Tracy S. Morris

Quirky Mysteries, Screwball Fantasy and Sassy History

Is Rick Castle more Real than Me? And it’s Fiction Friday.

Written By: Tracy - Dec• 18•09

I finished Heat Wave, the tie in novel to the TV show Castle last night.  For a novel tie in, it was not bad.  There were some purple patches, but I’m pretty sure that the writer was trying to re-create the style of  the tears in the rain death scene From Castle’s season 1 reading. 

From a marketing standpoint, the book is handled amazingly well. 

Everything mentioned in the show appears in the book, and there are quite a few places where you can see that the book is rooted in Castle’s "Research." 

Some of the reporter character’s ‘sources,’ mirror Rick Castle’s  sources. The secondary detective characters have conversations that mirror those that Castle has heard around the precinct while doing his research.   The tv show mentions a steamy scene that appears on a page and in the book the steamy scene appears on that page.  The cover and the dedication are the same.

This is good marketing both for a book tie in, and TV show promotion.  Some fans enjoy doing things that make them feel like they’re part of a book or TV show’s universe.  Or at least touching it, like it’s the universe in the apartment next door and they can ring the bell and run down the hall giggling so that they can watch behind the potted ficus when it answers in it’s bathrobe with the confused expression on its’ face and the adorable bed hair.

And buying a book is more approachable than getting a hunter’s tattoo like the ones Sam and Dean have on Supernatural.

Having the actual book from the show by the "actual author," following him on twitter or facebook all make the show feel just that much more real.  Rick Castle may not be real, but you can still buy his book and see him on TV and  follow him on twitter just like Wil Wheaton.  Which in the grand scheme of things, may make him more real than Carolyne Keene or Ellery Queen.   (Or possibly more real than me, even.)

On a side note, don’t forget that there is still time to participate in the Bride of Tranquility/Yard Dog Press Holiday Promotion.  Order my book and get stuff!


Celeste expected Lessage to be waiting outside Joe’s office door for her.  She was surprised to see no sign of him anywhere. 

If I was in his place, I know what I would be doing.  Celeste narrowed her eyes in suspicion.  She tucked her reporter’s notebook under her arm, and turned toward her desk.  As she approached, she could see him standing over her desk and holding one of her potted rosemary plants.  Bingo!  Snooping.  The confirmation of her suspicions did nothing to lift her spirits. 

She scanned her workspace quickly before he noticed her.  It looked like Lessage had been busy while she’d been in Joe’s office: His laptop was sitting on the formerly empty desk across from her own.  She crossed her arms and cleared her throat.  Lessage rewarded her with an appraising look, as if he could figure out all of her secrets from a potted herb. 

Celeste looked pointedly at the plant in his hands, and then at the ring of dirt where it had been sitting. 

“Rosemary for remembrance?”

“You obviously had to read Hamlet in high school,” Celeste said.   “I once interviewed a stuck-up Oxford shirt type who picked up that plant and quoted Thomas Moore to impress me:  As for rosemary, I let it run all over my garden walls, not only because my bees love it but because it is the herb sacred to remembrance and to friendship, whence a sprig of it hath a dumb language.”

“What makes you think I’m trying to impress you?” Lessage tilted his head.

“It’s that Arkansas in my voice,” Celeste said.  “Most people hear it and subtract a few IQ points to their mental assessment of me.  Then they’ve got to say something incredibly scholarly so that I’ll add a few IQ points to my mental picture of them.”

“Not for remembrance, then.” Lessage said.

“Actually, NASA studies show that plants purify the air,” Celeste said.  “And rosemary smells like pine.”

“And mint?” He pointed to her other potted plant.

“I chew a sprig before I get into a screaming match with Joe.” Celeste schooled her face into a serious expression.  “At least he can’t fire me for bad breath.”

Lessage frowned at her.  Celeste read his thoughts in his expression.  In response, she put her hands in the air in a Gallic shrug.  “It’s not magic. It’s herbalism.”  She pointed to his laptop to deflect the course of the conversation.  “And don’t think you’re going to be Walter Burns to my Hildy Johnson.”

“I always thought of myself as more of a Clark Kent type.” He grinned in a self-depreciating way.

Of course you do, Celeste thought.  Everyone is the hero of the story in their own mind.  Out loud she said: “Ha!  You’re more of a Jimmy Olsen.” She took the plant from his hands and put it back on the desk.

“What’s in Chaco Canyon?”

“Stay out of my desk, Lessage.”  Celeste turned to him with narrowed eyes.  Picked the lock on the desk drawer that fast?  You’re not as squeaky clean as you appear, Mr. Cunningham.  She sat down and opened her drawer.  The disk sat exactly where she had put it, with the label pointing up.  She closed the door and locked it back. 

Lessage sat across from her with a grin on his face as if he had scored some kind of personal victory.  “Tell me about wizards.”

You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.