Learning to Ride

by Cathy Pickens

What books or authors have influenced me? Call me impressionable, but too many to count.

My family still gives me a hard time about claiming I learned to ride horseback from reading Trixie Belden books. Despite their ribbing, the first time I got invited to go horseback riding, I knew how to check the saddle and which side to mount from. Trixie left out what could happen if a crotchety horse, anxious to get back to the barn after a day of trail-riding, decided the shortest path ran through an old apple orchard with low-hanging branches. I didn’t hit the ground, despite the horse’s best efforts. Sometimes, despite the best guidance, you’re on your own.

Then there was the obscure school library book that described how the ancient Egyptian mummification process involved pulling the deceased’s brain out through the nose. For some reason, that captivated my 6th grade brain and convinced me I wanted to be an archaeologist. My mom convinced me I lacked the patience for that and I moved on. But I’m still fascinated by mummies and science. I’m still not patient, though.

This desire to try things for myself reinforces the wisdom of school librarians who keep things like The Poor Man’s James Bond off school library shelves. I didn’t discover how to blow up my neighborhood or poison the water supply until I was old enough not to try it for myself.

Margaret Maron’s and Nancy Pickard’s books convinced me I could write about a place I loved, even if it wasn’t a huge city or a Travel & Leisure hot destination. Harper Lee showed me that family and home are treasures and that books can capture special and difficult points in time – and perhaps change the world.

Nancy Drew and her successors V.I. Warshawski and Kinsey Millhone told me and others that women could be tough and could make a difference … and kick some fanny when need be.

Some books have made me wisely cautious about walking down dark streets or taking stupid risks. Some have made me laugh at times when my heart might otherwise have broken. And all manner of books kept telling me that true love existed – which I can now confirm, having truly found it.

Books have connected me with other readers of all ages. Anyone who doesn’t believe books connect should conduct her own experiment: Just ask someone about what she’s read recently or about what he’s reading now. Among readers, the conversation will take off in unexpected directions. (If among non-readers, alas, draw on your deep reserves of sympathy.)

I’ve outgrown the need to experiment with everything I read. But books still influence me and still connect me to others. My agent recommended Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand. I’m still thinking about the messages in that simply complicated story about a retired British major and a Pakistani shop owner. I still delight in Flavia and her sisters in Alan Bradley’s mysteries. I’m finishing an advance copy of The Sherlockian (to be published in December) and liking where it’s taking me.

So, what are you reading now? What’s connected you? What got you up on the horse – and what almost knocked you off? It’s the gift-giving season. Pass those books and book recommendations on!

Living in the Land of the Eye-Rollers, or Feel-Sorry-for-Snobs Month

by Cathy Pickens

As a teacher, aunt to five nephews, a mystery writer, and a Southerner, I can qualify as a minor expert as a recipient of derisive eye-rolling. You know, that gesture mastered by teen-aged girls, computer-savvy technoids, literary snobs, and other self-appointed holders of arcane knowledge.

Fiction writers who (1) write funny, entertaining books, (2) write in a genre, and/or (3) make money at their writing certainly receive their share of eye-rolls. I made my peace with not making the literary snobs happy (or any snobs, for that matter—but that’s another story). I happen to like mysteries, I like funny and entertaining books, and I like others who do, too.

The perils and pain of literary snobbery coalesced for me a couple of years ago as I traveled to an event with a woman who had been an English literature major many, many years ago.

“I don’t read mysteries, you know,” she said, as she chauffeured me to the out-of-town event. Can you hear the sniff in her voice?

“That’s okay,” I said. “You’ll live a long and happy life without mysteries.” I was just trying to make her feel okay about herself. I didn’t really believe that, but it’s what well-bred Southern women do—try to make others feel better about their poor life choices, like marrying the wrong man or only reading “serious” books.

That night during my talk, I asked the mostly female audience who had read Nancy Drew. Most of them raised their hands; their faces lit up, and they murmured and smiled with remembered pleasure. I noticed my hostess in the back of the room. Her hand was raised, but only to shoulder-height. She had a strange look on her face—befuddled and bemused and … I didn’t know what.

That night, as we drove home, she said, “You know, I read Nancy Drew when I was a girl. I used to go around the neighborhood looking for mysteries to solve.” She paused. Her voice became wistful: “How could I have forgotten that?”

She sounded so sad. How could she have forgotten that? That’s what snobs do to themselves—they make special rules about what’s important and, in doing that, limit their worlds … and their fun.

The rest of us can go around our neighborhoods looking for mysteries to solve AND read Anthony Trollope. [By the way, The Way We Now Live, selected by Time magazine last year as the #1 book to read, could have been written today … and is a wonderful read.] We can enjoy the symphony AND can eat fried chicken with our fingers. We can hike or fish or be proud of a nephew’s spitting-for-distance skills—or keep a lovely garden and out-do Martha herself in the kitchen. We can do things because we enjoy them, not just because someone else thinks those things are worth doing.

In short, we don’t have to worry about pretentious snobs. Because, fortunately for us, we haven’t forgotten! We can only feel sorry for those who have. Now, try not to roll your eyes.