Disarming a Plot

I’ve now had a couple of weeks to absorb the meaning (or, more likely, the meanings) of the recent high speed adventure aboard a train bound from Amsterdam to Paris via Belgium.  Just when I think I understand this truly strange happening, another fact pops up, and I have to back off and redefine everything.  No.  It’s not tragedy, not even melodrama.  It’s comedy.  Three young Americans and a sixtyish Brit are awarded the Legion of Honor for saving the lives of scores of passengers, and critics point out, their lips curling, that the young men didn’t wear suits to the award ceremony.

Since I write mysteries, I tend to view news stories as plot sources, and this one seems made to be dramatized.  Consider the cast.  Think of The Bridge of San Luis Rey or Murder on the Orient Express.  Here we have twenty or so people thrown together at random, some boarding in Amsterdam, others in Belgium.  Six of them (counting the gunman) have names and faces in the press version of their story, but a good fiction writer would develop others.  The wife of the man who was the first to be injured, for instance.  He tried to protect her and their children, almost at the cost of his life.  What was she doing?  Were the children screaming?  How many children were there?  Were there others in the carriage?  What about other people aboard?  Early versions of the story reported negative comments about train personnel doing nothing, indeed leaving the scene.  Was that really so, or were they going for help?  The train was rerouted very quickly.

But even without expanding the dramatis personae, a writer would have rich material for characterization.  Chris Norman, the Englishman who helped overpower the gunman, is quoted as saying that he thought he was probably going to die anyway, so he might as well try to do something useful.  That struck me as excellent psychology and may well have expressed what the three American kids felt too, though they were also observing the man with the AK47 intently, and they pounced on him as soon as his rifle jammed.

The three young men (I keep wanting to say boys, but men is the right word) are a wonderful variety of American personalities and they worked brilliantly as a team.  Stone took on the terrorist directly and suffered the consequences.  His thumb was almost severed, but he kept on coming, and Skarlatos grabbed the rifle, using it to whop the terrorist repeatedly on the head.  Sadler, when the prisoner was secured, went to the next carriage to reassure the passengers that the situation was under control–and to find a first aid kit and blankets for the man who was injured trying to protect his family.

Stone, meanwhile, despite his own serious injury, stuck his hand in the wounded man’s throat and closed the left carotid artery.  He held the wound shut for what must have been twenty interminable minutes, until the train pulled into Arras and medics came to relieve him.  It does not at all diminish his heroism to know that his job in the Air Force is as an ambulance services technician.  It’s one thing to know what to do and quite another to do it.

Well, that’s it, that’s the story.  Right?  Actually, that story will go right on happening in the minds (and nightmares) of the people in the train carriage.  And there is no way that a writer of fiction such as myself can use it.  Why?  Because nobody would believe it.

Apocalypse Wow

For no discernible reason, news reporting has taken on an exaggerated tone this summer–more exaggerated than usual, I mean.  The potential for earthquakes in the Pacific Northwest, one of the many Kardashian baby bumps, a Jenner’s transition from Bruce to Caitlyn, the Pluto fly-by, discovery of airplane wreckage in the sea off Reunion, volcanic eruptions here and there, and final filming of Downton Abbey are all discussed (and headlined) with a blare of trumpets and a rumble of kettle drums.  The Sky is Falling!  Obama is Invading Texas and the POWs will be Stashed at Walmart!!  Donald Trump is Running for President!!!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Journalistic bombast affects not just the language used in reporting but the narrative structure of the story, and the choice of which stories to report and which to pass by.  I think the viewers or readers feed on it–certainly they internalize it, so that that they yearn for something spectacular in every story.  Nice isn’t enough.  Insanely nice is what we all want.  And if what we crave is negative, a single genteel murder is not magnetic enough, not awful in the sense of awesome.  What we want is serial killings, all of them lasciviously gruesome.

I suppose this craving for super-triumph and mega-disaster flows in both directions.  Post-holocaust science fiction and Vlad-the-Impaler-style fantasy can generate a desire for sensation in journalism and history.  Naive readers complain that news servers never tell pleasant tales about kindly innocent folks helping each other.  Actually, they do.  Sometimes they speak calmly of a medical breakthrough or a technological leap.  Occasionally they even report on change that is just change, neither breakthrough nor leap.  All too often, though, stories like that are swamped by others that supply boom and bang, and blood, lots of blood.

I’ve taken a bunch of history classes in my day and taught some.  Nothing is more depressing than to find students wanting yet another recap of the invasion of Normandy or the battle of Gettysburg.  As appalling as the First World War was, it was not one-sixteenth as important in human history as the domestication of corn.  We love to read about the fall of Rome.  The foundation of the first human village was a lot more noteworthy–but not spectacular.

I think I’m burning out on what makes the world dramatic.  If I do, I’ll have one heck of a time writing appealing fiction.

Happy Force of July

Independence Day, coming up on Saturday, used to be my favorite holiday.  This year I’m not so sure I love it.  As always with so-called holy-days, commercial exploitation is an annoyance.  A Yahoo News headline this morning jumped out at me:  “Where to Find a New Car Bargain on the Fourth of July.”  Forget shopping.  Go eat some potato salad and think patriotic thoughts.

I had a patriotic upbringing.  My father had been a naval officer, serving in the Pacific on a baby aircraft carrier.  After the war, he taught high school.  He was also the high school music director.  Every Fourth he would dress up in his handsome uniform and take me and my brother John with him to the cemetery.  After the designated minister had conducted a brief memorial service for local men killed in the world wars and Korea, my father took out his silver trumpet and played Taps.  When I think of patriotism I think of Dad and his trumpet.  The ship he served on was built in the town I now live in, down on the Columbia River.  It was hit by a kamikaze.

This year I am looking at a Fourth of July in which patriotic southerners are going to rally in defense of the Confederate battle flag, the flag of the army of Northern Virginia.  Excuse me, did I miss something here?  Some years back, 1861 I believe, a war broke out in this country.  According to the media, some folks down below the Mason Dixon Line are now calling it the War of Northern Aggression.  It was called the War between the States too, for a while, back about the time references to slavery and Jim Crow were being removed from high school textbooks so the books could be sold in Texas.

The war with three names was, in fact, a civil war, “where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”  It was fought between people who wanted to abolish slavery in the United States and people who wanted to continue to buy and sell human beings, specifically African-American human beings.  The”aggression” occurred when South Carolina troops fired on Fort Sumpter, a federal fort.  And the war was not between states, not Louisiana versus Kentucky, for example.  It was between the government of the United States and states that seceded from the Union in order to be able to continue practicing slavery.

This was partly a straightforward economic issue.  Southern plantation owners were not paying their workers, so they could undersell farmers in the north who did pay their workers.  However, it was also a moral issue.  Many people in the northern and western states thought that slavery was wrong.  “John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave,” but the truth he died for goes marching on.

I am glad southerners like their states.  I’m glad they like their barbecue and their churches.  But I think it’s time and past time to point out that the Civil War is a done deed, that the north won, and that honoring the battle flag of the Ku Klux Klan is just plain despicable, especially on the Fourth of July.

Whew!  I’m glad that’s over.  We have a lot to be glad about right now, including Pope Francis.  The Supreme Court (of the United States) has upheld marriage equality and medical coverage for millions.  We’re doing a lot of things right, even down south.  And, while I’m not going to whistle “Dixie,” I won’t sing “Marching through Georgia,” either.

 

Plausible Places

In fiction, a major goal of naming is not to confuse the reader.  It may be cute to name all the kids in the family something beginning with J.  In fiction it’s just plain annoying.  That’s certainly true of place names.  Making place names up is more a matter of expedience than pleasure.  I try to look at local patterns and go from there.  Using real names is best, but writers need to be cautious in this litigious age about using the real names of small places.

Looking at the names our pioneer forebears chose can be depressing.  Consider how many Salems and Springfields there are, coast to coast, not to mention a Portland in Maine as well as Oregon.  The obvious alternatives to back-home names were the ones already in place, Native American names like Multnomah and Skamokawa.  There were more than four hundred native languages in the area that became Washington State.  The sound combinations changed every fifty miles or so.

In southeast Washington, on the Oregon-Idaho border, the best-known place name is Walla Walla.  Towns within a hundred miles are named Wallowa and Wallula, so the Wall- prefix must be place-friendly.  Pullman (home of WSU) and Lewiston (ID) indicate the tendency to name places after prominent people.  (Note Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, and Mt. St. Helens.)  The Tri-Cities area of Kennewick, Pasco, and Richland provides three examples of the naming patterns–Kennewick is Indian, Pasco is British, a family name, and Richland is one of those chamber of commerce come-ons that dot suburbs all over the country.  One town on the river, Bingen, gave a German friend of mine the giggles, because the local pronunciation uses a soft g.  The German city it was named for, Bingen am Rhein, takes a hard g.  Up on the northern border with Canada, we have the reverse case.  The town of Bellingham, home of Western Washington University, sounds like Belling Ham locally, though the proper British pronunciation is something like Bellinjum.

I like the k/c sound in Kennewick.  There are a good many k/c names along the Columbia River–Cathlamet, Kalama, Camas, and Klickitat come to mind, all of them Indian names.  Of real places on the river, Longview and Goldendale echo Richland, and Lyle and Stevenson are like Pasco.  My favorite southern Washington name, though, stands alone–White Salmon.  I’d call that one a story name.  Names like that aren’t used very often.  In Buffalo Bill’s Defunct, I called the seat of my imaginary county Klalo, which is not only local-sounding (vide Kalama and Klickitat) but also ties in to Klamath Falls in Oregon.

Latouche County, the made-up venue for my current mystery series, embodies another naming pattern.  Hudson’s Bay Company fur trappers were mostly French speakers, and French terms and surnames underline their historical presence.  The names are often mispronounced.  The town of Touche, for example, is pronounced Tooshie locally.  In far northeastern Oregon a nice winding river called the Grande Ronde is pronounced something like ground round.  The town at the spectacular Celilo Falls stretch of the Columbia was named The Dalles after the white water.  Across the Columbia from The Dalles lies another place with a story name, Horse Thief Lake.  The park there exhibits many of the petroglyphs and pictograms that were rescued from rising waters when dams were built on the river.

My earlier mystery series was set on the Long Beach Peninsula (a dull enough name) and I invented two place names for that area.  Willapa Bay (good Indian name) was once called Shoalwater Bay because the water is shallow.  I revived that for the bay and a small town on the ocean side.  I like Shoalwater but I’m less happy with my other invented place, Kayport.  My Kayport combines the real towns of Ilwaco and Long Beach.  I think I must have come up with the name because I was using a Kaypro computer at the time.

Farther north in Washington we find Aberdeen (another real place transported westward) and the Olympic Peninsula, which is indeed olympic.  Native American names in this area sound nothing like the ones in the Gorge.  I love Puyallup and Dosewallips and Humptulips, but I wouldn’t dare invent a name of that sort.  Further north we bump into Spanish names, missing since Heceta Head in Oregon.  Spanish names evoke California, understandably, not Washington.  I probably wouldn’t invent a Spanish place name for Washington.  After all, as G.M. Ford famously asked, Who in the Hell is Wanda Fuca?

Spring Cleaning, Ear Worms, and Other Matters

Everyone has an ear worm from time to time–a song playing in the head that will not go away.  As an annoyance, ear worms rank right up there with watery eyes and hiccups.  My husband, who is musical, hears only the melody, whereas my affliction can be triggered either by the tune or by the words of a song.  I remember both.  The most obnoxious example I can think of is “It’s a Small World After All.”  I first heard it at Disneyland when my son was six.  He’s now fifty, so it’s been at the top of the charts for a long time.

I’ve been reading articles on memory, others on language, and a book (The Singing Neanderthals) on music, memory, and language.  When I was in elementary school, it was still common to have to memorize poems and speeches, and of course all children had to memorize the multiplication tables as far as ten.  But that had gone by the wayside by the time I reached high school.  After fifty years of rejection, the idea of training the memory seems to be reviving faintly.  The theory was that, with calculators and computers to serve as artificial memory, teachers should focus on other kinds of learning.  Too many students had serious trouble in the memory sweepstakes.

I didn’t.  I started memorizing poetry when I was two or three.  My mother read to my brother and me, and what she read was poetry.  (Hello, John.  Happy birthday.)  She read Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses mostly, but also narrative poetry, some of it comic, from an anthology called Poems for Enjoyment.  I relied heavily on memory all the way through school and college.  My mother died in 2011 at 93.  I’m glad I thanked her for training my memory, though my training does make me super-vulnerable to ear worms.

What my brain has chosen to remember is odd.  German grammar, for instance.  I had four years of German in college, but I’ve only visited Germany once and then for less than a week.  I also studied Spanish and much later French, so why don’t those languages stick in my head the way German does?  Ich weiss nicht.  I also recall the process of extrapolation from trigonometry, though I’ve had even less use for trig than for Deutsch.  And most of all (or maybe worse of all) my head is full of poetry–other people’s.  Not just Shakespeare and John Donne but totally crappy country and western song lyrics and commercial jingles.

Since I’m at the age when people worry about dementia, I’ve thought about the advantage of having a head stocked with ready-made language.  Is it a good thing or a bad thing?  I don’t know, but sometimes I’d like to spring clean my head and erase a bunch of it.  Maybe then I could get rid of “Singin’ in the Rain” and “If I were a Rich Man” and all the other ear worms, especially “It’s a Small World.”  After all.

 

Conventional Behavior

I attended Left Coast Crime March 12-15 in Portland OR, across the river from where I live.  Carola Dunn and I were co-hosting a table at the banquet Saturday night, and I decided to stay that night at the hotel so I could have a convivial glass or two of wine at dinner.  My e-book editor, Judith B. Glad (Uncial Press) agreed to share a room, but the hotel was already full.  We booked room at a smaller hotel nearby.

Saturday, after five hours of panels, Jude and I checked into our small hotel, I parked the car in the garage beneath the structure, and we opened the trunk.  I’d forgotten to bring my suitcase.

Did I mention it was raining stair rods?  We schlepped Jude’s suitcase to the elevator and went up to our room.  I had several hours to drive home, fetch the bag, return, and dash to the convention hotel bearing sacks of party favors for the table Carola and I were sponsoring.

I abandoned Jude to a nap and drove home.  It was 3:30. Traffic was as coagulant as week end traffic gets, thanks to the downpour, but I contrived not to smash anyone.  My husband smirked and pointed me to the bedroom where my suitcase awaited me.  I drove back as smoothly as I’d driven over, parked outside instead of using the underground garage, thought about climbing the stairs but walked down to the elevator and pressed two.  My key did not work in the room door nor did Judith answer my knock.

I refused to panic.  With lordly calm I snagged a sweet-faced housekeeper.  I persuaded her that my roommate was in there, just asleep and, uh, a bit deaf.  Presto, the room was mine.  Judith was not there.  I thanked the maid profusely and used the loo.  Perhaps Jude had gone out for a stroll, just singin’ in the rain.  It was almost five.  I had about an hour but heck I could lie down and take a snooze while I waited for Jude to return.

I slept for half an hour and woke to the conviction that I was IN THE WRONG ROOM, that I was up a floor from where I ought to be.  An unpleasant substance was about to hit the fan.  I changed into party clothes, grabbed my handbag and the balky room key, and clattered down a flight of stairs.  The key didn’t work in the room directly below the one I had appropriated, but Jude answered my knock at once and opened the door.

“Oh, thank heavens, you’re safe!”  She clasped her hands.  “There’s a horrible wreck on I5.  I thought you were trapped in traffic.”

With quavering voice, I confessed my incredible blunder.  We raced upstairs.  I had closed the door behind me, leaving my suitcase, membership badge, and nightly medications in the second floor room.  I could not get in.  The obliging maid had disappeared.

We dashed down and out into the deluge.  The handsome young man at the desk dealt deftly with two customers, then turned to me.  “How may I help you, ladies?”

I explained.  Several times.

He was wonderfully sympathetic.  I thanked him but pointed out that I had about fifteen minutes to get my bags from “my” room, transfer them to “our” room, and drive Jude and the all-important party favors to the other hotel.  His massive calm did not waver.  So sad, he said, but he could not allow me into the room to retrieve my belongings.  It was against company policy and quite possibly against the law.  Until he contacted the man who had rented the room and got permission, he could not use his master key to enter it.

When did he think that would happen?

He didn’t know.  It was Saturday night and all kinds of things were going on, including a mystery convention (“I know!” I wailed) and a very nice Christian music concert plus all the local pubs and restaurants operating at full blast and something taking place at the Coliseum.  He was going off-duty at ten-thirty himself.  OMG

Jude and I dashed to the car; I drove to the convention hotel and abandoned her with the party favors at the conference entrance.  I drove back and engaged in heavy-duty pacing in the hotel lobby.  Rain sheeted down.  The young man at the hotel desk tried a couple of phone calls to a cell phone number given by the patron whose territory I had violated.  No dice.

Finally I gave up, told him I’d return around ten, and thanked him for his efforts.  I darted out into the deluge and stood at my car, fumbling in my purse for the car keys.  Also no dice.  Back in the hotel lobby, I groped the chair I’d been sitting in, found the keys, dashed out again, opened the door, slid in, started the engine, and checked my wallet to see if I still had the ticket that would allow me to park at the convention hotel.  I did, but my driver’s license had disappeared.  I emptied my handbag.

Back to the lobby.  Half a dozen curious Japanese teenagers (just checked in) watched me sympathetically as the hero at the desk produced my license.  Someone had spotted it in a puddle in the parking lot.

Despite Gar Anthony Heywood’s best, which is very good indeed, the banquet went by in a blur.  The food was good.  Awards were handed out amid cheering.  Carola was charming.  Our party favors went over nicely, and why not with a free book from Carola and a stuffed rat from me in each little “evidence bag.”  Seven nice women including a delightful librarian and Jude, wearing her editor hat, and a cheerful man from Friends of Mystery kept things buzzing at our table.  It was no use.  I felt like those baffled detectives who cannot solve the whodunit puzzle.  I HAD to know what had happened to my belongings.

We got back to our ill-fated hotel at ten.  The desk clerk wasn’t optimistic.  He promised to keep calling the cell phone number.

Jude and I went to our room.  I borrowed a tee-shirt to sleep in and lay down, exhausted, while poor Jude read.  About eleven I woke with a start.  Jude was standing over me, beaming and holding my little carry-on.  The nice clerk had retrieved it.  Ahhhh.

I could moralize.  Stop me, somebody.

This strikes me now and struck me at the time as one of those true situations that are more bizarre than anything I could imagine.  I can guess at negative consequences for the maid who helped me, though I hope she wasn’t fired.  I thanked everyone at the hotel profusely and explained that it was all my stupid fault.  But what of my victim, the man whose room I usurped, the nice Christian gentleman who just wanted to attend a concert and returned to discover that an elderly and elusive lady of the night had invaded his space?

The Autoblogger, a Labor-Saving Device

Every once in a while I come up with a science fictional idea, a wrinkle on reality that reflects a possible future.  As I was brooding about topics for this week’s blog, it occurred to me that someone ought to come up with an app to take over the process of blogging–all the way from generating topics to editing and polishing, including writing the blog itself.  A roblogger.  A drone blogger.  An autoblogger.  The part that composed the actual blog would be a bit like the thousands of monkeys chained to typewriters until they composed Hamlet, or Arthur C. Clarke’s antique computers that recited the nine billion names of god so the universe could come to an end.  That part would require a lot of memory.  The rest, though, would be duck soup–a genisap, an editap, and a copap.  And, of course, a pubap.  Truly, a labor-saving device.

The golden age of science fiction was much taken up with labor-saving devices because that was what engineers and other technicians brooded about in the mundane world outside science fiction.  I don’t remember ever reading an article in the news magazines of that era that presented a negative view of labor-saving, but I do remember wondering what all that displaced labor would do for a living when the devices that eliminated labor were in place.  When I got around to studying British history, I came across a name for people who voiced that concern–Luddites.  Maybe I was an incipient Luddite.  Horrors.

In my lifetime, as a consequence of labor-saving devices, our society shifted from being an agricultural labor-market to resting on the uncertain foundations of manufacturing.  Now it teeters between manufacturing and “service.”  When I taught introductory history at a community college, we used to list what was necessary for cookery, basic household work.  A sharp stick and a fire.  A pot, the students would say.  I pointed out that you could dig a pit, fill it with water, and toss red-hot stones into it.  You didn’t need a pot.

Nowadays the kitchen is full of labor-saving devices that eliminate, what, the cook?  Not exactly.  The cook’s close attention?  The stove (four burners and an oven) eliminates the need for an open fire of buffalo chips (or wood or coal or peat).  If the stove fails, an electric skillet, a micro-wave, and a slow-cooker provide backup.  The sharpened stick gives way to a broiler, roasting pans, a deep-fat fryer, cookie sheets, pie and cake pans, a Dutch oven, and a raft of electrically specialized tools like toasters, waffle and coffee makers, rice cookers, and sandwich grills.  Replacing the pit and hot stones, the stove burners heat pots and pans with and without lids.  And those are just some of the cooking clutter.  I have not yet mentioned the pitchers and cups for liquids and the crockery on and in which the food is served (replacing a large leaf or a bread trencher) and the tools (chop sticks or cutlery) that replace bare fingers.  Ah, I forgot–knives (I need six for cutting, paring, and slicing) and serving spoons, slotted and unslotted, strainers, graters, spatulas, egg slicers, apple corers, garlic presses, cherry stoners, and nut crackers.  Mandolines.

How generous of the manufacturers to supply me with all these objects in exchange for quite reasonable amounts of cash.  Do they save me labor?  I don’t know.  I do know that I don’t have a cook, and I don’t know anyone who does.  In the nineteenth century, most houses the size of the one I live in would have had, at the very least, a resident cook and a housemaid, so that must be the labor all those devices saved.  Indeed, this house has a bedroom for the cook right off the kitchen.  Consider this–the plots of Upstairs Downstairs and Downton Abbey don’t make sense for a series set later than World War II.  Except for nannies, people no longer consider a career in service, nor does “service” mean what it used to mean.

The automatic blogging app I theorized in the first paragraph would not be replacing labor in the sense that cookery is labor.  Nevertheless, blogging is a complex, time-absorbing activity, thoroughly exhausting, especially for someone who has other writing waiting to be done.  Clearly an autoblogger is a desirable labor-saver and ought to be created as soon as possible.  I can’t do it but somebody out there surely can.  Maybe somebody has.

While I was plugging away at this, my spouse googled “autoblogger.”  There is one.  We held our breath as it loaded.  What if …

Unfortunately, the extant autoblogger is closer to Car Talk than to the text generator I envisaged.  Clearly my kind of autoblogger will have to have another name.  Verblogisty?  Blogosity?  You name it, I’ll buy it.

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