Thoughts on a petty version of Le Corbeau

I'm far from the first person to consider the downside of Internet anonymity, but a recent post to a blog I came across a couple of days ago has brought the subject to mind, so you get to hear me vent.

I'm not going to name the blog or link to it, because I think the person behind it would love nothing more, and I don't want to gratify him or her with more traffic. You see, I don't know if it's a he or a she, because if you want to hide your identity on the Web, going genderless is apparently the next step after devising what you believe to be a catchy pseudonym. This person wants us to think It (so much more fitting in this case than s/he) is a professional in the business of the mystery genre. An important It, It wants you to know, too important to be named, here to share insights with the great unwashed, but from behind a curtain. Where's Toto when you need him?

There are some cases in which I can see the reason for shielding one's identity. Consequences in the workplace are one. If you're living under an oppressive regime, by all means, save your life and liberty with a pen name.

Even if someone wants to offer advice without making specifics about his life known to everyone with a Dell, fine by me. One hopes against hope that readers of such a site will be cautious about anonymously given advice, since they really don't know if it's being given to them by a con artist or a benevolent expert. Caveat everybody.

I've seen some anonymous advice blogs handled well, and they have this in common: they are never used to insult people who then won't know who just attacked them.

Anonymity used to escape a more personal level of responsibility, used as a shield to allow one to be uncivil or otherwise behave badly is never praiseworthy.

What bothered me about this blog was that the anonymous It seems to enjoy sending a kind of modern version of a poison pen letter. (Not to be confused in any way with the mystery press and bookstore, by the way!)

Here's what bothered me: A point that could have been made otherwise (easily!) comes off instead as a thinly veiled way to stir the pot, to make trouble. An author (not me) and her work are disparaged, a load of names that will increase traffic to the blog are dropped, and in the end we know nothing of the person making the remarks other than what It claims to be true about Itself.

Maybe there's a special place in hell where certain people burn without ever having any idea who sent them there. I have a feeling they'll discover a high percentage of anonymous bloggers in that neighborhood.

The mystery writing community is a relatively small town, on the whole supportive and friendly. Sewing seeds of mistrust there is helpful to no one. We can do without this corbeau.

Celia Fremlin

"Fremlin is here to stay as a major mistress of insight and suspense."
New York Times, April 3, 1960

"Celia Fremlin is certainly one of today's more gifted writers."
Los Angeles Times, May, 1963

I've just learned that English novelist Celia Fremlin passed away this summer, on June 16, 2009.

Fremlin, born in 1914, wrote two novels of manners before turning her pen to crime fiction and suspense. She won the Edgar for Best Novel for The Hours Before Dawn, first published in 1958. If you've never read it, find a copy as soon as possible. I strongly recommend it. It's superbly written, unsettling and perceptive.

Beyond that, I think those of you who want a look at women's lives in late 1950s -- as well as some insight into women's lives now, will find that without the least bit of preaching, Fremlin gives you something to think about. It's available from Chicago Academy Publishers.

Her eighteen other novels include Uncle Paul, The Jealous One (also available from Chicago Academy Publishers), The Spider-Orchid and Dangerous Thoughts. A bibliography is available here.

I've been collecting her books over the last ten years, and can tell you that the critical acclaim was well-deserved.

I'm indebted to Elizabeth Foxwell for sending me a link to Martin Edward's blog, where I learned of Fremlin's death, and I agree wholeheartedly with all he has to say there about the stunning lack of notice her passing has received.

We now return to you after dropping off the face of the planet

I can't believe I have fallen so far behind on posting here.  It's not because I am quiet by nature or haven't got a thing to talk about.  Mostly, it has been a matter of trying to focus on all the stuff on my plate right now and to catch up after traveling.  First the main part of the tour, then the American Academy of Forensic Science meetings, and most recently Left Coast Crime 2009 in Hawai'i.  I've also had day-long local events, such as the fabulous ALPHA event in Fullerton yesterday.  And then there is the work I've been doing on the next Irene Kelly novel -- I'm trusting none of you will mind if I make that a bigger priority than blogging.

I do wish the elves would come to my house and prepare my taxes.  My accountant would probably feel that was an improvement, too.

My current desire to blab here comes from a response to being involuntarily silenced.  A couple of days ago, the guys repairing our roof apparently cut through the fiber optic cable that carries our telephone, television, and Internet connections.  It was like blowing the circuit breaker on our doorway to the rest of the world. 

We've definitely gone longer without television, phones, email or using the Web, but it was *planned* on those other occasions.   This time, the timing was not so hot.  If we hadn't had a pair of iPhones, we wouldn't have been able to do much business.   Since we get a crappy level of cell phone signal inside the house (I suspect our attic is lined with cell-signal-kryptonite), this meant holding some interesting conversations on the front lawn.  Our neighbors already think we're crazy, so it wasn't too big a risk.  

The one or two pressing needs (printing the directions to the event I was at on Saturday, sending an afterword to Jim Seels for ASAP Publishing's special edition of two terrific Ken Bruen short stories) were taken care of at my sister's house.

So we survived.  All of this made me think about how dependent we've become on this one cable running from a pole in the backyard to our roof. As you might expect, for the first hour or so we felt really frustrated, as we ran around and tried to figure out what had happened. But once we reached the "nothing we can do about it until Verizon repairs it" stage, we found plenty to do with our time.  After all, writing a manuscript doesn't require an Internet connection -- although this did interfere with my ability to enjoy my usual pastime of rationalized procrastination -- aka indulging in research.

It's fixed now (yes, Verizon came out here on a Sunday).  I may just plan -- I do like it so much better when it's planned -- to go for a few more stretches like that.

Poetry on a Wednesday -- Or, Another reason to love G.K. Chesterton

A discussion list I'm on has been reading Georgette Heyer's mysteries, most recently The Unfinished Clue. Much as I like many of her other books, I'll admit that I'm not a great fan of her detective stories, and find this one particularly weak. I have a theory that Heyer despised many of her contemporaries, because so many of her books portraying them are heavily populated with unlikable characters.

One of the characters in The Unfinished Clue quotes lines from a poem by Frances Darwin Cornford, which led one of the list members to provide a link to this site:
http://tinyurl.com/crp5fg

I'm so glad I followed it, for the sake of the amusement to be found in G.K. Chesterton's response to the poem.

I'll add that while I laughed, Cornford was far from unread in her day, and should be remembered for other poems -- "All Souls' Night," for example, which appears in the Wikipedia article about her.

At my feet

A few leaves, as one would expect on a November afternoon -- even a summer-hot November afternoon. But on the driveway today, the salt and pepper of ash. Fragments of distant trees, brush, and homes. Nomadic bits of ruin.

Smoke Gets In Our Skies

Raymond Chandler wrote a great short story about life in LA during a Santa Ana wind, "Red Wind." It's been a while since I've read it, so I don't remember if he mentioned the fires that seem to be the inevitable result. Perhaps fewer people had built homes in the hills then. But right now, in areas where houses have been built since before Chandler's time, people are being burned out of their homes, and wildlife areas are being destroyed.

Fortunately, our home is not in a danger zone, but if you live anywhere in the LA basin right now, you are probably getting a gray snow of ash on everything. The air smells as if you've got your head up a chimney. And the day has been darkened by smoke.

The photo above was taken many miles from any active fire, looking southwest (toward the coast), at two in the afternoon. The brown in the sky is smoke, and that blue stripe is what the day should have looked like. It seemed more like dusk than the middle of the afternoon.

For information on the fires : LAFD and this Fire Map.*

*This link has been updated -- the earlier map link was not regularly updated.

Is it a sin to love a computer?

My Macintosh G4 is dead. I'm sad about that.

It's not loss of data -- I'm probably going to be able to recover even the small amount that wasn't backed up. I haven't used it as my main computer for some time now. But it has been a part of my life since 2000, and made my life easier in a thousand ways.

Before I go on, I'm going to say a word about the other side, just to set something straight -- I really don't have a problem with those who love Windows. I say this because I've noticed that when we who are Mac users start talking about loving an Apple computer, we get profiled as maniacal worshippers who will not admit that there is anything to like about the competition -- seriously, there's this assumption that we're all rabid. Not so. I've used both systems, I like Macs better, but I don't feel the need to make a religion out of it.

The late G4 was one of a long succession of Macs in our home. I bought my first Apple computer when I was a graduate student -- an Apple IIe. I had used an Apple II and an Apple II+ owned by other family members, but this one was my own. It was a major investment for me on my student budget, but I loved it and made constant use of it. After I met Tim, our roommate's new Mac caught our attention. Eventually, we bought an SE/30 -- Goodnight, Irene, my first novel, was written on it. I loved my first laptop -- a Powerbook 100. We bought a Performa from a young computer salesman who is now a computer genius. Other Macs in the house have included a Mac Mini, a G5, a titanium Powerbook, and a Macbook. Although Tim talked me out of owning a Newton, we both have iPhones.

I loved the G4, though. For one thing, it was the only computer in the house that still ran OS9 (I refused to upgrade it from the last of OSX versions that would run Classic, and all the software that didn't make the transition. I do wish Aspyr would create a version of MahJong Parlor -- the real game, not that POS solitaire -- that would run on OSX.) There is software on it that runs peripheral devices, and those may need to be replaced now, too.

The guy at the Apple store (where I dragged the carcass in desperation) diagnosed the problem as the power supply, but said Apple doesn't stock repair parts for computers more than five years old. He also told me that hanging on to OS9 is "like living in a condemn house." This from the company that condemned it. For some of us, the historic has its value. But okay, I understand what he meant, and after all, I did move forward. We are using new Macs and Leopard in the house. I just liked the old Mac and all it offered before its power supply bit the dust.

And not just because of the OS. Many pages of novels and short stories were written on it. I communicated with many of my friends and fans using that computer. Any number of projects and organizations were aided by the work I did on it. When I think of the time spent sitting before it and its (at the time of purchase) futuristic two-ton monitor, I feel as if I'm saying goodbye to an old friend.

If I can't find a way to bring it back from the dead, it will be recycled. We'll have more room -- that monitor is a real space hog.

It is, ultimately, an object.

I tell myself that, and to just move on.

But the truth is, I loved it, and I already miss it.

Train Twitter

I love riding Metrolink, and recently discovered that Metrolink is on Twitter.  So I signed on as a follower.  Frankly, I expected dull notifications.  But this is the first Twitter posting I received from them:

San Bern Line train 331 delayed 30 mins due to unruly passenger at Upland stn.  Passenger removed by local police.

And that, ladies and gentleman is the kind of thing that comes to mind when people ask me "Where do you get your ideas?"

About ten posts worth of random notes

Many thanks to Maryelizabeth Hart of Mysterious Galaxy for letting me know about this gem.

~~~

My sister, Sandy Cvar, will be teaching "Introduction to Linocut" at the International Printing Museum on Saturday, September 13, 9:30-4:00. This will be an easy way to learn how to carve linoleum to make a print. You don't need to be an artist to have fun with this method of printmaking!

We loved our recent visit to the museum. Even if you don't want to try working with linocut, if you're in the South Bay area, stop by and visit them.

~~~

We just subscribed to HBO. Why? True Blood, which is based on Charlaine Harris's fabulous Sookie Stackhouse series. We are also looking forward to the next David Simon project.

~~~

Last few days have been hectic. Having finished proofreading The Messenger, I sent it back to my editor. Sandy has finished some graphics for the update of the Web site, and Madeira James is at work on the new look.

I made a trip to see my folks, was a party to -- won't bore you with the long story -- destroying the firmware on my dad's iPhone. (Yes, in their 80s, my parents are using iPhones and texting, using Maps, checking stock quotes, downloading apps for games and all sorts of other cool stuff. And yes, at that age, I hope I'm willing to take space shuttle trips or use whatever cool tech is available then.) So I took the phone into the Apple store in Costa Mesa, and with the kind and efficient help of Genius Bar genius Johnny, got it up and running again. So two trips out of town, but I got to see the parents a little more often that way, which is always a good thing.

~~~

One of these days I'm going to have to post something about the Skeptical Inquirer. Which may sound like a strange thing to say, since I've just written a supernatural thriller. But there you have it. I don't really believe there's a city in Southern California named Las Piernas either. Sorry if I just made anyone cry. But I also saved you gas money by preventing you from driving around looking for it.

Anyway, great article in the Nov/Dec 2007 issue (yes, I'm behind on almost everything) by Denis Hamel. It's about a quotation floating around the Internet and elsewhere, lauding astrology and falsely attributed to Einstein. You might say that you don't have to be Einstein to suspect that he probably didn't believe in astrology, but the hoax persists. Hamel's article not only shows that Einstein didn't author this "quote," but shows that even given proof that it's a hoax, some folks refuse to remove it from their sites. I'm not the first person to tell you not to believe everything you read online, right?

~~~

I'm going to do a little work for the Crime Lab Project and then get back to work on the new book. Follow me on Twitter if you want details from here.

Have a good one! And thanks, Vgan -- I'm also glad the world did not implode when they fired up the black hole machine today. Not that I was really worried.

Sightings Near the Downtown Interchange

I was recently stuck in traffic in downtown Los Angeles when I saw the 1800Autopsy van, which didn't bother me until I realized it was traveling in the wake of the "training bus."

It sounds so much easier than writing them

Perusing the impressive biography of Andrew Malcolm on the LA Times political blog page, I came across this startling sentence:

He is the author of 10 nonfiction books and father of four.

Go crows!

A story from Reuters about my favorite birds, defending their homes. And wreaking a little havoc at the same time.

Two Oddities of the Day

A school crossing guard holding a long conversation on a cell phone.  While holding up the sign, etc....Parents, don't you feel great about that?

A teaser for a local television news broadcast.  I swear this is what they actually said:

"We'll show you where an albino moose was spotted...."

Which should win the title of "Thought for the Day," I wonder?

From an article in the May 28, 2007 issue of The New Yorker, "The Golden Man," in which Paul Theroux describes the tyranny of the late ruler of Turkmenistan, Saparmurat Niyazov, aka Bashi:

...he regarded himself as an accomplished writer — a clear sign of madness in anyone.

This would have been my favorite sentence in the article, if he hadn't added this a few paragraphs later:

This [memory of his mother's smile] was perhaps why many of the portraits of Bashi showed him with a smile, though he never looked less amused than when he was grinning; his smile -- and this may be true of all political leaders -- was his most sinister feature.

Before you shed any tears for Paris Hilton

Remember that the original conviction, for which she did not serve any time, was for driving under the influence.

According to a story in today's Los Angeles Times, at the time of that initial incident:

Within hours of her arrest, she dismissed the incident as "nothing" to radio host Ryan Seacrest, explaining: "I was just really hungry, and I wanted to have an In-N-Out burger.

Guess who kills more people than those who commit homicides by firing guns directly at other human beings?

If you answered drunk drivers, you are right. As a result of drunk drivers' murderous handiwork in just one year, 2004, the families of almost 17,000 people are now grieving for loved ones who lost their lives.

Not exactly "nothing."

The next time you see a friend who has been drinking getting ready to drive, ask yourself if taking his or her keys away would be easier than disarming someone. Because you're definitely letting them use a lethal weapon while their judgement is impaired.

So stop them. Even if they really want an In-and-Out burger.

And talk to someone who has lost a child in a drunk driving accident if you feel the need to cry.

Feeling better

Thanks to those of you who contacted me here and off-list. I'm feeling much better.

I'm not usually one who talks a whole lot about minor illnesses, having too many friends who've battled major ones to feel that a case of the flu is much to talk about. But I realize that some people make an art form of it, and I've been reflecting on some of the styles of reporting minor illnesses I've observed among friends and others over the years.

The Historian
This is the person who answers your question, "How have you been?", with a recital that starts with "Well, two weeks ago, I think it was Tuesday, I felt a little tickle in my throat. And then on Wednesday, I sneezed three times...." He or she will continue in this vein, building symptoms, recovery, and relapse into a saga worthy of a six-hour mini-series, and it will seem to you that you've already been on the phone about that long.

The Effluence Detailers
These folks feel compelled to describe in great detail the appearance anything that came out of any orifice during the course of their illness. The people who inspired others to coin the phrase "too much information."

The Child Effluence Detailers
These are parents who forget that with the possible exception of a child's grandmothers and one or two mothers at the day care center, absolutely no one wants to hear about the frequency with which things that were in the child ended up on the outside of the child, nor do they want to know about the quantity, color, or rate of acceleration of such effluence. If you think you might be tempted to use this phrase:

It was like something out of The Exorcist...

do not tell the story.

This goes double for pet owners.

The Hypochondriacal Reviewers
These are the people who tell you about all the pangs of anxiety they experienced while contemplating the horrible diseases their flu symptoms might have represented. It doesn't matter that they have known for days that it was the flu -- that's really not the point. No, it's a journey of one freakish self-diagnosis after another. "And then I was really worried, because you know, a fever of 100 degrees is a symptom of [name any deadly disease]." They will congratulate themselves on narrowly escaping a fate that was not within a thousand miles of real likelihood.


I am sure there are others....