wine and sat down next to me.
“You simply must try this St. Antoine Brie. It’s made in Northern Quebec and tastes fantastic with this wine.”
I spread a healthy gooey blob on a cream cracker. Delish.
“Cheers,” she said as she clinked my glass. “To doing business with Sasha Jackson Investigations.”
I took a sip of the liquid gold nectar before replying. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Give me some more details before I decide. What’s on the database?”
“Hmmm. Well... prostitution is a business, and maybe even a science. It’s certainly a service-oriented industry where knowing clients’ preferences and catering to their whims results in loyalty and excellent word of mouth.”
“Kind of like the baristas at Starbucks knowing how you like your non-fat, decaf, extra foam cappuccino with cinnamon, right?” I think this is the first time anyone has ever made an analogy between prostitution and take-out coffee. Venti, VD, Visa.
“In a way, yes. I have things grouped by the physical characteristics of the girls, and by the educations, the professions, and the hobbies of the men. I have clients sorted by fetish, by lingerie preferences—”
I had to ask, “Lingerie for him or her?”
“Both. They’re also sorted by role-playing, and by musical tastes. It’s all about finding a match, and combining the right ingredients in order to produce a spectacular session.”
I hoped my face remained expressionless, but more likely I was blushing with embarrassment. As if right on cue, we heard some ecstatic moans, and the snapping sounds of a whip coming from the bedroom above us. I visualized the fishnet-clad brunette standing behind an espresso machine with a cup of steamed milk in one hand, a cat-o’-nine tails in the other. Purr... snap... who’s your daddy?
Candace continued, “Believe it or not, this is as much for the girls as it is for the men. When my employees are paired with someone they actually like and enjoy being with, and they get paid for it... well, that’s hardly considered work.”
“Again, I don’t want to seem judgemental, but would you suggest this as a career choice for your daughter if you had one?”
“Probably not. But these girls fell into the life one way or another, and since they’re hooking anyway, they may as well do it here. I hire only the very best and I treat them very, very well. I pay top dollar, I give them regular shifts, and I have a high-calibre client roster, not a bunch of dirtbags from the street.”
“Uh huh.”
“Some of the guys take them out for dinner first. Occasionally, they bring the girls gifts. My workers get paid a flat hourly rate no matter what they do during their shift, and they get to use nice, clean, safe rooms here.”
“How many bedrooms do you have?”
“Six. This building is zoned for commercial purposes, and I have it registered as a bed and breakfast, with common rooms on the first floor. The third floor has been converted to an office and a small apartment where I live.”
I suppose, in some weird way, the bed and breakfast claim was loosely true. Sort of. Kind of. More or less.
“Do any of the girls live here too?”
“No. They use the rooms during their shifts. It gets cleaned and changed when they’re done, and at the end of their shifts they go home.”
“You have a housekeeping staff?”
“No. I have a contract with a cleaning company.”
“Would they be able to give me any insights?”
“I don’t think so. They keep pretty much to themselves. They just get the job done and get on their way.”
“How well do you know them?”
“Not well. They have four or five women who sort of rotate. They come twice a day, do the basic cleaning, take the dirty laundry out, and bring in clean linens.”
“I see. You mentioned that the missing girl went on an outcall?”
“Yes. About one-third of the clients prefer to take the girl to a hotel. Clients seem to think it’s more anonymous that way. Whatever, it’s their money, and to me it’s just another transaction, another service we provide.”
“Uh huh.”
“Many of the girls enjoy the hotel bookings. They say it’s like a mini working vacation, although others prefer to stay here on site. They say they’re more comfortable here,” she said.
“That’s a fine bit of spin-doctoring, Candace, but in the end, a strange man sticks his penis into her and fucks her.”
“That’s true. But if you think about it, who’s really getting fucked, Sasha? The guys who pay hundreds of dollars to buy a few hours of intimacy? The guys who naively believe the girls who tell them they’re virile, and sexy, and dynamite in the sack? The smitten puppy dogs who come back every week, bringing flowers and jewellery? Or the guys who really believe the girls find them attractive and fascinating? Give me a break. The guys are getting fucked, but they’re just too dumb to know it.”
Ouch! I didn’t have an answer for that.
I still had an almost full glass of ambrosia, so I decided to string the conversation along as long as I had vino.
“Okay, well, why don’t you tell me more about the missing girl?”
“Mary Carmen is a sweetheart, and I’ve been worried sick about her since last week. Let’s see; she’s twenty-two, she’s from Mexico—somewhere in the North. She’s gorgeous— an unparalleled combination of ethnicity and good genes. Her background is indigenous, think of an Aztec goddess. She has these amazing green eyes, high cheekbones, caramel skin. She’s got a body to die for: tall and slim, quite graceful, really. I can easily picture her on a runway. Her English isn’t the best, but despite that, you immediately get a sense of how warm and kind she is, and she seems to have a good sense of humour. What else do you want to know?”
“Where does she live? What’s her social insurance number? Her date of birth? Where did she go when you sent her out on that call? Who was her client?”
“I have to protect my clients.”
“Then I won’t be able to help you.” Yummy noble rot or not, I set down my drink and made like I was about to leave. My job is hard enough as it is without having to play by someone else’s rules.
I’ve only been an investigator for about a year and a bit, and it’s a more challenging and dangerous job than I ever imagined. I got into sleuthing when I gave up on singing. There are days when the music biz in Toronto seems a more solid and stable profession than private investigating. And, there are times I really miss performing, although some would say that’s exactly what my current job entails.
Despite what it says in the private-eye textbooks, real life sleuthing is neither scientific nor predictable. I’ve been shot at accidentally on purpose; I’ve sat atop rotting food scraps in a dumpster in the pouring rain; I’ve chased and been chased by angry, errant spouses; I’ve uncovered an art fraud ring; and I’ve done a number of boring, routine background corporate checks that almost turned me into a battery-operated robot. Or a zombie.
I never know what’s on the horizon.
As unpredictable as my job is, though, I can’t say I ever expected to be employed by a madam in a bordello, and I’ve never gone looking for a disappeared hooker.
Missing persons is probably my least favourite gig among the myriad cases that fall into my lap. Okay, maybe not exactly myriad. How do you start looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found? Or worse, what if the missing person doesn’t think of herself as missing, but just decided to walk away? There’s no law that says an adult has to stick around. There’s no law that says you can’t leave without saying goodbye.
On one hand, looking for someone is a challenge; on the other hand, missing person cases could make me prematurely grey, and could frustrate me into indulging in any number of irresistibly tempting coping strategies, such as martinis, wine, single malts, or any sweet concoction with a paper umbrella stuck in it.
Candace said, “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know, but only as you need to know it.”
To which I replied, “And how will you know what I need to know when half the time I myself don’t even know what I need to know until after I know it?”
Good thing I’d only had one glass of ice wine because that sentence would have made a lot less sense if I’d been a bit further into my cups.
“I can tell you where she went and when. If you need to know with whom, I’ll eventually tell you that too, but only if it’s germane. I just want to be sure Mary Carmen’s okay. She may have called it quits, and I’d be okay with that. I feel a sense of responsibility for my girls. If anything happened to them because of a job I arranged, I’d feel terrible.”
“I can see your point,” I said.
I wondered how culpable she’d feel if any of her girls got a sexually transmitted disease.
“Mary Carmen might have just decided she’s had enough. That’s happened before. Girls have just walked away from working here, from the life. Others have decided to do exotic dancing instead, some go back to their old pimps, some get messed up on drugs.... Longevity is not one of the hallmarks of this industry. Neither is loyalty. There may be perfectly innocent reasons for why she’s gone, but I want to be sure.”
It struck me as odd to say ‘innocent’ in any sentence discussing a prostitute, much less one who was missing.
.... more to come....
Link for Dead Light District on Amazon Kindle
“So these women get paid to have sex with men?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation.
“Sasha, I know it sounds bad, but it’s not what you think,” said Candace, the expertly coiffed, perfectly groomed madam of the first bordello I’ve ever been inside. I hoped it would also be the last. She seemed matter-of-factly businesslike, almost imperious, sitting there with her legs gracefully crossed at the ankles, absently fingering a thin gold chain as she spoke. Her confident body language was not at all surprising, given that she used her body to make a living. The well-appointed room told me that her confidence was not without merit.
“Sounds to me like it’s degrading, exploitative, unsafe, and a whole bunch of other things,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t want to be judgemental, but I can’t get my head around this.”
“Maybe if you talk to some of my girls, you’ll get a better sense of things. They’re in control. It’s the men who are being used. The girls have a lifestyle here with me that they could never have on the street. For many of them, working here is the only thing that saved their self-respect.”
Never say never, but it was unlikely I would ever get around to seeing things from Candace’s point of view.
“Perhaps for now we should just agree to disagree,” I said. “You might as well tell me why you called me today, since I’m here, anyway. By the way, how did you get my name?”
“Let’s just say we have a client in common. For obvious reasons, I can’t tell you his name. I mentioned to him the other day that Mary Carmen, one of my girls, is missing. We haven’t seen her in just over a week, and no one has heard from her. Our mutual acquaintance suggested I contact you, since, clearly, I can’t go to the police.”
I understood why she wanted to handle things unofficially, but the fact that we shared a client got my curiosity engine going. I’m really stubborn and insatiably curious, two important characteristics for a successful private investigator. I would find out sooner than later which of my clients enjoyed time with Candace’s ‘employees’, but for now I let it go.
“What are the details of the last time you or one of the other girls here saw the missing person?” I asked.
“Last Thursday night. Mary Carmen was here for her regular shift. She usually works Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. She’s slated for the peak hours, from 6:00 PM to 2:00 AM.” Candace was so nonchalant about this that she could have been discussing the cashiers’ schedules at Walmart. “We had a request for an outcall. Terra was on the phones. She said the caller was quite specific about what he wanted. Latina, at least five foot eight, green eyes, long black hair. Mary Carmen came to mind before I even looked at my database.”
“You have a database of hookers?”
A stunning, petite brunette in a black satin bustier and fishnet stockings strutted into the room, grabbed a bottle of single malt scotch and two Baccarat glasses, smiled at us, and sashayed away without saying a word.
Candace paid no mind and kept talking. “Please, don’t call them hookers. Most of the girls use the term intimacy consultant, though some call themselves relaxation therapists. I know they’re euphemisms, but they’re important to the girls’ self esteem.”
“Consultants. Right. Got it.”
I felt as if I were on the set of a Peter Bogdanovich meets Ron Jeremy film and half expected someone to click one of those black things and shout, “Hot, Wet Conslutants, take two! Lights, camera, action!”
“Yes, I have everything on my database. Before I tell you more about it, I should offer you a drink. Do you care for ice wine?”
Does a bear shit in the woods? I absolutely love ice wine and don’t get to love it nearly often enough. At
While Candace was getting our drinks, I took a better look around the room. It was understatedly elegant. The drawing room—since in my mind that’s what it should have been called—was bigger than the whole first floor of the house I share with my dad, Jack, and my brother, Shane.
Candace had clearly spared no expense on even the most minor details. The coasters were marble, the ashtray was granite, and there was a sterling silver Dunhill lighter beside it. The sofas were the softest leather any cow had ever produced. The sculptures and artwork were all authentic Canadiana originals—something I had learned a lot about on my last case. There was an ebony grand piano in the corner, polished to within an inch of its life (if such could be said about an inanimate object), and there were fresh flowers in every brightly-hued Murano glass vase. The walls were painted in the warmest and richest shade of claret Benjamin Moore had to offer, and the carpet was so plush I thought it would swallow me. Oh yeah, classy joint.
I felt out of place in my faded Levis, amethyst tank top and pewter-toned gladiator sandals. At least I’d recently had a pedicure, so all ten little piggies—painted as they were in Mauve Magic—looked really cute.
Candace returned bearing a tray of goodies. She set the platter of flatbreads and artisan cheeses on the coffee table. She then handed me a flute of chilled ice wine and sat down next to me.
“You simply must try this St. Antoine Brie. It’s made in Northern Quebec and tastes fantastic with this wine.”
I spread a healthy gooey blob on a cream cracker. Delish.
“Cheers,” she said as she clinked my glass. “To doing business with Sasha Jackson Investigations.”
I took a sip of the liquid gold nectar before replying. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Give me some more details before I decide. What’s on the database?”
“Hmmm. Well... prostitution is a business, and maybe even a science. It’s certainly a service-oriented industry where knowing clients’ preferences and catering to their whims results in loyalty and excellent word of mouth.”
“Kind of like the baristas at Starbucks knowing how you like your non-fat, decaf, extra foam cappuccino with cinnamon, right?” I think this is the first time anyone has ever made an analogy between prostitution and take-out coffee. Venti, VD, Visa.
“In a way, yes. I have things grouped by the physical characteristics of the girls, and by the educations, the professions, and the hobbies of the men. I have clients sorted by fetish, by lingerie preferences—”
I had to ask, “Lingerie for him or her?”
“Both. They’re also sorted by role-playing, and by musical tastes. It’s all about finding a match, and combining the right ingredients in order to produce a spectacular session.”
I hoped my face remained expressionless, but more likely I was blushing with embarrassment. As if right on cue, we heard some ecstatic moans, and the snapping sounds of a whip coming from the bedroom above us. I visualized the fishnet-clad brunette standing behind an espresso machine with a cup of steamed milk in one hand, a cat-o’-nine tails in the other. Purr... snap... who’s your daddy?
Candace continued, “Believe it or not, this is as much for the girls as it is for the men. When my employees are paired with someone they actually like and enjoy being with, and they get paid for it... well, that’s hardly considered work.”
“Again, I don’t want to seem judgemental, but would you suggest this as a career choice for your daughter if you had one?”
“Probably not. But these girls fell into the life one way or another, and since they’re hooking anyway, they may as well do it here. I hire only the very best and I treat them very, very well. I pay top dollar, I give them regular shifts, and I have a high-calibre client roster, not a bunch of dirtbags from the street.”
“Uh huh.”
“Some of the guys take them out for dinner first. Occasionally, they bring the girls gifts. My workers get paid a flat hourly rate no matter what they do during their shift, and they get to use nice, clean, safe rooms here.”
“How many bedrooms do you have?”
“Six. This building is zoned for commercial purposes, and I have it registered as a bed and breakfast, with common rooms on the first floor. The third floor has been converted to an office and a small apartment where I live.”
I suppose, in some weird way, the bed and breakfast claim was loosely true. Sort of. Kind of. More or less.
“Do any of the girls live here too?”
“No. They use the rooms during their shifts. It gets cleaned and changed when they’re done, and at the end of their shifts they go home.”
“You have a housekeeping staff?”
“No. I have a contract with a cleaning company.”
“Would they be able to give me any insights?”
“I don’t think so. They keep pretty much to themselves. They just get the job done and get on their way.”
“How well do you know them?”
“Not well. They have four or five women who sort of rotate. They come twice a day, do the basic cleaning, take the dirty laundry out, and bring in clean linens.”
“I see. You mentioned that the missing girl went on an outcall?”
“Yes. About one-third of the clients prefer to take the girl to a hotel. Clients seem to think it’s more anonymous that way. Whatever, it’s their money, and to me it’s just another transaction, another service we provide.”
“Uh huh.”
“Many of the girls enjoy the hotel bookings. They say it’s like a mini working vacation, although others prefer to stay here on site. They say they’re more comfortable here,” she said.
“That’s a fine bit of spin-doctoring, Candace, but in the end, a strange man sticks his penis into her and fucks her.”
“That’s true. But if you think about it, who’s really getting fucked, Sasha? The guys who pay hundreds of dollars to buy a few hours of intimacy? The guys who naively believe the girls who tell them they’re virile, and sexy, and dynamite in the sack? The smitten puppy dogs who come back every week, bringing flowers and jewellery? Or the guys who really believe the girls find them attractive and fascinating? Give me a break. The guys are getting fucked, but they’re just too dumb to know it.”
Ouch! I didn’t have an answer for that.
I still had an almost full glass of ambrosia, so I decided to string the conversation along as long as I had vino.
“Okay, well, why don’t you tell me more about the missing girl?”
“Mary Carmen is a sweetheart, and I’ve been worried sick about her since last week. Let’s see; she’s twenty-two, she’s from Mexico—somewhere in the North. She’s gorgeous— an unparalleled combination of ethnicity and good genes. Her background is indigenous, think of an Aztec goddess. She has these amazing green eyes, high cheekbones, caramel skin. She’s got a body to die for: tall and slim, quite graceful, really. I can easily picture her on a runway. Her English isn’t the best, but despite that, you immediately get a sense of how warm and kind she is, and she seems to have a good sense of humour. What else do you want to know?”
“Where does she live? What’s her social insurance number? Her date of birth? Where did she go when you sent her out on that call? Who was her client?”
“I have to protect my clients.”
“Then I won’t be able to help you.” Yummy noble rot or not, I set down my drink and made like I was about to leave. My job is hard enough as it is without having to play by someone else’s rules.
I’ve only been an investigator for about a year and a bit, and it’s a more challenging and dangerous job than I ever imagined. I got into sleuthing when I gave up on singing. There are days when the music biz in Toronto seems a more solid and stable profession than private investigating. And, there are times I really miss performing, although some would say that’s exactly what my current job entails.
Despite what it says in the private-eye textbooks, real life sleuthing is neither scientific nor predictable. I’ve been shot at accidentally on purpose; I’ve sat atop rotting food scraps in a dumpster in the pouring rain; I’ve chased and been chased by angry, errant spouses; I’ve uncovered an art fraud ring; and I’ve done a number of boring, routine background corporate checks that almost turned me into a battery-operated robot. Or a zombie.
I never know what’s on the horizon.
As unpredictable as my job is, though, I can’t say I ever expected to be employed by a madam in a bordello, and I’ve never gone looking for a disappeared hooker.
Missing persons is probably my least favourite gig among the myriad cases that fall into my lap. Okay, maybe not exactly myriad. How do you start looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found? Or worse, what if the missing person doesn’t think of herself as missing, but just decided to walk away? There’s no law that says an adult has to stick around. There’s no law that says you can’t leave without saying goodbye.
On one hand, looking for someone is a challenge; on the other hand, missing person cases could make me prematurely grey, and could frustrate me into indulging in any number of irresistibly tempting coping strategies, such as martinis, wine, single malts, or any sweet concoction with a paper umbrella stuck in it.
Candace said, “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know, but only as you need to know it.”
To which I replied, “And how will you know what I need to know when half the time I myself don’t even know what I need to know until after I know it?”
Good thing I’d only had one glass of ice wine because that sentence would have made a lot less sense if I’d been a bit further into my cups.
“I can tell you where she went and when. If you need to know with whom, I’ll eventually tell you that too, but only if it’s germane. I just want to be sure Mary Carmen’s okay. She may have called it quits, and I’d be okay with that. I feel a sense of responsibility for my girls. If anything happened to them because of a job I arranged, I’d feel terrible.”
“I can see your point,” I said.
I wondered how culpable she’d feel if any of her girls got a sexually transmitted disease.
“Mary Carmen might have just decided she’s had enough. That’s happened before. Girls have just walked away from working here, from the life. Others have decided to do exotic dancing instead, some go back to their old pimps, some get messed up on drugs.... Longevity is not one of the hallmarks of this industry. Neither is loyalty. There may be perfectly innocent reasons for why she’s gone, but I want to be sure.”
It struck me as odd to say ‘innocent’ in any sentence discussing a prostitute, much less one who was missing.
.... more to come....
Link for Dead Light District on Amazon Kindle
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
He Got Into My Pants!
Hey folks, Sasha here, talking with Lindsey about men and sex and dating. There is always so much to say on all of those subjects! And, you never forget the first time a guy gets into your pants...
SASHA: Everyone knows that chicks worry about their weight and body image, right?
LINDSEY: Even the ones who pretend not to. I punish myself after eating at KFC. An hour at the gym for every drumstick...
SASHA: I've heard some guys say they're self conscious about their weight too, and I always say not to worry.
LINDSEY: I like a guy with a little bit of meat on him.
SASHA: Beefy is good. Just about every chick I know thinks so.
LINDSEY: You don't want to feel fat or look fat next to a skinny guy. Even if it's just his natural body type, a guy who's really lean can make you feel like a cow.
SASHA: Totally! One of my worst experiences with that was the first night I slept with James.
LINDSEY: You dated him just after high school, didn't you?
SASHA: Yeah... The first time we slept together was one of those weekends when I had the house to myself. We'd been dating for a while and I finally decided to bring him back to my place to do the nasty...
LINDSEY: And...? What does this have to do with making you feel fat?
SASHA: We threw our clothes on the floor and had a wild, wonderful night. We didn't bother to set the alarm, and the next morning James woke up late for work. He pulled on his shirt and grabbed jeans from the floor.
LINDSEY: You still leave your clothes on the floor.
SASHA: Yeah, I know. Anyhow, in his rush to get dressed and run out the door, he pulled on my jeans by mistake. Normally, I wouldn't care about that, but they were rather loose on him.
LINDSEY: That's really not what I thought you meant when you said he got into your pants...
SASHA: I tried his on, just to see, and I really had to suck in my tummy.
LINDSEY: That sucks.
SASHA: Everyone knows that chicks worry about their weight and body image, right?
LINDSEY: Even the ones who pretend not to. I punish myself after eating at KFC. An hour at the gym for every drumstick...
SASHA: I've heard some guys say they're self conscious about their weight too, and I always say not to worry.
LINDSEY: I like a guy with a little bit of meat on him.
SASHA: Beefy is good. Just about every chick I know thinks so.
LINDSEY: You don't want to feel fat or look fat next to a skinny guy. Even if it's just his natural body type, a guy who's really lean can make you feel like a cow.
SASHA: Totally! One of my worst experiences with that was the first night I slept with James.
LINDSEY: You dated him just after high school, didn't you?
SASHA: Yeah... The first time we slept together was one of those weekends when I had the house to myself. We'd been dating for a while and I finally decided to bring him back to my place to do the nasty...
LINDSEY: And...? What does this have to do with making you feel fat?
SASHA: We threw our clothes on the floor and had a wild, wonderful night. We didn't bother to set the alarm, and the next morning James woke up late for work. He pulled on his shirt and grabbed jeans from the floor.
LINDSEY: You still leave your clothes on the floor.
SASHA: Yeah, I know. Anyhow, in his rush to get dressed and run out the door, he pulled on my jeans by mistake. Normally, I wouldn't care about that, but they were rather loose on him.
LINDSEY: That's really not what I thought you meant when you said he got into your pants...
SASHA: I tried his on, just to see, and I really had to suck in my tummy.
LINDSEY: That sucks.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Bloody Words 2011
It looks like plans are coming along smoothly for this year’s Bloody Words conference. The Bloody Gang has switched things up a bit this year: the conference will be held in Victoria, BC instead of Toronto. That should make things interesting and will perhaps bring some new attendees, whether authors, industry personnel, or fans.
The Bloody weekend kicks off with the Arthur Ellis awards dinner on Thursday night. These awards are given to excellence in Canadian Crime Writing. The name of the award comes from the pseudonym of Canada’s last official hangman.
Following the awesome awards party kick-off, there are many great events scheduled for the weekend. Michael Slade will be making people shiver with a blood curdling 1940s radio play and Ghost Walk (there are many angry and unsettled spirits and phantoms in Victoria... it is God’s waiting room, after all).
The conference has some awesome guests on deck. This year’s International Guest of Honour is Tess Gerritson, author of some kick-ass medical thrillers. The Special Guest of Honour is BC’s own William Deverell, a proud Arthur Ellis winner, who will be receiving a lifetime achievement award for his contribution to Canadian crime writing.
Bloody Words also runs the Bony Pete short story contest. This year’s winner will be published online in Monday Magazine (an alternative Victoria, BC newspaper).
The murderous hoe-down has many other good things on deck as well: They’ll have a discussion on The Future of Publishing, a Canadian Mystery Trivia Game, a CSI Victoria workshop, a Social Media workshop, chances to meet with agents, manuscript evaluations and more.
It’s very, very cool that we have Bloody Words. It is the only Canadian Mystery Conference and I’m glad we have it. It really does give authors and fans a chance to connect, it gives a boost to new and aspiring writers, and it gets people talking about Malice and Maple Syrup.
Knock ’em dead!
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Meth Lab, Contractors, House from Hell, and Sasha's Next Case
As some of you may know, I live in a house from hell. It was cursed from the moment I moved in, if not long before then.
First of all, it turned out that the house next door to mine was a meth lab. No one in the neighbourhood suspected a thing... until the fire. The fire happened 2 months after I moved in here. It was 4:00 on Friday the 13th of March. I heard screams and smashing glass, and saw flames, so I called 911. The dude who was cooking meth ran out of the house wearing just his shorts. He was on fire and skin was falling off him.
Meth Dude was airlifted to a special burn victim unit in a New York hospital. Last I heard, he was on parole awaiting the trial.
The cops said to me at the time that if I hadn't called 911 when I did, that there were enough explosives in the meth lab to have taken out 6 or 8 houses in the vicinity. The fire fighters and cops kept my end of teh street closed off until 3:00 pm Sunday.
Not surprisingly, the owners of the meth lab (not the dude cooking the meth) walked away from the house. The bank now owns it, and they - along with lawyers and insurance companies - have been fighting over who's going to pay to fix it up.
It's been over two years now since the fire, and the repairs/de-contamination of the Meth House are still not done.
(Plot idea #1)
Then, I found out that the house I had bought had been part of a mortgage fraud, a while before I bought it. In Sept. 2007 the house sold for $160,000. Five days later, it sold for $320,000. The buyer who paid $320K bailed on the mortgage, and in March 2008, the bank foreclosed the mortgage and became the owner of the house.
(Plot idea #2)
Several months later, Mr. W ended up buying the house from the bank for market value. Mr. W bought the place as a "fixer-upper". He lived a few blocks away, and worked on this house on weekends. Eventually, he was offered a job out of town, so he hired a contractor to finish the renovations for him.
The contractor, Mr. S. was either lacking in competence or lacking in integrity, or both. The house looked great, all shiny and new. However, there were several "behind the scenes" problems with the home, none of which were visible when I had the home inspection. (Home inspections are supposed to be non-invasive, so they don't get to knock down plaster and see what's underneath.)
Long story short, Mr. S. did a fly by night and was nowhere to be found when the problems became aparent. There were many issues, and the contractor was only one of the several people involved with the renos and sale of the house who fucked up big time. On the one hand, Mr. S did the shoddy work, but since he did not work for me (he had been hired by the guy I bought the house from), I didn't really have a lot of recourse with him. Fast-tracking to the end of this part of the story: lawyers got involved, I got the resolution I wanted, and the house is now fixed.
Two days ago, I got a random email from a lawyer. She asked me about contact info for Mr. S. saying that her client had given Mr. S a deposit for his work, and had paid in advance for materials, and then she never saw him again...
(Plot idea #3)
Truth really is stranger than fiction...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Character Bio: Jessica... Pickles, Cowgirls and Shoelaces
CHARACTER PROFILE
Sasha Jackson's two best friends are Lindsey and Jessica. We don't see much of Jessica in Blood and Groom, but she figures much more prominently in book two, Dead Light District and then makes a return appearance in book three, The Lies Have it.
Here's a little bit more about Jessica:
Name: Jessica Molly Mercouris (Greek on my Dad's side, British on my Mom's).
Age: 32
Sign: Cancer if you mean zodiac sign. Otherwise "Don't Feed the Animals".
Occupation: Bartender/Waitron at The Pilot Tavern (and The Stealth Lounge above it).
Education: One year of College, studying nursing. Dropped out. I want to take care of people, but I just can't stand blood. Two years in University, majoring in Psychology... I'll finish someday...Freud was really whacked, eh? I really don't think "Little Red Riding Hood" is a rape fantasy or anxiety over menstruation.
Favourite Food: Anything without garlic. Is there something green stuck in my teeth?
Favourite Book: Chick Lit. Anything Chick Lit. The forerunner of Chick Lit has to be Valley of the Dolls. I re-read it about once a year.
Favourite Quotations:
"Pickle make squishy bookmark" -Confucius
"I'm desperately trying to figure out why kamikaze pilots wore helmets" -Dave Edison
Favourite Position: West, I like sunsets. Oh, you mean sexual position? Then I'd have to say Reverse Cowgirl.
Once Dumped a Guy For: Bleaching his shoelaces. Who bleaches their shoelaces? Loser.
Sasha Jackson's two best friends are Lindsey and Jessica. We don't see much of Jessica in Blood and Groom, but she figures much more prominently in book two, Dead Light District and then makes a return appearance in book three, The Lies Have it.
Here's a little bit more about Jessica:
Name: Jessica Molly Mercouris (Greek on my Dad's side, British on my Mom's).Age: 32
Sign: Cancer if you mean zodiac sign. Otherwise "Don't Feed the Animals".
Occupation: Bartender/Waitron at The Pilot Tavern (and The Stealth Lounge above it).
Education: One year of College, studying nursing. Dropped out. I want to take care of people, but I just can't stand blood. Two years in University, majoring in Psychology... I'll finish someday...Freud was really whacked, eh? I really don't think "Little Red Riding Hood" is a rape fantasy or anxiety over menstruation.
Favourite Food: Anything without garlic. Is there something green stuck in my teeth?
Favourite Book: Chick Lit. Anything Chick Lit. The forerunner of Chick Lit has to be Valley of the Dolls. I re-read it about once a year.Favourite Quotations:
"Pickle make squishy bookmark" -Confucius
"I'm desperately trying to figure out why kamikaze pilots wore helmets" -Dave Edison
Favourite Position: West, I like sunsets. Oh, you mean sexual position? Then I'd have to say Reverse Cowgirl.
Once Dumped a Guy For: Bleaching his shoelaces. Who bleaches their shoelaces? Loser.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Not Only Will Indies Survive, But They'll Thrive
With the news about Borders, Angus, et al filing for bankruptcy, I've been mulling over a theory I heard recently (sorry, I don't recall where or when). The theory is that even though the book world is changing - and e-Books are a huge part of this - smaller independent stores will become more and more successful.
How and why, you may ask?
1. Personalization. Customer service is and ought to be a big part of book selling (and any other retail enterprise as well). Being greeted by name matters. Having a book store clerk suggest titles to you because he knows what your interests are matters.
2. Specialty items. In terms of books and selling them, small stores may be able to create niches of unique book related products, such as signed copies of books. Yes, you can get these on eBay or similar, but it's nice to be able to look at that autographed first edition and see what kind of shape it's in.
3. Indies have freedom. They do not have to stock and display all the titles that head office tells them to.
4. Customers do care. Not all customers are seduced by the convenience of the big box stores. Many customers go to the indies precisely because they are not part of a big corporate chain.
5. Community. A small local bookstore is likely to be involved in its neighbourhood, schools, churches, book clubs and so on. People like this.
Here are links to three articles that explore the topic of Indies vs. Chains:
The Winnipeg Free Press
Associated Content
Forest Bookshop
How and why, you may ask?
1. Personalization. Customer service is and ought to be a big part of book selling (and any other retail enterprise as well). Being greeted by name matters. Having a book store clerk suggest titles to you because he knows what your interests are matters.
2. Specialty items. In terms of books and selling them, small stores may be able to create niches of unique book related products, such as signed copies of books. Yes, you can get these on eBay or similar, but it's nice to be able to look at that autographed first edition and see what kind of shape it's in.
3. Indies have freedom. They do not have to stock and display all the titles that head office tells them to.
4. Customers do care. Not all customers are seduced by the convenience of the big box stores. Many customers go to the indies precisely because they are not part of a big corporate chain.
5. Community. A small local bookstore is likely to be involved in its neighbourhood, schools, churches, book clubs and so on. People like this.
Here are links to three articles that explore the topic of Indies vs. Chains:
The Winnipeg Free Press
Associated Content
Forest Bookshop
Monday, April 11, 2011
Guys: This is Why You're Still Single
Really Unsexy First DatesSasha’s standards are notoriously low, but even so, some things that guys do are just unforgivable on a first date.
Men: make note of these comments and keep them in mind next time you’re trying to impress the ladies...
1. The Baseball Cap. Unless you’re a fourteen year old boy, or unless the first date is actually going to see a baseball game, lose the cap. There may be some times when the cap is acceptable outdoors, but not indoors. Unsexy. It’s awkward to kiss a guy with the peak of his hat poking you in the eyes.2. The Door. It may well be that the days of ladies first, holding the door open, and all that are long gone, but still... The guy probably shouldn’t walk through the door first and then let it swing shut behind him. Just saying...
3. Her Coat. Yes, she can put on her own coat, but why not hold it out for her and be a gentleman? No doubt about it: This will score you some points.
4. Showing Off. Bragging about your car/house/investments or whatever will only impress the kind of chick who is only interested in your for those things and nothing more. Water sinks to its own level.
5. Lothario/Don Juan Boasting. Talking about your prowess in bed is tacky, presumptuous, a waste of your time... and every girl knows that it is sure to lead to disappointment. Women know that a guy who has to brag about it can’t actually deliver. And you’ll need to stock up on Viagra.
6. The One Word Text. Sending her the one word text message. Are you a caveman? Can you not think of anything to say to her or to ask her beyond a one word text? And just what is it that makes a guy think that one word is enough to capture her interest? Unless it’s a big, cool word like sesquipedalian, don’t even bother to send it. It’ll just annoy her.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Fancy Book Learning Stuff & Talking About Dicks
Today was the fourth and final post in the "Mysteries and More" blog run by Bill Selnes. It's been fun reading Bill's two reviews, plus doing the Q & A with him, and then the follow-up discussion.
I miss being a nerdy academic! I had a lot of fun doing my MA. I did a lot of work on detective fiction in general, and women in crime fiction in particular. I'm not really into the "cozy" types of mysteries - hardboiled was more my thing. So... I did a great deal of reserach on the hardboiled gumshoe when I was working on my Master's, and I loved every minute of it. (By the way, I did my MA online via Athabasca University - awesome experience!!!!)
In Bill's fourth and final post, he comments on some of my MA research and analysis of (women in) crime fiction. Here is a link to excerpts from the Essays I did on mysteries and Bill's thoughts on the essays vis a vis the Sasha Jackson series.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading his comments and will post my own responses in a day or two.
Cheers, Jill
I miss being a nerdy academic! I had a lot of fun doing my MA. I did a lot of work on detective fiction in general, and women in crime fiction in particular. I'm not really into the "cozy" types of mysteries - hardboiled was more my thing. So... I did a great deal of reserach on the hardboiled gumshoe when I was working on my Master's, and I loved every minute of it. (By the way, I did my MA online via Athabasca University - awesome experience!!!!)
In Bill's fourth and final post, he comments on some of my MA research and analysis of (women in) crime fiction. Here is a link to excerpts from the Essays I did on mysteries and Bill's thoughts on the essays vis a vis the Sasha Jackson series.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading his comments and will post my own responses in a day or two.
Cheers, Jill
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)