Author Archives: Elaine Viets

About Elaine Viets

Elaine Viets has written 30 mysteries in four series, including 15 Dead-End Job mysteries. BRAIN STORM, her first Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery, is published as a trade paperback, e-book, and audio book. www.elaineviets.com

Not My Type

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A 17-year-old gamer who goes by mythicalrocket holds the world record for the fastest typing speed – 305 words per minute for 15 seconds. According to news stories, rocket also typed “The Hobbit,” a tome with more than 400 pages, “in less than six hours.”

Rocket reached these supersonic speeds on an Apex Pro keyboard.

Pretty darn good, rocket. Now let me tell you what typing was like when I was in high school.

We used manual typewriters. In my touch-typing class, I reached the astonishing speed of 45 words per minute – with an amazing 47 errors. I didn’t have a lightweight high-tech keyboard, either. The keys on a manual were heavy and you had to pound them.

I used a Remington typewriter, a green tanklike beast. Talk about heavy metal – in the late 1960s typewriters weighed between 25 and 40 pounds. A professional typist could achieve 80 words per minute on these monsters, with no errors.

So why I am telling you about my pathetic 45/47?

I worked hard to screw up my typing. Back then, careers for women were rare. We were supposed to get married and have kids. Before the kids arrived, we could work as teachers, nurses or secretaries.

Nothing wrong with those professions, but they weren’t for me. I wanted to be a reporter. I figured if men didn’t have to learn to type, neither did I. Some part of my brain thought this was the way to equality.

After college, when I got my first job at a newspaper in 1970s, I was surrounded by men who could only type with two fingers, a process known as “hunt and peck.” I was proud to be one of these incompetent typists.

We typed our stories on cheap newsprint, the stuff that’s now used for packing.

Manual typewriters had a lot of disadvantages. There was no spell check, so if we made a mistake, we x-ed over it, or corrected it in pencil when we finished typing.

If we wanted to move a paragraph, there was no highlight and paste, or cut and paste button. We had to cut and paste for real, and we couldn’t use Elmer’s, glue guns or glue sticks.

First, we’d find the scissors (or steal our neighbor’s), then cut out the paragraph we wanted to move, grab the glue bottle with a brush, smear yellow glue on the paper, and glue in the new paragraph.

Since our news stories were often written on deadline, glue bottles could easily overturn, leaving yellow tumorous masses on our desks.

One more fun fact about manual typewriters. The only way we could get copies was with carbon paper, which got on your clothes and hands. Carbon paper was inserted between two pieces of copy paper, making a sort of sandwich. I was skilled at putting the carbon paper in wrong and carboning the back of my story.

No point in asking to use the office copy machine. They were expensive and restricted to upper management. I’d have a better chance of getting a pint of blood out of the managing editor than using the precious office copy machine.

On the internet, there are typing communities, and competitions for the fastest typists. Here’s mythicalrocket at work. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGwKCi4FX84

I love watching those fingers fly over the lightweight high-tech keyboards.

That’s impressive.

But I’d like to see a real old-school speed competition on manual typewriters: deft digits manipulating unmanageable metal.

That’s the key to a real competition.

NOW HEAR THIS: Many of my audio books are free with a 3-month Audible trial. Including my Angela Richman mystery, DEATH GRIP. https://tinyurl.com/393ywnj2

Sugar Daddies: Sweet Treats or Sticky Situations?

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By Elaine Viets

Long before “sugar daddy” was a popular term, rich, older men gave pretty young women money and expensive presents for companionship or sex.

Call them protectors, benefactors or Santa baby, sugar daddies have been celebrated in operas, pop songs, movies, and television.

Puccini’s 1898 opera, La Boheme, has two sugar daddies. The Viscount is Mimi’s protector and rich, old Alcindoro keeps the brassy Musetta in fine clothes. Movies from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” to “Pretty Woman,” are variations on the sugar daddy theme.

Where did the term come from?

The Ginger website says, “The word ‘sugar’ has been slang for money and luxury since the mid-19th century, and defines the nature of the relationship between the couple. The word ‘daddy’ was slang among prostitutes for an older man since the 16th century, and refers to the age difference between the two.

“Sugar daddy” has been used since the beginning of the 20th century, supposedly when Adolph Spreckels, heir to the Spreckel’s sugar fortune, married a woman 24 years younger, who called him “Sugar Daddy.”

That’s one theory, anyway. In the 1920s, a candy called Papa Sucker, (no, I’m not kidding) was born. In 1932, the sucker was renamed Sugar Daddy to suggest “a wealth of sweetness” according to Tootsie Roll Inc.

Yeah, right. I’ll ignore the fact that a Sugar Daddy is a sucker

The company didn’t try to explain the smaller, chewy Sugar Babies.

By that time, it was pretty clear that sugar daddy and sugar baby had nothing to do with candy.

About ten years ago, sugar daddies went online, and there are many sites where wealthy, older men can meet sweet young things. It’s called sugaring, or sugar dating. Some young women claim they’re sugar babies to pay for college, or enjoy luxury travel.

Is sugar dating prostitution?

Depends. A Texas law firm says, “Dating partners of all ages often exchange gifts or help each other with financial obligations. This does not break the law. However, many sugar baby relationships do blur the lines between relationships and prostitution. In Texas, it is illegal to offer sexual conduct for money. It is also illegal to pay a fee for sexual conduct.”

I use this modern twist on sugar daddies in “A Scarlet Death,” my new Angela Richman mystery. Selwyn Skipton, a rich, respectable old man, is found strangled on black satin sheets.

Turns out Selwyn had a secret life. He was a sugar daddy. Here’s a section from “A Scarlet Death” where death investigator Angela Richman tried to explain sugar dating to a sceptacal Det. Jace Budewitz. They are in a Chouteau Forest coffee shop, reading the late Selwyn’s computer files.

Jace brought another round of coffee, and we read in silence for about half an hour until I hit pay dirt. “Jace, you won’t believe this. Selwyn was a sugar daddy.”

“You mean like in the movies? A rich old guy who buys diamonds and gifts for pretty young women?”

“Sort of. Sugar daddies don’t have to wait by the stage door to pick up blondes any more. Now they can find them on the internet.”

“Of course they can,” Jace said.

“Selwyn used a site called DatingDaddies.com. From what I can figure out, he’s dated several sugar babies. The website says, ‘Sugar babies are young, attractive women paid to provide “companionship” to their daddy.’

“That word, ‘companionship’ is in quotes,” I added. “Here’s the rest: ‘Daddies may give their sugar babies presents or help pay their rent. The degree of intimacy is between the daddy and his sugar baby.’

“I can almost see the wink,” I said.

“Here’s an ad Selwyn saved for a sugar baby named Tammi.”

I read it out loud:

‘“I am twenty-one, a sweet, fun-loving business major. I want a Daddy with a kind heart. I prefer mature Daddies. I don’t smoke, but I do enjoy champagne and good conversation. Color me passionate about art. I love to talk about it, especially nineteenth-century artists. Or, if you want to have a quiet evening, Daddy, I’m a terrific listener. I’ll do my best to make you happy. I would love to find a business-savvy Sugar Daddy. In my free time I like to read and go for long walks.’

“Get this, Jace. Her username is Clover Honey.”

“Is this for real?” Jace asked. His eyes were round.

“Definitely. There are a zillion sugar baby websites. Tammi uses a pretty standard headline for her bio. It says, ‘Let’s have a secret.’ I see that one a lot.”

“What’s the difference between a sugar baby and a prostitute?” Jace asked.

“Not much,” I said. “But I’m old-fashioned. Sugar babies who charge outright often have ‘P2P’ in their ads. That means ‘pay to play.’ Most just want gifts or rent money.”

“If those men give their sugar babies money, that’s prostitution in my book,” Jace said.

“I’m not arguing with you, but sugar babies seem to be good at rationalization. Supposedly, many of them are college students trying to avoid student debt.”

“Right,” Jace said. “And strippers have hearts of gold and only take off their clothes to help their sick old mothers.”

Jace was usually more open-minded. I shrugged and said, “Just passing on the information.”

“Any photos of this Tammi sugar baby?”

“Yes, but her face is either hidden or in shadow in all three photos. In one photo she’s hugging a big chocolate Labrador, and all I can see is her long, blonde hair. In another, she’s wearing a teeny red bikini, and her face is shadowed by a big straw sunhat. In the third photo, she’s peering through palm tree fronds. About all I can see in any of the photos is long blonde hair, long legs and a big bust.”

“How can a sugar daddy make a decision, if he can’t see the woman’s face?”

“From what I’ve read, if a daddy is serious, the sugar baby will send photos so the man can see her face.”

Jace shook his head. “Sounds dangerous for both parties.”

“It is,” I said. “Sugar daddies have been blackmailed and some were murdered when they quit forking over cash. Sugar babies have been raped when they didn’t put out, and even killed.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jace said. “So these sugar babies have the same risks as hookers.”

“Seems like it. The sugar babies are paid well for it,” I said. “This file says Selwyn paid Tammi $85,000 in six months.”

Jace whistled. “I bet none of the women in the Forest are sugar babies.”

“Ha. You’d be surprised. I’m guessing some are. Sugar babies can be rich, bored, young women who want a short walk on the wild side, or their real daddies have cut off their allowance and the women want designer clothes.”

“That’s just greedy,” Jace said.

“May I ask why you seem to hate sugar babies?”

“I don’t hate them,” Jace said. “I have more respect for women who just say they’re sex workers. They don’t play games.”

What do you think about Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies, TKZers?

 Reviewer Cynthia Chow calls my new Angela Richman mystery, “an outstanding procedural that depicts Angela’s death investigations while also delving deep into class structures and the behavior of the entitled.” Win a copy at Kings River Life. https://www.krlnews.com/2024/06/a-scarlet-death-by-elaine-viets.html

 

The Case of the Bird-Brained Witness

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By Elaine Viets

   The witness to the murder could repeat every word the killer and the victim said during the fatal confrontation.  The witness was alive, but not human.

          What was the witness?

          A parrot. An African grey to be exact.

          While researching A Scarlet Death, my new Angela Richman, death investigator mystery, I learned about parrots as murder witnesses. This information has been compiled from news stories.

          Consider the 2017 case of the woman in Michigan convicted of her husband’s murder, thanks in part to his parrot. Police first thought someone had murdered the husband and tried to kill the wife. The woman survived being shot in the head. But the parrot repeated the husband’s last words. The parrot said, “Don’t f—-ing shoot!” in the husband’s voice. Turns out the woman murdered her husband and then tried to kill herself. The details of the shooting were remarkably vivid, as reported by the parrot. It was an African grey.

          In 2018, another parrot witnessed the rape and murder of a woman in Argentina. Her parrot repeated the whole terrible crime, saying, “No, please. Let me go,” which investigators believe were the last words of the woman.

          My favorite case was the parrot who knew too much. In the mid-1990s, Echo was put into witness protection. The New Orleans parrot belonged to a crime boss who was suspected of child abuse, among other crimes. Late at night, the bird would sometimes cry like a child, then sound like it was moaning in pain, and then make a noise like whack, or thwack! as if someone was being hit. The bird had to be hidden because it knew too much and wouldn’t shut up.

        When an animal seriously harms or kills a person, it’s often put down. But in past centuries, the beast was given a trial.

          Pigs for instance. Whether you think pigs are cute little animals, or pork chops on the hoof, they have a bad reputation. People who live in farm country know the stories of farmers who had heart attacks out by the pig pen and were eaten by their animals.

          In the Middle Ages, pigs were tried for murder. In 1386, a sow mauled a child so badly, it died. The pig was arrested, imprisoned and stood trial for murder. The homicidal hog was found guilty and executed by hanging.

Weirdly enough, the sow was dressed in men’s clothes when it was hanged. There’s no record if the defendant was eaten.

          In my new book, A Scarlet Death, Buddy, a murder victim’s African grey parrot seems to recount details of its owner’s brutal death.

          Chouteau Forest death investigator Angela Richman and attorney Montgomery Bryant are discussing the parrot’s testimony over dinner.

          “Let’s go back to the parrot,” Angela said. “Any chance that talking birds will be allowed to testify in court? They’re very smart.”

          “Too many problems,” the lawyer said. “How do we know Buddy the parrot actually heard the victim being murdered?”

          “Because of what he said. And Buddy’s words match the facts.” Angela speared a tender piece of chicken breast.

   “But what if we don’t know the facts?” Monty asked. “Or what if Buddy is imitating something he heard on TV? People could be convicted on the word of a parrot that watched CSI.”

          “But Buddy said the killer’s name.”

          “He did. How do we know the parrot didn’t just drop that name in there because he heard his owner say it on the phone?”

          “OK, I get it,” l said. “But I wish we knew what animals were saying to us, don’t you?”

          “Some of them, like cats and dogs.”

            Monty finished his last bite of burger and said, “However, I’d just as soon not know what this cow was saying on the way to the slaughterhouse.”

           So, did Buddy the parrot help the police solve his owner’s murder? You’ll have to read A Scarlet Death to find out.

Enter my contest to win a free ebook of A Scarlet Death. Send your name and email address to WinEVbooks@aol.com. Contest closes midnight, May 31.

 

 

Our Secret Language

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By Elaine Viets

We writers learn many specialized words. Words for our craft, including point of view, story arc, and pacing. Legal words such as subpoena, defendant, and waiver. We learn forensic words, sports language and many more.

But we all speak a private language, though we may not realize it. I’m talking about family words.

I first learned about family words from Paul Dickson, the author of  “Family Words: A Dictionary of the Secret Language of Families.” If you can get your hands on this book, grab it.

Dickson describes family words this way: “Every family has them. The words that only you use, your own secret language. For instance, one family has coined the word ‘lurkin’ for any sock that has lost its mate because ‘you know the other one is ‘lurkin’ around somewhere.’”

My personal favorite from Dickson’s book is “Grabacabbage,” someone whose name you don’t know or can’t remember. As in, “I saw that Grabacabbage kid from Cedar Court skateboarding through traffic. He’s going to get hit.”

My family also had their own words. Many centered around food. Here are a few:

Mustgo. Leftovers. As in “must go today or you’ll eat it tomorrow.”

Bread sandwich. My grandfather’s scornful name for a sandwich with only a thin slice of meat. Grandpa liked to pile on his meat and cheese.

Sunday ham.  When unexpected guests dropped in around dinner time on Sunday, Mom would serve up an informal spread of potato salad, chips and lunchmeat. The cold cuts were the everyday stuff packed in our lunchboxes: baloney, pickle loaf, salami and braunschweiger, Swiss and American cheese.  One of us kids would be sent to the local convenience store for ten cents’ worth of ham – usually about three slices. The Sunday ham would be draped on top the platter. Only the guests could eat it. If they didn’t, Dad got the Sunday ham in his lunchbox. We kids weren’t allowed to touch it.

FHB. (Family Hold Back). Used when we had voracious visitors, and there was a sudden shortage of hamburgers, steaks, or pork chops. The meat was reserved for guests. Once they were served, we kids could eat. If there were two chops or burgers left, they went to the guests under FHB rules.

My family gatherings had their own special words.

Organ recital. When my great-aunts visited my grandmother, these formidable women would repair to the kitchen for coffee cake and what my grandfather called the organ recital. Grandpa would flee to the living room and watch the ball game.

The organ recital was for women only. Kids like me were banned, but I found a place where I could eavesdrop on the gruesome details.

My aunts were permanently upholstered in black and wore Enna Jettick shoes. During the organ recital, my aunts would discuss their aches, pain and operations in loving detail.

Better yet, they talk about other people’s operations. Especially the hopeless ones. Aunt Marie would say, “The surgeon opened Eddie up and found a tumor the size of a grapefruit. There was nothing they could do, so they sewed him back up and sent him home.” I don’t know why, but tumors were always the size of a grapefruit.

As the afternoon wore on and the coffee cake disappeared, the labor contest would commence, and the women would one-up one another with horror stories about how long they were in labor during childbirth.

Is it me or is it hot in here? A euphemism for hot flashes. No woman would ever admit she was in menopause, much less suffered hot flashes. Instead, she’d ask this question. The other ladies would declare the heat was getting to them too, and fan themselves dramatically with napkins and magazines. The hostess, who was usually the same age, understood what that question meant, and adjusted the room temperature to December in Iceland.

Mutton dressed as lamb.  An age-shaming remark aimed at an older woman dressed like a young girl. Today, Kris Jenner, Charo and Madonna are often sniped at as mutton dressed as lamb. I doubt they care. They’re laughing all the way to the bank.

Short arms. My grandfather’s term for someone who avoided reaching for a check. As in,  “I’m not going out with that short arms and get stuck with the dinner check again.”

Tuberoses. My grandmother’s nickname for any mournful chiming clock. Apparently, when she was younger, tuberoses were a popular funeral flower.

Pasture pool. A golf game.

What are your family words, TKZers? Do you use them in your writing?

***

It’s here! A Scarlet Death, my new Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery. Buy A Scarlet Death hardcovers and ebooks at:

          Barnes & Noble: https://tinyurl.com/bde2c7ks

          Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/yhtvzns7

          Target has the hardcovers here: https://tinyurl.com/5xnrx5n4

Sneak Preview

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By Elaine Viets

       
          Hey, there, TKZers. A Scarlet Death, my latest Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery will be published April 2, and I can’t wait for you to read it. This is what TKZ is all about: getting our writing published. It’s why we work to improve our plotting, pacing, even our proofreading. We put a lot of time and money into our work. Let’s not forget to celebrate our success.

It’s easy to become blase after we write multiple books. A Scarlet Death is my 34th mystery. When it arrived, I danced around the house, then showed it off to my friends and family like a new baby. Even my cat, Vanessa, came by to check it out.

Let me tell you a little about A Scarlet Death. Angela investigates the bizarre death of socialite Selwyn Skipton, found strangled on black satin bedsheets, with a red letter A stapled to his chest. Selwyn was a good man. He gave to charity, supported local causes, and was married to his wife for more than twenty years. What were his dark secrets? What did he do to deserve such a terrible death?

Also, what’s going on in Angela’s personal life? Will she be a new bride? Or a new widow?

Here’s a look at the first chapter. Enjoy.

         A Scarlet Death Chapter 1

Selwyn Skipton’s murder scene was one of the strangest, and I’ve seen a lot of them in my job.

The seventy-year-old CEO was buck-naked on a bed with black satin sheets. A silk tie, in a muted shade of blue, was knotted around his neck. There was nothing muted about the large, red letter “A” stapled to his gray-haired chest.

Yep, stapled.

 

I thought Skipton would be the last man to die on black satin sheets. He was a devoted husband who made big donations to charities – unfashionable causes that helped the illiterate read, the hungry eat, and the homeless find shelter. In short, a good man.

Selwyn was strangled in an apartment above the Chouteau Forest Chocolate Shoppe. My town is so rich, we don’t have shops. We have prissy shoppes.

I’m Angela Richman, a death investigator for Chouteau County, a fat cat community forty miles west of St. Louis, Missouri. Chouteau Forest is the largest town in the county.

Selwyn’s murder was discovered by Maya Richards, the chocolate shop owner. When she opened the store that morning, Maya smelled something that definitely wasn’t chocolate. She followed her nose up the back stairs to the apartment, where the door was unlocked, and poked her head in. One look at the strangled Selwyn, and she sprinted downstairs. When Maya recovered her breath, she wailed like an air raid siren, then called 911.

That’s how Detective Jace Budewitz and I wound up at the scene at eleven o’clock on a freezing December morning, an hour after the place usually opened. The chocolate shop was chaos. The front doors were locked, with the three responding uniformed officers inside. Mike Harrigan, an old pro, was guarding the back door. Scott Grafton was drooling over a rack of chocolate Christmas candy, and Pete Clayton, the new hire, was at the front door. Crazed chocolate lovers stormed the place, oblivious to the falling snow. Jace shooed them away, and had Pete string up yellow crime scene tape.

Maya Richards unlocked the door with shaking fingers, and let us in. I was familiar with the interior, thanks to my craving for sea-salt truffles. The decor hadn’t changed since 1890. Curlicued dark wood framed mirrors behind mahogany counters. The chocolates were displayed like jewels in beveled glass cases. The cases were empty today. Maya knew her shop wasn’t going to open for a while.

Maya was about forty, wearing a chocolate-brown suit, the same color as her hair. Her face was pale as paper and her red lipstick looked like a bloody slash. Maya was shaking so badly, I was afraid she’d collapse. She was clearly in shock, and could barely talk.

Jace was worried about her. He made sure Maya sat in a chair and called 911. I went back to find her a cup of coffee. I couldn’t find any, but there was plenty of the shop’s double-dark hot chocolate. I heated a mug in the microwave, and brought it to her. Maya wrapped her hands around the mug, and nodded. After a few sips, she recovered enough to talk. There were long pauses between her words, but she forced them out. Then the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I . . . get . . . here . . . about seven . . . to set up the shop,” she said.

“I have a very keen nose, and something didn’t smell right. I thought a squirrel might have gotten into the store and died. I checked everywhere, and finally decided the smell must be coming from upstairs.

“Mr. Selwyn Skipton has the entire apartment upstairs. I thought he kept it as a second office, or a pied-à-terre for when he worked late downtown. He owns the building, you see, and he’s a regular customer. He loves our bear claws.”

“Me, too,” I said. Jace frowned at me for interrupting.

Maya took another sip of hot chocolate and kept talking. ‘I’ve never been upstairs in the apartment. Mr. Skipton’s kept it for years, and he likes – I mean, liked – his privacy. I was afraid he might have had some kind of accident. He has his own entrance in the back of the building, and I need a special key to open it. I also need a key to open the door at the top. The upstairs door was left unlocked.

“I ran upstairs and knocked on the door. No one answered. I jiggled the handle and the door swung open. All I saw was this giant bed, covered in black satin, and Mr. Skipton in the middle of it. Dead. And naked. With bugs crawling on him!”

Now Maya’s teeth were chattering. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her skin was clammy. She set her mug on the floor.

“Are you OK, Ms. Richards?” Jace asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and fainted.

“See if she has any family, Angela,” Jace said. “I’ll call 911.”

I found her cell phone and ran back. It needed the owner’s fingerprint to unlock it. I grabbed Maya’s limp hand, used her index finger to unlock the phone, scrolled down to an entry that said “Sis,” and called the number. Her sister Anita answered, and once I calmed her down, Anita said she’d leave her office and meet Maya at the hospital.

“That’s the ambulance,” I told her, as the siren died with a squawk. Doors slammed. Pete opened the shop door, and four paramedics rushed in, bringing a blast of cold. Jace explained what happened. They checked Maya’s pulse. “Do you know if this has happened to her before?” the biggest paramedic asked. He looked like he bench-pressed Buicks.

“No idea.” Jace shrugged.

“It could be a panic attack,” the paramedic said, “but we’ll take her to the ER to make sure.”

Jace asked Pete to stay with Maya at the hospital until her sister showed up. The young crew-cut mountain gave Jace a sour look and stomped out the door.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Pete’s got a bad attitude,” Jace said. “He tried to get hired by a big force, and wound up here. Thinks he’s too good to do scut work.”

I nodded, and let it go. Some detectives wouldn’t have bothered taking care of Maya at a murder scene, but Jace had a kind heart.

Meanwhile Mike, the responding officer, had set up the crime scene log. Jace and I gloved up, put on booties and trudged up the dark, narrow private staircase. I dragged my death investigator’s suitcase behind me.

The apartment door was open from when Maya fled downstairs.

Jace looked in and said, “Good lord.”

******************************************************************

A Scarlet Death will be shipped April 2. Preorder your hardcover or ebook at: Barnes & Noble: https://tinyurl.com/bde2c7ks

          Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/yhtvzns7

          Hardcovers only:  Target: https://tinyurl.com/5xnrx5n4

          The Penguin Bookshop, https://tinyurl.com/67nvm4j9

          RJ Julia Booksellers, Madison, Conn: https://tinyurl.com/4drh288c

          Please note that prices may vary. Check before you buy. 

Good Reading

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By Elaine Viets

Reading is good for you.

That’s right. Reading is healthier than a bale of kale, according to the studies I’ve seen. Here’s a rundown on some:

Reading can help keep your brain sharp.

Can’t do Sudoku? Me, either.

But I do read. And a 14-year study of almost 2,000 people in Taiwan who were 64 and older, showed those who read one or more times a week had less cognitive decline at six-and 14-year intervals.

Wanna live longer? Read.

          Here’s a novel idea. Books are better for you than magazines and newspapers.

“Book readers also experienced a 20% reduction in risk of mortality over the 12 years of follow-up compared to non-book readers,” said a study published in 2017.  “These findings suggest that the benefits of reading books include a longer life in which to read them.”

Reading can improve your brain’s health.

          According to Bustle. The newsletter said, “Scientists looking into a six-month daily reading study at Carnegie-Mellon discovered that the volume of white matter (that stuff responsible for carrying nerve impulses between neurons) in the language area of the brain actually increased.”

Stay connected.

Business Insider says reading strengthens the connections in your brain.

According to Sabrina Romanoff, an NYC clinical psychologist, “reading creates neurons in the brain, a process known as neurogenesis. Neurons are cells that send messages and transmit information between different areas in the brain.

“Reading material that requires thought, consideration, and effort to metabolize what’s being described leads to the creation of new neurons in your brain,” Romanoff says. “These neurons also increase new neuronal connections, both with each other and older networks, which accelerates processing speed.”

Six minutes.

          Is all it takes to reduce stress. That’s according to researchers at the University of Sussex. They said, “People who read for just six minutes had reduced muscle tension and a slower heart rate.”

Tired of being told to eat your veggies?

A study of more than 15,000 Chinese age 65 years and older who didn’t have dementia were followed for about five years.

The study wanted to find out if intellectual activities could lower “the risk of dementia in older adults, independent of other healthy lifestyle practices such as regular physical exercise, adequate fruit and vegetable intake, and not smoking.”

The good news?  “Daily participation in intellectual activities was associated with a significantly lower risk of dementia several years later, independent of other health behaviors, physical health limitations, and sociodemographic factors.”

In other words, “Active participation in intellectual activities, even in late life, might help prevent dementia in older adults.” And yes, intellectual activities include reading.

Pass the zucchini, please. To someone else.

***

          Stay smart and healthy! Enjoy The Dead of Night, my seventh Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery. http://tinyurl.com/mr33sc8e

The Christmas Rescue

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By Elaine Viets

 This is my last blog before the holiday break, and I wanted to tell you about my favorite Christmas memory.

When I was growing up in St. Louis, I waited for my grandfather to bring home the Christmas tree. Grandpa had a real knack for picking them.

Every year, he had the worst tree on the block. It was skinny, scraggly and bald. The needles fell off when he brought it through the door.

It looked like a bottle brush.

Grandpa didn’t buy a tree. He rescued it.

He’d wait till the last minute on Christmas Eve. Then he’d stop at the local tree lot and buy one for a buck. He overpaid.

Grandma would take one look at the homely thing and burst into tears. “Just once, I’d like a real tree, like normal people,” she’d say.

We kids would burst into laughter. You had to work had to find a tree that ugly.

Grandpa looked bewildered. After all, he’d saved a poor little tree from a cold lot. And now everyone was mad at him.

Operation Tree Rescue kicked into high gear. Dad would get extra branches from the tree lot and try to drill holes in the spindly trunk to make the tree look fuller. He had to be careful. The tree’s trunk was skinny.

He strung the tree with lights, which made the branches sag. Now we had a bald, round-shouldered tree, like a bad blind date.

Grandma would Christmas cookies and Christmas cards in the wide-open spaces. She brought out the colorful glass ornaments. Then she’d fill the biggest holes in the branches with popcorn strings and beads.

The tinsel went on last. That covered a lot of problematic places. Grandpa’s tree ended up looking like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family.

Meanwhile, Grandma’s normally pristine carpet was knee-deep in needles. The tree shed needles we didn’t even know it had. Grandma vacuumed twice a day, and there were still needles.

Every holiday, Grandpa would surpass himself. No, considering what those trees looked like, he’d outstrip himself. “Next year, just bring home a broom handle,” we’d tell him, as we tried to rescue his latest find. He’d sit in his recliner, looking pleased with himself.

Year after year, the saga of the rescue tree continued. Until it didn’t.

My grandparents are long gone, and I can have any tree I want. Big, beautiful trees. Perfectly shaped trees. Trees that are decorator delights.

But none of them are as good as Grandpa’s rescue trees.

Happy Holidays, however you celebrate.

Age Old Problem

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By Elaine Viets

See this woman?  I’m sure you have. She’s been featured in a slew of ads. Aw, what a cute old lady.

I loathe the old bat. Her harmless cuteness stereotypes seniors and makes it easy to dismiss older people. Thanks to her, anyone over sixty seems powerless and a bit simpleminded. She may be a fine person in real life, but I don’t like how her stock photo is used.

Crazy old cranks. How about this woman known as “Cranky Martha.” You’ve seen her in the Medicare ads. Martha’s another stereotype – an old woman who grumbles about Medicare programs. Martha is denied the dignity of righteous rage. Dealing with government phone lines and websites should make anyone angry. They can eat up your whole day. But poor Martha is just another complaining, crazy coot.

Like many baby boomers, I’m old enough to get Social Security.  I’m also concerned about how older people are portrayed. Older people are cute, cranky, sexless and downright weird.

How many of these demeaning stereotypes are perpetuated in our books?

Even the language I’m using to describe these people is disrespectful: coot, crazy, old crank, old bat. All those words diminish older people.

Here are a few more stereotypes:

The old weirdo. This person is often found in cozies, dressed in loud clothes and behaving like a silly 16-year-old. Margery, the 76-year-old landlady in my Dead-End Job mysteries, skirted the edges of this stereotype. But I tried to keep her smart and sometimes downright scary.

The male version is the wacky old guy who is the hero’s sidekick, a popular Western trope. Remember Gabby Hayes, the grizzled old codger who tagged along after John Wayne, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and  Hopalong Cassidy?

The foreign old weirdo. Heaven help an old person who lives in a poor country, like this Cuban woman smoking a cigar. Photographers flock to photograph their wrinkles (apparently poor people can’t afford moisturizer). Writers condescend to them and their customs.

The old technophobe.  Yes, it’s true. Some older people have trouble with cell phones and other tech. There’s a reason for that. Parts of the brain shrink with age and communication between neurons slows. This makes it tough for some older people to learn new technology.

Some. But not all.

It’s true I still long for the return of the five-button phone in offices, but I can use a cell phone. Alan Portman, a regular reader of this blog, is my main IT person, but when I need someone local, I use a sixty-something grandfather with his own business. His brain works just fine, thank you.

Growing old disgracefully. That’s the motto for a lot of boomers. They love to tease their staid children.

The old stereotypes are outdated. Older people are not the old fogies of yesteryear. They are active, well-educated, and entrepreneurial. Empire-builder Martha Stewart was on the cover of Sports Illustrated at age 81.

Seventy-year-old Christie Brinkley looks damn good in a bikini.

Older people are powerful. Associate Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg held office until her death at age 87.

So how do you portray old people in your mysteries? Are they one of these stereotypes, or realistic characters? Are your older people like Miss Marple, who are underrated because of their age, but use it to their advantage? Or are they fierce and vital?

Deadly secrets in a crypt. The Dead of Night, my 7th Angela Richman mystery, is on sale here: https://tinyurl.com/2c4qzlb6

 

 

Meet Webster’s New Words

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By Elaine Viets

New words are supposed to be the sign of a living language. In that case, English is not only alive and kicking, it’s dancing barefoot around the room. Recently, Webster added 690 new words to the dictionary. Many are Gen-Z words that have officially entered the language.

Do you use any of these words in your writing? How about your speech?

Beast mode: an extremely aggressive or energetic style or manner that someone (such as an athlete) adopts temporarily (as to overpower an opponent in a fight or competition).

Doomscroll is a verb meaning, “to spend excessive time online scrolling through news or other content that makes one feel sad, anxious, angry, etc.” I expect to do a lot of doomscrolling as the 2024 Presidential election gets closer.

Chef’s kiss is “a gesture of satisfaction or approval made by kissing the fingertips of one hand and then spreading the fingers with an outward motion.” Often used as an interjection.

Here’s an example: “The crab itself deserved a chef’s kiss—not only was it clear that it was good quality crab that had been handled with care, but it also had this mouthwatering consistency that held its integrity until you bit into it. Then it was like a burst of flavor.—Amy Martino.”

Cheffy is an adjective describing the “the characteristic of or befitting a professional chef (as in showiness, complexity or exoticness.

You can’t go online without encountering tiny house. That’s “a small house or mobile home that typically has a floor plan of less than 500 feet and is usually designed for ergonomics and space efficiency.”

 Thirst trap is “a photograph (such as a selfie) or video shared for the purpose of attracting attention or desire; also : someone or something that attracts attention or strong desire.” Kim Kardashian and her selfies are the definition of the word.

Girlboss is “an ambitious and successful woman (especially a businesswoman or entrepreneur).” Forbes magazine wrote “But almost every notable girlboss tumbled out of the C-suite in rapid succession in June 2020.”

Really? Girlboss? Did that word escape from the 1950s?

Nope, Webster first noticed it in 2016. That’s one word I’m not planning to  use.

GOATED: An adjective meaning, “considered to be the greatest of all time,” Webster said. I think it’s presumptuous, unless you can see into the future.

Zhuzh: To kick it up a notch. Webster credits Queer Eye’s “original fashion guru, Carson Kressley for making zhuzh popular.” This show also brought you metrosexual.

“Zhuzh describes the act of making slight improvements or accents to a wardrobe or look (such as by adding a pocket square, teasing one’s hair, or popping a shirt collar),” Webster says. That’s Carson in the middle of this photo below.

Rizz means “romantic appeal or charm.”

Old words with new definitions.

Doggo. To lie doggo means to hide, but now doggo has been repurposed as slang for dog.

Bingo card: This is not your Aunt Myrtle’s bingo card, the one she played in the church basement. Webster also says it “means a list of possible, expected or likely scenarios.” As Molly Taylor wrote, “I’m pretty sure nobody had ‘global pandemic’ on their bingo cards back in 2016 …”

Hallucination has taken on a new meaning in the computer world. This is how Webster defines it: “a plausible but false or misleading response generated by an artificial intelligence algorithm.”

Webster gives this example: “This type of artificial intelligence we’re talking about can sometimes lead to something we call hallucination,” said Prabhakar Raghavan in an interview . . . “This is then expressed in such a way that a machine delivers a convincing but completely fictitious answer.”

Simp used to be a simple word. It meant someone who’s not too bright. Now it’s sprouted several new meanings.

Webster says simp can be informal and often disparaging. “Someone (especially a man) who shows excessive concern, attention, or deference toward a romantic partner or love interest.” Margaret Taylor says a simp is “… multiple videos offering examples of what makes someone a simp, like wearing a nice outfit to school and hoping your crush notices only for them to be absent.—Magdalene Taylor.”

Or, a simp can be someone who “has a marked fondness or desire for something.” Morgan Sung used it this way:  “… as a simp for multifunctional appliances, I was enamored off the bat.”

And last but not least, simp can be a rather awkward intransitive verb. Webster gives this example from John James: “A Brazilian influencer has taken simping for the richest man on earth to a new level by getting Elon Musk’s name … tattooed across his forehead.”

Oh, that’s what that is:

 Some new definitions give us words we need.

Bracketology is “the practice or study of predicting the outcome of elimination tournaments or competitions especially in NCAA college basketball.”

Vanity card is “the logo of a production company that appears briefly on-screen following the credits for a television show or movie.” Executive producer and writer Chuck Lorre’s vanity cards are famous. Here’s one:

 

Kayfabe is “the tacit agreement between professional wrestlers and their fans to pretend that overtly staged wrestling events, stories, characters, etc., are genuine.”

Hah! True wrestling fans know wrestling is real and the rest of the world is kayfabe. The word has been around more than 50 years. Webster mentions  “. .. a letter to the sports editor of the Chicago Tribune concerning a fight between Dick the Bruiser and Angelo Poffo is signed ‘Mark Kayfabe,’ a name presumably made up from mark ‘the victim of a con’ and kayfabe.”

          Like words and word play? Check out this page at Webster’s dictionary: https://www.merriam-webster.com/wordplay/new-words-in-the-dictionary

You’ll enjoy it. As Webster says, TTYL — Talk to you later.

Enjoy hardcover mysteries? LATE FOR HIS OWN FUNERAL, my seventh Angela Richman, death investigator mystery is on sale at Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0727850296/ref=ox_sc_saved_image_2?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&psc=1

 

 

 

 

Lost Words

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By Elaine Viets

I needed everyday phrases for a project partly set in the early 20th century. Old words and phrases are clues to how people thought more than a hundred years ago.  Conversation was more formal and swear words were rare. Here are a few lost words I found:

Tickled pink: My Aunt Tillie, who was as cute as her name, was “tickled pink to attend a party,” or hear about a wedding, a birth, or any other good news.

Puzzle bones and sauerkraut: My grandfather’s favorite meal: pork neck bones with boiled sauerkraut.

You drive like Barney Oldfield: In other words, really fast. More than a hundred years ago, pioneer race car driver Oldfield set a number of speed records, including the world speed record for driving 131.724 mph at Dayton Beach, Florida.

He’s a (real) daisy: A deadly insult men used to insult one another. Calling a man a daisy meant he was anything from a jerk to a prize scumbag – or worse. Women were never daisies, just Daisies.

Mutton dressed as lamb: An older woman dressed like a much younger one. A form of age-shaming.

Elbow grease: What you use when you clean vigorously. As in, “Plain old elbow grease will get rid of that ring around your bathtub.”

Frog strangler: A heavy rain.

Three sheets to the wind: Really drunk. As in, “He came home from the bar three sheets to the wind.”

Wound up like a clock: Overexcited. Before digital clocks and sugar highs, children who were running around inside the house and shrieking were “wound up like a clock.” This usually meant it was naptime.

Grass widow: A divorced woman. Divorced men can be grass widowers, but that phrase didn’t seem to be used as often.

Tinker’s dam: Mom wasn’t big on swearing, so she’d say, “I don’t give a tinker’s dam.” Mom thought she was avoiding the other D-word, but that may not be true. The Phrase Finder says, “There’s some debate over whether this phrase should be ‘tinker’s dam’– a small dam to hold solder, used by tinkers when mending pans, or ‘tinker’s damn’ — a tinker’s curse, considered of little significance because tinkers were reputed to swear habitually.”

      Some experts sided with Mom. They said a tinker’s dam was a socially acceptable way to curse. But others dug out a sentence from John Mactaggart’s The Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia, from 1824, which said, “A tinker’s curse she did na care what she did think or say.”

The Phrase Finder says, “In the Grant County Herald, Wisconsin, 1854, we have: ‘There never was a book gotten up by authority and State pay, that was worth a tinker’s cuss.’

“So, we can forget about plumbing,” Phrase Finder concludes. “The earlier phrase simply migrated the short distance from ‘curse’ to ‘damn’ to give us the proper spelling of the phrase – tinker’s damn.”

Damn straight.

Six ax handles wide: Body shaming was big in the old days, too. A hefty woman was described as “six ax handles wide.”

Farting like a brewery horse: A condition presumably caused by the horses’ rich diet. Not sure that this phrase is entirely forgotten. Bud Light made the following commercial, where a girl’s hair is set on fire by a gas-passing sleigh horse. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBU-lWs6Cn0

More brass than a government mule: One of my grandmother’s favorite phrases, to describe someone who is outrageously bold. As in, “He had no business being there, but that man has more brass than a government mule. He marched right in.”

         I have no idea where Grandma got that phrase. I’m pretty sure she never listened to the southern rock band, Gov’t Mule. Or heard legendary wrestling commentator Jim Ross say someone was “being beat like a government mule.”

So where does that phrase come from?

Beats me.

Readers, what are your favorite lost words?