Author Spotlight: Sharon Michalove

Smugglers and Spies

Words have a resonance that frequently goes beyond their literal meanings. Over the past few days, two words have been nudging me in just such a way—smuggler and spy. Not two characters for a new book, but how they apply to writers and the process of creation.

In fiction, both smugglers and spies have often been romantic figures. For all the hard-bitten Le Carré spies, a romantic picture frequently emerges in fiction, from The Scarlet Pimpernel to James Bond (let’s not argue about the misogyny and sexism, just think about Sean Connery in the role). The fact that most real-life spies aren’t romantic, suave, and devastatingly good looking, is beside the point. As for smugglers, historical fiction is the genre and Cornwall the place to find the frisson-saturated prose.

“[F]iction, particularly fiction set in the past, romanticizes villainy of a certain kind, because everyone likes an underdog fighting back against an oppressive state, and windswept moonlit beaches have a romance to them all their own. It’s no bad thing, life needs a little romance after all and what’s the point of fiction if not to put that romance into it. There is a reason the likes of Jamaica Inn and Poldark have stood the test of time.”

(Mark Hayes, “The Passing Place,” https://markhayesblog.com/2020/09/03/the-romance-of-smugglers/)

Romance aside, negative connotations have historically been attached to both the words and the people they represent. Search for dictionary definitions of smuggler gave me a person who smuggles. Not very helpful. In the end, I had to make do with the verb.

• move (goods) illegally into or out of a country

• convey (someone or something) somewhere secretly and illicitly

The etymology I found in Wiktionary gives much more scope for contemplation from my writer’s viewpoint. “From earlier smuckle, either from Dutch smokkelen (“to smuggle”), a frequentative form of Middle Dutch smūken (“to act secretly, be sneaky”), from Old Dutch *smugan, or from Dutch Low Saxon or German Low German smuggeln; all are from Proto-West Germanic *smeugan (“to creep; slip through or into”).”

Spies don’t fare much better, although they may work for the good guys or the bad guys.

• noun: a person who secretly collects and reports information on the activities, movements, and plans of an enemy or competitor

• verb: work for a government or other organization by secretly collecting information about enemies or competitors

But the question is, “Why are authors spies and smugglers?”

Writers try to absorb the world around them, then represent it in their writing. Sometimes it’s realistic and at other times fantastic, but the ultimate aim is to bring the reader into a world that is fascinating, whether or not it is relatable. To do this, we weave together strands from our own lives, inspiration from reading, conversations, and most importantly, eavesdropping. The point isn’t to reproduce any of this, but to refashion it into something that only the author can create.

The next time you are sitting in a crowded cafe, look around. Observe how others interact, or don’t. Note gestures, animated conversations, the postures of others. What do they order? How do they interact with the servers or baristas? If animals are allowed, are they the owners’? Comment to others positively or negatively? Try to touch the animal or cower in fear? Walk out shaking their head?

The writer may or may not overhear a conversation, noting down interesting turns of phrase. Or a situation being described by a stranger might strike a chord, spark a story idea. A person’s looks, movements, or voice might be perfect to develop a character. And the writer could note these things or even interact with them to gather more information. All of this covert observation is a sort of spying.

Here is an example from my own experience. I was sitting alone in a crowded Paris cafe. On one side I had two young men speaking English, wolfing down a meal, talking about soccer. One had a French accent, the other was obviously American.

On the other, were two young women, speaking French. They were just finishing their food and having an animated conversation. Both of their meals looked interesting and I was trying to decide what to order. I asked them in French what they were eating. Both were American but practicing their French. One had been living in Paris for the year as a cooking student. The other was visiting but would be living in Paris the following year to study business.

Each described their meal enthusiastically and I decided on the chicken praised by one of the two. In the course of the conversation, it turned out that one was from the Chicago area. We spent about half an hour while they told me about their studies, their friendship, and living in Paris. By the time they left, I had a great idea for a book about murder in a Parisian cooking school. When I returned to my hotel, I immediately wrote down a short synopsis of the story.

Spying in the sense of gathering information is definitely something that everyone can relate to. But what about smuggling?

I’m not talking about creating a plot with arms runners, drug cartels, or human trafficking. All of those are methods of smuggling, but for a writer, smuggling is way of giving the reader interesting information that may not directly affect the plot but lends texture. The book may be a romance, but the author may set it in a world the reader has to discover—a different country, a new culture, bits of foreign languages, new foods, history, architecture, music.

I do a lot of this. My characters like to add foreign words and phrases, enthuse over architecture, muse about the history of a place, listen to music, and search out interesting restaurants where they can dissect the composition of meals. All of this adds to the reader’s general knowledge of the world, the place, of how different cultural traditions interact. There can be an educational factor, even if the audience isn’t geeking out or even noticing.

Here’s a short example from my novel, At the Crossroads. It takes place in London.

I turn toward the building. “If we aren’t looking at furniture, why are we here.”

“You’ll see.” He puts his hand against the small of my back and steers me into the 200-year-old furniture emporium. We stop near the entrance to drink in the ambiance.

I crane my neck to see his face. His gray eyes have darkened, hunger rolling off him in waves as he deepens his already deep voice, the words rolling off his tongue like honey. “They’re still known for their fine handmade mattresses. I have one on the bed here.”

His feral expression makes me wonder. Is he thinking about the bed? Of us on that bed? Of pillows tossed in all directions and tangled, sweaty sheets? I try to picture the bed in his flat. Is it like the one in Chicago, which has a great mattress? His next statement brings me back to earth.

“Unfortunately, we’re not here to test mattresses, even though that would be fun. We’re here for the cat.”

I can’t help yelping. “A shop cat. Let’s see. Let’s see. Take me now.”

“We need to climb Cecil Brewer’s spiral staircase.” He makes everything sound mysterious. Is there a gallery of cats? Is Heal’s a purveyor of cats as part of the proper accouterments for a home? What a kick that would be.

After threading through many displays of home goods, we’ve reached the back of the store where an enormous staircase with amazing hanging lights rises up into the ether.

I stare at him in horror as it comes into view. He knows I hate heights. I’ve barely been listening, focusing more on how high the top of the staircase is as I near the dizzying spiral. “Climb? That staircase?”

“You’re not climbing Everest. I’ll hang onto you.” He leads me over. “I could have taken you to the O2 to climb over the arc.”

I swallow, then put my foot on the first step and grasp the banister, my knuckles whitening immediately. As I slowly put one foot in front of the other, Max has one hand resting on the small of my back. He murmurs in my ear, “I’ve got you, la mia stellina.”

Not willing to turn, I keep going. “What if I fall backwards? Won’t you just tumble with me?”

He huffs. “I’ll be your soft landing.”

Puffing, I reach the landing that houses a large bronze cat sculpture. When I take a closer look, I realize it’s a serval, an African wildcat, but most people would label it as a cat. The figure is sleek, and I want to stroke it. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and lean against Max as if he’s a retaining wall. “Tell me the story.” I sound both shaky and demanding.

“In the 1920s, Dodie Smith, the author of 101 Dalmatians, worked here. A failed actress, she ran the toy department until she had success as a playwright.”

“Really? Dodie Smith?” I lift my chin and admire a sliver of his face. “I Capture the Castle is one of my favorite books.”

“She was quite a character, our Dodie. She was one mistress of the owner, Ambrose Heal. He was quite the player. Married and had another mistress already when Dodie made her play for him.” He pulls me against his chest. Over his shoulder, his grin reflecting from the window.

“She went after what she wanted. Good for her. Not that I condone stealing another woman’s husband. Although it sounds like Ambrose was an easy mark.”

“He was. After all, he already had another mistress.” His tone is nonjudgemental. “But the best-known Heal’s story about her is that she sold this, the store mascot!”

I stare at the patina on the sleek figure. “I guess she preferred dogs. Maybe she wouldn’t have sold it if this was a Dalmatian.”

Instead of applauding my feeble attempt at a joke, Max groans. “It was for sale, so even though she saw it as embodying the spirit of the store, and told the staff that it granted magic wishes, when a customer wanted to purchase it, she really had no choice.”

“Is this a replacement?”

“No. The staff protested to an appalled Ambrose. He contacted the buyer and canceled the sale. The customer didn’t protest.” He continues with a chuckle. “To make sure it never happened again, he had a sign made—Heal’s Mascot: Not for sale.”

There’s nothing attached to the bottom of the plinth where the cat perches. “What happened to the sign?”

“Probably not needed now.” Max shrugs and pulls an antique postcard out of his pocket. Grasping it between his thumb and forefinger, he presents it to me. It’s dated 1933. On it is a picture of the cat with the caption The Cat on the Stairs. Mascot of Heal’s Shop.

I clutch it against my chest, then reach up to give him a kiss. “What a great story. Thanks for bringing me.” I grab his hand and hold it all the way down.

This story doesn’t advance the plot, but it does tell us a lot about Max, Cress, and their relationship. Also, the reader learns something unusual about a real London emporium, a famous author, and a fun anecdote to trot out at their next party.

So stop thinking of these words negatively. When you read the next book, see how the author uses skills as a spy and a smuggler. And appreciate one more aspect of the creative process.

Sharon Michalove writes romantic suspense and traditional mystery as well as being a published historian. She was married to a composer and frequently uses her knowledge of music, history, and food to enrich her novels. Moving back to Chicago in 2017, she started writing fiction seriously in 2018, publishing her first book in 2021. She is member of Blackbird Writers, Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, Historical Novel Society, Regency Writers, and Chicago-North Romance Writers and currently is president of the Sisters in Crime Chicagoland Chapter. Her Global Security Unlimited series was a finalist for the 2024 Chanticleer International Book Award for Genre Series.

Check out her website and her latest book, At the Crossroads, at: