It’s easy to maintain an attitude of gratitude with my proverbial cornucopia overflowing with ample food, good health and the love of those I cherish most. I’m doubly fortunate, though, as a retired newspaper journalist turned mystery novelist. I write every day. Flex my creative muscles. Best of all, I continue to pursue my lifelong passion to tell compelling stories.

In this season of thanksgiving, here are a few of the many blessings I count as a novelist:

1. The English language and its more than 170,000 words. That’s a lexicon large and varied enough to supply the right word for every occasion without settling for the almost right word. It’s a distinction Mark Twain compared to the difference between lightning and lightning bug.
2. Writing that conveys in clear and convincing fashion exactly what you want to convey. The vivid description that immerses readers in a scene. Authentic dialogue that not only propels stories forward, but also reveals character. What Ernest Hemingway described as “the truest sentence you know.”
3. The good idea that materializes out of thin air and twists your story in a way you never expected. As a pantser — someone who eschews planning and writes instead by the seat of his pants — I discover how my plot unfolds the same time as my characters. I’m invariably surprised and supremely grateful for something more interesting than anything I could have devised ahead of time.
4. A good editor with a keen eye for details, a deep understanding of what makes stories good and a collaborative approach. I’m blessed beyond measure to work with a skillful and experienced editor who makes my writing better than I ever thought possible. She’s both muse and mentor in providing inspiration and guidance.
5. The camaraderie of writers who’ve been there, done that and understand the persistence required to write fiction. I meet weekly with an eclectic group of writers as talented as they are supportive. They criticize, but always in constructive ways. There’s an implicit admission we all struggle, but also the assurance we struggle together.
6. Beta readers who provide valuable feedback on manuscripts before they’re published. My mystery novels feature an amateur sleuth in a history professor. Imagine how fortunate I am, then, to know a real history professor willing to share his time and expertise to read my pages and tell me what I’m doing right and wrong.
7. Novels that offer proof of what’s possible, set examples to emulate and provide motivation to keep working on my craft. That makes me grateful to Ray Bradbury, C.J. Box and Robert McCammon. That’s not to mention Mark Stevens and Kevin Wolf.
8. Google and other internet resources that make research easy and provide quick answers to strange questions at the push of a few buttons. I’m sure I’m not the only mystery novelist who wonders how fast corpses decompose in cold water or what poisonous mushrooms grow in Colorado.

I’d love to add to my list literary agents who respond promptly to queries. While I’m at it, how about a three-book deal with a big-five publisher that includes a six-figure advance?

For now, though, I’ve got more than enough for which to be thankful and maintain my attitude of gratitude.

 

Why write?

The answers are as numerous and unique as writers.

My answer for more than 40 years was simple: I like to eat. I wrote for a total of seven newspapers in that span to earn money to buy food. Not to mention pay for housing, beer and other necessities. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my jobs. I was paid to talk with interesting people and tell interesting stories. Thousands of them over the course of my career. But I never could have done so without also paying the bills.

During the past decade, my answer became more complicated. In addition to news stories, I wrote two novels. The first installments in a mystery series set in the rugged northwest corner of Colorado. And now that I’m a recovering journalist — retired, that is — I write mostly fiction. I’m blessed to no longer write as a means of subsistence, but for other reasons.

The fun of it, for starters. Joy springs from choosing exactly the right words, arranging them in elegant sentences and conveying ideas in compelling fashion. Writing fiction is a bit like describing the movies playing in my head and hoping readers see what I see. The more detailed and vivid the descriptions, the more likely they’ll want to follow along.

It’s no less enjoyable to discover where creativity leads. As a pantser — someone who avoids planning and writes instead by the seat of his pants — I get to tag along with the characters in my novels and find out what they do as the plot unfolds. I’m almost always surprised. And grateful, because it’s usually something more interesting than anything I could have devised ahead of time. Believe it or not, the process works that way.

More than anything, I write to bring my characters to life and share their stories. I want readers to join my small town newspaper editor and my history professor on their adventures. To endure their setbacks. To celebrate their victories. To foster a deep personal interest in their well-being.

Author Judy Blume emphasizes this internal compulsion and emotional connection in her advice to writers: “The best books come from someplace deep inside. You don’t write because you want to, but because you have to. Become emotionally involved. If you don’t care about your characters, your readers won’t either.”

But that also induces my recurring fear. If I don’t introduce the characters from my novels to the world, they’ll die when I die, unknown and unappreciated figments of my imagination. I worry they’ll gather around my deathbed and press for an explanation.

Why write? Because I have to.

Bluebird day.

Anyone who’s spent enough time in Colorado knows about that remarkable experience. A sunny day savored beneath a cloudless sky painted with a palette of blues ranging from cyan to cerulean.

Skiers and snowboarders especially prize the bluebird days that follow snowy nights, a deep blue sky above and glittering white landscape below. The contrast is no less vivid on a crisp fall day in the high country, where yellow aspen leaves quake in the breeze and tumble like gold coins from the blue heavens.

Bluebird days occur in Colorado because of a combination of weather and geography. Low-pressure systems that push storms west to east often precede high-pressure systems that bring air so still and dry it takes on a crystalline clarity. Mountain elevations intensify the illumination of the sun. At least that’s the scientific explanation.

I believe there’s a psychological component as well. Bluebird days induce euphoria. An eagerness to accept challenges, push limits and seize opportunities before they’re squandered. To realize successes.

Then there are the metaphorical aspects of bluebird days. And, at long last, my point as a novelist: Bluebird days constitute an important metaphor in mystery writing.

What’s the opposite of a bright and clear day? A dark and stormy night — part of the opening lines made famous by first Edward Bulwer-Lytton and then Madeleine L’Engle. Don’t forget Snoopy, the cartoon strip beagle who typed his novels atop his doghouse.

Most mysteries don’t begin on dark and stormy nights, but dead bodies often appear on opening pages. Corpses — and, by extension, foreboding evil — provide a reliable hook that yanks readers into stories at the onset. Detectives, private investigators and librarians — sleuths of all sorts — then go about the process of figuring out who done it and bring the villains to justice. In that process, sleuths invariably endure life-changing difficulties even as the stakes mount.

What follows every metaphorical dark and stormy night? That supreme ordeal? A metaphorical bluebird day. A resolution. Challenges accepted, limits pushed, opportunities seized and successes realized.

I write what I contend are bluebird day mysteries set in the rugged mountains of Colorado. My mysteries include plenty of dark and stormy nights in deadly shootings, mine cave-ins and other catastrophes. Villains commit heinous crimes motivated by greed, envy and revenge. My sleuths — a relentless small town journalist and brilliant history professor — endure their own difficulties. But in the midst of their desperate searches for truth and treasure, they discover meaning. Good triumphs over evil and love conquers all. Bluebird days prevail.

I hope my bluebird day mysteries offer readers an escape from what’s too often the stresses and tedium of life — bad days at work and mind-numbing scrolling through screens. I offer a chance instead to sit, relax and savor a compelling story told well.

In other words, an experience as enjoyable and satisfying as a bluebird day in Colorado.

I’m a big fan of Charles Dickens. I mean, what writer isn’t envious of the opening lines of “A Tale of Two Cities?” It really was the best of times and worst of times. But I’m especially fond of Dickens when the holidays bring to mind “A Christmas Carol” and the transformation of the miserly and miserable Ebenezer Scrooge into a kinder, gentler man. Talk about character arc.

But here’s the thing. As a mystery novelist, I’m also a fan of Raymond Chandler and his books featuring the iconic private detective Philip Marlowe.

I’ve often wondered what would have resulted if Dickens and Chandler could have collaborated. Here’s what I imagined … .

A Hardboiled Christmas Carol

Marlowe was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.

He was decked out in a powder blue suit, dark blue shirt and black socks with dark blue clocks on them. He would have looked sharp if he wasn’t crumpled face down in the middle of Bourbon Street in a pool of blood. Three bullet holes ruined the back of his jacket. They couldn’t have done much for his health, either. He’d built a reputation as a tough private eye in LA, an honest one in a corrupt world. Problem is, the Big Easy is anything but. Somebody got to him.

It was my job as a police detective to figure out who.

It was late afternoon. I’d planned to knock off early. Enjoy a quiet evening in my apartment off the Quarter. Just the two of us. Me and a bottle. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Now I faced a murder investigation as welcome as a lump of coal in my stocking.

“Hey, Scrooge. Got what you need? Coroner’s boys gettin’ antsy to haul the deceased to the morgue and head for home. It’s a holiday. Remember?” 

I’d seen everything I needed to see. I questioned the bystanders who, as it turned out, hadn’t seen a damned thing. What I didn’t need was a flatfoot and some lackeys rushing me.

“It’s Lieutenant Scrooge, sergeant. Remember? So you and your pals will just have to wait to clean up this mess until I tell you to.” I hesitated for effect. “OK. So clean it up.”

Judging by the scowl that twisted his face, the sergeant wasn’t amused. “You’re a real prince, aren’t you lieutenant? Heard that about you. Well merry friggin’ Christmas to you, too.”

#

It was nearly midnight before I shambled past the sad brick building on Villere Street full of cheap apartments, one of them mine. I scaled the rickety stairs to the third floor, turned the lock and fell into a sagging couch with worn cushions. Most nights I slept on that couch with a blanket and pillow for company. Tonight would be no different. I was dead tired. But my head kept spinning like I was stuck on a merry-go-round that wouldn’t stop. Who killed Marlowe? I beat on some doors and threatened to beat on some heads. It was difficult, though, to find out much of anything on Christmas Eve.

#

I awoke to a pounding on my door. The luminous dial on my wristwatch told me it was 1 a.m. I reached for the .38 stashed in a drawer in the end table by the couch.

I stood well to the side of the door, a finger tickling the trigger of my pistol.
“Who’s there?”

“Bob. Bob Cratchit.”

I hadn’t heard that name in years. We worked homicide together before he transferred. Last I heard, he’d moved to Peoria. Showing up unannounced at my apartment, he might as well have been the Ghost of Christmas Past. I invited him in anyway.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Not staying long, if that’s what you’re asking. Came back to town to see the in-laws and just heard about Marlowe. Thought you might want to know I saw him yesterday morning at Cafe du Monde. Remember Fizziwig, that strange fella we used to work with? Always joking around? He was there and they were yucking it up over coffee and beignets.”

#

I must have dozed off, because the pounding woke me again.

I resumed my stance at the door, gun at the ready. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Belle. Let me in.”

She sashayed past me on long, shapely legs below a tight red dress. She was an ash blond with greenish eyes. And until our latest fight, my girlfriend. She was like the Ghost of Christmas Present paying me a visit to show me what I was missing. There was no need. I knew.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” I inquired.

“There’ll be no pleasure, mister. I thought I made that clear the last time you stood me up for one of your damned investigations.”

“If you don’t want to kiss and make up, then what are you doing here?”

A face flush with anger turned pallid. “To warn you, Ebenezer. You’re in danger.”

#

I stretched out on the couch to contemplate the parade through my apartment and everything I’d heard. I closed my eyes to rest them for a moment, then didn’t open them again until my cell phone rang. I checked the number. It was the captain. At this hour, it must be something monumental.

“Scrooge here.”

The captain’s patient and empathetic voice came through my phone loud and clear. “Get your ass down here. There’s been a break in the Marlowe case, and it can’t wait.”

“Right now?” I asked. Stupid question.

The captain replied as though he was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, predicting in exacting detail what would happen if I didn’t heed his summons. It wasn’t pretty.

#

Christmas dawned bright, clear and sunny. For once I didn’t wake up with a hammer pounding my brain and a sweaty gym sock stuffed into my mouth. I felt light as a feather and happy as an angel.

It came back to me. Bob Cratchit. Belle. The captain’s urgent phone call. As if the spirits had done it all in one night. What seemed so real must have been the fever dream of a man sick with the strain of a mystery he couldn’t solve. One desperate for redemption. But it got me to thinking. Suddenly, I realized who murdered Marlowe. The only suspect with connections to Marlowe, Fizziwig and Belle.

He was a short man with a limp. A bookie I heard had cheated some rich football fan out of a big payoff on an improbable Saints victory. A fan who must have hired Marlowe to get the money back. Fizziwig was a gambler, too. A notoriously bad one. As for Belle, her work as a Bourbon Street bartender brought her into contact with all sorts. The worst sorts.

I didn’t know the bookie’s name. Only his nickname. They called him Tiny Tim.

#

I stepped onto Villere Street and headed to the station to round up some help to bring in Tim. I drew in a breath of morning air still crisp and clean. An elderly couple walked by hand in hand. The old man looked at me and smiled. “Merry Christmas, son. God bless you.”

I smiled back. “God bless us, everyone.”

Like most members of my nearly geriatric generation, I watched on TV and in movies the evolution of artificial intelligence. The robot that warned Will Robinson about impending danger on “Lost in Space.” The HAL 9000 computer that refused to open the pod bay doors in “2001: A Space Odyssey.” And, of course, the eponymous T-800 that wreaked so much havoc in “The Terminator.”

That was science fiction, though. Thoroughly entertaining. Even thought-provoking. But scarcely credible. I’ve since learned if you wait long enough, truth becomes stranger than science fiction. And sometimes more troubling. In particular, the latest, real life iterations of artificial intelligence and their implications for, well, real life.

Not to downplay the significance of existential threats on a global scale, but what about me? What about the use of AI to write news stories or, for God’s sake, fiction? Count me among the nervous newspaper editors wondering when an almost indestructible job-killing machine will come along to terminate us. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now I’ve also got to compete with computerized novelists penning mysteries? C’mon.

Like so many advances going all the way back to fire, technology offers the promise of both prosperity and destruction, of life-sustaining warmth as well as deadly conflagration. It all depends on how technology is used.

In the case of artificial intelligence and journalism, the Associated Press and other news organizations already use AI to report corporate earnings and sports scores — functions deemed important, but also formulaic enough to complete without humans. That’s one way to use the tool. To take on tedious tasks and devote precious time and resources to more useful purposes.

But AI also has been used to create other types of content. And here’s the concern. There’s an incentive for companies that make money to create content to use AI to cut costs and, therefore, make more money. One technology news site published stories written with the help of AI that contained errors and were subsequently discovered to have plagiarized other content. While AI might mimic human-created content, it also can produce what’s been described as pink slime journalism. Yuck. That’s another way to use the tool.

AI similarly has been used in various ways to produce fiction. Mostly in analyzing work and suggesting what could be helpful changes. But also in more profound ways. By one estimate, AI wrote 95 percent of a murder mystery with the ironic title “Death of an Author.”

I’m no Luddite. I have no desire to return to good old days that were anything but. Banging out news stories on typewriters and editing copy with a pencil. For that matter, I wouldn’t trade my trusty MacBook Pro for anything when it comes to the ease the computer affords in writing and researching. Technology has made my work far more efficient and my job far easier.  

Still, I’d argue journalism and fiction should remain human endeavors. 

A thoughtful process is required to not only report news stories, but also convey an understanding of what those stories are about. What’s important. Why it’s important. That’s not to mention the thought that should go into determining what stories to report in the first place.

I’d also like to believe I imbue every page of my fiction with the stuff of human experience in all its glory and shame. Triumph. Failure. Joy. Sorrow. Amazing grace. Despicable assholery.

Meanwhile, artificial intelligence continues to evolve in TV shows and movies to portend dystopian futures, including one in which AI turns humans into batteries. That’s still science fiction. But also a real-life prospect that’s raised growing concerns.

I’m concerned myself. There’s danger. And not just for Will Robinson.

Will technology warn us of our peril? Or be the cause of it?