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Captain Trips: A love story

This is an essay about Captain Trips, gateway drugs, and falling in love. 

Last week was the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Awards Week.  The Grand Master this year was Stephen King, a fantastic choice to my mind.  His books, even when they have supernatural elements, address the big issues of life and death, situate regular people in extreme situations, and are about good and evil.  The first three books he took from the library bus were mysteries.  He gets it.

I discovered King’s books in 1981.  It was the summer I was working in the public library, and the guy from 10th-grade English class I really, really liked came in, went straight to the fiction section.  In school, “J” was always in the science fiction section, so I started reading science fiction, too, and loved it.  This time, he was reading Stephen King.  I made an excuse to talk to him; J was startled, shy, but said I should check out The Stand.  I took it out, and stayed up for the next three days straight, reading it (I was sixteen; I could do that and still come bopping into work the next day). 

I loved it.  If you don’t know it, a highly contagious and deadly disease (nicknamed “Captain Trips”) is inadvertantly released from a military lab, and the story follows the struggle between good and evil in those who survive.  The characters, the trueness of their voices, the storytelling, it’s still one of my favorite books.  I devoured every Stephen King book I could find. 

It gave me more things to talk about with J:  when someone sneezed, we’d exchange a glance and mutter “Captain Trips.”  When someone creepy walked by, we’d mention ‘the Walking Man.’  I got up the guts to ask J out. 

He said no.  Teen angst ensued.

Reading all this speculative fiction—horror, SF, fantasy, and mysteries, the ‘what-if?’ stuff—I was told I’d be illiterate.  It didn’t make a lot of sense—I was reading—but folks were concerned that I wasn’t reading the classics (which also kinda silly, because I’d already found Shakespeare, Twain, and Chaucer).  But here’s the thing, and I tell it to people who worry their kids will never grow out of Harry Potter or Goosebumps or whatever:   all that so-called “junk” I was reading led me to fantastic stories and big ideas (and every book is only as good as the ideas it inspires in you) and more great authors.  Heinlein and Asimov led to Carl Sagan.  King led to Harlan Ellison (because he wrote the introduction to Stalking the Nightmare), who led to Dorothy Parker (who wrote a review of Ellison’s Gentleman Junkie), who led to the writers of the Algonquin Round Table…I could go on.  You could go on. 

Once you get hooked on that first writer, you keep looking for the next high. 

Last week I was introduced to Stephen King.  It was brief, just hello-it’s a pleasure-thanks.  But it was a big sentimental deal for me.  J and I have been married twenty years (he came to his senses about six months after I asked him out, and asked me out), and he was right there with me, looking sharp in black tie. 

Thanks, Steve, for giving me another chance to talk to that guy from English class.  Thanks for your books and all the others they led to.

There are still miracles

My phone rang last night at 10:30. Nobody who knows me well calls that late. I'm dead to the world by then. (We rise early here  -- and I sink early too.)

It was Evelyn, my neighbor down the road. Her voice shaking with excitement, she said, "It's here!"

She didn't mean a UFO.

I got out of bed, called upstairs to my daughter to tell her the news. Together we ran down the road to witness one of life's wonders - welcoming a brand-spanking-new still-wet-on-the-ground foal to the world.

Despite the overly lit parking lot of the nearby Wal-Mart that lights up the night sky like a carnival midway, the foal was hard to see. The mare stood over a dark spot on the ground, breath blowing gently as she reached down to nuzzle her baby's neck. It was so small. Luckily Symphony is a trusting mare and let all of us come up to pat her and then to reach down to touch her foal.

The baby's soft bay coat was still slick with amniotic fluid. Coiled up in a ball as he...she? had been in Symphony's tummy, he (for the sake of simplicity, all unsexed babies are boys to me -- no explaination as to why...) unfurled his neck and let his cheek rest on the grass. Mom dropped her head down and gave the foal a shove in her back, causing the baby to convulse. All of a sudden four very long sticks unfolded from the dark ball, outstretched to impossible length along the ground. Symphony pinned her ears back and we all retreated to give her room to lick her baby. Frankly, I have no idea how Symphony had packed that much leg into her belly. As a mother whose children kicked a lot in utero, I felt glad for this Mom that foals are born with soft hooves -- relatively speaking.

This continued for about an hour, us approaching, then retreating, with Mom alternating licking her baby and chewing the sweet pasture grass. Toward the end of the hour, the baby started trying to suckle on his mother's fetlocks, then knees, and then he roused and sat up. A small nicker from the baby caught the attention of the family donkey, Sam, who slipped through a hole in the fence from the next pasture to trot over to see what was happening. Symphony did not much like this, and she chased us all off to a distance of about twenty feet. Sam took this opportunity to trumpet to the neighborhood the news that a new baby had arrived. (If you know how loudly an excited donkey can bray, you can imagine just how much the neighbors appreciated this at 11:30 at night.)

I guess we have Sam's braying to thank for what happened next. The foal woke up enough to realize that the milk source was higher up than the knee; he had to get up to get to breakfast. First he gingerly placed one long foreleg and then another. He looked like a bizarre spider as he tried to coordinate where all those things went. He'd get up on one, then two, push, then go down again as he realized there were ...Holy Cow! more of those things to coordinate. At one point he got up on three legs and whirled around in a circle that looked like an equine version of break dancing. Evelyn said that counted as "up". Anne and I weren't quite sure.

After that effort the foal laid down again and took a nap. By that time we were all pretty impatient to find out the sex to figure out if it was Camille or Casper. Evelyn reached down, grasped a rear hoof and lifted. Her husband flicked on the flashlight he'd brought out after he'd finished watching the Rockets game.

"Boy parts!" I cried out.

Symphony pinned her ears and we retreated again. Once Symphony let Evelyn back in, she lifted the leg and we did a repeat exam. The dangling bit was revealed to be the remains of the umbilical cord. (Yeah, I know, I'm a nurse, but anyone can make that mistake with a foal, right?)

It must have been the flashlight, or maybe our moving her around to find out who she was, but at that moment, Camille gave an adorable nicker, put out her two front legs and pushed. standing up on two legs, with her back legs tucked under her like a puppy, she shook her head, then scrambled up onto all fours. It didn't last long, balance being what it is at an hour and a half of age. She wound up falling forward onto her nose, then back in a heap. Proud Uncle, Sam the Donkey, let the neighbors know another milestone had been reached, and Symphony nickered encouragement to her baby again.

We left soon after that as it was close to midnight. We didn't stay to see Camille nurse for the first time -- Anne had a Calculus test this morning, and I had to work. I am so glad we got that call. This is the second foal I've been privileged to watch during their first few hours of life. It never looses its fascination. New life. New beginnings.

Wishing us all more of those.

Julie

And You Think Your TBR Pile is High...

by Kris Neri

Another blog from my bookseller side…

Countless patrons of independent bookstores believe the store’s owners have read every single volume on their shelves. Hah! If days were twice as long, I still couldn’t keep up with the new titles we receive every week, not to mention all the existing books I haven’t gotten to. Mind you, we try. One of us reads at least one book  by every author who appears at our store. Just this morning over breakfast I finished the book by the psychic EMT who signed at our store today. But while I’ve always been blessed with an unusually fast reading speed, my TBR pile is so high, every night before I close my eyes, I fear it will topple and kill me. (If it happens, don’t look for a killer, just check to see if the book stack is still standing.)

And since we’re a general store, my reading categories are quite diverse. For those of you who do read outside of the mystery genre, I thought I’d share some thoughts on some of my recent reads:

Native American:

I’ve read lots in this area, but my favorite remains Kent Nerburns’s Neither Wolf Nor Dog. An unflinchingly truthful account by a Lakota elder, who’s an astute old guy, but not without his humorous streak.

YA:

Parents expect me to vet every YA title so they can be assured that their kids won’t read any troubling themes (unlike what they see on TV). I seriously wish I could read them all since my inner adolescent relates to these books. My two favorite reads, both of which contain adult themes, are Hilary McKay’s Permanent Rose and Laura Wiess’ Such a Pretty Girl. I’m sorry to say that Permanent Rose doesn’t sell well for us, even though I tout it regularly. Probably because the protagonist is only nine years old, while the themes are aimed more a preteen-teen level. Teens don’t want to read about a little kid. But with Rose being an old nine, and large cast of characters at various ages, this book offers lots to a broad range of readers. Rose is my inner child.

Such a Pretty Girl is the kind of title that parents want me to steer their kids away from, since it deals with the effects of sexual abuse. This troubling book became a compulsive read for me from its first page to its stunning conclusion. I wanted to throttle the protagonist’s mother. Highly recommended!

Personal Growth:

You gotta give Oprah credit — she’s done a lot for reading in general and nobody can sell a title better. But The Secret is the worst of the Law of Attraction titles IMO (the law of attraction has been around forever and has hardly been a secret). Anyone who wants a more usable version should try Excuse Me, Your Life is Waiting by Lynn Grabhorn.

General Fiction:

Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris — liked the writing, but not the protagonist. Still, it takes an honest look at what people have to do to survive sometimes. Beautiful writing! Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love, a complex and enigmatic story that weaves its plot together in an unusual way, provides a touching, effective look at loneliness. Pam Houston’s Sight Hound is a good novel for dog lovers. Don’t avoid it because the dog dies (not a spoiler because that’s clear from the start of the book). Well, the first chapter is odd, but it gets better from there.

I could go on, since I’ve read loads more lately, but I’m running out of space.

Books have probably been my greatest friends since the day when I first opened one. I did fear that with the amount I’d have to read as a bookseller that it would become a chore. I’m happy to say that it hasn’t become a chore, but often it has become a job. And that saddens me.

Still, my favorite gift to myself remains a chance to read a book that I don’t have to read, but choose to. And those are almost always mysteries. My last personal read was Charlaine Harris’ Grave Sight. I’m a big Sookie fan, but I love this new series. I also just placed orders for a few more promising pleasure reads, including Carolyn Hart’s Set Sail for Murder, and the first in Sister Femme Mary Saums’ new series, Thistle and Twigg, and for Murder with Reservations, by our ailing Elaine Viets.

I don’t know when I’ll get to all that personal reading, but I know I have some fun times ahead of me. But now there are several books piled on the table threatening to fall into my dinner dish if I don’t whittle that stack down.

Not So Nice

I am fortunate enough to have many fine friends, and lucky enough to have a loving family. To my amazement, people who meet me say things like, "I hear you are so sweet," or "So and so says you're the nicest person."

I have gotten this reputation under false pretenses.

I am not sweet.

I am not nice, either.

I'm having a down week, and I feel like shaking someone. Last night, I felt like shaking the girl who dropped the ball that would have made a big difference in the outcome of my daughter's softball game. Earlier in the week, I felt like shaking the doctor who told Don that Elaine Viets would die during the night after she had the stroke. I feel like shaking the woman who works for me and didn't show up or call on Monday when she was due. Or Tuesday either, for that matter. I could even shake the mockingbird who keeps pooping on my mailbox.

All this anger! Where's it coming from?

I tracked it down to the source. It's the I'm-too-busy syndrome. Who only does one thing any more? Sure, I'm a writer, and I know how lucky I am to get to do what I love to, and make money at it. But that's not all I do. I'm on the board of Mystery Writers of America. I'm the senior warden of my little Episcopalian church. I'm the president of the Softball Boosters Club, a piece of miscasting that's kept me on the ragged edge all softball season. I'm on the local Arts Council. I have a very active teenage daughter to keep up with, though our two sons are out of the home. I have them to worry about, which believe me is no small job. I have meals and laundry to do. I have shopping and wedding presents to buy.

I know there are single moms who work two jobs and come home to take care of their young children, and after standing with my jaw hanging open that such wonderful women don't pull all their hair out, I can only conclude that they're a lot younger than I. And I know that I am lucky to have a financial cushion so that balancing my checkbook is not one of my time-consuming jobs. And I know that most of my busyness is actually voluntary. I could quit everything. I could say "no" to all requests. I could tell my publisher I won't tour. I could tell our daughter, "Sorry, I can't come to your game."

Like many women, I'm floundering to reach a compromise that will allow me to enjoy the other parts of my life while leaving me time and peace of mind to enjoy what really matters to me professionally -- in my case, the actual writing. My problem is picking what to cut out. I used to be like Ado Annie in Oklahoma -- I was the girl who couldn't say no. Now, I'm beginning to use that N word more often. I hope by next year to be ruthless. I'll be off the board of MWA. I'll be off the Arts Council. Softball season will be over for the year after next week, and I'll never be president again. I won't be senior warden, either. See the urge to attack someone is weakening, even as I dream of such a situation.

Maybe next year I'll be able to think of myself as nice person. Until then, if my eyes start flashing sparks and my hands start to clench, run for the hills. I may shake you.

Charlaine Harris

Yuseff Dinglipants

Deer will eat anything. They’ll cruise gardens and lawns and berms like vacuum cleaners with teeth–nimble nippers who’re particularly fond of early blooming tulips. They’ll nibble the cat if she doesn’t get out of the way. But they won’t eat daffodils. Because they are poison. A cab driver from an airport in D.C. ferrying me to a Malice Domestic Convention, Yuseff Dinglipants I think he said his name was, told me that. He gleefully pointed out frolicking deer herds in National gardens along the way chomping decorative beds of bright red tulips. He’d thought the people in this country were strange but the critters . . . . He laughed and chatted–I didn’t get half of what he said–and we ended up at the right hotel chain but in the wrong suburb. The doorman convinced Yuseff that he owed me a free trip from here to the right hotel in the right suburb and that he’d alert the doorman there to what had happened. Yuseff was a lot less jolly on the way to the second hotel and muttering things like–in his country, women didn’t travel alone. At least I think that was what his problem was.

I was going to title this blog Ode to a Daffodil but I figured Yuseff Dinglipants was catchier. And you wouldn’t have gotten this far, right? This blog was going to be about spring but it snowed. And this fox keeps staring through the cat door I can no longer let my cat use. This fox is faster than a speeding bullet and absolutely beautiful and very hungry. I was tempted to put out all the veterinarian-prescribed cat food for the fox but she’s probably got kits. And then I’d be responsible for killing babies. I went to a natural pet food store that actually gives you free samples to see what the cat likes–instead of "if this doesn’t taste good starve her to it. It’s good for her," advice I got from the vet. The cat’s trying all the samples and narrowing the choices herself. She’s pretty interested in fish. If she can’t get her own food live, birds and mice and bugs, she can at least dine on something tasty.

But that’s not what this blog is about. It’s about my computer. It’s a laptop and I can’t close the lid or I’ll break it off. Good ol’ Dinglipants would slap his knee over that. I have the newer desktop I now share with a retired husband. But I like a laptop for dreaming things up anywhere I want to be. Anyway, I’m within spitting distance of finishing a book manuscript, rough draft, really rough. You could file your nails with it. But it’s an exciting time. Can I pull it off? Or will the gorgeous fox or the pet food people kill my beloved cat? Or the deer decide to eat daffodils and die in my yard and attract mountain lions and wolves even? And then I wonder what ol’ Dinglipants would do if he were me. He’d probably eat the cat. I wonder what ever became of him.

Every time I get a new computer I lose large swaths of time. They always come with new scary stuff that if I don’t punch the right keys I will lose information, research, whole chapters, my mind. I know it’s still there someplace–that doesn’t mean I can find it. And once I figure out how, some upgrade comes along and changes all the rules. So I want to finish the rough draft at least before going to a new machine with more upgrades which I know I will treasure eventually but will drive me berserker in the meantime. I do back things up, often on a floppy disk, but often under a title that makes no sense next week. Knowing me, this will end up filed under something like Ode to a Daffodil.

{{{Elaine}}}

We found out this morning that our darling Femme Elaine had a severe stroke last night; she had an operation and is expected to recover, but it may be a tough road back. All of the Femmes Fatales--Charlaine, Donna, Julie, Kris, Marlys, Mary, Toni, and Dana--hope that you will join us in sending your thoughts and prayers to Elaine and her husband Don.

Elaine, we're pulling for you, sending all our best wishes to you for a speedy and comfortable recovery. We know how tough and determined you are, and that you'll beat this thing.

Don, we're thinking of you, and if we can do anything to help, just say the word and we'll do it.

There'll be updates on http://www.thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/ and we'll post them here as we have them. Please feel free to leave messages for Elaine and Don here, and we'll make sure they get them.

I'd rather be Miss Marple than Wonder Woman

by Toni L.P. Kelner

My daughters, my husband, and I were gathered around the TV for a large percentage of yesterday watching our DVD of Justice League Unlimited: Season Two, which I highly recommend if you like superhero cartoons. At the end of the last episode of the season, über Bad Guy Darkseid is vanquished by Superman's archenemy Lex Luthor in a pyrrhic victory, and both baddies disappear. Earth is saved once again!

But as the superheroes of the world celebrate, Wonder Woman says, "They'll be back."

"But we saw them die this time," Superman protests.

"You saw them die last time, too," Flash points out.

Everybody nods sagely. It's part of the whole dressing-in-spandex gig. Über bad guys and archenemies are never gone for good.

This isn't new. In the end of an issue of Starman written by James Robinson and also highly recommended, Jack Knight (a.k.a Starman) is drinking tea with Wesley Dobbs (a.k.a. Sandman) as they discuss a recent battle, and Jack explains how the villain du jour died in a zeppelin explosion.

Wesley says, "Did you see him die?

"Err, no," Jack admits.

"Did they find the body?"

"No."

Wesley sips his tea. "First rule of superheroics, Jack. If there's no body... You and the villain will be waltzing the slow dance again at a later date. That's the way it was and is and always will be."

It's kind of depressing, but it's the nature of the super hero biz, and they know the score when they put on the capes. There are two advantages, after all. One, superheroes don't die any more frequently than villains. And two, you can't beat it for job security!

But if I'm going to indulge in wish fulfillment, I'm going to aim a little higher. I want a hero who wins, without or without overuse of bold face. And for that, I turn to mysteries.

Look at Miss Marple. Sure, unlike Wonder Woman, her breasts are actually subject to the law of gravity, but when she puts somebody away, they stay put away. Ditto for Nancy Drew, Kinsey Milhone, Ro Teagarden, Elvis Cole, Gordianus the Finder, and most of the other sleuths out there.

I'm not saying mystery villains never return, of course, because nothing raises the tension like having to face down a bad guy who's got vengeance in his eye. So when Arnold Zeck shows up for the third time, and Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin take him on with everything they've got, he goes down for good; and when one of Emma Fielding's foes returns from the grave, you know she isn't going to stop until she puts him six feet under for real. Some sleuths even redeem their villains--when Amelia Peabody decides her Master Criminal isn't so bad after all, the reader knows she's going to turn him away from the Dark Side, once and for all.

In mysteries, especially in traditional mysteries, the good guys win. They may not have superpowers or tights or complex origin stories, but they're tough enough to get the job done.

Sherlock Holmes came back from Reichenbach Falls--Moriarity took the big dirt nap.

Making lemonade

I got a new computer this week.  Although I was planning to upgrade my desktop soon, this wouldn't have been precisely the time I'd have chosen.   But I didn't choose the time--my old computer did, by suddenly and inexplicably refusing to connect to the Internet.

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow description of my ordeal--the four hours on the phone with various service techs; the three hours watching as two more service techs struggled fruitlessly to make my computer talk to the modem; my dismay when the techs finally left with apologies--it wasn't their equipment, it was my computer.

I had three alternatives.  Spend hours fiddling with the computer in the hope that I'd figure out what was interfering with my Internet access.  Take my computer in for repair, so Micro Center could figure out what was wrong.  Or rebuild the computer--back up everything, wipe the hard drive clean, reinstall Windows and all my programs, and hope that fixed the problem.  All of these options involved either spending a lot of time on the problem or being without a working computer for a lot of time or both.  I decided there was a fourth option: to assume the universe was telling me that I needed a new computer.

On the way to Micro Center, the universe also informed me that I needed a new right rear tire.  And in the interest of helping me realize how strong and self-sufficient I was, the universe arranged for AAA's circuits to be busy for the entire time it took me to jack the car up and put the spare on.  I am pleased to report that I did not use a lot of foul language while changing the tire, which would have been very bad form, especially during Easter Week.  I can't take credit for this myself, though--about the time my temper began to fray, the universe delivered a guardian angel, in the form of an elderly gentleman who, though physically unable to assist me, did provide a certain amount of moral support.  He was also better able than I was to remember whether I should be cranking the jack left or right at any given moment, and saved me a good deal of wasted effort.

I've always tried to remember the old saying that when life hands you a lemon, make lemonade.  But if the universe is listening, I could use a break from lemonade.  Just for a little while.  A chance to enjoy my new computer in relative tranquility.

I'm also enjoying my nice, newly clean and comparatively uncluttered office.  Not that I've finished getting rid of all the clutter that tends to pile up in here, but at some point, when I was busy installing software on the new computer and transferring data over, and shifting wire and cables from one to the other, I got fed up with how claustrophobic the office had become, and I began hauling things out of the office.  The office is now an oasis of order and spaciousness. 

Living room looks as if the Collyer brothers just moved in, but I can live with that for the time being.  I spend more time in the office anyway, especially when I'm working on a book. 

And I am working on a book--the ninth in the Meg Langslow series.  It didn't hit me until just now while I was blogging about the whole experience, but maybe the universe gave me something else this week.  There's a place in the book where a flat tire might be just the mishap to complicate Meg's life in a useful and amusing way. 

March Madness

by Mary

Good heavens, is it April already? March only lasted a few seconds this year, didn't it? The older I get, the faster time zips by me. What an incredibly busy month this had been. Aspiring writers, I have some advice. Go ahead and invest in time management seminars and psychotherapy. You're going to need both. Maybe if someone had given me that advice, I would be comparatively sane today. As it is, neither are going to work for me at this stage. I'm beyond help.

Oh, yes, I know about Franklin Covey and the variety of time management organizers. I have a very nice leather Daytimer somewhere underneath the burial mound of papers, notes, email copies, tax receipts, addresses, promo mailing labels and who knows what else on my desk. My poor inspirational action figures there (Spike, Chuck Norris, Arnold Schwarzeneggar) are up to their little plastic necks in paperwork. In fact, it was only just now, after making a cup of tea and sitting down to excavate the mound that I came across the Femmes blog schedule. Ah, my time should be coming up soon, yes, let's see now, that will be on ..... TODAY??? It's APRIL??? YIKES!!

The month's busy-ness has been the good kind for the most part. The priority was to get a new book polished up and turned into my editor. Whew. Agonizing, but good. The first book in that series hits the bookstores on April 19th, so I've also had promotion work to do for it. I had a very nice small task, getting a recipe ready for Ruby Bee's page on the Maggody website. Getting those vital things done took every extra moment of time, hence Mt. FileItLater and the missing month. I can't complain. It's what we writers all dream of and work toward, right?

Much of my time problem lately has been due to age, I think. I've found I have less energy and therefore fewer productive hours in a day. This means that for the last few months, all the fun stuff had to be ruthlessly cut out. Dr. Who. Battlestar Galactica. I'm talking serious blog-reading withdrawal here. If anything important has happened in the book world since about February 1st, somebody please email me.

And then there's my email inbox. I'm a stickler for taking care of emails right away. Even with deleting most all mystery group digests unread, the inbox is packed with stuff I want to get to 'later' which, at this rate, may be the fourth of July. Gone are the days of youth, when I could stay up around the clock for two days and nights and still function.

I do like the comments on age in the previous Femmes blog. Kris, you have so many good thoughts there. Why does it take us so long to let go of the unimportant things and relax into who we are? I don't know, only that I have no desire to be young again. As I get older, I still have plenty of work to do, but that work has more focus than when I was younger. That's so much better.

Now if I could just rescue my Daytimer, I might be able to schedule some much-needed extra reading time to get caught up. My reading year is getting off to a slow start, but what fantastic books I have found so far. I've just finished Blood On The Tongue by Stephen Booth. If you like British procedurals without a lot of gore, this is a terrific series to try. I'm just starting Murder In The Marais by Cara Black which has been thoroughly captivating from the first page.