WHERE DO YOUR STORY IDEAS COME FROM? March 10, 2025

            My latest story, “My Hand to God,” is now available in the anthology, CRIMEUCOPIA: Chicka-Chicka Boomba! The stories in this volume are all written by women (hence, the Chick in the title). If you asked me where the idea for this particular story came from, here’s what I would tell you.

Idea number one came from a true story about my maternal grandmother. She arrived at Ellis Island after a harrowing trip in steerage from Poland. Or maybe Russia. When asked where she came from, her reply was always, “Minsk. Pinsk. What difference does it make?” She and my grandfather had eight children. During the Depression, his eyesight failed, and their survival was up to grandma. With her fractured Yiddish/English, she started a small grocery store in Newark, New Jersey, to make sure her family would always have food.

The store was across the street from a social club, the informal headquarters for mobster Longie Zwillman. Crime on the street was unheard of. Everyone knew the neighborhood was under Longie’s protection.

Well, almost everyone. One day, grandma’s grocery was broken into. Food was stolen and damage done. Longie was furious. He insisted on giving grandma money to make up for her losses and promised her he would take care of the culprit. Rumor had it that he did.

The second idea came from a conversation I overheard one day when I was sitting at my desk with the window open. Two teenagers walked past, and I could hear their conversation clearly. Naturally, I wrote it down before I could forget what they said.

Teen 1: “I couldn’t believe it. He got shot. Right next to me. I could’a been killed.”

Teen 2: “No shit!”

Teen 3: “If I hadn’t of bent down, he’d a blown my head off.”

For reasons I can’t explain, those two incidents came together in my mind to create “My Hand to God.” I wish inspiration would always be so close at hand.

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE - February 1, 2025

The fun part of writing fiction is chasing the research White Rabbit down the rabbit hole. Doing research involves following the rabbit in hopes of finding information that will provide authenticity to the fictional world you’re creating. The danger is in enjoying the chase so much that you have difficulty knowing when it’s time to get back to that fictional world and start writing. Research is much more fun than writing first drafts.

When you do manage to force yourself back to the empty page, you’re faced with difficult choices. How many of the sparkling gems you’ve discovered are too many? And how many actually drive the plot rather than become a distraction?

Currently, I’m working on a private investigator crime story set in 1991 in Boston, a hotbed of Mafia activity. Having lived in Boston from the 1970s to the 1990s, I was very familiar with the setting, but I felt that additional research would be useful. A central figure during those years was James “Whitey” Bulger, brother of Billy Bulger, a State Senator who somehow managed to avoid being ruined by his gangster sibling. In my slide down the internet rabbit hole, I came across a story I hadn’t heard before. Alas, it didn’t fit into my fictional world, but I thought I’d share it here.

An episode of “Inside Edition,” a tv news program, popped up on YouTube with an announcement that Whitey Bulger and three friends had won more than $14 million in the July 1991 Massachusetts State Lottery. The story was followed by additional coverage that included raised eyebrows and sarcastic voices. Was the fix in? Several investigations were unable to prove the lottery had been rigged.

The significance of Whitey’s good luck was obvious. He was under investigation by the IRS and desperately needed to launder his illegally obtained funds. With the legitimate fortune the lottery provided, he was going to be able to show the IRS a noncriminal source for his wealth.

It was true that lottery was legitimate, but Whitey wasn’t the one who got lucky. He heard that a South Boston man he knew had bought the winning ticket and “persuaded” him to sign the ticket over to him and Whitey’s friends for a fraction of the value of the winnings.

After he collected four of the twenty annual payments, law enforcement was closing in and Whitey went on the lam. Ultimately the Bulger family was unable to collect the remaining lottery winnings. [https://crimereads.com/boston-true-crime-through-the-decades]

Sometimes, truth really is stranger than fiction.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! - January 1, 2025

My new year is off to a bumpy start, although the fact I remembered to put 2025 in the date above is promising.

I woke early this morning to an inhuman shriek. Either an animal was being harmed or my husband had hurt himself on his way to the kitchen. Staggering out of bed, I found him in the living room having his first cup of coffee of the day. He assured me he was fine, which was a relief. I peered outside into the dark and could see nothing. I shrugged and headed for my own cup of coffee.

After breakfast, I headed to my usual morning destination, my desk with its active bird feeder outside the window. I was puzzled to see there were no birds yet. I had filled the feeder yesterday, so it wasn’t for lack of food. It was unsettling. Dozens of birds are usually fighting for one of the perches once the sun rose. I made my way through my email, glancing up repeatedly to see if the birds had returned.

Suddenly, there was a flash of gray that moved past the window into the trees to the left. I waited a moment and it flew back the other way. I was used to seeing the small birds that the feeder was designed for, but this was a giant compared to them. The bird settled on a bare branch of the Japanese maple in our front yard, and I reached for the bird book. There it was. A Cooper’s Hawk, 14”-20”, up to a 3’ wingspan. I watched him survey the yard from his perch in the tree. Returning to the bird book, I discovered that “they come to feeders, hunting for birds. [They] call a loud clear “cack-cack-cack-cack.” Birds of Washington Field Guide, Stan Tekiela.

I had two reactions. Well, three actually. First, it was fascinating to watch this outsized visitor so near to the house. Second, my mystery cries in the night were now explained. And last but most important, I was outraged that this intruder was stalking “my” little birds. Thanks to google, I learned that it wasn’t unusual to have birds of prey stake out a bird feeder to, what else, feed on birds. (I hate to even type that sentence.) The only solution is to take down the feeder for a few days until the little birds stop showing up. Theoretically, the hawk will realize the cafeteria is closed and move on. With luck, the small birds eventually will return when you go back to feeding them.

Nature is cruel. I know this. It’s why I don’t watch nature shows. They always feature a one creature killing and feeding on another. I didn’t expect that my escape into feeding the birds would turn into a potential crime scene. If that’s what I wanted, I could’ve just gone back to following politics.

The hawk just flew past my window again. I’m off to take down the feeder for now.

May your new year be filled with light, laughter, and good health. And no hawks.