Eudora Welty (1909 – 2001) was an American novelist and short story author. She stood atop of the absolute highest peaks in the world of fiction writing.

Her novel THE OPTIMIST’S DAUGHTER won the Pulitzer Prize in 1973. Welty was the first living author to have her works published in the prestigious Library of America series. Among a long, long list of accolades, she was also awarded the Rea Award for the Short Story for her lifetime contributions to the American short story.

Heavyweight writing territory to be sure. You or I may not have heard of her before, but mega-successful writers can’t all be Shakespeares, Hemmingways and Chopper Reads in the name recognition department, now can they?

If there was any doubt about Eudora Welty’s status as a literary icon, the house where she lived in Jackson, Mississippi is designated as a National Historic Landmark. Gadzooks, it’s even open to the public as a house museum for the literary tourists of this world.

But well before all that future success, there was naturally a time when Eudora Welty was just like any of the tens-of thousands of other aspiring, unknown writers. That meant the daily/weekly chore of sending out her material in the blind hope that someone, somewhere might show some interest.

In March 1933, in an attempt to secure some writing work, 23-year-old Eudora sent this impossibly charming letter to the offices of The New Yorker magazine and gently laid her cards on the table.

It’s difficult to imagine a more endearingly written introduction to one’s talents and for that reason it’s both a surprise and disappointment to learn that her perfectly formed plea fell on deaf ears, initially at least. Thankfully, The New Yorker later rectified their error and Welty went on to write numerous pieces for the publication.

Here is Ms Welty’s spankingly amusing and completely fetching query letter, written in March 1933 –

March 15, 1933

Gentlemen, I suppose you’d be more interested in even a sleight-o’-hand trick than you’d be in an application for a position with your magazine, but as usual you can’t have the thing you want most.

I am 23 years old, six weeks on the loose in N.Y. However, I was a New Yorker for a whole year in 1930-31 while attending advertising classes in Columbia’s School of Business. Actually I am a southerner, from Mississippi, the nation’s most backward state. Ramifications include Walter H. Page, who, unluckily for me, is no longer connected with Doubleday-Page, which is no longer Doubleday-Page, even. I have a B.A. (’29) from the University of Wisconsin, where I majored in English without a care in the world.

For the last eighteen months I was languishing in my own office in a radio station in Jackson, Miss., writing continuities, dramas, mule feed advertisements, Santa Claus talks, and life insurance playlets; now I have given that up.

As to what I might do for you — I have seen an untoward amount of picture galleries and 15¢ movies lately, and could review them with my old prosperous detachment, I think; in fact, I recently coined a general word for Matisse’s pictures after seeing his latest at the Marie Harriman: concubineapple. That shows you how my mind works — quick, and away from the point. I read simply voraciously, and can drum up an opinion afterwards.

Since I have bought an India print, and a large number of phonograph records from a Mr. Nussbaum who picks them up, and a Cezanne Bathers one inch long (that shows you I read e. e. cummings I hope), I am anxious to have an apartment, not to mention a small portable phonograph.

How I would like to work for you! A little paragraph each morning — a little paragraph each night, if you can’t hire me from daylight to dark, although I would work like a slave. I can also draw like Mr. Thurber, in case he goes off the deep end. I have studied flower painting.

There is no telling where I may apply, if you turn me down; I realize this will not phase you, but consider my other alternative: the U of N.C. offers for $12.00 to let me dance in Vachel Lindsay’s Congo. I congo on. I rest my case, repeating that I am a hard worker.

Truly yours,

Meanwhile, over in HAPPY DAYS land…

True Crime and I go back.

Like, waaaaay back.

If I had to pinpoint the moment my fascination with all things murder (can I be that blunt?) started, I’d point to one windy and fateful day back in August 1980.

I say ‘fateful’ because the original plan for that day was to meet a mate at the train station for a trip to the Brisbane Ekka. With him a no-show, instead I took myself off to the nearby news agency and, like a kid in a candy shop, (used to visit a few of those as well!) spent every dollar I had in my wallet on comics, books, magazines and no-doubt whatever other readerly type paraphernalia caught my eye at the time.

Among the swag purchased that day, in what would turn out to be the most memorable impulse literary splurge of my life, was the true-crime classic HELTER SKELTER. To this day, it stands alone as the best – the very best – most entirely fascinating book I’ve ever read.

But if I really think back, Charlie Manson alone was probably not actually the ‘thing’ (pardon that expression) that kicked off my whole ‘life of true-crime’ fascination.

See, from about the age of 12, for reasons I still can’t completely fathom (and probably don’t wish to), I was a voracious, and I mean VORACIOUS reader of those old skool TRUE DETECTIVE type magazines – that these days can be routinely found on public libraries shelves.

So why exactly do some people – present company included – catch the true crime bug?

The head-peepers (psychologists) of this world would tell us those reasons include –

Because evil fascinates us.

Because we can’t look away from a “trainwreck.”

Because we’re glad we’re not the victim.

Because we’re glad we’re not the perpetrator.

Because we like playing armchair detective.

Because it gives us an adrenaline rush.

Because we like to be scared … in a controlled way.

Because the storytelling is good—and comforting (crime doesn’t pay)

American author and illustrator Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell is another person with a love of true crime. So much so she’s written a book about it.

MURDER BOOK was published late last year. It’s been written in graphic novel style, with comic illustrations on every page. For such a heavy topic, it’s quite the ‘fun’ read. Here’s a little sample –

The author cites 2017 as one of the real boom years for true crime shows. That was the year, according to her, when such programs began to exponentially expand at a rapid rate across tv screens and podcasts to reach the saturation point of today.

Her own pedigree for an interest in true crime appears pretty healthy –

Campbell cites the 2007 David Fincher – directed movie ZODIAC as the starting point for her true crime odyssey.

In cartoon format, (‘loony toons’ if you will) the book discusses True Crime movies, television series and podcasts. Along the way some of the more renowned TC cases are unpacked or get a mention, including –

For the record, as a true crime kindred spirit, I will mention my three most recent Netflix watches –

And to complete the uncensored personal horror show, my three most recent TC reads –

For anyone interested in finding out more about the writer/illustrator Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell you can go HERE or HERE.

Well, that was all pretty heavy, wasn’t it? For something far, far lighter, go HERE.