Rounding Up Writing Skills

My new t-shirt!

by Debbie Burke

@burke_writer

Last weekend, I drove to Helena, MT to participate in the Montana Writers Rodeo, an intimate gathering of about 40 people. The event is only in its second year, but it ran as well as if they’d been hosting conferences for years.

In 2017, director/playwright/actor Pamela Mencher went on a search for a venue where locals could perform plays that they’d written, along with artistic, musical, and cultural activities. She recognized potential in a vacant industrial building and set to work with volunteers to convert the space into the Helena Avenue Theatre (visit the Montana Playwrights Network website). It’s now a cozy auditorium with a stage, comfortable theatre seating, plus gathering rooms.

Often, attendees at writing conferences are shy introverts who may be uncomfortable in a crowd. Not at this Rodeo!

Perhaps one reason is some members of the group are also actors. On Friday evening, after a delicious buffet supper, eager authors went onstage to read their poetry, short stories, and novel excerpts. That icebreaker loosened everyone up and made for a friendly atmosphere.

On Saturday, acclaimed author Russell Rowland recalled his rollercoaster writing career, starting with his dream internship at Atlantic Monthly and the initial success of his first novels. Disappointment followed when his publisher left him an orphan. Ultimately, he made several comebacks and now has seven books, a podcast, and a popular radio show, Fifty-Six Counties. He related how discouragement and pain are emotional wellsprings from which the most meaningful writing emerges.

In his workshop prompt, he asked us to write about an argument remembered from our childhood. His unique slant: relate the argument from the point of view of the other person.

Russell’s warm, approachable demeanor encouraged a 12-year-old author to take the stage to read what he’d written. How cool is that! Surrounded by adult strangers, this young writer actively participated, asked questions, and discussed his aspirations.

Debbie with actor/director/writer Leah Joki

Another presenter was actor/director/writer Leah Joki, author of Julliard to Jail, a memoir about her unconventional career as a writing and theatre teacher inside prisons. “The reason I’m comfortable in prison,” she says, “is I grew up in Butte!” That caused laughs among us Montanans who understood exactly what she meant.

Her workshop enlisted audience volunteers who read parts of Huckleberry Finn and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf to demonstrate the impact of dialogue in fiction. She said, “Every word matters.” Yet she also emphasized that silence—what is not said—can be even more dramatic.

The workshop I taught was on DIY editing with 10+ tips on how to edit your own writing. In my next post, I’ll outline those tips.

As part of my presentation, I offered to critique First Pages from participants (wonder where that idea came from!). They were submitted in advance, so I had time to review and edit, using track changes.

During the workshop, I projected a page on the screen, read it aloud, then gave my impressions and explained reasons for suggestions. Time didn’t permit review of all submissions, but I printed out the edited versions for each author and we discussed them outside the workshop.

As often happens with TKZ First Pages, some stories didn’t get started until page two or later. We discussed ways to grab readers’ attention immediately, while at the same time weaving in enough details to ground them in the fictional world.

I plugged TKZ as a helpful resource and encouraged Rodeo attendees to submit their first pages for critique.

Rounding out the presentations were two representatives from Farcountry Press, a respected regional house that publishes outdoor guides, books on travel, history, photography, and nature-themed picture books. Samantha Strom, Director of Publications, and Hilary Page, marketing and social media, showed us how to define a reading audience. They provided blank template worksheets that we filled out with background, gender, age, education, interests, jobs, lifestyles, and values of our particular demographic.

Rodeo Wrangers Pamela Mencher, Mindy Peltier, Pearl Allen, and Christa Chiriaco

Conference wranglers Pamela Mencher, Mindy Peltier, Pearl Allen, and Christa Chiriaco rounded up strays and kept the Rodeo running smoothly.

For example, each presenter had a dress rehearsal with tech helpers who checked mic volume, lighting, position on stage, power point displays, and especially those pesky connecting cables! Thank goodness, because my Mac didn’t want to play nice with their projection setup. Mindy brought in the calvary (her techie husband) and saved the day.

Volunteer Intern Chinook asked an unexpected question: did I prefer chilled or room-temperature water during my presentation? According to audiobook narrators, room-temperature is better because cold causes throat muscles to tense up. How thoughtful of Chinook!

Coffee and snacks were in a room where we authors displayed our books for sale and chatted with attendees between sessions.

Small conferences offer a chance to relax and connect with other writers on a deeper level than the hectic hustle-bustle of large ones. Authors in similar genres swapped business cards with prospective critique partners and beta readers.

Several people asked about my editing services, leading to possible new clients. Plus, I sold a stack of books and traded with other authors.

Evaluation surveys are important planning tools for future conferences, but convincing attendees to fill them out is always a challenge. The Rodeo wranglers solved that problem by holding prize drawings as the last event on Saturday evening. A completed survey earned a ticket to win t-shirts, drink containers, and other Rodeo-themed gifts. Yup, I won that t-shirt shown at the top of this post.

Deep Fake Sapphire Pen created by Steve Hooley

 

I piggy-backed on their drawing with my own to encourage signups for my newsletter. The prize: a custom-crafted Steve Hooley legacy wood pen. The lady who won the Deep Fake Sapphire pen was thrilled and I went home with a bunch of new subscribers. Win-win.

For two nights, Mindy spoiled me with five-star hospitality in her lovely log home, complete with an espresso machine in my room.

The drive between Kalispell and Helena is 400 miles roundtrip, with a posted speed limit of 70 mph in most places. I’ll be polite and call that optimistic, rather than insane Switchbacks and hairpin turns often reduce speed to a white-knuckled 20 or 30 mph.

The route follows winding rivers and twisting two-lane mountain roads that cross the Continental Divide. The drive takes four hours each way, cuz I’m too chicken to put cruise control on 70. I took time to admire Big Sky scenery while watching for suicidal deer and elk. Even plotted a few new scenes, too.

Near Flesher Pass on the Continental Divide, elevation 6131 feet

Already I’m looking forward to next year’s Montana Writers Rodeo.

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TKZers: Do you prefer large or small writing conferences? Please share your favorite conference experience.

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At the Rodeo, Flight to Forever and Deep Fake Double Down were the biggest sellers. Please click on the covers for sales links.

Book Clubs

“There is more treasure in books than in all the pirate’s loot on Treasure Island.” –Walt Disney

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I love the book club I belong to. With a diverse group of women from different backgrounds and experiences, we have robust discussions about the books we read and the lives we lead. Although people come and go, we’ve maintained about twelve members consistently. Since we meet monthly, each person is responsible for hosting the club once a year, and the host chooses the book to be read. This is a wonderful arrangement because we read books I probably wouldn’t have chosen otherwise.

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Book clubs have been around for hundreds of years. One of the earliest was a religious discussion group organized by Anne Hutchinson aboard a Puritan ship in 1634 as it sailed to America. According to minnpost.com, the interest in reading groups, lectures, and debates grew over the centuries as the new country developed.

In 1926 Harry Scherman founded the Book-of-the-Month Club, a subscription-based club that offered a selection of several books to its members each month Some of the books selected for distribution by its panel of judges were Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind, John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, and J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. According to encyclopedia.com, the BOTM club has distributed over 570 million books to its members in the U.S. since its inception.

Other 20th century book-related ventures were the Literary Guild founded in 1927 and the publication of The Great Books of the Western World in 1952.

In 1996, Oprah Winfrey started her own book club, and that began a new era. Online book clubs sprang up in the early 21st century, and they became essential meeting places during the Covid pandemic. Today it’s estimated there are more than five million book club members in the United States!

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Here are recent reading lists from several book clubs.

The Book-of-the-Month Club

Let Us Descend by Jesmyn Ward
Wellness by Nathan Hill
Age of Vice by Deepti Kapoor
Banyan Moon by Thao Thai
Family Lore by Elizabeth Acevedo
The Unsettled by Ayana Mathis
Paper Names by Susie Luo
Happiness Falls by Angie Kim
The Half Moon: A Novel by Mary Beth Keane
Tomb Sweeping: Stories by Alexandra Chang

Oprah Winfrey’s Book Club

The Many Lives of Mama Love by Lara Love Hardin
Bittersweet by Susan Cain
Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano
The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese
Let Us Descend by Jesmyn Ward
Wellness by Nathan Hill

Reese Witherspoon’s Book Club

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah
The House in the Pines by Ana Reyes
The House of Eve by Sadeqa Johnson
Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld
Did You Hear About Kitty Karr? by Crystal Smith Paul
Cassandra in Reverse by Holly Smale
Yellowface by R.F. Kuang
Before We Were Innocent by Ella Berman
Starling House by Alix E. Harrow
Mother-Daughter Murder Night by Nina Simon
Maybe Next Time by Cesca Major
Tom Lake by Ann Patchett

 

The Cherryhill Book Club

The All of It by Jeannette Haien
The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith
West With Giraffes by Lynda Rutledge
The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey
South to America by Imani Perry
Memphis by Tara Stringfellow
River Sing Me Home by Eleanor Shearer
Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters
Horse by Geraldine Brooks
The Diamond Eye by Kate Quinn
The Secret Life of Sunflowers by Marta Molnar

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So TKZers: Do you belong to a book club? Have you been invited to discuss one of your books at a book club? Have you read any of the books on the lists in this post? What book(s) (other than by a TKZ author) would you recommend to be read by a book club?

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Private pilot Cassie Deakin lands in the middle of a mystery and finds herself in the crosshairs of a murderer.

ebook on sale for 99¢ at: AmazonBarnes & NobleKoboGoogle Play, or Apple Books.

 

The Private Eye Who Nabbed Bluebeard

by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

“La Barbe Bleue” (Bluebeard) is a French folk tale, first published in 1697. It tells the story of a rich man with an odd, bluish beard who marries women, slits their throats, and hangs their bodies on hooks in the basement of his castle.

Thus, Bluebeard became the sobriquet for a murdering husband. Of which there have been many.

Like James P. Watson of Los Angeles, who was nabbed by the Nick Harris Detective agency in 1920.

Who was this guy?

James P. Watson

Well, he was no looker. But somehow he managed to charm women into marriage, first by placing classified ads that said “Would be pleased to correspond with refined young lady or widow. Object, matrimony. This advertisement is in good faith.”

And he got lots of letters in response. He would go through them and weed out the ones he thought were not “quality,” then set up appointments with the others. It would be in a fancy hotel, and the well-dressed Watson would entice them with promises of a home, world travel, the finer things in life.

Those who took the bait headed to the altar, usually within weeks. As soon as the happy couple got into a home, Watson would announce that he had to be away for awhile on business….because he worked for the government trying to nab diamond smugglers. Then he’d go visit some of his other wives, and dispatch a few of them.

It was a game to him.

According to a story by reporter Katie Dowd:

In 1918, he took at least three wives, two in Canada and one in Seattle. Marie Austin of Calgary was the first to die. On a vacation in Coeur d’Alene, he bludgeoned her to death then weighted her body with rocks, sinking her to the bottom of a lake. The Seattle wife was next to go — and fast. For their honeymoon, they took a trip to see a waterfall near Spokane. As she admired the view, her husband came up behind and gave her a firm push. 

Sweet guy.

In 1920 he brought a new wife, a widow named Kathryn Wombacher, to settle in Hollywood. Shortly thereafter, he went on one of his “work trips.” Kathryn grew suspicious, and went to the Nick Harris Detective Agency.

Nick Harris (1882-1943) had been a reporter on the police beat for the L.A. Daily Journal who did such a good job he was offered a sergeant’s desk on the force. This he kept until 1906 when he opened his own detective agency.

He became famous, resulting in some screenwriting gigs and later a radio show about his exploits. For 21 years he did a weekly broadcast aimed at the youth, ending with the phrase that became part of our lexicon: “Crime doesn’t pay.”

So Harris assigned a couple of his men to surveil Watson. When he left on a “work trip” they searched the house and found a locked bag they proceeded to open. Inside they found numerous marriage licenses, wills, jewelry, and letters from women on his list to marry. They turned the evidence over to the police

When Watson returned he was arrested and charged with bigamy.

He then told them there was more going on the met their eyes. He confessed to numerous murders and led the police to one of the bodies.

Why did he so easily offer himself up? Later profilers would opine that he had reached “burn out.” He was tired. And, in true sociopathic style, was proud of demonstrating how he fooled the cops for years.

Watson pled guilty was given life in San Quentin.

Women still wanted to see him.

He wrote love poems and submitted them, without success, to the magazines. One of them was titled “My Ideal Wife.”

He died of pneumonia in 1939.

Nick Harris died of a heart attack in 1943. His agency is still in operation.

As is the first private detective firm, the Pinkertons.

The “private eye” was born in 1850. Private eye is not a colloquialism for private investigator, or PI. Alan Pinkerton, a Scottish immigrant and “cooper” (a worker of wood for barrels, buckets and the like), became a detective for a local police station in Illinois. From there he founded his agency and went national, with a high degree of success. The logo of the Pinkertons was an eye, with the saying, “We never sleep.”

That’s why they are called “private eyes.”

And on a coincidental note, it was 183 years ago yesterday that the first true “detective story” was published: “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” by Edgar Allan Poe. It set up some tropes (see Kris’s post) that are still with us: the eccentric-thinker detective (Poe called this “ratiocination”), the sidekick-narrator (Dr. Watson, anyone?), and crossing swords with the local police. And, of course, the great puzzle mystery solved at the end and explained. [On a side note, I say it’s also an example of the big cheat, because there is no way to figure out how the murders were committed without a great big dose of implausibility supposedly made plausible, and in so ridiculous a fashion that I have a theory Poe meant this story to be something of a joke.]

The private eye became a fixture in American literature when a former Pinkerton detective, Dashiell Hammett, wrote The Maltese Falcon, serialized in the famous pulp magazine Black Mask in the late 1920s. Sam Spade was first played in a movie version in 1931 by Ricardo Cortez, a Jewish actor who changed his name and parlayed his “Valentino looks” into movie stardom (short-lived, as his acting was less than stellar). Bogart, of course, immortalized the role in the 1941 version directed by John Huston.

Wave after wave of private sleuths hit the pulps, but none so successfully as Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe. Ross Macdonald’s Lew Archer caught on in the 50s and 60s, followed John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee. Also hugely popular was Shell Scott in a series written by Richard S. Prather.

In the 70s along came Spenser by Robert B. Parker, breathing new life into the private eye genre.

In the 80s, women got into the act via Sara Paretsky’s V. I. Warshawski and Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone.

In the 90s, Walter Mosley gave us the African American L.A. detective Ezekiel “Easy” Porterhouse Rawlins.

We could mention Tony Hillerman’s Joe Leaphorn, though technically he was a detective for the Navajo Tribal Police, and not a private eye. But he must be mentioned because of an early rejection Hillerman got on his first manuscript. An editor wrote, “If you insist on rewriting this, get rid of all that Indian stuff.”

Is there still a place for private eye fiction? Look at the bookshelves. But as Kris noted, “The trick, if it can be simplified as such, is that you have to take our beloved tropes and turn them into your own.”

Not easy but, for me, entirely worth it.

Keep writing.

And never sleep.

Suspicious Minds

In lieu of my usual Words of Wisdom post today I have a theory to share about mystery fiction.

Namely, that mystery fiction can also be considered suspicion fiction.

Mystery is often considered a highly intellectual genre, given that it focuses on solving the puzzle of a baffling murder. Any discussion of mystery plotting will hone in on clues, red herrings, misdirecting the reader, and laying out the pieces of the puzzle for the sleuth and reader to put together. Mystery writers are like stage magicians, practicing misdirection while setting up the reveal. The puzzle can be deep, intricate and twisty.

The goal is for the solution to be surprising, and if we readers figure it out beforehand, we do it in a way that makes us feel satisfied for having figured out the identity of the killer. The satisfaction we feel can be part of the emotional payoff at the end of a mystery.

But mystery is also about another emotion.

Suspicion.

Suspicion defined: 1. The act of suspecting, especially something wrong or evil. 2. The state of mind of someone who suspects; doubts; misgiving.

The Emotion Thesaurus defines suspicion as “intuitively suspecting that something is wrong,” and goes on to list external and internal manifestations of this emotion. Your body language, such as darting glances or furtive looks or movements, might indicate your suspicion. Or, perhaps your stomach is roiled, your heart is beating faster, your palms are sweating, or your chest feels tight.

In a mystery novel, who does the sleuth suspect? Who do the police suspect? Most of all, who does the reader suspect?

How do you behave when you are feeling suspicious?

Doubt is a key part of suspicion. The sleuth begins to wonder who they can trust, and who they can’t. The reader begins wondering about the truthfulness and trustworthiness of a character, often suspecting more than one character at the same time. Doubt in the main character, or supporting characters, can lead to distrust, secrecy, and furtive behavior.

Suspicion can easily become obsession.

The sleuth can come to suspect even friends or family, and others can do the same with the sleuth. Adding to this is the often furtive nature of characters in a mystery. Suspects often have something to hide, such as a secret, or a different crime.

Suspicion can also be focused on an event or absence of something. For instance, the curious case of the dog that didn’t bark in the night.

If you suspect someone, you don’t entirely trust them, and that mistrust can deepen your suspicion as you draw conclusions about what they’ve been up to, and what you may have learned. The obsession deepens, both for the sleuth, and the reader, as they are drawn further into a web of deception, suspecting someone, only to discover they have an alibi, while learning that another character did something unusual or mysterious.

Thus suspicion has an arc. Moreover, there is synergy going on here—someone acts or acted “suspicious” which causes the sleuth to suspect them, creating a kind of feedback loop.

  1. It begins with noticing something is off about someone’s behavior, or a set of circumstances.
  2. Doubt ensues.
  3. Then, discovering “evidence” which increases suspicion. This can be an overheard conversation, reading a note or email, seeing a meeting without hearing what is being said, looking at a pattern of behavior, perhaps behavior out of character for the suspect, etc.
  4. Discovering a lie, or a false alibi can heighten suspicion.
  5. There can be a deepening fixation on a suspect’s behavior, words, deeds, and trying to figure out what they were thinking, why they did what they did, etc.
  6. Acting on that suspicion to the point of taking risks and putting yourself in potential jeopardy. This often precedes the confrontation/reveal in the final act of a mystery.
  7. Given that mysteries usually have multiple suspects, there will be a point where the sleuth (and the reader) rule out a person because of evidence, alibi, or learning what the secret was that made a particular individual act suspicious to the main character.
  8. Of course, heroes and readers often suspect more than one character at the same time, so the arcs can overlap. Sometimes the behavior or evidence is one thing, which leads to doubt about a particular person. Doubt which might deepen to suspicion, or might simmer in the background. Or, even forgotten for the moment, until the end, when new evidence makes the sleuth suddenly suspect that person with a cold-in-the-bones feeling.
  9. Finally, the sleuth’s suspicions lead to the actual killer and/or can lead the killer to them.

Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, A Shadow of a Doubt, does this superbly. It’s really a suspense movie with strong mystery elements, but it shows the progression in our heroine Charlie’s suspicions, and her behavior as her suspicion deepens about a beloved uncle. Our own James Scott Bell recommended this movie to me, and not only is it gripping entertainment (and fun, with a pair of supporting characters who love murder mysteries) it’s also a perfect example of a suspicion arc.

I’d love to see Jim do a JSB Goes to the Movies featuring it, so have refrained from saying too much here. Thanks, Jim for recommending the movie. It delivered on every level.

Suspicion goes hand in hand with another emotion, suspense, especially suspense for the reader. As our suspicion of someone or something deepens, we feel increasing suspense over what could happen, especially since we usually lack proof / evidence of guilt until the end. We feel suspense and tension over wondering if we’re right, and also if we overlooked something, which heightens our involvement in the story.

What does this mean for writing mysteries?

It means being aware of the reader’s own building suspicion and keeping that in mind as your hero investigates the mystery at the heart of your novel.

I’m outliner, both before, during and after drafting, so in my case, I include the suspicion arc in my outline(s). For a discovery writer, I think being aware of how suspicion can build and play out is still important, and something you can internalize by thinking about this aspect of a mystery before writing your story. It can also be added in revision, just like clues and red herrings.

I find possessing a kind of multi-level awareness about your characters and how they are perceiving what is going on is important in writing fiction in general of course, but also with this issue of who suspects what when. Especially for the sleuth, the police, and the murderer.

As JSB discussed in this 2015 post there is a shadow story taking place off screen from your hero with the other characters.

Suspicion is a part of that shadow story. Being aware of who the killer suspects is investigating the murder can set up the confrontation with the hero. This confrontation is a crucial part of many modern mysteries.

Also, how will others react when they realize the hero suspects them? Do they become more forthcoming? Or do they clam up? Even become angry?

In a mystery featuring an amateur sleuth or a P.I. if the police begin to suspect that the hero is investigating, they’ll likely have words with the investigator, so knowing when they might suspect that and how much is important.

There you have it, my possibly crackpot theory on mysteries also being suspicion fiction.

I’ll give the King the last word on suspicious minds

What do you think of this “mystery is also suspicion fiction” theory of mine? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Did Vincent Van Gogh Really Commit Suicide?

Dutch Post-Impressionism master Vincent Van Gogh was a phenomenal force who helped shape modern art culture. His influence ranks with Shakespeare in literature, Freud in psychology, and The Beatles in music. Van Gogh was also plagued with mental illness, suffered from depression, and was tormented by psychotic episodes.

Conventional history records that Van Gogh died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 1890 at the age of 37. However, an independent and objective look at the case facts arrives at an entirely different conclusion—Vincent Van Gogh was actually shot by someone else, and it was deliberately covered up.

This isn’t to say that Van Gogh was murdered as in an intentional homicide case. As a former police investigator and coroner, I’m well familiar with death classifications. The civilized world has long used a universal death classification system with five categories. They are natural death, accidental death, death caused by wrongful actions by another human being which is a homicide ruling, self-caused death or suicide, and an undetermined death classification when the facts cannot be slotted into one conclusive spot.

I’m also familiar with gunshot wounds. Understanding how Vincent Van Gogh’s fatal wound happened is the key to determining if he intentionally shot himself, if he accidentally caused his own death, or if someone else pulled the trigger which killed Van Gogh. Before analyzing what’s known about the Van Gogh case facts, let’s take a quick look at who this truly remarkable man really was.

Vincent Willem Van Gogh was born in 1853 and died on July 29, 1890. During Van Gogh’s life, he produced over 2,000 paintings, drawings, and sketches. He completed most of these in his later years and was in his most-prolific phase when he suddenly died.

Van Gogh didn’t achieve fame or fortune during his life. He passed practically penniless. It was after death when the world discovered his genius and assessed his works of bright colors, bold strokes, and deep insight as some of the finest works ever to appear on the art scene. Today, an original Van Gogh is worth millions—some probably priceless.

Vincent Van Gogh achieved artistic saint status. It’s not just Van Gogh’s unbounded talent that supported his greatness. It’s also the mystique of the man and the martyrdom mushrooming from his untimely death that robbed the world of an artist—a starving artist and a man who lived on the fine line between genius and nut.

Most people know some of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. Wheatfield With Crows may have been his last painting. Café Terrace At NightThe Potato EatersIrisesBedroom In ArlesThe Olive Trees, and Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers are extraordinarily famous. So is The Starry Night. (I happen to have a hand-painted oil reproduction of Starry Night right on the wall in front of me as I write this, and my daughter has Café de Nuit hanging in her home.)

Most people know the story of Vincent Van Gogh’s ear. It’s a true story, but the truth is he only cut part of his left ear off with a razor during a difficult episode with his on-again, off-again relationship with painter Paul Gauguin. The story goes on to say that Van Gogh gave the piece of his ear to a brothel lady, then he bandaged himself up and painted one of many self-portraits. I just looked at this portrait (Google makes Dutch Master shopping easy) and was struck by the image of his right side being bandaged. Then I realized Van Gogh painted selfies by looking in a mirror.

And most people know something about Vincent Van Gogh’s time in asylums. This is true, too, and he spent a good while of 1889 in Saint-Remy where he stared down on the town and painted The Starry Night from later memory. The celestial positions are uncannily accurate.

In late 1889, Van Gogh moved to a rooming house in Auvers-sur-Oise near Paris. His painting production went into overdrive, and he was at the peak of his game. On July 27, 1890, Van Gogh left his room with his paints, canvas, and easel. He returned empty-handed with a bullet in his belly.

Vincent Van Gogh’s spirit left this world at 1:30 a.m. on July 29. He passed without medical intervention at his bed, and the medical cause was, most likely, exsanguination or internal bleeding. There was no autopsy, and Van Gogh was buried in a nearby churchyard the next day.

There are various ambiguous statements purported from Van Gogh. He did not admit to shooting himself or intentionally attempting to commit suicide. However, the record indicates he didn’t deny it. The record can also be interpreted that he covered up for someone else.

What is fairly clear is the description of Vincent Van Gogh’s gunshot wound. There are conflicting locations, (chest, stomach, abdomen), but this is explainable from Dutch/French to English translations. It’s highly probable that one bullet entered the left side of Van Gogh’s mid-section and traversed his intestines in a left-to-right direction. There was no exit wound and no serious spinal damage as Van Gogh had walked home from the shooting scene, up the stairs, and to his room where he expired a day and a half later.

There was no firearm found and absolutely no history of Vincent Van Gogh ever owning or operating a gun. He was a painter. Not a hunter or soldier. (Note: There was a rusted revolver found in an Auver field in 1960 which was said to be the weapon. There is no proof that it was.)

There was no suicide note or any deathbed confession. Aside from being an artist, Van Gogh was a prolific writer who documented many thoughts as he progressed from mental sickness to physical health. In late July of 1890, Van Gogh’s writings showed him to be optimistic and with plans to paint as much as possible before an anticipated period of blackness returned. Two days before his death, Van Gogh placed a large art supply order.

Suicide, in Van Gogh’s case, wasn’t surfaced in the early years after his death. There were murmurs among the villagers that “some young boys may have accidentally shot” Van Gogh as he went about his work in a nearby field. There was no coroner’s inquiry or inquest, but there is documentation of a gendarme questioning Van Gogh if he intentionally shot himself to which Van Gogh allegedly replied, “I don’t know.”

The first strong suicide suggestion came in 1956 with Irving Stone’s novel and movie Lust For Life. It was a documentary that took liberty with Van Gogh’s life and times. It concluded Van Gogh was a troubled soul—a beautiful soul—who ended his life intentionally. The book and movie were bestselling blockbusters and cemented the suicide seed to an adorning public.

It became ingrained in lore and public acceptance that Vincent Van Gogh was a desponded psychotic who suddenly up and killed himself rather than continue a tormented existence of interpreting beauty in nature and people. It was the gospel, according to Van Gogh historians, who were comfortable with a suspicious explanation.

Other people weren’t. In 2011, two researchers took a good and hard look into Van Gogh’s life and death. They had full access to the Van Gogh Museum’s archives in Amsterdam and spent enormous time reviewing original material. They found a few things.

One was a 1957 interview with Rene Secretan who knew Van Gogh well. Secretan admitted to being one of the boys spoken about by the villagers who were involved in Van Gogh’s shooting. Rene Secretan, sixteen years old in 1890, told the interviewer he wanted to set the distorted record straight that was misrepresented in the book and movie.

The interview documents Rene Secretan as saying the handgun that shot Van Gogh was his, and that it was prone to accidentally misfiring. Secretan self-servingly denied being present when the accidental shooting happened, claiming he was back in Paris and not at his family’s summer home in Auvers. Secretan failed to identify those directly involved or exactly what circumstances unfolded.

The researchers, Pulitzer Prize winners Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith who co-wrote Van Gogh: The Life, found corroborating statements placing Van Gogh near the Secretan villa on the afternoon of the shooting. They also sourced a leading expert on firearms and gunshot wounds who refuted any chance of Van Gogh being able to discharge a firearm with his own hands that could have caused the wound in its documented location.

Dr. Vincent Di Maio (a 2012 key witness in the Florida trial of George Zimmerman who shot African-American youth Trayvon Martin in a neighborhood watch altercation) concluded that Van Gogh, who was right-handed, could not possibly have held a firearm as it had to be; therefore the shot had to have been fired by another party. Dr. Di Maio also commented on the lack of reported gunshot residue on Van Gogh’s hands and clothes. In 1890, most cartridges contained black powder which was filthy stuff when burned at close range.

Researchers Naifeh and Smith also took a deep dive into what they could find on Rene Secretan’s background. They painted him as a big kid—a thug and a bully who was well known to have picked on wimpy Van Gogh throughout the month of July 1890. Secretan came from a wealthy Paris family who summered at Auvers with their second home within walking distance of Van Gogh’s rooming house.

According to the researchers of Van Gogh: The Life, Rene Secretan had seen the Buffalo Bill Wild West show in Paris, and Secretan fancied himself as a cowboy character. Secretan fashioned a costume to go with his cocky role of a western gunfighter, and he acquired a revolver that was prone to malfunction. They documented incidents where Secretan would mock Van Gogh as he painted, play pranks on him, and supply alcohol to Van Gogh who couldn’t afford it.

It was during a mocking spat, the researchers surmise, that somehow Secretan’s revolver went off and struck Van Gogh in the abdomen. According to the theory, the boys fled, disposed of the weapon, and formed a pact of silence. If this was true, the question arises of why didn’t Vincent Van Gogh report the truth, and why has the suicide conclusion remained steadfast.

Naifeh and Smith address this in their book with this quote: When all this (accidental shooting theory) began to emerge from our research, a curator at the Van Gogh Museum predicted the fate that would befall such a blasphemy on the Van Gogh gospel. “I think it would be like Vincent to protect the boys and take the ‘accident’ as an unexpected way out of his burdened life,” he agreed in an e-mail. “But I think the biggest problem you’ll find after publishing your theory is that the suicide is more or less printed in the brains of past and present generations and has become a sort of self-evident truth. Vincent’s suicide has become the grand finale of the story of the martyr for art, it’s his crown of thorns.”

As an experienced cop and a coroner, I think Naifeh and Smith are on to something. There are two huge problems with a suicide conclusion in classifying Vincent Van Gogh’s death. One is the lack of an immediate suicide threat. The other is the gunshot nature.

I’ve probably seen fifty or more gunshot suicides. All but one were self-inflicted wounds to the head. The exception was a single case where a shotgun was placed against the chest and the pellets blew apart the heart. I have never seen a suicide where the decedent shot themselves in the gut, and I’ve never heard of one.

Vincent Van Gogh didn’t leave a suicide note. He made no immediate suicide threats and, by all accounts, things were going well for the struggling artist. It makes no sense at all that Van Gogh would head out for a summer’s day, begin to paint, produce a gun from nowhere, shoot himself in the stomach from the most inconceivable position, then make it home—wounded—without finishing himself off with a second shot.

If I were the coroner ruling on Vincent Van Gogh’s death, I’d readily concur the cause of death was slow exsanguination resulting from a single gunshot wound to the abdomen. I’d have a harder time with the classification. Here, I’d have to use a process of elimination from the five categories—natural, homicide, accidental, suicide, or undetermined.

There is no possibility Van Gogh died of natural causes. He was shot, and that is clear. Was he murdered or otherwise shot intentionally? There is no evidence to support an intentional homicide classification. Did the firearm go off accidentally? It certainly could have, and there is information to support that theory but not prove it.

Suicide? Not convincing. The available evidence does not meet the Beckon Test where coroners must establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the decedent intentionally took their own life. If the death circumstances do not fulfill the requirements of the Beckon Test, then a coroner is not entitled to register a suicide classification.

This only leaves undetermined. Coroners hate closing a file with an undetermined classification. It’s like they failed in their investigation.

Unfortunately, in Vincent Van Gogh’s case—from the facts as best as are known—there’s no other conclusion than officially rule “Undetermined”.

I’m no longer a coroner, though, so I’ll stick out my neck.

On the balance of probabilities, I find Vincent Van Gogh was accidentally shot, then sadly died from this unintended and terrible tragedy.

——–

Kill Zoners – Does this theory of Vincent Van Gogh’s death circumstances make sense to you? Have you heard it before? And are you a VVG artwork fan – do his creations speak to you?

A Tale of Two Worlds

By John Gilstrap

A few months ago, I was asked and agreed to participate in a first of its kind literary event at the Berkeley County-Martinsburg Public Library here in my new West Virginia hometown. It would be a meet-n-greet, book signing supported by Four Seasons Books in Shepherdstown, WV. A few weeks later, the organizers reached out again and asked if I would mind if a second author joined the event. Magnanimous fellow that I try to be, I agreed right away, then asked for the other author’s name and genre. I had never heard of the name, probably because the genre was romance.

Well, that would be different, wouldn’t it? I’d never done a panel that mashed up romance and thrillers. I even agreed to promote the event on my radio show and put it out on my Facebook feed as the time approached.

About two weeks out, the organizers sent an email about how to get tickets for this event.

Wait. What? Tickets? In advance? They were free, but they were required to get through the door. This was new to me, and I’ve been doing this stuff for a long time. When I clicked on the link to the tickets and discovered that the event was already sold out, I said to myself, “Self, you should have taken this romance writer you’ve never heard of more seriously.”

Not that anything would have changed.

It turns out that Jennifer L. Armentrout, a delightful, fabulously successful #1 New York Times bestselling author does not write romance. She writes . . . wait for it . . . young adult paranormal sci-fi romance. And she lives about eight miles from me. A bit of a recluse, I believe her when she says she has not taken a vacation or even a weekend off in over 10 years. That’s how she’s been able to churn out 60 books in that period of time. But she’s wildly active on social media, so when she announced that her fans could meet her in Martinsburg . . .

The event.

When I arrived at the library and was ushered to the second floor to the green room, I still didn’t get it. Worse, I didn’t think the library got it. They’d cleared out the entire space–bookshelves and everything–and set up hundreds of chairs. Who the hell was going to fill them?

The the human spigot opened. At 1:50, ten minutes before the event was to start, people started flowing up the stairs, each of them sporting a yellow wrist band that proved they’d been ticketed. Nearly all carried books, many carried bags of books. None of the books bore one of my covers. I have never seen such a rainbow of different hair colors, or variety of facial piercings and tattoos. I put the median age at twenty-three–twenty-five, max.

The discussion.

Once everyone was seated, the moderator introduced Jennifer and me, and we took our places behind the long table next to the display of our books. The light hearted banter we’d developed in the green room transferred well onto the stage and the audience laughed a lot, so a good time was had by all.

For me, though, there was one truly sobering moment–the one that demonstrated just what a dinosaur I am in this business. The question was something like, “Tell us how you sold your first book. How did you find your agent, you know how did all of that work?”

Jennifer answered first. The only part I remember is, “I sold my first book in 2012, and I . . .” From there, she ground through social media/computer-speak that clearly made perfect sense to the audience but meant nothing to me. She talked about promotional sites I’d never heard of and something really big on TikTok. The whole time she was speaking, my brain was screaming, oh, shit, I’m next!

When it was my turn, I played the truth for a laugh. In 1994, after I finished marking up the pages of a book called Writer’s Digest Guide to Literary Agents, I sent my query letter and self-addressed stamped envelope . . .

It’s an entirely different world now.

The signing.

I’ve signed next to Lee Child and Mary Higgins Clark. I have never seen fans as passionate as the ones who stood in line for three hours to have their books signed by Jennifer L. Armentrout. One fan had driven overnight from Buffalo to be there, and another had taken a train from Connecticut. At least two fans were so overwhelmed that they cried.

I’m happy to say that I sold and signed a dozen or so books, too, but to be honest, they felt like sympathy sales. As much as I tried not to look sad and lonely as I was largely ignored, maybe I didn’t quite pull it off.

Lessons learned.

First, I learned that there’s a genre called young adult paranormal sci-fi romance.

More importantly, I experienced my first vivid, first-person demonstration of the power of social media to spread word of an event. Unfortunately, I think there’s a generational component to those particular social media outlets. I could be wrong, but I don’t see TikTok as a destination for the average Jonathan Grave fan.

Is It Time To Retire
The Defective Detective?

https://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/calvin_as_tracer_bullet.jpg

Credit: From the site TVtropes.org

“The rain was comin’ down like all the angels in heaven decided to take a piss at the same time. When you’re in a situation like mine, you can only think in metaphors.” — Dick Justice, Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne

By PJ Parrish

Maybe I’m just hanging around the wrong people these days.

I’ve been lucky to have some free time this month so am reading for pleasure. But have started and put aside four books. It didn’t dawn on me until this week why: The protagonists are all hot messes. Maybe it’s because I see enough losers in real life that my patience with fictional ones has snapped its last thread. Coupled with the fact that every character on TV seems damaged, deranged or just too ditzy to live.

Now, we all love a flawed protagonist. Their personal journey is a parallel track that runs along side the main murder plot and creates interest and empathy. But man, does everyone have to be addicted, divorced, friendless, childless, and beset with demons from their screwed up childhoods? Do we really need another detective whose only steady relationships are with Cutty Sark and John Coltrane?

I really wish I could name names here because I hit some passages that are really worth quoting to make my point. And none of these books are old noir. Each is of recent vintage and a couple are big-name writers.

This all dovetailed with a recent Facebook post by my writer-friend and Shamus winner Rick Helms. He’s on a cruise with lots of time to read, but he, like me, has lost patience. To quote:

[I’m] relaxing with a generally well-written private eye novel by a writer new to me. Like many PI novels these days the protagonist is almost painfully damaged. Whether it’s alcohol, drugs, gambling, or just plain paralyzing depression or grief, a large segment of the mystery writing community frequently writes broken protags. Some of these characters have been very critically successful. I have sort of a different take. I tend to regard emotionally damaged protags as a bit of a crutch.

Sure, I’ve written them…[my PI] Pat Gallegher is a gambling addict dragging half a century of failure behind him like a Dickens ghost. My small town police chief Judd Wheeler has PTSD and panic attacks. My forensic psychologist Ben Long presents with a dramatically exaggerated version of my own high-functioning autism. In each case, however, they are coping adequately with their difficulties. While they may experience distress, they don’t wallow in it. None of them wakes up hung over to a living room strewn with pizza boxes and beer bottles and days of dishes piled in the sink (the universal literary language for desperation and giving up). They are managing well despite their problems. Their personal tragedies impact their lives, but they aren’t the story itself. 

Rick goes on to say he’s old enough to remember reading the lastest new releases by Ross Macdonald and his own work is influenced by Chandler, Robert B. Parker, Brett Halliday, and the like. He, like me, has a special love of Macdonald. To quote:

Lew Archer TOLD the stories of his investigations. He never WAS the story. The pathos and distress in his stories were always portrayed by the people he interviewed in the course of his investigations. He regards a murder victim or an oil spill in Santa Barbara with the same dispassionate observations as he might describe a businessman’s special baseball game. Archer is an observer of tragedy, seldom reacting to it with more than average empathy. He cares, but he doesn’t lose himself in his investigation. In the end, he walks away with little observable growth or change in his basic character, because he was never broken in the first place. The story was never about him. It was about solving the case.

He also cites Parker’s Spenser as a relatively mentally healthy and confident guy doing a tough job while maintaining a long-term relationship. He cares about people, but — with the possible exception of when Ruger nearly killed him in Small Vices — he rarely allows his own personal condition to do much more than put a hitch in his giddy-up.

Likewise, as Rick points out, “We know little of Phillip Marlowe’s inner emotions and mental functioning. We know his opinions, because Chandler was full of them, mostly of the sardonic variety. But nobody would refer to Marlowe as damaged.”

When did the shift to a protag’s personal journey begin? I’m not well-read in the old stuff to even guess. But I do know I’m weary of the dreary dick. Is it time to call them out as the tired cliches they are?

Okay,  we have to stop and back up. Time for definitions. I love definitions. They bring clarity to fuzzy topics like this. Is a cliche the same thing as a trope? Or is the latter just an uppity word for the former? Lemme give it a go:

Cliche: Using certain phrases, expressions, devices, or archetypes that have been used so much they lose freshness. Maybe they were once intriguing, but when readers see something too often, they become desensitized, and the idea no longer carries the currency it once had. Examples: the naive female rookie patronized by boss and colleagues. (Tyne Daly, playing clean Kate to Eastwood’s dirty Harry?) The slimy defense lawyer. The good-cop-bad-cop. The crabby lieutenant who suspends a rogue underling.  The PI who gets the crap beat out of him but jumps out of bed the next morning all dishy and doodle. Add your own to the list…

Trope: A familiar character type, plot point, setting, or writing style that has become instantly recognizable to readers. Very common in genre novels and when done well, every effective. Examples: In the romance, “enemies to lovers” trope (lifted from Jane Austen). The lone gunslinger and embattled sheriff. (Come back, Shane!)

Most folks conflate cliches and tropes but they are distinctly different. Tropes can be good things, helping a character to come across as an old friend or making classic situations feel fresh again (think Romeo and Juliet transformed into West Side Story.)

Time for some Joseph Campbell here. In his The Hero With a Thousand Faces, he drew upon works by psychoanalyst Carl Jung to develop recognizable literary archetypes. According to Campbell, everyone from Homer’s Odysseus to Neo in The Matrix is living out the same epic story. George Lucas credits Campbell for the Star Wars trilogy, using the King Authur trope to create boy-king Luke Skywalker, who gets a magic sword, is guided by an old mentor, and storms a castle to save a princess.

One of my favorite tropes is Austen’s Mr. Darcy. He’s handsome, mysterious, sexy. I loved how Helen Fielding used him in Bridget Jones’s Diary: “It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It’s like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting ‘Cathy’ and banging your head against a tree.”

Let’s face it, crime fiction is at its heart tropian. We rely on situations (crimes, usually murder), archetypes (loner cop holding out for justice) and even some “rules,” which of course can be broken.

But how do you honor the great traditions of our genre without being banal? How do you cleave to such a well-worn path and still give your readers some new vistas? How do you utilize trope and not slide downhill into cliche?

Our dilemma is that a story has to feel new and yet be familiar enough to be recognized as part of the genre. Writers often want to pay homage to their favorites from the past, but characters have to distinguish themselves in their own present or they petify into stereotypes. In the early books, Spenser seemed a Marlowe knockoff, but Parker quickly made him into his own man.

Years ago, I got into a lengthy blog discussion on this subject with a bunch of crime writers. Luckily, I kept this quote from Brian Lindenmuth: “the PI novel is the haiku of the mystery genre; there may be only 17 syllables but in the right hands those syllables will sing. There is the potential for a lot of power in that framework.”

I liken crime writing to classical ballet. There are only five positions for the feet and arms in ballet. But within that strict framework, anything is possible, from swoony-romanticism of Swan Lake to George Balanchine’s Stravinsky-twitchy Agon.

The trick, if it can be simplified as such, is that you have to take our beloved tropes and turn them into your own, like Fielding did with Emma and Bridget Jones. A while back, I contributed a short story to an anthology whose theme was honoring the PI tradition. Being on a John D. McDonald binge back then, I decided to create a female McGee whose business card read: Mavis Magritte, Salvage Consultant, Slip C12, Duncan Clinch Marina, Traverse City, Michigan. I had a ball writing that thing. Mavis has to prove her best friend Eunice Meijer didn’t kill her creepy lover Dirk. And yes, they drink gin.

Trope on, crime dogs. In the meantime, take some inspiration from the pas de deux from Balanchine’s Agon.

 

One Word Holds Power

Have you ever received a text from a family member or close friend and knew something was wrong even though the words indicated the opposite?

I’ll show you what I mean with a real-life example.

The Kid planned to drive up to deliver ducks to the couple who lives at the top of our mountain, off-the-grid in a year-round camp surrounded by tall pines, oak, birch, and maple trees. By 10 a.m. that morning, we still hadn’t heard from The Kid, which is unusual. He’s always been an early riser.

So, I shot him a text. “Still planning to come up today?”

Several minutes dragged by before he responded. “Yes.”

My intuition tapped me on the shoulder. Something’s wrong. He never responds with one word. Besides, a simple yes didn’t give me enough information. If he brought all three grandkids, I would need to plan to feed six rather than three.

Plus, I let my little fur-babies run around my office during the day, but our grandchildren have a habit of leaving doors open. So, when they visit, it’s safer to leave them in their guinea pig habitat.

I texted back, “The Joe and the chicks coming, too?”

Another long pause. “Just The Joe.”

“You okay? You sound… I dunno… off.”

The Kid knows I’m tuned into him. Over the years I’ve learned to trust my intuition, and it has never failed me. Lying would be pointless.

“I was chasing ducks.”

“Okay, cool,” I texted, but something told me “chasing ducks” wasn’t the full story. Regardless, I didn’t want to push the issue via text. “I get the feeling you won’t be staying long.”

“We can stay for a bit.” The five-minute pause seemed to last twenty. “The longer the better. LOL”

And there it was—the first hint of the real reason he seemed off. Which he’d spill in person. It’s much harder to hide behind a false façade while staring into a concerned parent’s eyes. Though I’d never want to come across as pushy—he is a grown man, after all—I can’t take it when my kid is hurting. I don’t care how old he is. I’ll always be fiercely protective of his beautiful heart.

I do have a point to all this.

With that one simple word—Yes—I, the reader, knew to pay attention. That yes held power. That yes held unlimited power, more powerful than if he’d written an entire paragraph.

Writers should do the same. It’s a simple but effective way to add tension to a scene, cause a disturbance, and cue the reader to pay attention. The one-word, staccato sentence is a tool used for emphasis.

Run. Now.

It’s short and to the point. It calls attention to itself and exploits a reader’s emotions. Varying sentence structure holds a reader’s attention.

The following example looks like an exaggeration, but I once had to critique the first few pages of a novel written just like it.

As he stared at me, I could not look away. As I moved around the room, his stare held me hostage. As he moved closer, I told him to stop. As I backed away, he kept coming.

Every sentence began with “As” for three, never-ending pages. Not only is it grueling and repetitive, it’s annoying to read.

Rewrite:

His wolf-like stare held me hostage. Stop. Please stop. He moved closer. I backed away. Dear God, no. Not again. My spine hit the wall, my fingers searching behind me for the doorframe.

See how much more immediate the second example sounds? We don’t want to overdo it, but nothing can replace a well-placed staccato sentence here and there.

Writers have access to a plethora of writing tips, but it’s important not to overlook simple ways to hone our craft, like the act of reading and sentence structure.

Thoughts? Let’s discuss. 

 

Warriors battle a ruthless animal trafficking ring in Yellowstone. They will protect the sacred lineage of American Buffalo by any means necessary.

Even murder.

Download a sample on Amazon

 

How Not to Speak in Public

by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

On occasion a writer is tapped to make some remarks in a public setting. For some, this is as enticing as a root canal, or being forced to watch The Golden Bachelor. We’ve given out some good advice on public speaking here at TKZ (you can use the search box). Today, I’d like to talk about things you should never do when giving a speech.

To help me out, I call upon the great American humorist Robert Benchley. Benchley came to prominence with a stage performance called “The Treasurer’s Report.” It was a hilarious bit about a befuddled man trying to make a dull presentation somewhat entertaining. It was turned into a short film in 1928 and is one of the earliest “talkies” ushered in by The Jazz Singer.

Benchley gave a similar performance the 1943 movie The Sky’s the Limit, starring Fred Astaire. It gives us a compendium of speaking blunders we should attend to.

Take a look at this:

What did Mr. Benchley do wrong here?

Throat clearing (literally and figuratively). He announces that he has some remarks “by way of introduction.” Well, duh! That’s why he’s up there. You don’t need to tell your audience you are there to make some remarks. Just start remarking.

Which brings us to your opening words. So many speakers get introduced, then step up to the microphone and say something like, “Thank you, Jan, for that lovely introduction.” This is the equivalent of throat clearing. These words that go through the ears out right out of the heads of the audience. They are waiting for what you to say that they haven’t heard before.

Joke intro: “I’m reminded of a story, which probably most of you have heard…”

First of all, it’s very hard to tell a joke successfully in a speech. Some people are natural at it and can get away with it, but they never announce that they are about to tell a joke. That raises expectations and increases the chance of bombing.

If you’ve got a funny line that you have tested before others, go ahead and toss it in, without any additions.

Don’t laugh at your own stories or offhand remarks. Let the audience do all the reacting.

Don’t look above the audience. Make eye contact. I usually find a few friendly faces on either side of a room to return to.

Don’t intro your slides. You’ve got slides? That’s good. When they to on, guess what? The audiences sees them. That’s the wonder of it. In any event, you don’t have to say you have prepared some slides. Make them appear, then say what you need to say about them. Which assumes, of course, you know everything on them, unlike Mr. Benchley:

And now the ending:

First, don’t drink water during your talk (unless necessary for survival).

Second, stick your landing. Know your ending. It’s that last note you leave with your audience. Don’t befuddle it.

Third, always leave sooner rather than later.

On occasion, Mark Twain would attend the services of Dr. Doane, later Bishop of Albany, but then the Rector of an Episcopal church in Hartford. The good doctor was not known for his brevity. His sermons tended to go on…and on. Twain, one of the world’s great speakers, wondered how to offer some advice to the minister. One Sunday he took his chance.

“A fine sermon this morning,” Twain said. “You know, I have a book at home containing every word of it.”

“You have not!” Dr. Doane said.

“I do indeed.”

“Well, you send that book to me. I’d like to see it.”

“I will,” Twain said. The following day he sent Dr. Doane an unabridged dictionary.

These are some big “don’ts” of public speaking. Any others you’d like to add?