Category Archives: Writing

Did Vincent Van Gogh Really Commit Suicide?

Posted on by
18

Dutch Post-Impressionism master Vincent Van Gogh was a phenomenal force who helped shape modern art culture. His influence ranks with Shakespeare in literature, Freud in psychology, and The Beatles in music. Van Gogh was also plagued with mental illness, suffered from depression, and was tormented by psychotic episodes.

Conventional history records that Van Gogh died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 1890 at the age of 37. However, an independent and objective look at the case facts arrives at an entirely different conclusion—Vincent Van Gogh was actually shot by someone else, and it was deliberately covered up.

This isn’t to say that Van Gogh was murdered as in an intentional homicide case. As a former police investigator and coroner, I’m well familiar with death classifications. The civilized world has long used a universal death classification system with five categories. They are natural death, accidental death, death caused by wrongful actions by another human being which is a homicide ruling, self-caused death or suicide, and an undetermined death classification when the facts cannot be slotted into one conclusive spot.

I’m also familiar with gunshot wounds. Understanding how Vincent Van Gogh’s fatal wound happened is the key to determining if he intentionally shot himself, if he accidentally caused his own death, or if someone else pulled the trigger which killed Van Gogh. Before analyzing what’s known about the Van Gogh case facts, let’s take a quick look at who this truly remarkable man really was.

Vincent Willem Van Gogh was born in 1853 and died on July 29, 1890. During Van Gogh’s life, he produced over 2,000 paintings, drawings, and sketches. He completed most of these in his later years and was in his most-prolific phase when he suddenly died.

Van Gogh didn’t achieve fame or fortune during his life. He passed practically penniless. It was after death when the world discovered his genius and assessed his works of bright colors, bold strokes, and deep insight as some of the finest works ever to appear on the art scene. Today, an original Van Gogh is worth millions—some probably priceless.

Vincent Van Gogh achieved artistic saint status. It’s not just Van Gogh’s unbounded talent that supported his greatness. It’s also the mystique of the man and the martyrdom mushrooming from his untimely death that robbed the world of an artist—a starving artist and a man who lived on the fine line between genius and nut.

Most people know some of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. Wheatfield With Crows may have been his last painting. Café Terrace At Night, The Potato Eaters, Irises, Bedroom In Arles, The Olive Trees, and Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers are extraordinarily famous. So is The Starry Night. (I happen to have a hand-painted oil reproduction of Starry Night right on the wall in front of me as I write this, and my daughter has Café de Nuit hanging in her home.)

Most people know the story of Vincent Van Gogh’s ear. It’s a true story, but the truth is he only cut part of his left ear off with a razor during a difficult episode with his on-again, off-again relationship with painter Paul Gauguin. The story goes on to say that Van Gogh gave the piece of his ear to a brothel lady, then he bandaged himself up and painted one of many self-portraits. I just looked at this portrait (Google makes Dutch Master shopping easy) and was struck by the image of his right side being bandaged. Then I realized Van Gogh painted selfies by looking in a mirror.

And most people know something about Vincent Van Gogh’s time in asylums. This is true, too, and he spent a good while of 1889 in Saint-Remy where he stared down on the town and painted The Starry Night from later memory. The celestial positions are uncannily accurate.

In late 1889, Van Gogh moved to a rooming house in Auvers-sur-Oise near Paris. His painting production went into overdrive, and he was at the peak of his game. On July 27, 1890, Van Gogh left his room with his paints, canvas, and easel. He returned empty-handed with a bullet in his belly.

Vincent Van Gogh’s spirit left this world at 1:30 a.m. on July 29. He passed without medical intervention at his bed, and the medical cause was, most likely, exsanguination or internal bleeding. There was no autopsy, and Van Gogh was buried in a nearby churchyard the next day.

There are various ambiguous statements purported from Van Gogh. He did not admit to shooting himself or intentionally attempting to commit suicide. However, the record indicates he didn’t deny it. The record can also be interpreted that he covered up for someone else.

What is fairly clear is the description of Vincent Van Gogh’s gunshot wound. There are conflicting locations, (chest, stomach, abdomen), but this is explainable from Dutch/French to English translations. It’s highly probable that one bullet entered the left side of Van Gogh’s mid-section and traversed his intestines in a left-to-right direction. There was no exit wound and no serious spinal damage as Van Gogh had walked home from the shooting scene, up the stairs, and to his room where he expired a day and a half later.

There was no firearm found and absolutely no history of Vincent Van Gogh ever owning or operating a gun. He was a painter. Not a hunter or soldier. (Note: There was a rusted revolver found in an Auver field in 1960 which was said to be the weapon. There is no proof that it was.)

There was no suicide note or any deathbed confession. Aside from being an artist, Van Gogh was a prolific writer who documented many thoughts as he progressed from mental sickness to physical health. In late July of 1890, Van Gogh’s writings showed him to be optimistic and with plans to paint as much as possible before an anticipated period of blackness returned. Two days before his death, Van Gogh placed a large art supply order.

Suicide, in Van Gogh’s case, wasn’t surfaced in the early years after his death. There were murmurs among the villagers that “some young boys may have accidentally shot” Van Gogh as he went about his work in a nearby field. There was no coroner’s inquiry or inquest, but there is documentation of a gendarme questioning Van Gogh if he intentionally shot himself to which Van Gogh allegedly replied, “I don’t know.”

The first strong suicide suggestion came in 1956 with Irving Stone’s novel and movie Lust For Life. It was a documentary that took liberty with Van Gogh’s life and times. It concluded Van Gogh was a troubled soul—a beautiful soul—who ended his life intentionally. The book and movie were bestselling blockbusters and cemented the suicide seed to an adorning public.

It became ingrained in lore and public acceptance that Vincent Van Gogh was a desponded psychotic who suddenly up and killed himself rather than continue a tormented existence of interpreting beauty in nature and people. It was the gospel, according to Van Gogh historians, who were comfortable with a suspicious explanation.

Other people weren’t. In 2011, two researchers took a good and hard look into Van Gogh’s life and death. They had full access to the Van Gogh Museum’s archives in Amsterdam and spent enormous time reviewing original material. They found a few things.

One was a 1957 interview with Rene Secretan who knew Van Gogh well. Secretan admitted to being one of the boys spoken about by the villagers who were involved in Van Gogh’s shooting. Rene Secretan, sixteen years old in 1890, told the interviewer he wanted to set the distorted record straight that was misrepresented in the book and movie.

The interview documents Rene Secretan as saying the handgun that shot Van Gogh was his, and that it was prone to accidentally misfiring. Secretan self-servingly denied being present when the accidental shooting happened, claiming he was back in Paris and not at his family’s summer home in Auvers. Secretan failed to identify those directly involved or exactly what circumstances unfolded.

The researchers, Pulitzer Prize winners Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith who co-wrote Van Gogh: The Life, found corroborating statements placing Van Gogh near the Secretan villa on the afternoon of the shooting. They also sourced a leading expert on firearms and gunshot wounds who refuted any chance of Van Gogh being able to discharge a firearm with his own hands that could have caused the wound in its documented location.

Dr. Vincent Di Maio (a 2012 key witness in the Florida trial of George Zimmerman who shot African-American youth Trayvon Martin in a neighborhood watch altercation) concluded that Van Gogh, who was right-handed, could not possibly have held a firearm as it had to be; therefore the shot had to have been fired by another party. Dr. Di Maio also commented on the lack of reported gunshot residue on Van Gogh’s hands and clothes. In 1890, most cartridges contained black powder which was filthy stuff when burned at close range.

Researchers Naifeh and Smith also took a deep dive into what they could find on Rene Secretan’s background. They painted him as a big kid—a thug and a bully who was well known to have picked on wimpy Van Gogh throughout the month of July 1890. Secretan came from a wealthy Paris family who summered at Auvers with their second home within walking distance of Van Gogh’s rooming house.

According to the researchers of Van Gogh: The Life, Rene Secretan had seen the Buffalo Bill Wild West show in Paris, and Secretan fancied himself as a cowboy character. Secretan fashioned a costume to go with his cocky role of a western gunfighter, and he acquired a revolver that was prone to malfunction. They documented incidents where Secretan would mock Van Gogh as he painted, play pranks on him, and supply alcohol to Van Gogh who couldn’t afford it.

It was during a mocking spat, the researchers surmise, that somehow Secretan’s revolver went off and struck Van Gogh in the abdomen. According to the theory, the boys fled, disposed of the weapon, and formed a pact of silence. If this was true, the question arises of why didn’t Vincent Van Gogh report the truth, and why has the suicide conclusion remained steadfast.

Naifeh and Smith address this in their book with this quote: When all this (accidental shooting theory) began to emerge from our research, a curator at the Van Gogh Museum predicted the fate that would befall such a blasphemy on the Van Gogh gospel. “I think it would be like Vincent to protect the boys and take the ‘accident’ as an unexpected way out of his burdened life,” he agreed in an e-mail. “But I think the biggest problem you’ll find after publishing your theory is that the suicide is more or less printed in the brains of past and present generations and has become a sort of self-evident truth. Vincent’s suicide has become the grand finale of the story of the martyr for art, it’s his crown of thorns.”

As an experienced cop and a coroner, I think Naifeh and Smith are on to something. There are two huge problems with a suicide conclusion in classifying Vincent Van Gogh’s death. One is the lack of an immediate suicide threat. The other is the gunshot nature.

I’ve probably seen fifty or more gunshot suicides. All but one were self-inflicted wounds to the head. The exception was a single case where a shotgun was placed against the chest and the pellets blew apart the heart. I have never seen a suicide where the decedent shot themselves in the gut, and I’ve never heard of one.

Vincent Van Gogh didn’t leave a suicide note. He made no immediate suicide threats and, by all accounts, things were going well for the struggling artist. It makes no sense at all that Van Gogh would head out for a summer’s day, begin to paint, produce a gun from nowhere, shoot himself in the stomach from the most inconceivable position, then make it home—wounded—without finishing himself off with a second shot.

If I were the coroner ruling on Vincent Van Gogh’s death, I’d readily concur the cause of death was slow exsanguination resulting from a single gunshot wound to the abdomen. I’d have a harder time with the classification. Here, I’d have to use a process of elimination from the five categories—natural, homicide, accidental, suicide, or undetermined.

There is no possibility Van Gogh died of natural causes. He was shot, and that is clear. Was he murdered or otherwise shot intentionally? There is no evidence to support an intentional homicide classification. Did the firearm go off accidentally? It certainly could have, and there is information to support that theory but not prove it.

Suicide? Not convincing. The available evidence does not meet the Beckon Test where coroners must establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the decedent intentionally took their own life. If the death circumstances do not fulfill the requirements of the Beckon Test, then a coroner is not entitled to register a suicide classification.

This only leaves undetermined. Coroners hate closing a file with an undetermined classification. It’s like they failed in their investigation.

Unfortunately, in Vincent Van Gogh’s case—from the facts as best as are known—there’s no other conclusion than officially rule “Undetermined”.

I’m no longer a coroner, though, so I’ll stick out my neck.

On the balance of probabilities, I find Vincent Van Gogh was accidentally shot, then sadly died from this unintended and terrible tragedy.

——–

Kill Zoners – Does this theory of Vincent Van Gogh’s death circumstances make sense to you? Have you heard it before? And are you a VVG artwork fan – do his creations speak to you?

A Tale of Two Worlds

Posted on by
18

By John Gilstrap

A few months ago, I was asked and agreed to participate in a first of its kind literary event at the Berkeley County-Martinsburg Public Library here in my new West Virginia hometown. It would be a meet-n-greet, book signing supported by Four Seasons Books in Shepherdstown, WV. A few weeks later, the organizers reached out again and asked if I would mind if a second author joined the event. Magnanimous fellow that I try to be, I agreed right away, then asked for the other author’s name and genre. I had never heard of the name, probably because the genre was romance.

Well, that would be different, wouldn’t it? I’d never done a panel that mashed up romance and thrillers. I even agreed to promote the event on my radio show and put it out on my Facebook feed as the time approached.

About two weeks out, the organizers sent an email about how to get tickets for this event.

Wait. What? Tickets? In advance? They were free, but they were required to get through the door. This was new to me, and I’ve been doing this stuff for a long time. When I clicked on the link to the tickets and discovered that the event was already sold out, I said to myself, “Self, you should have taken this romance writer you’ve never heard of more seriously.”

Not that anything would have changed.

It turns out that Jennifer L. Armentrout, a delightful, fabulously successful #1 New York Times bestselling author does not write romance. She writes . . . wait for it . . . young adult paranormal sci-fi romance. And she lives about eight miles from me. A bit of a recluse, I believe her when she says she has not taken a vacation or even a weekend off in over 10 years. That’s how she’s been able to churn out 60 books in that period of time. But she’s wildly active on social media, so when she announced that her fans could meet her in Martinsburg . . .

The event.

When I arrived at the library and was ushered to the second floor to the green room, I still didn’t get it. Worse, I didn’t think the library got it. They’d cleared out the entire space–bookshelves and everything–and set up hundreds of chairs. Who the hell was going to fill them?

The the human spigot opened. At 1:50, ten minutes before the event was to start, people started flowing up the stairs, each of them sporting a yellow wrist band that proved they’d been ticketed. Nearly all carried books, many carried bags of books. None of the books bore one of my covers. I have never seen such a rainbow of different hair colors, or variety of facial piercings and tattoos. I put the median age at twenty-three–twenty-five, max.

The discussion.

Once everyone was seated, the moderator introduced Jennifer and me, and we took our places behind the long table next to the display of our books. The light hearted banter we’d developed in the green room transferred well onto the stage and the audience laughed a lot, so a good time was had by all.

For me, though, there was one truly sobering moment–the one that demonstrated just what a dinosaur I am in this business. The question was something like, “Tell us how you sold your first book. How did you find your agent, you know how did all of that work?”

Jennifer answered first. The only part I remember is, “I sold my first book in 2012, and I . . .” From there, she ground through social media/computer-speak that clearly made perfect sense to the audience but meant nothing to me. She talked about promotional sites I’d never heard of and something really big on TikTok. The whole time she was speaking, my brain was screaming, oh, shit, I’m next!

When it was my turn, I played the truth for a laugh. In 1994, after I finished marking up the pages of a book called Writer’s Digest Guide to Literary Agents, I sent my query letter and self-addressed stamped envelope . . .

It’s an entirely different world now.

The signing.

I’ve signed next to Lee Child and Mary Higgins Clark. I have never seen fans as passionate as the ones who stood in line for three hours to have their books signed by Jennifer L. Armentrout. One fan had driven overnight from Buffalo to be there, and another had taken a train from Connecticut. At least two fans were so overwhelmed that they cried.

I’m happy to say that I sold and signed a dozen or so books, too, but to be honest, they felt like sympathy sales. As much as I tried not to look sad and lonely as I was largely ignored, maybe I didn’t quite pull it off.

Lessons learned.

First, I learned that there’s a genre called young adult paranormal sci-fi romance.

More importantly, I experienced my first vivid, first-person demonstration of the power of social media to spread word of an event. Unfortunately, I think there’s a generational component to those particular social media outlets. I could be wrong, but I don’t see TikTok as a destination for the average Jonathan Grave fan.

Is It Time To Retire
The Defective Detective?

Posted on by
24
https://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/calvin_as_tracer_bullet.jpg

Credit: From the site TVtropes.org

“The rain was comin’ down like all the angels in heaven decided to take a piss at the same time. When you’re in a situation like mine, you can only think in metaphors.” — Dick Justice, Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne

By PJ Parrish

Maybe I’m just hanging around the wrong people these days.

I’ve been lucky to have some free time this month so am reading for pleasure. But have started and put aside four books. It didn’t dawn on me until this week why: The protagonists are all hot messes. Maybe it’s because I see enough losers in real life that my patience with fictional ones has snapped its last thread. Coupled with the fact that every character on TV seems damaged, deranged or just too ditzy to live.

Now, we all love a flawed protagonist. Their personal journey is a parallel track that runs along side the main murder plot and creates interest and empathy. But man, does everyone have to be addicted, divorced, friendless, childless, and beset with demons from their screwed up childhoods? Do we really need another detective whose only steady relationships are with Cutty Sark and John Coltrane?

I really wish I could name names here because I hit some passages that are really worth quoting to make my point. And none of these books are old noir. Each is of recent vintage and a couple are big-name writers.

This all dovetailed with a recent Facebook post by my writer-friend and Shamus winner Rick Helms. He’s on a cruise with lots of time to read, but he, like me, has lost patience. To quote:

[I’m] relaxing with a generally well-written private eye novel by a writer new to me. Like many PI novels these days the protagonist is almost painfully damaged. Whether it’s alcohol, drugs, gambling, or just plain paralyzing depression or grief, a large segment of the mystery writing community frequently writes broken protags. Some of these characters have been very critically successful. I have sort of a different take. I tend to regard emotionally damaged protags as a bit of a crutch.

Sure, I’ve written them…[my PI] Pat Gallegher is a gambling addict dragging half a century of failure behind him like a Dickens ghost. My small town police chief Judd Wheeler has PTSD and panic attacks. My forensic psychologist Ben Long presents with a dramatically exaggerated version of my own high-functioning autism. In each case, however, they are coping adequately with their difficulties. While they may experience distress, they don’t wallow in it. None of them wakes up hung over to a living room strewn with pizza boxes and beer bottles and days of dishes piled in the sink (the universal literary language for desperation and giving up). They are managing well despite their problems. Their personal tragedies impact their lives, but they aren’t the story itself. 

Rick goes on to say he’s old enough to remember reading the lastest new releases by Ross Macdonald and his own work is influenced by Chandler, Robert B. Parker, Brett Halliday, and the like. He, like me, has a special love of Macdonald. To quote:

Lew Archer TOLD the stories of his investigations. He never WAS the story. The pathos and distress in his stories were always portrayed by the people he interviewed in the course of his investigations. He regards a murder victim or an oil spill in Santa Barbara with the same dispassionate observations as he might describe a businessman’s special baseball game. Archer is an observer of tragedy, seldom reacting to it with more than average empathy. He cares, but he doesn’t lose himself in his investigation. In the end, he walks away with little observable growth or change in his basic character, because he was never broken in the first place. The story was never about him. It was about solving the case.

He also cites Parker’s Spenser as a relatively mentally healthy and confident guy doing a tough job while maintaining a long-term relationship. He cares about people, but — with the possible exception of when Ruger nearly killed him in Small Vices — he rarely allows his own personal condition to do much more than put a hitch in his giddy-up.

Likewise, as Rick points out, “We know little of Phillip Marlowe’s inner emotions and mental functioning. We know his opinions, because Chandler was full of them, mostly of the sardonic variety. But nobody would refer to Marlowe as damaged.”

When did the shift to a protag’s personal journey begin? I’m not well-read in the old stuff to even guess. But I do know I’m weary of the dreary dick. Is it time to call them out as the tired cliches they are?

Okay,  we have to stop and back up. Time for definitions. I love definitions. They bring clarity to fuzzy topics like this. Is a cliche the same thing as a trope? Or is the latter just an uppity word for the former? Lemme give it a go:

Cliche: Using certain phrases, expressions, devices, or archetypes that have been used so much they lose freshness. Maybe they were once intriguing, but when readers see something too often, they become desensitized, and the idea no longer carries the currency it once had. Examples: the naive female rookie patronized by boss and colleagues. (Tyne Daly, playing clean Kate to Eastwood’s dirty Harry?) The slimy defense lawyer. The good-cop-bad-cop. The crabby lieutenant who suspends a rogue underling.  The PI who gets the crap beat out of him but jumps out of bed the next morning all dishy and doodle. Add your own to the list…

Trope: A familiar character type, plot point, setting, or writing style that has become instantly recognizable to readers. Very common in genre novels and when done well, every effective. Examples: In the romance, “enemies to lovers” trope (lifted from Jane Austen). The lone gunslinger and embattled sheriff. (Come back, Shane!)

Most folks conflate cliches and tropes but they are distinctly different. Tropes can be good things, helping a character to come across as an old friend or making classic situations feel fresh again (think Romeo and Juliet transformed into West Side Story.)

Time for some Joseph Campbell here. In his The Hero With a Thousand Faces, he drew upon works by psychoanalyst Carl Jung to develop recognizable literary archetypes. According to Campbell, everyone from Homer’s Odysseus to Neo in The Matrix is living out the same epic story. George Lucas credits Campbell for the Star Wars trilogy, using the King Authur trope to create boy-king Luke Skywalker, who gets a magic sword, is guided by an old mentor, and storms a castle to save a princess.

One of my favorite tropes is Austen’s Mr. Darcy. He’s handsome, mysterious, sexy. I loved how Helen Fielding used him in Bridget Jones’s Diary: “It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It’s like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting ‘Cathy’ and banging your head against a tree.”

Let’s face it, crime fiction is at its heart tropian. We rely on situations (crimes, usually murder), archetypes (loner cop holding out for justice) and even some “rules,” which of course can be broken.

But how do you honor the great traditions of our genre without being banal? How do you cleave to such a well-worn path and still give your readers some new vistas? How do you utilize trope and not slide downhill into cliche?

Our dilemma is that a story has to feel new and yet be familiar enough to be recognized as part of the genre. Writers often want to pay homage to their favorites from the past, but characters have to distinguish themselves in their own present or they petify into stereotypes. In the early books, Spenser seemed a Marlowe knockoff, but Parker quickly made him into his own man.

Years ago, I got into a lengthy blog discussion on this subject with a bunch of crime writers. Luckily, I kept this quote from Brian Lindenmuth: “the PI novel is the haiku of the mystery genre; there may be only 17 syllables but in the right hands those syllables will sing. There is the potential for a lot of power in that framework.”

I liken crime writing to classical ballet. There are only five positions for the feet and arms in ballet. But within that strict framework, anything is possible, from swoony-romanticism of Swan Lake to George Balanchine’s Stravinsky-twitchy Agon.

The trick, if it can be simplified as such, is that you have to take our beloved tropes and turn them into your own, like Fielding did with Emma and Bridget Jones. A while back, I contributed a short story to an anthology whose theme was honoring the PI tradition. Being on a John D. McDonald binge back then, I decided to create a female McGee whose business card read: Mavis Magritte, Salvage Consultant, Slip C12, Duncan Clinch Marina, Traverse City, Michigan. I had a ball writing that thing. Mavis has to prove her best friend Eunice Meijer didn’t kill her creepy lover Dirk. And yes, they drink gin.

Trope on, crime dogs. In the meantime, take some inspiration from the pas de deux from Balanchine’s Agon.

 

Here What I’m Saying?

Posted on by
28

I’m typing this slowly today, but a hard deadline looms and despite the vertigo threatening to wash me off this desk like a rogue wave/waive, I’ll try to make sense/cents through all the fuzziness in my frontal lobes. I feel unanchored and today’s blog post tends to drift as well. If you’ve never experienced this malady, let me explain. A single snowflake would look like a blizzard the way my head is spinning.

But to use a stolen line, I shall endeavor to persevere.

Rev, don’t move your head too fast, and keep it still. At least you aren’t leaning over the porcelain throne like the first time in Key West with the Gilstraps…and it wasn’t the gin or wine/whine then, either. Quit wandering around and focus, Spin Boy! 

All right. Debbie Burke’s fun post on A Pair of Pants several days ago brought to mind something that’s been bothering me for a good long while/wile. I guess I shouldn’t let the little things irritate me, but trying to lie/lye still all day yesterday, I found my fuzzy mind wandering, especially after looking at Facebook for a couple of minutes when the world settled down for a moment. This came to me.

I’m afeared the English language all us writers cherish is slowly deteriorating, and it might/mite due to social media.

Authors can use a number of platforms to promote their/there/they’re work, but I’m of the age to embrace only a couple. Facebook works best for me. (I’d always said I’d never have an FB account and avoided it for years until my first book was published. I knew so little about it, I once called it MyFace.) I eventually learned to link it to Instagram, figuring two/too/to birds were better than one.

So that’s where I settled, and I’m dismayed by all the abbreviations and the posters’ inability to use the correct words in a sentence or idea, let alone punctuation. Good lord, we all took English in school, and someone please tell me, did half the population of this country sleep through that class!!!???

Sentence structure aside, it’s/its/its’ the wrong words people select that drives me nuts. I suspect those folks don’t know/no the meaning of the word homophone. I’m not trying to be mean here, but I’m seeing more and more of those same issues arise in novels, whether/weather they’re self or traditionally published. I ask, “where were the copy editors!!!???

Biting down the rising nausea in/inn my office that refuses to be still, let’s get back to the classroom. A homophone is each of two/to/too or more words having the same pronunciation but different meanings, origins, or spelling.

Yep, these words can cause confusion when we use them in error and most word programs should catch the issue, but then again…

For the past few years, I’ve judged professional writing contests and the problem seems/seams to be getting worse. The wrong words with innocent intent are getting through. Here are just a handful I’ve seen in recent weeks, especially on social media and in other places, and in no particular order…wait, urk.

Getting back from the water closet and feeling like a freshman college student on their/they’re/there first night in the dorm, let’s/lets continue with our homophones.

Shear/Sheer

Sale/Sail

Sight/Cite

Bare/Bear

Peel/Peal

Whole/Hole

Roll/Role

Tale/Tail

Waste/Waist

Weather/Whether

Cell/Sell

Four/For

Break/Brake

Die/Dye

Heel/Heal

Creek/Creak

Idle/Idol

Knot/Not

Wright/Right

Sole/Soul

Accept/Except

Affect/Effect

Immigrant/Emigrant

Deer/Dear

Pear/Pair

Whole/Hole

Knew/New

Stationary/Stationery

Flower/Flour

Style/Stile

Know/No

Right/Write

Pane/Pain

Way/Weigh

Sweet/Suite

And of course, There/Their/They’re

Most of these came from Facebook posts I’ve collected over the past several months. Speaking of that platform, when I first became an FB user, I had the noble/nobel idea that it was a new version of the front porch on an old general store where people would/wood sit exchange positive ideas, stories, and information. Instead, it’s become a wasteland of manipulated videos, trolls who incite/insight fright or anger, and political antagonism promoted by those who hide behind an electronic wall and spew anything they want without fear of real/reel repercussion. If any of that had happened in front of a store when I was a kid, someone would‘ve gotten their nose busted and for good reason.

But back to what I was saying, this particular issue with the English language can be traced back to the way vowels were pronounced between the 14th and 18th centuries as individuals were more and more influenced by the introduction of other languages by migrants who moved to England after the Black Death.

Or/oar it might have come from what are known as “French loan words” (where the introduction of these words forced a change in the way English was pronounced). Another suggestion is that as the French language made/maid its way into everyday use during the war with France, general anti-French sentiments caused the middle class to deliberately make English sound less like the French.

Pronunciation is another key, and it’s hard to get specific vocalizations into what we write/right. It originates, I suspect, with our ancestors and region. For example, my former secretary from New Jersey and I often argued over the pronunciation of pen vs. pin. Each time I’d ask for a pen, she’d bring me a needle or map pin just for meanness. Here in Texas, the words are distinguishable only by spelling.

Take the word “here” for example. In Texas, we make it two syllables, whereas country music stars Dolly Parton and Dwight Yoakum have a unique Appalachian pronunciation that’s hard to duplicate unless you’re from that part of the nation. It’s an Old English soft sound produced at the back of the throat and can only be written as “hyer,” but not spoken as harsh as the spelling would dictate. In fact, I prefer their version, and though I’m a fairly good mimic, I can’t get that one down.

I believe those from the Ohio Valley pronounce “hear” with two syllables the way we do down hyer in Texas.

Trying to steer back to my original discussion in this mental tempest, no matter the origin, I suspect there are hundreds of other homophones I haven’t thought about. I bet you have your own to add, along with stories that tweak your Irritation Nerve.

And with that, I hope others find some value here in my version of English 101.

Everyone shout in agreement, here here! Which is what I thought people we saying back when I was in elementary school, (supposedly to authenticate our presence, I suppose). but then again, I soon found that the “dawnzer-lee light” was actually “dawn’s early light” in the Star-Spangled Banner, (it made sense since we pronounced “window-light” for a window pane) but I digress…and the spins are getting worse.

Our Secret Language

Posted on by

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

Let’s Go To New Zealand

Posted on by

Let’s Go To New Zealand
Terry Odell

First, a huge thanks to Kathleen Donnelly and James L’Etoile for filling in during my absence. Loved your posts.

I was going to jump back with a writing-related post, but let’s be honest. We get those all the time here at TKZ, but how many firsthand posts about a 3 week trip to New Zealand are in the archives?

(Also being honest – I haven’t gotten back to the wip. I printed out the first 25 chapter, which is as much as I’d written before I left, and read them on the rare occasions we had free time, and did my markups. They’re still in the envelope I packed them in.) Another “almost writing” thing? I actually remembered to keep a journal this time, although I have no intention of writing a book based on this trip. And, another moment of honesty—most of my notes were ‘travelogue’ and not the sorts of things I’d use in a novel if I’d planned to write one. Not to mention my longhand has degenerated to the point of bordering on unreadable.

So – New Zealand was a definite bucket list trip. The only improvement would have been to have Scotty beam me to Auckland and then back at the end of the trip. More details here and here.

map of New Zealand with a tour route markedWe covered almost the entire country, as you can see by the map. The tour lasted 18 days. We also arrived a couple of days prior to our tour to allow for potential delays and to get over jet lag. (There’s a 19 hour plus a day time difference between Auckland and Colorado on the way out. We get that day back on the return trip.)

For me, I’d say one of the things I’d want to remember wasn’t so much the experiences, amazing as they were, as it was the education. It was heartening to go to a museum and see group after group of schoolkids with their interest and enthusiasm about the exhibits, all of which were extremely well done. They’re the future.

We were on an organized tour, and didn’t spend a lot of time at any destination, but we covered a lot of destinations. Not just end-of-the-day, here’s your hotel, but numerous stops along the way. Sometimes just for photos—and the scenery was stunning—and sometimes for tours.

Want to follow along? I’ll give you a minute to grab a map or its digital equivalent.

We started in Auckland, but set out for Paihia and the Bay of Islands the next morning. En route, we stopped at Glow Worm Caves and the Waitangi Treaty House where we had our first introduction to the Maori culture and history. (Not my favorite subject in school, and definitely never had classes that touched on the Maori).

Maori Treaty House

Learning about the Maori culture and seeing the efforts being made to keep it alive—and/or recover it—was another positive. Because—going back to something I learned in my college anthropology class—when two cultures collide, the one with the higher technology will overtake the other. Guess who lost out when the white man showed up? That’s pretty much a universal truth.

The Bay of Islands would be a must-see place in the North Island, especially if you can cruise through the “Hole in the Rock”, which we did. We also spent a little time at Otehei Bay on Urupukapuka Island, and some time exploring the town of Russell. (You finding all these locations? How’s your Maori?)
(Clicking should enlarge images.)

We had a fun ride on the Glenbrook Vintage Railway, run by volunteers in period dress, and offering a light tea service. From there, by coach to Rotorua with a stop at the Hamilton Gardens.

Rotorua is another “must” stop, although a bit odiferous from all the sulfur. We walked through a redwood forest, stopped at the Blue and Green Lakes (although the lighting wasn’t conducive to the markedly different colors between the two.

The Te Puia center was a “don’t miss.” A kiwi breeding center, geysers, bubbling mud, a fantastic buffet dinner and Maori entertainment. All well done, but the bottom line is this is a school where they’re trying to keep the Maori arts alive. Students are vetted, and they take very few each year.

The next day was spent in travel. We took the Northern Explorer train from Hamilton to Wellington, which was our southernmost stop in the North Island. There are a lot of sheep and cows in New Zealand. And green. Everything is so green. Ferns everywhere, many the size of trees.

For our final day on the North Island, we took a gondola that rose a whopping 120 meters. (For someone who lives at 9100 feet, this was barely a hill), but at the top, we enjoyed a view of Wellington and roamed the Wellington Botanic Gardens, followed later that day with a guided tour of the Museum of New Zealand, Te Papa Tongarewa. Another educational and interesting experience, with more exhibits focusing on the historic culture and how it can coexist with the current day. Artists created their “updated” version of a meeting house.

That’s it for the North Island. If there’s interest, I can report on our South Island adventures another time.

Okay, a little about writing so I don’t feel too guilty. Although I’m not planning a novel set in New Zealand, the people on the tour provided lots of character fodder for other books. The woman whose cackle would put Phyllis Diller’s to shame. Her husband called her his locator beacon. Or the woman who kept “losing” her husband. “Has anyone seen Tim? Where are you, Timbo?”

Then there was the woman who was severely visually impaired, yet who, with the help of her husband—and everyone else in the group—did and saw everything. I felt it was inappropriate to ask what her specific conditions were—she had other physical issues, but she took pictures with her phone, and said she enjoyed the views, and she talked about many other trips she and her husband had taken.

Or the Brit who refused to try anything new when it came to food, and subsisted on potatoes and “puddings” for much of the trip. The man who was first off the bus, roamed the farthest to take pictures (with his phone), and the last back on. The elderly couple who wore matching clothes and held hands as they walked. Or the one who seemed to wear one of the same two shirts every day, but when I brought it up—obliquely—she said she had four of them.

The floor is yours. Comments? Questions? Personal adventures?

How can he solve crimes if he’s not allowed to investigate?

Gordon Hepler, Mapleton’s Chief of Police, has his hands full. A murder, followed by several assaults. Are they related to the expansion of the community center? Or could it be the upcoming election? Gordon and mayor wannabe Nelson Manning have never seen eye to eye. Gordon’s frustrations build as the crimes cover numerous jurisdictions, effectively tying his hands.
Available for preorder now.

Terry Odell is an award-winning author of Mystery and Romantic Suspense, although she prefers to think of them all as “Mysteries with Relationships.”

A Pair of Pants and Other Mysteries

Posted on by

Photo credit: Marcusstratus CC by NC SA 3.0

by Debbie Burke

 @burke_writer

The English language is full of quirks that are downright puzzling.

Take, for instance, the term a pair of pants.

Okay, a pair of shoes, a pair of glasses, a pair of aces—they all make logical sense. Two related objects make a pair.

But when was the last time you saw someone wearing a single pant?

Where did that weirdness come from?

According to Quora, it originated when people wore pantaloons, which were two separate pieces of clothing, put on one leg at a time. Eventually someone sewed them together, creating a singular garment, but the plural term stuck. The first recorded use of pants was in 1835 as a slang abbreviation for pantaloons.

Britannica says scholarly references don’t back up the sewn-together theory. Instead, they use the term, plurale tantum.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines plurale tantum, which is Latin for “plural only,” as a “noun which is used only in plural form, or which is used only in plural form in a particular sense or senses.” Bifurcated items (things that can be divided into two), such as pants, fall into this category. Think of items that are usually referred to in plural—often preceded by “pair of” or something similar, even when there is only one item: pliers, glasses, scissors, sunglasses, tweezers, etc. So, pants is a type of noun that is used only in its plural form, even when there is only one item being discussed.

 I dunno if I buy the plurale tantum argument. Back in the 1800s, few people could read, let alone comprehend Latin. I tend to believe the sewn-together legend as the more likely origin.

Since TKZ readers and wordsmiths focus on crime writing, let’s look at a couple of plurale tantum examples that are used as weapons.

Photo credit: Wikimedia

 According to Merriam-Webster, a pair of scissors originated from “Vulgar Latin”:

 …caesorium referred to a cutting instrument, and this Latin word was singular—even though the cutting instrument it named had two blades that slid past each other. When the word was borrowed into Middle French, French speakers gave it both a singular form (cisoire) and a plural form (cisoires). The plural didn’t refer to multiple cutting implements, however; it was modeled on the two blades of a single caesorium.

We began calling an individual scissors a pair to emphasize the matched cutting blades. There’s precedent for it. Before we called them scissors, we called them shears, and pair was used with shears for about 100 years before scissors arrived on the scene.

Alfred Hitchcock chose a pair of scissors as the weapon in his 1954 classic, Dial M For Murder.

 

Photo credit: Kandy Talbot CCA by 3.0

 

Another possible weapon is a pair of pliers.

The versatile tool was likely developed in Europe during the Bronze Age to handle and shape hot metal. An early Greek illustration shows the god Hephaestus at a forge using pliers.

Wikipedia says Hephaestus is “the Greek god of artisans, blacksmiths, carpenters, craftsmen, fire, metallurgy, metalworking, sculpture and volcanoes.”

In the 1973 film Charley Varrick, Walter Matthau and cohorts rob a bank that turns out to be a repository for mob money. Mobsters go hunting for Matthau’s gang. In the scene below, a villainous character tries to obtain information from a hapless banker who was in on the heist. The villain threatens torture with “a pair of pliers and a blowtorch.”

Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

 

 

According to the British Film Institute, Charley Varrick influenced director Quentin Tarantino who coopted the line about pliers and a blowtorch for Pulp Fiction (1994), delivered by the menacing Ving Rhames.

Warning: this link contains offensive language.

 

 

 

Digging deeper into pluralia tantum, here are some examples where the singular meaning is different from the plural:

Arm is a limb. Arms are weapons.

Brain is an organ. Brains are intelligence.

Custom is a traditional event. Customs is the government body that collects taxes on imported goods.

Damage is harm done to something. Damages are monetary compensation for harm.

Gut is the bowel. Guts are courage.

Enough linguistics for today. Let’s wrap up with some amusing inconsistencies in the English language.

In school, we learned “I before E except after C, or when sounded like A as in neighbor and weigh.”

Then along comes a smarty pants to turn that rule on its head:

Sign outside bookstore:

I before E…Except when your foreign neighbor Keith receives eight counterfeit beige sleighs from feisty caffeinated weightlifters. Weird. 

~~~

 TKZers: which peculiarity of the English language baffles you the most?

The Art of Darkness

Posted on by

“Creativity – like human life itself – begins in darkness.” –Julia Cameron

* * *

April 8, 2024  The date of the great eclipse when a wide swath of the United States will be darkened as the sun and moon perform a heavenly pas de deux.

Memphis will see only a 98% covering, so my husband and I plan to travel with some friends to Arkansas to experience the full beauty of the show.

This will not be the first time we’ve observed a total eclipse. Way back in 1970, there was a total eclipse in my hometown of Savannah, Ga. I remember the experience well, but not for the reason you may think.

Unfortunately, the day was cloudy, but as the moon moved between the Earth and the sun, the clouds would occasionally break and give us a series of snapshots of the phenomenon. When the moment of totality arrived, the clouds once again opened, and we saw the black disk, then the bright flash of light as the moon moved on to continue its course. But that still wasn’t what astonished me.

It was the darkness.

Standing on the front lawn of my parents’ home, I looked down the street and saw a wall of black shadow racing toward us. It wasn’t like a cloud that covered the sun. It was a dark, menacing presence, rushing forward to devour the light in its path until it overtook us, and suddenly all was night.

Even though we understood what was happening, I had a sense of primordial awe that I have never forgotten.

* * *

Authors of mystery, suspense, and thrillers are well acquainted with darkness. It’s a symbol of the unknown, and that usually means fear, anxiety, loneliness, or panic will grip the main character and get the reader’s heart pumping a little harder.

“All great and beautiful work has come of first gazing without shrinking into the darkness.” –John Ruskin

A character walks out into a black night and senses a presence that he can’t see, or comes face-to-face with his own demons in the dark night of the soul when all appears lost. That heart-stopping look into the abyss rivets the attention and keeps the reader turning pages.

Here are a few examples.

 

* * *

We probably all studied Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven in high school. Fear and doubt consume the poet as he contemplates his own loneliness late at night. Then he hears a sound and thinks it’s a visitor knocking. He opens the door and sees … nothing.

 

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

 

The murky setting on the moors gave Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles a sense of mystery and foreboding. 

“As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. ‘My God, what’s that, Watson?’”

 

A sense of impending doom in Dean Koontz’s Midnight builds as a woman goes for a run on the beach in the middle of the night.

“Suddenly, as she was passing a pair of forty-foot, twisted cypresses that had grown in the middle of the beach, halfway between the hills and the waterline, Janice was sure she was not alone in the night and fog. She saw no movement, and she was unaware of any sound other than her own footsteps, raspy breathing, and thudding heartbeat; only instinct told her that she had company.”

 

Last week Kris introduced us to the Edgar finalists in her post. The first sentence of All the Sinners Bleed by S.A. Cosby hints of a violent past returning to haunt a small town.

“Charon County was founded in bloodshed and darkness.”

* * *

 

So, TKZers, there you have it. The Art of Darkness. How do you represent darkness in your books? Do you have any examples from the works of others that illustrate either physical or metaphorical darkness? Have you ever seen a total eclipse of the sun?

* * *

I don’t know how much access I’ll have to TKZ during the day, but I’ll respond to comments whenever I can.

 

“Character, like a photograph, develops in  darkness.” –Yousuf Karsh

Private pilot Cassie Deakin has a lot of opportunity to develop character while she hunts a killer.

Buy on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Google Play, or Apple Books.

Painting With Words

Posted on by

Kill Zoners — It’s my pleasure and privilege to welcome a great guest to our blog. Ed Hill is a prominent Canadian painter and storyteller. He’s a prolific artist and writer who’s guided me as a life mentor and protected me as a police colleague to which I’m forever grateful. Please welcome Ed Hill to the Kill Zone.

—   —

Garry Rodgers and I have been friends for well over 40 years. When he asked me to submit an article for The Kill Zone, I was well aware my thoughts would be read by any number of accomplished novelists. While I consider myself a writer, particularly within the realm of my discipline of being an artist, I could find writing in such company as this, a bit intimidating.

But I don’t. My writing is about emotion, spirit, energy, and a very direct link to my artistic creations in the form of paintings. As I finish a painting, my work is only truly completed when I “paint” the final bit with words.

You see I’m a painter first, and being a writer is but a part of my artistic expression.  A bit of history will help explain. In the mid 1980’s, in the middle of a 34-year Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) career, my painting journey began. I was taught by an indigenous artist. And as such, much of what I learned was from the indigenous perspective.

It was from those origins that I found the value and reality of writing a story with each painting. A visit to my website www.edhillart.com will show that each image has a story, and that story is as much a part of my painted creation as the painting itself. In fact, whenever I sell a piece of my work, the story is always attached. I tell anyone who owns a piece of my work that unless they know the story of the image, they only have half of my artistic creation.

I suppose a bit of cultural history might be in order here. Within the indigenous culture virtually every painting, sculpture, totem pole, beadwork, or song has a story. Just ask. Within the very natural surroundings that we all live in, the indigenous culture has a story. And so, from the origins of my painting career my indigenous teacher, Roy Henry Vickers, taught by example. Every painting he does is accompanied by a written story.

When I started painting in 1985, I wrote a story with the very first image I created. You’ll find the image of my first painting at my website under the title of “Old Man”. And ever since, every painting I’ve done has a story. Some are emotional. Some are poetic. Some are a protest. And some can even evoke a spiritual connection for the reader.

Old Man by artist Ed Hill

The painting and the very act of creating it dictate what the story will be. Indeed, over the years I’ve written so many stories that they could be compiled and published as book themselves. Some people in fact have told me that they have used my website as a “book” while they’ve taken the time to view the paintings and read the hundreds of stories attached.

As I have taught my painting techniques to many artists over the years, I’ve always touted the value of composing a story to be a part of their painting I’d be generous in saying that perhaps 5% of my students practice that teaching. So many find it hard to express their thoughts and emotions.

As any of you reading this article know, it takes discipline to sit down and write. Not everybody has the commitment, energy, creativity or that unique and special discipline to be a writer. As the old saying goes, “If it was easy, everybody would be doing it.”

As writers, I know you write from experience, but you also create from emotion, from a place of energy and creativity. You write from an inner need to get it out there. When that writer within has a story to tell, your inner muse is always calling to you. And so it is with me as an artist.

When I have a painting in progress, I often tell my wife as we are away from my painting, that I can “hear it calling to me”. And therein lies the story. You see, for me, the story develops and reveals itself as I paint. Seldom do I paint an image with the title and story realized ahead of time. In the many hours of painting, lost in the Zen of creativity, I let my brain wander. I may be painting an image I’ve seen for decades, yet now I have chosen to paint it.

Why?

Why now?

That’s when the story begins to whisper. And as I paint and compose the image, so too the words of my story flood my brain. Hard to explain, the story comes in an inspirational, creative, and even a “spiritual” surge from within. I’m not overstating that. The story comes from the very spot within me that the painting comes from.  It’s a part of my artistic creation. When composing my story, as I write, I paint with a palette of words.

Sometimes the title is evident almost immediately. Other times, only as the paint dries and the words of my story turn into sentences does the title take shape.  And when it does, the title in particular is compelling. It must be.

Titles such as “Get Over It”, or “Covid Blue” are good examples of that. To understand those titles, you have to read the story. And when you read the story, you’ll then refer back to the painting. The energy of that loop is complete.

Covid Blue by artist Ed Hill

Get Over It by artist Ed Hill

The image is the very first contact anyone usually has with my creative expression, but the title is what turns their gaze to the story. And I’ve watched from afar at shows where someone will study my painting, turn to the story, then back to the image with their eyes opened to the very intention and spirit of the painting. And speaking commercially, quite often it’s the story that connects the viewer to the image, and that results in a sale.

Often, I can sit in my home with a coffee and just revisit the many paintings I have hanging on my walls. I’m always taken back as to the “why” of a particular painting. I marvel at the very creation, and many times realize I could never do that painting as well were I to try it again. That painting was a product of a moment in time, a moment charged with circumstance, serendipity, and emotion.

I “use” my paintings a lot for that purpose. I find a soothing comfort in just revisiting them and savouring the colour, composition, light and dark, and very presence of the image itself. But so too, I will read the story attached just as often. Those words painted into the composition of the story have an everlasting energy. It’s an energy that never grows old.

My family have instructions. When and if my time comes to be in a bed someday as I approach the end of my life’s journey, they’re to read to me. They’re to read those stories of emotion, spirituality, and creativity. For those are the touchstones of my life.

I know those words, even if my eyes are closed to the paintings themselves. I know too that those words will resonate with a positive energy that’ll have some meaning and comfort to me. When the lights do inevitably go out, it’s those words that I want to take with me.

I close these thoughts by referring the reader to one of my paintings titled “Forever”. I think the story of “Forever” applies to my written words. And so too to yours. Created with our energy and inspiration—as writers—our words will long outlive all of us. They are FOREVER.

Forever by artist Ed Hill

—   —

Bio — Born in Paris, Ontario in 1948 and later moving to Peterborough, Ed Hill’s journey to becoming a distinguished artist began in earnest after a career in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, which he joined at age 20. His artistic ambitions, which had been a mere dream since his high school days, began to crystallize in the mid-1980s after moving to Tofino, British Columbia, and meeting the renowned artist Roy Henry Vickers.

Under Vickers’ mentorship, Hill honed his skills and developed a distinctive style, producing his first notable work, “Old Man.” His art, deeply inspired by the landscapes of British Columbia, seeks to evoke the profound emotions tied to the region’s natural beauty.

Now retired and living in Gibsons, British Columbia, with his wife Joy, Hill continues to explore and depict the “West Coast” essence, aiming to capture the moments where nature and the observer’s inner world harmoniously align, hoping his viewers anywhere can feel the unique “music” of British Columbia’s landscapes through his work. Visit www.edhillart.com.

—   —

Kill Zoners — Painting with words. How does this resonate with you? Do you “see” your writing as it’s imagined and unfolds? Could you captivate your story in one image as Ed does with his? Let’s discuss, and please share how you paint with words.

A Peek Into the Sausage Grinder

Posted on by

By John Gilstrap

Yesterday’s excellent post by PJ Parrish about the first pages of this year’s nominees for the Edgar Allan Poe Mystery Award brought me back to the year when I served as a judge for best novel of the year. I looked at it an an honor–a rite of passage, of sorts, in the same vein as jury duty. I would set aside hundreds of hours of my life over the coming year as a means of paying tribute other writers, in service to this artform that I love so much.

Of necessity, much of the process is veiled in secrecy. As such, I have no idea if my judging experience bears any resemblance to that of any other review committee. And, to honor commitments I made to keep the process quiet, I won’t just keep titles to myself, but I won’t even mention the year in which I served. (Hint: It was a long time ago.)

We’re talking a lot of books. Every hardcover mystery, thriller, or genre-adjacent book published between January 1 and December 31 of the year under review. The number that I recall is 492, all delivered to the front door. The UPS driver got a very good Christmas bonus that year.

“Best book” is an absolute. This was the first speed bump for me. Best is best, hard stop. The standard is not really, really good, or “Wow, that’s an original take!” Best is “none better.” No silver medals here. It’s daunting.

The books don’t arrive all at once. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. During the first few months of the 12-month submission period, I received books at a rate of a manageable trickle. Easy-peasy. Well over 100 arrived during the month of December, a good number of those squeaking in just under the New Year’s Eve deadline. Bummer for those authors.

Judging is done by committee. As I recall, I was one of 7 judges on the best novel committee that year, each of us representing a different corner of the suspense writing universe–cozies, thrillers, hardboiled, etc. I don’t know if that’s typical, but I though it was a touch of brilliance. We were well wrangled by an under-appreciated and overworked committee chair. I forget the details of how it all worked exactly, but as tranches of books arrived, each of us would provide ranked lists of our favorites (top 10 at first, winnowed to top five toward the end), which often bore little resemblance to each other.

Confirmation bias is real. For me, it boiled down to best being best. Given the numbers involved, if what might have been the greatest book ever written didn’t become interesting before page 20, it surrendered its shot at being absolute best. (Ironically, if that book had been one of the initial submissions in the slow times, it might have had a shot. If it had been submitted in the December tranche, it would have been lucky to have a 10-page fuse.) Other judges refused to consider books written by certain famous names. Hey, judges are people, too.

Production values matter. This one is really an aside, but its an important one. There’s a look and feel to a well-produced book–factors that go above and beyond the quality of the writing itself–that have a big impact on the overall reading experience. Font size, binding, paper quality, and I’m sure a bunch of other qualities I don’t understand make a subliminal difference to a reader. Something for all of us to keep in mind.

It’s all friendly until the end. As I recall, our final submission deadline for nominees was sometime in early February. Seven judges, each reading roughly 500 books, represents 3,500 individual reading experiences. There’ll be disagreements. By this time, though, the obvious non-starters have been eliminated, and we were down to the last 20-30 books that not only were all very good (okay, I didn’t particularly like two of them), and we have to narrow it down to a total of one winner and four runners up. Exactly four, not five. In my year, the winner was the book that was common to each of the judges’ top-five lists, though not necessarily in the top slot. As for the runners up, that’s where the fighting occurred. My top two picks don’t appear anywhere on the final list. I’m confident that other judges can say the same thing.

So what do awards mean in the end?

Having won the Thriller Award for Best Paperback Original in 2016, I can tell you that it means a lot to be recognized by one’s peers. It’s humbling. And I deeply appreciate the honor.

But being involved in the process taught me that “best” does not, in fact, mean “best” because such a standard cannot exist in an arena as subjective as art. What “best” really means is engaging and entertaining enough to rate inclusion on lists that also include other writers whose works I admire and whose talent I envy.

The final takeaway is this: Cliche notwithstanding, the true honor lies in being nominated in the first place.