Wednesday, August 21, 2024

The Heady Romance of Detective Fiction - Guest Post from M.E. Proctor

Hey DSD,

Sorry - I've been away for a few weeks. Between my own novel in progress, friends finishing their novels and needing feedback, working at Rock and a Hard Place Press, and then normal home and familial duties (and, I'll admit, sneaking in a few games of Warhammer, too), I've been pretty tapped lately. But, thankfully, this being the crime fiction community, and everyone being more lovely than you can imagine, I've got some help picking up the slack. Specifically, this week, DSD has been graced by the incredibly talented and somehow even more gracious M.E. Proctor, whose debut crime novel, the first in her Declan Shaw mystery series, Love You Till Tuesday dropped... well, actually, last Tuesday. 

Today, it's my pleasure to present an original essay by M.E., titled "The Heady Romance of Detective Fiction", about the romantic notions, and the modern subversions, of the archetypical Detective. 

The essay follows below, but, first, PLEASE make sure you swing by the evil bookstore and pick up a copy of M.E.'s Love you Till Tuesday. I promise you will not be disappointed. 

Okay, you bought it yet? You need the link one more time? Fine. Here ya go

Now, to M.E.'s essay! 

The Heady Romance of Detective Fiction
M.E. Proctor 


A couple of chapters into Love You Till Tuesday, Houston PI Declan Shaw tells his lawyer about meeting April Easton. She’s the victim in the murder case that will soon become his consuming obsession. He has no idea how deep it will take him, how dangerous it will turn out to be.

“I asked the bartender about the musical act and she pointed at a woman sitting at the end of the bar. They had a jazz trio that night and she was the singer and piano player. She looked interesting. A brunette in tight black leather, somewhere in her thirties, with that bright red pin-up style lipstick. I thought, okay, fun, maybe.”
“Was she drinking?”
“Perrier and lime. I offered to buy her a drink and she said she never had anything before a show. She had the most amazing blue eyes, like arctic pools.” The image was vivid and Declan’s breath caught. He cleared his throat. Wallace didn’t press. He was taking notes.
“Introductions. Declan Shaw, April Easton. I told her what I did for a living. That lit a little something in her eyes.” He flashed a thin smile. “It always does.”

Does that last line sound conceited? Maybe a tad. Does it ring a little tired, like a casual and often used pick-up move? Probably. Both April and Declan have read the detective fiction classics. The chances are he has read more of them than she has.

He’s well-versed in the romantic notions that piles of literature and reels of film have tagged onto his chosen profession. He never carries a gun (a hard choice that will make sense further in the plot), but he embraces the myth. He knows the dark side too, the sleazy nature of the snoop trade, the dirty business of poking into people’s lives. But on that night, there’s music, her lovely voice, and a fair amount of fully aware playacting on both sides. The sultry jazz singer and the cool detective. The perfect picture frame for a guy who fantasizes about Jessica Rabbit walking into his office.

He falls for April, with disastrous consequences. Did she fall for him? The question will forever remain unanswered because a few hours later, she’s dead.

Classical detectives in the hardboiled mold are detached observers and ironic commentators of human weaknesses. They’re quick with a fist, a gun, and a witty retort. Their modern counterparts are more flawed, less secure in their actions. In some cases they’re so troubled they barely function, or so morally compromised they become impossible to separate from their quarries. Declan is somewhere in between, smart and slightly damaged.

I didn’t spend much time pondering what kind of detective he was. I didn’t choose what school of sleuthing he belonged to. The narrative would take care of that. I decided he would be a professional, with a license. Even before finishing the first story Declan featured in—which isn’t Love You Till Tuesday, by the way—I knew the character had range and I wanted to spend more time with him. It was more convenient and more credible to make him legit. I find the concept of the bumbling amateur or the accidental (and repetitive) mystery solver, a la Miss Marple, contrived and annoying.

The action is set in Houston, because I lived there for twenty years and the city’s quirks are inspiring. The place was built on a swamp, is uneasy with permanence and commitment, and reimagined every day by newcomers that got there coming from every dot on the world map. It’s the perfect location for a restless, impatient guy like Declan. I dropped him on the east side of town. It was a rougher neighborhood ten years ago when the character took shape. It’s now being gentrified with old warehouses being turned into lofts, galleries, and fancy eateries. Not surprisingly, Declan preferred it when it was less civilized. It fit better with his temperament: urban, off center, a bit gritty, adaptable, more interested in the ends than the means, even if he mostly stays within the limits of the law, just not the kinds of limits that require authorizations in triplicate.

In traditional detective fiction, the scrappy PI butts heads with the cops, Declan’s interactions with the police are civil, because he doesn’t step on their turf. Philip Marlowe “didn’t do divorces”, Declan “doesn’t do murder.”

That principle will be shattered in Love You Till Tuesday, because, in Declan’s harsh words:

“April came face to face with evil. It’s a word I don’t use often because it’s too easy. It’s a convenient box to stick things in we don’t understand. Things we don’t want to look at because they burn the soul and the only way we can erase them is by burning something on top of them, like ranch brands camouflaged by cattle rustlers. Burn after burn, until the mark is blurry and there’s no more pain because all the nerve endings are shot.”

There’s a new detective on the block. He’s as sharp as the hunting knife he keeps in his
cowboy boots.


Bio:
M.E. Proctor is the author of a short story collection, Family and Other Ailments – Crime Stories Close to Home (Wordwooze Publishing). Love You Till Tuesday (Shotgun Honey Books) is her first crime novel and introduces Houston private detective, Declan Shaw. Proctor is a Derringer nominee. Her fiction has appeared in various anthologies and magazines. She was a freelance journalist for a music magazine, and worked as an advertising account executive, before becoming a corporate communications advisor. Born in Brussels, and a long time Houston resident, she now lives in Livingston, Texas, with husband James Lee Proctor, also a writer. Find her online at www.shawmystery.com, and on Substack at The Roll Top Desk: meproctor.substack.com

Thanks again, DSD family, for the hospitality. And for the forgiveness of my sporadic posting. Now lets all go pick up Love You Till Tuesday and share our thoughts as we meet Declan Shaw. 



2 comments:

Justin Murphy said...

This reminds me of the detective series I've been writing in the last few years (still unpublished). She's also emotional and flawed, possibly not always making the right decisions -- acting on what she feels is right.

Though her interactions with police are more mixed, male cops are confrontational with her yet female cops are more civil.

Pamela Ruth Meyer said...

Martine, the excerpts from the book really bring this post alive. I personally loved the image you evoked of burning a new brand into a cow's hide on top of the brand that is there to explain how people usually cope with evil. Best of luck with LOVE YOU TILL TUESDAY!