Bedlam

from Jacqueline

Whenever people ask me about “things to do in London,” they’re often surprised when the first place I suggest is the Imperial War Museum. It’s an amazing place, a museum of social history and phenomenal archive where the experiences of ordinary people in times of war are recorded for future generations. It’s housed in what was once part of the Bethlem Royal Hosptial – you may have heard about it by it’s more common name, which in the local dialect was “Bedlam.” The lunatic asylum. I think it is an entirely appropriate place in which to house a museum of war.



There’s much I could tell you about the museum – I’ve been going there for years now. I could tell you about some of the major exhibitions that have moved me to tears: The Trench, about the experience of soldiers in the Great War; From Corsets to Camouflage, an international exhibit on women and war; The Children’s War – been twice, always weep, mainly for my mother who was one of the thousands of children scarred by the experience of evacuation in the Second World War. I’ve used the archive on numerous occasions now, taking my place in the library housed in the dome, which was once the hospital’s chapel, and where the Ten Commandments are still enscribed on the walls (Thou Shall Not Kill ...). I’ve opened old letters written on fine onion-skin paper in faint but clear penmanship, and I’ve held my breath reading letters that might only have been opened once before, when the recipient first slipped a knife into the envelope.

While I was in London, I made a point of visiting one of the exhibitions currently in progress: The Animals War.



There’s no Geneva Convention for animals, yet millions have given their lives for our man-made wars. If animals had never been used in war, I could not even think of the greater number of human lives lost along the way, so here are a some veterans to think about:



Rob, the SAS (UK special forces) dog who made over twenty parachute drops during the Second World War; Roselle, the labrador who led her owner to safety from the 78th floor of the World Trade Center after it was attacked on 11 September 2001; Rin Tin Tin, who was found as a puppy on the Western Front and went on to become a Hollywood legend; Voytek, the bear mascot of the 22nd Transport Company of the Polish Army Service Corps who remained with his masters during action at Monte Cassino in 1944; and Simon of HMS Amethyst, the only cat to have been awarded the ‘animals’ Victoria Cross,’ the Dickin Medal. And then there’s Rats, the corgi-ish terrier mix who took it upon himself to befriend soldiers serving in Belfast in the Troubles. As one soldier said, “He was like an oasis of friendship in a desert of sadness.”

There are two animals, however, who have always touched my heart: Winnie, the bear cub adopted by Canadian soldiers on their way to war in 1914, and Sefton, the stunning bay cavalry horse who was almost killed by an IRA nailbomb in 1982.

Lt. Harry Colebourn, a veterinarian with the Canadian cavalry, was on his way from Winnipeg to the east coast of Canada, and from there to the battlefields of WW1, when he saw a young bear cub for sale - her mother had been killed by a hunter. He bought the bear, naming her “Winnie” after his hometown, and then smuggled her into England where she became the regiment’s unofficial mascot. A favorite with the troops, she was quite tame, however, when it came time for them to go to the front, Colebourn took her to Regent’s Park Zoo to be cared for while the regiment was in France. In the midst of war, Winnie became a star, not only because she could be safely taken on walks around the zoo and was calm and kind with children, but because her carers were serving in the war. Visitors flocked to see Winnie, including A.A. Milne, who brought his son, Christopher Robin, and who was inspired to create stories about a bear called Winnie.



Then there’s Sefton, who for a time became the beacon of hope for a nation. I was working in London at the time, and though we’d heard that a bomb had detonated in Hyde Park, we just all sort of got on with our work because that’s what you did. At lunchtime I decided to wander over to Regents’ Park – it was always lovely to sit by the old bandstand and listen to the band on a summer’s day. I was almost at the entrance to the gate when I heard the bomb, a sound that is nothing like you think it might be from films and TV. And then there’s that split-second of silence that lingers before all hell breaks loose. We were allowed to leave work early that day, and I walked miles with my friend back to her house, where I would stay the night. It was only when we watched the news on TV that we realized the enormity of what had happened that day. After that first bomb, in Hyde Park, men and horses lay dying of their wounds. One horse in particular, with twenty-eight wounds to his body including blood gushing from a hole in his neck, stood still, to attention, until help came. Following eight hours of surgery as vets struggled to save Sefton, the whole country waited to see if he would make it, as if hope itself would be sustained by his survival. And though not a young horse at nineteen, he lived for another eleven years, becoming a household name.





There’s a painting at the close of the exhibition, a bombsite scene that depicts the contribution of animals in times of conflict. By Steve Hutton, it’s called, “Animals: The Hidden Victims of War.” The tank in the picture bears the symbol of a fierce animal, as do many military vehicles. An elephant is dressed for the Roman war, but wears a WW2 gas mask. There’s a dolphin with her snout tied to prevent her from foraging while working, and there are the sea lions used for detecting underwater dangers. The dogs are there, shown in their roles as messengers, sentinels and in rescue operations, and the cat and rabbit signify domestic animals affected by war. The lizard is a symbol for wildlife lost, and there’s a broken tree to remind us of habitats destroyed. Pigs are there too – they’re used for weapons testing and battlefield surgery training, and the rats are not forgotten – researchers implant electrodes into their brains to remotely control them for land mine detection. Primates and other animals are used for testing of biological and chemical weapons. And finally, above the animals finely drawn, the dove of peace surveys the tableau.

In 1982, a children’s book, The War Horse by Michael Morpurgo, was published to critical acclaim. Set in WW1, in one scene a German soldier is talking to the cavalry horse. “That’s what this war is all about, my friend. It’s about which of us is the madder.”



Bedlam. The word eventually came to mean, “a house of confusion.”
A perfect place to record the lunacy of war.



It’s also interesting to know that a two-day conference begins at IWM today, on peace-building.

To send this to a friend, please click on the envelope icon below. To check out the Imperial War Museum website, go to www.iwm.org.uk

This is it?

Is this all there is?

To me, this is one of the most elemental questions of humanity. It raises a host of similar questions such as, Why are we here? Does God have a plan for us? Is there such a thing as destiny? All valid questions once one gets past, How do I survive? Nothing stifles philosophic investigation like an empty stomach. But those of us writing and reading a blog like this are probably not concerned about taking in enough calories to make it through just one more day.

So what does that leave us? Back to square one. Is this all there is? This question has plagued me since my first year after college. It may be that up until then I was too involved in the race to get out of the Florida public school system. I know many of you might mock the notion that a public school education leading to a bachelor’s from Florida State was really enough to occupy someone’s mind to the point of ignoring something like questioning your existence, but apparently it worked. Just like every other goal I set and started running toward in an effort to evade the most important issue I might face. It led me to graduate school and a devotion to long-term sports like running and karate. Each with goals built into them that could focus the mind. In my case it was more like distracting my mind from the really troubling question: Is this it?

I believe part of the answer is as simple as raising kids. The desire to have happy kids that go on to have happy productive lives is as much instinct as it is love. How would the species survive if one generation didn’t want the next to do better? Does a father in China have less hope for his son than a writer from Florida? Does the sense that you have succeeded finally quench the thirst to know if this is all there is? I have no answers. I’m looking for common ground. Is this a condition many suffer?

I have always been a happy person, not prone to depression or pessimism. I do wonder, however, if depressed people are focused on this question? Unlike Tom Cruise, I realize that much of depression is chemically based and can be treated with prescription drugs. But how much of it is existentially based? How many people simply can’t grapple with the question of why they are here? How many successful people are simply driven by goals to keep their intellect from probing these kinds of questions?

It’s no secret that I’m a fan of science fiction. I’ve read more SF books and seen more SF movies than I can recall. Now I realize that my attraction to the genre could be due to the theme in many of these stories. Is this all there is? From Star Trek: The Motion Picture, where Spock realizes the emerging life-form is merely asking “Is this all there is?” To one of the Dune books opening a chapter with the ancient proverb “God help the man who has achieved all his goals.” This basic question is a universal phenomenon, which stretches across geography, religion and culture.

I’m happy I love something like writing. I’m thrilled my novels are published. But this is not the legacy I hope I’m remembered for. I don’t know exactly what I want to be remembered for specifically, but I hope I can do better than some published books. My children raising happy families of their own would be one thing I would hope to leave behind. And in many years, I would like to think that one of these grandchildren would look to the heavens and ask, “Is this all there is?”

If they didn’t then nothing would ever change.

Three Little Words

By Cornelia

Louise Ure's post at Murderati last week has stuck with me ever since. She started out with E.B. White's essay "Irtnog," a satirical history of digest publications:

Someone conceived the idea of digesting the digests. He brought out a little publication called Pith, no bigger than your thumb. It was a digest of Reader’s Digest, Time, Concise Spicy Tales, and the daily News Summary of the New York Herald Tribune. Everything was so extremely condensed that a reader could absorb everything that was being published in the world in about forty-five minutes.

Then challenged readers to come up with a "three-words-or-less summary of any book you want," starting the game with:

Example: A Tale of Two Cities "Off with têtes."

Among my favorite entries, Sharon Wheeler offered, "Any Dick Francis: Horsy chap suffers"


Janine jumped in with, "The Scarlet Letter ~ red suits you"

Alex Sokoloff did Rosemary's Baby: Happy Birthday, Satan.

Rob Gregory Brown did one in TWO words-- Children of the Corn: Kids Stalk

I got completely carried away and listed a few, which I've been adding to all week, starting with"

Anna Karenina: Slut vs. train.

The Great Gatsby: Nouveau laid low.

The Fountainhead: Mammon-gram

Atlas Shrugged: Dude, WTF Galt?

All Creatures Great and Small: Bully for ewe.

The Year of Magical Thinking: Dunne's one undone.

The Crucible: Hicks nix tricks.

Flowers for Algernon: Whither mouse goest...

Hannibal: What's up, Doc?

The Maltese Falcon: Bye bye birdy

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd: Yeah, I'm guilty.


Memoirs of Casanova: Quicker picker-upper


Anybody else wanna play?

"Juggling Chainsaws" (Continued)

From the bloodied desk of Paul "Chainsaw" Levine

I loved Patty Smiley's post yesterday.

Juggling chainsaws is a dead-on metaphor for the sleight-of-hand and sorcery we either pull off or bloody ourselves trying. All of which raises the classic question for writers. What gives you pleasure? Juggling? Or having juggled?

I am reminded of the thematic scene in "A League of Their Own." Star player Dottie Hinson (Geena Davis) wants to quit the team. Her manager Jimmy Dugan (Tom Hanks) argues with her.

Jimmy: Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that.

Dottie: It just got too hard.

Jimmy: It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.

Doesn't that also apply to writing?

Not that my scribbling compañeros and compañeras are looking for sympathy. Or that we'll get it.

About 15 years ago, while living in Miami, I wanted to buy a house. My real estate broker found something in Coconut Grove that looked interesting. The seller's broker asked when I could come see the house, and my broker replied: "Oh, Paul can come anytime. He doesn't work. He's a writer."

Right. Just how hard can it be?

"Writing is easy," said Red Smith, the legendary sports writer. "All you do is sit at the typewriter until drops of blood appear on your forehead."


And a good day to my fellow dues-payers...

Paul

This Dangerous Obsession

Patty here…

“A work in progress quickly becomes feral. It reverts to a wild state overnight. It is barely domesticated, a mustang on which you one day fastened a halter, but which now you cannot catch. It is a lion you cage in your study. As the work grows, it gets harder to control; it is a lion growing in strength. You must visit it every day and reassert your mastery over it. If you skip a day, you are, quite rightly afraid to open the door to its room.” —Annie Dillard (1945-), U.S. author

I used to take out-of-town guests to the Venice Beach boardwalk on Sunday afternoons to see the guy who juggled chainsaws.



My guests would watch in amusement, sometimes horror as the juggler pulled the cords and threw the chainsaws into the air. I knew what they were thinking. What will happen if his timing is off? I’m sure they went back to their homes in Minnesota or Milan thinking the juggler was mad to court this high-risk fling.

I often feel like that juggler, especially now that I’m writing my fourth novel. I’m past the stage in which I have thrown the chainsaws into the air. Now I must bring each one down with the skill of a master juggler. I have done this stunt three times before, but with this fourth book I feel certain I cannot do it again.

“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author

I work out with a Pilates trainer every week, not because it’s good for my body, though it is. It’s because of Brigitta, she of the contagious laughter and wisdom beyond her years.



She is more therapist than trainer. She is always willing to listen while I whine about writing books, how hard it is, and how much I give up to sit in front of a computer screen in a room that is silent except for the whirring of a dozen chainsaw blades. Whining feels good. It’s worth the price of admission. I tell her I will never finish this book. How can I? I am a writer of little talent whose career is destined for the remainder bin. “You said the same thing when you were writing the last book,” she says. Sometimes the price of admission comes with a dose of reality.

“But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
But with the wings of a wren.” —Anne Sexton (1928-1974), U.S. poet

I am in a place in the book where I have so many chainsaws in the air I can’t remember where they are. I worry that one of them might fall from the sky and cut off my arm. I should be able to remember these details but I can’t. I wonder if it’s the beginning of Alzheimer’s. The upside is I will have an excuse for not finishing this book. My editor will be sad. Better yet, she will not make me return my advance. A darker thought intrudes. What if my memory loss is due to entrenched resistance? If so, I must regain control. The solution is clear. I make a flowchart.

I write, “Eugene is ther— My computer thinks I mean to write Theresa Schwegel, a name it has found in my address book. Without asking, it finishes my sentence. “Eugene is Theresa Schwegel.” No. No! Eugene is not Theresa Schwegel. That is not at all what I intended to write. I delete the sentence and try again. Three tries later I have, “Eugene is there when Tucker arrives.” I look at the sentence again. I tell myself the words don’t have to fly with wings of eagles. This is only a flowchart. But “Eugene is Theresa Schwegel” promises a twisty new plot idea. It’s fresh. Intriguing. It is also galling to admit that a computer with a robotic memory for addresses is more creative than I am.

“Even in the midst of love-making, writers are working on the description.” —Mason Cooley (1927-) U.S. aphorist

Writing is a dangerous obsession. When I am in the throes of creating a novel the work controls everything. One Friday night I have tickets to the theatre. Before the play I go to dinner at Patina on the plaza of the Music Center. This is not negotiable. Dinner at Patina is more important than Twelve Angry Men. Why? Because Patina is where Tucker meets a man who will change her life and because of that I must know if the tablecloths are linen or paper, if a quiet conversation can be heard above the noise of traffic, if the umbrellas are in the up or down position, and if there are lights twinkling in the trees that look like monster broccoli. At dinner I try to be witty and attentive, but all the while I am jotting notes on the paper napkin in my lap.



“For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.” —T.S. Eliot (1877-1965), U.S. born-British poet, critic



I wish I could take these sentiments to heart, but the truth is I juggle chainsaws for a living. For me, it is that hard and the rest is my business and I worry about it all the time.

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New Life

from Jacqueline

It’s my favorite time of year on this side of the pond, and pretty much anywhere I’ve ever been, to tell you the truth. It’s springtime, with new lambs gamboling across the patchwork-quilt fields that surround my parents’ house, and the woodlands are carpeted with primroses, bluebells and delicate white wood-anemones – and the weather is perfect, with bright sunshine and just a hint of a nip in the air, which makes for great hikes across the countryside. You see, I’m a country kid at heart, despite the buzz I get from being in New York, or the fact that I could wander the streets of London for hours, and that I love San Francisco with a passion. This is where I began, and Easter happens to be the holiday closest to my heart. And it’s not just because Britain is chocolate-Easter-egg-central. It’s special, you see, because it’s the time of new life, and the land is just about bursting with it.



There’s one particular Easter that sticks in my mind from childhood. It was close to the end of term, coming up on the Easter of my ninth year, when Mrs. Boulding, our class teacher, asked us all to bring an egg or two to school because we would be “blowing eggs.” This amounted to almost organized anarchy. We pierced the egg at each end with a pin, then blew the yolk and white out of one end to be left with an empty shell. Then we had to varnish the eggs to strengthen the shell before decorating them. I still remember it – what a lark! There were kids covered in egg contents everywhere. But the thing I remember most was our local vicar, coming into the classroom for a special lesson afterwards.

Being a parish school (most local schools in England were, historically, founded by the church), there were still links with the local church, so the Reverend Bradshaw came in once a term to talk to each class. Most of us gazed out of the windows across the fields, or passed notes back and forth, or you’d suddenly feet the whack of a marble on the back of your head and you scowled at the culprit before sending a note back that you would get him later. And all the while the poor old reverend was oblivious to what was going on in the classroom.

But on this day, about half-way through his soliloquy he had our undivided attention. He began speaking about the meaning of Easter, about new life, and what it truly meant, and as he did so he picked up one of the eggs. But it wasn’t an empty egg, its contents already blown into the glass bowl. No, this was an egg ready to crack and splatter the man with yuk if he grasped it any harder, and not one child moved, watching that egg as he waved it around while he talked of Easter and the miracle of life. We were all a bit disappointed when he made a clean getaway after the lesson.

We broke up for the holiday that afternoon – my decorated egg was in bits by the time I’d walked home. The following day – Good Friday – after a breakfast of Hot Crossed Buns (traditional Good Friday treat, a bit like a current bread roll with a pastry cross on the top, if you haven’t had them – and they’re best hot or toasted, hence the name), my brother and I went down to the farm with our mother and the other women who worked on the land.



When I was a child, there weren’t many jobs around in rural areas for women who needed to work, but wanted a bit of flexibility because they had children. Farm work was pretty much the only option where we lived, so not only did my mother work on the farm, but from the age of about six, that’s where I earned my pocket money too.

It was freezing cold with snow on the ground, and the job in hand was that of gathering spent hop bines into big mounds and then burning them – and already the bright green shoots of new hops were bursting through. All the kids were working because everyone wanted to get home, and it was nasty work as hop bines can scratch your hands and arms to shreds, especially old ones that had been sitting around throughout the winter. The fact that it was bitter outside didn’t help, so it was a tired group of women and children who made their way slowly up the lane late that afternoon, with the light fading and snow falling around us.



Our silence was broken when my mother shouted at us to stop, because in the field right next to the lane, a ewe was in the midst of giving birth. At first the women were worried that she was in trouble, but then the lamb began to be born, and we all drew nearer to watch. I’ll never forget that Good Friday, that last snow of the year as it fell around us, a motley group watching a lamb coming out into the world, the mother licking her newborn onto unsteady legs, then both of them taking cover under the hedge. I was told to run back to fetch the farmer, because more hay would be needed before the night was out, and at least one new lamb had to be brought in from the cold.



Though I can hardly claim to have had great philosophical thoughts as a nine-year-old, I remember thinking, in the darkness of my room that night as the snow pattered against the windowpanes, about the Reverend Bradshaw and what he said about new life, and what it all meant. I thought about that tiny lamb coming to its feet, and what a wonder it was to see it born.

I thought about it again today, as I was driving along the country lanes, looking out to the fields, seeing the newborn lambs on unsteady legs.



So, I wish you a lovely Easter time, and here’s to new life, and everything that means, no matter how old you are, or what time of year it is in your part of the world.

To send this email to a friend, please click on the envelope icon below. And here’s a chocolate Easter egg:

Rewards of Writing

Writing takes effort, time and passion. The rewards can be few. Most writers toil, unpublished for their entire lives. Those that are published rarely see enough money to change their lives in any way. But there are days when it all seems to be worthwhile. That comment from a reader, an acknowledgment from an editor or the complimentary mention on someone’s website or blog. It’s rare, but those moments come along. Let me just share a few recent ones so you can get an idea of how little it actually takes to make a writer happy.

Last week I traveled to Tallahassee to accept an award. I’ve gotten a few awards in the past. Some sports related or martial arts based. A few related to my police career. But this one was for the Florida Book awards. I received the Gold Medal for best novel in popular fiction. I haven’t blogged about it or written any articles about the award because I felt a little funny about it. I’ve joked with my friends and taken jokes from others but it still made me feel vaguely uncomfortable for some reason. But I’m here now ready to say: I liked it.

This is me with Gov. Charlie Crist on my right and Sec. of State Curt Browning at the ceremony. I'm wearing the gold medal and stupid grin. Thanks to Eric Tournay for the photo.

The ceremony was great. The people associated with the prize were nice. I’m getting a ton of requests from libraries to speak. There is no aspect of the award with which I’m disappointed. So that was my biggest reward related to writing the last few weeks.

But I had a few other, smaller ones that you may want to consider the next time you see a friend with a new book out who looks a little glum. I’ve gotten a number of e-mails and a few phone calls, the best from my former partner who is now retired. The gist of all of them was the same: They had stayed up far too later because they couldn’t put down Field of Fire. Sure, I smile and nod or send back a nice return e-mail, but let me tell you there is no funk a comment like that can’t bring you out of.

Now the final story and I’ll move away from the self-congratulatory bull.

I was at church sitting at the end of the pew where we normally sit. My son was part of the procession as an acolyte (The Episcopal equivalent of an altar boy). For many years now he and I have had a secret joke where if he sees me while he is walking in the procession he starts to laugh. I don’t know what started it back when he was eight or ten the first time he walked down the aisle with a cross or banner, but he as never made it past me without laughing. Not once. Ever. Now, at seventeen, some people have caught on and think it’s funny or cute.

Well this time, the Sunday before last, he walks past me and laughs quietly and continues on as he has hundreds of times before. Our priest, a fine man of reasonable temperament and unending patience, is walking at the end of the procession. As he gets to me he stops and leans in. My stomach tightens as I fear I am finally about to be rebuked for making my son laugh so many times. The jig is up and I’m busted in a big way. Father Marty leans toward me and says, “Hey, that Field of Fire is one good book.” Then goes on about his way.

Wow, I thought, that’ll make a great book signing story.

As I sit on my outdoor porch about eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, the temperate breeze coming off the water and giving me the slightest chill, I realize I have a pretty good gig here. I had spent the afternoon windsurfing from my backyard. The photos pretty much say it all.

I also realized in the past three weeks that I’m not comfortable in the evening watching TV or reading unless I’ve written a minimum of a thousand words. Usually a little more. What I’ve learned is that they don’t have to be on a novel.

Originally, when Paul Levine approached me about writing a blog a week with Naked Authors I hesitated for several reasons. First, it seemed like a lot of work. Second, I didn’t want to be distracted from working on novels and third, it was an established blog with established writers. I didn’t want to feel like an outsider. I was wrong about each of those assumptions. Well except for the work part.

It is a lot of work but not that much work writing the blogs. It is mainly getting the photos uploaded and the dang thing formatted. I always repost them on my Amazon blog so I feel like I’m getting more use out of them. But I have found I like writing about something I care about. Like chatting with friends only ones spread out all over the country. I never realized people really paid attention to my Amazon blog until one day someone whom I had not met before asked me if my son was excited about going to Florida State next year. I thought I had met a psychic. I was stunned until I realized how they knew the information. It pleased me and freaked me out a little at the same time. But I do enjoy sharing some of my limited writing experience with the blog readers.

I have also found that it doesn’t distract me from writing novels. When I’m working a novel I tend to shut out other things. But when I get tired or lose that focus, I stop working on the novel for that day. Sometimes I like the change of switching to a “written conversation” for the blog. Like today’s blog. It’s more personal and light but I mean it. So far the blog has not taken away from the novels at al.

And finally the other bloggers have done nothing but make me feel like I’m part of the club. On the web, in e-mail and in person I couldn’t enjoy more support.

So I am happy to have found a home here. I don’t know if anyone saw the photo of Patty, Paul and me in Publisher’s Weekly a few weeks ago. It was just from my stop at the L.A. Mystery Book store and we all posed for a simple shot. I have no idea how PW got the photo but it was nice to see it. There was not story other than the caption that mentioned I was on tour with Field of Fire. I doubt they would have noticed it if I were not a part of such a well-respected blog.

Hope you guys are as easily thrilled as I am with simple comments, funny blogs and photographs.

See you next week,

Jim