Alternate-History Japan and a Glossary

A Guest by by S. B. Watson

When the idea for Tears of the Dragon came to me, I’ll admit, I balked at writing it. I had a core concept—a few characters, a few situations, a few mystery-puzzle mechanisms—but the “set dressing” in my mind was heavily rooted in historic Japan.

And that posed a problem.

I’ve written before about my enjoyment of historical fiction. One thing I didn’t touch on, however, is the sheer weight of work it can involve. In this case, while I had a passing familiarity with the “feel” of historic Japan, I was realistic enough to admit that writing the story in my mind would require a formidable amount of research, study, and outlining.

So, I put it off. As Black Beacon’s deadlines loomed closer, however, every time I was reminded of their submission call, that little idea in my mind was rekindled, and grew. Eventually, the idea-bonfire was simply too well stoked to ignore, and I buckled down to research.

Edo Period Japan was a remarkable place, existing as a fascinating placeholder between the Ancient and the Modern, bridging the gap between two vastly different eras while somehow never exclusively embodying either extreme.

Set between the Sengoku Period—characterized by warring samurai and political upheaval—and the Meiji Restoration—when the values of isolationist Japan began to mix with the rest of the “modern” world—the Edo Period existed in a state of relatively stable feudal rule under a succession of warlord-kings, known as Shōgun. In the Edo Period, one can watch as ancient traditions develop and bloom into modernity. Words can be traced through philological evolutions, beginning at one meaning and morphing into another. Fashion, culture, professions, trades, class-systems, and art all underwent drastic metamorphoses over the two-and-a-half centuries the period spanned.

During this time, as mentioned above, the country existed beneath a feudal rule, producing strict societal hierarchies and systems. Local economies were often tightly interdependent, with their profitability funneled up to their territorial warlords—called daimyō —and from there up to the shōgunate.

Although the warring chaos of the Sengoku Period had passed, samurai still endured, often taking up administrative positions within their daimyō’s estate or providing high-level guard services, or marshalling a daimyō’s local warbands in the service of the nation. Peasantry was stratified into classes, each serving their expected duties beneath their liege daimyō—often agricultural, or trade-working, in nature.

Pleasure quarters became a legal entity during this period, with geisha and oiran—cultural performers and high-level courtesans—producing the expressionist spear-head (along with poets and philosophers) that drove fashion and art in the country for nearly two-and-a-half centuries.

To me, this melting-pot of histories and ideas felt like an ideal setting to introduce something wholly foreign, wholly un-historical, and narratively powerful—a new industrial technology, in the form of steam.

I expect we’re all passingly familiar with the Steampunk Aesthetic—clockwork machinery, Rupe-Goldbergian automatons, crazy scientists, charismatic lone-wolf adventurers, daring skyships, and a return to the pulp-romance of exploration… Well, I decided to approach it from an entirely different angle. One much more intrinsically characteristic of Japan itself, of its people, its administrative systems, its history, and its geography. Especially the geography…

If you want to find out how I approached this, then be sure to pick up a copy of “Steampunk Sleuths” when it comes out, this August, and read Tears of the Dragon. I’d love to take you on a trip back in imaginary-time to an alternate version of a very real place!

Now, before I go, a word on words.

Tears of the Dragon uses many Japanese words and phrases. When I was writing it, I was faced with a dilemma—do I accentuate on the foreignness of the words, and try to define them asbthey’re used, in text? Or do I veer the other way, and anglicize as much as possible?

Well, you probably know me well enough by now to suspect, correctly, that I veered hard the other other way, and anglicized and defined as little as possible in text, relying on context to lend the meanings to a discerning reader. While this makes for a stronger story, it of course robs the reader of many interesting definitions they would otherwise be given.

Hence, I present a brief glossary for Tears of the Dragon, defining many (but not all) of the words used therein, and giving some brief cultural and historical context.

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A Tears of the Dragon Glossary

Administrative

Shōgun – The military ruler of early feudal Japan.

Daimyō – Feudal lords beneath the shōgun, ruling han.

Daimyō-gyōretsu – A daimyō’s formal procession, often to or from the royal castle of the Shōgun at Edo, observing sankin-kōtai.

Han – The territorial estate-domains of the daimyō.

Karō – A high-ranking samurai within a han, reporting directly to the ruling daimyō.

Kiri-sute gomen – The feudal tradition giving samurai the “right to strike” anyone of a lower class whom they believed had compromised their honor.

Sankin-kōtai – A policy during the Edo Period aimed at curtailing the political power of feudal lords beneath the Shōgun, which required daimyō to alternate spending time between their fiefs and the royal castle at Edo.

Kenin – Literally “house person,” a kenin was a high-ranking servant of a wealthy family or business.

Culture and Entertainment

Hanamachi – “Flower Towns” during the early Edo Period were segregated geisha quarters, containing geisha houses and teahouses, as well as theatres and other gathering places. Later, these pleasure quarters grew to include the professional establishments of yūjo as well, and were called yūkaku. In Tears of the Dragon, I infuse the yūkaku with the hanamachi, including geisha houses as well as the elegant brothels Japan’s historic red-light-districts were famous for.

Ochaya – Teahouses where geisha entertained, often directly associated with an Okiya.

Okiya – Communal domiciles of geisha and maiko. Each Okiya had distinct naming conventions and symbols associated with them, allowing for a geisha’s house to be easily identified.

Kamon – Japanese crests, historically associated with royal or very influential families, or powerful enterprises. Okiya during the Edo Period commonly used kamon—the present-day symbols of the remaining geisha houses can be traced back to Edo roots.

Geisha – A senior female entertainer, skilled in traditional dance, music, poetry, and cunning conversation. Contrary to some beliefs, geisha did not customarily engage in sexual activities with patrons—these services were provided by the varying classes of yūjo and oiran.

Maiko – Understudy geisha, usually younger girls, studying beneath a designated senior.

Yūjo – The collective term for the common class of prostitutes. In contrast to Oiran, high-level courtesans.

Oiran – The collective term for the highest rank of courtesans. The highest rank within the oiran were the tayū, expected to be masters of various cultural skills, similar to geisha.

Okasan – The “house-mother” of an Okiya.

Oneesan – Japanese honorific for an older, more senior woman-figure.

Geimyo or Geimei – A professional name taken by maiko and geisha utilizing poetical suffixes and prefixes, distinctive to their okiya, to produce names with common imagery.

Myōseki – Professional names taken by oiran. Unlike geisha, oiran passed their myōseki down generationally to their understudies, allowing for some names to hold long historical reputations and significances within their brothel. Myōseki were often taken from works of poetic literature, and sometimes myth and fairytale. The Tale of Genji, a 12 th century erotic classic, was so popular for name inspiration—and so frequently used—that some courtesans are recorded as having taken the titles of chapters, section headings, and even male-character names for their myōseki.

Kamuro – Young oiran-in-training, attending the senior courtesans as they studied to eventually be promoted into full-fledged courtesans themselves.

Daily Life

Izakaya – Drinking establishment, in the Edo period analogous to a tavern.

Uchikake – Highly formal over-kimono, often worn by elite oiran.

Furisode Kimono – A long-sleeved, heavily ornamented kimono often worn by young, unmarried women. Maiko frequently wore furisode, while geisha wore contrasting kosode kimonos, with shorter sleeves and more muted colors, emblematic of mature women who no longer need high-fashion to attract.

Tansu – Traditional mobile storage cabinets, similar to portable chests.

Shoji – Doors or room dividers made of thin-paper sheets secured to lattice frames. Allowed in much light, but also sound, from adjoining rooms.

Kanzashi – Traditional formal hair styles for women. During the Edo Period, kanzashi became very intricate, requiring skilled use of tools and devices to prepare as well as hold in place. For this reason, takamakura were often used.

Takamakura – A high, narrow “pillow,” often fashioned from wood with little or no padding, that supported the head and neck during sleep without allowing pressure to be applied to the hair, thus preserving a kanzashi hairstyle for many days.

Kate-bukuro – A provision bag, worn by samurai, constructed of woven netting and suspended to the waist or belt. Closely related to the kubi bukuro, literally “neck bag,” used by samurai to carry the severed heads of their enemies slain during lawful combat.

Kaiken – A short dagger, often carried by women in the sleeve-pouches of their kimonos. Used for self-defense, or seppuku—ritual suicide.

Saya – A wooden scabbard, often lacquered and highly ornamental, used to sheath katana, wakizashi, tanto, and kaiken, all various bladed instruments.

Poetry

Tanka – An early form of traditional Japanese poetry, found along with other forms in the Man'yōshū, one of the most influential poetry anthologies of Japan, dating to the eighth century. During the Edo Period, tanka were considered short poems, as compared to longer choka. Tanka poems are historically one of the most numerous, and expanded upon, forms in Japanese literature.

Utamakura – “Poem Pillows,” one of a widely recognized group of words with communally understood poetic symbology and imagery, used to suggest a belying concept. Geographical place names were often used as utamakura. For example, Fukakusa, a small city located in Fushimi Ward near the present city of Nara, was once known for the presence of imperial graves, and so was often used to evoke images of death and used in poetic lamentations.

Hitodama – Referred to in Japanese poetry, hitodama were believed to be the physical manifestation of the human soul, revealing themselves in a spectral bioluminescence. In Tears of the Dragon, I re-apply this concept and definition to mean something else… To find out what, you’ll just have to read the story!

Writing Mystery in a Steampunk World

A Guest Post by Diana Parrilla

I came to steampunk through mystery. Not just the genre, but the idea of mystery itself. And for someone like me, someone who writes stories tangled in secrets and lies, it's the perfect setting. What I love about it is how it walks a line: part historical, part reimagined. You get to rewrite the past, but you still stay tethered to it. There's structure, and most of all, atmosphere. You can't just toss logic out. If anything, you need more of it. The gears have to turn. The world still has to make the same kind of sense as our own. It's a brilliant place to drop a murder. Although, if you ask me, anywhere's a good place for that.

But writing mystery in a steampunk world isn't just about adding brass and fog. It's about shifting how information works. In a contemporary setting, you'd be dealing with phone records, CCTV, and timestamps. In a steampunk world, you can decide those things never existed. No surveillance footage. No GPS trail. People vanish and there's nothing to rewind. Witnesses can lie with far less risk of being caught. And in theory, that makes things easier. For the characters, for the plot, maybe even for the writer. No cameras means secrets stay hidden a little longer, and the lack of evidence is easier to justify for the reader.

As a writer, I never get tired of picking apart my own stories. I try to be as critical as possible, finding logic flaws, questioning motives, making sure every step makes sense in my head. Why didn't he do that? Why would she go there? What's missing? In real life, we do things without much thought. Honestly, we do most things that way. If we didn't, we'd probably be less human. But on the page—especially in mystery—readers look for reasoning. They expect logic behind each decision, even the bad ones. Every action has to carry motive. And so does every moment of hesitation, every failure to act. But the thing is, I don't want it to be easy. Not really. Part of the thrill in writing these stories is making it difficult for myself. I want to back myself into corners. I want to write something that feels like it's unraveling faster than I can hold it together, and then find the thread that ties it all back up.

Every story, for me, is a challenge. Sometimes a quiet one, sometimes a full-blown battle. And not just against the plot. Sometimes it's the characters themselves. They refuse to follow the script. They know something I don't, and they make me work for every clue. That's what makes it satisfying. Writing mystery in this kind of setting means leaning into the strange logic of it. The possibilities expand, not because you've removed rules, but because you've replaced them with new ones.

For anyone who loves mystery and speculative fiction, steampunk is a space where you get to pull both threads at once. You can build the impossible, then ask what would happen if someone used it to commit a crime. Or hide one. Or solve one. And that's why I stay here, in this soot-streaked, gear-cranked corner of fiction. It's not just the aesthetic. It's the tension, the challenge of telling a story that might fall apart if one screw comes loose, but holding it together anyway, just long enough to deliver the truth.

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You'll be able to read The Copper Train by Diana Parrilla in Steampunk Sleuths, out August the 30th. You can find her online at https://linktr.ee/buffyta17

Heart and Soul: Greg Chapman on the difference between Photomanipulation and Artificial Intelligence

As a trained graphic designer (I have a Diploma in Graphic Design and have 25+ years’ experience) and visual artist, I put in a considerable amount of thought – and heart – into my book cover designs and illustrations.

So, how are book covers made? Each artist or designer has their own way of doing it, I primarily work in the area of photomanipulation. One might ask, how is this different to using generative A.I.?

For me it comes down to how a cover is composed. I use royalty free, CC0 or public domain imagery to create my covers. I take existing images and compose them into an eerie, evocative image. I try and use the adage of “’less is more” focusing on a central point of reference.

My inspiration comes from other covers and artists, or just the images themselves, but my goal is always to take a static image or images and expand them into a montage that might tell a story or give a sense of what the book might contain.

I make a lot of pre-mades, because, well, I just love making them. I enjoy forcing images together. I also do covers on request, so I thought I’d share a cover I’ve done for Cameron at Black Beacon Books.

Take the cover for Steampunk Sleuths (out August the 30th) for example:

When designing, the art and typography always go hand in hand. You shouldn’t really consider one without the other.

This design is made up of the following images that I sourced from CC0 websites… including Pixabay, Pexels and Unsplash.

Figure 1: An existing piece of steampunk aircraft

Figure 2: I liked the tunnel glimpse of the London skyline for the background

Figure 3: This guy's coat just screamed "detective"

Figure 4: The perfect steampunk hat

Figure 5: I stole the head off this image and painted on a moustache and monocle

By using all these images and cutting them up and compositing various the pieces into a whole, I’ve created a whole new image. Something that didn’t exist before. I’ve thought carefully about how they all fit together and also considered colour, mood, texturing, lighting and most importantly matched the image to the themes of the anthology: steampunk and mystery.

It probably from memory took me 1-2 days to create. Of course some might prefer to let a gen-AI do all this work. Sure it might do it in seconds but it will simply spit out an amalgamation of hundreds, potentially thousands of pieces of stolen art. There won’t be any thought put into it, no skill, no dedication to what makes a cover interesting and inviting.

Ultimately book cover designers are real people. People who read books, appreciate story and art and what makes a book special.

Please consider using a real person for your next book.

Thank you.

Greg Chapman – Dark Designs | The website of horror artist Greg Chapman

Writing Engaging Historical Fiction

A GUEST POST BY S. B. WATSON

I like historical fiction. I like reading it, I like writing it. As of this writing, I’ve published stories set in 1920’s England and Scotland, 1950’s Portland, 12th Century Normandy, the African Gold Coast in the 17th century, and have a few other distinct periods slated for publication later this year.

But as much as I love historical fiction, I am aware it has detractors. I was talking with a friend—another writer, a very good one—who told me he rarely ‘gets into’ historical fiction. Such stories don’t grab him. He finds them hard to finish. Even short stories. Another friend—not a writer—told me he doesn’t like ‘old’ settings. If it isn’t current, he said, it doesn’t feel relevant.

Why is this? What’s going on with historical fiction that makes it harder for some readers to enjoy? Is it an intrinsic curse, baked into the very concept of setting a story in another era? An unavoidable risk a writer takes when deciding to place his detective in ancient Greece, or Napoleonic Europe, or 1930’s Manchuria? Or is it something mechanical, something technical, that writers could manipulate to their advantage while constructing their stories if they knew what to watch out for?

And, on the other hand, those who do like historical fiction often enjoy it on a level more akin to an amateur hobbyist than a casual reader. There’s a bit of obsession, there—the lure of the exotic commanding readers like moths to a porch light. Why is this, and could the writer capture this mysterious allure to use in his work?

I’d like to break this down into two rough concepts—1) ‘problems’ with historical fiction, that can push a reader away if not carefully dealt with, and 2) ‘profiles’ of readers who actually get through these historical things, and somehow enjoy them. Up front, a warning—this is intended as a technical discussion on the writing craft. If you’re looking for a casual read, this may not be for you. If, however, you’ve been toying with the idea of setting that next mystery, or romance, or horror story in an ancient Greek taverna, but are a bit intimidated by the historicity of it, read on.

Six Problems with Historical Fiction

Jargon

The most tangible deterrent to a casual reader’s enjoyment, often found in spades in historical fiction, is jargon—technical terms of another time, or place, or profession. A good example of this is found in Nautical Fiction. Wind directions, ship types, rigging systems, sail names, crew ranks and duties… The list goes on and on. The problem is, if you want to write an accurate story set on a Napoleonic naval vessel, you’ll have to use some of these, to some extent.

When you use jargon in a story, it’s comparable to using words from a foreign language, but even worse—you’ve presented the reader with something completely indecipherable, often even with the help of a dictionary. Unless the reader already has technical knowledge of the terms you’re using, you run the risk of pushing them out of the story.

Caricatures, not Characters

Another pitfall I often see is writers leaning too heavily on historical stereotypes without breathing real depth into their work. A pirate story I recently read, in a big-name drugstore crime magazine, fell prey to this trap. Every character was presented like something from a Disney pirate movie, in broad strokes with stereotypical affectations, shallow motivations, and grandiose actions. The story lacked any real depth of character and so felt pale and disingenuous.

This is alarmingly easy to do, especially if you approach the historical setting as a mere trapping for your story, as opposed to a real place your characters have grown up in and inhabit.

Too Much History, Not Enough Story

While treating your setting too generally can be problematic, the opposite can also be true when you concentrate so heavily on the historical setting that you bend the purity of your story around the facts of the past. An example of this is shoe-horning in historical events, places, or people that add little to no substance to the story itself. In the aforementioned pirate story, multiple locales and historical events were included which quite literally had nothing to do with the story itself. Did they add ambiance or atmosphere? Not enough to offset the damage they inflicted on the narrative pace.

Too much Time-Period, Not Enough People

Times change, people don’t. Bad historical fiction often concentrates too much on the time period itself at the expense of highlighting the relatability of its characters. If a story puts too much emphasis on the historical period but neglects building empathetic, human characters, it risks losing relatability. Unrelatable fiction will bore a reader, regardless of how cool the setting is, and produce a feeling if irrelevance.

Lack of ‘Thisness’

Good writing will include elements of a weird little thing (some of) us writers call ‘thisness,’ subtle details anchoring a description with individuality. Elements of ‘thisness’ are what make that car unique from that make of car, or this person individual from his identical twin brother. In writing, ‘thisness’ can be used to root a description in apparent reality, differentiating this particular briefcase (the old tattered one, made of scarred Moroccan leather with a twine-wrapped handle) from every other, generic briefcase.

In historical fiction, getting the unique ‘thisness’ of your chosen time period correct can be the difference between overwriting every passage with technical jargon and pedantic details and setting a scene that sings with historical flavor and flair without the period-atmosphere getting in the way of the story.

Imagery Whiplash and Misleading Connotations

Another sure-fire way to anger your reader is a lack of control over your imagery. Take this opening scene, for example:

“She threw the book into the room, watching it tumble across the carpet. Penelope’s teacher would surely have scolded her, seeing her handle a book that way—but she didn’t care. She turned and leaned into the open casement, surveying the castle grounds beneath her parapet window with satisfaction…”

The problem here is that most readers would start that description and assume—quite reasonably—that this is a modern girl, in a modern room, with a modern teacher, only to find out, a few words later, that she’s in some medieval setting. And in a castle, no less.

This sort of confusing imagery is easy to unintentionally produce. Once or twice, you might get away with—sometimes it can even be used for effect, to startle your reader deeper into your story—but done without control, repeatedly, and you’ll disenfranchise your reader. Simply put, they’ll leave your story and look for something that gives them a more controlled image.

Four Types of Historical Fiction Readers

So, considering all these stumbling blocks that commonly get in the way of enjoying historical fiction, just who are the mad readers who like this stuff? To my way of thinking, here are the four main types of people who actively sit down and dig into a historical piece.

The Time Period Enthusiast

Every genre has a few hobbyists that are more dedicated than the casual reader. The Time Period Enthusiast is akin to a literary steam-engine buff, American Civil War afficionado, ham radio hobbyist, or WWII airplane nut. They read specific time periods simply because their imaginations are captivated by them—often, they won’t even mind if the story itself is lacking the usual elements of narrative consistency, so long as it gets the details right. These are the guys who love jargon. They feed on technical knowledge and historical details, and find absurd comfort in knowing their way around the dense literature of their interests.

The Escapist

The Escapist reads historical fiction because they never ‘got into’ Fantasy. It presents an alternative world, something more tangible than magic and dragons, but still with a twinge of the unfamiliar and a touch of mystique. Historical fiction allows them to escape from the daily pressures of modern life by porting them far away from their present sensibilities.

The Exotic Junky

The Exotic Junky doesn’t really care what they’re reading, provided it feels distinctive and thrilling. Historical fiction is uniquely positioned to provide this because of the wide variety of periods, settings, and themes it can provide. The Junky isn’t overly worried about historical accuracy, just so long as the story can keep surprising them and introducing them to new things.

The Catholic Reader

‘Catholic,’ as in ‘open-minded.’ The Catholic Reader represents all the readers who wouldn’t label themselves as ‘enjoying historical fiction,’ but read it anyway. They’re the normal readers, the everyday Joes, who pick up a story and just accept it for what it is, hoping for a well-written and narratively rewarding experience. If it’s set in Byzantium, or the Roman sack of Carthage, who cares? It’s all fine with them, so long as the story is solid and doesn’t push them away with egregious details.

Tools for the Writer

So, now that we’ve discussed some historical white-waters and the intrepid readers who navigate them, we return to the question: How do you write engaging historical fiction?

The first step is one that we often ignore when writing ‘regular’ fiction—be brutally honest about your target audience. If you plan to dig deep into the nitty-gritty of steam locomotive production and design, and also somehow tell a story, you probably aren’t catering to the Catholic Reader (it’ll disappoint their need for a good narrative), the Exotic Junky (it will become too technical to satisfy their thirst for thrilling scenes), or the Escapist (too much engineering, not enough fantasy). You’re writing for the Enthusiast. Likewise, if you envision your story with romance, and daring do, and a bit of swashbuckling, and maybe an extra-dimensional monster or two—this sounds more up the Exotic Junky’s alley than the others.

If your story would only be enjoyed by a small niche of Enthusiast readers, you should consider what makes it so. By simply removing some of the jargon, and some of the emphasis on details, you might be able to broaden that audience to include the Exotic Junky as well. Or, by concentrating on the human element and the story, putting the historical facts to the background, you could get the everyday Catholic Readers along with the Escapists.

Once you’ve had an honest talk with yourself about where you want your story to land, you can get down to the nuts and bolts—those first Six Problems I went over.

The trick is, each of these ‘problems’ can be used to your benefit. Jargon can be the very salt that adds ‘thisness,’ and cleverly misleading connotations or suspiciously modern imagery can be the color that captures your modern readers with the illusion of relevancy.

The truth is, all these elements must be used in proper moderation. Too much Jargon, and you’ve disenfranchised any Catholic Reader who may pick your story up. Too many caricatures and you’ll offend the Enthusiasts, too much politics and you may bore the Junkies who want exotic set-pieces. Too heavy an emphasis on the history, and contemporary minds may balk at finding a reason to care for your antiquated characters.

For every story I write in a historical setting, I first consider who I want the story to appeal to. Then, once I’ve determined that, I begin to develop a mental plan to deal with each of the Six Problems. My personal goals are almost always to appeal to a modern audience while drawing them into the ambiance of the past, before they know what’s hit them. For me, that often produces a formula like this—less jargon; a greater emphasis on people, using the history as a backdrop; subtle historical references used to add period-feel and ‘thisness;’ judicious use of caricatures, keeping my main characters as real as possible; and NO imagery whiplash.

In summary: To write engaging historical fiction, determine your target audience, then tailor your story around the Six Problems to ensure you don’t disenfranchise them, but rather draw them into your story.

So, the next time you get the ill-begotten urge to set your zombie-romance in tsarist Russia, I hope this article will give you the courage, and some tools, to start your historical writing journey into the past.

S. B. Watson,
Keizer, OR, March 2025

https://sbwatsonmysteries.wixsite.com/my-site

A Mysterious Interview with S.B. Watson

The Third Black Beacon Book of Mystery is out now and to celebrate this new volume of detective mysteries guaranteed to put your little grey cells to work, we’re interviewing the contributing authors. Do you dare peer into their devious minds, where criminal masterminds battle brilliant sleuths, private eyes, and police detectives? Settle down in your favourite armchair and get ready to pit your wits against the finest voices penning mystery puzzles today!

Hi S. B.,

It’s always tricky interviewing a mystery writer about a particular story because we don’t want to give anything away, but can you tell us (carefully) where the idea for your story came from?

Sure, in this instance, I was chatting with a friend who regularly test-reads for me about locked room mysteries, and the idea came up of a man being shot at close range within a closed circle of witnesses, who could all alibi each other. We both agreed the premise, as we constructed it, sounded fairly impossible… and then a few moments later a solution struck me. I relish locked-room mysteries, and the whole Impossible Genre of crime in general. I’ve written a handful of them myself. For me, there seems to be two ways this can go—1) the mystery effect and solution generate in my mind at almost the same time, and I start the project knowing the entire mechanics of the trick, or 2) I have to reverse engineer from the effect. In this case, the solution came right on the heels of the original idea.

There are several sub-genres of mystery fiction, but the stories in this anthology are traditional fair-play mysteries in which the reader can try to solve the puzzle before all is revealed. What makes this kind of mystery so timeless?

I think because it’s relatively limitless. To clarify… Nowadays, a lot of crime and mystery fiction is concerned with psychological elements. Characters are presented with deep backstories and motivations, and tension often relies on emotional frictions and insecurities. Traditional mystery fiction still uses these things, but they are secondary to form. Characters are just as likely to exist as common archetypes, or to have their entire nature built quickly using literary shorthand, and are used more as pawns of an intricate plot rather than catalysts for intense dives into human perversion. Now, I like both types of fiction, but when you boil us humans down, I can’t help but wonder if we wouldn’t all reduce to the same stew of fear, love, greed, and hate. Ultimately, if I dislike someone, and a serial killer does as well, the dislike is the same, even if the end result might be different! With traditional mystery fiction, these psychological elements are used more to set up the plot than the other way around. And while human nature is ultimately cut from the same cloth everywhere you look, puzzles and plots are not. In that way, a well-written traditional mystery from one hundred years ago, and one written yesterday, will both satisfy the same craving in the reader—the urge to explore a written puzzle. Conversely, psychological motivators from a hundred years ago may well feel dated and lack relevance. That’s probably a controversial take, but it’s an idea I’m toying with at the moment…

Do you have a favourite fictional detective?

Travis McGee and Meyer. They’re a more hardboiled pair, though. Other, more traditional, favorites would be Tommy and Tuppence, and of course Sherlock and Watson. Recently, I’ve been quite taken by the sadly limited Kiyoshi Mitarai stories available in English, by the Japanese master of the impossible, Soji Shimada.

Is this the first mystery your protagonist has solved?

When we meet my cranky pipe-smoking Scottish detective, Dougal Grieve, he already has a reputation among the local constabulary as a solver of difficult puzzles. Another Grieve mystery, "The Problem of the Disappearing Heart", appeared last year in Murderous Ink Press’ historical crime anthology, Through the Past Darkly. It involves a fabled diamond, a human heart that is conspicuously not where it ought to be, and a stage magician whose abilities seem uncomfortably beyond the realm of the natural.

If you were a detective, private investigator, or amateur sleuth, what would be your trademark quirk?

That’s a tough one… I regularly wear an old worn-out newsboy cap. To me, it’s just a hat, but the number of people who know me as The-Guy-With-The-Hat continually surprises me. So, it would probably be something silly and cosmetic like that. That or passionate opinions on trivial subjects.

Do you have a writing routine or particular requirements for a writing session?

I have absolutely no requirements for a writing session at all—the only necessity is that the time has been spent thinking about my projects. That can mean researching, outlining, putting words onto paper, or even—if the story in question is giving me problems—going for a long walk with my pipe. I write for two hours every day I work my day job, preferably before the shift. So every week I put in a consistent ten hours of writing. If necessary, though, I can up that significantly. Just this last October I had a large project and put in nearly thirty-five hours one week… The result of that will come out later this year, in Black Beacon’s Steampunk Sleuths anthology!

Thanks for playing along!

Thanks ever so much for having me.

A Mysterious Interview with Ron Fein

The Third Black Beacon Book of Mystery is out now and to celebrate this new volume of detective mysteries guaranteed to put your little grey cells to work, we’re interviewing the contributing authors. Do you dare peer into their devious minds, where criminal masterminds battle brilliant sleuths, private eyes, and police detectives? Settle down in your favourite armchair and get ready to pit your wits against the finest voices penning mystery puzzles today!

Hi Ron,

It’s always tricky interviewing a mystery writer about a particular story because we don’t want to give anything away, but can you tell us (carefully) where the idea for your story came from?

I wanted to write a murder mystery in a historical setting without modern “detectives”. I’m intrigued by early second-century Roman-occupied Judaea, a brief interwar period between two failed Jewish revolts. So I set out to write an Agatha Christie-style country house murder at a Roman villa outside the ruins of Jerusalem.

There are several sub-genres of mystery fiction, but the stories in this anthology are traditional fair-play mysteries in which the reader can try to solve the puzzle before all is revealed. What makes this kind of mystery so timeless?

Readers come to particular genres to work their mental muscles in particular ways. Just as the romance or horror reader wants to experience certain emotions, or the fantasy reader wants to experience another world unfolding in their mind, the fair-play mystery reader wants to solve a puzzle from clues. As long as people enjoy solving puzzles, this genre will endure.

Do you have a favourite fictional detective?

It’s hard to beat Poirot and his little grey cells.

Is this the first mystery your protagonist has solved?

“The Roman in the Fountain” is Joshua the Seer’s first appearance in print, his first time working for Romans, and my first published mystery. But the opening implies he’s plied his art before, so there could always be a prequel.

If you were a detective, private investigator, or amateur sleuth, what would be your trademark quirk?

An insatiable thirst for black coffee and seltzer.

Do you have a writing routine or particular requirements for a writing session?

I envy those who can make substantial progress in short increments of fifteen minutes here or there. Unfortunately, I need an uninterrupted block of at least two hours—preferably more.

What are you working on now?

An adventure story, set in an alternate-physics Age of Invention-era France, about an emergency balloon expedition to the Moon. It’s quite different from “The Roman in the Fountain,” but it also involves solving puzzles.

Where can we find you online?

At ronfein.com, on BlueSky @ronfein.bsky.social, and on Mastodon @ronfein@masto.ai

Thanks for playing along!

Fortitude and Courage Giveaway Competition June 19th

Do you love epic tales of adventure with clever heroines at the helm? Then you'll want to take to the skies with Artemis Devereaux and Karen Bayly.

Be in the running to win a print copy of "Fortitude" and "Courage" simply by sending the answer to the following question to us at blackbeaconbooks@gmail.com

What is the name of the pilot whose historic flight is celebrated on June the 19th?

Good luck!