The Fish, the Plane Crash, and the Coyote

BREAKING NEWS!  

You can now download a HUGE excerpt of 
THE MURDER LIST free! 

 Here's the link: 

https://www.torforgeblog.com/2019/06/18/download-a-free-digital-preview-of-the-murder-list-by-hank-phillippi-ryan/

ANd now: back to our regular programming! 

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: How many times! How many times have people asked: Is Charlie McNally YOU? Is Jane Ryland YOU?  Even—Is Mercer Hennessey you? (And I can’t wait to hear what they say about the characters in the Murder List.)

 But no no no. She’s not. (Except Charlie. Maybe a little.)

A dear pal and talented colleague who is fighting the same battle is our fab friend of the Reds: Lynn Chandler Willis. (Her newest mystery, TELL ME NO SECRETS, is out right now!)

 But is Ava Logan really Lynn herself? See what you think.  

The Fish, the Plane Crash, and the Coyote

By Lynn Chandler Willis

In my former life, I owned and published a bi-weekly newspaper. Circulation 15,000, thank you. Not bad for a totally ad-supported paper that covered one incorporated rural town and a couple unincorporated surrounding communities. The paper lasted thirteen years and probably could have gone on a few more but I was tired. I was tired of small-town politics, the neighbor against neighbor, the curses of angry mothers because you misspelled their kid’s name in the Honor Roll report. Or worse, spelled the Mayor’s son’s name correctly in the police report.

The paper did have its bright side and they far outweighed the down sides. I met people I never would have met and was introduced to some of the most amazing experiences – like watching the Hinshaw brothers make homemade maple syrup, meet the Budweiser Clydesdales up close and personal (and they are MASSIVE), and get courted by a guy who brought me a fish. Dead.

The guy kinda had a crush on me and dropped by the office – we’re talking rural community so the office isn’t a skyscraper – and asked me to come outside with him for a minute. He said he had something to give me. I walk outside with him and he reaches into his Coleman cooler in the bed of his truck and pulls out this massive fish. It might have been a bass, I don’t know. It was big, and it was dead. He’d caught it earlier and knew I’d be impressed because I was such a down-home type girl. I told him I couldn’t accept it because my husband might not appreciate it so he took his fish and went home. And no, I wasn’t married.

Then there was the plane crash. A small charter plane went down in a field near our neck of the woods. I head out there dressed for field trials and get right up to the crash site to take pictures. One of the large daily papers showed up but the reporter, in her high heels, couldn’t get anywhere near the site. They ended up using my pictures. Thankfully, there were no serious injuries, unless you count the reporter’s ego and sprained ankle.

Often, people would drop by the office for a cup of coffee and some chit-chat, or to offer me a fish, or a photo op.

 This particular time, an avid outdoorsman wheels up to the office in his heavy-duty truck and rushes in to get me. Bring your camera, I’m instructed. We get outside and he drops the tailgate of his truck and there’s the largest coyote I’ve ever seen. Like the fish, dead. The thing stretched nose to base of tail across the tailgate. Coyotes in our area are considered a nuisance so it’s always open season. And we have had problems with coyotes in the past so people are a bit scared of them ‘round here. So this guy wants me to take a picture for the front page – above the fold – to warn people coyotes are in the area. The problem was, the coyote was dead. With very visible bullet wounds. And blood. I could not run that kind of picture on the front page of a family friendly newspaper. The guy accused me of doing a disservice to the people and their pets and every cat and Yorkie that got attacked by a coyote was on me. I’d have the blood of many small pets on my hands. 

At least a picture of blood wasn’t going on the front page. 

I gave up the newspaper business in real life but write about it in my fiction. Ava Logan of the Ava Logan Mystery Series is – surprise—a small town newspaper publisher struggling with work-life balance, and the brutality of small-town politics. And the occasional murder.

Set deep in the Appalachia Mountains, the second book in the series, Tell Me No Secrets, involves serpent-handling churches, granny women folk healing, and muddy river baptisms. I never covered any of these in my newspaper but I did interview Prince WadaWada DuDu of the Great Zanbini’s Traveling circus one time. That interview may make it into a book someday.  

HANK: But  Ava Logan is NOT YOU, right, Lynn?

So Reds and readers, when you read a book with a strong character , even especially a first-person character, do you imagine them as the author?  Do you assume it’s autobiographical?
>>and added later--this has me thinking-do you have a small town newspaper? Do you read it?

 Lynn Chandler Willis is a former newspaper publisher and award-winning author living in the heart of North Carolina. In 2013, she was the first woman in a decade to win the SMP/PWA Best 1^st PI Novel competition with Shamus-Award finalist, Wink of an Eye. Her Ava Logan Mystery Series features a small-town newspaper publisher trying to balance being a single mom and owning a newspaper. Any resemblance is strictly coincidental. Besides, Ava is a brunette.

TELL ME NO SECRETS

In the heart of Appalachia, newspaper publisher Ava Logan should feel joy and pride as she watches her thirteen-year-old daughter being baptized in the cold water of Jackson Creek—but she can’t rejoice when thoughts of an employee who failed to show for work keep pulling her attention away. Ava’s convinced something horrible has happened to Scott. Then his backpack is found floating in the same river her daughter is being baptized in. While clue after clue leads her deeper into the hollers of Appalachia—ripe with tradition and folktales, store front religion, and the darkest of secrets, Ava discovers truths about those close to her and about her own beliefs. With her own life in jeopardy, how deep will she go to find the truth? What secrets will she expose? What secrets will she keep?

Links:

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07PPPTWSC/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/tell-me-no-secrets-lynn-chandler-willis/1130926781?ean=9781635115192

http://lynnchandlerwillis.com/

It Seems Funny Now

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  First administrative stuff: the winners of the Charlie book of your choice are: Kiki, Tricia, and Terri Lynn! (Email me at hryan@whdh.com)  And thank you so much for entering the giveaway! (Click here!: https://a.pgtb.me/cBqF8x One day left to go! Two books for the price of one!)

Now. Today. You know what it is to be asked for a blurb—an author (or agent or editor) contacts you and asks very sweetly if you would read a new book with an eye to a blurb. Saying “yes” usually means you’ll do it. So if you don’t know the author, it’s a bit of a potentially sticky situation.

 

But when Jane Haseldine’s editor asked me, and I saw Jane’s résumé,—I thought—this is not a tough call. She’s a journalist. Like me. And she was a press secretary-ish to an elected official. Like I was.  So, I thought, it’ll be fine.

I was wrong. It is TERRIFIC. I zoomed through The Last Time She Saw Him, and happily heaped lavish praise. You will love it.  I also wanted you to meet her.

And happily, you’re meeting her here. And not on one specific day in college.

IT SEEMS FUNNY NOW…

By Jane Haseldine

During one of my first classes freshman year at Syracuse University, I inadvertently flashed a hundred students my underwear.

It happened during a chemistry class. I was a journalism major, but I had to take chemistry as a prerequisite because the school thought every student needed a balanced education, although I don’t think I’ve ever once busted out the periodic table to help me navigate through my days.

That morning, I was running late. I was wearing a long skirt, and during my rush to get to class, I didn’t realize that a wasp had hitched a ride underneath it. With seconds to go before the class started, the only seats available were in the front row. About one minute into the lecture, the wasp decided it didn’t like hanging out under my skirt anymore and started stinging me with a vengeance. My reaction? I jumped out of my seat and lifted my skirt up, desperate to get the wasp out. And 100 or so kids saw my underpants. Way to make a good impression when you’re eighteen and nothing matters more.

I was sure that humiliation would haunt me forever. But somehow, I’d forgotten it, until recently when my debut novel was published.

For me, it’s been beyond thrilling to have my story become something people can actually read instead of a work in progress on my computer.  But it has also made me feel exposed, something I wasn’t expecting. My husband, who I met at a newspaper where he covered politics and I was on the crime beat, nailed it when he told me I was probably feeling that way because the story had been my lifeline.

He was right.

During the course of writing the book, my mom, a former journalist who named me Jane Eyre, took me to the library every Saturday growing up, and read me, “And Then There Were None,” when I was 11, was going through the last stage of Alzheimer’s. When my mom forgot her words that she had once spoken more eloquently than anyone else I’d ever met, or the time she’d looked at my newborn son and said, “What a beautiful baby. I bet your mother is proud,” I threw myself into writing the story. It was my own version of therapy I guess. Just like she was a writer, I was too, and I felt like if I could keep writing the story, somehow, I could hold onto her.

Silly the stuff we think sometimes.

The month I landed a literary agent, my mom died after her battle with a cruel disease. When the book was released, letting it go had taken on a deeper meaning for me.

I remember after the college underwear-baring incident, I called my mom, always calm, always classy, and always my motivation to keep pushing forward.

Her first comment was, “Oh dear.” And then after listening to me blather on, I could tell she was trying not to laugh. In hindsight, it was pretty funny. But I’ve never forgotten what she told me next. She said it might seem horrible now, but that I’d be okay. No, I couldn’t quit school and come home. I had to hold my head up and keep going forward. And if that’s all I could do, well, that would be enough, and I’d be all right.

I think if my mom were here, she’d tell me to enjoy the moment, that beautiful memories are the bond, not words in a book. But more importantly, I think she’d tell me to keep moving forward.

Who inspires you most?

HANK: Wait. Your real name is Jane Eyre? I love it. Oh. (I used to hate my first name, Harriet, so much that for a brief while, until my mom found out, I told people my name was Evangeline. I was, like, fourteen.)

So yes, Reds. Two possible questions. Who inspires you most? Or: did you ever make up a name?

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

The Last Time She Saw Him is the first book in the new Julia Gooden mystery series by Kensington Publishing and was released in July 2016.

A crime reporter searching for her kidnapped son must untangle the connection to her brother’s long ago disappearance.

Julia Gooden remembers nothing about the worst night of her life. Thirty years ago, her nine-year-old brother Ben—the person who promised he would always protect her—was abducted from the room they shared. Try as she might to recall any clue or detail, there is a black hole where Julia’s memories of that terrible event should be.

Now a crime reporter at a Detroit newspaper, Julia tries to give others the closure she’s never found. But guilt and grief over Ben’s disappearance have left her fearful that whoever took her brother is going to come back. Nowhere seems safe—not the city, not the suburbs, not even the secluded lake town where she plans to raise her children. And then, on the anniversary of Ben’s disappearance, Julia’s worst fears are realized when her two-year-old son, Will, is snatched from his bed.

Convinced that the crimes are related, Julia tries to piece together memories from her final day with Ben. Are the sudden reminders of her brother clues that will lead her to her son’s abductor, or merely coincidence? Julia knows she has hours at best to find Will alive, but the deeper she digs, the more personal and terrifying the battle becomes, and an undying promise may be her only hope of saving herself and her son.

Jane Haseldine is a journalist, former crime reporter, columnist, newspaper editor, magazine writer and deputy director of communications for a governor. Jane resides in Southern California with her husband and two young sons. You can find Jane at janehaseldine.com, Twitter, Goodreads, and Facebook.

What Does Brad Parks Blog Title Even Mean?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: What can I say. Brad Parks is incorrigible.  And he likes it when we say that, so we try not to say it, but yet, it’s true.

Incorrigible Yang to Hank’s Yin

By Brad Parks

The following is a confession that would no doubt be cheered, if dubiously, by many of my ex-girlfriends; and probably be questioned, even more dubiously, by my wife.

But here goes:

         

I finally wrote a book that helped me get in touch with my feelings.

         

Really. It’s my sixth novel featuring investigative reporter Carter Ross, and it’s called THE FRAUD (though that should not bring into question the sincerity of this confession).

         

I realize that as a guy and a thriller writer, I’m not supposed to admit I even have feelings. But if you’ll permit it, I’d like to recline on the Reds’ couch and get in touch with my inner Love Actually watcher.

         

Please understand, I was a journalist for many years. I wasn’t allowed to have feelings other than, “Boy, I’m glad I filed that story on time.”

         

I got my start as a sportswriter, where the number one rule is: no cheering in the press box. Then I switched over to news, where having feelings was a kind of professional taboo. As reporters, we were supposed to be impartial arbiters of world events. Feelings didn’t enter into the equation.

And yet, wow, sometimes they would get to me. I can remember covering a triple homicide trial where the state’s lone witness tying the alleged killer to the crime was a woman who only spoke up six months later, and only because she had been arrested on other charges. She admitted to being high on heroin at the time she saw the shooter, but she thought the guy’s last name was Scott, and that his first name started with a T.

         

The cops ran off a book with mug shots of all 53 T Scotts in their system. The woman looked at the first page and said, “That one.”

         

By that capricious accident of the alphabet—and because the cops were looking for any excuse to clear a triple homicide off their books—a man named Taqwi Scott was charged with three murders he clearly did not commit. He spent more than a year of his life in jail waiting for his day in court.

         

The only greater tragedy was the poor victims’ families. They had to watch this farce of a trial knowing their only shot at getting justice for their loved ones was gone long before the 45 minutes it took the jury to return a not guilty verdict.

         

When I got back to the newsroom that day, I was righteously outraged. I also had editors who recognized my anger and knew it had no place in the newspaper. The story I wrote was edited beyond recognition and buried on the county page. I begged to do a follow-up but was told to move on.

         

So I did.

         

Fast forward to 2013, to ten days before Christmas. A young lawyer named Dustin Friedland was shot and killed during a botched carjacking at The Mall at Short Hills. It was a terrible, tragic crime and because it happened at the most high-end shopping complex in one of the wealthiest towns in America, it became national news.

         

The reward for information leading to the capture of his killers grew to $41,000. After an exhaustive police manhunt, the band of carjackers responsible was tracked down and arrested.’

         

The next day—nine days before Christmas 2013—a man named Naeem Williams was gunned down on the streets of Newark, less than ten miles away, in the same county as Short Hills. It was a terrible, tragic crime and because it happened in one of the poorest cities in America, which averages a hundred murders a year, no one noticed.

         

The reward for information leading to the capture of his killers was $10,000. In a legal system where we are all supposedly created equal, one person was deemed to be worth four times more than another. There was no great effort put into finding his killer, who was never caught. I was, once again, righteously outraged.

         

The difference is, I was no longer a journalist. I was a novelist.

         

So I started writing a book about two murders: one high-profile, the other ignored; one involving a white victim, the other involving a black victim.

        

It was a new experience for me, actually being allowed to have feelings as I wrote, and then channeling them into some of my characters. Perhaps not coincidentally, the characters were also facing new situations in their lives that provoked emotional responses. Carter Ross’s girlfriend is pregnant. The editor-in-chief at his paper gets sick. I actually let Carter cry in one scene.

       

And while I’m sure Carter would say he was just having an allergic reaction, there’s no question to emotion in some of the scenes made it a better book. When my Kirkus review came out, and it called this novel “more deeply felt that Carter’s first five cases,” I don’t mind admitting I was thrilled. (So was my agent, but that’s another matter).

         

I realize that when it comes to writing with feeling, many of the Reds—and their regular visitors—are nuclear scientists who have learned to generate heat by splitting the atom, while I am still the chimpanzee who accidentally discovered fire.

        

So I’m curious to hear about your experiences: What role does has real-life emotion played in your fiction? How have your feelings informed your work?   

HANK: And see above for my additional question: What does the title of this essay even mean? Hey, pssst.  Listen, Brad's on tour (check his schedule here) for his much-praised new book.(Which does sound terrific--cannot wait tread it!)  Why don't you go to one of his events..and ask him?  

Okay, dear Brad, teasing. 

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

Brad Parks is the only author to have won the Shamus, Nero and Lefty Awards. Now that he has made this confession, he is weeping into a handkerchief and reading a Nicholas Sparks novel. For more on Brad, visit www.BradParksBooks.com.