A reading weekend--and a puzzle

 

 

Today the snow moon peaked about midday. The February full moon was named the snow moon by Native Americans because it occurs when the heaviest snow is expected—little did they know that this year it just missed not the heaviest snow but the coldest temperatures that we hope are now in the rearview mirror. None of that was on my mind this morning at 6:30 when I opened the door to let Sophie out—but there it was: a perfectly round, glowing white orb just about to sink below the roof line of my neighbor’s house. For a moment, the sight and the beauty took my breath away. You can still catch it tonight, no longer perfectly round but so close your naked eye won’t be able to tell.

For years, with my Puritan work ethic ruling my life, I put reading fiction off  until late at night. It was an indulgence, I thought, a reward for having worked all day. But friend and fellow author Susan Wittig Albert, a better and more successful mystery writer than I ever will be, has convinced me that reading is part of my job. When I read someone else’s mysteries, I pick up on techniques, good and bad. I get ideas for what I can do in future works, and I find things that I would never have done or would differently. I know for certain that I read differently today than I did fifteen years ago. More critically, which doesn’t just mean negative criticism but implies a deeper understanding of what lies behind the words

So this weekend I spent a happy two days reading Julie Hyzy’s Artistic License, billed as her debut novel, although at least one book in her White House Chef Mysteries predates that publication. A fan of both the White House books and the Manor House Mysteries, I was delighted to jump into this book—and then a bit disappointed. It started slowly, and Hyzy dwelt in such detail on characters and scenes that I wanted to urge, “Hurry on, let’s get to the action.” In particular, her descriptions of a couple of unpleasant characters—physically unattractive due to their presentation and habits and not God-given features—was so graphic that I didn’t want to read more about them. Felt that way all through the book.

But gradually she introduced both romance and suspense. This is not a cozy in which the reader is as puzzled as the amateur sleuth—this is a thriller, in which the reader knows who the bad guys are, what they want, and what they will do to get it. It’s like watching two parallel lines of action, holding your breath for the climactic moment when they collide. And collide they did, in a suspense-filled passage that almost had me holding my breath. By then, I cared, really cared about the people involved—and that, to me, is the mark of a good writer: making the reader care about the characters. The ending was satisfactory, with the exception of one minor thread let hanging loose.

Another thing that keeps this novel out of the cozy category: there is one quite graphic sex scene. Okay mild by erotica standards, but graphic by cozy standards. In cozies, the action stops when the bedroom door closes.

Something I would not have noticed until I started indie publishing my own books. This one, from a small press, had formatting problems. There was no page break between chapters—if one ended in the middle of the page, the next one began right there. And in the text there were no space breaks to indicate a change of scene. So you were reading along in one scene and suddenly there was a line about totally different characters.

Problems aside, reading Artistic License was a win. It provided a weekend of enjoyment and some writing lessons beside. Now I’m excited that I found a White House Chef Mystery that I apparently overlooked when I read the series: An Affair of Steak. (I dislike the punny titles of so many cozies, but I’ll forgive Julie).

Here’s a puzzle: Susan Albert told me Julie Hyzy doesn’t even maintain her web page, so I went prowling. Found a web page, but also found several links that supposedly led to obituaries about her October 2020 death. But none of those links panned out: they either gave me the 404 error message or “This page could not be found.” So I’m left with a question: Did Julie Hyzy die (she would have been maybe late fifties, early sixties) or was it a pen name, a pseudonym that died—and somewhere the person who wrote as Julie Hyzy lives on? Another reason I never wanted a pen name.