Harold Adams was born in Clark, SD, and grew up in North and South Dakota and Wisconsin. He spent three years in the US Army and majored in English Literature at the University of Minnesota. While he was on the staff of the literary magazine at the University he started collecting rejecting slips. In 1961, he began writing novels from 6:00 a.m. to 7:30 a.m., and resumed collecting rejection slips. He sold the first Carl Wilcox novel, Murder, in 1980. He retired from the Minnesota Charities Review Council in l988 and has had personal experience working for the Minneapolis Better Business Bureau. He now writes for seven hours everyday.

 

 

FANS ARE HALF THE FUN

by Harold Adams

 

Most mystery writers with well over a dozen books published probably have more readers than I do, but from comments made by some of my cohorts in this racket, mine are evidently special. On top of that, I would like to stake my claim for the broadest age range; from 12 to 101.

You may note I say readers, rather than fans. This is because my centenarian can't be classifed as a genuine fan--she was my mother's best friend and has read only one of my books, but I'll get to her later.

What started me thinking about this subject was a letter forwarded by a publisher some years back. This twelve year boy wanted to reach the author of the Carl Wilcox mysteries. He stated at the outset that the publishers probably didn't think a boy under eighteen should be reading my work, but he had and liked it a lot. It seems his mother had passed it on after reading it (he claims she hates to read but read all of this one--she was in the late stages of pregnancy and was evidently desperate for distractions). The boy conceded the book had a lot of cuss words but they didn't bother him.

Naturally eager to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, I answered the forwarded letter and shipped him another book--one with a smidgeon less sex but no particular reduction in cuss words.

We were regular correspondents for several years. When I didn't answer his second letter soon enough he wrote to ask if something was wrong.

This was remarkably reminiscent of my 101 year old reader, but as I said, I'll get back to her later.

I met another fan through an old friend I'd known in my other life (as a charitable agency exec) who invited me out to visit the retirement home he lived in and meet a woman who came from Clark, South Dakota, the setting of several of my mysteries.

She was a charming 83 year old who'd once been named teacher of the year in Minnesota and had taught all her life. We talked of people from the Clark area and she had a remarkably sharp memory and clear impressions of characters in that small town. Like the 12 year old, she expressed minor concern over the language in my books, but her major complaint was that the print was too small.

So I sent her a large print edition put out by my English publisher and she telephoned to let me know how pleased she was.

A friend who runs a hardward store in Clark, telephoned me to say that in appreciation for my putting his town in the mysteries map, he wanted to offer me a tract of land that was part of the property where the old Adams Hotel stood before it burned down after my grandfather sold it. In eight of my books this was the Wilcox Hotel owned by my hero Carl's parents, where he lived occasionally, worked rarely, and on more than one occasion, solved murders.

The friend explained that my only obligation would be to pay the annual property tax, which was approximately $1.58 and would not be due until the following year. Naturally I was honored by the thought but was a little surprised by the low tax rate. He said that was because the space was only five feet by five feet.

"You couldn bury a man in that!" I complained.

"You could if you stood him up," he assured me.

So I'm a landowner in Clark and have the deed to prove it. Another friend from the same town told me I'd be lucky if I didn't get billed when the town decided to trim the weeds on my property. It's been twenty years and I've had no such billing yet.

I have considered erecting a public toilet on the site, with perhaps a nickel meter. It's near the main street in town and might be handy on any special event day. I thought of setting up a one-author bookstand for celebration days but gave that up when I discovered the property was not handy to the sidewalk.

At the Bouchercon held in Minneapolis a few years back, a woman approached me at the autographing table and handed me a plastic bag.

Inside was a shadowbox creation of the den where she imagined I wrote my novels. It held, in marvelous miniature, a desk with typewriter, telephone, a foaming stein of beer, a newspaper and a reference book. There were tiny, full-color posters on the walls featuring covers from four of my published mysteries and minature volumes of my other books scattered about the floor and stacked on a filing cabinet near the desk. There was a miniscule camera, a dart board on the wall, a dog on the floor and so on.

A few years ago a California reader wrote a brief, very perceptive letter expressing his reactions to my work. I responded and we've exchanged dozens of letters since then and he's written critiques of three of my unpublished books. His judgement is, to me, easily as intelligent as any editor I've had, and his criticisms and suggestion have caused me to rewrite at length. He has never worked as writer, published an article or a review He has written a novel, which I critiqued, but so far has not come around to rewriting it or submitting to any publisher as far as I know. Evidently he is not as impressed by my critical or editing talents as I am by his.

Fans living in Clark, South Dakota (called Corden in the Wilcox series) persuaded the Clark County Historical Society to make me an honorary citizen and at a ceremony there in July, 1990, they presented me a truly handsome plaque inscribed: "FOR PORTRAYAL OF PRAIRIE PERFIDY IN POPULAR PRINT, HONORARY CITIZEN OF CLARK, S.D. -- HAROLD ADAMS -- MYSTERY WRITER, WHO PROVED AGAIN THAT CRIME--LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE DURING THE DAKOTA DUST-BOWL DEPRESSION, DID NOT PAY."

Another reader sends me self-addressed post cards with a choice of blanks to check. I can indicate I'd be delighted, no, try me another time, or don't bother me. When I agree to sign the books, they arrive packaged like works of art with accompanying notes.

Another person makes it even simpler--he sends blank stickers for me to sign and return for insertion in his books.

Regarding the 101 year old friend.

Our mail exchange began when she wrote to me concerning the failure of my mother to answer her letters. I explained that mother wasn't up to it and subsequently found myself her correspondent, even after mother died. When I failed to respond within two weeks, she sent me self-addressed, stamped envelopes asking if I were alright? So I have promptly responded ever since. Ten years ago, when I told her I had a book published, she was eager to read it and I sent a copy, saying I hoped she would enjoy it and be tolerant.

Her next two letters made no reference to the book so I finally wrote noting this and saying I hoped she hadn't been offended by anything in it. Her response, coming on schedule, was two pages long and made no reference to the book until the final paragraph. There she said, yes, she was sorry, but the book had offended her and she hoped that if I ever wrote another it would not have that awful language and such terrible happenings.

I wrote a rather long response, trying to explain that my three year's experience in the army had made me relatively immune to shock by profanity, and that my general awareness of the world made me feel awful things were a great part of our lives. Within a week her response came, saying in effect, you poor boy--I had no idea what you had been through and I can understand how you did this but in the future please don't send me any more of your novels.

So our correspondence went on with the understanding that she would not ask for and I would not send any more books.