She Was Made For The Straight Aways

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: A girl and her car is a beautiful thing. My first bought-it-myself car was a Saab that had about eleventy hundred miles on it and holes in the floor that had to be covered by heavy rubber mats in the wintertime. It wasn't anywhere near as nice as the first car I got to drive regularly, which was my brand-new husband's brand-new 1985 Mazda RX-7, with the headlights that popped open at the touch of a button and a rotary engine so powerful that the third generation, introduced in 1997, is banned for street driving in the US. (Not even kidding.) 

 

It was a sweet ride, but the rusty old Saab was mine, and, as it turned out, the first and last car I didn't have to put a baby seat (or a kid) into. 

 

My two girls have recently gone through their own vehicular rites of passage. The Maine Millennial, who has owned, shall we say, well-used cars over the past few years, was finally in the position to upgrade when her last Subaru went to that great garage in the sky. She got a 2017 Hyundai Elantra in an eye-popping shade of electric blue, with all the bells and whistles.

 

Meanwhile - really, within a week of her sister - Youngest, who had a looong journey toward getting her driver's license, got her first car, a 2002 Honda CRV (only 179,000 miles!) generously passed on to her by my sister and brother-in-law. This has lead to several life improvements for Youngest: she's been able to sign a lease on an apartment fourteen miles from the University of Maine (and thus better than your average student digs) and she can ride around in style with her Shih tzu, Buddy, who has his own special car seat. It's led to one enormous life improvement for me, namely, I don't have to make the three hundred mile round trip to Orono, ME, every time Youngest has a dental appointment/doctor's visit/political rally in the Portland area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm very happy with my supremely sensible Honda Accord, but I do love to see my daughters rejoice in their "new" cars. I know they're vehicles they will always have special place in their hearts.  

 

So, Reds, what are the special cars that you have fond memories of? 

 

RHYS BOWEN: I wouldn’t call them FOND memories, but my first car made a big impression. In England, of course, you don’t take your driving test until you are 18. I bought my first car with money from my twenty-first birthday. It was a little red Fiat 500--a toppolino, used, of course. It looked really cute, but it was a nightmare. It would cut out at the worst times. Driving through the Peak District it cut out at the top of a hill. I coasted for miles downhill and luckily  crawled into a service station before it stopped. It started by yanking on a little pull thingie, which came off in my hand one day. Luckily my friend Roger was great with cars and fixed it numerous times.  

The added stupidity was that I was working for the BBC and living behind Oxford Street! That meant if I found a parking space I didn’t dare move the car for days. It was a happy day when I sold it.

 

LUCY BURDETTE: The one I remember fondly was a Dodge Dart, a two-door sedan with a slant-six engine. It was canary yellow on the bottom, with a black hardtop and black upholstery and steering wheel. I loved it! Until my husband and I moved to Florida. Black baking in the sun equals burned thighs and palms every time.

 

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: SO snazzy, Roberta!  My first car was a Chevrolet Vega, and it was butterscotch yellow with camel leather interior. I thought it was gorgeous, but I mean, it was a Vega. How gorgeous could that even be? But my father made me buy it myself and handle all the negotiations. I think I was 18.  

And he said: Do NOT pay for the title or taxes. THEY have to pay that. And if you can’t negotiate that, I won’t buy you the car.

So I was absolutely firm. No matter what the dealer said, I said: I am NOT paying title and taxes, you have to pay that. And if you make me pay it, I’m not buying the car.

We argued and argued, and finally I said--I’m walking out. And they finally agreed.

I told my father afterward, all proud of myself.

He gasped. And said: I never said TAXES! I said TAGS. You have to pay the taxes, for gosh sake.

I said: Well, not this time.

 

HALLIE EPHRON: My first car was a convertible Chevy Impala, chocolate brown with butterscotch leather seats… first cousin to Hank’s. I brought an older male friend with me to buy it, knowing I’d be way out of my depth. I loved that car, owned it for 2 years until I graduated. After high school I lived in Manhattan for 8 years - a person living in NYC needs a car like a fish needs a bicycle… to quote the adage. When we moved to the Boston area, we bought a Pinto station wagon. TERRIBLE car. TERRIBLE experience buying it. I still can’t believe that 5 years later when the Pinto died we went back to that same dealer and bought a Ford Escort station wagon. Another terrible car that didn’t make it past 75K. Fords: feh.

 

JENN McKINLAY: My Pontiac Grand Am coupe, merlot red, with a moonroof, and fully loaded stereo. It was my college grad gift from my parents. I LOVED that car. It died after ten years of spontaneous road trips, four big moves, three boyfriends, and 170K miles. I still miss her. 

 

DEBORAH CROMBIE: My first car was a used ‘65 silver Thunderbird--and yes, that is my favorite Marc Cohn song!! Power everything, black leather interior, it was gorgeous and probably worth a mint now. I had it a couple of years and then my dad traded it, no idea why except that he loved to do car deals.

 

But the car of my heart was my 1970 Datsun 240z, used, of course, in burnt orange. I loved that car. I had to give it up when I moved to England. My dad promised me he wouldn’t sell it, but he did. I never quite got over my broken heart. I did drive a red Honda Prelude for a couple of years, much later on, and that was a much better car but nothing ever quite replaced the Z.

 

JULIA: Grand Ams, Thunderbirds, and leather seats - we have some stylin' drivers in this group. How about you, dear readers? Did you have a car that made your heart go vroooom?

Oh and as for the title of this blog: "She was made for the straight aways/ Grew up hating Chevrolets/ She's a rocket; she was made to burn."

 

Baby You Can Drive My Car

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: One of my smallest skills is--driving. I am a really bad driver. I have no depth perception, and no patience, and I'm too nice. Which means timid. My drivers ed teacher once told my mother that the only reason he'd take me on the road is that he had his own brake, it wasn't his car, and the high school had insurance. Seriously.

      Oh!  And my father made me buy my first car by myself. Do the deal on your own, he said, with his one absolute warning. He said: You tell them you will not pay for Taxes and Title. Never never never.

      I had no idea. I said, sure. And  when the dealer tried to charge me for T and T, I refused, utterly refused, until they relented.  (I was 18).

       I went home all proud, and my father said-- "I never said TAXES! You HAVE to pay Taxes, honey!  I said TAGS and title. TAGS!" 

  Sigh.  What did I know.  But I had my first car, a little black Chevette. Which I had mistakenly thought was navy blue, and so it goes.

        Anyway--choosing a car for my characters, though. THAT I realized was important. Charlotte McNally has a buzzy sporty Jeep. That works. Jane Ryland has an Audi TT convertible--which becomes a bitterly frustrating extravagance when she gets fired.

       Choosing your character's car is a big deal. It means something, telegraphs something.  As the wonderful debut author David Burnsworth explains.        

   

Sleuth-Mobiles   

by David Burnsworth

While I love spending time at my desk killing people on the page, my true passion is automobiles. From the earliest time I can remember, I have always loved them.  Picture books with cars or trucks automatically received more of my interest and mom most likely used that trait to get me to read more.  A book I remember reading with her before bed when I was about six focused around a truck driver making deliveries.

This seems to have carried over into my writing. Selecting what my characters drive is as much a part of their personality as what they wear or how they react to situations. I had a lot of fun choosing rides for all the players in my first book, envisioning the different scenes as mini movies.

Some might call this profiling or cliché, but the vehicle choice should not be a detail that takes the reader out of the story because it doesn’t fit the character. For example, Brack Pelton, the protagonist in my first book, Southern Heat, is an Afghanistan War Veteran and ex-race car driver. His car of choice is a new Mustang GT.

 He won’t willingly drive an economy car, although he ends up having to. Not that there is anything wrong with economy cars, they just don’t fit his profile. Same with putting a high-powered lawyer-type in a clapped out hooptie—it doesn’t work. Also in the book, Brack’s lawyer’s steed of choice is big, expensive, and German. Like movies, the wrong prop could really wreck a scene.

The car becomes an extension of who they are, even if it is not the focus of the story. And I’m happy to say that I picked up this trait from some of my favorite writers. James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux drives a pickup with a toolbox welded in the bed. Dave’s sidekick, Clete Purcel, drives a classic Caddy convertible. 

Lee Child’s Jack Reacher hitchhikes or takes the bus. Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch now drives a Mustang, but he used to drive unmarked cruisers. Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt has a collection of classics to choose from. (Thank you, Clive!) John Sanford’s Lucas Davenport drives a Porsche and a Lexus SUV. In his latest work, Sanford gives the antagonist several vehicles and explains the relevance behind one in particular. All these character rides, or lack-there-of, are part of a long list of elements that help define them.

When I read a story, I really enjoy when the vehicle fits the character. Even the minor ones. The importance of this depends, of course, on the genre and who the target reader is. If the writing is good, I won’t put the book down just because the car is, in my opinion, wrong for the part. Or if the cars are generic. It’s just one of those little details that helps solidify the personality and keeps me engaged. And keeping the reader engaged is what I as a writer am after.

HANK: This makes me realize--except for the Lincoln Lawyer, I'm not quite sure what any main character drives. Does Kinsey Millhone drive a VW Bug? Who else drives what? And--what was YOUR first car?

(And I am thrilled to give a copy of  SOUTHERN HEAT to one lucky commenter!) (US only, please.)

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David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel. Southern Heat is his first mystery. Having lived in Charleston on Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife, along with their dog, call South Carolina home. 

SOUTHERN HEAT
    Gunshots echo down an antebellum Charleston alley. Brack Pelton, an ex-racecar driver and Afghanistan War veteran, witnesses the murder of his uncle, Reggie Sails. Darcy Wells, the pretty Palmetto Pulse reporter, investigates Reggie's murder and targets Brack. 
      The sole heir of his uncle's estate, Brack receives a rundown bar called the Pirate's Cove, a rotting beach house, and one hundred acres of preserved and valuable wetland along the Ashley River. A member of Charleston's wealthiest and oldest families offers Brack four million dollars for the land. 
      All Brack wants is his uncle's killer. From the sandy beaches of Isle of Palms, through the nineteenth-century mansions lining the historic Battery, to the marshlands surrounding the county, Southern Heat is drenched in the humidity of the lowcountry.