And the winners are :

 

These two stories can be found in Mosaic Voices available from Amazon. 

The losers include the short stories "The Good Time Girl"  and "New Beginnings," and the first chapter of Murder at the KiMo (book 3 in the Couriers series). Based on the winners in its category, I'd have to say that the judges don't value cozy mysteries. 

I honestly think that "The Good Time Girl" is at least as good as the two that won, but, of course, it all depends on the competition. I thought about posting it here, but I think I'll hang on to it for an anthology of short stories based on characters from the Couriers series. I've got some ideas about Liz's son ... If you want to read "The Good Time Girl," let me know and I'll email you a copy.

I liked "New Beginnings!" Since it's a standalone that I probably won't do anything with -- here it is : 

New Beginnings

Jane pulled into the garage, turned off the engine, and sat staring straight ahead. She dreaded going into the house. Dick would be home, as he always was since he’d retired a year ago. She wasn’t afraid of him. Dick was never violent, never nasty. It was just that he’d be in there, sitting in front of the t.v., watching some old detective series from the 1990s, waiting for her to get home and fix dinner. He’d come to the table when she called, he’d eat whatever she put in front of him, he’d tell her that “It was good,” and then he’d go sit in front of the television until it was time to go to bed. Where had their passion gone? What had happened to the romance? Or even just the fun? They were both still young; she certainly was. Far too young to just give up on life. He still did the yardwork and took care of small repairs around the house and could be counted on to get the cars serviced regularly, but she could pay someone to do that. What she needed was some of that old spark, but it had slowly extinguished itself. She couldn’t face twenty more years of this. She’d felt the dread growing on her for months, but she hadn’t said anything. What was there to say? “You’re starting to bore me?”

She smiled as she thought about John, the new supervisor she’d met in an administrator’s meeting a month before. John was anything but boring. Not only was he fit enough to wear those slim suits that were in style, he sported cowboy boots and a Paul McCartney hair cut. Dick wore nothing but t-shirts and baggy shorts these days. Whenever John looked into her eyes and smiled, which he did frequently, she felt a small shiver of excitement run up her spine. There was a time that Dick would look at her in the same way, but these days, he looked mostly at the television.

She remembered how John had leaned over at a meeting and whispered a sarcastic comment about the speaker in her ear. She’d had to hold her breath not to laugh out loud. Dick’s conversation, such as it was, revolved primarily around the plots of the shows he was streaming and what they were going to have for dinner the next day. He told the same jokes over and over. She found herself tuning him out more and more lately.

She and John had started going to lunch together a couple of times a week after he’d made her laugh in the meeting. He always insisted on paying, saying that it had been his idea. It was almost like a date. She and Dick hadn’t been on a date night in, well, something like six months. She couldn’t remember why they’d stopped. It wasn’t a conscious decision, they’d just let it slip away from them. Dick had said something about not having a schedule or a structure making it difficult to plan … What did the reason matter? They’d stopped.

She was pretty sure that John had started making up excuses to stop by her office. He was always “on his way” to or from some other part of the floor and just “stopped by to say “Hi.”” She knew that she looked for any reason to pass by his, even if it meant going the long way around the floor. She let her mind wander to what might happen if they both were working late, alone …

She shook her head and sighed. No point in sitting here any longer. It wouldn’t change anything. No matter how long she sat here, Dick would still be inside waiting for dinner. She opened the car door, picked up her purse from the passenger seat, and entered the house. She stopped, confused. It was dark. And quiet. No light or sound from the television in the living room. Had something happened to Dick? She felt a cold hand grip her stomach. He might be boring and getting a bit flabby, but he was still her husband. She took a few steps forward in the dark, then heard footsteps in the hall. The lights suddenly came on, and there was Dick. She stared in disbelief. He was wearing a tuxedo — where had that come from? He didn’t own one — with a crisp white shirt. The suit fit perfectly and camouflaged his incipient paunch. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, he was freshly shaved, and his hair was cut and brushed back in a way that she had told him made him look like Pierce Brosnan. He held a martini glass in each hand.

“Forgive me for not meeting you at the door, Madam. I was otherwise occupied,” he said in a lightly teasing tone, as he handed her one of the glasses. He looked into her eyes and smiled beguilingly, the way he used to.

“Oh, that’s, um, that’s ok,” she said in confusion. She sipped the pale green cocktail and beamed at him. “A gimlet! My favorite! You remembered.”

“Of course.” He offered her his elbow and walked her down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Now, if Madam would like to freshen up and slip into something more … comfortable … dinner will be served in the dining room in fifteen minutes.”

She smiled tentatively at him. He bowed to her and walked back to the dining room. She set her purse down on her dressing table and slipped her shoes off. What was going on? Dick had never done anything like this before. She once again felt that cold hand of fear grip her. Was he planning to leave her? Was this his way of softening the blow? Had he heard about John?

“Stop being silly,” she muttered to herself. “There’s nothing for him to hear. Nothing has happened … yet.” Still, other employees had seen them leaving for lunch together and it was unlikely that no one had noticed how often they were in each other’s office. Or had Dick met someone else? He was alone from the time she left for the office until she got home at night. He must do something other than watch television and mow the lawn once a week. Some younger woman in a coffee shop or at the grocery store? He would do the shopping if she left him a list. Is that why he was so willing to do it?

She hung her jacket on its hanger in the closet and clipped the slacks to the hanger’s crossbar. Her blouse and socks went into the hamper. She went into the bathroom and, smiling at the phrase, “freshened up.” Coming out, she looked through her closet for something to wear. He’d said, “Something more comfortable.” But he was wearing a tux, so surely he didn’t mean her nightgown. What did she have? There, at the back, the dress she’d worn for their twentieth anniversary party five years ago. Dick’s eyes had widened when he’d seen her in the floor-length royal blue velvet with the plunging v-neck that showed off her still-attractive cleavage, while the elbow-length sleeves hid the developing “bat wings” of her upper arms. With its high, Empire waist, it was surprisingly comfortable for such an elegant gown. As she slipped it over her head, she hoped that it would remind Dick of their years together and give him second thoughts about turning her in for a younger model.

She debated wearing pantihose but decided that knee-highs were more “comfortable.” Dick was wearing his dress shoes, so she pulled out her navy-blue pumps. She took a moment to brush her hair back into place and freshen her lipstick, then fastened the sapphire pendant that Dick had given her for that anniversary around her neck and hung the matching earrings from her lobes. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Taking a deep breath, she strode down the hall to the dining room and whatever awaited her there. If this were one of Dick’s detective shows, it would be murder. She was smiling at the absurdity when she entered the dining room. Again, she stopped in disbelief. The table was set with their best white linen tablecloth, the one they only used for holidays and birthdays. A floral arrangement with candles stood in the center of the table. Two places were set with their best china, their silver (plate, but still, it was shiny), and their crystal wine glasses. A bottle of champagne rested in the ice bucket on a small side table. Dick stood with his hands on the back of one of the chairs, smiling as he looked her up and down. The dress seemed to be having the effect that she had hoped it would.

“If Madam would care to sit here?” he said, while pulling the chair out. She nodded, speechless, then stepped over to the chair. He slid it in just until it touched the backs of her legs and she was able to sit down gracefully. He must have been practicing, she thought, He never could get that right before. And then wondered With whom?

Dick filled their champagne flutes, then sat across from her and raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said. She raised her glass in return and gave him a wan smile. New beginnings? It IS another woman! She sipped at the champagne. Well, she wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t make it easy for him.

She set her glass down and picked up her soup spoon. At the first taste of the pale green soup, her eyes once again widened. “Where did you find sorrel soup?”

“I’d like to be able to tell you that I made it myself, but it’s from that new French bistro that opened in the mall. I often go there for lunch.”

She swallowed. Is that where he met her? “I didn’t know that you went out for lunch.”

“Occasionally,” he said, looking down at his soup plate. And now he won’t meet my eyes. They finished their soup in silence.

“That was lovely, dear,” she forced herself to say. No, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him, no matter how much she wanted to demand an explanation. She would be bright and cheerful and charming.

Dick rose and picked up his soup plate, then hers. “I’m glad you liked it. Do you remember when we first had sorrel soup, on our honeymoon?” She nodded, holding back the tears. “I’ll be right back with the main course.” He left for the kitchen.

She remembered their honeymoon — and their wedding — and their courtship. And all the years since then. No, she would not give up all of that without a fight. No new woman, however young and attractive, knew Dick the way that she knew him. No new woman had weathered the storms with him that she had. She just had to show him what he would be giving up. She sat up straight and pasted a smile on her face as she heard his step in the hall.

Dick slid a plate in front of her, then set one at his place. He picked up a bottle of red wine from the sideboard and filled both of their wine glasses, then sat down, putting the bottle on the table between them. She stared down at the filet mignon, glazed carrots, and fondant potatoes.

“Did you get this at that bistro, too?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

Dick shook his head and laughed slightly. “No, these I made myself. You know I was always good with a steak and I learned how to make the carrots and potatoes from one of those cooking shows.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that you’ve been watching cooking shows.” What else don’t I know?

He grinned wryly. “I did, but I don’t think you were listening … tell me what you think of this wine.” She sipped at the garnet fluid and nodded, grateful that he’d changed the subject. He was right. She hadn’t been listening.

She praised the wine. “It’s smooth and has just enough tannin for the steak.” Neither she nor Dick were exactly wine connoisseurs, but she did enjoy a good red.

“The man at the wine store assured me that this was a particularly fine California zinfandel.”

She stopped herself from asking when he had started frequenting a wine store. He might already have told her. No doubt his young woman from the bistro had introduced him to it.

He sliced into his steak and held the piece up for her to see, turning it slightly to show both sides. “It’s a perfect medium rare, if I do say so myself.”

Jane cut into her steak and smiled brightly at him. “Yes, a perfect medium rare, as your steaks always are.”

She chewed a piece and swallowed, feeling as if she were choking. She managed to get down a bite of carrot and potato. “The vegetables are wonderful. I’ve never had better glazed carrots and the fondant potatoes … well, Gordon Ramsay himself would be envious.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He smiled at her as he continued to eat his dinner, apparently oblivious to her struggles. Jane forced herself to follow his lead, making occasional comments on the sweetness of the carrots and the creaminess of the potato, and how well the wine complemented the meat.

Suddenly, she could tolerate it no longer. She dropped her knife and fork onto her plate, placed her hands on the table, and cried, “What is this all about? What brought this on?” She felt tears starting up in her eyes. “Stop this torture and tell me!”

Dick stopped eating and stared at her in surprise, holding his knife and fork in the air. He looked down at his plate, took a deep breath and looked back up at her. “I saw you,” he said in a flat voice.

“Saw me?” Jane shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“The two of you,” he replied. “I was in town getting the car serviced, so I went to your office to invite you to lunch at the French bistro and I saw the two of you leaving the building together. You and that young man.”

“I … we …,“ Jane gasped. She didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t insult him by lying. “It was only lunch.”

Dick set down his utensils and shook his head. “You looked so … happy. You were smiling up at him and laughing the way you used to… And the way that he was looking at you …” He shook his head again, then looked directly at her. “I followed you. You went to that gastropub. I’m sure you know the one I mean.”

She nodded. “I didn’t see you.”

“I took care that you didn’t, and that place is so dark, I almost lost track of the two of you.” He laughed shortly. “I had sensed that you were drawing away, and now I knew why.”

Jane shook her head. “No … He’s just … just a friend. A colleague.” Her excuse rang hollow in her ears.

Dick looked at her wryly. “He may be that now, but believe me, he wants to be more. I was relieved when you headed back to your office afterward.”

He sat back. “I was angry, at first. And hurt, of course. But it gave me a lot to think about.” He looked directly at her again, “And, after I got over the anger and the hurt, I realized that I had been taking my beautiful, interesting, accomplished wife for granted. And that if I didn’t change things soon, I could lose her to a man who clearly does value her.” He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Can you forgive me?”

“Can I forgive you?” Jane laughed breathlessly. “I thought you were going to tell me that you’d met another woman.”

Dick sat back, astounded. “Another woman? What would I want with another woman?” He leaned forward and took her hands again. “You’re the only woman I could ever want.”

“I thought you’d found someone younger and … “ she looked down at the table, “And less critical, more attentive. Someone who laughed at your jokes.” She looked back up at him questioningly.

“I haven’t been easy to live with lately,” Dick said, smiling. “And I have been telling the same old jokes. Even I don’t find them funny anymore.” He patted her hands. “We’ll say no more about it. I meant it when I said, “New beginnings.” Now, one more surprise.” He collected the plates and silverware and walked out of the dining room. Jane followed him with her eyes. He really was still a fine figure of a man and with the grey in his hair … it wouldn’t be a stretch to call him a “Silver Fox.”

He returned shortly with two of their crystal dessert dishes piled high with rich, creamy chocolate mousse and a bottle of port under his arm. He set all three on the table, then pulled his chair around to her right. He set the mousse at each place and poured the port into the dessert wine glasses, then sat at an angle to her side. Holding the glass in his right hand, he placed his elbow on the table. Jane smiled in remembrance and, holding her glass in her right hand, wrapped her forearm around his. They bent their heads toward each other as they sipped from their glasses. They kissed softly.

Dick murmured, “I’ve always loved you in that dress, but I like you even more out of it.”

“Well, then …” she murmured in return.

“Well, then,” Dick replied. “But first, …”

“The mousse,” they said in unison and picked up their spoons.

City directories -- what are they and why should a writer of historical fiction use them?

 And, no, I don't mean the old telephone directories -- although those can be useful, too. I mean the city business directories published by a variety of companies with Polk being the most familiar. And, yes, they are still published today, both in digital and print form. Looks like the current publisher is Data-Axle.

The city directory I'm referring to was was published primarily for the business community to use in marketing and advertising. It included a section of half- and full-page paid ads, a section with businesses alphabetically by name, a section that listed residents alphabetically with address and (eventually) phone number, a classified section that listed businesses by type, and a section arranged by address. This section is the reason that they are sometimes called a "criss-cross" directory (that was also the name of a specific publication). 

I suspect you're already seeing the benefits of city directories for historical research -- fiction or non-fiction. If you have the name of a person or business, you can quickly find where that person lived or where that business was located. Frequently, the business listing includes the name of the owner and if you're very lucky, the business took out an ad, which promotes its finer points.  

And, if you have an address, you can just as quickly discover who lived there or what business was located there -- or if it was a vacant lot. You can also see what or who was on either side of your address, across the street, down the block ... 

The classified section is obviously useful if you want to know the names of specific types of businesses. Not only can you find hotels, restaurants, and stores, you can find the names of lawyers, plumbers, stenographers, seamstresses ... You can add a touch of authenticity to your work. 

The ads are also useful -- assuming that there is one for the business you're interested in. They'll give you the name of the business, its slogan, the owner's name, and usually something the business. They are advertisements, after all. 

I recently used the 1929 Albuquerque city directory found in the genealogical collection at the main library to find the name of a Mexican restaurant walking distance from the Alvarado hotel. That restaurant no longer exists, but I have the name and the address. In this case, that's really all I wanted. However, for my next book, I needed the name of an auto court located on 4th Street -- which was Route 66 in 1929. I turned to Auto Courts and there was a list of them, located one after the other on 4th street. I picked one, then turned to the address section and discovered that there was an all-night diner located right next door! I'm assuming that "Midnight Lunch" was an all-night diner, anyway. 

That auto court also had an ad. I turned to it and found that it gave the owners' names and that they were 1 to 3 room cottages with steam heat, hot and cold running water, private tile bath, and a kitchenette with gas for cooking. I now have plenty of detail for creating an authentic context and my characters who live there can offer guests a cup of coffee or a drink or even a light meal. 

I also jotted down the names and addresses of several other cafes in the area where the story is set, just in case. There's Mecca Cafe, "the oldest and most reliable cafe in Albuquerque," proprietor Theodore Paulantis. Is it Middle Eastern? Greek? The Liberty Cafe : Home of Good Eats "where the choicest foods are served." We can guess what type of cuisine they offered. And, of course, the Coney Island Cafe, now known as Lindy's. 

I'll be returning to the directories to find the location of the nearest police station to the scene of the murder, maybe find the name of cab companies that my characters will use ... the possibilities are endless!

In my next post, I'll explore other resources at the public library, including ones that can help me find out what cuisine was served at the Mecca Cafe and what movies the KiMo theatre was showing in 1929. 

Challenges of writing a historical roman à clef

Note: I started this post on July 17 and now it's October 6 (!). In the time between these two dates, we closed on our house, moved into/camped out in our house, registered the car and got our new ids, unpacked our belongings when they were finally delivered (that's a story in itself) and made good progress on settling in. The washer and dryer weren't delivered until August 30, so I was also making weekly trips to a laundromat. We joined the local senior center, the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center, and the Museum Foundation of New Mexico and signed up for classes with Oasis. Still, I find it hard to believe that nearly two months have passed! 

A historical roman a clef is a specific type of historical fiction which is based on real events and real people. It's fiction, not non-fiction, so names of people and places are usually changed, events are modified, minor characters are composites of several real people. It presents special difficulties above and beyond those of historical fiction in general. One of my history professors said that he always cringed inside when a student wanted to write a history of a hometown, because it is so difficult to be objective. Beyond seeing things through a personal emotional lens (for good or bad), it's hard to decide what is really essential and what is irrelevant. What are the essential traits of the major characters and what traits can be dispensed with? Which details about places and events are significant and which ones just bog down the narrative? It's also difficult to simplify relationships and reduce the number of characters and events.

Another challenge that is unique to a historical roman a clef is facing the reality that the story you were told is not what really happened. That, in fact, sometimes it would have been nearly impossible for history to have played out that way. People are not lying (or usually not). Memories are faulty. They play tricks on us. If you don't believe me, ask your siblings about some event in the past at the next family gathering. Or maybe don't, as arguments will ensue. And, yes, sometimes they are deliberately lying to protect themselves or others. It's also the case that they've told the same lie/story for so long that they've come to believe that it is the truth. You'll be challenging people's memories and versions of the story, so be prepared! Presenting evidence is necessary, but it is not sufficient. You're rewriting their own memory of themselves. Be ready to say, "I know ... I had to do it for the story." 

If you're going to write a historical roman a clef, it's vital that you do your historical research in order to be able to identify the erroneous memories and sort out the confused timelines to the degree possible. You need to make sure that the contextual details are correct -- home appliances, tv shows, car models, clothing and hair styles, ethnic restaurants -- as well as the major details and events. Was it legal to do that at that time? Was it socially acceptable? Could the people in the story have afforded to purchase that item, go on that vacation, etc.? 

A couple of personal examples. When I was 3, we moved from Columbus, Ohio, to Puerto Rico. We gave the parakeet to the people who lived in the trailer next door. My memory is of walking next to my mother, carrying the bird cage and feeling very grown-up. According to my mother, I carried the box of bird seed. She carried the cage. How deflating! Obviously, I remembered it the way that I wanted to remember it. 

Another -- when researching the history of the establishment of a public library for my dissertation, I found an article in the local paper written about 50 years after the time period. The author claimed that the local opera company of the time performed an oratorio and raised hundreds of dollars for the library. The problem was (and is) that there is absolutely no contemporary report of that oratorio. I scoured each issue of the local paper during the time in question and the oratorio was never mentioned. The opera company was, but not the oratorio. Another problem was that there was no report of the funds raised for the library by that oratorio, and the newspaper reported on every single fundraising event and gave the amount that was raised, which was generally in the range of $50 or so. If hundreds of dollars had been raised, it certainly would have been reported. Long story short, it eventually became clear that the writer of the article, who was about 13 at the time the library was being built, had conflated several different events. There is a report of a local performance based on "The Virginian" which featured "real cow boys and real cow boy songs," but no oratorio. It raised about $47 for the library, not hundreds. 

The amount supposedly raised is very close to the sum total of all fund raising events reported in the paper. There are photographs of townspeople in costume for the supposed performance in the local history collection, but half of the characters are not characters in that oratorio. I did find a report of a fund raising concert given by a local man who had been accepted at Julliard to raise funds for his tuition. Later, it was reported that he would not be able to attend that year and he had donated what was raised to the library. (For those who are curious, he was Thomas Edward Birchell. He did ultimately attend Julliard and had a long and successful career as professional singer. He was known as "The Cowboy Baritone." https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/91303758/thomas-edward-birchell). Have I identified the source of those photographs and of the legend? 

The local history magazine refuses to publish my article. It challenges the city's view of itself as highly cultured from an earlier period. As Maxwell Scott says in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."