P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Because I have to …

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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.

After every dark and stormy night, a bluebird day

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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.

Every story begins with two words

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As a mystery novelist, I often contemplate the writing process. Which is in itself a damned perplexing mystery.

Where do ideas come from? How do writers turn their ideas into short stories, novels, scripts and screenplays? There’s a more practical question, too: Is there some shortcut to avoid what’s otherwise a long slog?

Take it from me, it’s an occupational hazard. Everyone who takes writing the least bit seriously does it. We ask other writers about it as if it’s a pick-up line in a bar: So, what’s your process? We read books on the subject, hopeful we’ll glean something — anything — that improves our own processes. Or at least makes them less vexing.

Here’s the problem. The writing process is different for every writer, as unique as their fingerprints. What succeeds magnificently for one writer fails miserably for another.

Yet, there’s no shortage of general advice from writers about the writing process.

Anne Lamont emphasizes persistence over perfection. How do you tackle an overwhelming project — one involving birds, for example? One step at a time. Bird by bird. In other words: Butts in chairs and hands on keyboards. And don’t worry too much about what Lamont describes unapologetically as “shitty” first drafts. They become better second drafts.

Then again, a quote attributed to sportswriter Red Smith described the process this way: “Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter, open a vein and bleed.”

Even a novelist as successful and prolific as Stephen King admits he doesn’t understand the writing process. King recalled in the afterword of one of his recent collections of short stories how his tales sometime rush into his mind fully formed. “Why this process works, or how it works, is a complete mystery to me.”

I’m no more an authority on writing than anyone else. I believe nonetheless every story, every novel, every fabrication of fiction begins with the same two words arranged as a question: What if? Not literally, of course. But as the origin of the premise.

King answers a lot of what if questions in his novels. What if vampires invade a small New England town? What if a rabid St. Bernard traps a mother and her young son in a stalled car? What if someone travels back in time to prevent the assassination of JFK?

I consider in my novels what happens if a workaholic reporter laid off at a Denver newspaper settles for a job as editor of a small town weekly in the remote northwest corner of Colorado. What if that man meets a brilliant and beautiful history professor searching for a cache of loot hidden by the outlaw Butch Cassidy? What if, two years later, the same couple is scuba diving in a mountain lake in search of treasure and finds instead a ghastly corpse tied to a rock?

What if constitutes only the start of stories. It’s up to writers to explain what follows. Why their characters react the way they do and how they change as a result.

Some writers — call them “plotters” — carefully plan their next steps. They craft outlines, arrange notecards and compile detailed information about their characters and settings. You could call me a “pantser,” someone who writes by the seat of his pants. I prefer the term “discovery writer.” In proceeding without a plan, I’m free to discover where my characters lead me as the plot unfolds. I’m not only surprised by what they do, but also grateful since it’s usually more compelling than anything I could have imagined.

But that’s a story for another time. One that undoubtedly begins with two words. What if?

Backstories make for compelling stories

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I love a good backstory. How about you?

Backstories reveal past experiences and events. All those details that bring characters in books and movies to life and explain why they do what they do.

What turns Bruce Wayne into Batman? The haunting memory of his parents’ murder. Harry Potter’s background as an orphan who discovers magical abilities affects the ways he responds to the challenges he faces. Childhood trauma, aristocratic heritage and powerful intellect combine to create the monstrous — and fascinating — Hannibal Lecter.

Backstories turn two-dimensional cutouts rendered in bland physical descriptions into three-dimensional individuals with vibrant personalities. And faults. The more the better. Backstories create characters to which readers relate because they empathize with their needs, problems and aspirations. Most important, readers care about these characters and what happens to them.

Compelling plots might entice readers to turn pages. But if readers don’t care about the characters or what happens to them, what’s the point? The real story isn’t so much about what happens to characters, but how characters react and change based on their experiences.

Like any good thing — chocolate cake comes to mind — backstories are best served a little at a time. There’s a temptation to tell readers everything about the hero right off the bat. There’s also a temptation to devour a whole cake as an appetizer. The pleasure in reading and eating comes in savoring the experience, especially surprises. The alternative is a tiresome information dump or bellyache.

It’s essential to establish backstory near the beginning to foster a basic understanding of what a character wants, what’s at stake and what stands in the way. Then add more backstory to provide depth and context.

Don’t tell a backstory, show it. An event — a sight, sound or smell — triggers memories. Habits like hoarding or cracking knuckles signal deprivation, anxiety and other emotions rooted in the past. The way characters talk — accents, dialects and the words they choose — reflect their background, education and personality.

Don’t show backstory for the sake of showing backstory, though. Show only what’s relevant to what characters think and do. Events, actions and dialogue should unveil backstory gradually even as characters develop.

I wrote a murder mystery featuring a small town newspaper editor as sleuth. I wanted to add a treasure hunt as well as a love story. I invented a second protagonist in a brilliant history professor.

Their backstories? My editor was laid off from his job as a reporter at a big city daily and is desperate to resurrect his career. My professor has searched for years for a cache of stolen loot hidden by the outlaw Butch Cassidy. My characters seperately avoided romantic relationships to focus on work. Together, they’re looking not only for truth and treasure, but also redemption and the meaning missing in their lives.

Here’s what else backstory can do. The professor reveals in my first novel a failed engagement to a paleontologist that left her embittered. That kernel of information serves as a springboard into my second novel in the series. That and the fact the professor learned as a teen-ager how to scuba dive. What follows is the discovery of a ghastly corpse roped to a rock at the bottom of a mountain lake, a plot to illegally unearth dinosaur fossils from public land and a search for gold bars stolen a century ago in a stagecoach robbery.

I strive to offer readers unique characters that bring distinctive skills — and shortcomings — to life-and-death conflicts. Then inspire readers to care what happens. Backstories remain an essential part of the effort.

I love a good backstory. How about you?

A hardboiled Christmas Carol

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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.”