Review: "The Ending Writes Itself," Evelyn Clarke

Arthur Fletch, the famed, prolific writer (think James Patterson) has died. He’s left an unfinished manuscript behind,

The only people who know this are his agent, his editor and the six authors they have summonsed to Fletch’s magnificent home on the island of Skelbrae, off the coast of Scotland.

There, Fletch’s agent throws down a gauntlet. Who among them can finish the great author’s last novel and claim a $2 million prize—$1 million for the completion and $1 million to relaunch his or her career?

They’re all midlist writers. Their careers are in the doldrums, or worse. This is a life-changing opportunity.

And they don’t know each other. No one in the group has much name recognition. Remember that. It’s important.

Do Sienna and Malcolm have the best chance? They’re thriller writers, but their marriage is about to break up. So maybe not.

Jaxon is a self-assured sci-fi scribe, but he seems to spend most of his time staying ripped. Millie, who pens YA, is cute and bouncy, yet shrewd. Perhaps not shrewd enough. Cate, the youngest and most “literary” of the bunch, portrays a “poor me” persona. But what’s the real story underneath that baggy cardigan?

Priscilla, the romance writer, is pretty in pink—but has a curiously flat affect. Finally there’s Kenzo, an acerbic author of horror novels who might be the most level-headed of them all.

At first, the writers spend more time bickering and snooping on each other (and boozing) than they do writing. But as the 72-hour deadline bears down on them, they get to work. Unfortunately, so does a murderer.

The Ending Writes Itself has received glowing reviews and a blurb from Stephen King. It’s cleverly plotted and a witty, sarcastic take on both writers and the publishing world they inhabit. It evokes Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. The killer, once revealed, is ripped from the headlines, as we used to say. The resolution is wryly satisfying, especially for those readers who are also writers.

I enjoyed the book, but was annoyed by the excessive use of italics. As in “She knew she shouldn’t be surprised,” when a character, in a flashback, remembers an experience of mild sexual harassment. Why is this helpful? Plus, it was just one in a long line of useless italics. Authors should be limited to no more than five italicized words or phrases per book.

I realize that the technique was probably meant to be part of the satirical style, but I have to say out of dozens of italicized words I only found one that was truly worthwhile, and that was when the murderer appears “holding what looks like a mother-f#$%^ crossbow.”

Overall, It was a book that I could appreciate for its construction and humor and insightful take on the publishing world, but one that I couldn’t sink into it emotionally. Shall I call it a page-turner without much heart?

From Here: Observing the Natural World

Scruffy No More

I said I wasn’t going to name squirrels anymore. But the squirrel with the moth-eaten middle kept coming back.

I called her Scruffy. I couldn’t help myself. Scruffy was so cute, and I’d see her several times a week. Plus she was recognizable, because of her regrettable tummy.

One of the problems with naming squirrels is that it’s impossible to tell them apart. Sure, it’s the rare squirrel who comes right up to me for a peanut. But how do I know it’s the same one who was friendly last week?

The other problem is that, being squirrels, they may show up regularly for weeks and then disappear. They are wild animals.

But I wrote about Scruffy in late March and she’s still on the scene. Well, I think it’s her. Her fur has grown in, but her demeanor is the same. Of all the squirrels who have become friendly with me, she is the only one who will wait for me directly outside the garage, where the peanuts are stored.

In fact, when I tell her, holding up my index finger, that I will be right back with the goods, she will sit up on her haunches and cock her head. Once when I came out of the garage she was in front of the door. That was a first.

So now her name is Sophy, because she is Scruffy No More.

I have a couple of other squirrels who dance around me as I distribute peanuts, but they don’t come too close. There is no mistaking them for Sophy. I suspect they are twins. I call them Frick and Frack.

So much for good intentions. Squirrels don’t care about them anyway. Or whether I call them by silly names. They want the concrete. They want reality. They want the peanut. 

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Review: "Missing," E. A. Jackson

It’s a hot summer in London in 1990 when Baby Bella goes missing. Detective Inspector Martha Allen has misgivings about taking the case. She’s never handled anything like it. Allen could reveal she’s pregnant as an excuse; then again, she’s ambitious. So she strides headfirst into a case that will ultimately haunt her for nearly 30 years.

Thomas and Vivien Carpenter have come to the city for a getaway from their home in Wells, in the southwest of England. They’re staying at the Bellevue Hotel in Pimlico. Their daughter, Bella, slumbered in a Moses basket by an open window, while her parents slept in bed. Thomas awoke in the early hours of the day to find the baby gone.

Officers are called in from across the city; this is a big case. Allen enlists the help of Detective Constable Manley Desbury. She doesn’t know him, but they develop a solid working relationship.

Promising leads are followed but turn out to be dead ends. A scrap of fabric, a smear of blood are all the detectives have as clues. No one has seen anything. Allen is desperate. She wants to find the baby, of course, but she also envisions her career going down the tubes if the case is not solved.

Then, a beautiful young woman shows up with Baby Bella. Nell Beatty says she found the tot on a park bench. Allen starts to question her, but she disappears. She’d given the police false information, and they are unable to find her again.

Allen wants to keep the case open; she doesn’t think the whole story has been told. But when even Desbury lets her know he thinks she’s pushing too hard, she backs off.

Then, in 2020, just before the pandemic causes shutdowns and a massive disruption to everyday life, DI Desbury calls Allen, now in admin at Scotland Yard. A body has been found on his turf in Bristol. It’s Nell Beatty.

Allen can’t help herself. The wound of what to her was an unfinished case is reopened. She has to find out what really happened to Baby Bella.

Desbury is willing to help her, to a degree. He also needs to find Nell Beatty’s murderer. The trail is thin, and Allen has to remind herself “this is why they call us the plod.” Eventually, Allen does learn enough to close the case in her own mind, and to move on with her life.

For the reader, though, there’s one final twist.

This was a deeply satisfying, page-turning read, as much about the cost of not solving a crime as it is about solving it.

I knew from the first page I was going to enjoy it. Allen is a likable, relatable character and her tenacity is admirable. The suspense is intense; kernels of of the truth emerge, but it is truly not until the final page that all is revealed.

I enjoy police procedurals in general, but Missing is something more. The detective work is there, but this is also Allen’s story. And, of course, Baby Bella’s.

From Here: Observing the Natural World

Lunch Is Coming

Sandy Point Beach in Stockton Springs, Maine, is a quiet spot along the Penobscot River, near where it flows into Penobscot Bay. 

Ruined pilings range out from the beach at one point. They may be from a wharf used by the steamship that used to dock in the area, or may be the remains of a fertilizer factory. The details are sketchy. No one seems to know what they are, or were.

The pilings are scenic, in their way; they look haunting on a cloudy day, or in a fine mist.

But the sun was shining brightly on the late April day when Paul and I stood gazing at them. It was our 40th wedding anniversary. We were enjoying a walk along the shore before a celebratory lunch.

My eyes landed on a platform on one of the pilings. “Is that an osprey’s nest?” I said.

As if in answer, a majestic bird suddenly rose out of the box. It flew directly over us, slowly. Was it glaring at us? Then it headed off into the woods beyond.

The reason for the warning soon became apparent. Chirps and plaintive cries arose from the nest. Chicks! We stood and listened, smiling. We couldn’t see the babies, but they were clearly hungry. And then, a second adult flew out of the nest, this time toward deeper water.

“Lunch is coming,” I wanted to call out to the young ones.

We waited a bit but the adults did not return. Oh, how I wanted them to. I wanted to be sure the babies ate. I hated to turn away to continue our walk. I felt like I was deserting them.

I took one long look before I left. But as I walked, watching the waves gently lap the shore, I calmed down. Nature takes its course. Ospreys will do what they have always done. They know their chicks are hungry and they have gone off to find food for them.

I found peace in that thought, as a soft breeze rippled through the nearby salt marsh, as the sun rose higher in the sky.

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