Hey, There's A Dead Guy in the Living Room

The Travel Library

Marilyn Thiele

Decisions, decisions. The thing I hate most about packing to go anywhere is deciding what to take. I’m leaving Monday for two weeks in the UK, and already I wish I were back in the day when the servants packed the huge steamer trunks with everything a person could need. Unfortunately, I’m limited to one bag and my carry-on. No servants either.  I spent part of today making the hardest and most important choices: what books to take. I will probably rethink these selections three times before I finally close that suitcase. After all, I’m going to be spending most of my time in London, where I may not easily be able to get any book I wish I had chosen! Having the book disease, I find it difficult to leave any of my unread collection behind. The comfort of looking through the stacks to see what suits my mood today will be missing. Or at least the stack will be limited.

I have not been able to shake the old mind-set I just described. Much as I prefer a paper book, the fact that I have both an iPad and a Sony e-reader means that I no longer have to choose between clothing and books in the suitcase. I have said that I don’t believe electronic books will replace paper, but that they will have their place when the novelty wears off. This is the place. For this trip, there will be a few traditional volumes for the airplane and my own comfort in reading, plus several on the electronic device so there is no fear of running out. And all the while, I know I won’t read even a third of what I plan.

Here are the hard copy choices at this point:

The Professionals by Owen Laukkanen. I’m trying to read as many of the Anthony nominees as I can before Bouchercon, and this one looks like it will be engrossing and fast-paced enough to distract me from my fear of flying.

The Keeper of Lost Causes by Jussi Adler-Olsen. I haven’t done any Scandinavians for a while, after binging on them a few years ago, and this is the start of a series that comes highly recommended.

Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure by Diane Kelly. It never hurts to have some humor available, and this one may be for the flight home, after I’ve said a sad goodbye to the son who lives in London.

Dead Simple by Peter James.  I don’t know if we’ll make it to Brighton on this trip, but this is a series I’ve been wanting to read, and I always start at the beginning.

On the electronic device so far:

Dare Me by Megan Abbott. Another Anthony nominee; this has been on the iPad since my February vacation, when, once again, I didn’t read as much as I thought I would.

The Janus Stone by Elly Griffiths.  The second in a great series recommended to me by Lynne Patrick. I’m looking forward to an intriguing mystery, and anxious to know how the main character’s personal life proceeds.

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. I don’t always read mysteries, and historical novels are my “second favorite.”

So now it’s on to packing the clothing. And the umbrella and the raincoat. If all goes as planned, I will be posting next week from Scotland, and reporting to you on the Dead Guys “mini-reunion” Lynne and I have arranged in Derbyshire on the way north.  We’re both looking forward to meeting in person.

 

I hate to do this, but...

Lynne Patrick

I seem to be having one of those days. Weeks. Months. But especially days.

It just goes to show, it doesn’t do to get complacent. Especially about technology. Mine, such as it is, has been behaving impeccably for months: e-mails have got through, websites have fired up, I’ve even survived the demise of MSN and its marriage of convenience with Skype (well, more or less). But just when I thought it was all going smoothly...

The guy on the helpline called it an intermittent access problem, and since last time I looked intermittent meant it comes and goes (which is in fact exactly the problem), there isn’t even any guarantee I’ll be able to post this, um, post.

So if you tune in to Dead Guy on Wednesday in any regular way, I apologize. I know I’m a sad case, and a complete technological disaster area, but I’m giving in. I may even curl up in a corner and cry.

If the helpline guy, or some other technological genius, can solve the problem, I’ll be back next week, and I’ll try to have something interesting to post about. Unless I give up altogether and stay in Guernsey, where I’m supposed to be going on Friday. If we ever get there. We didn’t last time we tried.

Sigh.

Suggestions?

Josh Getzler

So I was sitting at home last night and my wife was talking about the term papers she was grading, and saying that she wished her students understood better how to write about history with greater authenticity. "Hmm," I thought, "the difference between authentic- and inauthentic-sounding historical fiction would make a great blog post." I wrote it down.

This morning, Assistant Extraordinaire Danielle and I were talking about different times to (or not to) build one's social network. "Hmm," I thought..."another one."

But while I do generate many of these posts organically, through things I read or discuss, I am actively searching for some new topics. So I'm going to open this up a little. What would folks like to hear? It's not a straight Q and A like Ben sometimes does. But rather subjects that seem both consistent with what I typically discuss and what you'd like to hear. Lay em on me! Now I need to go turn into a pumpkin for a couple of days. Have a good week!

How To Escape--Or Not

Jeff Cohen

I notice I've been blogging a lot lately about respect for "light" entertainment, like the books I write but also about television and movies that aren't necessarily considered the most "important" examples of their medium.

There is a certain "middle child syndrome" that comes from growing up in New Jersey, constantly stuck between our evil overlords in New York and the cocksure wiseguys in Philadelphia (they boo their own teams there!). But this isn't simply about feeling unappreciated--I have it pretty good, myself, and I have what I think is a reasonably clear picture of the kind of thing I do. I'm fine with it.

But. There is a tendency among critics, media reporters and in some cases those in the industry to look at the supposed "light" entertainments and dismiss them as simple, empty-headed (get ready for the word of the week) "escapism." The idea is that entertainment like books, theater, film and TV (and one assumes now online things like cats on skateboards or something) help the reader, viewer, or absorber--I love it when they talk about us "consuming" entertainment; I can eat pretty prodigiously, but I don't think I could handle that--mentally break with reality and provide some way to avoid dealing with the horrors of everday life.

Let's see how many different things are wrong with that idea, shall we?

First: ALL fiction is some form of escape, in that it insists that the audience member (and that's the term we'll use for all media, okay?) suspend thinking about his/her current circumstance and pay some attention to one of the creator's design. In order for "Crime and Punishment" to work, the reader has to stop thinking about his life and start participating in the ones Dostoyevsky dreamed up. And anyone who thinks "Crime and Punishment" is "light escapism" should be kept away from sharp objects.

Beyond that, though, is the assumption that light entertainment (which is code for "anything that's not depressing or, heaven forbid, might try to be funny") is in some way secondary or inferior because it bears no resemblance to the dark, hideous truth that is human existence. 

If your view of life is that it is all misery, you should stop reading this blog immediately and seek out someone who can help you. (Or go make another movie, Woody.) And if you think that comic or "light" forms of entertainment can succeed if they don't reflect reality, you don't understand the concept of entertainment.

In order for a story, a joke, or a piece of music to be successful, it has to connect with an audience. It has to reach people, and they have to find something in it that relates to their lives. That's basic. You can write a book from the perspective of a house plant if you feel like it, but the story had better be about human emotions and human interaction, even if it's reflected in plants. Do you think "Animal Farm" is about, you know, animals?

So if Blazing Saddles makes you laugh, at least part of that laughter will be a form of recognition: "I get that because I know people who might act like that, or think that way." Sure, it's exaggerated, but don't tell me it isn't true.

Do people sometimes need a way to distract themselves from their troubles? Of course they do. Some of my favorite emails from readers have been from people who read my book in hospital rooms with desperately ill relatives or after a loved one's death. They say the book takes their mind off difficult thoughts sometimes, and thank me for that.

One of my favorite booksellers (besides you, Marilyn!) recently told me that she'd sold a copy of one of the Haunted Guesthouse books to a special customer, one who had managed to escape (not without injury) from the World Trade Center in 2001. She said her customer had been having a hard time dealing with people, but showed up for a book club meeting to discuss my book.

She said my book was the first one--almost 12 years later--this customer had read all the way through since 9/11.

Escapism? Maybe. But don't you dare tell me it's not important.

How Women Actually Put on Bras: It's Not a Mystery

Jessy Randall

Women on screens are usually shown taking their clothes off rather than putting them on, but I have a complaint about the Hollywood bra-putting-on-method. In movies and TV, women are always putting on bras using the reach-around-the-back method. Up until this week, I believed this was a completely unrealistic depiction of the actual way women put on bras. What? A lack of verisimilitude in Hollywood?

I now believe I was only half right. An informal email and Facebook poll of about sixty people who wear back-hook bras suggests that about half of us use the Hollywood method and the other half, my half, prefer to hook the hooks where we can see them, in front, and then twist the bra around. 26 responders said they use the Hollywood method; 28 use the twist-around method; 4 said it depends; and 2 use a different method altogether (they pull the already-attached bra over their heads).

When one is trying to solve an interesting mystery, one often gets interesting results. Here are some quotes from the responses:

HOLLYWOOD

"Note that I am not particularly chesty, thus the hooks are not elaborate or extensive. Also, I have fairly flexible rotator cuffs which make this an easy maneuver."

"I am sure I learned this from watching my mother, and while I'm not going to go into details, I can attest that our place further in the alphabet is not a problem here."

"Hollywood style, but I can say that I have never gotten up from my bed and wrapped the sheet around myself."

"Me neither, nor have I ever sat on the toilet going #2 for eons with the door open whilst having a pleasant chat with my girlfriends."

NON-HOLLYWOOD

"Lately I noticed I've been putting both arms through the straps simultaneously -- like I'm trying to work fast and save time! My life is too damn frantic."

"The other way is only for Bond girls. Or ninjas."

"Women put their bras on that other way in movies because we all look weird and awkward twisting it around on ourselves."

"I think that men must find it sexier if women stick their arms through and hook the back, but I’ve never known a woman dexterous enough to pull that off."

"From time to time I try hooking it in the back just to see if I can do it, but find it too hard to get three hooks into the right loops. Maybe if I only had to hook one, I'd do it, but that's a fantasy!"

"DEFINITELY hook first, spin, put arms through. Not sexy? Perhaps. Possible? Yes!"

"For those of us larger women a bit farther in the bra alphabet, the non Hollywood way would be very difficult. Mine has 4 hooks and underwire."

"Despite having very bendy arms, I do it the non-hollywood way. And it's become so automatic that front-hooking models always throw me for a loop."

IT DEPENDS

"Depends on the bra. One hook, no worries. Two hooks, might take one or two misses. The three hook ones? Forget it. It's like solving a Rubik's cube."

"Back. Except when I was nursing and needed an 'I' cup bra (I! as in 'Ice Cream!') and then needed a special construction bra made by the Army Corps of Engineers. It came with a six-step set of instructions..."

OTHER

"Verisimilitude would be a good brand name for a push-up bra."

Really, It's Not You, It's Me

Marilyn Thiele

I just set a new reading speed record for myself. Not the fastest I’ve ever read a book, but the slowest – three weeks to read a 350 page mystery, the kind that usually takes me fewer than three days. I only finished it in that time because I needed to read another book for a reading group and was running out of time; the most I can handle is two books at once, the second being the audio going in my car. I didn’t finish the book for reading group in time either, although that one was Possession by A. S. Byatt and definitely slower going than my usual fare.

I kept losing track of both the plot and the characters.  Who was that guy again? Flip back. Scan. Flip back. Scan.  Oh yeah – he’s the police detective working with the main character, a private investigator, in one of the towns which may have a crime related to the main inquiry. Usually, if I need to refresh my memory about a character, I can remember the approximate place in the book where he appeared. I always claim that my mind and fingers with a paper book are faster and easier than any electronic search. But this time, I almost wished that I was using my e-reader. I often hadn’t a clue where to start looking. The character(s) just hadn’t registered at all.

At this point one might wonder why I bothered to finish such an awful book, one that obviously was not compelling or well-written. I stayed with it because I suspected that the failings were not the author’s, but mine. The author has been praised by other authors I respect (and I don’t mean just jacket blurbs), and the start of a new series was an opportunity to try her work.  This book was at least her fifth from a major publisher. None of this means that I should like it, but it does indicate that she is not an amateur who can’t handle plot or characterization. So why was it so difficult to finish this book?

My own inability to focus is the culprit. It’s one of those unsettled times when too many things are going on at home and work, most of which are incomplete for reasons outside my control but which require that I stay on top of them. My mother would have said “too many irons in the fire”; my husband says “too many windows open.” When I sit down to read and try to forget the pressures for a while, my mind starts jumping to the details of daily life that need to be remembered and soon pages have gone by with nothing retained from the reading. I’m not complaining. Life gets like this sometimes, and always gets better. I have a badly needed holiday approaching, the preparation for which (home, business, travel agenda) is part of the problem , but which I know will refresh my outlook.  It’s not fair to blame an author for not being able to penetrate my overloaded brain.

How often do we reject an author for reasons unrelated to the quality of the work? I am reminded that I refused to read Dark Places by Gillian Flynn because I found Sharp Objects so repulsive. I read Gone Girl because I wanted to know what all the buzz was about. Gone Girl is certainly unsettling, but I was fascinated rather than repulsed. I realized then that my problem with Sharp Objects was my own squeamishness about the subject matter. Another reader would not be so disturbed, and would be able to enjoy the excellent writing.  One member of our reading group could not get through Middlesex because the notion of hermaphrodism was just too disconcerting. The rest of us were not bothered in the least.

Our individual distastes for certain subjects are probably not going to change. Sometimes, though, our discomfort with a topic is situational. Years ago, I was astonished at how adamant a friend was in condemning The Horse Whisperer as a “piece of trash.” She and I usually enjoyed the same books, and although I wouldn’t have called it great literature, it was an enjoyable read with a satisfying ending (changed, I should mention, and to the detriment of the entire story, by Hollywood). I later learned that she had just discovered that her husband was having an affair. No wonder this plot was distressing! There are several people in Cleveland right now who would not find a thriller about a serial kidnapper of young women entertaining reading. Life’s ordeals can put us in a place, either temporarily or permanently, where certain subject matter does not lend itself to an enjoyable reading experience.

My own experiences have taught me that when I find a particular book unsatisfactory, I need to consider the reasons beyond  “It didn’t grab me” or “I found it distasteful.” If the writer’s style or consistent choice of subject matter is not to my liking, then I won’t waste my time in the future. But if the author happened to write one novel involving a subject that makes me uncomfortable, or if my own distracted mind or current life situation kept me from giving the work my full attention, I will try at least one more of her works. It might not be the author’s weaknesses; it may be mine.

Crossing over

Lynne Patrick

I went to the theatre last night. Not an unusual occurrence – I review for the local newspaper, and it’s a rare week when I don’t; sometimes I go two or three times.

The reason last night was a) worth mentioning, and b) a suitable subject for a Dead Guy post is that the play was an adaptation of a murder mystery novel, one of a popular series which had already been adapted for TV.

Anyone remember Cadfael? It’s fifteen years since the last TV adaptation, and I don’t know if the series ever made it to the US. He became something of an institution here in the UK – a mediaeval monk who solved mysteries using his knowledge of healing as a form of early forensic science, supplemented, of course, by being an all-round super-observant, hyper-perceptive sort of guy.

Last night, a theatre I sometimes visit was staging a ‘world premiere’ of an adaptation of one of the books. Someone I know was in the cast, and anyway it seemed like a good idea. I booked seats.

Modified rapture.

At first it was hard to tell exactly what was wrong. The dozen or so actors (unusually large cast for a small company) did just fine, give or take a villain who swashed a buckle or two too many and a good guy with the same problem. I didn’t even mind that Brother Cadfael himself wasn’t wearing lovely Derek Jacobi’s face as he did on TV; the guy who played him did an excellent job.

The company had clearly laid out a substantial amount of cash on sets, elaborate special effects for sound and weather, period music and costumes. The script...

Right. Yes. That’s where things began to come apart. Lots of short scenes, each in a different, heavily staged location. Not a problem in itself; short scenes and jump-cuts work fine on TV, but this wasn’t TV. There were long-drawn-out scene changes carried out by backstage staff dressed as monks and covered by endless mediaeval-sounding music. The pace, an essential component of murder mystery fiction in any form, was shot to pieces. It dragged.

As it progressed, I realized the whole concept wasn’t working. It was too ambitious. They were trying to cram a whole 80,000-word book, characters, locations, historical background, atmosphere, subplots, everything, into a couple of hours of dialogue. They used back-projection for some linking scenes – do they call it multi-media? – and it simply didn’t fit with the mediaeval setting. A couple of elaborate pieces of scenery were brought on for one scene, which could probably have been cut anyway. And when the stagehand monks wheeled (yes, wheeled) the trees on for the eighth time, I was hard pressed not to laugh.

The denouement, when it finally came, seemed tacked on; solving murders is what Brother Cadfael does, so there had to be one, but most of the story had been about finding out who was responsible for beating up a monk who had little to do with the rest of the action and the dead nun had somehow taken a back seat.

And I was left wondering, as I have on other occasions, whether it’s ever possible to make a success of adapting a novel into a stage play. And if it’s going to work, whether the trick is to move a long way from the original, and not be afraid to lose subplots and detail.

TV adaptations can be made to work, because TV has the facilities and money to go for realism. Dickens is great on TV; his intricate descriptions of locations, often pages long in the books, can be visually portrayed in seconds, and the move from one location to the next is almost instant. These days theatre almost by definition has to be stylized; the days of true-to-life drawing-room sets are past. This production with its large cast, lots of scenery and lavish effects clearly wasn’t cheap, but throwing money at a problem doesn’t always provide a solution.

Two of my two favourite leisure pursuits in one package: a murder mystery, and a visit to the theatre. On the face of it, a great way to spend an evening. Maybe it can be done; maybe I was just unlucky with this one.

Perspectives on Process

Josh Getzler

This week, I participated in an online conversation with author (and my client) Geoff Rodkey and Putnam editor-in-chief (and Geoff's editor) Jennifer Besser at the marvelous middle-grade-oriented website www.fromthemixedupfiles.com. I think it gives a fun insight into the three perspectives that often go into the creation and publication of a book. We aren't saying exactly the same things, but I think the idea of creativity and collaboration and thought that goes into deciding how to position a book are worth reading. So I will leave you to click onto the site here , though I also will be happy to answer any questions or comments left below.

Oh, and if you get the chance, go out and pick up Geoff's new novel, New Lands, which continues the Chronicles of Egg started in Deadweather and Sunrise (out now in paperback!).

 

 

 

 

Go Ahead. Disagree.

Jeff Cohen

There are two things you are never supposed to say out loud (actually, there are plenty of things you are never supposed to say out loud, and I believe you should say most of them): You're never supposed to say that you don't like listening to Frank Sinatra sing, or that you're not crazy about The Godfather.

Well, I'm here to say both. So you can start yelling at me as soon as you've finished reading the rest of the post. 

Sinatra: Yeah, the guy had a nice voice. It is also true that he was not a terribly wonderful human being. That's not always a deal breaker with me, but in his case it's hard to get around. Overlook the way he and his Rat Pack pals misinformed generations of young men on how to behave. Forget the treatment of women and the palling around with organized crime (we'll get to that in a minute); I'm just not that moved by his singing. It's all about technique and rarely about the song being sung; each note seems to want to draw attention to itself and say, "Listen! I'm being sung really skillfully!" Until, of course, we reach the dooby-dooby-doo period, at which time even the "nice voice" thing is in serious doubt. If I never hear his version of "New York, New York" again, I'd only be sorry because it would mean the Yankees hadn't won the game.

But more egregious than that declaration, perhaps, is the lack of respect for Francis Ford Coppola's adaptation of the Mario Puzo novel The Godfather, which pretty much anybody who's ever seen a film has decided is, if not the greatest movie ever made, certainly in the top five.

Except me.

For one thing, I resent the legacy of the movie--since its incredibly successful release, I've had to deal with fictional gangsters ranging from the ridiculous to the just plain annoying. No, I wasn't a fan of The Sopranos, for the record, and not only because it helped fuel the prejudices of just about everyone about my home state. I'm not watching Steve Buscemi--an actor I usually like a lot--in his Atlantic City gangster show, either. 

Because the fact of the matter is, I'm sick of gangsters. How the hell many ways are there to dramatize organized crime from the sympathetic perspective of the criminals? And why is that a good idea? Those who think Al Pacino and Marlon Brando were bringing something new to the party in 1972 because they were showing us that gangsters are people apparently had missed 80 percent of the movies Edward G. Robinson and James Cagney ever made.

On top of that, guess what: Gangsters are not nice people. They tend to steal from those who can't afford it, kill those whom they are not especially crazy about, corrupt law enforcement and government, deal drugs (or, in the good old days, alcohol), cause pain and generally contribute to a system that doesn't need any help in making things tough for the little guy.

From a movie standpoint: The Godfather is too damn long. Its dialogue is often hard to hear. Its lighting is intentionally dark (we're making an existential point here, people, so pay attention!). Its performances are certainly compelling, but its characters are uniformly unpleasant and hard to watch. We are encouraged to side with one group of gangsters--the good ones, I guess--and against others, including the scheming Jews. (I would not for one second deny there were Jewish gangsters, by the way.) 

So don't come to me and quote chapter and verse from the sacred Book of Michael Corleone, okay? I realize I'm demonstrating my awful taste when I say I'd rather watch any of a hundred movies again before I check out the grand opera that is the "masterpiece" of The Godfather; I don't care. 

You are unquestionably entitled to believe that it's the greatest single achievement in all of Cinema. Just as I am entitled to prefer Horse Feathers. This is America. See the movie you want.

a thief, not a donor

Jessy Randall

It's not often that library work involves crime of any kind, but this week we had a research question with a crime-related answer. I've changed the name of the perpetrator to protect his privacy.

First, the back story: from approximately 1903-1977, Colorado College had a small museum in Palmer Hall (now our social sciences building). Its collections included fossils, pottery, stuffed animals, and more. When the museum closed, the materials were dispersed to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science and elsewhere. (The blue whale skeleton from the CC Museum, pictured below ca. 1920, now hangs in the Denver Museum.)

Recently, a Denver Museum staff member contacted me with some questions about a name she'd found associated with a box of items from the CC Museum. There were a number of named collections in the CC Museum, including the Lang-Bixby Collection, the Corwin Collection, and others. But this name -- let's say it was Dondrustim -- was one I hadn't heard before.

We checked through our files on the history of the museum and discovered that Dondrustim was indeed associated with certain materials from the CC Museum. Why? Because he stole them, creating the short-lived "Dondrustim Collection." 

James M. Dontrustim majored in art history and graduated from Colorado College in 1970. He was an honors student and won a prestigious fellowship as a senior. He worked with rare books and manuscripts at the CC library and also as a part-time guard at the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center, the local art museum.

In 1972, he was charged with stealing more than $10,000 worth of art objects from the Fine Arts Center and the CC library. Most of the Fine Arts Center items were there on long-term loan from CC. Dondrustim pleaded guilty, saying he had no intention of selling the objects: according to an article in the Colorado Springs Sun on May 16, 1972, he intended to study the objects, catalog them, and use them "to beautify his apartment."

It took us a while to figure out this mystery, because our file on the CC Museum is thick and the top sheet of stapled pages on Dondrustim misspelled his name slightly as -- let's say -- Dontressim. But our excellent student assistant spotted the similarity and found a list of about 100 items Dondrustim stole. Some were small, easy to hide under a sweater: a Babylonian clay tablet, a carved stone scarab. Others would have been more difficult to smuggle out of the museum: a prehistoric Anasazi ladle, a pair of Plains Indians leggings, a double-headed steel spear.

How did he do it? How did he get caught? Did he feel bad about it later? These are mysteries we'll never solve. But we can tell our Denver Museum researcher not to call Dondrustim a "donor." The items in the Dondrustim Collection may have been in James M. Dondrustim's possession for a brief while, but he didn't donate them; rather, the police recovered them from Dondrustim's apartment after his arrest and returned them to the museum.