Murder is Everywhere

What's in a Name

2026-05-10T16:44:00.001-04:00

Annamaria on Monday

I have commented a few times here on MIE my doubts about AI. To my way of thinking, the very wealthy and powerful creators are pushing far too hard on its adoption without properly considering the downstream risks. They seem to carelessly brush aside all doubts. They sweep the naysayers under the rug. They respond, "That will never happen," without any useful explanation of what they are doing to prevent possible disasters. In some cases, it seems as if they never try for a moment to ask themselves what could go wrong. Not even in situations where doing so would be easy and quick: for instance the names they give their organizations.

We writers of fiction carefully choose the names of our characters, because we know that given names influence what kind of person - real or fictional - the bearer becomes. I am sure that if I named the heroine in my Africa series Valentina instead of Vera, she would have turned out to be altogether different. This is true of all names. Even of corporations. Years ago, when two of my clients, Chase and Chemical banks merged, many of the people in the top executive jobs were from Chemical, but they called the resultant organization Chase. Obviously to anyone, the better choice.

Here are two examples of what look to me like mistakes made by AI companies when naming their organizations. I hope you will find this amusing. You may even think I am being silly to bring them up. But I do worry about the lack of attention when it comes to the simpler task of choosing a name. If they aren't looking carefully at that, wha else are they missing?

Some of the AI pushers fail to consider the way their corporate name will be received when spoken, rather then seen on the screen. Before I ever saw these two, I heard them advertised on WNYC, my beloved public radio station.

One, which I have been hearing on the radio station every morning is called Odoo. Perhaps, in the language of the creators, Odoo is a complimentary term. But every time I hear it said aloud, I imagine employees who will be using the app saying, "Odoo is doo-doo." Now that I have seen it on the screen, it does not look so bad. but did the developers test the name with people who would hear and speak it? If they asked for feedback, surely someone would have pointed out that it rhymes with doo-doo.

The same question goes for Claude Ai. On the screen it is fine, but when I hear it being advertised on the radio, I hear "clawed." "Want AI so you can be more productive? Buy our product and get clawed!"

My general concern here is that AI creators and pushers don't seem to understand the importance of doubt in decision making. They ought to be working hard to figure out what could go wrong and what needs to be done to avoid it. That they approach their work without any doubts is dangerous.

A Day for Honoring Mothers is Upon Us.

2026-05-09T00:00:00.005-04:00

Jeff—Saturday

I can’t wait to get back to Greece. There, at least, the relentless onslaught of agenda-laden, ratings-driven media political analysts, candidates offering transparently undeliverable promises, and crowds cheering for more of their savior’s particular flavor of flimflam Kool-Aid, are all delivered in a language I barely understand.

Then again, I can barely understand what’s happening in America, and fear it’ll all end in tears.

But I have no time for that now. It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow, and so to all you mothers out there, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

I bet most of you don’t know that our present day US form of Mother’s Day was first celebrated in 1908 in West Virginia as a memorial service offered by Anna Jarvis (1864-1948) for her mother, peace activist Ann Reeves Jarvis (1832-1905). It was in large part the relentless efforts of Anna Jarvis that drove President Woodrow Wilson in 1914 to sign a proclamation declaring the second Sunday in May a national holiday to honor mothers. Interestingly, Anna Jarvis later regretted the rampant commercialization of the day and tried (unsuccessfully) to have it removed from the calendar.

Mother Ann Reeves Jarvis

Daughter

Although some also credit Mother’s Day to Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910), another prominent social activist who in 1870 wrote “The Mother’s Day Proclamation” advocating June 2 as Mother’s Day for Peace, it was not her vision of Mother’s Day that President Wilson proclaimed a national holiday. But Ms. Howe still holds national prominence in other ways, for not the least of her accomplishments was authoring The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

Others, too, are credited for their efforts at establishing a Mother’s Day—notably Juliet Calhoun Blakely (a pioneer Michigan woman), Mary Towles Sasseen (a Kentucky school teacher) and Frank Hering (a Notre Dame football player and coach)—so to all of them moms across America should say, “Thanks.”

(1818-1920)

Mary Towles Sasseen (1860-1906)

Frank Hering (1874-1943)

Just in case you’re wondering what possible Greek connection there is to all of this Mother’s Day talk, permit me to answer in a My Big Fat Greek Wedding sort of way: A day celebrating mothers and motherhood can be traced directly back to the ancient Greeks. Each spring they held a festival dedicated to worshiping Rhea, considered the “mother of gods” for her children Hestia, Hades, Demeter, Poseidon, Hera, and Zeus fathered by the Titan Cronos—a fellow best known for eating his children. And, yes, in an act worthy of earning Rhea her very own Mother’s Day, mom helped to ultimately save them all.

Bravo, Mom!

(Rhea and Cronos, together again)

Thanks for everything!

––Jeff

West with the Night

2026-05-07T05:42:22.199-04:00

Michael - Alternate Thursdays

This story is really more up Annamaria’s street. It takes place at the time of her Africa novels - early twentieth century – and takes place where those novels are set – colonial Kenya. It’s the story of a truly remarkable contemporary of Karen Blixen – Beryl Markham. She was an aviator, a racehorse trainer, and a serial lover of such celebrities as Baron von Blixen himself, Denys Finch Hatton (of Out of Africa fame), and she added the Prince of Wales and his younger brother to her tally. She was married three times, but that certainly didn’t interfere with her affairs. Kenya was full of remarkable characters in the White Mischief era.

The main reason that Beryl Markham is remembered is not because of her sexual exploits, but because she wrote an extraordinary memoir titled West with the Night. The title comes from her feat of being the first person to fly solo from England to North America, flying west away from the sun into a long night. In fact, that adventure – during which she nearly died – occupies only the last chapter of her book. Most of it relates to her life growing up, training racehorses, and flying small planes in colonial Kenya.

The book didn’t attract much interest when it was first published. It did well enough while people remembered her record flight, but then sank into obscurity. Perhaps the fact that it mentions none of her husbands or her affairs disappointed the everyday reader who was looking for something more salacious. Ernest Hemingway, however, appreciated it. He wrote to a friend:

“Did you read Beryl Markham's book, West with the Night? ... She has written so well, and marvellously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer. I felt that I was simply a carpenter with words, picking up whatever was furnished on the job and nailing them together and sometimes making an okay pig pen. But this girl, who is to my knowledge very unpleasant and we might even say a high-grade bitch, can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves as writers ... it really is a bloody wonderful book.”

The friend was so taken with the book that he persuaded a US publisher to pick it up and republish it in 1983. The book became a best seller, and there was even some speculation and claims of (at least) co-authorship. None of those have ever been supported by the facts. The success of the book rescued Markham not only from obscurity but also from poverty in her old age. (She lived to 83.) It was a fitting ending to her story.

I reread the book recently and was again struck by the breadth of it, and by the almost cinemagraphic images. Here is a scene from her childhood that gives a flavour of both her writing and the Kenya of those days. It seems that people at the time seemed to think it a good idea to keep their own “tame” lions wandering around on their farms. Her father’s friend, Jim Elkington, had one.

“I was within twenty yards of the Elkington lion before I saw him. He lay sprawled in the morning sun, huge, black-maned, and gleaming with life. His tail moved slowly, stroking the rough grass like a knotted rope end. He was not asleep; he was only idle. He was rusty-red, and soft, like a strokable cat.

I stopped and he lifted his head with magnificent ease and stared at me out of yellow eyes.

I stood there staring back, scuffing my bare toes in the dust, pursing my lips to make a noiseless whistle – a very small girl who knew about lions.”

She holds her courage and walks past the lion, singing a defiant song.

“What lion would be unimpressed by the marching song of the King’s African Rifles?

Singing it still, I took up my trot towards the rim of the low hill which might, if I was lucky, have Cape gooseberry bushes on its slopes.

The country was grey-green and dry, and the sun lay on it closely, making the ground hot under my bare feet. There was no sound and no wind.

Even the lion made no sound, coming swiftly behind me.”

Obviously she lived to tell the tale, but not without scars to tell it for her.

“The lion had lived and died in ways not of his choosing. He was a good lion. He had done what he could about being a tame lion. Who thinks it just to be judged by a single error?

I still have the scars of his teeth and claws, but they are very small now and almost forgotten, and I cannot begrudge him his moment.”

It’s a wonderful autobiography, whatever its biases or omissions.

Singapore Slings, Peanut Shells and Singapore Crime Fiction

2026-05-05T02:00:00.353-04:00

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

I’ve been working on a piece about Singapore crime fiction for an encyclopedia of Global Crime Fiction and it's driving home to me how little I know on the subject. Plus I have to admit that none of my current 'fun' reading books originated here in Singapore.

One is A Quiet Place by Seicho Matsumoto. The other is a slim German for beginners krimi, Die Dritte Hand. But I do have an excuse--we read to get encounter broader experiences, so I'm getting to visit Japan and Germany in my down time.

But it feels a bit like betrayal because there are local books I haven't yet read... which is a huge change from how it was forty years ago when I started writing. In those days I didn't just read pretty much all the locally published (in English) books, I believe I attended most of the book launches or at least spoke to the authors!

And maybe it's a great, glorious thing that my reading can no longer keep up!

But what is Singapore crime fiction?

It made me think about what we tell visitors who ask about 'real Singapore food'.
We bring them for a Singapore Sling at the Raffles Hotel and introduce them to yellow chicken curry or Nonya laksa.
But what do we eat when left to ourselves?
Something like prata for breakfast, maybe Mala hotpot on a rainy day like today and some sushi or ramen for dinner; food that was originally Indian, Chinese, Japanese, but tweaked to please local tastes and a big part of our lives here.

And maybe our reading habits evolved much the same way.

Because if I’m honest, my reading taste—especially when it comes to my beloved mysteries—was formed by books from our former colonial masters. And after getting hooked on glorious British golden age mystery sleuths I met Americans like Nero Wolfe and Ellery Queen and there was no looking back.
They still remain the chicken rice and satay of my writing, even as Indian, Japanese and Scandinavian sleuths have become part of regular reading life and I suspect I’m not alone.

All of which just adds to the difficulty of figuring out if there's really such a thing as authentic “Singapore crime fiction”?

Singapore's often described as one of the safest cities in the world,thanks to low crime, strong laws, hyper efficient policing and internalised social order. Not the most obvious breeding ground for murder and mystery.

But we have Shamini Flint’s Inspector Singh--grumpy, overweight but persistently effective. And the wildly successful Sherlock Sam series by A.J. Low (yes I know they're for younger readers but I still like them!)

While these books clearly fit into global crime traditions, they are clearly rooted in Singapore's characters, food, language and geography.

In Singapore we automatically switch between languages, registers, social settings and religious sensibilities on a daily basis. We read Richard Osman, Vaseem Khan and Uketsu, watch The Frog and Mercy for None (Korean thrillers) on Netflix and and scroll through American true crime/ news reports, on an island that's very different (at least on the surface) from the realities they present.

And, perhaps most importantly, we absorb, adapt and rework what comes in.
That's what I'm hoping to do with my own crime fiction, now that literature ('Poetry' in LKY's words) is no longer a luxury we cannot afford.

Think of it as having a Singapore Sling at the Raffles Hotel. Not even the most 'authentic' Singaporean does that on a weekly or monthly basis, but it's nice knowing there's a space here where you can drink, tell tall tales and crush peanut shells underfoot without getting fined.

Farewell to an Inspiration: Sister Mary Vertucci

2026-05-04T00:00:00.001-04:00

Annamaria on Monday

A woman who was a great inspiration to many has passed a few days ago.

Here is how the people who worked with her describe her:

With both heavy hearts and deep gratitude, we share with you the passing of our beloved Founder and Director, Sr. Mary Vertucci, MM, on April 30, 2026.
Sr. Mary was more than a leader—she was a guiding light, a mentor, and a steadfast advocate for the dignity and potential of every young woman. For over five decades in Tanzania, she devoted her life to ensuring that girls, especially from pastoralist and hunter-gatherer communities, could access education and discover their own worth.
Through her vision, the Emusoi Centre became a place of hope—where young women are nurtured, empowered, and given the opportunity to build a brighter future. Her legacy is alive in every life she touched and in every dream she helped make possible.

Decades ago, a brief article in the Alumna News of the College of St. Elizabeth, our shared Alma mater, introduced me to her work. We had not know each other in school; she arrived there the fall after I graduated. I got in touch with her then because I have cousins named Vertucci. Little did I know that, though we did not share genes, she would change my life in significant ways.

Mary's work in Tanzania awakened me to the importance of her goals. Before long, I had the great pleasure and privilege to visit her in Arusha. There at the base of Kilimanjaro, I saw first hand the importance and urgency of her efforts, but also of how much joy Mary and her fellow missionary sisters took in their work. Visiting there then and afterwords aways also filled me with joy.

Some readers of MIE may remember my story of the Italian who carved his name on a rock in Tanzania. Sister Mary was the one who made it possible for me and my friend Nicoletta see that monument in person.

Mary's work lives on in Emusoi in Tanzania and also in the generations and the progeny of Sister Mary's students. As they go our into the world, her efforts and devotion continue to improve their lives and the lives of those around them. The Emusoi girls become role models and champions for all the people of Tanzania and beyond.

If you would like to contribute to the continuance of Mary's work, you can do so here.

Remembering Sr. Mary Vertucci: A Legacy of Faith, Education and Empowerment

Every girl saved from a life of misery, who has instead a chance to develop and make something of herself may then go on to inspire others. You can help them along.

Birds of Feather

2026-05-03T14:26:00.020-04:00

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

‘Chirp-chirp-chirp. Cackle. Wheeze. Squawk.’ This is the opening line of Chapter 12 in Molten Mud Murder, my first Alexa Glock forensic mystery. Alexa muffles the dawn cacophony by burrowing under her pillow.

I heard a similar sequence of calls, followed by a chortle, chirp and a throat-clearing aaggggh the first morning my husband and I spent at Cooper’s Beach on the North Island of New Zealand. Unlike Alexa, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. I was unable to find which bird sounded like a broken cuckoo clock and later asked the neighbor.

“That’s a tūī, luv,” he said. We stared up into the tall pōhutukawa tree. This time I spotted the glossy blue-green bird. It had a funny white pom pom at its throat. “Going after the nectar. They can be really scrappy bullies.” Then he crooned a folk song he remembered from primary school.

“When the Tūī sits in the Kowhai tree
and the sun tips the mountain tops with gold
when the Rata blooms in the forest glade,
and the hills glow with sunny tints untold.
I love to roam through bush and fern
and hear the Bellbird sing
and feel the touch of the wind on my face
while the joy in my heart does ring.”

'Tui in Flame Tree' by Jane Galloway

I heard this amazing vocalist (the bird, not the nice neighbor) in many places over the next nine months. The widespread and endemic tūī can mimic human words. One legend proclaims the Māori kept them in cages and trained them to give welcome speeches. Tūī have the ability to sing two different notes simultaneously and discordantly. (Ouch!) The adorable white tufts under their chin are specialized feathers called a poi and are used to attract mates.

Other birds show up in Molten Mud Murder, which is set in the Rotorua area on the North Island. Alexa and recurring character Detective Inspector Bruce Horne share their first meal together at Alexa’s tiny rental cottage on the banks of the Kaituna River. (The final photo in today’s post is my husband and I rafting on the exuberant Kaituna!) They sit on the porch eating carrot cake (don’t get me started on the to-die-for carrot cake in New Zealand cafes) discussing the night sky of the Southern Hemisphere, which is unfamiliar to American Alexa. A high-pitched screech makes her drop her fork.

Horne laughs. “It’s a ruru.”

“A what what?” Alexa asks.

“Our only surviving native owl,” he said. “It’s a good one to hear. The Māori knew when they could hear a ruru that no enemy was approaching.”

Some Māori consider the ruru as a messenger between the physical world and the spiritual world. While I write, I listen to a New Zealand songwriter known for his work towards the revival of Māori culture. Hirini Melbourne’s short song entitled “Ruru,” sung in te reo Māori, is lovely and haunting. I could not find an English translation, but Melbourne introduced the song this way, “This is a song about birds...about owls. The owl is a bird that scares many Māori. The Pākehā knows this as an intelligent bird. To some Māori as well, it is the guardian of their families.”

I’ve written to my best ability when I make myself laugh or cry or feel afraid. The latter is what happened when I wrote the opening of Chapter 15 which introduces a third native New Zealand bird: There was a dead bird in the cottage, right in the entry, its wings spread in a feathered fan behind its little body, arranged just so.

Alexa knew there was no dead bird in her cottage before she left. It’s cold and stiff. Rigor mortis is maximum. Someone left it in the cottage while she ran an errand. She stiffens, like the bird, and searches the rest of the cottage. There’s a scary shower scene where she has to whip back the curtain. The police officer who later investigates the incident recognizes the bird.

Pīwakawaka,” he said. “Or tiwaiwaka. Māori have lots of different names for fantail.” He adds, “You know, in Māori culture, a fantail in the house is an omen of death.” Alexa has an uneasy night, long in tooth and full of Māori warriors and angry birds.

My husband and I met fantails on our many hikes. They are acrobatic fliers and use their fanned feathers to change direction quickly while hunting insects. They aren’t shy and sometimes approached us, ‘cheet cheet cheeting,’ landing a tree away and spreading their tail feathers. “Pick a card, any card,” they teased.

Alexa Glock uses forensics to solve crimes. In Molten Mud Murder she wonders if she can lift a fingerprint from the bird to identify the gift-giver. Her wondering is of course my wondering, and during the research for Molten Mud Murder I read a 2015 BBC science article entitlted “Fingerprints ‘breakthrough’ for wildlife crime investigators.”

From the article: A team from Dundee (University of Abertay, in Dundee, Scotland) has been able to recover fingerprints from the feathers of birds of prey, which are under threat from illegal poisoning, shooting and trapping. If the birds have been handled, the incriminating marks could help police to identify the suspect.

Alexa, whose bedtime reading alternates between romances and scientific journals, geeks out over the article. It reveals that red and green magnetic fluorescent fingerprint powder was the key. She hightails it to the lab, the fantail – dubbed Fanny – riding shotgun. After dusting the bird’s small breast, she turns off the lights and turns on the UV lamp. You’ll have to read MMM to see what wonders are revealed.

The avifauna of New Zealand is vast and enchanting. Kiwi, robins, kaka, kererū and gannets help me tell stories in subsequent books. I’ll leave you with the lyrics of another Hirini Melbourne (photo below) song and in hopes that your May is fair and peaceful.

‘Riroriro’ by Hirini Melbourne (1949-2003)

Whakarongo ki te riroriro, riroriro, ka mahi kai māhau

Rere riroriro rere rere runga kōhanga

Huri te uru hauraki hauraki

He tohu kuraraki

Listen to the chattering of the grey warbler, and go and plant your food garden
The grey warbler makes her nest
If the entrance faces to the north wind,
it is a sign the summer season will be fair and peaceful

Until next month, friends,

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

Can You Name the Country?

2026-05-02T00:00:00.003-04:00

As bit while ago as, I was pondering what to post, an email popped onto my screen from one of my best friends. His plane had just landed in the United States and he couldn’t wait to tell me what had happened at the airport in his country of embarkation.

Knowing my friend as well as I did I couldn’t help but laugh, because I knew he was never concerned for his safety and most likely playing the other characters in his tale along until the ultimate moment of enlightenment showed them the error of their ways. But then it hit me: if he hadn’t mentioned the name of the place where it all went down I’d never have known, because it could have happened in any number of countries—and does. So, my question to you is, what’s your best guess on the scene of the (attempted) crime?

Here’s the story as told in the first person by a tall, fit, fifty-year-old man who looks like the quintessential American businessman, flag in the lapel and all. The only changes I made were to references that would give away the country…in order to protect the non-innocent and make this piece a mystery (of sorts).

Just arrived at the Charlotte airport.

It was a crazy trip. Going through [the foreign country’s] departure process they checked my briefcase and saw a lot of cash (I won the tournament and a bunch of $$$).

My [foreign language] was about as good as their English so it wasn't easy to communicate. After going through my briefcase three times I wound up in a back room with five agents.

They took turns going through my bag another couple of times stopping each time to finger the cash that was in a travelers checks plastic wallet. Then they asked me to count it. I was then frisked and when they touched my cargo pants front pocket they asked what was in there.

I told them it was my wallet. They told me to take it out. I did and flipped it open. “Police!” they said [in their language] when they saw my badge. Then they laughed, gave me back my stuff, had me sign a release that my stuff had been inspected and that I had in no way been intimidated.

They then escorted me through the VIP line, gave me a big handshake, and wished me a great trip.

Lucky that I'm a sworn officer of the law or at best I'd be a few dollars lighter today.

Sent from my iPad.

Perhaps the moral to this story is that we all should make a stop at a toy store before taking off for certain parts of the globe. But, frankly, the part of the message I found most significant was that my long time PC buddy had gone over to the other side. Yes, Mr. Microsoft was traveling with an iPad! Almost makes this long time Mac-man want to get a new one before leaving for Greece. But then again, I didn’t win the tournament.

Yiasou, ya’ll.

Jeff—Saturday

The Fashion Olympics

2026-05-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

Sujata Massey

Moody blues at a a Taj Resort in Goa

I didn't know what to wear.

I was planning to meet my writer friend Marcia Talley for lunch at a good local restaurant. She always shows up looking splendid, usually in some classy, colorful jacket bought in a faraway boutique. I wanted to match her energy, but my mind was scattered. Then I remembered where my clothing ideas live. I only needed to open my phone, and go into my digital wardrobe app, Indyx, to look at various garments and coordinated outfits on file. And voila.I pulled myself together on a cool spring day in blue and cream. I spotted a long chiffon floral skirt with a navy ground. I could wear it with an Eileen Fisher cotton tee in sky-blue cotton, and pulled it all together with a cream-colored vintage wool jacket from Italy and my mom's diamond hoop earrings. Dressed in a flash, and no double-thinking.

Marcia and I unexpectedly sharing a dark floral moment

This is what it means to be alive in an age where glamour has trickled into practically every subconscious. It used to be that movie actresses, fashion stylists and museum curators were the only ones who took photos of garments and filed them away. But not anymore. Even though it seems as if we are in the midst of some pretty hard times, computer-assisted style and beauty seems to be everywhere.

The current four-day period we are in--May 1-4, 2026--are what I consider the annual Fashion Olympics. The Devil Wears Prada 2 movie is releases tonight, and you better believe I'm going. On Monday, Vogue Magazine and E! will live-stream the Met Gala, a very expensive and fabulously dressed benefit party to support the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Gallery. Two events; hundreds of quality outfits.

Fashion has been around since looms were invented, but it seems only recently that things became so ubiquitous

My theory is the escalation began with the face, during the years we were shut inside and seeing each other’s faces close up on zoom only. The pandemic is when Emmy-worthy makeup videos began lighting up YouTube. Skincare and makeup tutorials run between 30 minutes and an hour, mostly. Many of these videos are titled with the acronym GRWM. It stands for “Get Ready With Me” and signifies a bathroom or bedroom film shoot in which the YouTuber in a robe delivers a monologue about makeup—and often, many more topics on their minds—whilst putting on her makeup. Instagram and TikTok abound with short reels that famously illustrate ‘hacks’ to make grooming and fashion easier, for both guys and girls. My favorite mini-tutorials are scarves. Clothing tutorial videos are also making a far reach. My secret obsession are the videos about scarves. I have witnessed so many permutations of scarves and pashmina shawls turned into blouses, skirts and dresses. Why am I so hesitant to actually leave the house in a scarf being not-a-scarf?

Video is more effective at telling fashion and beauty stories than print ever was. I say this as a continued paper magazine subscriber, and someone who toiled in the American newspaper world before throwing it all in for a ticket to Japan. Oh, those were great days at the Baltimore Evening Sun. The surprising perk the paper gave me was the fashion beat, which included two annual trips to New York to cover the spring and fall fashion collections. Naturally, I felt like a country mouse at these events. I carried a forgettable tan leather bag o hold my reporters bookbooks, and black Prada or Chanel purses dangled from the arms of editors dressed all in black attire. It was an era when fashion journalists, top store buyers and a few socialites still had top status at the shows, and these ladies got the first three rows.

The Baltimore Evening Sun was no Dallas Morning News—that wealthy community's fashion section was legend—but it still was a bona fide publication. And it was a high fashion dream for a girl from St. Paul Minnesota, someone who unsuccessfully auditioned at age 14 for the Dayton's fashion show, to get to see the country's most important clothing collections unveiled before stores had bought them. There I was, seated at the Plaza Hotel ballroom watching the models stroll with power and insoucience, showing off the collections of Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and Carolyne Roehm. Just--wow.

The PR heads for these design houses—the sainted souls who actually added me to the guest lists—couldn't have that my inclusion would spur hundreds of Baltimoreans to seek out their styles. Yet I came to New York, with a brilliant staff photographer, Patrick Sandor, a dear deceased friend I still think about, decades later. Patrick clicked gorgeous photos and while I took notes on the repeating style elements—the trends! Our articles flew out on the precursor to the Internet, the 'wire service', to be reprinted by other papers across the country. Patrik and I got into those shows only because we had that kind of reach.

But what did I wear when I was in New York? This was a constant stressor. I was in my early twenties and living on a typical young reporter’s budget, with no ‘fashion closet’ like the ones Vogue and Elle reporters could access. I knew how poor my shopping-mall-purchased clothes were in comparison. If you saw the original Devil Wears Prada scene where Meryl Streep disses Anne Hathaway in her preppy cerulean sweater, you get it--although words were never spoken.

On the plus side, this was the late 1980s and early 1990s, a golden age for street style. All sorts of creative people in the fashion industry, or aiming for a place in it, were sitting around me in the deeper seating rows at the Plaza Hotel. They wore artistic, vintage, and often hand-made ensembles. Admiring them, I realized I could also attempt something different from what the Black Cashmere Mafia wore. So, the second year I traveled to the collections, I chose to wear a salwar kameez suit: a traditional two piece ensemble, with scarf, that I’d bought recently on a trip with my father to India. The tunic had exquisite applique on all the edges. The colors--pink and green and orange--were vibrant and quite an original clash. The response? People didn’t look past me, and even a few photographers said they liked what I wore. I wasn't high fashion, but felt like I occupied space in the room.

In gowns with Anne Murphy of Malice Domestic

In my thirties, I went through long periods of not thinking much about clothes. Life as a young mother with a book due each year felt too busy for more than sweaters and jeans. Yet for the times I left the house and playground to attend publishing and bookstore events, I dressed. I realized my closet was an untapped vault. It held half a dozen different vintage silk haori coats collected during my years living in Japan. I also had plenty of silk tunics and dresses from Indian venues as varied as the inexpensive Fab India and the designer boutique Ritu Kumar. I often mixed these clothes with velvet or silk pants, long earrings, and twisted ropes of pearls. I l could enjoy color, pattern and ornamentation to my heart's content. Inside my house, I was a peasant; and outside, I played princess.

A beaded velvet maxi dress from Ritu Kumar

As my career rolled along, and just as I seemed to be getting into an individual style groove, 2023’s big style shift—Quiet Luxury—stopped me short.

QL, as illustrated by E!

What is Quiet Luxury? First off, it's about touch. Cashmere, linen and silk. I have no argument with these fabrics; I buy them when I can. But for this particular incarnation, there was no pattern or bold colorway. Hues of choice are beige, white, and soft versions of browns and grays. Throw in blue jeans and diamond earrings, and expensive loafers, and you are there. Timeless style, with flat shoes and logo-less bags. The fashion is to look like you don’t follow fashion. I tried to resist the pressure of QL. Still, by the summer of 2023 I was hunting for vintage Bottega Veneta handbags--admiring their woven leather patterns and lack of logo. But at least the bag I bought from a second-hand seller in the Netherlands isn't beige. It's purple.

I believe it served as an necessary transition from two years of quarantine. The pandemic made us accustomed to dressing in sweats and athleisure for almost two full years. Once you’ve live with an elastic or drawstring waistband, it’s hard to say goodbye. The relaxed styles and longer tops of quiet luxury hid weight gain and were comfortable, yet the luxury element made us feel we could wear it out socially, and of course to work. Most of it was bought online, at an iconic retailer called The Row, as well as cheaper brands like Quince. Even though we are three year’s past pandemic, the QL influences continues. Pantone’s official color of 2026 is a creamy white called Cloud Dancer. White and cream linen pants and jeans abound. And speaking of light colors and fabrics, have you seen the milkmaids? Last year, low-necked, bosom-forward dresses seemed to be a staple at riverfront cafes. I don’t think this boomlet is over yet—not with the plethora of conservatives advising women how to please men.

"Raw Milkmaid Dress" sold by Evie Magazine

The retail business doesn't judge. Retailers require big shifts in fashion taste so they can stay profitable A less dramatic example han tradwife dresses is denim. I watched skinny jeans morph to flare jeans into mom jeans to barrel-leg jeans--over the span of ten years. I read online that 2026 is bringing jeans in cream and various earth tones (Quiet Luxury!) And to go on the feet, I'm fascinated by 'ballet sneakers' that for some reason are perforated and tied up in with ribbons rather than shoelaces.

Kenneth Cole's Annalise ballet sneaker

Now that I’m older and don't see every day as a race for survival, I slip into restaurants and museums wtih friends or alone, whenever I can. I enjoy not only the food or art, but also the interior design, and the aura of the other guests and staff. It’s like entering a specially designed world. And when we wear something that blends with the elegant atmosphere of the restaurant or nightclub, or the eclecticism of the museum or gallery, we become part of a living tableau. I might only be a small dot in on an impressionist’s canvas—but nevertheless, a speck of something that is real and combines with others to build a picture.

My travel uniform for fall in Europe

This is why I think fashion is a form of public service. I’m not advising anyone to shop hard to fit in with other people. Dressing in a way that makes you feel like your best self is the advice I gave someone who asked what to wear at a party at my house. And this is what I need to remind myself. On days when I’m not feeling great, comfortable sweat pants seem like the only possible choice. But even if the sweats are cashmere, it doesn’t make the day better than the one where I put on real clothes and some earrings.

You might think that caring about clothes is trivial; that it has no relevance when the world is in crisis. However, costumes and streetclothes can be strategies of resistance.

Minnesota protest cap for sale on Etsy

Remember the frog suits worn by protestors in Seattle last year during the ICE occupation, and the Minnesotans wearing hand-knitted red knitted caps, hats reminiscent of those worn in Norway during the Nazi occupation. In Ukraine, fashion designers are offering new versions of traditional chemises and shirt called vyshyvanka for people to wear and feel beautiful, strong and proud as the war drags on.

Ukrainian designer garments

And perhaps most significantly, women in Iran have been beaten, tortured and killed because they refused to wear the hijab and showed themselves to the community with uncovered hair, and wearing modern clothes that express themselves.

Fashion being dangerous enough to cause execution seems all the more reason to give clothes their proper respect—and to be grateful for my ‘what should I wear’ moment, every morning, whether at home or away.

Sujata will speaking about mystery writing with fellow writer Amin Ahmad at McIntrye’s Books in Fearrington Village, North Carolina at 11 a.m. on Saturday, May 9. She hasn’t yet decided what she’s wearing.

They shall grow not old...

2026-04-28T03:58:00.156-04:00

2026 Anzac Day dawn service at the Wellington Arch in central London

Craig every second Tuesday

Kia ora and gidday everyone,

In the past few days a rather significant day for Australians and New Zealanders has passed by again. 25 April may just be a date on the calendar for most countries, but down in New Zealand and Australia, and for others all around the world who have links to our two nations (including Turkey), it is a very special, and sombre day; ANZAC Day. A public holiday, but more akin to one like Memorial Day in the United States than its more festive holiday brethren.

For more than a century the 25th of April has brought Australia and New Zealand - along with our diaspora around the world, to a pause, a special and sombre day where we remember the soldiers, sailors, and others who have served (and are still serving) our countries in wars and conflicts all over the world. Anzac Day, as that date is known in our part of the world, has been commemorated every year since 1916, the first anniversary of an ill-fated battle.

One hundred and 11 years ago, on 25 April 1915, our two nations first fought side by side under the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) banner – our soldiers landing together at dawn on a desolate beach on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey. The campaign and landing were a military bungle by the British commanders (including the First Lord of the Admiralty, a certain Winston Churchill) - but the attitudes, actions, and courage of the Australian and New Zealand soldiers both at Gallipoli and over the many battles and years since, stoked a burgeoning sense of independent identity and nationhood.

Anzac. It’s a powerful word for anyone from our end of the world.

Despite being about as far away from the main First World War conflict as you could be, more than 100,000 New Zealand troops and nurses served overseas during the First World War, from a population of just over one million. 42% of men of military age served. The losses were huge. You've only got to drive around New Zealand and spy the war memorials in various rural towns, where there are dozens of names listed even from tiny farming communities, to realise the impact the First and Second World Wars had on a couple of generations. Service, sacrifice.

Anzac Day has been a part of my life since I was a Boy Scout marching in parades in Richmond, a small town in the Top of the South Island of New Zealand, or learning about the Anzacs and the Gallipoli campaign at school. Later I had the privilege of writing about Anzac Day for several magazines, legal and lifestyle, including interviewing several serving New Zealand military personnel (including a Brigadier General) about Anzac Day's ongoing impact.

part of a multi-page feature I wrote on Anzac Day for WildTomato magazine in 2009

Then in 2011, I had the privilege of attending an Anzac Day dawn service, following a chilly overnight stay on the Gallipoli Peninsula itself, camping out with hundreds of fellow Kiwis and Aussies by the beach where the Anzacs landed in 1915, waking for dawn service then hiking up the steep cliffs for morning services at Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair. You can read more about my thoughts on that experience at a prior Murder is Everywhere post.

Dawn on the 25th of April at Gallipoli in 2011

The couple of times when I've been back 'home' in New Zealand during late April over the past decade or so (eg once when Miss 11 was very little, another time when she was seven years old), I attended Anzac Day ceremonies in the smalltown of Brightwater and in my hometown of Richmond, Nelson in the top of the South Island of New Zealand.

The place where I used to march in Anzac Day parades as a little kid in the Boy Scouts, joining the then-current military personnel and the veterans wearing their medals. It's different now, as I'm older, am a father, have friends who've served or are still serving in various militaries, and have experienced loss more directly in my own life.

This year, after toying with it a few times in recent years, I finally got myself (and Miss 11) along to the dawn service in central London, at Hyde Park corner and the Wellington Arch, gilded by the New Zealand and Australian War Memorials. It's a place I've visited plenty of times over the years, during daylight hours; I've even taken quite a few visiting Kiwi and Aussie mates past it as party of lengthy strolls around central London.

Miss 11 by the NZ War Memorial at 4am on Anzac Day

Dragging Miss 11 out of bed at 3am so we could get the night tube into town made me remember the times I'd gotten up early with my Dad when I was little - though that was almost exclusively to watch live sports being played on the other side of the world. FA Cup finals, Rugby World Cup games, etc. To enjoy sporting contests that some fans treat as life and death, but really - as much as I love sports, and appreciate LFC legend Bill Shankly (who famously said, "Some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that") - something like Anzac Day puts that into true perspective.

More than 2,700 New Zealanders and 8,700 Australians died at Gallipoli.

Many thousands of others were terribly injured. Young men and boys from across our nations. While the numbers are horrifying enough, time and distance perhaps underplays them. Despite being about as far away from the battlefronts of the First World War that you could get, and in no direct danger ourselves, New Zealand sent more than 42% of its men of military age overseas to fight alongside the UK and other allies.

Anzac soldiers landing at Gallipoli were faced with steep terrain and deadly artillery

To put it in perspective, the losses at Gallipoli, given New Zealand's population at the time, are the equivalent of the United States losing just under 900,000 people in a single military campaign today.

It's hard to fathom.

You can see why it was such a big deal for Australia and New Zealand, and why Anzac Day was commemorated since 1916 (the one year anniversary of the landing) even as the war raged on.

The Princess Royal (in green) laying the first
wreath on behalf of the Royal Family

So, 111 years on, Miss 11 and I were among the several hundred people gathered in the centre of London under a dark sky, listening to a karakia and haka from Ngāti Rānana London Māori Club welcoming the Princess Royal to the dawn service. Listening to poems, prayers, odes, and remembrances that did not glorify war or conflict, but called for peace and human connection.

To honour those who'd given their lives, by valuing and protecting life.

After wreaths had been laid and the Last Post rang out, we all dispersed, moving on with our own days and our own lives. A sombre start to a Saturday, but like memento mori, a reminder to be grateful for life, and the costs that others have paid for the freedoms we often take for granted.

Afterwards, Miss 11 and I strolled down Piccadilly looking for an early-morning cafe to have something to eat, before strolling around an oh-so-quiet central London then later heading to parkrun at Bexley. On the other side of the world, my compatriots had been attending services and starting a public holiday long weekend with family and friends. Our Anzac Day was a little different, but I was glad I took the time this year to attend the London dawn service, to remember and reflect. I'll leave you with the words of the Anzac dedication, read out at every service:

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.”

Until next time. Ka kite anō.

Whakataukī of the fortnight:

Inspired by Zoe and her 'word of the week', I'll be ending my fortnightly posts by sharing a whakataukī (Māori proverb), a pithy and poetic thought to mull on as we go through life.

Ko te manu e kai ana i te miro, nōna te ngahere. Ko te manu e kai ana i te mātauranga, nōnā te ao

(The bird who feeds on the miro berry has the forest. The bird who feeds on knowledge has the world.)

The native New Zealand wood pigeon (kereru) is fond of miro berries

April in Manhattan

2026-04-26T15:00:00.001-04:00

Annamaria on Monday

My blog Bro has gotten us ready for May, and to tell you the truth, I am ready to see the end of a month that has brought us so much woe. But before we leave it, I want relive the beauty it also brought, which I enjoyed so much that it made my heart sing.

April in Paris

Famously, the song April in Paris wins people over. It makes us want to see those chestnuts in blossom. And to want to find a true love. It offers us a glass of wine in an outdoor cafe. Paris, the lyrics say, makes you want to long for love. It has you asking, "Whom can I run to.."

Spring in Manhattan on the other hand gives us more than longing. The song, though not so famous, shows people in love and were they go as their love flourishes.

Spring in Manhattab

Springtime in Manhattan delivers more than just chestnuts in blossom.

Here's what it looked like this April.

I am signing off today with these words of Mohandas Gandhi, who is pictured here in Union Square on April 1.

When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always

The Meaning(s) of May Day.

2026-04-25T00:00:00.007-04:00

Jeff—Saturday

Friday is the first of May, a national holiday in Greece. It’s a day filled with traditions, some brought on by thoughts of rejoicing at the end of winter, others by memories of a day sacred to organized labor, one that most Americans know little about—but we’ll get to that later. Anyway, I thought, “This is a perfect subject for this week’s post,” and began to write, accompanied by this nagging sense of déjà vu all over again.

Sure enough, I plowed back through my old posts and found I’d written about May Day a dozen years ago. I thought to reinvent the wheel—or in this case the springtime wreath—but decided it more in keeping with the national labor strikes aspect of this day to simply do nothing but tinker with the old piece. Besides, the history behind this worldwide May Day hullabaloo has not changed.

Did you know that May 1^st celebrations go back to ancient pagan days and that virtually all northern hemisphere cultures had some sort of “spring rite” festivities?

Why of course you did.

The earliest festivals were linked to the Roman goddess of flowers (Flora), Germanic celebrations of what is now called Walpurgis Night (named after the patron saint of those suffering from rabies, it’s also known as “the witches sabbath” coming precisely six months after All Hallows Eve—interesting combination), and the Celtic Beltane (a springtime festival of optimism).

Walpurgis Night Fireworks

May 1st ends the hunker down winter mindset, and harbingers the coming joyful days of summer.

On Mykonos locals take great pride in fashioning circular wreaths out of grape vines tied off with bunches of wildflowers (aloe, statice, geraniums, daises, lavender, and the like), angelica, olive, rosemary, wheat, bay leaf, and for some, whole cloves of garlic. They’re quite beautiful and for those wreaths proudly hung on front doors which survive another Mykonian tradition—wreath heisting by neighborhood children—they’re burned on the day of the Summer Solstice (June 22^nd) as the adventuresome jump over the flames three times making a wish as they do…probably not to burn off their you-know-whats in the process.

Did you also know that May Day is International Worker’s Day? If you live virtually anywhere outside of the U.S. you probably do. Inside, likely not. The U.S. has stuck to the first Monday in September as its Labor Day and Americans generally associate May 1^st with a communist or socialist workers holiday, complete with grandiose military parades in such places as Russia, North Korea, and Cuba.

May Day Demonstration London

I’d venture to say most Americans have no idea that International Worker’s Day is officially celebrated in most countries around the world not to glorify any foreign ideal or event, but to mark what occurred in Chicago, Illinois on May 4, 1888.

Permit me to lift the following description of what happened from Wikipedia’s entry, “The Haymarket Affair.”

“The Haymarket affair (also known as the Haymarket massacre or Haymarket riot) refers to the aftermath of a bombing that took place at a labor demonstration on Tuesday May 4, 1886, at Haymarket Square in Chicago. It began as a peaceful rally in support of workers striking for an eight-hour day. An unknown person threw a dynamite bomb at police as they acted to disperse the public meeting. The bomb blast and ensuing gunfire resulted in the deaths of seven police officers and at least four civilians, and the wounding of scores of others.

“In the internationally publicized legal proceedings that followed, eight anarchists were convicted of conspiracy, although the prosecution conceded none of the defendants had thrown the bomb. Seven were sentenced to death and one to a term of 15 years in prison. The death sentences of two of the defendants were commuted by Illinois governor Richard J. Oglesby to terms of life in prison, and another committed suicide in jail rather than face the gallows. The other four were hanged on November 11, 1887. In 1893, Illinois’ new governor John Peter Altgeld pardoned the remaining defendants and criticized the trial.

“The Haymarket affair is generally considered significant as the origin of international May Day observances for workers. The site of the incident was designated a Chicago Landmark on March 25, 1992, and a public sculpture was dedicated at the site in 2004. The Haymarket Martyrs’ Monument in nearby Forest Park was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and designated a National Historic Landmark on February 18, 1997.”

That ends today’s history lesson. Now go outside and enjoy the sunshine!

––Jeff

Extending Life

2026-04-23T05:11:00.001-04:00

Michael - Alternate Thursdays

Extending human life has always been a thorny issue. I’m not talking about exercise and healthy eating habits, but some form of medication. What could that be and, more important, what would be the consequences? Most of the novels and movies that have used this as a premise have focused on a way-out discovery – perhaps in the Amazon, on an isolated island, or somewhere in the Kalahari Desert – where, to this day, a variety of rare and undocumented species exist.

The discovery provides the backstory of the novel, but it’s usually the social, financial, and political implications that provide the substance. In his book, The Trouble with Lichen, John Wyndham explores the discovery of a lichen-like substance, discovered by accident, that causes aging to slow. That's where the story starts. The implications create the backbone of the book. A beautician uses it to do what all beauticians claim to do – to keep your young looks. The fact that her treatments actually work don’t make people happy, certainly not the ones who don’t have it. Some of the ones who do receive it somehow feel hoodwinked. That seems strange, but it’s totally believable. Read the book if you want to know why.

In Dying to Live, we postulated a plant in the Kalahari, known only to the Bushmen, that offered remarkable healing properties and extended life. A Bushman is discovered dead near the Central Kalahari Game Reserve in Africa. Although the man looks old enough to have died of natural causes, the police suspect foul play, and the body is sent to Gaborone for an autopsy. The pathologist is greatly puzzled. Although the man is obviously very old, his internal organs look remarkably young.

That’s the premise, but our story is about the stampede to find and obtain the plant by people for their own ends. The book is actually about greed, not longevity.

When the book came out we often asked people at launch events whether they would be keen to live very much longer that the usual life span. Many didn’t. Maybe there’s a built-in lifespan in our psyches as well as in our bodies. On the other hand, some very rich people have their bodies frozen until the day they can be resuscitated and whatever ails them (even if it’s just old age) can be cured.

In another story, a team of scientists go to study the people and environment of Easter Island (Rapa Nui). They discover a lot of interesting things, but the microbiologist in the group becomes fixated on soil samples that have a surprising lack of fungal life. He observes that the material kills yeast in a petri dish.

Yes, that Easter Island

As the story goes on, the material reaches a laboratory where a team led by a scientist named Sehgal discovers that the active ingredient, which they believe might be a new antibiotic, is actually a byproduct of a bacterium that doesn’t want competition from fungi for the nutrients in the soil. They isolate the material and name it Rapamycin in honor of its original home on Easter Island. While investigating its properties, they discover it produces strong anti-immune reactions. That dangerous side effect spoils its antibiotic properties, the research goes nowhere, and the drug company closes it down.

The twist is that Sehgal then smuggles a sample of the drug from the laboratory to his new home in the US and continues to push the drugs properties. Eventually, the research is restarted, and Rapamycin is approved by the FDA for use in suppressing immune reactions for transplants. But there’s another twist.

In the experiments and trials to obtain that approval, scientists notice that mice being used as test subjects live longer than those in the control group. Subsequent trials indicate that mice may live up to 20% longer when regularly treated with Rapamycin compared to the control group.

So far there isn’t that much interest in the story. The only twist worth a book would be Sehgal smuggling the drug home and carrying on the experimentation. The actual twist (as you’ve probably guessed or already know) is that this isn’t a novel. Not even a novel based on fact, but actual fact. There’s even real science that may explain how the drug works, and that may be the most interesting part. But where is all the greed, the social upheaval, the mad rush of legislation, the crowds mobbing the drug stores? It isn’t there. Is the drug too dangerous to take regularly? It doesn’t seem so, (but it’s early days yet and it can produce significant side effects).

Maybe we already have the Bushman’s longevity drug available for some $100 per month, but no one is really excited? Well not quite. Online “clinics” offer antiaging regimes including use of the drug “off label” i.e. not for its recommended and approved uses. The costs are much higher than the prescription rates. Some subscribers do suffer undesirable side effects under the very lax medical regime of the “clinics”. Do the participants live longer? How do we know? Is this just another Invermectin - a miracle drug against parasites, but with no scientifically established properties against Covid? Or do we really have the prototype of a drug that can extend life?

Would you want to live an extra twenty years?

When Pots--and Plots--get Root-Bound

2026-04-21T02:00:00.194-04:00

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

One of my bamboo plants was starting to look unwell. A few leaves here and there turning yellow and dropping--nothing dramatic, but enough to signal that something wasn’t right, because my bamboo have always been among the healthiest of my plants!

And what was really odd was that this bamboo was in front of a big window with two other pot plants—another bamboo and a bonsai fig tree—and they all get the same amount of sunlight and water and the other two seem fine. So what was wrong with this poor bamboo?

So--after a very full week (including some Aunty Lee excitement now that the series is now out there) I finally took my poor bamboo plant out onto the patio for some investigative procedures...

My poor bamboo was completely root-bound!

When I finally managed to loosen the sides enough to get it out of its pot I saw its roots had taken over completely. They were a dense, tightly packed mass in the exact shape of the pot!

And there was almost no soil left. Water must have been running straight down the sides and out again without ever reaching the poor roots at the centre.

In fact, though I'd not realised it, my poor plant was dying of thirst and malnutrition, not to mention stress from overcrowding.

All from being severely root-bound.

And I realised that was pretty much the state my manuscript has been getting into recently. Everything inside it came about naturally and kind of works, but there's just too much stuff and it's all packed too tightly.

It's easier to tackle a poor root-bound plant. Or rather, there's a simple and slightly brutal method that usually works: loosen the roots as much as possible, remove compacted soil and dead roots and trim some of the roots before repotting them in fresh mix.

But that's where the difficult part comes in--I wasn't just trimming dead roots but some of the living, healthy ones too. Because there just isn't enough room for everything.

In my WIP the scenes I’m looking at are good scenes, funny exchanges and observations that I love. And all these fine roots/ threads/ themes have potential to grow into exciting developments.

The problem is, they all have HUGE potential, and given unlimited space, time and energy, I would keep and grow them all!

But I don’t have unlimited space, whether on my bathroom window ledge or on my calendar.

My bamboo might be happier flourishing in the wild with pandas, but in this dimension it's part of the green modesty screen in my bathroom that I enjoy tending to and that makes me happy every time I look at it.

Like for my WIP, my material is crying out for epic space but I'm working to fit it into a book somewhere between 75,000 and 80,000 words.

Even this post has to fit the space it’s given--so something has to give.

I trimmed my bamboo plant--stalks and roots both. I tried to be selective, but still—every cut hurt.

And when I've finished this, I'll head back to do the same with my manuscript.

I'm finally beginning to see that culling, cutting and editing isn’t about removing what’s bad or that doesn't work. It's just acknowledging that there isn't enough space for everything.

Too many roots, too many ideas...

It's not a bad thing. It's a wonderful problem because it means my bamboo was/ is healthy enough to expand to its limits.

My bamboo is recovering.

It's already looking much better!

Now I'll go trim and repot my WIP and hope it survives and recovers too and that both book and bamboo go on to flourish!

Happy Birthday, Karen Blixen

2026-04-20T00:00:00.004-04:00

Annamaria in Three Days Late

I apologize for going AWOL for a couple of weeks. To be honest, I found myself with little time for writing anything at all, and I chose to devote what I had to finishing my work in progress, which was pouring into my head. I am past 61K words now, and I see the ending coming, so though real life remains quite busy, I am happy to say that I am here with this tribute to Karen Blixe aka Isak Dinese. I first fell for her as a Lit major when I was assigned to read her short stories in Seven Gotic Tales published under her pen name.

Her name came up because I have an ancient copy of this handy way to keep track of friend and family birthdays. I've had it since 1984, hence the clearly visible Scotch tape holding it together.

The entry at the top clued me in that it was time that I give Karen some attention.

Most American's know her as the person played by Meryl Street in the movie Out of Africa. When her memoire of the same name first launched, it carried her pen name, already well known at the time. (Karen took the pen name, as many women did in the those days because books written by women were not considered important and mostly could't get published.)

Nowadays, if you search Seven Gothic Tales the answer you get may very well say "A book by Karen Blixen." Only if the answer shows the book will it show the author as Isak Dinesen. Either way, it is a masterpiece.

Eventually the area of Nairobi where she lived was named Karen in her honor.

Here below are some souvenir shots from my first time visit to Karen Blixen's house

"...at the foot of the gong hills."

Lucy, my guide, and a portrait of Karen

Karen's house, now a museum.

The Karen museum is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Kenya. I'm not sure if it sells books, but I am certain that if you want fame, it helps if Meryl Streep pays you in a movie, especially of Robert Redford plays the love interest, and if the film is also a masterpiece.

My Granddaughter Rachel's Big Day

2026-04-18T00:00:00.001-04:00

Jeff–Saturday

Today is the Bat Mitzvah of my youngest granddaughter, Rachel Ida McLaughlin, and I couldn’t be prouder of her! She’s an accomplished actress, musician, vocalist, martial artist, and scholar. And this weekend her family and friends join in celebrating this hard-earned, well-deserved milestone event in her life!

For those of you who many wonder what is a Bat Mitzvah (pronounced Baht Mitts-vah), the simplest explanation is that it’s the coming of age religious ritual for a Jewish girl, as the Bar Mitzvah ritual is for a Jewish boy. For a girl the age is generally above twelve, and for a boy it’s thirteen.

The history of the Bar Mitzvah actually dates back to a fifth century reference in a religious text to a blessing recited by a father thanking God for freeing him from responsibility for the deeds of his son, based upon his son attaining an age that made him accountable for his own actions.

How many fathers of all faiths still pray for similar debt relief. :)

The Bat Mitzvah celebration has its roots in 19^th century European tradition but did not make its way to the United States until 1922. It now flourishes in many communities as a revered family occasion of great joy.

And that’s precisely what Rachel brings to all blessed to know her…great joy.

As her Zayde (grandfather), this day brings the promise of special joy to me, for perhaps now her parents will think of her as old enough to read her Zayde’s books!

Yiayia and I love you Rachel. We all do. Mazel Tov.

The entire crew of grandkids--12 years ago

–Zayde

Signing My Life Away

2026-04-17T00:00:00.001-04:00

Sujata Massey

Stacks of books, sharpie pens, a microphone. A sea of empty folding chairs—and a slight rush of nervous energy.

This scene is a cliché for any author who’s been fortunate enough to have a bookseller invite you sign books.

I count myself very lucky to see whatever number of seats the bookseller has set out filled with people. But a bookseller friend said to me that publicists for mega-selling authors sometimes require a bookseller to be able to offer seating for 200 or more. Hence, the Instagram reel of the 1500--person audience in Brooklyn Center, MN for Abby Jimenez, a popular romance author with a new book, The Night We Met. What I could see of the event was more akin to what I hear about Taylor Swift concerts, and I am going to bet the fans received books that had been signed in advance. How else could it be done? Three cheers for any author who can get that many people to assemble for a book launch!

The first book signing I remember attending was back in elementary school—probably fifth or sixth grade. Susan Cooper, the seminal British author who wrote fantasy novels for children from the 1960s onward, was speaking at the College of St. Catherine in St. Paul during her national tour for one of her books—my likeliest guess is it was The Dark is Rising, her most famous book in the series that is still captivating readers today. During my childhood, Susan Cooper was my dream author, a woman from my birthplace of Great Britain who used legends and lore from Wales and King Arthur to develop her haunting series. We were reading this Newberry Award winning novel while under the age of 12, although I notice that her books are now classified as 'young adult.' In the crowd at the college, I recall only adults being there. I felt wise beyond my years and still am grateful to my elementary school librarian who thought I might like to go and asked the parents of me, and a few other friends,

In the twenty-first century, faculty members are no longer allowed to take students in their own vehicle to off-campus events. But in the 1970s, people ha more freedom. And while I regret that the kind librarian's name is forgotten, I still remember her and am grateful for this early experience meeting a literary superstar. Susan Cooper, who was around forty at the time, spoke quite warmly to us. I don’t remember if we bought any books—probably not, because my paperback copy of the book (which I’ve carried to my adult home, after all these years!) is dog-eared and unsigned. We children didn’t know what a special opportunity this was—to have a signed book by a writer we loved, and who at the age of 90, is still a perennial in bookstores.

My next experience with a fiction author came about ten years later. I studied as an undergraduate in the Johns Hopkins University writing seminars, a department different from English in that we Writing Sems majors did read novels, but we were also expected to learn from working authors of all sorts—poets, science writers, journalists, and yes, novelists. Martha Grimes, the celebrated American author based in Washington DC, came to the campus for as a visiting professor for the spring semesters of both my junior and senior year.

Martha Grimes looked like this during my college years

Every Thursday afternoon, nine other students and I sat around a long table, not quite realizing she was on the New York Times bestseller list, right at that moment, and probably had a lot of choices of what to do with her time. learning from one of the masters. And at the end of the semester, she presented each of us with her latest book, signing it herself with a personal message. “I hope you get across the effing lake” she wrote to me, a reference to the implausible-sounding plot point in my mystery story submission that she critiqued for the class. Now I think how generous she was to sign and gift her reader copies with us. I treasure this signed book almost as much as what she taught me about the feasibility of crime fiction as a bona fide career.

When I began struggling with the craft of my own mystery writing a decade later, one of the first signings that I recall was that of the late M.C. Beaton, when she visited Mystery Loves Company Books in Baltimore in the 1990s. Beaton is another British writer well known for her humorous Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as more than 100 romance novels, most of them under her real name, Marion Chesney. I attended with my friend and mystery maven (heck! she designed this website!) Susanne Trowbridge, who was close fwith the store owners, Paige Rose and Kathy Harig, who sadly are both deceased. I remember feeling shy at the event, but knowing that because I was an adult, I must say something to this author who had amazed me with her deft, humorous hand. It was a small but enthusiastic turnout, typical for the tiny store, one of those places where books are piled up everywhere and cats wind their way through your legs. Ms. Beaton was quite agreeable, and I remember thinking, I can’t fathom ever finishing my own manuscript-in-progress, selling it, and having people hear enough about it that they'd take the time to meet me.

“You’ll have your first signing here,” both Kathy and Paige promised me, separately, so I knew it would be true--if Ionly I could finish and sell my book. I kept going to book signings, I joined Sisters in Crime, and I kept writing. In 1996, I signed a contract for my first mystery, The Salaryman’s Wife. Kathy Harig read the galley that HarperCollins sent the store and told me it was good. What a relief it was—and from that point on, I was in the book signing world, receiving invites from stores I'd never heard of, and badgering the publicists to ask after ones in big cities, like New York and San Francisco, that I dreamed about. Fortunately, the 1990s was a time when female-centric mystery was booming, the economy was good, and tours were a possibility for writers once their books were coming out in hardcover editions. Yet for many years I would go on tour, sitting in my economy seat on the plane with my throat closed, thinking the whole journey was unknown and could very well be disappointing. Who was I to have a signing when there were Martha Grimes and Susan Coopers in the world? These fears have subsided as I've built two series, and audiences also show up because booksellers themselves are increasingly sending email newsletters to their readers about upcoming events.

Not all signings take place at independent bookstores. Sometimes events are scheduled in place where there’s a large captive audience. This includes mystery fiction conventions and conferences like the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, a giant writing extraganza where I was featured with my longtime mystery writer friend Laura Lippman, with our interview conducted by our new friend, the suspense novelist Angie Kim.

During this last tour, I’ve spoken at stores with crowds as small as four and large as sixty-plus. I know that the store that might not get a lot of audience for me one night might simply choose to ask you to sign as many books as if there had been dozens--thus ensuring the books stay at the store, until they are sold, something quite generous to do in a business where profit margins are very tight. There are also a few stores that have voracious readers out of state who want signed books mailed to them. As I see it, each store visit is an incredible opportunity for a writer to connect with a reader—and if readers don’t show, you can demonstrate to the bookstore that you're a well-tempered and kind individual who appreciates their efforts.

I’ve grown to feel I’m holding a serious responsibility at a signing. I’m not there to be promotional, despite a tour being a form of book promotion. Being a wee bit nervous can be helpful: it pushes me to remain sharper and more aware of what I hope to communicate. But truly--there's no need for a witty or profound speech. If I read a bit of the ew book, it allows people to know if they might want to read it. The coup de grace is to allot plenty of time to receive questions. The most typical questions I hear are: why did you make your protagonist a Parsi, what’s your writing process, how do you do your research, and will any of your books ever be made into a movie? I hope is to satisfy the queries candidly without revealing spoilers. I also aim to share my particular experience of becoming (and staying) a writer, because I know that amongst the folding chairs, there always sits an individual who is quietly working away at their own manuscript.

And isn't it wonderful they--the readers, writers, and the curious--have a place to come? The act of bookstores opening themselves to hosting events is akin to creating a literary picnic gathering in a town green. Whether or not an attendee buys a book, they're taking part in an impromptu community meeting that is about . . . imagination.A writer's, and their own.

I came to Laurie R King's book signing in California

When I moved to Minneapolis in 2005, I was lonely the first few years. I really missed my friends from Maryland, DC, Virginia and Pennsylvania. I had felt so connected--and now I was living in a city that was so different from my childhood experience. The only solution to my social boredom that I came up with was visiting the city’s famed mystery bookstore, Once Upon a Crime and introduced myself to its owners at the time, Pat Frovarp and Gary Shulze. They already had my books on the shelf and became fast friends. I kept shopping at the store and attending events they hosted like the monthly Twin Cities chapter of Sisters in Crime meetings. My circle slowly widened, and I became part of a writing group (hello, Stan Trollip, one of the members!)

I also attended signings for out-of-state authors coming to sign their latest books. Cara Black and Libby Hellman are both mystery authors who I didn’t know very well during my early Baltimore years--but I went to their signing to hear them talk about their work, and to buy their books to ensure Pat and Gary made some money that night. The bookstore seats were completely filled, making the authors happy. Cara and Libby then invited me to join them for dinner at a nearby pub, and the three of us formed an ongoing creative and supportive relationship that endures. After I moved away from Minnesota and transformed back into a Maryland author, Minnesota became a very important book tour stop. So in 2019, when I toured to St. Paul, the great mystery novelist William Kent Krueger showed up to 'welcome me back to St. Paul.' Things had come full circle.

William Kent Krueger's St. Paul welcome

Speaking of writer friends, it's now becoming a bookstore strategy. Many booksellers like to promote signings in which one writer (a local fixture who's not on tour) interviews an author who is on tour. This tandem work takes away the pressure of a tired writer repeating a stump speech, but rather answering surprising questions and going on spontaneous tangents with their interviewer. Readers are thrilled by natural conversations featuring real, unscripted moments between people. When I'm in this role, I read the book ahead of time, prep questions, and ask the writer if there’s anything in particular they love to talk about. During The Star From Calcutta book tour, I was quite grateful for the interlocution assistance from writers Vera Kurian in Washington, DC, Dan Fesperman in Baltimore and Ritu Mukherjee in San Francisco. Doing it all by myself, every night, when my day typically started with an early morning flight can be wearying. The antidote is knowing one's night has been organized by the interviewer, and all I have to do is answer questions.

Readers at the Raven Book Store in Kansas

Barbara Peters, owner of Poisoned Pen, and Naomi Hirahara

It seems a shame, but inevitable, that most publishers are curtailing authors book tours. I understand that sending authors to places that involve plane travel, road transportation and hotels is quite expensive, and the return on that investment is uncertain. I am so grateful that my publisher, Soho Press, listened to me when I spoke about the importance of Minnesota and Wisconsin, and the West Coast, as well as all the spots I can easily drive to in my area. And during this last tour—as I grasped the hands of customers who had demonstrated a real sense of caring about the characters in my books-I also felt their care for me as a person.

Although we'd never met before, they knew me.

And that is quite a gift for someone whose best friends in childhood were her books.

Sujata has a few U.S. signings left for The Star From Calcutta. She'll share the stage with author Amin Ahmad on Saturday, May 9 at 11 a.m. at McIntyre's Books in Fearrington Village, NC. After that, she'll appear alongside author Kate Hilton in a discussion at the Gaithersburg Book Festival in Maryland at 1:15 p.m. on May 16.

Are you Scripturient?

2026-04-16T08:30:00.001-04:00

Karen Odden – every other Thursday

Like everyone, I get all kinds of random fun-fact stuff in my in box every day. Today in History. Mastering French Phrases. O&H Kringle of the Day. (Almond will always be my favorite. Raspberry a close second.) Some of this email traffic I glance over, and if I’m busy, I don’t always look at it.

But if I have a moment, I do like to look at the Word of the Day. This word caught me. I know I’m a bibliophile; but recently, I discovered I’m scripturient. Who knew?

Then again, maybe we all are scripturient. We write constantly – especially if we consider typing on our keyboards writing. Think about your day. Which of these have you written recently? Emails, blogposts, to-do lists, social media posts, entries on a paper calendar (yes, I still keep one, in addition to the one on my phone), scribbles in notebooks, marginal notes in the books you’re reading, novels, short stories, poetry, a recipe for a friend, a birthday card, lists of things to pack for a weekend trip, itinerary for a conference, a signature on the credit card pad at the store, a quick text, a Post-it reminder note, a shopping list.

It’s interesting to take a moment to consider how deeply embedded writing is in our lives, and how many kinds there are. How it’s part of our day, instinctive, almost unconscious, in a way that blinking or breathing is, and also how many different ways there are, physically, to produce written texts, from Egyptian hieroglyphics to Braille to feather quill pens to Bics to keyboards. Think how quickly our fingers move on our phones when we're texting. Perhaps there, especially, our rates of speaking and writing approach each other.

"Creative writing" is, to my mind, somewhat of an artificial category. Perhaps a shopping list isn't creative writing ... but a birthday card? I'd say it is. I mean, I choose my words for the extra words I add to the message inside -- because each person is different, and I have different kinds of relationships with different people. I'll make a joke to one person that I might not make with another; I know my audience, and I write to them, with awareness of my voice and what message it's carrying. Is that so very different from choosing my words for starting a chapter?

I think we all do more creative writing than we realize. Just something to consider.

I’m going to leave you with a few famous quotes on writing because I like these quotes better than anything else I could say on the topic. These mostly apply to creative writing ... but also to writing generally, in some cases. Sometimes it's fun to read what brilliant, famous people have to say about writing.

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” — Natalie Goldberg

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” – Anais Nin

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” — Madeleine L'Engle

“The best way to become acquainted with a subject is to write about it.” – Benjamin Disraeli

“There is no greater power on this earth than story.” – Libba Bray

“As for ‘Write what you know,’ I was regularly told this as a beginner. I think it’s a very good rule and have always obeyed it. I write about imaginary countries, alien societies on other planets, dragons, wizards, the Napa Valley in 22002. I know these things. I know them better than anybody else possibly could, so it’s my duty to testify about them.” — Ursula K. Le Guin [photo]

“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.” — Margaret Atwood

“I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on until I am.” — Jane Austen

“I just give myself permission to suck. I delete about 90 percent of my first drafts, so it doesn’t really matter much if on a particular day I write beautiful and brilliant prose that will stick in the minds of my readers forever, because there’s a 90 percent chance I’m just going to delete whatever I write anyway. I find this hugely liberating.” — John Green

“On first drafts: It is completely raw, the sort of thing I feel free to do with the door shut — it’s the story undressed, standing up in nothing but its socks and undershorts.” — Stephen King

Between Hills and Pilgrims: Oviedo's quiet geography

2026-04-15T16:38:00.000-04:00

Kwei - Alternate Wednesdays

Oviedo doesn’t announce its geography. You notice it gradually—on foot, looking up. The city feels contained, but not confined.

Routes around Monte Naranco—
where local trails intersect with the Camino Primitivo

To the north rises Monte Naranco, less a mountain than a long, steady ridge. It frames the city without enclosing it, shaping both skyline and movement.

Spring fields below Monte Naranco—
green, open, and deceptively gentle

Oviedo sits in a shallow basin rather than a true valley. The land rolls instead of dropping away. There are no steep walls—just continuous green slopes that soften distance and scale.

Cristo del Naranco watches over the ridge
—visible from almost anywhere below

These paths are not just local trails. They form part of the Camino Primitivo, one of the oldest routes to Santiago. For centuries, pilgrims have crossed this same terrain—walking the same gradients, reading the same skyline.

Layered greens—
Oviedo’s terrain never quite settles into flat.

Walking here means constant adjustment—small ascents, gradual descents. The terrain never disappears; it stays in the body.

The result is subtle but distinct. Oviedo feels held by its landscape, not trapped by it.

Technically a pilgrim—just the short-form version

One feels friendly, open skies.

Back to where it all began, in several ways

2026-04-13T22:59:00.001-04:00

I've organised 125+ library events in New Zealand; recently I got
to attend my second-ever, in person, at 'Miscreants in Motueka'

Craig on some Tuesdays

Kia ora and gidday everyone,

I hope that you’ve all enjoyed a lovely Easter holidays - for those that got them - and are having a good start to Spring, for those in the northern hemisphere, or Autumn, for those in the Southern Hemisphere. For me, I'm kinda getting to experience both, as I've spent the past two and a half weeks 'back home' in Aotearoa New Zealand, visiting with family and friends and packing in as much as possible on several fronts, during a long-overdue visit.

Flying back to London tonight, all too soon. But very grateful for the time here.

I don't know about you, but I've often found there's something pleasantly grounding or resetting about visiting my hometown and surrounding region, even though I haven't lived there full-time for decades. Life can seem so hectic and in flux, going from project to project (many of them fun and challenging in good ways, don't get me wrong) alongside various life events good and tough - not to mention all the added global uncertainties and upheavals - that its really wonderful to reconnect with something that has deeper roots in my own life story, and people who've known me for decades (or places I've known/experienced decades ago), often across and through various things, rather than solely because of a single shared activity, passion, or workplace, etc.

I realise not everyone had a good or great childhood, so revisiting old haunts and long-term friends won't be the same largely positive (while at times jarring) thing for some others as it is for me, but for me it's always been a bit of a 'battery recharger' on several fronts, especially when I've been based abroad.

It's all too rare that I'm in New Zealand to nab print copies of the papers
and magazines I contribute to, so it was lovely to yesterday get a copy
of the latest NZ Listener, completed with my April thrillers roundup

We've been visiting national parks, wildlife preserves, and scenic areas, gone wading and swimming at local beaches even though it's autumn (some nice sunny days and mild weather, the recent tropical cyclone aside), had lots of catch-ups with family and some old friends, eaten lots of steak and cheese pies and boysenberry ice cream, visited local artisans (from Höglund Art Glass to the makers of the Lord of the Rings ring), and had all sorts of of fun.

Plus a few bookish things thrown in for good measure.

To kickstart April, I even got to participate in an author panel at the Motueka Library, as part of the nationwide Mystery in the Library series of free/koha library events. I helped kickstart that series in 2015, and have been organising it from afar in London the past decade plus. We've now held 125+ events at 50 libraries across Aotearoa New Zealand, featuring 200+ different Kiwi storytellers, over the past decade or so. Crazy how wee ideas can grow into rather big things when people care and give their time. Thanks to amazing librarians, authors, chairs, and thousands of local readers, Mystery in the Library has become a fixture in the New Zealand literary calendar.

With science teacher and film/TV actor
Doug Brooks, a high school pal - we used to
do Shakespeare competitions as teenagers

It has been a bit of a strange thing, if I'm honest, organising so many events that I never get to attend myself, but I have enjoyed the ongoing connection to my home country and the local books community there, and my parents raised me to serve and give back, so I've felt good about that too. At a distance. But there was something a wee bit special getting to attend 'Miscreants in Motueka' on 1 April - with my mother, daughter, and old schoolteacher and a couple of other mates in the audience, along with plenty of people I didn't know or hadn't met yet. It was the first time too that I've had a New Zealand event where some of my own books (the Dark Deeds Down Under anthologies) were onsale. I got to sign some copies for readers who bought them, plus some old friends. Which was cool.

It was a nice, rather tangible reminder of what we've built with the Ngaio Marsh Awards and Mystery in the Library, but also where it all started, with my parents and schoolteachers cultivating and encouraging my love of reading, and how local libraries were a cool part of my Nelson-Tasman childhood, alongside local sports fields, outdoors areas, and friends houses.

While there have been plenty of bumps, and some tough twists and turns, overall I think I've been a fairly lucky guy, in terms of some pretty cool chapters I've had in my life, and the great people I've got to meet and spend time with - a little or a lot - along the way.

Given this was a very family-focused trip, I didn't get to catch up with as many Kiwi authors as I often do when I'm back home, but on top of the Miscreants in Motueka event and going for a dawn walk around the Auckland harbour with Maori filmmaker and award-winning crime writer Michael Bennett (Better the Blood, etc) this morning - a very nice way to kickstart my final day in Aotearoa for this trip - I've popped into a few bookshops and libraries while here, and been very pleased to see some good stocking and spotlighting of an array of cool Kiwi crime novels and true crime books. in most places We've come a long way since we started the Ngaio Marsh Awards in 2010.

Ngaio Marsh Award winning authors Michael Bennett and Claire Baylis
on a spotlight shelf at the Papatoetoe Library in South Auckland

Over the weekend I even popped into the Papatoetoe Library, just up the road from where we've been staying in Auckland for the final days of our visit. As some people know, that's a key location in terms of modern New Zealand crime writing and the Ngaio Marsh Awards, even though we've never held a Mystery in the Library event there.

In October 2008 - nearly 18 years ago! - I stopped by the Papatoetoe Library in South Auckland, having just returned to New Zealand from a yearlong OE backpacking through Latin America, North America, and Europe.

I'd loved mystery books my whole life - though had slowed down reading them while at law school and as a young lawyer at a large corporate law firm - but while travelling on that OE trip I'd read lots of crime/thrillers during 24 hr bus roads across Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina, and even spontaneously attended a Crime Writers of Canada event at Vancouver Public Library in April 2008, chatting to Canadian crime writers like legendary lawyer and award-winning author William Deverell, along with Mark Zuehlke and the late, great Lou Allin (a Vice-President of Crime Writers Canada who'd later become one of our inaugural Ngaio Marsh Awards judges in 2010).

While sorting old boxes at my Mum's house
on this trip, I came across lots of old articles
I wrote 15+ years ago, including this
feature on Neil Cross in early 2009

On a post event stroll to the bus stop, Bill Deverell had asked me about New Zealand crime writing, but outside of Ngaio Marsh, Paul Thomas, and a few one-off books from the 2000s from the likes of Simon Snow, Michael Laws, and Nigel Latta, I sadly couldn't really tell him that much in terms of recommendations.

Later that year, browsing the Papatoetoe Library shelves in October 2008, I stumbled across CEMETERY LAKE by Paul Cleave and THE RINGMASTER by Vanda Symon not just Kiwi crime novels, but the third and second books from each author!

By chance - a lawyer not getting a book review in on time for the legal magazine I started working at, so my editor needed me to quickly fill the pages before we went to the printers - I ended up reviewing Paul and Vanda's books for NZLawyer magazine. Further reviews then author interviews followed of other Kiwi mystery writers, and international ones... fast forward to late 2010, and the first-ever Ngaio Marsh Award was won - delayed after the earthquakes cancelled the Christchurch Writers Festival that year by 'Alix Bosco' for CUT & RUN.

And that was just the beginning. 17 years of the Ngaio Marsh Awards. More than a decade of Mystery in the Library. Rotorua Noir in 2019, the first-ever New Zealand crime and thriller festival. Kiwi crime and thriller authors appearing semi-regularly nowadays at international festivals. Would it have happened without spontaneous visits to libraries in Vancouver and Papatoetoe in 2008? Months apart, more than 7,000 miles apart... both planting seeds.

Life eh? What can you do but be grateful?

Until next time. Ka kite anō.

Whakataukī of the fortnight:

Inspired by Zoe and her 'word of the week', I'll be ending my fortnightly posts by sharing a whakataukī (Māori proverb), a pithy and poetic thought to mull on as we go through life.

Nāu te rourou, nāku te rourou, ka ora ai te iwi

(With your food basket and my food basket the people will thrive, ie everybody has something to offer, and by working together we can all flourish.)

Dozens of crime writers from New Zealand, Australia, and internationally coming
together at a local marae to celebrate storytelling at Rotorua Noir in 2019.

How Can It Be that Last Sunday was Easter--But So Is Tomorrow?

2026-04-11T00:00:00.001-04:00

Jeff--Saturday

There are two explanations for that phenomenon. One easy, one not––but neither being that it's the movie "Groundhog Day" come to life.

The simple answer is that Greeks and others of the Eastern Orthodox faith calculate their Easter based upon the Julian calendar while Protestants and catholics use the modern Gregorian calendar. If you want to know precisely how wth date is determined, the explanation starrs to sound strangely reminiscent of some I've herad touted these days about where our world is headed:

“The determination of the date of Easter is governed by a computation based on the vernal equinox (the point at which the ecliptic intersects the celestial equator, the sun having a northerly motion) and the phase of the moon. According to the ruling of the First Ecumenical Synod in 325, Easter Sunday should fall on the Sunday which follows the first full moon after the vernal equinox. If the full moon happens to fall on a Sunday, Easter is observed the following Sunday. The day taken to be the invariable date of the vernal equinox is March 21.”

I think it best we just say that Greek Easter follows the Julian calendar (though both can be on the same date) and leave it at that.

But no matter how the date is determined, Easter is by far the main event in Eastern Orthodoxy. It is preceded by more than a week of significant religious and cultural observations. And on Mykonos, Easter literally brings the island back to life.

Mykonos in Springtime

In the winter, Mykonos is a sleepy island village with virtually no tourists, no business, few open bars, fewer restaurants, and no clubs. But come Easter Week everything changes. Red and yellow springtime poppies burst to life all over the island’s hillsides, and those and still more varieties of flowers embroider the blanket of green covering the nearby holy island of Delos. There are Church services every day of Holy Week, as well as daily preparations for the feast to come at the end. Breads and cookies are readied on Monday and Tuesday, baking is done on Wednesday, and eggs are dyed red on Thursday, the day Christ was put up on the Cross.

Tsoureki Easter bread

By Thursday, Mykonos is filled with mainland Greeks flocking to their vacation homes and others looking to participate in a perfect example of spiritual and temporal coexistence: Easter church rituals strictly observed during the day, followed by the island’s as nearly hallowed party traditions through the night. But that taste of the coming mid-summer craziness is short lived, for if you don’t catch the action that weekend come by in June, because Mykonos is back in hibernation come Tuesday.

An Epitaphios in procession on Mykonos

Evening services on Good Friday start at seven in the old town’s three main churches, Kiriake, Metropolis, and Panachra. At precisely nine, each church’s clergy and worshipers leave their church in separate processions carrying their church’s epitaphios (the painted or embroidered cloth representation of Christ on a bier elaborately adorned in spring flowers and symbolizing his tomb) along a prearranged route, winding past the other two churches before ending up back at their own to complete the service. It represents the funeral of Christ, and Mykonians and visitors line the route, some standing on balconies and sprinkling the participants below with a mixture of rose water and perfumes, the rodhonoro used on Christ’s body when taken down from the cross.

The same three churches serve as the scene of the following night’s Holy Saturday services. Most generally start heading off to church around ten, but for certain everyone is there by midnight. For that is the high point of Easter, when church bells ring out across Greece and even total strangers exchange the traditional Christos Anesti and Alithos Anesti greetings that Christ has risen, kiss each other, and light each other’s candles to share the light and joy of the occasion—a light brought to Greece for just this purpose from the Holy Flame of Christ’s nativity cave in Jerusalem. Worshipers carry the light back into their homes or their favorite restaurants, except for the hearty souls who remain in church for the balance of a service that lasts hours more into the morning.

Midnight in Mykonos

Mayiritsa soup

Now it is time to challenge each other with the customary one-to-one smacking of those dyed-red eggs for good luck to the winner (mine always cracks first) and devour the traditional mayiritsa soup (made from parts of a lamb you may ask me about if you really want to know), fluffy tsoureki easter bread, and salads to break the forty-day fast leading up to Easter.

But the big feast, the one everyone looks forward to, comes on Sunday. That’s when all the work of the week and all the spring lambs find their purpose. There is church, too, of course, but this day is more about celebrating with family and friends. And eating.

The star of a Greek Easter Sunday (center)

Dieting starts Monday. Kalo Paska

--Jeff

Conservation and tech

2026-04-09T04:22:00.002-04:00

Michael - Every other Thursday

In a world where modern computer technology is becoming regarded as a threat, it’s interesting to see AI, drones, and photo recognition being put to purposes we can all agree are worthwhile and useful. What’s more, a lot of the research being done for these applications is happening here in South Africa.

We’ve become used to the idea that drones carry bombs – often aimed at civilians; AI is out to take jobs and steal books, and perhaps suck up all the electricity; and automated photo recognition is designed to spy out sites to destroy and follow people who may be troublesome to authoritarian governments.

The thing about AI is the emphasis is on it doing things humans can do well (e.g. writing mysteries) rather than on focusing on things humans can’t do.

However, a recent article in South Africa’s online newspaper, The Daily Maverick, shows how these are tools that have some very valuable roles to play. Since my own research interests were in image processing and remote sensing, I was intrigued (and a little skeptical) and so I had a more detailed look. I concluded that although it’s early days, all these technologies have promise to assist with wild life management and conservation.

A drone picture of an elephant helping himself to Sisal plants at night.
The picture is in the thermal infrared showing the animal
very clearly against the background.
Picture courtesy Conservation Through Tourism

For example, take elephants in areas where borders are lines on maps and fences are designed to keep in cattle. Probably more than lions, they are a danger to people and so indirectly to themselves. Elephants are smart and know that it’s best to break into crop lands at night while people are asleep, and a herd of 100 elephants can do an enormous amount of damage in a few hours. Electric fences with alarms are well and good. So you know you have 100 elephants in your crops. Now what?

A herd wonders through the bush - easily identified in the TIR
Photo courtesy Conservation Through Tourism

A group called Conservation through Tourism has been experimenting with drone and remote sensing technologies. The drones have cameras that take high resolution images but also thermal images. One can see the elephants clearly against the vegetation even on a dark night and through trees. Even better, the elephants don’t like these drones. They make a noise and can buzz you, so you move off. A couple of them can actually herd you. They know where you are, they know where they want you to go and not to go, and there’s not much you can do about them as long as they keep their distance. Once you start to move off, it’s just a matter of steering you back home. That can be done by a human watching a computer screen in a Land Rover, or, even better, by an artificial intelligence system analyzing the scene using GPS location information.

Another potentially valuable application is remotely counting species populations in conservation areas. This has been done for many years by people in the Kruger park area at least once a year. The technique is to use helicopters with human spotters counting everything they see. By having multiple counters on the aircraft, the data can be averaged and then a clever model predicts what’s been missed species by species. If you saw 10 Impala, you probably missed 2.3 and so on.

Gaia drone. Not one of the toy variety...
Photo courtesy Daily Maverick

How about if the whole thing could be done automatically at a much lower cost? Once again you need a drone outfitted with a high resolution camera that takes multispectral images. That means its photographs are at different wave lengths of light (some that we can’t see in the infrared) so that the AI system that afterwards analyses the images can distinguish not only between different individuals but also between different species. Because of the different wavelengths, animals could be recognized even under cover. Of course, there will still be individuals missed, but now the spotter is always the same so there’s consistency. Absolute numbers are usually less important than trends in wildlife conservation. (I’ve been one of these aerial counters, and it’s really hard to be consistent.)

Herd of buffalo drinking.
They have to be correctly separated from the hippos
Photo courtesy Timbavati Nature Reserve

That is just what Project Gaia is. In a recent survey to the West of the Kruger National Park, the drone flew 20,000km (12,500 miles) and took nearly 3 million photographs. No way humans could even imagine analyzing that, but a specially trained AI system can – first identifying the animal species and then adding it to the count.

One of the appealing advantages is that the drones fly quietly at 100 meters’ height and don’t disturb the animals. Helicopters are noisy and often scare animals. Apart from the distress that may cause, it may also result in the animals running far enough to be counted twice…

Of course, these are niche applications. It’s the military and the big tech companies that have the money. Regrettably, the AI, drone, and aerial survey companies will follow the money. At least other applications can pick up the scraps.

I Don't Like New Things

2026-04-07T08:26:00.000-04:00

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

I like the idea of them and I admire (and envy) people who embrace them and plunge in (Thank you, Stan!) But when it comes to actually stepping into something unfamiliar—like this new Substack—I find myself hesitating, resisting, wanting figure it all out before I begin.

And no, I don’t like this about myself. And I don’t like things changing.

These were my darling doglets, Princess and Hermione ten years ago.

They’re gone now. For a long time I was sure I could never have another dog because no other dog could replace them. And I didn’t want to let them be replaced.

I felt that way before— When I was in primary school and they started clearing jungle and moving people out of the hillside farms in what I’d thought of as wilderness behind our home.

In those days the ‘jungle catchment area’ extended all the way across to Bukit Timah Hill. It felt like the green on granite heart at the centre of Singapore island had always been there and would always be there. It was full of jungle chickens, monkeys, snakes, and the occasional wild pig. There were treks worn to the wild durian and chempadak trees and children would compete with monkeys for ripe mangoes, bananas and rambutans. When the construction began, we used to climb up the slope and walk along the levelled earth, not understanding what it was becoming and assuming it would soon go back to ‘normal’.

Today, that stretch is part of the Pan Island Expressway.

There are no more jungle chickens and no way (for people or pangolins) to cross over on foot.

And when they opened up that stretch of the expressway I remember realising that things would never go back to ‘normal’. And that what I’d thought of as ‘normal’ was just how I’d seen things from my limited (in place and time) POV.

I’m also thinking about letting things go because we’ve just had the sea burial—

Burial urns being released into the elements.

Another reminder that we have to let things go.

Writing is also particularly challenging now because I’m trying something new there too. I can’t talk about it because of I want to figure out what I think of it on the page. I’ve got to where I have a kind of structure I like but am clearing out stuff that’s no longer useful or relevant given how the story turned out (for now) and I need to cut a lot of stuff--which always hurts.

At about 30,000 words now, possibly less tomorrow depending on how much gets culled.

I started writing for theatre and now, when shaping a book, I feel like I’m trying to be the director, scene, set and lighting designer, manage the sound system as well as act all the parts.

And now, trying to step into Substack, I feel like I’m walking into a new space with a producer I’m not familiar with.

It’s like trying to figure out characters (especially the unpleasant ones whose nonsense has to make sense to them) while hosting a complicated gathering and figuring out who gets invited into the VIP room (because Sponsors) and will they be happy with Prosecco and dim sum and how to make sure those who come because they love you (and are quietly hoping there won’t be anything too activist, alternative or otherwise alarming) are comfortable with what they find within your pages.

And I always feel I’m not ready yet.

The problem is, the expressway gets built whether you’re ready or not. The wilderness changes and the story moves forwards.

Singapore is always changing and remaking itself because we are so short of land. It’s like living in a Minecraft scenario where the landscape is always changing.

And yet the past never quite disappears either.

And maybe my discomfort and resistance to change is part of the whole process.

When Princess and Hermione died it felt wrong to even consider another dog. But now we have Sophia.

She’s not Princess or Hermione but entirely herself—but with echoes of them both.

Our Scruffy Sleepy Sophia.

And I’m coming to understand what I didn’t when I watched the roads being carved through our jungle spaces: things don’t come back, but new things come as you let go and move on.

One Thin Dime

2026-04-05T09:30:00.001-04:00

Sara E. Johnson, 1st Sunday

I mentioned in a previous post that I enjoy teaching my Exploring Mysteries class. One session is on the history of mysteries, and in researching that wide and deep topic, I learned about dime novels and how they caught on like a California wildfire and broke ground for many of the genres we enjoy today.

Dime novels debuted in the United States during the Civil War era. Named for their cheap price, they began as lurid Westerns, and later branched to romances, adventures, and detective stories. Their straightforward plots combined sentimentality with violence and introduced readers to new vistas much like books set in a foreign locale do for me.

The first known dime novel, Malaeska, the Indian Wife of the White Hunter by Ann S. Stephens, was published by Irwin and Erasmus Beadle and Robert Adams in 1860. It’s a tale of an interracial romance between a white hunter and Malaeska, a Mohawk woman. Their son is raised in the white culture. When the son learns of his parentage, his reaction is melodramatic, a common element of dime novels. Here’s the section when the son learns of his parentage: "Great God!" he almost shrieked, dashing his hand against his forehead. “No, no ! it can not — I, an Indian? a halfblood? the grandson of my father’s murderer? Woman, speak the truth; word for word, give me the accursed history of my disgrace.”

(No surprise: dime novels perpetuated racist stereotypes of Native Americans, Blacks and Asians.) Stephens was paid $250 for Malaeska. It reportedly sold over 300,000 copies. You can read it in its entirety; it is in the public domain.

Civil War soldiers tackled the boredom of camp life by reading and trading dime novels. According to one book historian, dime novels were “sent to the army in the field by cords, like unsawed firewood.”

Prior to the Civil War, reading was an upper class or upper-middle class pastime. Books were expensive. In the 1850s, the average book cost $1 to $1.50. The creation of dime novels slashed those prices so that virtually anyone could afford to have their nose in a book while, at the same time, literacy rates were growing.

Dime novels were mass produced on cheap paper. They averaged one hundred pages and were small: 6.5 x 4.5 inches, perfect to fit in a pocket or pocketbook. To keep costs low, the books were printed on paper similar to newsprint. Any dime novel you come across in an antique store is likely to have brittle or crumbling pages. The print was often fuzzy and with odd space breaks.

Updated shipping methods – though no comparison to Amazon’s next-day delivery – brought the dimes to almost every newsstand or dry good store. People – largely of the working class – went crazy for them. In the five years following Malaeska, the Indian Wife of the White Hunter, Beadle and Adams published more than five million dime novels. ‘Books for the millions’ was proclaimed on the covers. Dartmouth Libraries said, “Enormously popular and critically maligned, the dime novel was one of the first forms of mass culture in the United States.”

Detective stories soon replaced Westerns. One of the earliest was The Two Detectives; or, The Fortunes of a Bowery Girl. This was actually a nickel novel because it was short. The Bowery Detective series focused on gritty city crime. A funny aside: Typical dime novel detectives were old. Their names often reflected their advanced ages: Old Bull’s Eye, Old Sleuth, Old Neverfail, and Old Spicer.

Women became writers and readers of dime novels. The plots that attracted them dealt with romance and marriage. Many readers were ‘working girls,’ so a repeated story line was a love between a working class girl and a noble. (Sound familiar?) All for Love of a Fair Face, The Story of a Wedding Ring, The Unseen Bridegroom, and The Charity Girl are titles of dime novels marketed for women.

The dime novel’s counterpart in the United Kingdom was the penny dreadful. Subjects were Gothic – hence the name – and included tales about vampires, highwaymen, murderers, and ghosts. They were also know as penny bloods, penny awfuls or simply ‘bloods.’

The years 1870 to 1900 were the dime novel’s heyday. Not many dime novels were printed after World War I. Pulp fiction magazines nudged them aside and going to the ‘motion pictures’ was more exciting and cheaper than one thin dime.

Dime novels are a thing of the past. Today, mass-market paperbacks face a similar extinction. Remember how you could pick up a copy of Jaws or Carrie at the airport or drug store for a cheap price, and slip into your pocket? Mass-market paperbacks, like dime novels, were touted as making reading accessible for the masses, including me. Trade paperbacks, hard covers, Ebooks, audio books, and Netflix are dancing on their graves.

Which mass-market paperbacks do you have yellowing in your book case? Happy reading and I'll see you next month.

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

Thirteen Years Ago Today, 'Here's Looking At You, Babe' Played Out for Real.

2026-04-04T00:00:00.004-04:00

Saturday - Jeff

Thirteen Years ago today I wrote a post for MIE detailing a seminal occurrence in my life--the birth of a grandchild. As my family prepares to celebrate today's thirteenth anniversary with reminiscences of the years of wonder and joy we've reaped from that miraculous event, I thought it appropriate to reflect back on memories of that day---at least as I recall it---by republishing my time-line scribblings as the reporter on the scene:

It was a 5:00AM Thursday morning. Ugh, what an ungodly hour for an alarm to go off. But if we hadn’t driven in last night from my farm in western New Jersey it would have been a 3AM wakeup. Hmm, a quick check of the emails—what else does one do first thing in the morning? It’s from a friend on Mykonos: “Call me. It’s important.” My guess is it’s in response to my request for information about an esoteric Greek funeral practice tied into my new Andreas Kaldis novel.

I reply, “Am on way to the hospital. Will call later.”

There’s another message from the same friend. “Call me after the baby is born.”

After the baby is born. Wow. Seeing the phrase in black and white (pixels) makes an impact. My baby girl is having her own baby this morning. Her first. It’s set for 7:30AM.

I’ve been so busy this week cutting away the remaining trees downed by hurricane Sandy that I haven’t had time to work on my post for Saturday. And I know that I won’t be able to focus on a “Greek piece” this week. But come to think of it, with all the time Greeks spend obsessed with the “fixins” for babies, perhaps it might be a refreshing change to focus on the back end of the courting process. My sort of in real time existential take on “Waiting for Baby.”

5:45AM. We’re headed north to Huntington Hospital. It’s close by the Long Island Sound, not far from where we’re staying just south of the Long Island Expressway. Officially the LIE is Interstate 495, Long Island’s commuter backbone, known affectionately to those whose lives are tethered to it as “the Long Island Distressway” or “The World’s Longest Parking Lot.” I remember living out this way in the early 70s. Beautiful place, offering a wonderful life…if you don’t mind rush hour commutes into NYC.

6:00 AM. Made it to the hospital and found the Labor and Delivery Waiting Room. Impressive name. Too bad the green carpeting and mismatched green-brown furniture doesn’t cut it. But who cares about the décor—which probably is why it’s as bad as it is—I just hope we get to see Karen before she goes into surgery. She’s having a Caesarian delivery. Strange name. I always heard it came from the way Julius Caesar entered the world, but according to all-knowing Wikipedia (thank God the waiting room has wireless), that theory’s been debunked. It’s now thought to derive from the verb caedere … to cut…as in to cut through the abdominal wall to deliver the baby.

It’s so much easier being a man.

I’m not worried. Nor is my daughter. At least she wasn’t when we spoke last night before she went to sleep. Honest, I’m not worried.

6:15AM. Karen’s mother, Judy, and Judy’s husband, Joe, arrive in the waiting room. Three strangers also are in there and have been since before Barbara and I got there. They’re the quiet type. Haven’t said a word to anyone. But they won’t remain that way for long. Judy—that’s my ex-wife—is naturally gregarious, capable of drawing monks vowed to silence into animated conversation. She pulls out a photo of Karen taken less than an hour after she was born. My handwritten note on the back gives the details. I was anal then. I was a lawyer.

6:45AM. Karen’s husband, Terry, pops into the waiting room to say we can see Karen. We follow him through a maze of turns and doorways, complete with one wrong turn attributable to an anxious pappy moment. There’s the room and inside is Karen, all smiles and calm amid monitors and an IV hookup. I can hear the baby’s heartbeat: loud, strong, and ready to take on the world.

7:15AM. Terry’s mom and dad arrive. Three sets of grandparents hovering and waiting for the big moment. I sure hope the new kid is into hugging. Terry says it’s our last chance to toss out name suggestions. I’ll spare you that, but believe me when I say it’s easier to title a new book.

7:30AM. Nurse comes in to prepare Karen and says we have to leave. We head down to the cafeteria for coffee. I think I’ll write. Not a chance. Judy has new photographs of our son’s children to share.

8:00AM. Terry shows up in the cafeteria. Things are delayed. A woman who’s been in labor all night now needs an emergency C-section, so Karen’s time has been pushed back a bit. The nurse told Terry to get something to eat and Karen to rest. We tease him about his “deer in the headlights” look…a natural segue considering his up close and personal SUV run in with a Long Island Bambi the day before yesterday.

8:15AM. Terry gets a call from Karen. Everyone’s listening as he says, “Wow.”

He hangs up to a chorus of “What’s ‘Wow’?”

Answer: “Doctor said that since Karen isn’t in distress and other women are facing more difficult situations, her delivery is now pushed back to at least noon, maybe as late as 2PM. But Karen has to rest, and we have the choice of hanging around in the waiting room or cafeteria until then or leaving the hospital and coming back later.

Barbara and I vote for going back to sleep.

9:00AM. Back at the hotel I receive a SMS from Terry. He suggests we wait to hear from him before returning to the hospital because the doctor said there are likely to be more delays. I try calling my friend in Greece. No answer. I send a SMS on the situation to my son and brother. I fall asleep.

11:00AM. Message from Terry: Looks like she’ll go in at 2.

12:30 PM. I never realized how many Dunkin’ Donut shops there are on Long Island. Maybe it’s just how many times we’ve driven past the same one in the last twelve hours, but there does happen to be one right next door to the baby store we’re looking for. Barbara suspects it has the “perfect” stuffed animal. In exchange for her promise that we can go to Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee “after,” I join her in the hunt for bunny rabbit. It’s decision time: Do I prefer the pink, blue, beige, or white one? I try feigning nonchalance: “Whichever one shows the least dirt.” That’s how I choose my cars these days, so why shouldn’t it work for bunny rabbits?

I know, it’s pink for girls and blue for boys, but that requires you know the sex and we don’t. Karen doesn’t want to know the ending before she finishes the story. Sounds like a mystery writer’s daughter to me.

2 PM. Back in the Labor and Delivery Waiting Room. It’s just the six of us on baby watch, plus a receptionist. No one wants to talk about anything serious…even baseball’s off limits. It’s just old memories retold, recast, reminisced. Funny isn’t it how life’s genuinely significant events are so often surrounded by mindless waiting.

A television mounted on the far wall is running a (badly written) soap opera. I’m sure the last time I knowingly sat in one place for so long with a soap opera playing on television was in some Greek hospital’s waiting room, but that show would have made more sense. The only person watching it is the receptionist. Perhaps it’s “General Hospital” and she considers it part of a work-study program.

2:15 PM. Another couple comes in. Now it’s eight people plus the receptionist and she’s still the only one watching TV. Two are reading newspapers, one a magazine, another a Kindle, two are on iPads, and one is just staring off into the middle distance. I’m typing away on my Macbook Air.

A Reese’s mini-pieces commercial comes on the TV. I look up. Finally, something on TV I can sink my teeth into.

More waiting.

2:30PM. Terry stops in to say Karen is now in the delivery room. Everyone’s quiet. We know it’s time. He leaves.

2:55 PM. An SMS from Terry. “In for epidural.”

3:15PM. The hospital’s PA system breaks the silence with Brahms’ Lullaby. We’re told it’s played throughout the hospital every time there’s a new baby born.

My heart jumps. Could it be ours? I’m really excited, almost in tears. “Oh my gosh,” says Terry’s mother, Joyce, to her husband, Tom. Judy’s husband starts taking photos of everyone. I try imagining my daughter’s face at that moment. Six very excited people are now waiting for confirmatory news.

3:30PM. No one’s told us anything yet. Terry’s mom walks down to the nursery. Comes back with no news.

3:55PM. Still no word. Where’s Terry? Where’s an SMS? The mothers are getting worried, the fathers are acting as if they’re not.

4:00PM. Tensions are rising. Talk is now onto politics. If the baby doesn’t show up soon we might need to switch the TV to the World Wide Wresting channel to properly reflect the changing mood in the room.

4:05PM. Right on cue Terry shows up in the doorway. His mother cries and hugs him. He says to come with him to see Karen and the baby. “So what is it?” we ask. He says they want to tell us the details together. Dramatists both.

It seems a long walk, but Terry knows the way perfectly this time and it’s only a couple of minutes before we’re standing in front of a large wooden door marked “recovery room.” Terry knocks, we wait for someone to let us in, and six of us herd in behind him. Karen is on a bed off in the corner covered in a blanket and wearing some sort of scarf. I look closer. It isn’t a scarf. It’s a snuggly wrapped baby. Her baby!

Terry goes to the far side of the bed to stand beside his wife and child as my theater trained daughter announces, “Baby was born precisely at 3:00PM, weighs five pounds, ten ounces, is eighteen inches long, and is a” … drumroll please … “She.”

No longer an “it” but a she! A babe! A moll! A lassie! And a genuine beauty if I may say so myself.

We only have time to get in a quick peek at her before the nurse starts shooing us out of the room saying we’ll get to spend more time with baby and mom in about an hour.

As I’m leaving the room Karen calls out, “Dad.”

“Yes.”

“Come back, please.”

I walk over to her bed and lean down. “Yes, honey?”

She whispers, “I watched your face when I told you about my baby.”

I smile. “I was crying.”

“I know.” And my baby cries as she squeezes my hand.

God bless you, my beautiful baby granddaughter, your Mommy, and your Daddy.

–Jeff

The Writer's Nap

2026-04-03T00:00:00.001-04:00

Sujata Massey

Frederick Leighton's Flaming June

Napping after lunch is a tradition with adherents worldwide, especially in warm seasons and places. We had 87-degree weather yesterday in Baltimore—the second hot day in a row. Cherry trees are bursting into pink heaven outside my bedroom window. As I lie down over rather than underneath the sheet because of my street clothes, guilt snuggles alongside me, an unwelcome companion whispering that I didn’t make my morning writing quota.

My sigh back at her turns into a yawn. There’s a curtain of fog inside my head, perhaps induced by the budding trees themselves. Brain fog prevents me from getting into flow whenever I want. I know from experience that sentences are most sprightly in the morning, but unfortunately this morning I dashed out for an appointment. And so, at 1:15 pm—right after lunch—I throw myself onto my bed with relief.

I know I’m not the only person who indulges; and I imagine how many people are napping in my neighborhood. Thirty-five miles away, the White House lies, and I have a brief image of Donald Trump napping that I quickly shove away.

Better to think about people in my lane: writers. The authors Vladimir Nabakov and Thomas Mann were habitual nappers who managed to also write classic novels. Patricia Highsmith napped, but usually at 6 p.m., setting herself up after a day of writing to soldier on into the night.

Patricia Highsmith

The Internet search calls up many more male writers as self-avowed nappers than it does female. I suppose women writers have often felt that stealing time to be able to write was a great privilege not to be squandered. As the mother of a one-year-old, when my baby napped, I wrote frantically—it was my only chance. I play out this idea to realize that in the 19^thand much of the 20^th century, women worked hard in the house, caring for children, and if someone got a moment to herself, and was working on a book—there was the focus. I bet that daytime sleeping was a privilege reserved for the elders among them—and was a sign of necessity for their health. Apparently, the legendary nurse Florence Nightingale made the discovery that rest was needed for recovery—though she typically spent less than five hours on sleep herself!

Florence Nightingale

Things are slowly changing. Tricia Hersey is a poet, nonfiction writer and activist famous for her books Rest is Resistance and We Will Rest in which she explains her practice of resting as an act of self-care and protest against the unrelenting, capitalistic grind. I’ve read about scientists proving that a fatigued brain has more trouble finding answers and creative solutions than a rested one. Though it’s not just sleep that does it—walking in nature works, say if you’re in a workplace or at school and don’t have a cozy bed in which to retreat.

Brain power also increases after taking a walk in nature.

My pattern used to be to regularly stroll with my dog after my own lunch. I did it because I know that if I move vigorously after lunch, my blood sugar curve doesn’t look like Mount Olympus. Blood sugar that’s too high is itself a reason for sudden fatigue.

There are plenty of ways to spend one’s time when not writing. I will continue to practice both walking and napping. I may have dreamed up a way to combine both. And this looks like sinking into a chair on my upstairs porch, or on a bench in the park, and letting my eyes ever-so-gently fall closed.

Setting my alarm now for 25 minutes.

Vincent Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles