Mysteries? Yes, and Love Stories!

  

One of my two current series, the Father Hardy Alaska Mystery series, is a mystery series. Duh. More accurately, it's a historical mystery series, set in the long-ago 1950s. 

Yes, I know, long ago is in the eye of the beholder. I was just reading about a model wearing a vintage Versace dress that is as old as she is. I might have been impressed except that she was born in 1994. I have t-shirts that old but don't get the headlines. 

Here's the thing. I write mysteries, but they are also love stories.

In the Hardy series, I have two characters, with a few 'miles' on them. They've been around. This is not fresh puppy dog love. These aren't young Romeo and Juliet first-timers, beautiful and memorable simply because they're new.

Hardy and Evie are slightly middle-aged lovers, with scars. He was married, loved his dead wife so terribly that she literally haunts him. She was a scrappy survivor of a bunch of bad stuff, an institutional orphan from the mission school and a wild child who lived to grow up. 

And they are not the same race. It's not such a big deal now as it was when the stories are set, in the 1950s. As a boy in the village, then for several years a teenager in the freedom-rider mid-south, I remember. I remember the gossip and the shunning, the flame-gutted bus.

Now, to make matters more complicated, I've just finished book 6 in the Hardy series and it won't surprise any regular reader to learn they get married, right at the front of the book. You know what that usually means in a mystery series: She's about to die tragically, or the series is about to disappear. Spoiler alert: no. 

If you haven't read a Hardy mystery, quarantine goes a lot smoother with good books. Pick up "Indecent Exposure," first in the series. You can order through any book store, though it's quickest and easiest from Amazon. And then just start reading. As C.S. Lewis wrote, "Come further up and further in."

We'll go together. 

Secret Forts and a Dead Man

I’m pretty sure there’s a verse in the bible that refers to me and my brothers, Michael and Joel, and our Nenana friends. It reads: “You will know them by their forts,” and to that I would add, secret forts, because secret is always the better part of it. Maybe the best part.

Not long ago, I got reacquainted with one of those old friends, George Albert, from the 1950s. He wasn’t a kid I played with a lot; I think he was younger. But he got me right away with this opener: “remember when we built the fort behind the church?”

You darn betcha. I remember every fort I ever built.

We built one that was three or four stories up three trees. It was a masterpiece. I think that’s the one George remembers. But we built another one out of logs at the back of that same lot. The second one stood only about four feet tall made of horizontal logs — okay, poles. And it turned out to be even better than the tall one.

We put a lot of thought into the secret part of it. We built it near the road but slightly back in the brush. We covered the scrap-board roof with whatever, and then over that a layer of leaves and sticks for cammo. We hadn’t mastered doors and windows in a ‘log’ structure, which didn’t matter. The gaps between the poles were big enough to throw a cat through. So, we dug a low spot, what we called a tunnel, to slide in and out on our bellies

It was the most secret fort you’ve ever seen, or not seen.

One morning, the fort is finished and we’re in there, not being seen by anybody. Which by itself is pretty boring. The adventure begins when a pickup truck stops about forty feet away. We’re all over this: the chance to spy!

There had been four people crowded into the cab, and two men and a woman come tumbling out. They are drunk. I now know they were too insanely drunk to be out driving around. I didn’t think about that then. Instead I thought about what they thought about, which was that one of them might be dead.

Our gang went from secret spying to active participants in seconds, crowding around for a better look. I got to give it to the guy in the cab, he looked sincerely dead. If he were in Hollywood, trying out for the part of ‘the dead guy,’ I have no doubts he’d have it.

Somehow, his three drunk friends, have learned that they can determine life or death for certain, with a mirror.

I am all over this, Jonny-to-the-rescue, instantly off running across the block at top speed because I know where there’s a mirror. I take the short cut through the woods, leaping downed logs, muddy pits, constantly alert for dangers — just in case there are any. In less than sixty seconds, I’m rifling my mother’s purse for her compact.

“What are you doing in my purse?” Comes her voice, from the kitchen.

“I’m borrowing your mirror.”

“What do you need my mirror for?”

“Got to figure out if a guy is dead.”

“Oh,” she says. “Okay,” and I heard her put something in the oven.

Then I’m back across the block, dodging and hurtling things. In my mind I’m Red Grange, The Galloping Ghost, scattering defenders down the backfield. I’m Brit runner, Roger Bannister, breaking the four. I’m Tonto or Cochise streaking across country too rough for U.S. Cavalry horses to follow. And in under two minutes, I’m back with the holy mirror.

These three, staggering and muttering, receive the mirror gravely. They look at each other, nodding. This is serious stuff and they know it. My brothers and I, along with our friends crowd closer. Mostly because, if they drop that mirror, which seems likely, one of us must catch it if we’re ever gonna know if this guy is dead.

The moment is at hand. One of them, the leader I suppose, takes the mirror, huffs on it, his breath nearly blacking me out. I’m surprised the alcohol fumes didn’t melt the plastic — and he buffs the glass on his sleeve. Then, we all hold our breath as he positions the mirror above the guy’s wrist.

“Yep,” he said, “dead.”

As it turned out, the guy was dead. Not that they could tell. I’ve never forgotten the adventure of that secret fort. And it makes me sincerely happy to get reacquainted with George Albert after more than fifty years, and to know that he agrees. “Remember when we built that fort behind the church?” You darn betcha. I remember.

The Bible says it and it’s good enough for me: “You will know them by their forts.”

There's no wormhole for writers

I have this sneaking suspicion. 

On the surface, the world invites and encourages people to be writers. "You can do this." We all say it to people, in person or in articles meant to be helpful. And yes, I think it's mostly true.

There are lots of things you can buy to help you. From proofreaders or proofreading programs, on through to the absolute best SEO search terms and people to manage PR. 

We all imagine that we are good enough, our material is interesting and desirable and the world is waiting. 

It isn't. 

We think there's a wormhole. 

We think there's a way around the huddled mass of other writers. A shortcut. It may be the myth of getting an agent or locking on with one of the big five publishers. And it does happen. My talented and hard-working facebook friend Anna Quinn slam-dunked all those things a couple of years ago with her very well-reviewed book, "The Night Child." Check it out. 

Mostly it doesn't. 

There isn't a short cut. Things that claim to be shortcuts turn out to be entire other journeys that a writer never wanted to take. The Facebook journey, the Instagram or Twitter journey, the blog journey. Give your life over to mastery of these other things in a desperate attempt to succeed at what you originally wanted to do, write the damn book. 

The Encouragement part

Here's the deal. Writers need to write. They need to be their best, do their best. And they also need, patiently and systematically, to push their books in front of potential readers and reviews. Amazon currently lists 32.8 million books. It's a lottery that, like most lotteries, most of us will never jackpot.

But there are smaller prizes along the way, and these are where we need to focus. The letter that says, "I couldn't go bed without finishing your book." That's one of my favorites. Or from the reading teacher who says her reluctant readers  sneaked to read ahead. Or when one of my readers raves to a friend or librarian about my book. That's the greatest! 

But this is about more than (just) feeling good. I want to make some money, dammit, even if it's not a lot. I recognize money. It has meaning in my life. I get it!

So, on the more material plane, the fact that I can turn selling two or five or even ten books a month into selling twenty, twenty five or even thirty. And forty is out there!

It's developing your own tricks to get ahead, and then having them work. For example, I go to lists of books in my category, that I should be on but am not, and I write to them and say, "Hey, consider me for your list." If they do, and I get on, then every one of their readers becomes my potential reader. How great is that? And it's free.

What's the lesson for writers? It's something like Garrison Keillor's famous sign off, "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch." 

To that I would add "All ahead, full—faithfully, patiently... maybe occasionally joyfully."