We're the Mousecarteers, We Want to Say Hello

It turns out that harmless, little Legacy is a MouseCarTeer Hybrid. I drove the 40 miles down to see my parents in Oregon, at 70 mph mind you (just kidding all you state troopers, I was doing the exact speed limit, never faster), and as I careened into the lot of the senior living complex, a mouse compelled herself out of the engine compartment onto the windscreen by the windshield wipers. I screamed, slammed into a parking space and ripped open my phone.

"Mom, there's a mouse in front of me. On my car, right in front of my eyes." At that, the mouse scurried along the glass, scrambled onto the hood and checked out her new surroundings. I laid on the horn and prayed most of the residents were hard of hearing. The mouse scrambled back up the hood and dropped into the trough where the wipers hide. I threw down the phone, pressed back against my seat and flipped on the windshield wipers. The mouse simply stared at them before her gaze penetrated the window and met mine.

"Eeeeeeek," I said and honked again. The creature dove down between the windshield and the hood and disappeared into the engine compartment again.

Mouse Trail

I called Subaru today. "Yeah, I have to bring my car in for the first oil change, could I bring it in today. Right now?"

"No, you'd have to make an appointment."

"What kind of service will you be doing? Will you be changing the oil, and maybe glancing around

the engine compartment for anything out of the ordinary?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, like, would they look for, say, things that don't really belong in the engine compartment?"

His voice sounded suspicious now. "What kind of things?"

When I told him, he said mice love cars of all makes and models (I think they just love whatever car I drive), but that I needed to evict it before it causes the car to overheat.

Evicting it with intimidating back-up sounded good to me, so I opened the door to the engineering department. "Gentlemen, are you ready?"

"For what?" several voices called out from the cubical labyrinth.

"Just grab a pair of gloves and come out front," I said.

It was just my luck that Nelson drives a Jeep and Kyle hadn't a clue what he had volunteered to do. No one knew how to open the hood. First I opened the trunk, then I pulled the fuse box cover off. After consulting the owner's manual, the hood finally popped open. Backing away from the car, I asked the two men to check for mice and mice condominiums. They backed away too.

I glared.

They moved back to the car and stared under the hood, looking for movement. Kyle found the nest and yanked it out, but there was no sign of Minnie. I figure she was off at the hospital having sextuplets. So now it is just a matter of time before she reappears, with relatives.

My gas mileage didn't seem as good on the drive home.

Mouse Nest

Conspiracy Theory

It is raining here in the Northwest. Hard to believe, I know. In order to make it through the long, grey winters, we look forward to celebrating whatever happens to come our way. That is why, at work, concern surfaced on Friday. Angela's voice drifted over the cubical jungle. "Melanie, don't say anything, but look at October 16th."

I glanced at my calendar, flipped it to the right month and noted the "National Boss's Day" printed at the bottom of the 16th's square. "Saturday? It's on a Saturday?" I asked the world in general, since Angela sits four cubicles away.

"I know." Angela's voice took on a devious tone. "It is odd it would be on a Saturday. It is almost as if they don't want us to celebrate it."

She has a point. What do you think?

Commuting in the Northwest

My cats are afraid of what goes on outside our windows. On Sunday, I held Hobiecat up to the window and we checked out the squirrels and birds in the small yard. It isn't far to the woods and the leaves are turning. As we watched, a leaf let go of the branch and hurled itself to the ground. Hobie dug his claws into me and then leaped for the safety of the kitchen.

Photo by Alan Vernon

It is such a nice time of year, autumn. Even if I leave work a little late, it is still light on my drive home, so I get to see my neighbors who are out preparing their homes for winter.

This evening I saw Rocky about 3/4 of a mile from my house. I don't mind them living 3/4 of a mile away. It is when they are on my back deck, demanding I feed them that I don't care for the vicious little beasts.

Last night I had to stomp on my brakes to allow Ben to cross the street about 1/2 mile from my house. I think he was checking his mailbox. Ben has also been on my back deck a couple of times, but I haven't invited him back. He wasn't very friendly.

Temporary Setbacks

I have been remiss about writing. The fault is that of my cats. They plague me. They harpoon me. They rule me. They issue orders and commands from the time the sun comes up until late into the night; like Ebenezer Scrooge, expecting long hours of work in the cold, dreary room, with just a pittance for a candle and the rest for cat toys. Even when they sleep, they demand my attention. All I want to do is write, but they have other ideas. Schooner drops toys at my feet and expects me to play. Hobie feels the need to sleep nearby and occasionally flip his tail into me.

So, in order to get anything done, I must sneak away. This is temporary.

(Okay, yeah, I'm simply taking a break from the blog for another week or two. But it is so much more dramatic to blame it on the cats.)

Remembering September 11th

I was on my way to drop off my car to have a new convertible top installed. It took a while to figure out that what was happening in New York was not just a dreadful accident. I think when the second plane hit, the realization dawned that the events were the personification of evil beyond comprehension. By the time I reached the upholstery shop, tears made wet paths down my cheeks and left dark patches on my light blue shirt. I got out of the car and stumbled into the front office. The owner looked askance while I handed him my keys. I blubbered something about just having been listening to the radio, as if that explained the red eyes and snuffling sobs. He just stared like I was nuts, took the keys and told me the car would be ready at four.

To this day I'm sure he didn't yet know what was going on 3000 miles away. I didn't tell him. I couldn't. There were no words to explain. I don't know how the newscasters did it.

My heart goes out to all who were there; those trying to escape, those trying to help them escape, those left behind to deal with the aftermath, and to all the friends and families who suffered loss.

Caffeinated Revisions

I'm at Starbucks, working on further revisions, and just went up to get my free refill with my registered shareholder's card. One of the employees said, "This is my favorite card. All the employees are standing outside in their little aprons, looking so happy."

"Yeah, like that would happen," another said.

Another employee snatched the card and they all gathered around to see it. "Yup, they really look happy."

"Well, of course, they are Starbucks employees," I said. "What is not to be happy about that?"

The first young man smiled. "Sure, we could look just like that," he boasted.

It is lucky I usually have my camera with me.

Yup. They look pretty happy. Now, may I have my coffee?

A Dream to Some, A Nightmare to Others!

Guest Blog

by Bill Cameron

In this episode of "Where Do You Get Your Ideas?", we learn that story ideas do sometimes come from dreams. Alas, my own dreams have never found the essential narrative rigor. For that, I've had to turn to others.

When I wrote Lost Dog, I had no long range plan. It was my first mystery, after attempting science-fiction, literary (whatever that means), and fantasy. The first three books will never see the light of day, for good reason, but as practice they were invaluable. By Lost Dog, I was actually starting to develop some chops and so, with help from critiquing co-conspirators, it was my first manuscript to become a book.

Other writers may have that long range plan. They may have goals, an arc mapped out in advance—perhaps years in advance—of actually being published. Me? Uh.

As Lost Dog was going through the pre-publication process, editing and marketing, my agent asked, "What are you working on next? We need to keep this train moving." And my response was …

It was …

Yeah, see. No long range plan.

I wrote my first novel, the science-fiction one, because I read and loved science-fiction. I wrote the literary novel because, well, I was in a college creative writing program and that's what you did. I wrote the fantasy because I loved fantasy. And when I wrote Lost Dog, it was because I loved mystery too. But beyond that, there was no coherent forethought. I was telling stories I wanted to tell.

So, what would I work on next? A historical novel? Comic narrative non-fiction? (I love those too.) Haiku collection? Well, it turns out I needed another mystery novel because, well, I was a published mystery author. Okay. No problem. I love mystery.

Here's the thing. I am not a font of ideas. Those writers who have twelve ideas before breakfast? Yeah, I hate them. I had no ideas for a next mystery novel. What I did have was a character I liked, Detective Skin Kadash, an important but supporting player in Lost Dog. He had a great voice, a distinctive characteristic, and I knew I'd enjoy going forward with him.

But how?

Cue crickets.

Fortunately, one morning my wife said to me, "I dreamed a group of men—all cancers patients—were dying, and I had to investigate their deaths." There was more to the dream, but I can't tell you the rest because if I did it would be a big spoiler for what would become my second mystery, Chasing Smoke.

Yes, Chasing Smoke is based on my wife's dream. Of course, I switched her with Skin. I also introduced a number of my own touches and jiggered the narrative to the point she actually said, "You got it wrong." But the essential story foundation grew out of her dream, and a series was born.

In my defense, I would like to say that the idea for my follow-up, Day One, was actually my own idea. But I can't say Chasing Smoke is the first time I raided someone else's dreams for story fodder.

In 1981, I was a freshman at Miami University, Oxford, Ohio (NOT Florida), and one morning at breakfast one of my dorm buddies—fellow named Joe Miller—described a dream. His mother ruled like a tyrant from the top floor of a huge house, issuing orders from above by intercom. Joe offered lots of rich details, and I hung on every word. At last I said, "Can I steal your dream for a story?" Joe graciously granted permission.

Over the next 25 or so years, "A Tall House" would go through many incarnations. I turned in a version in a creative writing class in 1982. I re-worked it again in 1983-85. In 1990, I moved from Ohio to Portland and in the process lost the original manuscript, as well as the floppy disk the working copy resided on. Alas.

All was not lost, however. Joe's dream was always there, and the story remained one I wanted to somehow tell. Off and on in the 90s I tinkered with a new version. But it never quite came together. It was Joe's dream, after all, and unlike Chasing Smoke and Skin Kadash, I had no hook of my own to hang it on.

Then in 2006, shortly after I signed the contract for Lost Dog, I met the editor of Spinetingler magazine, fellow mystery writer Sandra Ruttan, who suggested I enter the "Spinetingler Cozy Noir Contest." The requirement of the contest was that stories entered merge the essence of the cozy mystery—oft defined as a mystery where someone dies but no one gets hurt—with noir—dark and cynical and gritty.

Suddenly I had the hook I needed for "A Tall House," floundering all those years. I rewrote Joe's dream again, and for the first time the story stopped being entirely his and at last become more mine. I entered the story and had the great pleasure of winning. You can read the dream-to-story, a quarter century in the making, at Spinetingler here.

What does all this mean? It means ideas can come from anywhere. The old standard, "Where do you get your ideas?" has as many answers as there are people, and then some. Lost Dog grew out of an exercise in a writing class. Chasing Smoke and "A Tall House" came from someone else's dream. I knitted Day One together out of my own thoughts, a few news stories, and characters I'd been developing for a decade. My next book, County Line (due out summer 2011) grew out of a comment a reviewer made about Lost Dog.

All valid starting points, just a few out of many possible sources. Wherever your ideas come from, through the alchemical mix of imagination and writing, you can make them your own.

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Bill Cameron is the author of the dark, Portland-based mysteries Day One, Chasing Smoke, and Lost Dog. His next Skin Kadash mystery, County Line, will be released in June 2011. His stories have appeared in Killer Year, Portland Noir, and the 2010 ITW anthology First Thrills. Lost Dog and Chasing Smoke were both finalists for the Spotted Owl Award for Best Northwest Mystery. Cameron lives in Portland, Oregon, where he is currently working on his fifth mystery.