Essay: Lost and Found

I wasn't shocked when my editor at the Central Maine Newspapers told me, in November of 2024, that my column would be "on hiatus" for the rest of the year. I know newspapers are in a steep decline, with diminishing readership and disappearing ad revenues. I certainly knew I was lucly to have held on to my column for so many years.

When I sat down to write my annual holiday letter to a good friend, a tradition we’ve shared for probably 40 years, I could barely type. I cried. I had to tell her the news, and I knew she’d be upset. I wrote a paragraph, then closed the document. I couldn’t come back to it until the next day.

My position would be reassessed in the new year, my editor told me. I told myself to save the teeth gnashing until I got the final news, but I knew I was toast.

I started writing a weekly column for the Kennebec Journal in 1988, shortly after I was hired there as an editorial writer and manager of the op-ed page four days a week. On Sunday nights, I pitched in as a copy editor. The opportunity was offered to me and I was thrilled; writing a column was something I’d wanted to do since I began freelancing in journalism in 1979. Plus, I pretty much had free rein on what I wrote. I called the column “Thinking Things Through,” because I envisioned it as an exercise in working through my thoughts on various topics.

It took me about a week to write my first one. I would get better at it.

I continued to write the column after I left the paper about a year and half later. I went on to work as the librarian at the Readfield Public Library and did some freelancing. Then I joined the Augusta School Department libraries, where I stayed for 32 years.

It was not always easy to get that column written during the school year, but I never missed a deadline. At one point, a new editor came on board and decided she didn’t like my column. She axed me. But some of my faithful readers complained, and I was brought back.

My column was originally weekly; more recently it ran on the first and third Thursdays of the month. Somewhere along the line, maybe in the early 2000s, I was approached by the editor of The Notes, a weekly in Yarmouth. They offered me a weekly slot, and I could use my KJ columns most of the time.

I was quite excited to be in two markets. Sometimes I had to write an original column for The Notes—if the KJ piece was on a holiday topic or an Augusta community issue. But most of the time it was just a matter of checking it over twice and sending it off to them.

When my KJ column schedule was cut back, however, I had to write more original pieces for The Notes. That felt like a lot of pressure when I was working full time. The year I completed my master’s degree was a crazy period. I tell myself I was younger then.

I loved writing a column so I was willing to put up with some anxiety. Still, I appreciated three-day weekends and school vacations when I could be a little more leisurely with my work.

I had a system to keep all the balls in the air. I’d keep a list of ideas going, and try to pin one down about a week in advance. Then I’d jot down ideas as I thought of them. Sometimes I’d scribble out a draft.

Finally, I would sit down and pound it out. I thanked my experience as a newspaper reporter for the training to be able to do this. Also, I was inspired by the work of writer and teacher Donald Murray. This was his writing method—pre-writing, writing and revision— and it worked for me. He also advocated the use of a “day book” to keep track of writing thoughts.

When Murray passed away in 2006, I wrote a column about his influence on me. His family wrote to me—they were responding to everyone who wrote “eulogies” for him. I treasured the letter. Like most writers, the readers’ responses kept me inspired.

One time I wrote about how confusing marketing is, when a grocery shopper has to consider price, ecological concerns and health benefits. A co-worker clipped it and gave it to her pastor; he read from it from the pulpit.

I wrote a column opposing the invasion of Iraq in 2003. In the early days of the Internet, I was astounded when I received email from all over the world.

When I wrote a column about a list my late mother had left in a book, I heard from a school friend I hadn’t seen since graduation. Our mothers had been friends, and “K" agreed with me that when my mom wrote about praying for her friend, she was talking about K’s mother, who had developed memory issues.

And I will never forget the amazing outpouring of support I received after my husband, Paul, and I said goodbye to our 15-year-old lab/pit bull mix, Martha, in February, 2024.

Through the holidays, I mulled, and no cider was involved. I had a creative routine—my mind went into column mode every two weeks. I thought in column form, the way I imagine poets see poems everywhere. I loved my connections with my readers.

I was a columnist; it was part of my identity.

In January, several columnists at the Maine Sunday Telegram lost their gigs. I knew then that I didn’t stand a chance. I mourned for them, because I enjoyed their work. But, literally, the writing was on the wall.

I got the final verdict by the middle of the month. It was good to have finality, I guess. It was good to get the emotional green light to move on.

I’m still a writer. I’m just not a columnist anymore.

__________

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "The Lost House," Melissa Larsen

A mother and her baby are found dead in the snow in a small town in Iceland in 1979. Marie and Agnes become the stuff of legend—“the Frozen Madonna and Child.” In the true-crime mania of the 2000s, of course someone is going to do a podcast about them.

Nora Carver, host of “The End,” is at the top of her field because she helped solve a cold case, the murder of a 12-year-old girl. She invites Agnes Glin to join her in Iceland for her latest venture. Agnes is the granddaughter of Einer, Marie’s husband. He was suspected of the murders, and effectively run out of town.

Agnes, namesake of the murdered infant, is broken, literally and figuratively. She badly injured her leg in an accident, which followed the death of her beloved grandfather. Agnes is fighting her dependence on painkillers. Now she must face the truth of what happened 40 years before. Why did she agree to help Nora? How will Agnes cope if it turns out that Einer did kill his wife and daughter?

Nora Carver has set up shop in a gorgeous modern home. The old farmhouse where Einer and Marie lived is just steps away. It has become a mecca for followers of the Frozen Madonna story.

In this small town, connections run deep. Thor is a neighbor who built the fabulous house the women are staying in. His father had a feud with Einer over land. Another neighbor, Ingvar, saw Marie as a second mother; his own mother, Julia, took care of baby Agnes. All have something to say about what happened, and it’s not what Agnes wants to hear.

Meanwhile, the town is gripped by a new mystery. A student, Ása, has gone missing. Nora is distracted by these current events, and Agnes gets caught up as well—but she keeps on the trail of her family tragedy, determined to find the truth no matter how much it hurts.

Through the pain of the revelations, and her shattered leg, Agnes finally learns what happened to her grandmother and aunt, and why—and she uncovers Ása’s fate as well. Agnes even manages to fall in love along the way.

The Lost House is suspenseful, but also dreamy, as if the reader is seeing events unfold through Agnes’ opioid-induced state. Because Iceland, in winter, is both beautiful and unpredictable, a sense of tense uncertainty prevails. But there is no mistaking the satisfying closure Agnes finds by the end of the book. 

Review: "Presumed Guilty," Scott Turow

Retired judge Rusty Sabich, whom readers first met in 1987 in the courtroom thriller Presumed Innocent, is now living a good life in a quiet midwestern lakeside town. He’s involved in a relationship with Bea, an elementary-school principal whom he adores, and doing some arbitration work to keep his hand in the legal field. Rusty enjoys meeting his friend, a fellow former judge, Mansfield, “Mansy” Potter, for coffee and far-reaching conversation.

But trouble soon rears its ugly head. Bea’s adopted son Aaron is on probabtion for drug possession when he disappears, headed for the woods with his beautiful, brilliant, but troubled girlfriend, Mae Potter, Mansy’s granddaughter.

Rusty and Bea are beside themselves, but Aaron soon returns, and tests clean for drugs.

Mae, however, is nowhere to be found.

Aaron says they went camping to discuss marriage and had agreed to shut off their phones. But Mae had decided she wanted to become an influencer, and was incessantly taking selfies of herself. Angry, Aaron took her phone and took off, hitchhiking his way back home.

Mae, he tells Rusty, always carried cash. He figured she’d just buy a pay-as-you-go phone at a convenience store. She has her car. Aaron says he has no idea where she might be.

Two weeks later, Mae turns up dead in her car in a remote state park. At first, it looks like an accident, but officials soon determine she was strangled. Aaron is arrested and charged.

Rusty reluctantly takes the case after he realizes there’s a dearth of experienced homicide lawyers in the rural county. Also, Aaron is black, and Rusty fears the young man will face racism in the predominantly white region. Rusty needs to take the helm to protect him.

Rusty realizes he could wreck his relationship with Bea, no matter what the verdict is. She is a fierce defender of her son, and at one point seems poised to confess to the murder to save him. Rusty’s decision quickly ruins his friendship with Mansy.

But Rusty is determined, and soon regains the compeitive fire of his youth. His investigations stir up old secrets, one of which threatens to ruin his new life. He’s not happy when Aaron insists on testifying. But there’s hope: the prosecution’s seemingly open-and-shut case contains a few big holes.

Presumed Guilty is a compelling combination of mystery, family novel and courtroom drama. It’s a long book (534 pages), with rich descriptions of people and locations. But the action does not lag—Aaron has gone missing on page one and the reader is off from there.

I especially enjoyed the varied cast of characters. Bea’s father, Joe Mena, is a cantankerous kook who nonetheless has been a solid force in his grandson Aaron’s life. Susan, Rusty’s more than able assistant, sports a rainbow Mohawk and rides with a Harley contingent on the weekends. Even a Missouri woman who calls Aaron by mistake and thus strengthens his alibi is lovingly drawn.

I was also impressed by the way Turow depicted Aaron’s speech—abbreviated, slangy and entirely appropriate for a young man in 21st century America.

There are no major plot twists like in Presumed Innocent. The pleasure in reading this book is rooting not just for Aaron but for Rusty. He gets the unexpected chance to shine again in the courtroom at age 77, and he makes the most of it in his quest to see that justice is done.

Review: "Skin and Bones," Paul Doiron

Charley Stevens as a young Maine game warden, tracking down a mysterious hermit. His wife, Ora, driving to a remote homestead to help a woman in peril. Shadow, the wolf-hybrid, helping out on a case. And Warden Mike Bowditch investigating the bizarre appearance of rattlesnakes in Maine—as described by a third-person narrator.

Skin and Bones, an absorbing collection of short stories by Paul Doiron (and the title of one of those stories), is a kind of through-the-looking glass trip. It has the comfortable familiarity of the novels in Doiron's popular mystery series featuring Bowditch, but it’s served up with a twist.

The tales add the backstories of characters readers have come to know, and fills in some spaces between the novels. The final story, Sheep’s Clothing, picks up where 2024’s Pitch Dark left off. It doesn’t significantly advance Bowditch’s life except in one important way, which I won’t reveal here.

Several of the stories feature Charley, Bowditch’s crusty, fearless mentor—in his salad days. His daughter Stacy, who eventually marries the younger warden, is a kid. Charley’s wife, Ora, has yet to be seriously injured in a plane accident. In Skin and Bones, Charley is approached by Mike’s father, Jack, who was a poacher and all around bad ‘un. In this story, however, Jack has found a dead bald eagle, is outraged, and wants Charley’s help in finding who killed it.

Bowditch is the protagonist in other stories, at various stages in his career. He’s working in the Sebago Lake region when he gets a report there’s a rattlesnake on the loose. As every Mainer knows, there are no deadly snakes in Maine…but then a young man is attacked by a rattler and may lose a leg. When Mike gets to the scene, he meets up with a memorable character from one of the novels (Knife Creek?)— Ricky Elwell, the young diamonds-in-the rough taxidermist and butcher who, it turns out, knows a lot about snakes. Though the novels are told by Bowditch, this story is told by a third-person narrator, which provides an interesting perspective on the sometimes reckless warden.

All the stories have the same strong sense of place as the novels; Doiron is adept at painting the varied landscape  of Maine. There are general stores, rough shacks at the end of dirt roads, rich people from away, snowmobiles, lakes and mountains. Doiron’s use of real locations—Grand Lake Stream, Lake St. George—always adds richness to his fiction.

I thoroughly enjoyed what felt like an inside look at some of my favorite characters in mystery fiction. And though I live right here in Maine, it really is a great place to visit. Despite all the murders.

Skin and Bones will be published in May; I read an advance copy through the NetGalley program.