The Hallmarked Man by Robert Galbraith/JK Rowling

The Hallmarked Man is not a favorite, but I applaud its complex story and cast of characters (even though I had to go back often to determine who was who) and how Strike and Robin’s personal story moved forward. Not an easy task following the conclusion of The Running Grave.

Reading the entire series in order is probably the best way to enjoy this 8^th book in particular. It reaches back into previous stories and characters more than any of the others in my view.

The use of actual locations (such as Sark and several pubs -- The Engineer, The Falcon, The Prince of Wales), which I pause to look up to get a feel for where Strike and Robin meet or hang out, makes the story more compelling. I’ve heard JK Rowling say she visits these places which is probably why she can bring them to life so vividly. The terrorist attack on Westminster Bridge is another example of reality feeding fiction.

Another location, the Denmark Street agency office stairwell, is a prominent location for big plot developments from the very beginning of the series. So interesting to see that particular spot incorporated once again in a significant way in The Hallmarked Man.

There are tough scenes that crop up in all the Strike novels, but The Hallmarked Man in particular has sections that were difficult to read. I make a special effort not to let them ruin my enjoyment of the rest of the book.

JK Rowling did an excellent interview series in three parts called “On Writing.” In Part One, she said she wrote the final chapter of book 8 (The Hallmarked Man) first, not her usual approach. But she knew where she was heading. She said, “It’s a very important final chapter for the whole series. I doubt any word of it would change. It’s completely formed.”

I get that now.

The Perks of a Book Series

 

Similar to a television series, readers of book series have the joy of coming back for more not just week-after-week, but any time they want. They don’t have to wait on the whims of programmers to learn what happens next in the live of the characters who populate a story. The big difference is a reader must call upon his own imagination to envision these individuals – how they look, feel and react to their day-to-day experiences, typically filled with drama.

Watching programs like Succession, The White Lotus, or The Newsroom provides a level of excitement viewers likely lack in their own lives. But then, often more than a year might pass before the next installment. What to do?

I turn to detective books, often in series format. My favorite is JK Rowling/Robert Galbraith’s Cormoran Strike series (which is now also a TV show). While I wait for the next installment to come out, I have other inspiring authors I can rely to. Favorites have been Tana French, PD James, and Louise Penny. Most recently, books by Faith Martin and her main protagonist, Hillary Green, are filling the void nicely.

Women are often the more clever crime solvers. I’ve been following Robin Ellicott, and her skill development, for years and anxiously await the next chapter in her life, romantically and professionally. September 2, 2025 is on my calendar for the release of Book 7, The Hallmarked Man.

As a crime/mystery writer myself, it is not surprising that I have taken the series approach to my work as well. As I create my protagonists – Hannah Hart and Mike Gavin – I become invested in their lives, learning more about them as I write each book. It’s also important to provide enough backstory to allow for stand-alone possibility. That information needs to be carefully woven into the story line to maintain the plot’s integrity. A challenge, but very doable.

About Grief

 “Grief is a sneaky bastard,” a dear friend told me after the death of my father when I broke into tears while visiting Cape Cod. What had set me off was a sympathy card I saw in a store. It had a cardinal on the front, my dad’s favorite bird, with a quote by James Joyce: “They lived and laughed and loved and left.” Inside it said: “And the world will never be the same.” A perfect description of my loss.

Since then, I’ve lost other friends and family. Most recently our beloved cat, Rusty. He was 18. And smart. I wrote a letter to our very caring vet remembering him this way:

He knew how to indicate his every wish – from when it was time to light a fire for warmth, to opening a window where he could bask in the sun, to helping him burrow under a soft comforter, to walking over Tim on the sofa to get him to move so he could have his spot, to when he wanted fresh water from the tap. He communicated with his eyes, the direction of his gaze, a poke on our arm and sometimes a more demanding meow. All precious memories.

Soon after his death I had a post-cataract operation appointment. I could barely see the eye chart, not even the biggest E. It was blurred with light flitting across the image. When I began to cry while the technician tried to examine my eyes, she became alarmed. I told her about losing Rusty. “Have I damaged my eyes with the floods of water?” I asked. Still recovering from RSV with raging coughing fits, perhaps that had affected my vision, I said.

Normally cool and all business, she became another person. Sweet, sensitive, sympathetic. Told me she too had lost pets and said if I hadn’t been sick, she would give me a hug. She assured me that I had not damaged anything and that crying, ironically, caused eyes to dry.

Having shared my loss with this veritable stranger, I felt just a little better. It also reminded me of when my mother died years ago. I had barely cried, busy making arrangements for family and her funeral. I went to the supermarket for food to have at the house. When I approached the service counter with a question, I blurted, “My mom died this morning.” Tears soon followed.

The woman behind the elevated counter immediately climbed down and gave me a hug. Telling this stranger, feeling her warmth, lessened my grief in that moment. Which is all we can ask for.

Grief is a great leveler. Whether family, friend or precious pet, we all go through it, feeling loss with the same intensity. Sharing grief with people we don’t know may actually bring the most comfort.

Even Hemingway had an editor

Some of us were lucky to have great teachers. Others may have had a caring mentor who helped us get started in our career. Dick Elsberry was my manager and mentor in the GE News Bureau (where Kurt Vonnegut got his start). Dick was an irascible character who cared deeply about good writing. When, as a 25-year-old publicist, I turned in my first newsletter copy for his review, it was so bad that he didn’t bother with editing. Rather, he wrote me this pointed letter, pounded out on his manual Remington typewriter, to teach me a lesson about writing which I’ve never forgotten. I am forever grateful to him.

“Joyce -- In future, please submit to me copy as you write it, rather than holding onto it. Thus, if it needs work, you’ll get that direction right away.

On recent copy I detect (no, it is more obvious than that) a very tutorial approach. For example, the energy story starts out by citing the name and title of the energy czar for sector.

The only time you start with someone’s name is if he is (a) the president of the U.S., (2) you are doing a personnel announcement, or (3) it is the Second Coming (i.e. “Jesus Christ, the only son of God, arrived on Earth today and turned the South Bronx into the Garden of Eden.”)

You are not writing term papers anymore but copy to be read by real people, not professors. Thus, we must grab their attention immediately; which sometimes requires a baseball bat. We do not have the luxury of a long, leisurely lead-in. We are writing tight and to the point…there is no room for rambling, or repetition.

So, new rule: as soon as you write it, show it to me. You have a lot to learn about the job you are doing, and you aren’t going to learn living in a vacuum. When you can write copy with proficiency that I believe no longer requires someone else’s review, I’ll be the first to tell you. At that time, you should also realize that you will still benefit from showing someone certain stories … even Hemingway had an editor.”

When Book Characters Become Friends

 

Maybe it started with the pandemic, but the detectives JK Rowling (Robert Galbraith) created in her Cormoran Strike books have become like friends. In particular, I’ve noticed in her fifth book in the series, Troubled Blood, she has painted an even more vivid view into the lives of Robin Ellacott and Strike. While Rowling’s plots are imaginative and intriguing, albeit complex and often difficult to track, the two main characters hold it all together, drawing readers into their growing friendship, hoping that their attempt to veil a longing for each other will ultimately be shed.

Without being able to visit with friends in person, Robin and Strike filled the void as I brought them into my home daily. Checking in with them as I turn each page is like hearing from long-time friends, our relationship spanning more than seven years, since A Cuckoos Calling was published and the duo first met. In one of the latest entries, Robin is suffering through a nasty divorce from the easy-to-hate Matthew, while Strike is showing a side rarely seen when his Aunt Joan dies from cancer: emotional grief.

Others I know, who have been caught up in their story, have shared equal interest in these two and we discuss them as if, indeed, we know them well. Which we do!

As I develop the protagonists in my own novels, I try to generate the same level of interest and intimacy as Rowling has so that my lead characters, Hannah Hart and Mike Gavin, become as real to my readers as they are to me. Gratefully, Robin and Cormoran continue their frequent visits as I devour subsequent additions to the series.

There’s one more thing I must admit. I’ve been watching the C.B. Strike series on TV and have been enthralled by the actors’ depictions of these beloved characters. This is the first time I have found the visual experience as rewarding as the written word. This is a tribute to Tom Burke and Holliday Grainger for having so successfully brought the two detectives to life.

Mother Hamlin

She was feisty, sometimes harsh, but typically amusing in her own special, outspoken way. Her mind remained sharp, and she was the best damn proofreader I ever had. Mother Hamlin, as I called her, loved to catch typos in my manuscripts, which I welcomed since she was always a first reader before publication.

Because of Covid, I spent nearly every Sunday evening with her and her family on Zoom. These were bittersweet visits, especially after her youngest daughter, Liz, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Together we traversed Liz’s fight, witnessed her courage, and ultimately her surrender to the hideous disease. During this period, however, I got to spend time with Mother Hamlin, which never would have happened if not for Covid. I saw her own amazing strength as she faced her daughter’s inevitable end.

And now I, along with her family, grieve her passing at age 87. Much of the blame falls squarely on Covid for this as well. It kept her isolated for nearly two years, avoiding doctor visits, only venturing out for vaccinations. What should have been minor ailments for a woman her age, bloomed to the point that hospitalization was ultimately the only recourse. This was followed by a stint in rehab where Covid ran rampant not long after her arrival.

Although sent there for physical therapy, the virus quickly took its toll. Eventually, despite her weakening condition, the facility sent her home since insurance would no longer cover her stay if she wasn’t participating in PT. Sadly, getting a doctor to see her and redesignate her condition proved impossible.

Despite 24-hour home care, her condition worsened. When her breathing became labored, an ambulance was summoned, but it was clear she had little time left. Her son, Bob, convinced the EMTs not to take her to the hospital. Before she expired, he was able to hold her hand in the ambulance, in her driveway and tell her that her wish to die at home had been realized. Her daughter-in-law, Linda, then sat sentry over her in the living room of her beloved home until the funeral transport arrived.

This is just one tragic story, out of millions, during this time of Covid. The healthcare system, clearly overburdened, has resulted in many dying needlessly. With every loss, our own lives are irrevocably altered. 

Beyond clinging to memories, I try to find solace or at least perspective. Neuroscientist and philosopher Sam Harris offers this:

“The process of dying, whatever it is, will be a finite experience. Which is to say that however painful it might be, there will come a time when it ceases to be painful. Even if one suffers a long illness and a blizzard of medical interventions, there will be a moment when all of that ends.”

In the heaven she has long believed in, Mother Hamlin, Ann, is at peace.

Poof

One minute, she was here, full of life and laughter. Then she was gone. Or so it seemed, when after eleven months of battling cancer, on a sunny day in June, we laid Liz to rest at age 52. Although, in truth, we watched that burst of energy that always surrounded her, diminish each week during the regular video call, on the suddenly all-pervasive Zoom technology. That was how we shared her final journey.

She left us to ponder how, with all she did in life and how she lived that life, that insidious disease could choose her. A health-conscious vegetarian, with a passion for yoga, she was not only a practitioner, but also an instructor. Exercise, we’re told, is a mainstay for longevity and not many could compete, as Liz did, in two Ironman Triathlons. What it took to prepare for the 2.4 mile open water swim, 112 mile bike race, and 26.2 mile marathon, would challenge anyone to understand how that level of endurance could be vanquished by unforgiving, multiplying cancer cells.

Yet, over and over, it takes away people we all know who seemed destined for long, healthy lives.

Admittedly, I’m among the baffled. Meant to be a mystery, perhaps. Still, maybe there’s an answer in the First Law of Thermodynamics. We’re told that energy cannot be created or destroyed. However, it can be changed from one form to another. Is that what happened to Liz? Is she still with us, here on earth, just no longer visible?

I wish that could provide much needed comfort. Because just the other day, she was vibrant, laughing, and now ... poof.