WIP - A Florida man....

I’ve written two short stories involving Sherlock Holmes and one novel based on the twin brother of Hercule Poirot. A novel based on Edgar Allen Poe’s Auguste Dupin currently sits at 40k. However, the photo above represents my current project.

As you can imagine, my present work is not my usual historical mystery. In fact, it takes place in contemporary Northwest Florida. Why there? Well, aside from the fact that I was born there, like Carl Hiaasen, I know that Florida is ripe with colorful, crazy characters.

My private detective lives aboard a converted tugboat, much like the one above. That’s only one thing that makes him unusual. Most notable, he’s 4’6”. Having a detective with dwarfism is not unknown. George Chesbro had a detective named, Dr Robert Frederickson (known from his circus days as Mongo). Mongo is a professor of criminology as well as a black belt in martial arts.

My creation, Butch Larson, known to his friends as Fix, is full of surprises as well. Although not a black belt, he learned self defense from his Navy Seal stepfather and is quite adept with using a tactical baton. This talent comes in handy since he’s a terrible shot and doesn't like guns.

Like the best detectives, he has his flaws. He’s currently separated from his wife and has a habit forgetting to attend their daughter’s school activities. Although he’s a loving father and husband, his intensity and habit of getting obsessed with his investigations have taken a toll on his family. Like many people with his form of dwarfism, chronic pain with his joints and bones causes him to suffer with bouts of insomnia.

His current case has him searching for a missing young boy at a Civil War re-enactment campground. Throw in homicidal twins, reptile smugglers, and a cross-dressing unfaithful husband, and the stage is set for some crazy times from the pine tree lined farms to the sugar white sands of a 19th century fort.

It’s time for me to get back to it. I left him ducking bullets.

VIOLENCE OR "LIVE AND LET DIE"

When you write a mystery, the portrayal of violence is a given. How that violence is portrayed determines what kind of mystery you’re writing. Most of my favorite mysteries have fallen more towards the Cozy side. In such, the violence is discrete and easily covered up by the nearest sheet or oriental carpet. Agatha Christie was the Queen of the Cozy. Even modern writers like Louise Penny tend to keep the gore to a minimum.

That’s not to say I don’t like a gritty mystery/thriller. I enjoy Don Winslow, Carl Hiaasen, Elmore Leonard, and even the craziness of Tim Dorsey. I’ve read Thomas Harris and am amazed how he can even make Hannibal Lechter accessible as a human being.

Currently, I’m toeing the line between a Cozy and a Thriller. Since it involves smuggling in modern Florida, there’s bound to be violence of some sort. And yet, I find myself hesitating to step over the killing line. The people involved are seriously corrupt. However, are they corrupt enough to kill? I guess that depends on the motive. At this point, I only see them killing in self defense. Still, at least two of the minor characters are capable of killing without provocation. They’ve already threatened a kid’s life.

There’s a scene coming up where things are about to blow apart. I’m curious to see how each character reacts. They’ve thrown me some surprises so far. There are some hinted at background stories that I am just starting to explore. That’s one of the most pleasurable things about writing for me. I love watching the story play out in the theater of my mind.

I’ll let you know how it turns out later.

In the meantime, what are your thoughts on violence in books? Is there such a thing as too much? Where do you draw the line. If you’re a writer, tell me how you handle the subject.

As always, thanks for reading.

SUPPORT AN AUTHOR

So, I finally received copies of the new anthology, Sherlock Holmes AND THE OCCULT DETECTIVES. My short story, THE CASE OF THE TALKING BOARD is a haunting little mystery where Sherlock Holmes teams up with his old friend, C. August Dupin. You might remember Dupin from Edgar Allan Poe’s tale, MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.. They travel to Balmoral Castle to assist Queen Victoria with what might be the ghost of Prince Albert.

To celebrate, I’m offering a special 30% discount for one week (7/10/20-7/17/20. Just use code HOLMES2020. Please visit my page at www.jajensenbooks.com or go direct to the product page at https://www.jajensenbooks.com/new-products/sherlock-holmes-and-the-occult-detectives-vol-ii

Thanks for your support!

ORGANIZING A NOVEL

Since I write Historical Mysteries as well as horror, I belong to the class of fiction writers known as “plotters”. I want to have the framework in place before I let my detective work his way through the puzzle. I know where the beats need to hit and how the structure of the acts follows a classic detective narrative.

Now within that framework, my characters have full license to take me on surprising tangents and often do so without my knowing what they might say or do in a particular situation. So, in that part of the process, I become a bit of a “Pantser” (seat of your pants).

A couple of years ago, had the extreme privilege of spending a couple of hours with the late horror master, Dennis Etchison. Aside from being a little awestruck of being in the presence of a master story teller, it was a an unexpected pleasure to learn that we both received, “The Muse” in a similar way. We both described the experience of watching a movie play out in our minds and working like crazy to record those images on paper.

So, within the bare erector set of my novel, I record a movie that runs across the screen behind my eyes. As such, I’m never quite sure what my characters are going to say or do until it’s done.

I’ve attached a photo that shows a small part of the framework I use. I borrowed a lot of the elements from J.K. Rowling. With it, I’m able to know where each character is at any given time. Along with that paper, I also use Aeon Timeline 2.0 software to maintain a proper chronology. It syncs perfectly with my Scrivener writing program.

Please let me know what works for you in the comments. If you’re in the mood for a free scary story, check out my Southern Gothic Horror, Haunting Annabelle, over on Wattpad https://my.w.tt/YIQ0icvCJY.

Have a great week of writing and thanks for reading.

Time Off For Comic-Con

Last year, I attended my first Comic-Con. Thanks to a short story I published, I was granted a Professional badge. I went all four days, including preview night. At the end, I was exhausted and wondering if I wanted to ever do that craziness again.

This year, I mainly focused on making the most of Comic-Con as a professional. The panels I attended were mostly related to writing. I also allowed myself to relax and try not to do everything. I even took off Friday and didn’t go back on Sunday. As a result, I got more out of my effort this year.

Fiction writing is a lonely art. Most of my time is spent with the characters running around in my head or down some rabbit hole of research. It’s good for the filling of the creative well to get out amongst other creative people. Any time I attend a writers meeting or workshop, I come away reinvigorated and renewed in purpose.

I’m very much the introvert. However, I need to be around other writers from time to time. I need the encouragement and also to the reality check. My advice to all writers is to push yourself to break out of your shell for at least short bursts. Writers need the company of other writers. Only we understand the madness. And to those extroverts among us, please help us out and pull us into the conversation once in a while. We have much to say on the paper. It’s just hard to speak it.

Have a great writing week.

The Paved Road To Hell

Ah, the best of intentions. Although I fell behind on my short story here, I’ve not been idle. This year, I finished a short story for an anthology entry and continued on my novel. I also edited an older novel and started posting it on Wattpad to see how it played with real readers. You can take a look at: https://www.wattpad.com/742736266-haunting-annabelle-a-southern-gothic-horror

I’m pretty close to sticking to my year’s goal of writing every day. Trying not to look back on the years I’ve been plugging away and not get a little discouraged is hard. Yet, to be honest, it’s only recently that I’ve worked hard at it. So, I’ll cut myself some slack as long as I keep moving forward.

I’ll not lead you on. The Poirot short story is not going to be weekly. There will still be parts added. However, I’m sticking to working on my novel. If you want a taste of my work, read the Wattpad posts. It’s an older work and I’ve gotten much better. Still, it has my basic style.

To my fellow writers, keep on truckin’. To the readers, keep on reading and buy your books at an Indie Bookstore.

THE PHANTOM OF THE WALDORF (part 3)

Twenty years ago, she would have been beautiful. However, having all that you want can ruin a person. It makes a man lazy. It can make a woman bitter. And Achille knew that bitter is never lovely.

“Please allow me to introduce Mr. Achille Poirot,” Creel said to Mrs. Edmonds’ back.

She turned and placed a long, black cigarette holder in her mouth. She inhaled deeply and made a cherry red “O” with her mouth and blew. The smoke drifted towards Achille but curved at the last minute and hit Creel square in the face. The manager scrunched his face and stifled a sneeze.

“Enchante’” Achille nodded his head an inch.

“Poirot,” she said. “I’ve heard of that name.”

Achille smiled.

“No doubt, you’ve heard of my famous brother, Hercule,” he said.

“Yes, that’s the one,” she waved her cigarette holder at him. “Funny little bald man with a queer walk.”

“Well, he inherited the brains and I the looks,” Achille said.

Edmonds took another drag on her cigarette and looked down her nose at him.

“Right,” she said as she exhaled.

“I’ve taken the liberty of asking Mr. Poirot to assist us with your missing jewel,” Creel stepped forward.

“Are you a detective like your brother?” she asked.

Achille gestured towards a sofa and chairs by the fireplace.

“May we sit down?” he asked.

She cinched the kimono tighter and floated over to the sofa. Tucking her legs beneath her, she leaned back against a large green pillow. The two men glanced at each other and took chairs across from the sofa.

“To answer your query,” Achille continued. “No, I’m not a professional detective.”

Creel leaned forward.

“However,” he interjected. “Mr. Poirot has been instrumental in helping the police solve several crimes since he’s made his home with us.”

“Have there been several crimes here at the Waldorf?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Creel waved his hands.

“No, no, no,” he stammered. “Mr. Poirot has solved many crimes outside of this hotel.”

“Well, there was the case of the young girl who was found dead at the hotel’s loading dock,” Achille said.

Creel gripped the chair’s arm. It gave a dull creak.

“She was murdered somewhere else and left there by a madman,” Creel said.

Edmonds leaned forward and picked up a gold cigarette case from the table. She removed the expired butt and replaced it with a fresh one. Achille noticed a maker’s mark on the slender white cigarette. It came from an exclusive tobacconist in London.

“So, you have madmen prowling about the grounds?” she smirked.

Creel’s cheeks reddened and beads of sweat formed a halo across his forehead.

“Madam, we are simply here to assist you in recovering your jewel,” Achille said. “Monsieur Creel is correct in stating that the Waldorf Astoria is not only the best hotel in New York City, it’s also the safest.”

“And yet,” she replied. “I’m missing a very large ruby.”

Achille tented his fingers.

“There’s nothing in this world that is flawless,” he said. “I will repair the hotel’s reputation and find your jewel.”

Edmonds narrowed her eyes and lit her cigarette.

“But first,” Achille continued. “You must leave.”

Creel hiccuped and dabbed his forehead with an already damp handkerchief. Mrs. Edmonds stopped in mid-inhale of her cigarette and coughed.

“What did you say?” she stood up.

“Yes, what?” Creel jumped up as well.

Achille sat and opened his hands, palm up.

“I must have complete, uninterrupted access to this suite to conduct a thorough investigation,” he said.

“And where am I to go?” she waved her cigarette around like a wand.

Achille stood and walked to the front door.

“Monsieur Creel will escort you to my apartment in the other tower here,” he said. “My valet will see to your every need.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it and looked from Achille to Creel.

“Good lord Achille,” Creel said. “At least let Mrs. Edmonds get properly dressed.”

Achille bowed his head.

“Of course,” he said. “Please replace the fine Japanese silk with something more appropriate for the hallways.”

Within minutes, Creel was leading Mrs. Edmonds out of the suite. She passed Achille without glancing back.

“You’d better know what you’re doing,” Creel whispered as he passed Achille.

Achille closed the door behind them and turned to face the room.

“I know that you’re here mon ami,” he said. “It’s time for you to come out and play.”

THE PHANTOM OF THE WALDORF (part 2)

“What took you so long?” Creel asked.

He dabbed his high forehead with an already damp handkerchief and glanced around the hotel lobby. He saw at least two reporters sitting across from each other. They both tried to act like they were reading a paper and paying attention to the comings and goings of the busy hotel. However, their occasional scribbles on discretely tucked away notepads betrayed their intent.

“Well,” Achille smiled, “Good morning to you as well.”

Creel’s right eye twitched. It always did when he was nervous. Today, it appeared to Achille that the poor hotel manager attempted to send out his stress via Morse Code with that eye.

“I’m sorry Mr. Poirot,” Creel said. “We’ve never had a theft at the Waldorf Astoria under my watch. If you don’t nip it in the bud and find the thief, both the hotel’s and my reputation will be in tatters.”

Achille took Creel by the elbow and led him to the elevator.

“Take me to the room and we shall investigate without delay,” he said.

Creel’s shoulders visibly relaxed and the eye twitch slowed. As the polished metal doors of the elevator opened, Achille led the way and Creel followed like a puppy. The operator smiled and tipped his hat.

“Where to Mr. Poirot?” he asked.

Each word was punctuated by his chewing on a large stick of gum.

“The fifth floor,” Creel frowned and held out his hand.

Plucking the wrapper out of his pocket, the young man spit his gum into it and handing the wad to Creel. The manager held it in his palms like a bug and tipped it into the ashcan in the corner.

“Sorry Mr. Creel,” the operator mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

Creel opened his mouth to reply and a bell dinged.

“Ah, we’ve arrived,” Achille said and walked into the hall.

With a quick disapproving glance at the operator, Creel followed.

“Tell me then what you know,” Achille gestured for the manager to lead the way.

Creel folded his arms and walked down the carpeted hall. Aside from a maid dusting a light fixture, they were alone.

“Mrs. Edmonds, wife of Henry Edmunds the financier, arrived yesterday afternoon,” Creel said. “She is staying with us for the weekend until she’ll catch a steamer on Monday to meet her husband in London.”

Creel paused as a door opened and a young couple burst out of their room. They both blushed as they saw the two men. The woman giggled and the man smiled as they hurried past.

“Newlyweds,” Achille smiled.

Creel cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he continued. “Although we have a top rated hotel safe, Mrs. Edmonds insisted that all of her jewelry be stored in her room. Of course, I readily agreed since the Waldorf is the safest hotel in all of New York.”

“And yet,” Achille interrupted. “Sometime during the night, her valuables went missing.”

“A valuable,” Creel corrected. “A rather large ruby necklace was missing from her valise this morning.”

Creel shook his head.

“Actually,” he corrected himself. “The whole necklace was not missing, only the 5 carat ruby stone.”

Achille stopped and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Creel’s eye began to twitch again. “The diamond studded necklace was on the floor. Upon closer inspection , I could see that…”

He hesitated.

“Yes?” Achille prompted.

“I may be mistaken,” Creel continued. “However, it appeared that the silver setting had been chewed.”

“Chewed?” Achille asked. “The young man this morning said something about a ghost. Do spirits have teeth?”

Creel pulled out his handkerchief again.

“There’s no ghost,” he said. “It’s a silly rumor that’s circulating among the staff.”

“What would cause such a rumor?” Achille asked.

“Well,” Creel hesitated and the twitch increased. “Guests reported hearing a muffled howl during the night and scratching along the hallway.”

The manager stopped at the end of the hall.

“Please don’t mention anything about a ghost to Mrs. Edmonds,” he said as he knocked on the door.

Achille smiled.

“I deal only with the corporeal,” he said. “The spirits that I pursue are in beautiful glass bottles.”

Both men looked up as they heard a slight scratching in a vent above them. The suite door opened and they were greeted by a large bleach blond woman in a bright blue kimono.

“It’s about damn time,” she said and walked back into the room in a trail of cigarette smoke.