It’s all the fault of my friend Dolores Gordon-Smith, who blogged recently about pace in mysteries, at  http://www.doloresgordon-smith.co.uk/wordpress/?p=452  That reminded me of Chandler’s dictum, “When nothing is happening, send in a man with a gun in his hand.”

Remembering Chandler’s novels, I expect most of us think first of those wonderful one-liners. For instance in FAREWELL, MY LOVELY, “Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.” Or  “It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.”  And how about, from THE BIG SLEEP, “Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead.” I could go on all day.

However the best-known of all Chandler’s sayings must be his description of the perfect sleuth: “Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.
(Source: an essay that first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, November, 1945)

I love this. Even though I wouldn’t presume to compare my own mysteries with Chandler’s, I do agree with him about sleuths (I can’t call my crime-solvers detectives, not in Roman Britain!) My Aurelia Marcella is, on the whole, “neither tarnished nor afraid.” Well of course she’s afraid sometimes, she’d be a fool otherwise, not to mention quite implausible as a character; but she won’t let fear stop her doing something she thinks is right.

She’s also, to change the gender of Chandler’s ideal sleuth, “a complete woman and a common woman and yet an unusual woman….a woman of honor. She talks as the woman of her age talks…” That last bit delights me, because I’m sometimes told off for making Aurelia sound “too modern” in her language. I find this slightly odd, as of course in 100 AD she’d have been speaking Latin or Greek or the Celtic lingo of the native Brits…but she’d have been using the kind of words, including slang, that they did. Thanks, Mr. C!

Chandler’s essay, THE SIMPLE ART OF MURDER published in 1950, contains some wonderful insights. I wish I had room to quote extensively from it, but here’s a comment that strikes me as spot-on.  “I merely say that all reading for pleasure is escape, whether it be Greek, mathematics, astronomy, Benedetto Croce, or The Diary of the Forgotten Man. To say otherwise is to be an intellectual snob, and a juvenile at the art of living.”

Hear hear! Any good piece of fiction can inform, entertain, amuse, stimulate – but that’s not all it does. “Escapist” has come to be used as a put-down for books; but I’m proud if any work of mine helps a reader escape into another world. What’s good enough for Chandler is good enough for me!

Although only one person has been brave enough to claim she’s solved it, a quick glance at my blog statistics tells me that quite a few others dropped in for a look. Either you worked out the solution but were too exhausted by the effort (or just plain lazy) to blow your trumpets; or else – like me – you didn’t, so you couldn’t.

The problem: using two egg-timers that run on sand, one for four minutes and a larger one that goes for seven, how could you time nine minutes…for a ridiculously over-cooked hen’s egg, or perhaps a giant one laid by an ostrich?

It seemed to me that I could only achieve 8 minutes (2 X 4) or eleven minutes (7 + 4.) But I missed something obvious.

Start both the timers off together. When the four-minute one is empty, turn it over immediately to begin another four minutes. The larger timer still has three minutes to go; let it run its allotted time and turn it over immediately to begin another seven. At this point the smaller timer has run three out of its four minutes. Leave it be.

The smaller timer finishes its second run, having totalled eight minutes, still a minute short of the target. But the larger one has only had time to run for one minute so far. Turn it over and its sand will run back for just one minute till it is empty…total elapsed time nine minutes.

Easy peasy. Then why didn’t I see it for myself?

Karen, I assume you worked it out…well done to your Little Grey Cells. You’re obviously in for  a very bright and brainy 2012. Let’s hope the rest of us can catch you up.

I wish everyone a very good New Year, with time for happy reading, especially (of course) plenty of puzzling mysteries.

Having had an indolent Christmas, I decided to prepare for the New Year by exercising my Little Grey Cells on a puzzle my husband found this week. And goodness, they certainly need a workout. After two hours trying to do other things while cogitating the conundrum, I couldn’t solve it, till he gave me a couple of clues. And then it seemed so obvious…

So I thought I’d inflict it on everyone else. We’re all going to need our Little Grey Cells in 2012.

Imagine you’ve got two of those old-fashioned egg-timers in which it takes a set time for sand to run from top to bottom of an hourglass-type thingy, (sorry about the technical terminology!) and then you turn the timer over and start again. I always think of them as egg-timers anyhow, and one of these in the puzzle runs for four minutes, but the other runs for seven, which would make for well-cooked eggs.

Anyhow, using these two gizmos alone, the four-minuter and the seven-minuter, how can you time nine minutes exactly? OK, maybe not for an egg…but nine minutes dead, in real time?

I promise you it can be done, and it isn’t a trick question involving, say, looking at your watch while the sand is running, or dashing out to another room to consult a clock on the wall. Nor are you allowed to smash the timers up and re-use the sand in a nine-minute model which you have conveniently to hand. No tricks of any sort: just logic.

If you can work it out, do feel free to boast that you’ve done it… but please don’t spill the solution publicly just yet! I’ll return in 2012 with the answer. If your LGC’s are in the same post-Christmas torpor as mine, when you see the resolution, you’ll kick yourself. I did!

Meanwhile, a very happy and successful New Year to everyone.

This has been a good year for me on the whole – the exception being my broken arm, but that’s mending. Next year I hope will be better still. My new book, DANGER IN THE WIND, is collecting some good reviews and some kind words from people who’ve read it already. I’ve plans to meet up with several old friends for significant birthdays (we won’t go into which decade of significance) and Richard and I hope to snatch a week of holiday sunshine this spring. I hope that you’ve good things in store, and that your wishes for 2012 come true.

Meanwhile, there’s the satisfying feeling that we’ve passed the shortest day of the year – in the Northern hemisphere, anyway – so we’ll soon start to notice lighter mornings and evenings. It may take a few days before we can really spot the difference, but it’s coming. If we were in Ancient Rome we’d be marking midwinter with Saturnalia, holidays, family reunions, feasting, giving presents…sound familiar? Yes. We’ll be doing much the same at Chateau Finnis.

And in between all the celebrations, I’m determined to find time – of course – to read a mystery or two to keep away the winter cold. Why is it enjoyable, even comforting, to read stories of danger and murder? I don’t know, but speaking as a reader, it is – and speaking as a mystery writer, long may it continue to be so.

Have a very good holiday, however you spend it, and make some great memories to carry you through the New Year.

I’ve had a great old music-hall comedy number going round my head all day. Don’t ask me what triggered it, I haven’t heard or sung it for years, but I used to love singing it in the days when I belonged to a concert party and we toured round raising money for charity. It’s a darkly humorous tale of noir crime, and it might make a good horror movie. (Probably already has.) The scene: an old-fashioned fish-and-chip shop. The cast: a chorus of lovable (I think) cockney characters  singing to a waltz-time tune:

Put away the chip-chopper, Charlie,
We’re frying the guv’nor tonight.
There he was standing a-chopping up chips
When he puts his foot out and suddenly slips.
Right into the boiling hot dripping,
He’s tumbled in heels over head…
So put away the chip-chopper, Charlie,
We’re serving the guv’nor instead.

There are several verses – if you google, you’ll find Max Bygraves singing it on YouTube, which makes a nice change from his soppier ditties, like “I’m a blue tooth-brush, you’re a pink tooth-brush” (or is it the other way round?) But I’m sure it goes back way beyond good old Max.

Remembering entertainers called Max, here’s another bit of music-hall nonsense, more of a poem than an aria, from the “cheeky chappie” Max Miller. He was a star comedian, a master of innuendo who sailed very close to the wind of correctness in 1930s and 1940s Britain, and in so doing proved that you don’t have to be aggressively shocking to be funny…something that some present-day so-called entertainers could do to take on board.

One of my favourites is this -  shall we call it an ode to romance?

I like the girls who do,
I like the girls who don’t.
I hate the girl who says she will
And then she says she won’t.
But the girl I like the best –
And I know you’ll say I’m right –
Is the girl who says she never will,
But looks as though she…all right, that’s enough of that!

Quite enough, Max, I agree.

Oh dear, I’ve still got “Chip-chopper Charlie” in my head. Maybe I’ll try a couple of verses of “While Shepherds Washed…”

This month I’ve a new book out – DANGER IN THE WIND.

It’s the fourth in the Aurelia Marcella mystery series, set – like the others – in Roman Britain, and featuring – like the others – innkeeper and reluctant sleuth Aurelia, who despite her best efforts, keeps getting drawn into solving crimes around York. You can find out lots more about it on my website, www.janefinnis.com

The other three Aurelia books are being re-issued too, with brand-new covers, and the first in the series has a brand-new title: SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT. (It was formerly GET OUT OR DIE.)

I’m posting all four new covers, so you’ll know what to look for when you’re doing your Christmas shopping. Remember, if you bought GET OUT OR DIE already, don’t get SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT, unless of course you want to buy another copy to give away – mysteries make wonderful Christmas presents.

Happy reading!

For anyone who enjoys mystery short stories, the publication of an anthology of them is good news. If you’re an author lucky enough to have a story included in the collection, it’s wonderful.

GUILTY CONSCIENCES published by Severn House has just come out in the UK. (The US will be getting it in January 2012.) It contains 17 stories by members of Britain’s Crime Writers’ Association. One of them is mine.

So I’m happy…no, that doesn’t really cover it. I’m over the moon… chuffed to little mint-balls. And proud to find my tale in really excellent company.

The clever cover design shows you all our surnames, and the stories are, I’m sure, as varied as the contributors. I say “I’m sure” because the book is so new I haven’t read more than a couple of them yet. But the editor, Martin Edwards, has masterminded several of these CWA collections – it’s an annual production – and he always chooses a mixture, so there’s something there for every reader. Here’s what the publishers’ blurb has to say:

”A woman mislays her new husband . . . the lure of notoriety proves too tempting for a small-time antiques thief . . . A butler keeps a close eye on a beautiful chambermaid with a surprising secret . . .”

My story, ALL THAT GLISTERS, is set in the business jungle of present-day London. But there’s an important historical element, a gold treasure that…no, I can’t say too much here without committing a spoiler.

And just for once, I can give a categorical answer to the question I was pondering last week: where do my ideas come from? I got the idea for ALL THAT GLISTERS when I was fascinated to read about a real and remarkable gold artefact, two thousand-ish years old, in a museum in Ireland. Some day I intend to go and see it. Meanwhile I can  pay homage to it in a small way by including a fictitious item based on the real one. And much as I admire ancient golden treasures, speaking as a crimewriter the more rare and beautiful something is, the more likely it is to bring out the worst in people.

Find out more about the book on the Crime Writers’ Association website, http://thecwa.co.uk/. Order it from Amazon or of course from your favourite bookshop (it may help them if you quote the ISBN 978-0-7278-8024-6).

Happy reading!

Anyone who knows this name without reading further…give yourself a gold star. I didn’t; the only two I could remember unaided were Clio (the muse of history) and Terpsichore (dance and song.) When I found the complete list, I saw the one I wanted was Erato. She’s the muse of erotic poetry and (my list says) mimicry. An odd juxtaposition, that…but all the myths surrounding these goddesses are weird.

I’m sure you’re dying to know who the rest of them were –yes, of course you are. There’s Thaleia, the muse of comedy; Euterpe, lyric poetry; Calliope, epic poetry; Melpomene, tragedy; Urania, astronomy; and Polyhymnia, divine hymns and harmony.

It’s disappointing that none of them were responsible for prose writing, let alone mystery and detective fiction. Having our own muse would be useful for answering that Frequently Asked Question that confronts all mystery authors: “Where do you get your ideas?”

It’s a fair question, but I don’t find it easy to answer. I’d like to be able to reply, “Naturally I seek inspiration from Whodunnito, the muse of mystery stories.”

But no; as Victoria might have said, “We are not a-mused.”

Oh well, I’ll attempt a serious answer; a personal one of course, because all writers do things differently. For me, some ideas are so basic to a book that I have to sort them out before I start writing anything. I like to choose the location and the year of each of my books; Roman Britain wasn’t a homogenous whole, and I need to know the when and the where of my story exactly. And I like to have an idea of the main crime, who did it, how and why…in rough outline anyhow. This may all result from research, or brainstorming with friends, or just bashing the little grey cells to deliver something new and fresh.

Most details of story and characters will come when I’ve started writing, or at least working out the plot. I don’t like to plot in too much depth beforehand, I find that makes the writing itself too mechanical, so I rely on fresh ideas flowing into my head anywhere and any time, whether I’m pounding my keyboard, delving into books, surfing the Internet, listening to the day’s news…or out and about thinking of something else entirely.

The ones that arise by pure serendipity are the most unpredictable and the most fun. They can be triggered by anything at all: a flash of childhood memory perhaps, a phrase of music, or a brief snatch of conversation. Part of the plot of one Aurelia mystery came from two women I overheard on a train: one remarked, “It beats me why they’re so determined to buy that house, it’s nothing special,” and her friend laughed and answered, “Maybe they think there’s treasure buried in the garden.” Click! Flash-bang! Gotcha!

Yes, the world is full of ideas, which is why it’s so hard to pinpoint where they come from. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to offload the responsibility onto a muse?

I mentioned in my last post that I was off down to London. While there, I had a fall and broke my arm; yes, the right arm, wouldn’t you know, as I’m a right-handed person. The computer was a no-no for a while, along with quite a number of other activities.

And to add insult to injury, I never even got to the BBC celebration I mentioned last time. I was on my way there when the accident happened. Yes, really, not a drop had passed my lips. Maybe if it had, I’d have been so relaxed I wouldn’t have broken anything…or at least it wouldn’t have hurt quite so much.

I was taking a short cut through a car park near my hotel, and there was a chain across part of it, at ankle height and the same colour as the asphalt. I didn’t see it, and went base-over-apex. Result: two lovely black eyes, a bashed-up face, a front tooth missing, and a broken arm. As one of my family remarked, “You don’t do things by halves, do you?” Anyhow, while everyone else was partying and recording at the BBC, I was in hospital being patched up. They did a good job, and sent me home after three days.

I was in plaster for several weeks, and computing was at first impossible, and then a very painful ordeal which I could only stand for a few minutes a day. Now I’ve got rid of the cast, and the healing process is going fine – slow but sure – so I’m back on-line. What a relief! I may curse and complain about computers sometimes (don’t we all?) but I hated being literally unable to use one. My face is back to normal too, and my dentist is fixing a replacement tooth. (Her bank manager is probably the only person on the planet who has anything positive to say about my fall.)

The irony of all this is that it was my birthday a couple of weeks back, and I’d jokingly told friends earlier in the year that I intended to mark the occasion by being a complete slob for a day: sitting by a log fire eating chocolates and reading or watching tv. And that’s exactly what I ended up doing. I had a wonderfully lazy time, finishing with a very good Chinese takeaway in the evening and several glasses of plonk – purely medicinal, of course. Perfect…well, nearly.

So, in the words of the old proverb, be careful what you wish for. It might come true.

First, because I was a reporter and presenter on the programme for years, it’s where I started my BBC career, and even now I still do the occasional piece for them. And second, a 50-year continuous run for any radio show is very good news.

To mark the occasion there’ll be two bites at the In Touch cherry this week. An hour-long anniversary programme will be broadcast on Friday 7th October at midday on Radio 4, the spot usually occupied by the You & Yours magazine; actually it’ll be pre-recorded before a live audience (I don’t know why we always say that, as if anybody ever did a recording before a dead audience…) It’ll include all sorts of famous blind and partially-sighted people, including musicians, writers, actors and singers. Quite a party.

The usual In Touch spot, Radio 4, Tuesday evening at 8.40 p.m. will be doing a bit of reminiscing. I’m being interviewed as part of it by long-time presenter Peter White, and we’ll be looking at some of the differences that 50 years have made to life for visually impaired people – VIPS, as we call ourselves. (Well, it’s quicker than a mouthful like “blind and partially-sighted people”, isn’t it?)

One very obvious difference for everyone, but especially for us, is personal computers. They’re brilliant for VIPs. Someone who can’t read print, or (like me) is a slow reader who needs specs that magnify 14 times, can read and write using a computer. You can have software that “talks” what’s on the screen, and, if you like, echoes the keys as you type them in. Or you can whack up the images on the screen to many times their normal size. Or you can hitch the PC to a braille display, and let your fingers read the screen contents.

So not being able to see the screen is no excuse for not producing 100% accurate documents, whether Christmas letters or company reports, all spelt and laid out to perfection, entirely independently. (Well that’s the theory…in fact, we’re only human, and having just finished proof-reading my latest novel, I can vouch for the fact that we get typos and odd spellings just like people with 20-20 vision…no more nor less!) Then of course there’s sending and reading emails; the world wide web…all possible without help from anyone with sight. I used to teach computing to VIPs so I know what I’m talking about.

Another obvious change between 1961 and 2011 concerns people’s attitude to blindness, which has on the whole improved. Not that anyone was ever unkind, but they expected too little of VIPs. We still get discriminated against, but nothing like as much as we used to. (I can remember the days when a university could refuse to accept you merely because you had a sight problem, regardless of whether you measured up academically.)

And then…well, listen on Tuesday. And on Friday too for the midday party. It’s good to have something to celebrate, isn’t it?