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First published in Mystery Readers Journal, Spring 2001.

WHY NEW ENGLAND?
by William G. Tapply

"Why," I have been asked more times than I could count, "do you set all your mysteries in New England?"

"I have no choice," is my standard -- and truthful -- answer.

I have lived in Massachusetts all my life. My mother's from Maine. As a kid I went lobstering with my Uncle Woober. I've fished and hunted in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom and New Hampshire's Lakes Region. I taught high school in Lexington (where "the shot heard 'round the world" was fired) and raised my children in Concord (where Emerson and Thoreau and Hawthorne and Melville lived before me). I've meditated on the banks of Walden Pond and the beaches of Cape Cod.

I am, for better or worse, a New England Yankee. What else could I write about?

"Write what you know." Sound advice.

What do I know? I know New England. I know the smell of low tide and lobster bait and cow manure. I know the sound of a bell buoy in the fog, of birdsong at sunrise on a New Hampshire mountaintop, of clanking silverware and piped-in Italian opera in a North End restaurant. I know how Mainers talk different from Vermonters, and how none of them talk like a Catholic girl from Southie or a home boy from Roxbury.

I'd be foolish not to write about New England. If I didnÕt live here, I'd wish I did.

As a mystery writer, I'm lucky as hell to be able to write about New England. Here I have everything: Cities, suburbs, farms, and wilderness; a great human stew of language, religion, and culture; trailer parks, homeless shelters, high-rise condos and seaside mansions; banking, publishing, fishing, apple growing, and tech high and low; heat and cold, sleet and snow, hurricane and drought; lakes, rivers, mountains, oceans, and forests. I have FBI most-wanted Whitey Bulger and his brother, Billy, president of the University of Massachusetts. I have Kennedys and witches, rock stars and athletes, hookers and debutantes, drug addicts and sex addicts. I have the ghosts and whispers of four-hundred years of politics and crime, religion and poetry.

Things happen here in New England. Anything can happen here.

A setting isn't simply an arbitrary, static backdrop for a story. Good settings make things happen. They work as characters. They have personality. They live.

Maybe my stories could have been set elsewhere. But then they'd be different stories.

If I wrote about California instead of New England, I couldn't have the frozen body of a homeless man found in a doorway (THE MARINE CORPSE). If I wrote about Nebraska instead of New England, I couldn't have Brady Coyne, my sleuth, dumped off a fishing boat into the Atlantic Ocean (THE VULGAR BOATMAN). If I wrote about Kansas instead of New England, I couldn't send Brady off in his car to the foothills of New HampshireÕs White Mountains (CLOSE TO THE BONE) or the sandy roads and beaver ponds and wilderness lakes of Maine (CUTTERÕS RUN, DEAD MEAT) or the blue-collar streets of Somerville (A VOID IN HEARTS, CLIENT PRIVILEGE) and then get him back home in time for dinner. A one-hour drive takes Brady from his office in Copley Square to Walden Pond (MUSCLE MEMORY) to the west and the old seaport town of Newburyport (DEAD WINTER) to the north, and in two hours he can be fishing (or nearly drowning) in the Deerfield (THE SEVENTH ENEMY) or Connecticut (THE SNAKE EATER) rivers or a kettle pond on Cape Cod (THE SPOTTED CATS).

Maybe I could have written about L.A. or New York. But then I couldn't write about Boston. There may be similar places in the world, but there's only one Beacon Hill, one Boston Common, one Fenway Park, one Harvard Square.

New England gives me four distinct seasons. Well, six, actually, because here we have mud season (it comes between winter and spring) and Indian Summer (after summer but before autumn). Plots unfold differently in the winter, when blizzards bring out the snowplows and lakes and even rivers freeze over (SCAR TISSUE), from the way they do during summertime thunderstorms or nor'easters (FOLLOW THE SHARKS). August smells different from July, and March is the cruelest month.

So I write about New England and New Englanders. Eighteen novels so far, and I've barely scratched the surface.

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	First published in Mystery Readers Journal, Spring 2001. WHY NEW ENGLAND? by William G. Tapply "Why," I have been asked more times than I could count, "do you set all your mysteries in New England?" "I have no choice," is my standard -- and truthful -- answer. I have lived in Massachusetts all my life. My mother's from Maine. As a kid I went lobstering with my Uncle Woober. I've fished and hunted in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom and New Hampshire's Lakes Region. I taught high school in Lexington (where "the shot heard 'round the world" was fired) and raised my children in Concord (where Emerson and Thoreau and Hawthorne and Melville lived before me). I've meditated on the banks of Walden Pond and the beaches of Cape Cod. I am, for better or worse, a New England Yankee. What else could I write about? "Write what you know." Sound advice. What do I know? I know New England. I know the smell of low tide and lobster bait and cow manure. I know the sound of a bell buoy in the fog, of birdsong at sunrise on a New Hampshire mountaintop, of clanking silverware and piped-in Italian opera in a North End restaurant. I know how Mainers talk different from Vermonters, and how none of them talk like a Catholic girl from Southie or a home boy from Roxbury. I'd be foolish not to write about New England. If I didnÕt live here, I'd wish I did. As a mystery writer, I'm lucky as hell to be able to write about New England. Here I have everything: Cities, suburbs, farms, and wilderness; a great human stew of language, religion, and culture; trailer parks, homeless shelters, high-rise condos and seaside mansions; banking, publishing, fishing, apple growing, and tech high and low; heat and cold, sleet and snow, hurricane and drought; lakes, rivers, mountains, oceans, and forests. I have FBI most-wanted Whitey Bulger and his brother, Billy, president of the University of Massachusetts. I have Kennedys and witches, rock stars and athletes, hookers and debutantes, drug addicts and sex addicts. I have the ghosts and whispers of four-hundred years of politics and crime, religion and poetry. Things happen here in New England. Anything can happen here. A setting isn't simply an arbitrary, static backdrop for a story. Good settings make things happen. They work as characters. They have personality. They live. Maybe my stories could have been set elsewhere. But then they'd be different stories. If I wrote about California instead of New England, I couldn't have the frozen body of a homeless man found in a doorway (THE MARINE CORPSE). If I wrote about Nebraska instead of New England, I couldn't have Brady Coyne, my sleuth, dumped off a fishing boat into the Atlantic Ocean (THE VULGAR BOATMAN). If I wrote about Kansas instead of New England, I couldn't send Brady off in his car to the foothills of New HampshireÕs White Mountains (CLOSE TO THE BONE) or the sandy roads and beaver ponds and wilderness lakes of Maine (CUTTERÕS RUN, DEAD MEAT) or the blue-collar streets of Somerville (A VOID IN HEARTS, CLIENT PRIVILEGE) and then get him back home in time for dinner. A one-hour drive takes Brady from his office in Copley Square to Walden Pond (MUSCLE MEMORY) to the west and the old seaport town of Newburyport (DEAD WINTER) to the north, and in two hours he can be fishing (or nearly drowning) in the Deerfield (THE SEVENTH ENEMY) or Connecticut (THE SNAKE EATER) rivers or a kettle pond on Cape Cod (THE SPOTTED CATS). Maybe I could have written about L.A. or New York. But then I couldn't write about Boston. There may be similar places in the world, but there's only one Beacon Hill, one Boston Common, one Fenway Park, one Harvard Square. New England gives me four distinct seasons. Well, six, actually, because here we have mud season (it comes between winter and spring) and Indian Summer (after summer but before autumn). Plots unfold differently in the winter, when blizzards bring out the snowplows and lakes and even rivers freeze over (SCAR TISSUE), from the way they do during summertime thunderstorms or nor'easters (FOLLOW THE SHARKS). August smells different from July, and March is the cruelest month. So I write about New England and New Englanders. Eighteen novels so far, and I've barely scratched the surface.	Featured Article Archive Why New England? Late, from the West Coast The Phil 'N' Bill Show The Lawyer as Amateur Sleuth Gone Fishin'

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