Receive the print version of the MCW Newsletter! Just send your address to minnesotacrimewave@yahoo.com.

Read back issues

Spring, 2002 - Vol. 1, Number 2

TRUE CONFESSIONS: MINNESOTA WRITERS TELL ALL

Carl Brookins recently sat down with a pair of Minnesota writers, Mary Logue and Peter Hautman, to talk about their perspectives on writing crime fiction and their careers:

Carl: How long have you been writing seriously, as a career?

Pete: I've been writing full time since the publication of my first novel, Drawing Dead, in 1993.

Mary: After waitressing for a few years after college (what any good liberal arts education prepares you for), I've been making my living as a writer in one form or another. (Novelist, poet, teaching, editing, and writing products for pay.)

Carl: What's the most rewarding thing about being a mystery author?

Mary: Getting to live inside my mind so much.

Carl: What else do you do in addition to your writing career?

Pete: I play poker, cook, mow the lawn, complain, and sleep restlessly.

Mary: I'm a hooker, a rug hooker. I walk the dogs, listen to Peter complain, whine myself from time to time, garden.

Carl: What's your response to people who accuse you of making money from crime? Another way to say this is why do you write about crime as entertainment?

Pete: I don't feel that I write about crime. I write about people trying to make their way through life who take a wrong turn with, sometimes, crirninal and entertaining consequences. Although most of my books are (as defined by subject matter, audience, and bookstore placement) "crime novels," I don't really think of myself as a "mystery writer" or a "crime writer." I simply write novels that interest me.

Carl: Mary, if Claire Watkins is representative of some force or persona in society, who do you think that is?

Mary: Claire has chosen a career that puts her in the thick of things. I think she often thinks she helps the world out and then every once in a while she falters. I find her faltering interesting.

Carl: Will there be more books?

Mary: I have envisioned at least one more book. It will depend a lot on where I land with this series because Walker has stopped publishing mysteries. However it happens, I would like to write a book that is clearly the end of the series and not just leave it hanging.

Carl: Are there subjects or activities that will be taboo for Claire?

Mary: I don't see her having more children. She won't have a drinking problem. Casual sex might happen. No drugs, except perhaps Premarin.

Carl: Peter, your latest, Rag Man, is darker and more explicit than your earlier books. Do you think this is going to continue in future novels?

Pete: The tone was right for that book. I'll probably write more like it—it depends on what the book is about—but my next book, Doohickey, will be in a lighter vein.

Carl: Nearly all the characters in Rag Man are, while somewhat sympathetic, at the least, amoral. Is it fair to say this is your general view of society?

Pete: Amoral? I think Mack is a highly moral individual. He gets in trouble when he steps outside of his own ethical framework. It destroys him. Morality and goodness are two different things. One can easily be moral and "evil" at the same time.

Carl: What kind of research do you do?

Pete: Lots. I spend far more time researching than I do typing. As for the specific type of research, it depends on the project. Anything from personal interviews, to hitting the library stacks, to crawling the net, to walking the walk.

Mary: Eat donuts with the sheriff, try to get information on what pesticides really are doing in our lives, use a sorghum press, read up on pheasant farming, live part of the time in Pepin County, Wisconsin.

INITIATION RITES

By Ellen Hart

Here's a question I hear quite often: How come the Minnesota Crime Wave has only four members? Surely there are other Minnesota mystery authors who'd like to join. The answer is simple. It's the initiation ritual.

Let me explain.

It was a dark and gritty night. I was standing outside a sleazy downtown cafe having a smoke. A guy approached wearing a long black cloak and a cowboy hat—introduced himself to me as Carl. Just Carl. I don't usually talk to strange men with only one name, but for some reason this guy intrigued me, so we went inside and he bought me a Latte with a lutefisk chaser. My usual. He ordered a Colombian Supreme with a twist. In whispered tones, he told me about the group, then asked if I'd like to join. It seemed an innocent enough request. A little fun. A little promotion. I asked him what he wanted from me. He said that I'd find out in due time.

The next day, I found myself on a private jet headed for Istanbul. You might ask, Why Istanbul? I certainly asked, but all I got from my companions were blank stares. We deplaned in the dead of night, then took a taxi to one of the seedier sections of town. We entered what looked like a laundromat and walked quickly to the back, where a table had been set with four glasses, a bottle of gin, a carton of milk (we are, after all, Minnesotans), and a candle. For the next four hours, I was grilled mercilessly. Did I think plot was more important than character? Where did I get my ideas? Did I outline? Last but most importantly, who were my influences? When I replied P.D. James and, of course, Christie, Kent upended the table, sending the glasses crashing to the floor. Deborah grabbed the front of my shirt and demanded, "Christie? Julie Christie?"

I said no, Agatha Christie.

"Oh," she said, letting go of my shirt. "Okay, then. Just checking."

I must have passed the test because the next morning, over breakfast, they taught me the secret handshake. But it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

We flew back to Minnesota that afternoon. When we got off the plane, a limo was waiting. I hadn't slept much, so I wasn't watching carefully. I figured my new friends were taking me home, that I'd passed the test and the rest was just a formality—signing the contract in blood under a full moon in a church yard. Standard stuff. But before I knew it, Carl had cuffed my hands, Deborah had slapped a piece of duct tape over my mouth, and the three of them had hoisted me into the trunk. Yes, it took all three of them. Draw whatever conclusions you want. A few hours later, the car stopped. The trunk was opened. I found myself inside a used car dealership, I had no idea where. I demanded to know what the deal was, why they'd brought me to this godforsaken place, but all I got were pregnant smiles.

After making sure we were alone, Kent walked up to a door and knocked. "This is where we find out if our characters are compatible."

"Our characters?" I repeated.

"If they can't get along," said Carl, menacingly, "how can we be expected to get along on our road trips, the ones we'll be taking to bookstores, libraries, barn dances, and the odd farmer's market?"

The door swung inward. Inside, Bram and Sophie were bent over a drinks cart, mixing martinis. Jane and Cordelia sat stiffly on a sofa. Jane seemed puzzled, Cordelia was pissed. Cork O'Connor stood in the corner of the room holding an ice chipper, a slightly insane look in his eyes, and Michael Tanner sat on the edge of a desk, belting out the Navy anthem. Only Sister Rose was moving, or rather, prancing. She carried a basket of dried Shaker herbs and was tossing them in the air.

"Your characters are all nuts," I cried.

My companions merely shrugged. Once the door was shut, Kent told me they had one hour. If nobody got killed, I was in. They all backed away from the door, leaving me to listen. At first, I was frightened. If one of their characters bumped off one of mine. I'd be out of a job. About twenty minutes into the ordeal, I heard a shout, then a smack. Then another smack. Furniture tumbled. I glanced back at everyone. They all shook their heads.

Finally, the hour was up. Everyone came out. Bram had a black eye, and that made me mad. I knew none of my people had done it—nor had Sister Rose. In traditional mysteries—often called cozies—you can poison people, stab them, or shoot them, but nobody ever gets punched. It's all wrong for the idiom. So it had to have been Tanner or O'Connor. I gave them both dirty looks but they ignored me.

"I guess you're in, Hart," said Deborah with a smile.

"Thanks," I said, looking sheepish. Why did I look sheepish, you ask? I'd already forgotten the secret handshake.

ALL POINTS BULLETIN

By Deborah Woodworth

When folks find out I travel with the Minnesota Crime Wave, I'm deluged with questions about what it's like to spend hours and hours in a car with Carl, Kent and Ellen. So I'd like to take this opportunity to satisfy this profound and sometimes prurient curiosity. The short answer is—It's fun! We joke, discuss writing, and share our publishing woes. We split expenses, toss around ideas, and shore up each other's fragile egos. We just don't turn our backs on each other.

MCW on the road!

A few examples. A surprising number of Ellen Hart's readers want to know if it's true that she travels with a full set of Trident kitchen knives and if she really spends her evenings sharpening them. That's a gross exaggeration. Except for very long trips, she rarely carries more than a small selection. Moreover, she uses the meat cleaver only to prepare canapes for our traveling snacks. However, we do make her drive most of the time ever since she tried to cut Carl's hair with a boning knife. Not that Carl didn't deserve it.

On our first extended trip together, Carl wore a cast and walked with crutches. Many of his fans asked me if he'd really broken his ankle, or if he was transporting controlled substances across state lines. I've been warned not to answer that question because charges are still pending, but I will say this: He wouldn't share.

Kent's fans seem most interested in finding out just how many noir outfits he really owns. Ellen, Carl, and I have discussed this issue amongst ourselves, and we're fairly sure it's more than one—after driving six hundred miles a day, several days in a row, we think we could tell if he'd been wearing the same outfit. Besides, he needs some extra clothes to cover up the Hechler and Koch collapsible rifle he carries in his suitcase. We did wonder if he'd run out of clothes, however, when he suggested we do our events in the nude.

Yes, traveling with the Minnesota Crime Wave keeps me on my toes. So, if I sew a bit of dried foxglove or a few castor beans inside the hem of my Shaker cloak, can you blame me? Sister Rose might not approve, but she doesn't have to hit the road with William Kent Krueger, Carl Brookins and Ellen Hart.

Read back issues:
Winter, 2002 - Vol. 1, Number 1
Spring, 2002 - Vol. 1, Number 2
Fall, 2002 - Vol. 1, Number 3
Winter, 2003 - Vol. 2, Number 1
Spring, 2003 - Vol. 2, Number 2
Fall, 2003 - Vol. 2, Number 3
Spring, 2004 - Vol. 3, Number 1
Fall, 2004 - Vol. 3, Number 2
Spring, 2005 - Vol. 3, Number 3
Fall, 2005 - Vol. 3, Number 4
Spring, 2006 - Vol. 4, Number 1
Fall, 2006 - Vol. 4, Number 2
Spring, 2007 - Vol. 5, Number 1

© 2002-10 by Carl Brookins, Ellen Hart and William Kent Krueger.
Permission is hereby granted for reproduction of any material contained in this web site for purposes of publicity and promotion related to the sale of our books and/or appearances by members of the Minnesota Crime Wave.

Find bookstores carrying our mysteries by clicking on the IndieBound logo.