There is a C.S. Lewis quote about the blindness of the proud. To paraphrase, someone completely full of themselves is so busy looking down their noses that they’re blind to what’s above them. And what’s above them, of course, is the whole, wide world.
We’re all prideful. Someway, somehow we’re all darn proud of something: kids, cars, bankrolls, something. Hell, writing for publication is itself an exercise in pride. It takes vanity to assume another person would invest their time and money in your words. Yes, we’re all proud because we’re all human, and it’s all healthy enough.
Until it’s not.
I’ve tackled pride as a subject before. In “Crack-Up at Waycross,” (Murder Under the Oaks, 2015) the would-be pecan truck jacker has such a grandiosity complex he’s barely bothered to plan the jacking. “Book of Hours”(AHMM Jul/Aug ’18) is about recovering self-confidence. I’ve even done pride in an amateur sleuth way, one Vi Celucci in “Two Bad Hamiltons and a Hirsute Jackson” (AHMM May ’15) being too self-actualized not to meddle in a Secret Service investigation. Pride is endless fodder for a humor guy. But I’m not sure I’ve done the whole pride thing as intentionally as with “Murder on the First Night’s Feast” (ahem, proudly included in the November 2019 Mystery Weekly).
Enter Madame Feubert. It’s 1932, the Touraine countryside and the height of French complacency between WWI and WWII. Mme. Feubert and her gown-and-tux cabal are the latest in a line of self-declared gourmands devoted – I mean devoted – to the Sanglier a la Montvaste, a cut of boar served at only one Loire River chateau and only at a presumed peak each October. For centuries, their retconned legend goes, the Montvaste family has entertained Europe’s finest palates for a two-week feast and those-in-the-know soiree.
Continue reading “Pride Cometh Before the Sale: Behind “Murder on the First Night’s Feast””
Mangeot of the Nordlands is my floppy-hat wearing, perma-addled, globe-trekking alter ego. His is a thirst for the strange marrow of new lands and their cocktails. He is well-meaning and gets to live my best life.
We make the Ninth Parallel at Costa Rica. It is the rainy season, and by afternoon our party is drinking Rhum cocteles. A fine fellow named Errol arranges the bar service and sees to our baggage. His ceviche is good and true and his bar is clean but for the grackles who angle to steal my cassava chips. From the valley a macaw cries the invitation to press onward. “When does the rain break?” I ask Errol. With great solemnity he studies the misted clouds flowing over the mountains from the inland forest. “December,” he says.
The rains do not abate. Neither do the raccoons. From dusk through the night, the beasts probe the latches and doors of our lodgings. Randolfo says we must guard our luncheon and the mini-bar from their thieving paws. We place locks and a guard and wait as the rains rain steady and true. Prevented from inland explorations, we catalogue the base camp’s various species of iguana and Assorted Lizardry and coconuts and also the Rhum varieties. Randolfo serves me a Rhum drink of fiendish red made apparently from Continue reading “Mangeot Not of the Guanacaste, 2018”
I just have to see her.
How “Star of Zoe” first got going, well, it was without Zoe. Not technically, I mean. I was riffing on this idea, this phrase: I just have to see her. So right there comes a She Who Must Be Seen. A proto-Zoe in the mix. My first riff, though, opened with our point-of-view “I” in the equation, our man-on-a-mission. Jimmy.
He’s banging at a door, desperate. In love, still in love. Being denied entry. What door? Who’s blocking it? Didn’t know, but questions like that are why we riff.
I just have to see her.
Continue reading “Behind the Story: “Star of Zoe””
I like writing about problems. As in, you know, their problematic nature. It’s the stuff of a great story. And I had this idea for a writing challenge: take one self-inflicted problem and make every next sentence add a specific complication. Why, transgression zero’s blowback would mount and mount and surely hit a sublime ridiculousness. In the end that’s what crime and punishment often are, aren’t they? Sublimely human things we did to ourselves.
To be clear, I’m not meaning that each next sentence would deepen a plot element or characterization (or both). Such writing craft proven over the millennia would’ve made too much sense. No, I would daisy-chain every next sentence with a direct new complication to or consequence of what came before.
The set-up: A small town mayor (eventually our Tori) embezzled taxpayer money as a down payment on snatched-up Panhandle scrubland she believed would skyrocket in value. There’s a water management project set for state funding that will keep her land high-and-dry from the rising Gulf levels. Well, state revenue shortfalls nixed discretionary waterway plans. Open then to Tori in her swamp and hatching a skunk ape craze bound to draw in beaucoup sun seekers and cryptozoologists. She’ll flip that land to resort developers yet. Tori, though, can barely keep her half-brother in the shaggy costume (she’s in charge of whipping up media interest), and mud and snakes and owls abound, and her local paper contact wants to investigate the town finances.
Problems stopped the works. Not Tori’s. Mine. Oh, I Continue reading “Behind the Story: “Problems Aren’t Stop Signs””