Articles

The Long White Cloud

You probably didn’t expect to read an entry from me in this slot. I’m in New Zealand house-sitting for the kid (Stephen Ross); he’s gone on vacation to work on his book. I suspect he’s really gone on vacation to catch up on his reading; he’s a prince among procrastinators, and there’s a gap on the bookshelf where his collection of Perry Mason mysteries used to reside…

Adapting (to the conditions)

I’m writing this on a bus, on a laptop. I have a 75 minute commute to the office each morning, and home again in the evening. Auckland is a spread-out city (think LA, but without the permafrost cloud of pollution). I live in a nice neighborhood, and I work in a nice neighborhood; unfortunately there’s about 40 kilometers of road in between…

Postcards from the River

I lived a couple of blocks from the river, and the office building I worked in downtown was located riverside on London Street. Naturally, I often walked to and from the office each day along the river, taking advantage of the excellent system of paved city walkways that hugged the river bank… One Monday morning, however, there was a dead body at the end of my walk…

Why do you write Crime Fiction?

Friday afternoons drag. If you work in an office, it can feel like the devil has planted one of his hooves down on the minute hand of the clock, slowing down time to the point where it starts to hurt. The happiness you felt earlier in the week has gone, the bright colors of life have faded, and all that remains is a seemingly endless, black and white, nothingness. Punctuated by the random antics of work colleagues, who are even more insane than you are…

Stealing People

Christopher Isherwood wrote, in his novel Goodbye to Berlin, “I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.” I don’t live in the world Isherwood inhabited (I’m not living in 1930s Germany, to start with), but I like the analogy and readily apply it to myself; with a slight modification: I am a vacuum cleaner, on full speed, actively inhaling all that is around me, quietly storing it away for future use…

Rangitoto Island, etc.

It’s Friday. I’m reclining on an orange sofa in the lunch room (so orange in color, it’s probably radioactive). I’ve got my iPhone open to Google Docs and my wireless keyboard Bluetoothed in. It’s my lunch break and I’m trying to think of something to write about, as two of the ideas I had for this week’s article have lately been written about…

The Long of the Short of It

The above might give you the impression this little piece is about opening sentences in books. Nope, it was just a nice way to start. This is about book beginnings, but it’s only about the beginning of one book: my book. Like many writers of short stories, I too am working on a long story. I’ve been working on it for several years, and part of the reason I’ve been working on it all that time is because it started life as a short story…

Making Movies

I’m making a movie. No, that doesn’t mean I’ve relocated to Hollywood. I’m making a short, no budget movie here in Auckland City, New Zealand. Short means 5-10 minutes, no budget means just that. Nada. The movie is a mystery story being shot on digital video, and its destination, once completed, will be a film festival or two (one day, it’ll eventually wind up on YouTube — the final resting place of all things video)…

Friends & Influences

In the late summer of 1988, I spent a week living inside a novel. I was staying with a friend (Albert), who himself was staying with a friend (Victoria), at a dilapidated farmhouse on the edge of a town that didn’t seem to have anyone in it or even a name. There was a school house, closed for the summer (or maybe forever), and a general store that had a CLOSED sign in its door (also probably forever). The town was about forty minutes out of Hamilton, in a direction I couldn’t tell you…