VIEWS NATIONAL WRITERS ASSOCIATION LOS ANGELES MARCH 2010
Alan Cook on mystery
By Tom Howard
Our group has a treat in store for our next meeting from 2-4 p.m. at Mo’s Restaurant (4301 Riverside Drive, Burbank) on March 20, 2010. Prolific mystery writer, Alan Cook, will speak on “The History of the Mystery,” working his way from Edgar Allan Poe and Sherlock Holmes to now. I heard about Al over a year ago, from former NWALA member, the late Mary Blei Vandever. For almost twenty years, Mary had known him as a fellow writing associate of a long standing Southern California writing group called the Southwest Manuscripters, which began in 1949. If you study Alan’s gargantuan Web sites, http://alancook.50megs and http://anthorsden. com/alancook, you will see that Alan has collected numerous awards. His mystery, Honeymoon for Three, received a Silver Quill Award from the American Author’s Association and was named Best Mountain West Book by Reader Views. On Amazon, he has numerous five star books for sale. His nonfiction work, Walking the world: Memories and Adventures, was named “one of the top ten walking memoirs and tales of long walks” by walking.about.com. One reviewer described it as “a well-written and thrilling lifetime adventure that educates and inspires. Another wrote, “ I want to lace up my walking shoes and go exploring.” In addition to what he notices or thinks about walking four miles each day, everything is fodder for Alan’s writing. Elements of his high school days went into his 1950s bobby sox mystery, The Hayloft. Aspects of his honeymoon in western national parks worked their way into the suspense thriller, Honeymoon for Three.
with a Liberal Arts degree in Psychology, threw away his snow shovel and moved to California. Here, he joined IBM. At the time, he knew nothing about programming but his love of puzzles helped to jump start a successful twenty-fiveyear career as a computer pioneer. Puzzles also inspire his second career as a writer. Having family members in retirement communities inspired Alan to write a fictional story entitled Thirteen Diamonds, where Lillian, the elderly protagonist is a retired mathematics professor who “loves to solve puzzles, even when they involve murder.” In addition, working during the past few years as a volunteer staff trainer on a local crisis hotline gave him resource for his mystery, Hotline to Murder, set in the fictional California town of Bonita Beach. You can view a professionally-made video short, by PreViews (www.readerViews.com) that gives an enticing glimpse of Alan’s high stakes marathon mystery, Run Into Trouble. If you continue to dig through http://authorsden.com/alancook, you’ll find poetry, award winning short stories and nonfiction articles on dementia, being a good listener, walking for your health and other subjects. He even has some of his candid photos of tennis stars and other celebs, including the recently deceased Farrah Fawcett. All that walking sure does make Alan prolific! Born and raised in Buffalo, New York, Alan wrote a winning high school Alma Mater song. Several cold, icy storms later, in 1960, he graduated from the University of Michigan
Alan married Bonny, a school teacher from Connecticut. After he got her interested in the new world of computers, she went on to distinguish herself by becoming one of the Vice Presidents of Xerox Corporation. Still together, 46 years later, Alan and Bonny have retired from the computer business and have traveled to all seven continents of the world. Alan also puts his talents to romantic use and continues to write at least four love poems a year to his wife. In addition, for his two smart, book-loving grandsons, Mason, age ten and Matthew, age twelve, Alan concocts original adventure stories starring the boys themselves. On March 20 at Mo’s Restaurant in Burbank, Alan will bring copies of his books to sign after his talk, The History of the Mystery. Come to have lunch and listen! Meanwhile, go to his interesting Web sites and check out Alan Cook’s abundance of writing!
SEE YOU ON MARCH 20, 2010 AT MO’S RESTAURANT, 4301 RIVERSIDE DR., BURBANK 2 - 4 p.m.
NWALA MEMBER SPOTLIGHT Mystery writer C.L. Woodhams, aka Louise Watkins, spills the beans Before she retired, NWALA member Louise Watkins’ day jobs included: home economist, remodeling counselor, kitchen designer, purchasing agent, contract specialist and contracts manager. She worked for Southern California Edison for forty-seven years where her lunch hours often were spent writing short stories.
writer’s name. Louise uses initials only because in her grandmother’s era, women writers employed that trick to get published in an industry which dealt only with male authors.
DITHER DANCING
Louise now dedicates her days to writing at her home in Carlsbad in northern San Diego County. She is working on her first novel, The Outreach Committee. A northern California based agent Louise met at the SDSU Writers Conference expressed an interest in her suspense novel and Louise is currently rewriting — and rewriting — the first fifty pages she’ll submit to the agent. Born in St. Louis, Ms. Watkins was raised in Glendale, Missouri, a quiet bedroom community suburb with one fire truck, a general store and a gift shop. She left there to earn a degree in Home Economics at Purdue University. She worked in that field after graduation in Denver, Colorado until she married a California man and moved to Van Nuys in 1957. All her friends told her she’d hate Los Angeles, but she proved them wrong. While living and working there she earned an MBA at the University of Southern California. Louise’s mother, an avid reader, read to Louise and her twin brother until they learned to read for themselves. An expected and very welcome birthday gift was a Nancy Drew mystery. Louise read under the covers with her Girl Scout flashlight after lights-out. She spent many summers sitting on the front porch with her nose in a book. As a girl, Louise wanted to write, but sure she had no talent, didn’t want anyone to read her work. She honed her skills in high school and college classes, but it was many years later that a class in creative writing at Torrance Adult School started her writing in earnest. It was there she met Mary Blei Vandever. who became Louise’s first reader and who introduced her to NWALA approximately five years ago. After the sudden death of her husband of thirty-seven
By C.L. Woodhams
years, Louise assembled twenty-two short stories for her collection, Sweet Justice by C.L. Woodhams. Louise is an active supporter and volunteer with several writing organizations in San Diego County: Read Local San Diego, a nonprofit dedicated to bringing local authors and readers together; the Publishers and Writers of San Diego dedicated to helping writers with the business side of writing and the North County Writers Bloc, a group whose aim is to critique and promote members’ work. In addition to NWALA, Louise belongs to Sisters in Crime, Southwest Manuscripters and Surfwriters. She regrets that she lives too far away to attend NWALA meetings, but avidly reads the newsletter Views each month. Louise’s short story collection, Sweet Justice, has been compared by readers to Poe and O’Henry. In her twenty-two stories justice is administered with certainty to the greedy and crooked members of the human race. It’s available from Xlibris in hard cover, soft cover, e-book and Kindle format, https://www2.xlibris.com/bookstore/bookdisplay.aspx?bookid=13775. Louise chose her grandmother’s maiden name, C.L. Woodhams as her pen name because she thought it sounded like an English mystery
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A silver haired woman, in a white tutu and lavender tights, glared at Sergeant Rinelli. He’s such an impatient young man. He tried to outstare her, but was the first to look away. She’d come to report a crime; he represented the Gathersburg Police Department. “Ma’am, please get to the point!” Sergeant Renelli bit his lip. “What street did you say it was?” “Well, let me see, I turned off of Harrison onto that street where Emma lived. Oh, you know, the one with the huge pink bougainvillea in the rear of the corner house.” The elderly woman tilted her head, an index finger pressing to her lips. “Now wait a minute. No, I turned on the next one. I remember now.” “Is that where you saw the body?” Renelli’s frustration was beginning to show in the tone of his voice. My oh my, what an impatient young man, thought Agatha Finster. So typical of the younger generation — doesn’t respect his elders as Papa taught us to do. She clutched her purse and took a deep breath. “I was going to the Gathersburg Senior Center for my ballet lessons.” She assumed second position. “I don’t need to know where you were going, just what you saw.” The officer clicked on a new incident record on this desktop computer. “And where you saw it.”
“But I want to explain why I’m dressed like this.” Agatha reached under her tutu and tugged at the top of her tights. “You turned the corner, off of Harrison, onto what street?” Renelli’s voice cracked. The dancer shook her head. “No. It must have been Nutcracker. Now I recall, I remember thinking it was the right street, since I was going to my ballet lesson.” The sergeant sat perfectly still, then forced a thin smile. “Let’s start over. Where did you see this dead body?” “It was flying through the air, like this.” Agatha dumped her purse on a chair and collapsed into a rag doll attitude. “Only it was about as high as the porch roof on the house the truck was in front of.” “What truck was that ma’am?” “The garbage hauler’s truck!” Agatha’s voice squeaked in exasperation. “I had to stop behind it because it was taking the whole street.” She waved a graceful arm. “That’s when I saw the body come flying through the air.” Tears filled her eyes. It’s so frustrating trying to get a point across to young people these days. Maybe he’s deaf from listening to too much loud rock music. “Did the truck driver see the body?” Ms. Finster raised her voice and said, “How could he? He sat in the cab the whole time. The body fell out of the trash bin when that claw thingy lifted it up and tilted it to empty the garbage into his truck.” Her hands described the trajectory of the victim’s fall. She waved a hand to cool her face. “Her skirt flew up and I could see her black panties.” “Do you remember what trash company’s truck it was?” “No, but it sure was dirty and noisy.” “Was the truck yellow or green?” “That’s it! It was the same color as the one that picks up my trash on Thursday.” She nodded as she spoke and smiled smugly as she clasped her hands in the form of a flower. Sergeant Renelli swiveled his chair so he faced the wall. As he completed the circle, he said in a gentle voice, “and what color is that?” “Green, grass green. My garden club
recommended it so it wouldn’t clash with the lawns in the summer. I seconded the motion.” Agatha drew her shoulders back and thrust her bosom upward. “That’ll be Recycled Rubbish.” The officer typed a note on the computer keyboard in front of him. “If you tell me what time it was, maybe I could find out what block the truck was on when you saw it.” “I told you already; I was late to my ballet lesson.” “Which starts when?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It was supposed to start at ten, but we had to wait for the teacher, so we didn’t begin dancing until ten forty.” Agatha smiled broadly. “We’re doing Swan Lake, and I’m the swan.” She fluttered her arms and pointed her right toe. The satin of her pink ballet slippers glimmered and her tutu fluttered as she moved. The sergeant sighed. “Let’s get back to what the body looked like. You said it was a woman?” “She had beautiful long hair; I know it reached her waist.” “Approximately how old was she?” “Hmmmmmmmm. That’s hard to say. I couldn’t see her face.” “Could you tell from the shape of her body whether she was young, old, or middle aged?” “Age is relative, officer.” Agatha pirouetted in front of the sergeant, oblivious of the two patrolwomen snickering in the corner. “Just look at me, would you believe I’m 80? I practice on my patio every day.” She held the back of a chair and dipped into a plié. “Ma’am, please sit down!” Renelli frowned at Agatha until she complied. “Now, what else can you tell me about the victim’s description.” “Well, she always put too much bluing on her hair when she shampooed it. It looked purple in the sunshine.” “Oh, she’s old enough to have gray hair.” The officer heaved a big sigh. “Yes, it reached her waist.” “What color dress did she have on? Was she wearing shoes?” “It was so embarrassing! She had on a skirt and panties, and except for a long black scarf, nothing on top.” “What color was her skin?”
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“White in some places and tan in others.” “Let’s see, you saw a female’s body; Caucasian; middle-aged or older; with waist-length gray hair; wearing a scarf, skirt, and panties, but no top. Is that correct?” “What? Yes, I think so.” She chewed on her index finger. “Madam, you walked in here an hour ago to report seeing a body. Is there anything else you can tell me that might help the police find the alleged victim and identify her?” Agatha thought for a moment and said, “No sir, I can’t.” “Do you remember where on Nutcracker you saw the trash truck?” “I saw it in front of the house with the porch.” Sergeant Renelli’s computer beeped; he paused to read the incoming message. Turning back to Agatha, he said. “That wouldn’t be Emma Johnson of 1520 Nutcracker Street, would it?” “Why yes, officer. How did you …?” The sergeant motioned to the two patrolwomen. He withdrew a card from his shirt pocket and read, “Agatha Finster, you are under arrest for the murder of Emma Johnson; you have the right to …” “Arrested?” Agatha stamped her ballet-slipper-clad foot. “Young man, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Murder! I, I… I just saw Emma.” “Come along,” said one of the officers, guiding her by the elbow. The other retrieved Agatha’s purse from the chair. Agatha stopped in her tracks and turned to the sergeant. “At least tell me why you caught … uh, suspect me.” “The message just came through on e-mail. A body found in the city dump has been identified positively as Emma Johnson. She’d been strangled with her scarf. She was reported missing two hours ago by her dance teacher. Seems Ms. Johnson never missed class without calling, so when she didn’t come to practice this morning and hadn’t called, her teacher went to Emma’s home. The teacher found the front door open and the house empty. She reported suspicious circumstances to the police right away and now she’s identified the body.” continued on page 4
S H O W C A S E
S H O W C A S E
THE WEED
“But I was at dance class,” protested Agatha. You should arrest our teacher!” Her lip quivered. “Your teacher didn’t refer to Emma in the past tense; you said she used to live on Nutcracker. She reported her missing immediately. You waited two hours to report the body. She didn’t report Ms. Johnson as a dead like you did. You told me the victim had waistlength hair. The corpse’s hair was twisted into a bun. You couldn’t have seen how long it was this morning. The sergeant paused, then asked softly, “Why did you do it, Agatha?” A tear coursed down Ms. Finster’s cheek. “They chose Emma to dance the black swan at the recital. I couldn’t bear it. That’s my part.” “Well, now, you can just ask the warden if she’ll let you dance in the exercise yard.” Renelli looked down at his desk. “Take her away.”
(Puente)
Too late! Too late! The deed has been done. That tiny, insignificant fib, thought to be so innocent, is silently taking root. Faster growing and tougher than flowers, blossoming into an ugly lie, this huge, thorny weed. ~ nourished by prattling tongues ~ Silently creeping and crawling like a slithering venomous vine, unseen amid the fertile soil of gossip, curiosity and restless fascination. It hides in wait for the time when its ripening crown of thorns will be placed by eager, thoughtless hands upon the brow of innocence. — Mary L. Ports First Place Award, Writers Ink The original Scottish meaning of the word golf :
Creative exercises
English painter, David Hockney, came to California and looked at the hills. Not as much green as his native England, more brown, gray and red dust. Oh well, he was a painter and in love with color. Thus, he could take liberties. Driving the hairpin curves of Mulholland Drive from Hollywood to the Pacific, he would stop his car, get out to touch the earth, feel the cactus, study the clouds hovering over the valley, listen to birds, smell the eucalyptus. With his mind he imagined the roads beyond, the farms not there. Finally, Hockney was ready to paint. With a large canvas the size of a barn door, or perhaps even bigger, he added the colors not there in reality, divurged, added some flowers not yet invented and sat back to think what to call it. “I guess,” he said to himself, “I’ll call it Mulholland Drive.” ### Plutonians gathered on the top of Dog-Gone Mountain. All three of them stood staring out into space, pupils wide as dinner plates, watching a blood orange sun simultaneously rise and set. Big Mama was the first to speak: “Far Out!” she exclaimed. Big Dog added, “Yeah, man, that’s heavy!” Big Papa, the third and most intellectual inhabitant of Pluto, was silent for a moment.
Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden — courtesy of Madelyn Beck
Closing a house Then he spoke, in grand stentorian tones: “Those scientists on Earth spend too much spare time with their eyes glued to little black microscopes. What they need is vision! First they name us after a cartoon dog and then they say we’re the ninth planet, when all three of us know without a doubt that we’re the first! Then, they say we are not even a planet, just a chunk of random space rock.” Big Mama, slapping Big Papa on the back, said, “Big Papa, you rock! And rock, by far, is my favorite sound vibe.” Big Dog said, “Yeah, let’s jam!” And with that, the Pluto Band picked up their silver, black, gold and red heavy metal instruments and began to play their loud, eerie ode to the sun. — Tom Howard (written in Andrea Beard’s creative writing class)
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the remains of a life. every trinket holds a memory. my mother’s past packed away in cardboard boxes going to an estate broker. tiny porcelain Victorian ladies and men, I as a child, imagined came to life at night while I slept and waltzed upon the shelf. the jewelry I coveted now mine, no longer holds its shine. The plates I ate from, now going to a stranger’s unappreciating hand. linens, still with my mother’s fragrance, going to the thrift store. The history of a life, gone in one day, spread among the solipsistic masses. — LaVonne Taylor
President’s corner
Members’ roundup: An explosion of creativity One more head’s up on our next meeting — we are back again at Mo’s Restaurant, 4301 Riverside Drive, Burbank — and it’s a late lunch from 2-4 p.m. The speaker is writer Alan Cook and his topic is “The History of the Mystery.” I’ve been going to more writing groups than I can shake a stick at, which leaves all my papers in a chaotic pile and very little time for actual writing. In one class, drafts of my unfinished autobiography are shared. In Jill Robinson Shary’s Thursday afternoon writer’s group at the Durant Library, if I manage to show up, I read two or three pages a week of a novel thrown together with little regard for plot or actual story line. People smother me with praise, but am not sure that will improve my writing very much. In a small critique group, Arturo Ruiz and I are holding up The Glass Plate Mystery, The Found Photos of Fred M. Booth to the light of scrutiny, a process which is stimulating mind-boggling thoughts about a sequel. VIEWS, a newsletter for the members of the Los Angeles chapter of the National Writers Association is published monthly, except for July and August of each year. The meetings take place at 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. on the third Saturday of every other month, except July and August, at Mo’s Restaurant, 4301 Riverside Drive, Burbank. OFFICERS President-Tom Howard Vice President-Joe Panicello Secretary-Arturo Ruiz Treasurer-LaVonne Taylor CHAIRMANSHIPS Historian/Photographer-Madelyn Beck Hospitality-Mary L. Ports VIEWS editor-LaVonne Taylor Fundraising-LaVonne Taylor Membership-Jack Clubb
For information, call: 323-876-3931 or click on www.nwala.org or www.issuu.com/the-taylor-trust/docs for archived issues of VIEWS
When not thinking about photographer Booth, Arturo Ruiz has been carefully working on a large graphic collage that examines the moods and death of performer Michael Jackson. LaVonne Taylor has come up for air after being deep in the mine shaft chipping away at the 194-page combined fall and winter issue of The Taylor Trust: Poetry & Prose. She also consistently contributes to the EverydayHealth.com and the Examiner.com sites. Her latest story entitled “Lessons of the Heart” on EverydayHealth, written during February in recognition of women’s heart health month (remember American Heart Association’s little red dress?), has received nearly 10,000 readers. Jack Clubb also has been reading his murder mystery, Castletower Mansion in Jill Shary’s class along with Barri Clark who is writing a mystery set in London. They both are gathering praise for their work. I recently missed the group where I heard that an exgang member showed up to read a few pages of his pre-prison memoir. Ray Rappa continues to plug away at his fascinating music biz memoir, which he also shares, a few pages at a time, in Andrea Beard’s burgeoning Tuesday afternoon writing clinic. Longtime member, Don Peyer has compiled several notebooks full of his life memoirs, not intended, he says, for publication. For someone age eighty-six, and whose genealogical roots can be traced back to Minnesota, Norway, Austria, Switzerland and Bohemia, he certainly must have a lot of stories to share. Unfortunately, Don suffered a bad fall in his garage recently, had hip surgery and has to put a lot of his writing aside while he entertains
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a parade of visiting nurses, physical therapists and other help providers. His wife, Jokki, also suffered a fall and has her foot in a cast, so that puts a dent in her usually upbeat artistic style. Mary Ports recently won a first place award from Writer’s Ink newsletter for “The Weed” a “puente poem,” (a poem with a bridge). She is also forging ahead with more fun, nonsense style children’s poetry. Former New Yorker, Madelyn Beck, is looking over a collaborative script sent to her by former NWALA president, Joe Panicello and coping with familiar computer headaches brought on by floppies, discs, drives and cartridges. On the fun side, Madelyn is looking forward to watching her favorite prima-donna horse, Zenata, create high drama at the Santa Anita race track mid-March and for April and May, her grandson has a lead in a play. Speaking of Joe, after much research, he is publishing the true story of the man who pulled together the nine principalities of Italy in 1871. The title is: Garibaldi, A Man of Destiny and the cover photo of Garibaldi’s statue was taken by
~ REMINDER ~ APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH our former president several years ago in Rome. Joe’s granddaughter, Phoebe Johnson, is studying at Fordham University in New York (where my brother, Jim, went) and Joe’s wife, Barbara has a new grandson and another on the way. Keeping up with our November speaker, Marion Rosen, is just a click away at www.marionrosen.com. Wanda Weiskopf continues to write poetry. Her daughter, Marta, just produced “At Last, Grace,” an a cappella CD of music with three other vocalists (www.gracesings.com) and Wanda’s grandson, Alder Hampel, a martial arts champion, served as an official at a world competition in South Africa, then went on safari. Wanda is also pleased to report that her son, Doug has moved back from Ohio to Toluca Lake, California, and her eight-year-old granddaughter, Virginia, who plays the violin, visits in March from Golden, Colorado. So that’s a bit of our world. See you March 20! — Tom Howard
S H O W C A S E
TRIBUTE TO DON PEYER Veteran journalist Don Peyer has published three short-story collections and five poetry books. He writes an occasional column for the Daily Breeze, a South Bay, California, newspaper. For seventeen years he wrote a monthly column for United Amateur Press Association of America with the slug line “Don’s Desk.” Publishing steadily throughout his long career, Peyer has had many poems and stories published in a variety of venues. He is also a visual artist who served as artistic chair of the Carson Art Association for nine years.
DESERT ROADS
FULL CIRCLE
The desert road, a thousand eyes Of hawks and eagles plying skies To dive and take their daily catch With purposeful and swift dispatch, The perseverance of the crow At roadside kills as to and fro He picks the highway clean and pure, A beneficial epicure.
When I was just a little tot, Good common sense, I had not. I only wanted my own way, My parents dreaded every day. I screamed and howled and cried a lot. When I became an older child, My parents said that I was wild, And when I did not get my way, I made them pay and pay and pay, And never could be reconciled.
And dusty devils stalk the roads, Revolving with their sand loads, Disappearing just as soon Behind a rocky hill or dune, The mesa flat against the sky A lake bed, white with alkali, And if you park and walk a bit You well may spy a lizard split, Imprinting tracks across sand As fast as a magician’s hand.
Then as I grew, I mellowed out, And saw what life was all about, That things came easier with honey, Especially should one need money, And so I never did without. But now I am threescore and ten, Cavorting like a child again, No matter what my children say, I tell them that I want my way ~ And they allow it ~ now and then. — Don Peyer
And rugged flora thriving there In the arid desert air, Palo verde and mesquite And creosote withstand the heat As do the cacti, proud and fierce, Armed with spines that prick and pierce. But, still you find another sight, Incongruous and a blight, Empty cans and bottles there, Tossed by souls who do not care, Litter from a fast food meal, A blown-out tire, a rusty wheel, Every other kind of mess, Mainly caused by thoughtlessness.
BUSYBODIES Man is an inquisitive creature, He strives to seek and know All of the present, the future, And long, long ago, Among the animals, a nosy busybody, Who tries to bring to light All of the untidy details, And retain the copyright.
A desert road is all of these, Coyotes downwind in the breeze, Searching for a life to steal, A mouse or rabbit for a meal, A cloudless sky, a sun so bright, a billion stars to light the night, A million scenes and episodes That play along the desert roads. — Don Peyer
UPDATE ON DON AND JOKKI Editor’s Note: Good news! I spoke with Don and Jokki on March 5, just before we put this newsletter to bed. Don is recovering well from his broken hip — no pain, already taking steps with a walker and hoping to leave that behind soon. Jokki is doing well too, after breaking a bone in her foot. Bravo to you amazing folks! 6
Man listens to the universe For beings just like him, Attempts by signal to converse With cherubim and seraphim, Boasts a mighty telescope, Orbiting in space, Is peeking light years back in time, Is seeking stellar origins to trace. Man does not perceive this strange, He scarce would offer to forgo, Or, for one odd minute modify or change his ever-present need to know. — Don Peyer