How’d That Happen? Curmudgeons I Have Known, and the Rise of Skig Skorzeny by Jas. R. Petrin

Jas. R. Petrin introduced the tough, but aging Canadian loan shark Skig Skorzeny to the pages of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine in “Juice” the March 2006 issue. I’ve been in love with him every since. Skig appears again in the April 2014 issue in “A Knock on the Door.” Jas. R. Petrin’s AHMM stories have been shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Award for Best short story presented by the Crime Writers of Canada.

Leo (Skig) Skorzeny. Where did this guy come from? It’s like asking where ideas come from, and the honest answer is—I don’t know. Besides, he seems like something more than an idea.

But the answer (if there is one) might prove interesting, so I’ll just root around in the clutter of my mind for clues. Start a file folder and toss in my findings.

Skig seemed to burst fully formed onto the page, but I believe he spent years stealing up on me. Decades, in fact, starting on the day I met old Nate. (Name changed to protect the curmudgeonly.) Nate was the chief—hell, the only—mechanic at the construction company where I worked as a kid. He was also a curmudgeon of the first order. One incident springs to mind. When I complained to him about the truck I was driving—a coughing beast ready for the crusher, so ancient the starter was a large button poking through the floor—he narrowed his eyes at me. I hurried to explain. Fumes from the rusted muffler, I told him, were filling the cab and making my head swim. “So open the window,” he barked. I pointed out that might be risky because the window glass, cracked in a dozen places, was held together with tape, (one of his previous repair jobs), and might disintegrate completely. With a wrench he knocked the wobbly glass out of the door. “Fixed,” he said. And he was right. No more fumes. But it was February, and thirty below, and as he must have known because he had “fixed” it as well, the heater barely worked. I froze for the next several weeks.

Good old Nate. Into the file folder.

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How’d That Happen: Tara Laskowski

The author of the short story collection Modern Manners for Your Inner Demons, Tara Laskowski makes her AHMM debut in the April issue, where she explores the eerie undercurrents of our everyday lives in her story “The Monitor.”

When my husband and I first started using our baby monitor, there was something about the grainy picture and the way our son’s eyes glowed greenly in the infrared light that used to always give me the shivers. “What would you do,” I asked my husband one night, “if you suddenly saw someone in the room with Dash?” That conversation evolved quickly into ridiculousness (What if it was someone crawling in the window? What if it was an old lady or a big cat? What if it was a child? What if Dash started hovering?), but there was something deliciously scary and also weirdly plausible about the whole thing.

Having a new baby around the house turns everything upside down—you’re already on edge, deprived of sleep, emotionally up-and-down. Throw something like a creepy baby monitor into the mix and all bets are off.

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TwitterFic?

“All thumbs” takes on an all new meaning in social media. With Twitter  announcing it’s second Twitter Fiction Festival March 12–16 (They are accepting entries until February 5.) I’ve been thinking about its possibilities.

So I ask you: Who’s been reading Twitter fiction? Any insights into this emerging genre?

Are any of you planning on participating in the Twitter Fiction Festival? Any tips on writing fiction within the Twitter parameters?

It sounds like a lot of fun to me.

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Drawn to the Flame: Alan Gordon

Often when we talk about story, we focus on structure. But we talk less often about storytelling—that connection between the author and the reader and all the ways the two can connect. Lately, Alan Gordon (“The Aldrich House,” December 2013) has been stretching his wings a bit with oral storytelling, which comes with certain challenges, for sure. But for a fiction writer, oral storytelling focuses the author on the telling as much as the story.

“Tell me a story, Vince.”

That was the first line of my first published short story, “A Dry Manhattan Story,” in the April, 1991 issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.  I have always loved the voice in fiction of one character telling a story to another. It gives life to both the teller and the listener, allowing for narrative and commentary simultaneously. It is best done on a journey or by a roaring fire. (I have used both in The Widow of Jerusalem and An Antic Disposition,and arguably those are my two favorite books among those that I have written.)

Fiction writers have it easy in one sense. We are limited only by our imaginations and our talents. We can set a story anywhere, anytime, restricted only by what our aesthetic dictates. Selecting the restrictions and imposing them is part of the fun.

But what if someone else imposed the restrictions? What if they were the following: A. The story has to be told orally, not in writing. Okay, I know how to talk. B. The story has to relate to a one or two word theme that will be given to you. No problem—that can trigger my imagination in interesting new ways. C. It has to be five minutes long. Uhh, tougher. Sometimes getting me to shut up is more difficult than getting me to write. D. The story has to be true, drawn from your own life.

Gulp.

Enter The Moth. Founded in 1997 in NYC by George Dawes Green, The Moth holds story-telling evenings, open to all. Hundreds of people jam into a café or bookstore for the weekly StorySLAMS, and a few dozen intrepid (or narcissistic) souls drop their names into a bag. Ten are selected at random. An emcee, usually a comedian, holds forth in between the tales, and panels of volunteer judges score the tale-tellers on a scale of one to ten. The highest score earns the teller the right to compete against other winners in a quarterly event called the GrandSLAM, held in an even larger venue. The winner gets—nothing but bragging rights.

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The Short of It

There’s something deeply satisfying about the Nobel Prize for Literature being given to short story writer Alice Munro. Munro is one of the few authors who have received acclaim on the basis of short fiction only, and the award is an affirmation of the story’s significance. She even told the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, “I would really hope this would make people see the short story as an important art, not just something you played around with until you got a novel.”

Hear, hear.

Personally, I think stories can be more powerful than a novel. You can’t really escape in a short story, it demands too much concentration. It demands that the reader bring as much to the story as the writer. I recall in another interview Munro said she often took more than a month to write a single story, and I think it can similarly take about that amount of time to come to an understanding of a story.

Often Munro’s stories seem, at first read, a somewhat haphazard amassing of scenes and recollections. But the second and third time through, I begin to see a pattern, an arc that builds, almost like an argument. I agree with this comment by Peter Englund, Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, which awards the Nobel Prize: “If you read Alice Munro, sooner or later you will stand face to face with yourself and you will go from that meeting a different person.”

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Keeping Up with the Tudors: Kathy Lynn Emerson

The cover story of our December 2013 issue is a new Lady Appleton tale by Kathy Lynn Emerson, “A Wondrous Violent Motion.” Kathy Lynn Emerson has appeared frequently in our pages with stories from her Facedown series, featuring 16th century herbalist Lady Appleton and from her Diana Spaulding series, set in the 19th century, built around a young female reporter in a Maine logging town. Ms. Emerson has drawn on her skills as a historical novelist to write How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries (Perseverance Press), and in her guest post below she writes about how she taps old letters for ideas and period color. As Kaitlyn Dunnett, she also writes a series set in present-day Maine. We’re particularly looking forward to next year’s Malice Domestic Conference in Bethesda, Maryland, where Kathy Lynn Emerson will be the Guest of Honor.

I admit it—I’m fascinated by gossip. It’s just that, in my case, the rumors and innuendos are over four hundred years old. Keep up with the Kardashians? No interest. But find some juicy tidbit about the Tudor kings and queens or their subjects? That makes my day . . . and might just become the germ of a story.

There were no supermarket tabloids in sixteenth-century England. No paparazzi lurking or chasing after the celebrity’s car (no car, either!). Not even the equivalent of People or USA Today. And, of course, with no modern media, there was no Entertainment Tonight or Twitter feed or other social media to track. However, there were still plenty of people reporting the latest news from the royal court and writing about the doings of lesser mortals, too.

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Back from Albany

I’m just back Albany, where I attended the Bouchercon conference for mystery writers. I’m happy to report that John Shepphird’s story “Ghost Negligence” (AHMM, July/August 2012) won the Shamus Award for Best Private Eye Short Story. You can download a podcast of his story from iTunes or PodoMatic.

The Short Mystery Fiction Society also presented their Derringer awards at Bouchercon, and though the winners had been previously announced, I’m happy to repeat that Randy DeWitt was the winner this year in the Flash Story category for his entry in our Mysterious Photograph contest.  His short short “The Cable Job” was our Story That Won in September 2012.

Congratulations also go to our Macavity nominee, B. K. Stevens, for the nomination of “Thea’s First Husband” (AHMM, June 2012) and to Michael Nethercott, whose story “Mr. O’Nelligan and the Lost Fates” (AHMM, March 2012) was also nominated for a Shamus Award. You can download B. K. Stevens’s reading of Adjunct Anonymous here. A podcast from Michael Nethercott is forthcoming.

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What We Mean When We Talk About Voice

For years, sitting in a circle in various writing groups among my peers, I often tossed out the empty line “I like the voice of the story,” or my more insightful variant, “I liked the voice of the story very much.” Truthfully, I didn’t know what “voice” was, but I had an English degree, so I knew it was something.

As a “civilian” reader, I had encountered my share of stories, poems, novels, essays that had stuck with me—all composed of lines that came back to me over and over again. The line from Flannery O’Connor’s story “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” “ ‘She would have been a good woman . . . if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life’ ” is one that speaks to me.  And says different things at different points of my adult life. And there are so many other stories that just seemed to hum with meaning. It’s that hum that I have now come to understand is voice.

It wasn’t until I became an editor, though, that I really started to ask, What do we mean when we talk about voice?

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Dorothy B. Hughes’ Last Novel

On the 50th anniversary of Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, I am intrigued to note that this year is also the 50th anniversary of the publication of Dorothy B. Hughes’s final novel, The Expendable Man, in which race is an important factor.

Hugh Densmore is a young physician interning in Los Angeles. Driving one night across the desert to his grandparents’ home in Phoenix, he picks up, against his better judgment, a young female hitchhiker. Given the time of day and the deserted highway, Hugh fears she might otherwise be in danger.

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Maybe this is what happened: Dan Warthman

Dan Warthman received the Robert L. Fish award for Best First Short Story for “A Dreadful Day” (AHMM, January/February 2009). He introduced Jones and Akin, the characters in this month’s cover story, in “Pansy Place” in our January/February 2011 issue. I was immediately struck by the rapport between these two men and the way they work in unspoken coordination with surprising results.

1) My friend Bill visited me several times when I lived in Beijing. More than once, we went on Saturday evening to the Sanwei Bookstore and Teahouse to listen to live performances of traditional Chinese music. A woman was playing the guzheng, the music was mesmerizing, the place was hushed. And then a mobile phone rang. And the guy, who happened to be another expat, answered it. And talked. And then made another call himself. During the break, Bill said, I’m going to talk to that guy . . .

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