Meanderings and Muses

A Story About A Guy And Some Shelves

2012-01-28T11:44:00.001-05:00

I met Donald in 1984.

We had just started dating when he came to my apartment one evening to watch a Braves game with me.

I was a huge baseball fan - he was not.

While we were watching the game I noticed he seemed more interested in the hanging shelves on the wall surrounding the TV and I thought, "oh, goodie, he's interested in the books."

After awhile he said, "who hung your shelves?"

I, very proudly, said, "I did."

and he nodded.

We watched the game a little longer, and then he said, "Did you use a level?"

I looked at him like he's lost his mind.

"A level? Why would I have a level?"

"Well, 'cause you like to hang stuff."

"No, I don't really like to hang stuff, but I just do it 'cause I want it done."

"So. What do you use to make sure your shelves are level and stuff won't fall off them?"

I grinned.

Mistakenly thinking he was applauding my handiness, I walked across the room to where I had a pottery Tic-Tac-Toe game sitting on a table. I picked up one of the pottery "O's" and handed it to him.

"I used this."

He just looked at it and held it for the longest time before he finally looked at me and said "This. You used this as a level?"

Still grinning and still proud as punch, I said, "Yes! Pretty smart of me, huh?"

"Kaye, this little ball is not round."

"Yes, it is too round."

By now he was laughing and NOT trying to hide it. "It's not round enough to act as a level. Actually, it's pretty flat in some places."

Me, being me, snatched the little ball and put it back where it belonged.

"I think the shelves look great. I love them. AND, I'm pretty damned proud of myself for hanging them all by myself."

"I'm pretty impressed that you did that too."

He shook his head and said, "But Kaye, those shelves are crooked as hell."

I was crushed!

"They are not."

"Yes. They are. But if you're happy with them, that's what counts. So. What did you hang them with?"

"Toggle bolts."

He nodded. "Do you have a lot of tools? Other than a level - I know you don't have a level."

"I have a hammer and I have a screwdriver. My dad gave them to me."

He nodded. "What else?"

I think I looked at him like he was nuts here. "That's all. What else do I need?"

"Just one screwdriver?"

"Yes." (I probably said this pretty sharply).

By now he was up looking more closely at the shelves and he did exactly what I was praying he would not do.

He picked up the one book I was hoping he would not pick up.

It was one next to the bracket I had had particular trouble putting up.

He wasn't looking at the book, he was looking at the hole surrounding the bracket.

"Wow. That's a pretty big hole."

"The toggle thing didn't want to go in."

He nodded.

"I really had to fight to get it to go."

He nodded.

"What did you finally do?"

I cringed.

"I used a spoon."

"A spoon."

"Mm hmm. And don't think I'm so dumb I don't know you're making fun of me here. I don't want to talk about this any more. I'm sure you would have done a better job."

"I am not making fun of you. I'm just - - - admiring your creativity. And, like I said, I'm pretty impressed that you did all this all on your own. Really. But I'll help you the next time."

And, unbelievably, by now I was actually laughing. Because, yes, the shelves were crooked as hell. Even I could see that. And yes, some of those holes were awfully big. So - somehow, while my feelings could have been hurt, the man made me laugh. And made me realize how good it felt to laugh with someone. At myself. Someone I liked lots.

And sure enough - several months later we decided to move in together (very long story for another day), and he did hang shelves for me. A lot of shelves.

We moved again and he hung shelves.

We moved again and he hung shelves and put together bookcases.

We moved to Boone in 1996 and he did it all again.

And now he's putting together more bookcases.

When I offer to help, he always says, "I'll holler when I need you."

And he does, always, holler when he needs me, but it's never when he's working on shelves.

And, he's still making me laugh.

even at myself.

Moving Right Along - - - update on "The Little Library"

2012-01-27T17:33:00.001-05:00

I'm happy to report that "The Little Library" is coming right along!

Yay!!!!!

The painting is all done and Donald is in the process of putting the bookcases together.

Source: http://www.facebook.com/Trying-Gods-Patience/

The man is a saint.

I can't even begin to remember how many bookshelves he's built me over all the years we've been together. Or how many bookcases he's put together.

It's just one more way he's made my world a happier place to be.

source: http://www.facebook.com/Trying-Gods-Patience/

More pictures to come - stay tuned!

2012 Dilys Award Nominees Announced

2012-01-26T09:36:00.001-05:00

The 2012 Dilys Winn Award Nominees have been announced. The winner to be named at Left Coast Crime. The "Dilys" is given each year by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association (IMBA) to the book independent booksellers most enjoyed selling during the past year.

The 2012 Dilys Nominees Are:

FAITHFUL PLACE, Tana French
WICKED AUTUMN, G.M. Malliet
TAG MAN, Archer Mayor
A TRICK OF THE LIGHT, Louise Penny
GHOST HERO, S.J. Rozan

Congratulations to all the nominees!!!!

I have not yet read WICKED AUTUMN or TAG MAN, but certainly plan on doing so. I always look forward to hearing what the IMBA recommends.

FAITHFUL PLACE, A TRICK OF THE LIGHT and GHOST HERO were all on my "Best Of List" for 2011.

That little home project . . . . Part 1

2012-01-24T13:20:00.000-05:00

So.

You know we're working on a little home project.

Converting the little guest room into a little home library.

Some of you asked for before and after pictures.

I'm an idiot!

I love before and after pictures and can't believe I didn't think to do this all on my own!

I was sure I had pictures of the guest room, and I know I must since I take pictures all the time - of anything - of everything! But I'm not able to come up with one.

So we'll start an "IN PROGRESS" blog about the library with some pictures I took today (I have a love/hate relationship with the timer on my camera).

The bed is down and now lives in our storage building.

All the stuff that was stored under the bed is now scattered here there and yonder with final resting place(s) yet to be determined. (It was all under the bed for a reason, you see).

The bookcases we ordered have been delivered and are still packaged and cluttering up another room.

So far, I've put primer on the walls, and I've painted the ceiling.

Today is "Paint The Walls" day - Hooray!!

And pretty soon (Hooray!), we'll put the bookcases together (well, that would be Donald), and arrange them in the new little library (Whoopee!!!!!!).

And then, we'll start taking all the books off all the shelves and bookcases throughout the house (that would be me), DUSTING them, sorting them, and putting them back on shelves and bookcases throughout the house (because the little library isn't going to hold all of them) alphabetically rather than the oh so haphazardly manner in which they're now shelved. (My librarian friends would die).

And I'm excited! 'Cause then I get to decorate the room, which is something I love to do.

It's going to be wonderful and I am going to adore it!

More later, but right now I have to get back to my painting. This project is interfering badly with my time at the gym!!! And my reading time! And my writing time! EEK!

Don't be messin' with a woman on a mission!

Discovery by Jen Forbus

2012-01-21T21:31:00.000-05:00

Jen Forbus is above all else a crime fiction reader and fan. She’s been blogging at Jen’s Book Thoughts for the past four years and is always concocting schemes to encourage awareness of great crime fiction. When she isn’t doing that, she’s probably vacuuming pet hair from her two chocolate labs and four rescue cats.

Discovery

by Jen Forbus

We as humans, by nature, like what we know, what’s safe and comfortable. Our reading choices don’t tend to be different from that. We have our “must reads” from those authors we’ve come to know well. And if we’re honest with ourselves, many of us continue reading an author religiously long after he/she has started “phoning it in.” It’s safe and comforting. Sometimes that’s exactly what we need.

But what about the new authors you discover? How do you go about that? Do you seek it out actively or do you find yourself saying, “I don’t have time for a new author; all my favorites take up my reading time”?

Part of the fun of reading for me is discovering new authors. Last year I read 97 novels and of those 97, 51 were from new-to-me authors. Some I’ll not likely read again. Not that they were bad, necessarily, just that they weren’t the right fit for me and my reading preferences. But a good number of those new-to-me authors are going to be authors I look for in the future. And I’m thankful I took the chance to read them.

Let’s face it, it IS taking a chance. You’re giving up more than the money you might spend on the book; you’re giving up hours of your life on something you don’t know about yet.

I say “new-to-me” because many of my “new” discoveries are authors who have been around awhile: Mike Lawson (http://www.mikelawsonbooks.com/), Laurie King (http://www.laurierking.com/), Ace Atkins (http://www.aceatkins.com/). These are fun because you don’t have to wait for them to write more if you want to read more immediately. There’s already more available.

Other “new” discoveries were 2011 debut authors: Daniel Palmer (http://www.danielpalmerbooks.com/), Sara Henry (http://www.sarajhenry.com/), James Barney (http://jamesbarney.com/). There’s something special about getting in on the ground floor with a brand new author.

I come across these “new-to-me” authors in a plethora of ways: I may be assigned a book for review or receive a pitch letter that is too enticing to pass up. I may agree to participate in a blog tour. Or I might encounter that individual on social media and establish a relationship of sorts. I get to know that author as a person and then want to read his/her work. And then of course there are recommendations from people I trust.

2012 is already taking off like gangbusters in the new-to-me department. I’ve experienced Kyle Mills (http://www.kylemills.com/), David Ellis (http://www.davidellis.com/), Charlie Newton (http://charlienewton.com/), and Dana Stabenow (http://www.stabenow.com/), as well as debut author G.M. Lawrence (http://www.gmlawrence.com/).

I’m looking forward to Owen Laukkanen’s THE PROFESSIONALS (http://owenlaukkanen.com/) and Robert Greer’s ASTRIDE A PINK HORSE (http://www.robertgreerbooks.com/).

I’ve been reading a lot more non-American authors of late. I intend to add more new-to-me authors from this category as well, among them: Sarah Blædel (http://sarablaedel.com/) and Liza Marklund (http://www.lizamarklund.com/).

I’ll continue to be a devoted fan to my tried and trues. Elvis Cole still makes my toe curl and Ellie Hatcher will always be my hero. Visiting Absaroka County and Sea Haven are bonus vacations. But I’m going to continue to take chances as well because at one time, all my tried and trues were brand new, too.

How about you? What was a great new discovery for you in 2011? Do you know someone you’re going to take a chance on in 2012? How do you decide which books to take a chance on?

A little home project . . . .

2012-01-21T10:34:00.000-05:00

You know how home projects always start out sounding fairly simple?

Well, okay - right off the bat - we do know that they're not going to be simple.

But, I think human nature allows us to simplify the project somewhat in our brains. Otherwise none of us would even consider taking on another home project ever.

Donald and I are just getting into doing something I've wanted my entire life.

A library.

My very own little personal library.

And because Donald is one of the good guys - maybe King of The Good Guys, he's agreed that this is something we should do. (We won't even talk about how many years its taken me to convince him).

To say I'm over the moon is about right.

And it all sounded so . . . simple.

Take down the bed and move it to the storage building out back. Paint the walls. Move in some bookcases. Voilà! Library!

Right?!

Right!!

Then would come the hard part - unshelving all the books that are haphazardly arranged on bookcases and hanging shelves in every room in the house, putting them in alphabetical order by author's name and reshelving them (AFTER giving them a really really good dusting).

So.

The bed's been taken down and the first hitch in the plan comes when faced with all this "stuff" stored under the bed. A bed which Donald put up on risers to make it high enough to use for really good storage.

Shoes.

A lot of shoes on a wonderful little thing he designed and built. Clear shoe boxes fit on a shelf that I can roll out from under the bed. Perfect! But now - where will the shoes go? hmmmmm . . . .

Christmas wrappings.

Other various and sundry things that don't bear talking about.

Do they go out to the storage building? Well - not my shoes. I mean, I may be retired and not wear nice shoes every day, but still . . . .

Temporary measures needed. Shoes thrown into bags and carried upstairs and dumped in the floor in the sunroom. Other "stuff" - same thing. More other "stuff" - to the storage building. All things to be reconsidered once the bookcases are all in place. Perhaps one bookcase will be replaced by a storage cabinet . . . .

So now I need to go scrub down the walls. Then Donald is going to patch the holes left from things that were hanging on the walls.

Next step - I get to paint the room. It's a small room . . . . . no problem! Right?! Right!!

In the meantime, I'm going to be repeating my new mantra to myself every morning for awhile - - -

And, of course, keeping my eye on the prize at the end of all this.

The library I've wanted my entire life.

Y'all - life is good.

And worth a little hard work to finally get one of your dreams.

Harley Doodle Barley - - - -

2012-01-20T10:20:00.000-05:00

is the inaugural guest pet of the month at the always cool and clever Cozy Chicks Blog.

I hope you'll drop by!

http://www.cozychicksblog.com/2012/01/first-ever-cozy-chick-pet-of-month.html

Just to give you a clue as to just how cool they are, they've made a donation to the SPCA in Harley's name. How sweet is that?!

Thank you, Cozy Chicks!!!!

Many hugs,
Kaye
and
Harley

The 2012 Edgar Nominees

2012-01-19T14:13:00.000-05:00

From the MWA webpage:

Mystery Writers of America is proud to announce on the 203rd anniversary of the birth of Edgar Allan Poe, its Nominees for the 2012 Edgar Allan Poe Awards, honoring the best in mystery fiction, nonfiction and television published or produced in 2011. The Edgar® Awards will be presented to the winners at our 66th Gala Banquet, April 26, 2012 at the Grand Hyatt Hotel, New York City.

BEST NOVEL
The Ranger by Ace Atkins (Penguin Group USA – G.P. Putnam’s Sons)
Gone by Mo Hayder (Grove/Atlantic – Atlantic Monthly Press)
The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino (Minotaur Books)
1222 by Anne Holt (Simon & Schuster - Scribner)
Field Gray by Philip Kerr (Penguin Group USA - G.P. Putnam’s Sons – Marion Wood Books)

BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR
Red on Red by Edward Conlon (Random House Publishing Group – Spiegel & Grau)
Last to Fold by David Duffy (Thomas Dunne Books)
All Cry Chaos by Leonard Rosen (The Permanent Press)
Bent Road by Lori Roy (Penguin Group USA - Dutton)
Purgatory Chasm by Steve Ulfelder (Minotaur Books – Thomas Dunne Books)

BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
The Company Man by Robert Jackson Bennett (Hachette Book Group – Orbit Books)
The Faces of Angels by Lucretia Grindle (Felony & Mayhem Press)
The Dog Sox by Russell Hill (Pleasure Boat Studio – Caravel Mystery Books)
Death of the Mantis by Michael Stanley (HarperCollins Publishers – Harper Paperbacks)
Vienna Twilight by Frank Tallis (Random House Trade Paperbacks)

BEST FACT CRIME
The Murder of the Century: The Gilded Age Crime That Scandalized a City and Sparked the Tabloid Wars by Paul Collins (Crown Publishing)
The Savage City: Race, Murder, and a Generation on the Edge by T.J. English (HarperCollins – William Morrow)
Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President by Candice Millard (Random House - Doubleday)
Girl, Wanted: The Chase for Sarah Pender by Steve Miller (Penguin Group USA - Berkley)
The Man in the Rockefeller Suit: The Astonishing Rise and Spectacular Fall of a Serial
Imposter by Mark Seal (Penguin Group USA - Viking)

BEST CRITICAL/BIOGRAPHICAL
The Tattooed Girl: The Enigma of Stieg Larsson and the Secrets
Behind the Most Compelling Thrillers of our Time by Dan Burstein, Arne de Keijzer & John-Henri Holmberg (St. Martin’s Griffin)
Agatha Christie: Murder in the Making by John Curran (HarperCollins)
On Conan Doyle: Or, the Whole Art of Storytelling by Michael Dirda (Princeton University Press)
Detecting Women: Gender and the Hollywood Detective Film by Philippa Gates (SUNY Press)
Scripting Hitchcock: Psycho, The Birds and Marnie by Walter Raubicheck and Walter Srebnick (University of Illinois Press)

BEST SHORT STORY
"Marley’s Revolution" – Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine by John C. Boland (Dell Magazines)
"Tomorrow’s Dead" – Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine by David Dean (Dell Magazines)
"The Adakian Eagle” – Down These Strange Streets by Bradley Denton (Penguin Group USA – Ace Books)
"Lord John and the Plague of Zombies" – Down These Strange Streets by Diana Gabaldon (Penguin Group USA – Ace Books)
"The Case of Death and Honey" – A Study in Sherlock by Neil Gaiman
(Random House Publishing Group – Bantam Books)
“The Man Who Took His Hat Off to the Driver of the Train” – Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine by
Peter Turnbull (Dell Magazines)

BEST JUVENILE
Horton Halfpott by Tom Angleberger (Abrams – Amulet Books)
It Happened on a Train by Mac Barnett (Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers)
Vanished by Sheela Chari (Disney Book Group – Disney Hyperion)
Icefall by Matthew J. Kirby (Scholastic Press)
The Wizard of Dark Street by Shawn Thomas Odyssey (Egmont USA)

BEST YOUNG ADULT
Shelter by Harlan Coben (Penguin Young Readers Group – G.P. Putnam’s Sons)
The Name of the Star by Maureen Johnson (Penguin Young Readers Group – G.P. Putnam’s Sons)
The Silence of Murder by Dandi Daley Mackall (Random House Children’s Books – Knopf BFYR)
The Girl is Murder by Kathryn Miller Haines
(Macmillan Children’s Publishing Group – Roaring Creek Press)
Kill You Last by Todd Strasser (Egmont USA)

BEST PLAY
Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Suicide Club by Jeffrey Hatcher
(Arizona Theatre Company, Phoenix, AZ)
The Game’s Afoot by Ken Ludwig (Cleveland Playhouse, Cleveland, OH)

BEST TELEVISION EPISODE TELEPLAY
“Innocence” – Blue Bloods, Teleplay by Siobhan Byrne O’Connor (CBS Productions)
“The Life Inside” – Justified, Teleplay by Benjamin Cavell
(FX Productions and Sony Pictures Television)
“Part 1” – Whitechapel, Teleplay by Ben Court & Caroline Ip (BBC America)
“Pilot” – Homeland, Teleplay by Alex Gansa, Howard Gordon & Gideon Raff (Showtime)
“Mask” – Law & Order: SVU, Teleplay by Speed Weed (Wolf Films/Universal Media Studios)

ROBERT L. FISH MEMORIAL AWARD
"A Good Man of Business" – Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine by David Ingram (Dell Magazines)

GRAND MASTER Martha Grimes

RAVEN AWARDS M is for Mystery Bookstore, San Mateo, CA
Molly Weston, Meritorious Mysteries

ELLERY QUEEN AWARD Joe Meyers of the Connecticut Post/Hearst Media News Group

THE SIMON & SCHUSTER - MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD (Presented at MWA’s Agents & Editors Party on Wednesday, April 25, 2012)
Now You See Me by S.J. Bolton (Minotaur Books)
Come and Find Me by Hallie Ephron (HarperCollins Publishers – William Morrow)
Death on Tour by Janice Hamrick (Minotaur Books)
Learning to Swim by Sara J. Henry (Crown Publishing Group)
Murder Most Persuasive by Tracy Kiely (Minotaur Books – Thomas Dunne Books)

# # # #
The EDGAR (and logo) are Registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office by the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

Two Women Chat - - - Carolyn J. Rose and Nancy Peterson Farina

2012-01-17T18:43:00.000-05:00

Friends since second grade, Carolyn J. Rose and Nancy Peterson Farina chat about the impact one negative person had on them when they were very young, why they’ll never forget those experiences, and how that has shaped their lives.

Carolyn J. Rose, the author of 11 novels including A Place of Forgetting, a story of love, war, betrayal, and Thoreau, set in 1966, and a cozy mystery, No Substitute for Murder, released last month. She grew up in New York’s Catskill Mountains, graduated from the University of Arizona, logged two years in Arkansas with Volunteers in Service to America, and spent 25 years as a television news researcher, writer, producer, and assignment editor in Arkansas, New Mexico, Oregon, and Washington. She lives in Vancouver, Washington, and founded the Vancouver Writers’ Mixers. Her hobbies are reading, gardening, and not cooking.

Nancy Peterson Farina was born in the Bronx, grew up in the Catskill Mountains, and attended the State University of New York at Albany. She taught junior high English for 33 years in New Hartford, New York. She and her husband Sal have two grown daughters and two grandchildren. They split their time between Central New York and Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, reveling in blissful no-accountability.

Carolyn: Remember when we met in second grade? When they merged many tiny schools into one consolidated district? For me, that meant leaving behind the one-room schoolhouse a mile from home, boarding a huge yellow bus, and jolting along 12 miles of winding road to an enormous brick building. I’d been one of only two students in first grade at that tiny white schoolhouse at the intersection of two rural roads in the Catskill Mountains. Now I was one of many. At that one-room school, I’d been the pet of older students, coddled and encouraged. Now, everything changed.

Nancy: My experience started differently from yours, because we are from different little towns. When I started kindergarten, I was in the first class to attend the big centralized school, so I never attended a little school as you did. In kindergarten, my teacher was a darling grandmotherly-type. I loved her. Imagine my delight to be assigned to Mrs. Goodrich’s first grade class. I’m not sure about the “rich” part, but our teacher was of the fairy-tale good variety. I was also coddled and encouraged, expecting the loving environment to continue in second grade. Oh, what a naïve child!

Carolyn: And we didn’t realize that we were so naïve, or so powerless. Because of that, we lacked the awareness necessary to develop coping mechanisms. I remember our teacher as wearing black every day, even though I’m sure she didn’t. Let’s call her Mrs. X.

My father, who had returned with malaria from the China-Burma-India theater of World War II, had little sympathy with my tears and pleas to be allowed to stay home. In his universe, you weren’t supposed to like school or a whole lot of other things. You just sucked it up and did them. But my mother was a nurse, so often I was able to use a strategy of feigning sickness. Actually, there was little feigning. Dreading the misery ahead, I threw up most mornings. About half the time (I remember seeing a report card showing 80+ absences for that year), I persuaded my parents I was sick enough to spend the day with my grandparents, former teachers who had coached me along to a reading level well beyond second grade. Every day with them was a day spent reading books borrowed from the library instead of sitting in a stuffy corner of the classroom listening to others labor through endless repetitions of the adventures (and I use that word loosely) of Dick and Jane.

Nancy: I remember one time when my stomach was growling as Mrs. X droned on and on. Dick and Jane and Baby Sally . . . My eyes followed the minute hand. Noon! Why didn't anyone notice it was time to line up for lunch? I knew how to tell time, so it was up to me to alert Mrs. X that we were two minutes late.

Was I really trying to help Mrs. X or was I just showing off my new-found skill? In any event, I shouted out, "It's after noon! Time for lunch!" Grabbing my attention with her flashing eyes and face suffused with rage, Mrs. S. slapped down her book and ordered, "Everyone line up. Nancy, stand by me."

I thought I was being rewarded, until Mrs. X pinched my arm tight and stalked out the door. Down the hall we marched, her sharp fingernails digging into my chubby arm. Mrs. X let all her students file into the lunchroom and then swung me up to the glass wall looking into the cafeteria. "Wait here until everyone else has entered! And that's everyone—all the grades."

Mortified, I stood small and alone outside the glass wall, looking in at the kids eating. Students from third, fourth, fifth, and then sixth grade filed in, giggling and shoving, pointing fingers at me. After the last sixth grader had gone into the cafeteria, Mrs. X shouted for me. I felt a thousand eyes on my blood-red face. I put one foot in front of the other, felt my stomach churn, and threw up in front of the whole school.

What happened next is long forgotten, but the lesson I learned that day has never left me. Humiliation of another human being is wrong. Mrs. X certainly taught me well. I would never hold up a person to ridicule.

Carolyn: Whenever I hear that story I want to turn back time and stand with you outside of the cafeteria as the person I am now. But in second grade, I would have been too petrified to draw attention to myself and draw her wrath. To this day I carry the lingering feeling that I’m about to get into big trouble for something I didn’t even know was wrong.

I also learned a lesson about humiliation—but trust me to get it backwards at first. I came to the conclusion that humiliating others must be what grown-ups did because they could and because it was their right. So, in the process of growing up, and maybe in an attempt to armor myself, I was sometimes petty enough to use the weapon I saw wielded back in second grade. I’m “cured” of that now, although I have to admit that I still find a certain enjoyment in glimpsing the public humiliation of those in power who break faith and victimize others by lying, cheating on their spouses, etc.

But my mother also learned a lesson from my second grade experiences—you don’t have to simply accept the situations life hands you. You can speak up, speak out, and act. Years later, when she was marching against the Vietnam War, she apologized to me for not going to school administrators and lodging a complaint. Looking back, I wonder if that complaint would have only made things worse for me and for you.

Nancy: Back in the late 1950's, I doubt many parents complained about a teacher. It simply was not done. Today, your mother would be all over the principal, demanding that you be removed from Mrs. X's terror-zone. Back in the "old days," kids were at the mercy of bad adults. (Hmmmm... perhaps that is still true in too many situations.)

When I think about your 80+ absences, I vaguely remember you not being in the classroom often. When you were there, we were unconscious allies. Most everyone else was 100% compliant with Mrs. X. Our friend Sandy had her gorgeous dimples to protect her. We had no such weapons. I wonder what lasting effects there still are on our meeker classmates.

Carolyn: I wished I had dimples. And a decent haircut and style. Looking at this picture makes me howl with laughter. (If you’re reading this blog, feel free to chime in and comment on those bangs.)

But back to the topic at hand. I wonder what made her the way she was. It seems to me she was new at teaching and I wonder if she was overwhelmed by the reality of a room filled with little people with agendas of their own. I wonder if she was resentful because teaching wasn’t what she’d imagined it would be. And I wonder if she was frustrated because she had to make a living and this was one of the few options open to women at that time.

Having survived Mrs. X, you went on to teach in junior high for 33 years. Did your experiences in second grade enable you to make a stronger connection to your students? And in all those years of teaching did you ever look back and think that you understood a little of Mrs. X’s emotional state?

Nancy: Perhaps Mrs. X had much to do with the kind of teacher I became. Instead of ruling by embarrassment and intimidation, I welcomed my 8th graders with open arms. I always tried to make my classroom a safe haven, where my students knew they could expect a warm hello at the door, fairness, and respect for everyone—oh, and work! Lots of work! I expected the most out of every single one.

To improve reading, writing, speaking, and listening in 39 minutes a day plus homework is no lame feat! We squeezed as much out of every class period as possible—leaving a little time for a few belly laughs. For kids who struggled, I made myself available for extra help during my planning periods and after school. Hard work and encouragement by teachers is what helped me through a very difficult childhood. I could do little to change the bad home environments of some students, but I could be an adult who my students could depend on to teach with enthusiasm and to help them learn. Just one caring adult can work wonders for many children.

Carolyn: Fortunately, you and I found other caring adults to balance out our early experience with Mrs. X. And we found and developed strength within ourselves.

It could easily have gone the other way and I shudder to think where we might be now if we’d given up on ourselves and our dreams at that early age. But, like you said, we savored the encouragement we got and we worked hard and kept our eyes on the futures we imagined. I remember walking the quarter mile to the school bus stop, wind whipping my legs because girls weren’t allowed to wear slacks to school in those days, and counting up the days until I would graduate from high school and start to have a life that was all my own. (I was soooo dramatic back then; let’s hope I chew less scenery now.)

Robert Frost in “The Road Not Taken” talks of how “way leads on to way” and how the choice of the road less traveled defined his life. I chose to leave graduate school and join VISTA, then to work in adrenaline-fueled TV newsrooms for almost three decades. The pay wasn’t great and pensions were unheard of, so retirement is still out there for me and I’m working as a high school substitute teacher and—on most days—loving it. Being around teens puts me back in touch with the kid I was way back then and the powerful emotions I felt. I expect this is where A Place of Forgetting came from and I’m grateful for that.

Almost every day I’m at school I remind at least one teen that there are always choices, that those choices lead to others, and that we seldom find ourselves again at the same fork in the road and rarely get a “do-over.” I’ve made some not-so-smart choices in my life, but there were lessons in all of them so I would never wish myself back into the past to change things.

Except for second grade. If I could, I’d go back and hug those little girls and whisper in their ears, “Believe it or not, this will all work out for the best.”

Nancy: Troubled little girls are still out there—and still need reassurance that with hard work and spirit, life can improve. Sometimes that reassurance comes from a teacher, sometimes a family member or friend. Carolyn, you know that another major source of reassurance comes from books. If I had read A Place of Forgetting when I was a troubled teen, it would have sparked my spirit. All those life lessons you have learned become part of your novels, inspiring women. Keep writing, dear friend.

Carolyn: And you keep reading. And keep telling me about what you’ve read and what speaks to you in those books. Your comments and encouragement have been priceless.

I wish there had been more of a selection for us to pick from back then. And I wish there had been more books that were relevant to our time and situations. Now there are shelves loaded with wonderful books dealing with the traumas—in all shapes, forms, and degrees—of childhood and the teen years. And there are thousands of teachers and librarians helping to get those books into the hands of kids who might find refuge and strength and direction within the covers, kids who might grow up whole and happy because someone helped them see another road to take and they found a way to take it.

Three Authors Chat - - - Dana King, Timothy Hallinan and Pat Browning

2012-01-14T17:59:00.000-05:00

DANA KING

About Dana King:

His blog is One Bite At A Time

http://danaking.blogspot.com/

He's a regular contributor to

New Mystery Reader magazine

http://www.newmysteryreader.com/

Dana King has worked as a musician, public school teacher, adult trainer, and information systems analyst. His short story, "Green Gables," was published in the anthology Blood, Guts, and Whiskey, edited by Todd Robinson. Other short fiction has appeared in New Mystery Reader, A Twist of Noir, Mysterical-E, and Powder Burn Flash. He lives in Maryland with his Beloved Spouse, where he pays the bills by working as a consultant at an undisclosed location. It's not one of those, "he'd tell you, but then he'd have to kill you" deals. He's just not going to tell you.

WILD BILL, a story of Chicago’s crime underworld, is his first novel.

TIMOTHY HALLINAN

Tim’s links:

http://www.timothyhallinan.com/

http://www.timothyhallinan.com/blog/

Timothy Hallinan is the Edgar- and Macavity-nominated author of the Poke Rafferty Bangkok thrillers, published traditionally, and the Junior Bender mysteries, which are ebook originals. Also on Kindle are his Simeon Grist private eye novels. Earlier this year, he conceived and edited a volume of original short stories by twenty first-rate mystery writers, SHAKEN: STORIES FOR JAPAN, which is available for the Kindle at $3.99, with every penny of the price going to the 2011 Japan Relief Fund. (Please buy it.) And he also contributed to BANGKOK NOIR, a collection of stories with all royalties going to children's charities in Bangkok. He lives in Santa Monica and Southeast Asia, and he is lucky enough to be married to Munyin Choy.

PAT BROWNING

An award-winning newspaper reporter, Pat Browning set her first mystery, ABSINTHE OF MALICE (original title: FULL CIRCLE) in California's Central San Joaquin Valley, where she lived for many years before returning to her native Oklahoma. An extensive excerpt can be read at Google Books -- http://tinyurl.com/23pojdm. Pat's articles on the writing life have appeared in The SouthWest Sage, the monthly journal of SouthWest Writers, based in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

After her e-mail was hacked and she was locked out of her original blog (Morning’s At Noon), she started all over with a blog at Word Press:

http://browningpat.wordpress.com/

SUMMING UP

by Dana King, Tim Hallinan and Pat Browning

Kicking the old year out the door, looking forward to a new year – 2012 already? It’s a good time for taking stock.

PAT: Tim Hallinan is still winding down from an intensive promotional gig in Northern California. So, Tim, was it worth the time and expense? In terms of sales? In terms of personal satisfaction” In terms of reader feedback?

TIM: Viewed as a commercial enterprise, I probably spent 106 dollars for every dollar I made. In terms of personal satisfaction, it was a home run. I spoke to a standing-room only bookstore and then to about 14 people in a Thai restaurant, every one of whom had read QUEEN. These were mostly women in their sixties and seventies, and it's hard to imagine a world more removed from theirs than the one in that book, but they were right there with it, and felt the story quite deeply. And the next day I did a presentation about Bangkok to the Rotary, which is scheduled to meet there next year, and they said very nice things about it on their website. Just great.

You know, you can only sit alone and put sentences together for so long. Sometimes it's essential to get out and actually meet readers, if only to make sure they're not part of some shared writers' mythology.

PAT: Let's inject a little levity in here. On Tim's blog he says, "I would appear in bunny costume at Walmart if asked." Now there's an image for the ages! So, Tim, aside from the bunny costume -- what would you consider the ideal promo setup?

TIM: I had it in Fort Bragg/Mendocino. Ruth Sparks, who is a member of a reading group that was reading QUEEN, set me up the entire schedule I just listed, plus a library event for aspiring writers, and a short television interview.

I worked my ass off, and had an enormous amount of fun. The difference is having someone (preferably not me) pre-plan, so all the writer's time is used productively, rather than the usual, which is 60 minutes in a bookstore folowed by a 300-mile drive, then 60 minutes in a different bookstore. A LOT of effort for the results delivered.

I'll be doing something like Fort Bragg in May, when the people in Ashland, Oregon, are inviting me up for a whole calendar-full of things, including several book clubs who will have read something by me, stores, library appearances, etc. It's a great model.

PAT: How about you, Dana? You write other things but WILD BILL is your first novel. Do you anticipate going "on the road" to promote it, or do you plan to do your promoting on the Internet? Are you guest speaker for any gatherings so far? Or have you given any thought at all to promotion?

DANA : Unless something unexpected comes up, the Internet will be the sole means of WILD BILL’S promotion. It seems appropriate, since there is no physical book. I also have a regular job that keeps me plenty busy. Events like this work best for me because I can make time for them in small increments.

The last, but possibly most important reason, is because I don’t expect writing to become my primary source of income. Ever. I had that hope once, and made a conscious decision to abandon it. True, this decision was made substantially easier by the fact that no one has wanted to publish anything I’d written, so I can’t say there are no sour grapes involved. Still, I’ve been around the community of writers long enough now to see what is asked of them, and I don’t think I’d want to do it unless I did nothing else, and we all know there is no shortcut between where I am and there. So that’s not a realistic ambition.

That makes me less than a role model for people who hope to self-publish their way to fame and fortune. I’ve received some highly flattering praise from people I consider to be my betters as writers, and that alone has made it worth it for me to continue on in this manner, though I’m ready to adjust at any time.

Everyone has his price.

PAT: I haven’t had much luck with book signings. The best promotion for my book has been the Internet, and Krill’s genius in throwing it onto Kindle for $2.99 in the beginning and as a 99-cent special during the holidays. Sales were over the moon for the first six months, and less spectacular for the next six, but they seem to be holding steady. I will be doing a book review for the local Ladies Library Club in February, but I suspect all the “ladies” have already checked the book out of the library. No problem. I’m happy to know somebody is reading it.

Let’s talk about writing.

How do you rank plot, characters and setting? For me characters come first but setting is a close second, and plot drags in third.

One of my favorite comments on my book is from Beth Anderson’s: “I have rarely read a mystery with such a profound sense of place.”

Sense of place. I like that. When I wrote ABSINTHE OF MALICE I didn’t give the setting a second thought. I simply set my characters down into a place I knew. The town of “Pearl” is a fictional version of Hanford, in California’s Central Valley, where I lived for years, but with bits and pieces of other small towns in the Fresno area added where needed.

Hanford is just a typical small town in the Central Valley but its China Alley is a distinctive part of town. It has stood through time and weather, and the old Taoist Temple is now a museum with a gift shop downstairs. I launched my book (then titled FULL CIRCLE) there. I called China Alley “Shanghai Street” in my book. In the work in progress, part of the action takes place in the old tunnels that run under the street. They’ve been an open secret for years, and apparently really did exist.

So that’s my place.

Tim, I was interested in your interview comment about walking the streets of Bangkok until you felt you could write about it.

TIM: First of all, I agree with Beth's review. That town absolutely permeates ABSINTHE OF MALICE, and also the new one, part of which I've been lucky enough to have read.

What I said in that interview was, “And then I spent New Year’s Eve 1998 walking the city, from about 10 PM to 9 AM. I walked everywhere, but mostly off the main drags. And Poke came into my mind: a travel writer who writes about the places that are beyond the margins of the well-worn tourist paths. … “

So walking the streets of Bangkok gave me a series and a character, but learning to understand a little of the language convinced me I could write about it. The thing about Bangkok is that it's especially rich in gray areas, and for thriller and mystery purposes, gray areas are sort of like home plate.

One of the central questions in a thriller, for me, is which way will he/she jump? Will he or she be willing or able to do what's required? I think the black-and-white view of morality, as I've said several times, is a luxury of the well-fed or the secure, and one of the interesting things to me about this genre is watching people who once saw things in black and white realize that the world is a lot grayer than they realized.

PAT: Tim, you also know Southern California in and out. I’m thinking of SKIN DEEP, which knocked my socks off, and your depiction of the entertainment industry. You said a couple of characters were based on real people. How do you get away with that?

TIM: You (or I, anyway) do one of two things: You cross your fingers and hope they'll never read it, and that if they do they'll be too smart to call attention to the resemblance – that's what I did with Toby Vane in SKIN DEEP. Or two, you wait until the real-life model is dead, which is what I did with the 82-year-old mobster Irwin Dressler in LITTLE ELVISES and, now, in the third Junior book, THE FAME THIEF.

PAT: Tim, I can see where the character of Junior Bender comes from. He’s a high-wire dancer and so are you!

Dana, here’s a quote from your interview with Charlie Stella on his blog, Temporary Knucksline: “I traveled to Chicago several times when I was a musician and loved the town. When my mid-life crisis came early, I tried what The Beloved Spouse calls “a geographic cure.” The good news was that Chicago was perfect for me. Lots of ethnic neighborhoods made me feel at home, and genuinely nice people. Greatest city in the world, outside of Pittsburgh.”

Dana, is the Chicago setting a one-time deal for you? You say later in the interview that you are resurrecting an older PI novel. What is the setting for that one, and why different from Chicago, if it is?

DANA: Before we get into my attitudes toward Chicago, I want to glom onto the comment Beth Anderson made about your book, Pat. I was going to ask If Pearl was based on a real place, because it read more like a place described than invented. To me, this is critical in a book. We ask the reader to suspend disbelief, and sometimes we ask them to suspend a lot of it. We all do it. It’s called fiction.

Readers need something that grounds the story. Character helps, but we write crime stories, so at least one of our characters is not reliable, and they’re not supposed to know too soon who that is. Your descriptions of Pearl kept me in the moment. I could see the newspaper office, and even imagined how it would look if the wall was taken down as was discussed. It helped the story a great deal.

PAT: Thanks for your comments, Dana. As to Pearl and my newspaper office -- the newsroom in the book is darn near a word picture of the small newspaper I worked for in Selma, California, just south of Fresno. Working there in the 1990s was a ton of fun!

The small newspapers where I worked have changed and not for the better. Taken over by small newspaper chain, reporters ensconced in their own little cubicles, too far removed from the general public and from each other. Just try to get someone's attention! I'm glad I was there before everything changed.

Back to WILD BILL and Chicago.

DANA: WILD BILL was not my first Chicago book, and it’s not the last. I have a series of four PI stories set there; the fifth is my work-in-progress. It’s a perfect city for the kind of books I like to write. It reminds me a lot of Pittsburgh, which is where I say I’m from, though I grew up twenty miles northeast. Many neighborhoods—often ethnically oriented—and an intermingling of blue- and white-collar ethos (Pittsburgh is now more of a financial/medical city than a mill town). Sports are important to the people, and bodies of water are critical in each city’s evolution and economy.

And, of course, crime. Chicago in the middle part of the 20^th Century may have been the most corrupt city since Deadwood. Pittsburgh, too had its “Golden Age” of organized crime, extending as far as Youngstown, Ohio and into West Virginia. Both cities are also full of the nicest, most welcoming people you’ll find in a major city. All of those characteristics lend themselves to making the cities characters in any story, and I work to include as much of that as I can without turning the book into a travelogue.

PAT: How about openings? "Rule" makers say never open a novel with the weather.

I say: Weather affects our moods, our health, our actions, our history. If George Washington had tried to cross the Delaware on a warm spring afternoon we might still be part of the British Empire.

I like it when writers set a scene by telling me if the characters are caught in the rain, the snow, a Santa Ana or a sirocco. What about openers? A favorite opening from your own or someone else's novel?

TIM: Speaking of not opening with weather, it's funny that the most famous opening line in history, possibly other than "Call me Ishmael," is "It was a dark and stormy night." That opening violates one of my own preferences, which is not to open a book in the passive case.

Weather, to me, is a variation on setting. Setting, to me, is the interaction between character and place. Without interaction, place is just scenery, and I'd say avoid scenery (weather or otherwise) at the very beginning of a book. However the book opens, it should reflect and/or communicate the characters' internal processes. Anything that doesn't do that, it seems to me, just slows your reader's entry into the story.

The novelist Elizabeth Bowen famously said, "Bring all your intelligence to bear on your beginning." I'll go with that. The beginning of a novel is the door through which the reader enters the world of the book, and we really don't want him or her to look at it and decide not, in effect, to open the door.

But about weather -- I've just written a whole book of weather. The new Poke Rafferty, THE FEAR ARTIST, is about what can happen when someone is innocently caught up on the margins of the War on Terror, and the story is set against this year's unending rainfall that perilously raised the level in the Chao Phraya river and threatened moment by moment to flood Bangkok. The flooding seemed to me to be as blunt-force, destructive, and undiscerning as some aspects of the War on Terror are -- the dreadful reality that's so often dismissed as "collateral damage" as though the torn bodies and broken families were somehow abstractions of some sort.

Anyway, there's weather and rising water all over the place. My editor has it now, and we'll see how much weather is left when she's done with it.

DANA: Elmore Leonard is usually credited with saying never begin a story with weather. I’m just guessing, but I suspect his warning has something in common with Tim’s “dark and stormy night” comment. Describing the weather is one thing if it’s the literary equivalent of small talk. It’s not the same thing if the weather being described matters to the story. Tim’s new book sounds like it has the weather as a character, so it’s not just small talk; it’s important.

PAT: Do you have a favorite opening, Dana?

DANA: It's from Declan Hughes’s THE WRONG KIND OF BLOOD:

“The night of my mother's funeral, Linda Dawson cried on my shoulder, put her tongue in my mouth and asked me to find her husband.”

How could I not read that book? Those were the first of Hughes’s word I ever read, and I’ve read everything he’s written since.

Circling back to our weather comments, my favorite beginning to any story is Raymond Chandler’s “Red Wind.” Even Leonard allowed that a good enough writer could break the “opening with weather” rule. Chandler certainly qualifies there:

“There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.”

More than that, the wind runs all through the story. It’s practically a character. “Red Wind” isn’t Chandler’s greatest story, but it’s my favorite. It’s the best description of how Marlowe views his place in the world.

I used to have definite ideas about beginnings, but those have weakened as I read and write more. Different stories need different kinds of openings. My agent at the time WILD BILL was written told me it started too slow. She may be right, though a couple of reviews liked how the story built momentum.

Leonard also says to avoid prologues. I had one in WILD BILL, took it out, put it back in. Again, several people have spoken favorably about how it sets up the story. So, about beginnings, the answer is: it depends.

Damn it. Nothing is easy.

PAT: Elmore Leonard writes what he writes. Not one of my favorites but more power to him. I love your prologue, and much as it pains me, I have a prologue in my WIP. There was just no way around it. You’re right: it depends.

About those Santa Ana winds: I love ‘em. They set a scene like nothing else for me. Well, except maybe a storm at sea. But Chandler’s RED WIND is classic.

Another author who uses weather to good effect is Robert Crais. He starts CHASING DARKNESS with one of Southern California’s infamous wind-whipped fires:

(Quote):

“Beakman and Trenchard could smell the fire--it was still a mile away, but a sick desert wind carried the promise of Hell. Fire crews from around the city were converging on Laurel Canyon like red angels, as were black and white Adam cars, Emergency Services vehicles, and water-dropping helicopters out of Van Nuys and Burbank. The helicopters pounded by so low overhead that Beakman and Trenchard could not hear their supervisor.”

(End Quote)

DANA: Great point, Pat. I’m terrible with titles, especially when they’re part of a series. That one paragraph from CHASING DARKNESS is enough for me to remember the whole story. It’s one of Crais’s best.

PAT: More about writing: During the recent Mystery We Write group blog tour, Tim posted his 10 Commandments For Writing on Madeline Gornell’s blog. They are recommended for writers at any stage of the game – beginner or veteran.

TIM: I get a lot of mail from aspiring writers. Most of them have specific questions, although some are asking for more general guidance. A lot of the problems I hear about are based in the perception that there’s “no time to write.” This is an argument for which I have no sympathy at all, as this piece will prove.

Anyway, if an aspiring writer were to ask me for ten commandments, these are the ones I would carve into the page on my computer.

1. Write. Wanting to write is not writing. Talking about writing is not writing. Talking about a piece of “writing” that you’re not actually doing is creatively damaging and is guaranteed to screw up your idea.

2. Read. There’s no challenge that can be faced on a page that someone hasn’t already solved. Expose yourself to good writing; see how the people who did it solved their own problems.

3. Read some more. Read until you’ve found the kind of book you like best. That’s the kind of book you should write.

4. Write every day, or at minimum, six days a week. Only frequent immersion in the world you’re creating will keep it vital, in motion, and open to you. Quit for too long, and it becomes a dusty little diorama where you have to open the lid and reach in and move your characters around by hand.

5. Continue to write on the bad days. There are two reasons for this. First, if you write only on good days—when the material comes easily—you’ll never finish your book. Second (and you’ll find this out if you don’t know it already) you have no idea at the time whether you’re writing well or badly. Sometimes the best work is the work you enjoyed least.

6. Put your writing at the top of your “To Do” list. You have to build a little temple to your writing in the structure of your day and honor it. It is not acceptable to skip writing because you need to go to Trader Joe’s. If you had a new girl- or boyfriend, you’d find time for her or him. I hate to tell you this, but your writing may be with you longer than your new squeeze.

7. Keep your mind open when you’re not writing. The universe throws us material all the time: a face, a snatch of conversation, the name of a store, the way someone walks, a news story, a stupid joke. You want a sort of mental spider’s web to snare these things. Twice I had a book saved by something I heard someone say.

8. Finish your first story or novel or whatever it is. It doesn’t matter whether it’s perfect—in fact, it won’t be. No one has written a perfect book yet. But here’s the bottom line: Until you finish your first, you can’t start your second. The world swarms with aspiring writers with a dozen unfinished works. Finishing a work requires taking the idea through to the end, which is completely different from the beginning or the middle. A writer is someone who finishes.

9. Work on tiptoe. Don’t get comfortable. As you get better, write things you don’t know how to write, even if it’s just how to describe the weather interestingly, or manage a scene with four people in it in a way that the reader can keep it straight, or write a scene in which two people talk around their issue while the reader understands what they’re not saying. We don’t grow if we don’t stretch, so once you’ve hit your stride, lengthen it.

10. Be patient. You are going to get better. You get better every time you finish a paragraph. Writing is a lifetime activity, not a flavor of the day. It’s worth working for years to produce a good book. If that sentence doesn’t make sense to you, maybe you shouldn’t be a writer.

If any of these thoughts ring true to you, you might want to go to the FINISH YOUR NOVEL area of my website, where I’ve put up thousands and thousands of more-or-less organized words to help people get through that first book. If you like it, drop me a line. My website is www.timothyhallinan.com.

PAT: The one I like best is No. 10: “… Writing is a lifetime activity, not a flavor of the day. …”

DANA: I love Tim’s list. Leonard’s Top Ten list gets more ink—and it’s good—but this is more practical. What runs through every one of these is the key to writing well: it’s work. It’s not something you do when you have a few minutes lying around and there’s nothing on television. You make time for it. Too many potential writers are far more enamored of the idea of being a writer than they are in actually writing.

Which brings us to Number 8. Writing is finishing. Period. Ask yourself, what do Shakespeare, Faulkner, Sartre, Dostoevsky, and John Grisham all have in common as writers? They finish. You can put all the words you want on a screen and it’s just farting around. Writers finish.

My second favorite thought from this list focuses on Numbers 2 and 3, but also runs all through it. Writing is a commitment. When I was in graduate school for music, one of our professors told us we had made a commitment, and we could now never listen to music purely for entertainment again. Not that we shouldn’t enjoy it, but part of our mind always had to listen to how it had been interpreted, and to seek out the craft amid the artistry. Same thing with reading and writing. If you want to write, you must read, and you must read as a writer. Every book you read should teach you something, even if it’s what not to do.

TIM: I suppose I like them all, because I've endangered books by breaking every single one of them. But the one I live by is, write every day, and what gives me the most comfort is the realization that I really don't know whether I'm writing well or badly. I just have to keep writing.

And so, with Disney’s Seven Dwarfs shaking their heads in the background … Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go … with a shovel and a pick and a dynamite stick … heigh-ho, heigh-ho! And a Happy New Year to one and all!

Pat Browning, Timothy Hallinan and Dana King

A Snowy Day in Boone

2012-01-13T11:21:00.000-05:00

A snowy day, indeed.

And I'm enjoying it from inside the house.

This picture is one I took from our sunroom where I'm all nestled. It's sort of like being inside a snowglobe.

Harley and Donald are enjoying some outdoor romps, but I'm perfectly content sitting right here under a quiltie with a mug of hot chocolate with teeny little marshmallows, thank you very much.

2012 Books I'm Looking Forward To

2012-01-10T19:00:00.000-05:00

I am such a greedy wench.

As soon as I finish reading a book by one of my favorite authors, I'm tap tap tapping my toe waiting fo the next one!

Here's a list of some of the books I'm excited about reading this year:

Deborah Crombie's NO MARK UPON HER

Tana French's BROKEN HARBOR

Hank Phillippi Ryan's THE OTHER WOMAN

Louise Penny's THE BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY

Margaret Maron's THE BUZZARD TABLE (Another Deborah meets Sigrid novel - Yay!!!! This time in Colleton County).

I know there are others I'll be ecstatic about, but these were the ones that popped immediately to mind.

How 'bout you guys? Are you impatiently awaiting a novel from a favorite author??

about those resolutions . . . .

2012-01-09T12:26:00.004-05:00

Welcome to the New Year.

This is going to be a different sort of year for me than past years.

For one thing, it will be my first full year as a retired person. That seems to be working out just fine, fine, fine. (This is where I do a few back flips).

I'm finding myself more prone to just being quiet and doing a lot of pondering. I like to ponder.

source: parisandbeyond-genie.blogspot.com

Sitting quietly and allowing thoughts to just wander is a luxury. One I'm allowing myself more of.

source: chrisridley.photoshelter.com

And it's the year I'm truly going to try to stretch my wings. To grow creatively.

And also try to learn to "just be."

It's the year I'll be attending my first Malice Domestic convention, which I am super excited about. Some of my all-time favorite writers will be attending, Jan Burke is this year's Guest of Honor, Dana Cameron is Toastmaster. And - a huge big major plus for me - a woman I admire more than I can say, Elizabeth Peters aka Barbara Michaels, is being honored. I would not miss this for the world! I think I own every Barbara Michaels book published and re-read them all often.

I'm riding up to the convention on AmTrak. My first experience on AmTrak. I haven't been on a train since I was at Brandywine College and used to scoot around to a few favorite cities for the weekend - and loved it. I'm pretty much through with planes, I think. If I can't get there conveniently by car or by train, it's probably not gonna happen for me. I worked in the airline industry for several years in the late 60s/early 70s and I remember how much fun it was; it is so far from fun these days that I've decided it's just something I'm not going to do.

This was year I gave in and made some resolutions. Three of them.

One, to write.

Two, to read Julia Cameron's THE ARTIST'S WAY, and do the accompanying exercises.

Three, read David Busch's book about my camera and learn to use all its features.

So, nine days into the new year it may be time to give an accounting.

I'm writing. Happily so! I now have 48,214 written words. Not that they're all great words, or even THE words, but it's a pretty decent start, I think.

I've been getting lots of questions about this new venture of mine, and I have to say, I'm surprised at how much interest y'all are showing - Thank You!!!

I'm not ready to say too much yet (isn't that bad luck, or something?), but I'll tell you what I feel comfortable telling you. I started writing "The Book," in April of last year. It takes place in the south (surprise!! LOL!!).

Actually, truth be told, y'all are probably going to be sick to death of this book way before I ever get to "The End."

I'm reading THE ARTIST'S WAY, and have started doing the Week One exercises. It's interesting. Some of what she says is the sort of thing that makes me kinda itchy. It's not my normal way of looking at things, or going about things. I'm not one who puts the name "God" so "out there" in my normal course of conversation. But. At the same time, some of what I've read so far has resonated with me. So, I'm going to continue and we'll just see how it goes.

Sadly, David Busch's book about my G12 camera is still sitting on my nightstand looking a little lonely. But, it is after all, only the 9th day of the year. There's still time!

The one thing that has suffered so far this year is my reading. My "reading for fun" reading. It's very unusual to have only read one novel in this many days. I'm going to change that, or end up with a major case of the blues.

I hope all of you who made resolutions this year are feeling as though that's working out and feeling proud of yourselves. And I hope you're all reading more than I seem to be!!!!!

Happy 2012!

Twenty Years and Counting by Reed Farrel Coleman

2012-01-07T18:23:00.000-05:00

Called a hard-boiled poet by NPR’s Maureen Corrigan, Reed Farrel Coleman has published fourteen novels. He is the three-time recipient of the Shamus Award for Best Detective Novel of the Year and a two-time Edgar Award nominee. He has also won the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards. Reed is an adjunct professor of English at Hofstra University and he lives with his family on Long Island. 

Twenty Years And Counting

By

Reed Farrel Coleman

With the recent releases of my thirteenth (Gun Church, Audible.com) and fourteenth (Hurt Machine, Tyrus Books), it dawned on me that my very first novel, Life Goes Sleeping, was published over twenty years ago. Many are the day I wonder where all that time has got to. So much has happened between the call I got from Permanent Press’s Marty Sheperd informing me they intended to publish LGS and now, that it is really hard to fathom. On the one hand, it seems to have taken forever to get from there to here—wherever that is, exactly. On the other, it’s all been such a blur. Two things, though, have been constant through it all: my family and my routine.

Well, about the family first. It hasn’t remained quite constant because my son Dylan was born in 1992, but since then … It’s so strange to look back and to realize how little I knew then and how little I know now. I wonder sometimes if I wasn’t so naïve about publishing if I would have let myself in for all the heartache. No, of course I would have. I was born to write and, for me, it has all been worth it. I mean, we all have heartache at even the lowliest jobs. Heartache and disappointment are part of the package in any career choice. It just hurts a little more when you push all the chips into the center of the table and invest everything you’ve got.

The things I’ve been thinking about lately aren’t necessarily my sacrifices, but the sacrifices my family has made and continues to make for me. Without them, I would have achieved nothing. Without them, anything I would have achieved would have meant nothing. It’s one thing to have a dream and to make sacrifices, but art is a weird dream. Inevitably, the people around you make as many sacrifices for your art as you do. I think of all the vacations we didn’t take, of the schools my kids voluntarily didn’t apply to, of all the clothing my wife wore for that extra year. 

And I cannot emphasize enough how important routine is to a writer. Sure, when we’re inspired, writing is easy, but how many days of the year can one count on inspiration? Very few, my friends … very few. I learned that lesson when I took poetry writing in college. Until then, poetry was always a matter of the inspirational moment. Then I started getting assignment. POD: poetry on demand. Eventually, you learn to sink or swim. And you learn that routine is the way to swim. Sit your tush down in your chair at the same time every single day and you’d be amazed at the results. I’ve been doing it for twenty years and so it must work.

Synopses of new novels:

GUN CHURCH: Kip Weiler was once an 80s literary wunderkind. Now because of his own foibles and insecurities, he’s fallen on hard times. Twenty years after his last novel, he’s teaching creative writing at a rural community college. One day he saves his class from a potential bloodbath. For this he gets a second fifteen minutes of fame and, more importantly, the urge to write again. Little does he know that the book he is writing may be his undoing. He gets deeply involved with two of his students and a cult-like group obsessed with the intrinsic nature of handguns. It’s kind of like WONDER BOYS meets FIGHT CLUB  with guns.

HURT MACHINE: It’s two weeks before his daughter’s wedding when Moe receives very grave news about his health. Then to add to the drama, his ex-wfie and former PI partner, Carmella Melendez, returns after a nine year absence to ask Moe for a desperate favor. It seems Carmella’s estranged sister has been murdered outside a Brooklyn pizzeria, but no one, not even the NYPD, seems interested in finding the killer. Why? That’s the question, isn’t it?

Friendship = Generosity. Or Not

2012-01-05T13:58:00.001-05:00

This is a topic I've danced around about here for a couple of years. Maybe since the very beginning of Meanderings and Muses, actually.

You all know by now how I feel about friendship and connections and loyalty. It means a lot to me to have the friends I have. Friends I cherish and who I know, deep in my heart of hearts, cherish me back. This does not mean everything is rosy all the time. Just like in a marriage, there are going to be differences of opinion - and there should be. Those people who tell me they've never had a cross word with their spouse are, frankly, people I tend to shy away from. I think they're either not being truthful (maybe only with themselves), or they're so insecure they don't feel comfortable stating or sticking up for their own opinions. Or - God forbid - they really don't have their own opinion, and allow their thoughts to be formed and molded by others.

All this is the truth as I see it. Loyalty is just part of the equation of friendship. As is generosity. Or so I thought.

I've always recognized that there are people in my life who I think of as friends who I also have a competitive relationship with. And it has always made me uncomfortable. But when the competitiveness turns into something I feel is unhealthy, then I'm outta here.

I fought some feelings of disappointment when I first started telling some friends about starting Meanderings and Muses. Some seemed a little dismissive. I tried to be a big girl about it by telling myself, "Well, you know, it is just a blog. Not a biggie."

Then I went through it again when I had my very first piece published in a regional anthology.

And again, I told myself, "Well, it's not as though it's a book or anything."

Now I'm writing that book. And, to me, it is a biggie. And it has helped me come to grips with these past slights. A real friend would not have put me in a position of doubting the importance of those things.

Accomplishments which may not have been a big deal to others, they meant something to me.

They're part of who I am, and should be handled gently by those who call themselves "friend."

I've always spoken my mind. Although truthfully, only up to a point. Easy to do with acquaintances, co-workers, or strangers. And yes - I mean face to face. I am not one of those people who hides behind the anonymity of the internet. That's a coward's way - and a topic for another day. But, in all honesty, telling a close girlfriend that she has hurt my feelings is hard for me. It's hard for a couple of reasons. Who wants to admit that they've been hurt, first of all? I'm a strong person, never doubt it, but I do have feelings and I am basically a bit of a marshmallow when it comes to those feelings. A marshmallow who also happens to have a bit of a temper and, sadly, a very sharp tongue. I react badly when I'm hurt. I lash out. For these reasons, I've held back (or tried to) when it comes to saying how I really feel sometimes to my friends because I'm afraid I'll say way too much and cause permanent damage to a relationship that I do find important. I don't want my mouth to ruin something I treasure. Really, I don't think I'm any different than a lot of people in this. Don't most of us try hard to bite our tongues so as NOT to hurt those we care about with careless words said in anger?

At the same time, I think I'm generous with my friends. And it's an honest generosity. If good things happen to people I care about, it makes me happy and I love sharing the joy with them. I feel honored when they call to tell me good news. And I want to share it with everyone I know.

And I'm loyal to my friends and family. I will jump, with both feet, on anyone who messes with my loved ones.

Which is why I've been surprised when I've shared news that has made me happy, only to feel rebuffed or dismissed in return. Surprised and hurt.

Where's the generosity I was hoping for? The loyalty?

Am I somehow not worthy of receiving that which I think I've freely given?

I have to say - it's hard admitting these things even here. But. This is the year I've promised myself to be more honest in my writing. What that means is, I guess, that I'm also going to be more honest with myself.

And that means I've been hurt by people who will not get an opportunity to hurt me again.

Not

Ever.

My Favorite Reads of 2011

2012-01-03T13:32:00.001-05:00

I read 162 books in 2011. I think. Each time I tried to count my list I came up with a different number, but when I came up with the number 162 twice I decided that was the number I'd go with.

It's hard for me to choose favorite books. And my favorites might be favorites for reasons that others might not use as their own criteria. I might choose a favorite based on the fact that it is a first book by an author and I'm applauding their efforts while at the same time I feel as though their next effort is the one that's going to blow me away, with their first one being their warm up - although one hell of a warm up. And in many cases here, I'm actually choosing the author rather than one of their books. This is because I think of their books as one body of work that I can re-read back to back seamlessly - cases in point would be series by Margaret Maron and Louise Penny who have each written a series that has not included a single entry that I found to be a disappointment. While I am a huge fan of other series, I can't make that same statement about most of them. In fact, some of my favorite series writers did not make my list this year. That's not to say I didn't like their latest, it just means it didn't grab me and carry me away. Also, some of the books I've included here are re-reads. I re-read a lot, it brings me comfort and it's something I'll continue doing forever, I suppose. And, oddly enough, I may even enjoy a book more during the second or third read than I did the first, and I "think" it has a lot to do with my mood or state of mind at the time. Who knows. Rather than analyze it, I'd rather just go with the flow and enjoy it.

My entire list of 162 (or there about) reads can be found here - Books Read During 2011. If a book was included on this list, I liked it. I'm not one who will continue reading a book that's not interesting to me. Culling this list to those that had a bit more of an impact than others almost defeats me every year. If I weren't such a fan of lists, I probably wouldn't do it.

So - here they are in the order read, the most recent at the top of the list. As you can see, I've added a few personal notes and reflections.

No idea how many this totals up to, but I guess I named more than my Top Ten, huh? And just narrowing it down to this many has given me a headache!

Should you choose to read anything I've shared, I hope you'll let me know what you think. You may love some of them, and you may hate some of them. Either way, I'd enjoy hearing what your thoughts are.

Happy Reading! ! !

Words to Live By - by Neil Gaiman

2012-01-01T13:13:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure, but I would have to guess that this is one of the most shared quotes of our age.

It is, for sure, one of the loveliest.

From Neil Gaiman

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."

May we all remember these words - and try our ever lovin' best to live by them.

and keep the magic in our lives as long as we can.

source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dominic_kamp/3495695552/

Book Bliss - Old and New

2011-12-31T19:51:00.000-05:00

As the year comes to a close, I'm still pondering my "Best of 2011 List."

It's hard! I read a lot of really terrific books this past year.

Two books, however, pop immediately to mind, and they will top my list - Margaret Maron's THREE-DAY TOWN and Louise Penny's A TRICK OF THE LIGHT.

Both books were books I've been waiting for. Margaret finally gives us Deborah and Sigrid together and Louise gives us the event I started hoping for in the very first Three Pines novel. I finished both books with a smile on my face and immediately read through them a second time. Pure Bliss ! ! !

They were worth the wait.

2011 brought some new authors to my attention that found their way onto my "Auto Buy List." They're a fairly wide ranging group. I can't think of a single word that might fit each of these writers and tie them together in any manner, but they each captured me in a big way. Well, actually, I can. They're all women. Something I did not realize until now. I "think" I read a pretty good mix of both men and women, but I have to admit, this is going to send me back to the list of books I read in 2011 and see if that's really true. Huh. How 'bout that? A mystery to ponder . . . .

Here are my new discoveries. If you haven't tried any these authors yet, please do and let me know what you think. (I'd suggest reading the Tana French books in the order written. They're not really a series, but each novel introduces a character you'll meet in the next novel. And I would most definitely read Susan Hill's Simon Serrailler series in order).

Sarah Addison Allen - "North Carolina novelist Sarah Addison Allen brings the full flavor of her southern upbringing to bear on her fiction -- a captivating blend of fairy tale magic, heartwarming romance, and small-town sensibility." author bio

Tana French - "Ambitious and extraordinary" Washington Post

Julia Glass - "Glass establishes her literary credentials with ingenuity and panache." Publisher's Weekly

Susan Hill - "Thoughtful mysteries...elegant prose." New York Times Book Review

Erin Morgenstern - “Every once in awhile you find a novel so magical that there is no escaping its spell. The Night Circus is one of these rarities — engrossing, beautifully written and utterly enchanting. If you choose to read just one novel this year, this is it.” Danielle Trussoni, author of Angelology

Barbara O'Neal - “As dark and deep and sweet as chocolate…I wanted to live in this book.” Sarah Addison Allen

Any discoveries you'd care to share?

And I'd like to wish all of you a Happy New Year! May 2012 bring you nothing but good things!

Happy New Years Eve! by Laura Childs

2011-12-30T22:55:00.000-05:00

Guest blogger, Laura Childs, is the New York Times bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries, Cackleberry Club Mysteries, and Scrapbooking Mysteries.

Happy New Years Eve! While many of you are tipping back an eggnog or two, or looping arms around friends and trying to remember the words to Auld Lang Syne, I’m doing what I inevitably do on holidays.

I sneak down to my computer and dash off a few paragraphs.

Can’t help myself. I just love to write. I mean, there’s a reason I’ve written 29 books in 11 years. But please believe me, it did not come easy. There were many starts, stops, and hiccups before I was finally able to push through and finish a complete manuscript.

And it wasn’t because I’d had a manic breakthrough or a transcendent bop on my head.

No, as a mystery author I owe a tip of the hat (click of the mouse?) to innumerable mystery and thriller authors whose fine writing spilled little puddles of light to help illuminate the way. John Sandford and his terrific Prey series comes to mind for textbook-perfect gritty yet wholly believable characters. Michael Connelly is a master at deft plotting with beaucoup subplots tossed in for good measure. Jeffery Deaver taught Forensics 101 to all of us writers. And Mary Higgins Clark continues to demonstrate that ordinary women can so easily be ensnared in dangerous life and death situations. (I also have Mary to thank for sharing her agent with me.)

But the one author that regularly knocks my socks off is Stephen King. When I met King years ago, he talked about how his stories always began with a what-if.

What the heck is a what-if?

Well, it’s an author’s basic jumping off point. In one of King’s earliest books, Salem’s Lot, he asked himself, What if vampires invaded a small New England town? In The Green Mile he posed the question, What if a death row murderer possessed paranormal powers to do good? In Misery, his what-if gave us a hapless, damaged mystery writer held hostage by his biggest fan.

What-ifs are a lot like log lines for a TV show – or an elevator test for a killer sales pitch. They’re short, punchy summaries. In novel writing, what-ifs help you hone in on a single, compelling premise that forces you to confront the very essence of your story line. A what-if premise strips your story down to bare bones, preceding even words and internal architecture.

Which means that, after much mumbling and stumbling and analysis of other author’s novels, the proverbial light bulb really did flicker on above my head. And I realized that I, too, needed to figure out a what-if, then lay out the premise of my novel like a hapless leopard frog in a biology lab. And once I did that, the blue print was there!

In Skeleton Letters, one of my Scrapbook Mysteries, I asked myself, What if a scrapbooker tasked to design a haunted house interior encountered a flaming body tossed from a third floor tower? That launched me head first into a first chapter filled with non-stop action. No fussy back story, no long-winded character introductions.

In Agony of the Leaves, my new Tea Shop Mystery that comes out in March, I asked myself, What if my tea shop owner, bored with serving tea and scones at an aquarium grand opening, wandered off to peak at a new ocean wall exhibit and discovered a floating body tangled in a net?

I want to tell you, that crazy what-if premise really works like a charm.

And now, as I’m hunched over my computer, strains of New Year’s festivities tinkling down from upstairs, a few snowflakes tick-ticking at my window, I smile to myself and think, Thank you, Stephen King. Because my brain just binged out another what-if idea that ought to jump-start my next chapter from zero to sixty!

Happy 2012 everyone! Peace, health, and best wishes!

Requiem for a Fallen Star by Shane Gericke

2011-12-28T20:18:00.000-05:00

Shane Gericke has been held at knifepoint, hit by lightning, and shaken the cold sweaty hand of Liberace. He was born to write thriller novels! His latest is Torn Apart, a finalist for the Thriller Award for Best Novel, and a Book of the Year at Suspense Magazine. Shane, whose last name is improbably pronounced YER-kee, spent 25 years as a newspaper editor, most prominently at the Chicago Sun-Times, before jumping into fiction. An original member of International Thriller Writers, he was chairman of the ThrillerFest literary festival in New York City and founding director of its agent-author matching program, AgentFest. He also belongs to Mystery Writers of America and the Society of Midland Authors. His novels—available in print and e-books—are in translation worldwide, and his national bestselling debut, Blown Away, was named the best first mystery of 2006 at RT Book Reviews. He lives in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, the home of world-famous detective Dick Tracy, with whom Shane shares no resemblance except steely jaw and manly visage. Check him out at http://www.shanegericke.com, and on Facebook and Twitter.

Requiem for a Fallen Star

By Shane Gericke

People ask why I write.

I respond with a variety of answers, all of which are true:

Satisfaction. Money. The nobility of honest work. The fact I’m happy when I write and I’m cranky when I don’t.

But there’s one big reason that dwarfs everything else:

I want the good guys to win.

That doesn’t always happen in the real world. In real life, evil triumphs and goodness gets its lights punched out. Not always, but often enough to discomfort and sadden. To make us reflect too often on the what-might-have-beens of decent lives snuffed too soon.

But in fiction, I rule. From a moon made of green cheese to bullets that bounce like sponge rubber to heroes that run seemingly forever, I can make anything happen.

And I do.

In my fictional world, heroes win and villains get what’s coming to them. That can be jail. More often, it’s death, usually painful, always creative.

Because in real life, the good die too tragically and too young. Here is how it happens in real life, when you’re a cop in Chicago . . .

You’re born. You grow. Your family adores you. So do your friends. Likewise the neighborhood that shaped you, and you in turn helped shape.

When you’re old enough to know what’s what, you decide to join up, give a little back. Two tours in Iraq; Army green, hoo-ah! Breaking the bad guys, defending the good.

You survive the killing sands, move back into the ’hood. It’s changed. Once vibrant and free, it’s slouching toward Gomorrah, infected with killers and dopers, bangers and thieves. Good people run. More run scared.

You decide to join up again; this time the cops, Chicago blue, hoo-ah! Just like your Pop, retired now, but then, as now, a hell of a sergeant-man. He’s not scared like the other good folks. But he’s worried. And if he is . . .

You decide to double down.

You could live anywhere in Chicago: Downtown. Uptown. A safe-as-the-suburbs neighborhood of cops, firefighters and politicians: Mount Greenwood. Sauganash. Edgebrook. Beverly. But you chose the ’hood because you want to make it better, and only personal commitment counts. So you find a place, start working with the children, the ones that can still be swayed, still be saved. Become guardian of your neighborhood park, the one named after Nat King Cole.

You step up to community leader, then to president of the local advisory council. All the while you’re driving that CPD blue-and-white, a cop three years next month, working your snitches, warning the bangers, swinging a stick, keeping it real, hoo-ah! Telling anyone who’ll listen, and a bunch of knuckleheads who won’t, that your Chatham neighborhood’s gonna be great again, just you wait and see.

You love the work and it loves you back. You become good at it. Become exceptional. The ’hood starts believing and begins to rally. Some long rows to hoe, no argument. But you’re 30, you’ve got the time, you can hack it. You’re son and soldier, cop and protector, and the good start breathing again. You’re happier than don’t know when . . .

It’s May 19, 2010. A nothing-special Wednesday, day floating by, plunging into night. You hop on your motorcycle. The shiny one you bought ’cause you’re young and you’re single and you survived and you can.

You’ve pocketed the pictures you just snapped at a D.C. memorial service for fallen police, knowing Pop’ll like them.

You roll over to your parents’ home. You park at the curb, admire the neat, meticulous brickwork laid by your grandfather. You’ve got your own place, sure. But home is where you grew up, where your ancestors’ spirits breathe, where Mom and Pop still live.

You’re home.

You walk inside and have a chat. You can tell Pop’s proud. Of your shiny new ride. Of your decision to put on a uniform and fight for your country, then strap on a gun and fight for your city. Of going to the police memorial in your nation’s capital. Of bringing home the pictures.

Of you. Pop is proud of you.

Police Officer and Iraq combat veteran Thomas Worthham IV

You talk about everything; gas about nothing. Before you know it’s 11:25. Time to get gone ’fore night slides back to day. Smiling, you walk to the curb, swing your leg over your steed. Pop’s waving from a front window. You’re waving back . . .

Two young skinnies pop from nowhere, screw a gun in your ear: Gimme the motorcycle, fool! Pop sees ’em from the window, belts a holler: Leave my son alone!

Punk turns, busts a cap.

You might have waited this out. No choice now with bullets flying. Scream you’re Chicago Police. Pull your gun from under your shirt, open fire. Banger-man pulls his trigger. Metal craters your head. You tumble off the bike, blood showering asphalt. Your brain says you’re dying. Your body won’t accept it. Your fingers crawl toward your gun. But metal’s a wolf pack and brains are bleating lambs . . .

Your lights are winking out.

Pop charges from the house with his own cop gun. A red Nissan getaway screeches into the curb. Four skinnies now, two in the car, two in the street, their kill-gun hunting fresh meat. Pop fires. One’s dead. Pop fires. Second’s crippled. Pop’s going for the triple then the grand-slam . . .

The two in the car roar off. They run you over. They drag you a quarter-block, over asphalt and garbage and glass. Finally you fall off, roll unceremoniously into the gutter.

Sirens shriek. Blue lights flash. Shots fired. Officer down. Sirens shriek. Blue lights flash. Shots fired. Officer down. Officer down. Officer down . . .

Pop races to your side, kneels on the cold unfeeling street . . .

The officer's motorcycle and the sheet-covered body of one of the robbers—who was shot dead by Wortham’s father moments after his son was slain by four men trying to steal the motorcycle—are seen at center. (Chicago Sun-Times photo)

Your name is Thomas Wortham.
Your Pop is Thomas Wortham.
His Pop is Thomas Wortham,
and so is Grandpa’s dad.

Four generations,
from a Chatham once so lovely,
they’re gathering ’round an angel now,
blood dripping from his hands.

They’re praying for a miracle
they know will never find you,
’cause you’re gone now, dead and gone now,
’cause four killers didn’t care.

You’ve been dumped into a gutter
cold and lonely, garbage mounting,
and only God can mourn you,
’cause four killers didn’t care.

Because that’s how it happens,
when you’re a cop in Chicago.
When murder’s in four shriveled hearts,
your blood drips on your hands . . .

On May 19, 2010, a Chicago Police officer named Thomas Wortham IV—an Iraq veteran who came home to police one of the toughest neighborhoods in Chicago, the South Side’s Chatham, because he loved the good people still living in the ’hood—was gunned down in front of his parents because four young robbers wanted his motorcycle. It was an outrageous symbol of a deadly year for American law enforcement: line-of-duty deaths leaped 37 percent from the previous year, according to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund, to 160. Five of them were Chicago cops: Worthham, Thor Soderberg, Michael Flisk, Michael Bailey and Alan Haymaker.

I can’t keep them safe. I can’t keep anyone safe. I don’t have that power. Nobody does.

A police squad car sits in front of the home of Chicago Police Officer Thomas Wortham IV's parent's home, as residents do their morning walk at Cole Park. (Chicago Tribune photo)

But what I can do is create an alternate world for my readers to slip into when the real one overwhelms. A world where good guys win and bad guys don’t, where decency is rewarded and jerkdom slapped. Where tension and trauma and crazy and outrage and love and caring and hope reign just like the real world, but at the end, justice triumps.

For everyone.

And that, ultimately, is why I write crime fiction.

So the Thomas Worthams can live.

Thomas Wortham III (center) salutes as the casket of his son, Chicago Police Officer Thomas Wortham IV, is brought out following funeral services at Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago. Wortham was shot to death May 20, in a robbery attempt across from his parents' home in the Chatham neighborhood. (Chicago Tribune photo)

A New Year's Resolution

2011-12-26T12:52:00.000-05:00

I stopped making New Year's resolutions a long, long time ago.

And then, just a couple days ago, I posted two resolutions here at Meanderings and Muses. But they're fun things, so are they still resolutions? They're not at all those evil hard resolutions that mean sacrificing something you love - like ice cream, milkshakes, potato chips, pizza or chocolate. Heaven forbid! I know better than to make that kind of empty promise to myself.

The resolutions I make these days are fun and fulfilling, but things that I seem to get busy and "lose." Lose the time, I guess, to do them. But this next year, I'm going to try to plan my time better to do these fun, creative, fulfilling things and spread my wings a bit.

Especially with my writing.

And I'm going to put this quote up on my laptop as my screensaver in hopes that it will help me remain fully focused and committed to the novel I've finally started working on -

"The secret to being a writer is that you have to write. It's not enough to think about writing or to study literature or plan a future life as an author. You really have to lock yourself away, alone, and get to work."

- Augusten Burroughs, author best known for "Running With Scissors, a Memoir"

Wish me luck!

Christmas in Boone 2011

2011-12-25T20:43:00.000-05:00

It was a quiet Christmas in Boone.

It's just us, and we keep it simple.

Mother comes over on Christmas Eve and we have a nice dinner and visit,

Then we relax while we play a quiet, fairly sedate and somewhat serious game of Canasta.

And Christmas morning we all get up and are always excited to see what Santa has left under the tree.

And we're all happy for the blessings and joys of our life and look forward to another year of the same.

But Wait!

We get one more Christmas celebration with Donald's family! Yippee! Stay tuned!

Home of My Heart

2011-12-24T12:57:00.007-05:00

This was one of the original versions of a piece I wrote a few years ago. There were many. A better version (edited by the incomparable Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham) was published in the regional anthology WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES. It's a wonderful collection from a group of extraordinary women. I'm proud to be included.

(isn't the cover wonderful?! It was done by Karen Hollingsworth. You can see more of her work at her webpage)

This is dedicated to Celia. She may not remember this, but I'll never forget. When we were at the "Meet & Greet" for WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, standing around chatting, having pictures taken, etc., she looked at me and said, "You were born to write. I want you to stick with it." Celia, every word I have written since you said those words - and every word I ever write until I am no longer able to find words, or to write them, will all - always - be dedicated to you. With my heart.

I spent the first 16 Christmases of my life in the home of my heart. The Arcade Apartments. It wasn't fashionable, but oh my, it was special. Made special by my parents, Hazel & Al Wilkinson, their families and friends and my friends who they always welcomed with open arms.
And as those of you who know me already know, it was in Cambridge, Maryland where I was born and raised and still hold dear.

Here's my Christmas gift to all of you. I hope you enjoy it.

HOME OF MY HEART

As much as I dearly love these mountains and our life here, my heart often gets a longing for my childhood home. I grew up in a small town on the water and it’s essential to my very soul to get back to it when I can. Back to where I learned how to ride a bike. Learned how to drive a car. Kissed my first boyfriend. And even learned what it meant to have my heart broken by a best girlfriend. Back home to stand on a riverbank and stare out into the expanse of forever where the sky and sea become one, in a small town named Cambridge, on the eastern shore of Maryland. A land of charming, gracious living.

I feel its pull, and know its tug at my roots; calling me home. I feel that need to cross bridges over huge expanses of water. To watch white sails skimming elegantly across sun speckled azure seas like ballerinas on-stage. When I mention this urgent need for water to Donald he points out that we have a creek, and we have a pond - a pond chock full of rainbow trout, by golly. True enough. And quite lovely. But. Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'll ever see a sailboat out there. I need to smell marshy smells. Need to eat crabs that have recently been blissfully swimming along minding their own business. I need to spend a little time with friends who have known me since we were kids. People I can just be myself with; letting down all walls and defenses. So off I scoot to where I’m safe in the knowledge that lifelong friends will open their arms and their hearts yet again and give me back my sense of home. Where I can feel salty air cling to my skin.

I get to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water, and, just as lovely – smaller ones. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge makes my heart swell. The Choptank River Bridge into Cambridge makes me cry buckets.

Once I’ve crossed that bridge, there’s an almost indefinable pervasive sense of wholeness that wraps me in a hug. A sense of peace not easily explained, but effortlessly understood by anyone who has experienced the joy of returning “home.”

From the time I was 3 months old until I was 17 we lived in a grand, if somewhat bedraggled, old apartment in The Arcade. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and dining room had immense bay windows. Those two rooms opened into one another through an archway. The kitchen was huge with a separate pantry and our stove was an old timey thing on high legs.

This kitchen was “the” place to be. Many an hour was spent sitting at the kitchen table looking out the windows. One window overlooked a big grassy lawn, which sadly, after a few years, became a parking lot. Sad for me as a kid ‘cause there went my back yard. Fun for me as I got older, however, and enjoyed observing some of the goings-on that took place when folks didn’t realize there were eyes above them. Oh my – the tales this girl could have told!

From the other kitchen window we would watch the rear door of Woolworth’s and see who was coming and going. Thus began my love of people watching.

This was not Eloise at the Plaza. This was small town living. We were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we had been out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant socializing, mixing and mingling with the folks buying tickets to see a movie. Since everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are you’s?" to get up those stairs.

None of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked. Which also meant we never knew who might be there waiting for us. Rest assured, there was always someone. It might be one of my aunts, uncles or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends from school. Amazingly enough, as odd as it might now sound to some, it was never cause for concern back then. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." And the kitchen was the hub where everyone gathered. Even if we weren’t there.

That wonderful old kitchen was where we had most of our meals. The dining room was for “special occasions.” We had, of course, that ubiquitous chrome and leatherette table and chairs; a set I’d surely love to have today.

This was where we sat for conversation and gossip over a cup of coffee. Hot chocolate for the kids.

And it’s where I sat and watched my mom and dad cut a rug.

There was a radio that sat right inside the kitchen door. I have the most delightful memories of my dad scootin’ through that door, turning up the radio and leading my mom into a vigorous jitterbug all over that room. Oh my. Could they dance!

I remember a lot of laughter around that table, one day in particular . . .

(Laws, I hope my dad forgives me for telling this one!)

When I was growing up there were a couple of "stag" bars in Cambridge. No women. I don't know if they specifically ever said "No Women," or if women just wouldn't be caught dead in them. There was one not far from our apartment called the DD Bar. It was owned by a friend of Dad's, and it was a wonderful little place. I adored it. The DD Bar was one of those grown-up "No Kids Allowed" places I would sneak into under the guise of “needing to see my dad.” Then acting all stunned and bewildered about why I had to leave when my mom showed up at the door to retrieve me. It was a long, narrow, and dark. With a charm that only bars from that era can possess, without a smidgen of artifice. There were maybe 4 booths in the front, along with a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail. There were also pinball tables, a shuffleboard table and a dart board. Nary a fern to be seen; plastic or otherwise.

If Daddy needed to work for a couple hours on Saturday afternoons, he thought it was a great way to make some extra money. Where else could he earn a few extra dollars while hanging out with his buddies laughing and watching a ball game on TV?

We had a local radio station and on Saturdays the DJ, Ed Brigham, would make a phone call to give away a free prize to someone if they could answer the question of the day.

On this particular Saturday, Mother and I were home, in the kitchen, and the radio was on, of course. We heard Mr. Brigham announce that the question of the day phone call was about to be made. We crossed our fingers hoping it would be our phone to ring. Well, it didn't, but we did hear a very familiar voice over the radio say "DD Bar, Al speaking."

How fun! My dad!!!!

Mr. Brigham said "Hey Al, this is Ed Brigham, how ya' doin'?" After a few minutes of small talk exchanging some "how's the family" kinda stuff, Mr. Brigham told Dad he would win two free tickets to the Arcade Movie Theater if he could answer the question of the day.

You could hear all the local Cambridge bar flies talking and hollering and laughing in the background, along with the TV blaring and pinball machines ping-pinging. Dad told everyone to quiet down 'cause Ed had a question.

The question was "How long is a decade?"

Well, Mother and I laughed and she said she guessed she and Dad would be going downstairs to see a free movie soon.

Then we heard dad over the radio yelling to the guys in the bar "Ed wants to know how long is a duck egg?"

WHAAAT?!?

Mother and I just about fell in the floor screaming we were laughing so hard.

A DUCK EGG?!

You could hear all these men saying stuff like, "a Duck Egg? Hell, I don't know, Jim Bob - what do you think?" Answers like "2 inches, 3 inches - oh hell no, an inch and a half," and things like "Who even cares??" “Is that a real question??” were all loud and clear over the radio. This went on for awhile and finally dad stopped laughing long enough to say "Well, Ed, we think maybe an inch and a half."

Ed Brigham was hysterical and said "Al. Hazel is going to kill you. NOT a Duck Egg! A DECADE!!!!!!!!"

Dead silence on Dad's end. Then he started laughing really hard and had to tell the guys he'd made a mistake. When he told them what the question really was we could hear them hootin’, hollerin’, shoutin’ and a brayin’ – mass hysteria.

For years, when we went out to eat or went shopping downtown, someone would holler "Hey Al! How long's a Duck Egg?!"

We all share a common bond of memories of “home.” Those special moments which make our homes unique and special.

I have a beezillion of them.

There was a little mini-community besides the movie theater in the Arcade lobby. There was a jewelry store, a beauty shop, an insurance company, and the gas company. I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with me. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.

The three of us were also piling into the car for a weekend away every so often; usually to the beach and boardwalk in Ocean City. One particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, one of my uncles was going to paint our dining room. Mom & Dad bought the paint and said it should be enough to cover the walls well enough if he was careful.

Our dining room was a big room with a big bay window. The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time. Well, that ol’ sun told some tales on those painters.

When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone was really pleased about how terrific the room looked with its new paint. Mother was pleased as punch.

The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you. Wheweee.

Seems my uncle, who was quite the artist, invited a friend to help him. Adult beverages were involved. Artistic tendencies arose. From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his pals on our dining room walls. The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys. But, not well enough. With the sun streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint.

Its made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment for awhile. They did put up another coat of paint and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face. Or Goofy's. And, honestly? It was a fun and lovely thing. What is lovelier, after all, than a home that possesses a bit of whimsy and can make you smile? That is, after all, what makes it "home."

Note: If you're interested in purchasing a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, I think there are still some copies available through Celia's webpage. Along with another regional anthology I'm quite proud of, CLOTHES LINES. AND some of Celia's books may still be available there also.

Two Things I'm Promising Myself I'll Do in 2012

2011-12-22T19:34:00.000-05:00

Read Julia Cameron's THE ARTIST WAY and do the exercises.

And read David Busch's book so I can actually learn how to use my camera the way it's meant to be used, and not just point and shoot it.

Did I just make two New Year's Resolutions?

Well, yes.

I guess I did.

I'll be darned.

And there's still one to come . . . .

I'm the Bush Poodle, not the Blind Poodle by Lou Allin

2011-12-21T20:54:00.000-05:00

Born in Toronto, Lou Allin grew up in Cleveland. She received a PhD in English Renaissance Literature and spent three decades in Northern Ontario as a professor of English.

With a cottage on a frozen lake as her inspiration, she started her Belle Palmer series, featuring a realtor and her German shepherd, beginning with Northern Winters Are Murder.

Lou has moved to Canada’s Caribbean, Vancouver Island, with Friday the mini-poodle and Zodie and Zia the border collies, overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Her island series stars RCMP corporal Holly Martin: And on the Surface Die, She Felt No Pain and the upcoming Twilight is Not Good for Maidens.

Lou’s standalones are A Little Learning is a Murderous Thing (set in Michigan) and Man Corn Murders (Utah). That Dog Won’t Hunt is designed to appeal to reluctant adult readers. Watch for Contingency Plan in the same series.

I’m the Bush Poodle, not the Blind Poodle

by Lou Allin

"The hunchback of Notre Dame with a Rastafarian haircut. Cute," Belle Palmer observed as a six-pound bundle of coppery fur with a woolly chest squirrelled past, leaped to pose standing on thin, shaved legs on a rocky outcrop, and then sprang off to clamp onto Freya's nodding German shepherd tail until long hairs dangled from its tiny jaws. An insult to the dog kingdom, she thought, a $700 rodent.

"Strudel's her name. She's good enough to eat," Miriam MacDonald said.

How many dogs have their own mystery novel? I’m a writer and a dog lover, so all of my dogs get that privilege. This excerpt comes from Bush Poodles are Murder, written in 2001. Friday (her real name) is now ten and blind. It’s both a special responsibility and a great honour to have her as my friend and companion.

I first saw Chile Pepper (as she was called by her breeder) when she was eight weeks old. We had gone down to southern Ontario to buy a mini-poodle to fit well with our German shepherd when traveling in our truck’s extended cab. At that time we thought that poodles were low maintenance since they didn’t shed. Big mistake, that.

The GMC’s rear seats had been replaced with a padded platform. That’s where Friday’s crate went. Her 120 pound “brother” Nikon was instructed firmly not to approach the baby. He became her guardian for the five years he had left, a gentle giant.

On our honeymoon night we camped in a crowded provincial park near a shale beach. It was humid and hotter than hell, even for Ontario. As we took her leashless around the large campground, she stayed by our feet like a furry magnet. But just in case, we put a collar and rope on her and tied her to a picnic table while we made dinner. Like a wild colt, she thrashed and screamed like she was being tortured. What she was telling us was that she was bonded. Friday was smart enough to know that she was home wherever we were.

As we sweltered in the small tent, flaps open, with our two dogs and bulky air mattresses, Nikon stepped out for a breath of air. Fumbling in the dark, I went after him. When he got back in the tent, he stepped on the keys and hit the remote horn. The truck started blasting all over the campground, waking two hundred people before we found the control tangled in the sleeping bags. It was an auspicious start.

How could I resist putting her in my next series book? To hype the necessary conflict, I made her a spoiled little girl, but a gutsy heroine in the final scenes where she and the main character find themselves without shelter during a Northern Ontario blizzard. There’s a reason that in the picture she has blood on her mouth and a look of satisfaction. She’s also wearing her Anna Karenina cape. A picture of her jumping with snow in the background put her on the cover of Dogs in Canada. Not bad for a six-month pup.

Since we lived in the woods, aka the bush, she was out every day, winter and summer, hiking or snowshoeing. A mighty mouse, she was fearless but prudent. Speed was her salvation. Once an agile young Doberman met us around a corner and started chasing her. Off they went down the woodsy paths and out of sight. “My money’s on the poodle,” my partner said. I envisioned the worst, but in a few minutes, back she came, having led the hapless Dobe on a wild chase and looping back through the woods. Agile lightning.

Even at -25C, she never missed a trek, wearing her monogrammed purple fleece and nylon parka with slots for handwarmers. The corkscrew nature of poodle hair meant that her paws would become duck feet and have to be “deballed” every fifteen minutes. Once we tried a pair of Mutlucks, but they flew off as she sped along. I tied them in a fir tree on our favourite path.

As five years passed and we moved to Vancouver Island, Friday’s night vision was worsening. An exam showed the beginning stages of retinal atrophy, a common genetic weakness. Since the onset occurs after the age of five, her parents wouldn’t have shown the disposition.

She carried on normally for a few more years as we moved into border collies and started agility training. Friday would chase hell for leather after the bouncing tennis balls from the Chuck-it. Woe to the border collie who got in her way. She was Alpha Bitch at fifteen pounds. She soon adapted to the winter rains and traded her parka for a yellow rain slicker.

Two years ago, cataracts put her lights out. There was no use operating on them with the underlying retinal problem. But the blindness had come so slowly that she adapted perfectly. Now she uses her sense of smell and hearing to follow our feet into the rainforest and up and down clear-cut roads. Only near a precipice do I use a leash just for precaution.

When we reach a lake or creek, she remembers that she used to dive for stones, pull them onto shore, and then paw at them in an homage to her terrier roots. She still does this at shore’s edge, but we spit on the stone so that she can better locate it and drop it only inches from her powerful nose. She’s still in on the game! Next treat for her will be a salmonberry or blackberry as they ripen on our magical island. As for mud, she slogs with us through the worst bogs in spring, navigating roots and rocks and up to her knees in muck. At home it’s into the bathtub with me for a good soaping.

Does she bump into things? Of course. She gives an “oof,” has a restorative shake, and marches on. We never leave her behind, even when we’re backpacking into the wilderness where she might (and we might) might be cougar bait. Life is no fun behind the door. Inclusion is a debt we will happily pay for the years of happiness she’s given us.

In the tri-level house, she goes up and down the stairs like a pro, then jumps onto the ottoman where she holds court in safety while the border collie chases a toy. The ritual is familiar. “Ready, steady,” then “break!” On the last word, she jumps to a pouncing position. “Ruff, ruff!” she calls down in that commanding poodle way. She’s still participating.

While she used to jump on the bed with aplomb, that was one trick she had to abandon, or so I thought. Having been in a kennel for a few days while we flew to Arizona, she was very excited on my return. She leaped up on pure faith when I patted the bed. The other day she did the same thing in the rear of our Ford Focus wagon where she rides in a crate. So eager was she to leave for the walk that she leaped up into the back by herself. Our border collie Zia, already crated, might have been telling her that the way was clear.

Friday depends on us to watch out for her without setting too many limits. She is as much a lover of life and challenges as she ever was, teaching us lessons about bravery and adaptation AND the sheer joy of action. I’m not her owner. I’m the partner of one very intelligent and truly amazing little dog.

Books Read During 2011

2011-12-19T20:43:00.003-05:00

source: lili.or

Every year I used to promise myself I would keep a log of the books I read. And I would immediately forget. Then I'd remember again, but only after I'd already read a few books, but couldn't be sure I'd remember them all to include on the list, and so - - I couldn't bring myself to start the list. It's sort of like missing the first 30 minutes of a movie. I just can't watch it if I've missed the beginning. And being the anal ol' soul I am, I can't bring myself to start a list if I can't be sure it's going to be a complete one.

So.

I finally remembered to start a list during 2010 and found it to be a fun thing. Great fun for a compulsive list-maker like myself!

If you're interested, you can see my 2010 list here -
http://meanderingsandmuses.blogspot.com/2010/12/books-read-during-2010.html

And because I had so much fun with it, I did it again in 2011, and plan on continuing the tradition in 2012.

'Tis a fun thing.

It may seem a little early to post this list since it's only December 19th, but with the holidays I stay a little busy doing all the things we all seem to be doing this time of year, including baking. I seem to do a good bit of baking, which I always enjoy anyway, any time of the year. And making candy. I don't usually do a lot of candy making, but this year is "The Year of White Chocolate Bark" at our house. White chocolate bark with lemon was such a hit that tomorrow we're going to try making some with crunched up root beer barrels. I'll let you know how that goes. Here's a picture of the Lemon Bark

In addition to all these holiday activities, the next book I'm going to read is a biggie. In more ways than one. I'm hearing pretty impressive things from people who have read it. The word "amazing" keeps popping up.

Although, I'm not a huge fan of everything by Stephen King, the books I have liked, I've liked a lot. And since I'm of an age that I remember exactly where I was when President Kennedy was shot and vividly recall being in front of the TV seeing Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald, this is a book I can't pass up.

Coming in at 849 pages, I may still be reading it come January 1.

This is also the time of year when many of us pick our favorite books of the year, which is an almost impossible task for me. I'm going to ponder this for awhile and post that list separately at a later date.

But I can post my favorite cover! Hands down - for me - Erin Morgenstern's THE NIGHT CIRCUS (which will definitely end up on my "Best Of" list. I loved it!).

Here's my list of Books Read During 2011


Harley loves being read to

Since writing this, I received two ARCs in the mail that I just couldn't resist, so I have two new books to add (both excellent!):

FTC Disclosure Notice

FTC has a regulation which went into effect in December, 2009 which says, basically - "Amateur Bloggers to Disclose Freebies or Be Fined." Significantly fined. So. Since I happen to be an amateur blogger who sometimes receives free books, here's my required FTC Disclosure Notice: Dear FTC - Regarding review copies of books obtained for this blog. No other compensation is accepted beyond review copies of books - ever. When I do write a review, or opinion, the source of the book cited will be disclosed in the post in which the review/opinon appears. If you have questions, please feel free to contact me.

source: homedecorarcade.com

Batter Up by Twist Phelan

2011-12-18T17:18:00.000-05:00

A Stanford graduate and former plaintiff's trial lawyer (her specialty was suing middle-aged white guys who stole other people's money), Twist Phelan writes critically-acclaimed and award- winning (including the ITW Thriller Award) short stories and the legal-themed Pinnacle Peak mystery series (Poisoned Pen Press). She is currently at work on a suspense novel set in the business world.

Batter Up

by Twist Phelan

I changed into my uniform in the umpires’ locker room—the one for players is boys-only. Everything was major league issue, from my cap and sunglasses to my uniform pants and cleats. I was pleased to see “Twist” instead of “Phelan” on the back of my jersey, and my bat had my name engraved on it, too. I even wore official boxer-briefs with the team name stitched on the waistband. I used the athletic cup as a dish to hold my sunflower seeds.

I trotted onto the field across the lush manicured grass as my name flashed on the JumboTron. I high-fived my teammates and stood on the first baseline for the National Anthem. Then it was fly ball drills, followed by fielding, pitching, and hitting.

When I received the invitation to attend batting practice this summer with the Colorado Rockies, I was over the moon. I’ve been a baseball fan since high school, when I cut class for the first and only time to see the Oakland A’s play in the World Series. When I lived in Arizona I followed the Diamondbacks, and now that Colorado is home, I root for the Rockies.

Practice was a humbling experience. Catching fly balls that rocketed skyward from the ball machine like cruise missiles was next to impossible. Despite the help of a fielding coach, I missed every one. I have new respect for the guys who do it while 40,000 fans scream at them. The sun really does get in your eyes.

Playing shortstop went a little better. I dove for a line drive—not only did I stop the ball, but I got my uniform dirty. Pitching was fine. The coach was impressed—okay, surprised—that I had a leg kick and could throw it over the plate.

Hitting was the highpoint. I mashed two balls (out of six) into the outfield off a former pitcher for the SF Giants. Granted he wasn’t throwing heat (lukewarm would be a charitable description; around 70 mph) and I’m sure twenty-five years of playing polo have sharpened my hit-ball-with-stick reflexes, but it was still a heady moment.

I refused to change out of my uniform after practice and stopped for a half-dozen unnecessary errands on the way home. En route, I thought about Marianne Moore’s poem Baseball and Writing. It opens:

Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting

and baseball is like writing.

You can never tell with either

how it will go

or what you will do;

generating excitement—

a fever in the victim—

I have been feeling the fever lately as words fly onto pages like balls fly into fielder’s gloves. Like a team manager, I have a game plan for my writing. And as happens in baseball, it doesn’t always work out—plots go into extra innings, a new character is sent in for relief, computers break when you’re at bat, the batting order of projects must be shuffled. Still, I wouldn’t play any other game, on or off the field. And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t sleep in my uniform. Well, maybe just the jersey.

Merry Christmas! or not

2011-12-16T13:20:00.001-05:00

I just love this time of year. I love the spirit of it all. I love decorating the house. I love a tree with little twinkly lights and ornaments that have a special memory attached. I love all the cooking and baking that's a part of it. I love choosing what I hope is going to be THE perfect gift for my loved ones. And I love opening gifts from my loved ones. It brings out the kid in me, and I like that.

I had thought I might write about the whole debate about the words "Merry Christmas."

How some folks would prefer "Happy Holidays."

How some folks wouldn't.

Then I decided that no, I wasn't gonna do that.

The truth of the matter is, I was raised as a "Merry Christmas" kinda gal. I've been shouting these words for 63 years, and it's kinda hard to just drop all that and in a split second try to remember what I "should" say so as not to upset anyone. When I shout "Merry Christmas" it comes from the bottom of my heart. I do it with my arms wide open, a smile on my face and a little bit of joy in my heart that I'm willing to share. That's all I'm doing. I'm not trying to make it "MY" holiday; I'm really not attaching any religious connotation to it. It's just simply, on my part, a greeting. My reflections on the bigger picture of Christmas will take place in private. Quietly. In my home, and in my heart.

So, when I see you on the street during this time of year and shout "Merry Christmas!" rather than think badly of me, just shout back whatever your holiday greeting is and may we smile at one another, nod our heads and wish one another well.

Wishing you and yours a happy and joyous holiday season.

Looking Back by Molly Weston

2011-12-14T19:07:00.000-05:00

Molly Weston is an Apex native. She is a former magazine editor at the FPG Child Development Center at UNC-Chapel Hill.

Looking Back

by Molly Weston

It's here! It's the most wonderful time of the year, and one can't help making comparisons. Almost every house sparkles with lights, and stores begin the season before Halloween. When I was a little girl, however, decorations never appeared before Thanksgiving, and very few homes had more than simple greenery on the doors. In fact, I can remember only three houses in Apex that had outdoor Christmas decorations. Two families had big houses with tremendous evergreen trees in front. Every Christmas they would have the huge trees strung with colored lights. Folks would watch for the ladders to appear in the yards and then make plans to "ride by tonight and see the lights." Sometimes I'd beg Daddy to "turn around and let's see them again." It never took much begging.

One day when I was still young enough to enjoy roaming Daddy's wood working shop and listening to the men talk, my ears perked up with joy. Woodie Maynard approached Daddy with a novel Idea. "I want to make a sleigh with Santa Claus and the reindeer and put them on my roof," he said. "I'll put a spotlight on it at night. It'll be something special." There was nothing Daddy enjoyed more than a new project and Woodie had spent much time during his growing-up years in that workshop, so Daddy knew they could work together well.

Plans came together quickly. They even decided to make the reindeer's legs move! Woodie bought outdoor plywood and patterns (I'm sure they embellished them!) and soon eight tiny reindeer became reality. The sleigh and Santa quickly followed. When the painting was finished, the structure was ready to be mounted. It stretched across nearly the entire top of the Maynard's ranch house. No longer would a single spotlight highlight the creation, Woodie put several spot lights to illuminate the whole thing. It was totally worth it. We heard reports that folks were driving out from Raleigh to see the Apex decorations.

Our small downtown district's merchants also exhibited holiday spirit. Near the curb in front of every store, the sidewalks had two-inch metal pipes sunk flush with the sidewalks in front of every storefront. The only purpose of these pipes was to hold the live Christmas trees bought and decorated by every merchant. All the trees were strung with colored lights and most were decorated. As soon as dusk fell, the lights would be turned on and the whole downtown turned into a Christmas wonderland! Ah, it was lovely.

Folks were very careful when parking cars. Nobody wanted to hit a Christmas tree! Occasionally, however, somebody would back a little too far and hear the anguished cries of the children in the back seat, "You've hit the Christmas tree!" Drivers, passers by and merchants would pitch in to right the tree and calm the cries.

To further the Christmas spirit downtown, a live Santa Claus roamed the streets, greeting children and adults alike. A first grade teacher, my mother really believed in Santa Claus. She'd sing out, "Hello, Old Santa," to the jolly man as we walked to the grocery store. Mother always infected people around her with the spirit of the magical season.

Few people had more than a tree inside, but Mother was ahead of the curve. She'd use cotton and mica snow with abandon. She'd whip Ivory Snow into stiff peaks and pile it gracefully on both greenery and bare branches. One year, probably during the mid-fifties, she had a grand idea: She and Daddy would make a mobile to hang from the arch dividing the living and dining rooms, and the heat from the floor furnace would make it move.

We always put our Christmas tree in front of the living room window facing the street. These two rooms were usually closed off and heated only when we had company. The mobile in the arch would connect the decorations from the two rooms.

Daddy was agreeable—remember, he loved a new challenge. Mother bought new Christmas balls for the mobile—a box each of gold, green, and chartreuse. The plan was to cut lengths of clothes hanger wire, assemble them into a mobile with light-weight fishing line, and tie the balls to the wire with additional lengths of the fishing line. Somehow, the directions failed to mention the near impossibility of balancing everything perfectly. Mother and Daddy worked on that mobile every night after supper for weeks. Finally, it was perfect. (Their tempers, however, were slightly frayed.) The doors to the formerly off-limits rooms were thrown open and the floor furnace ran all through the season (well, what was left of it, anyway)—and everybody who came to the house, whether guest or delivery man, was invited to see the mobile.

At last, it was Christmas Eve. As usual, Mother kept me busy all day—I had to get ready to welcome Santa Claus. Santa, you see, would be driving a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer (not to be confused with the sleigh and reindeer on Woodie's roof!). By the time they traveled to North Carolina from the North Pole, they'd be ready for refreshments. I was sent to the garden to harvest hay for the reindeer. Mother explained that reindeer liked all sorts of dried hay–the dried vines from our garden would be perfect. And I should gather lots of it because there were eight reindeer and they'd be very hungry. They also would be thirsty. I must have a bucket of water ready for them. It took me many trips to the water spigot, carrying a quart of two of water every trip before I filled that bucket!

Finally, after supper, Mother helped me arrange an attractive plate of cookies and a big glass of milk for Santa. I was allowed to choose an embroidered napkin from my grandmother's handiwork to leave at the place setting. After the day's chores, I was ready for bed, if not for sleep.

When I awoke on Christmas morning, even before I checked my toys, I looked to see if Santa had eaten his cookies. All I found were crumbs—and a very dirty napkin. Mother shook her head and said, "That Santa Claus! Look at the soot he got all over my good napkin!" Oh yes, Mother really believed in Santa Claus and that magic will always continue in my family.

Today I have two or three Christmas trees every year (two remain up continuously), poinsettias in several rooms, and gaily wrapped packages. There's frequently the smell was Christmas wassail coming from the kitchen and cries of, "Don't eat the pretty ones!" when cookies come from the oven. Inspired by my mother, I fill the house with holiday pillows, candles, and greenery. It's just the thing to do.

My parents and Woodie are no longer with us, but Woodie's children continue the tradition. Just a block from my house, the second generation Santa drives his sleigh with eight tiny reindeer across the front lawn of the family's home place.

Christmas Wassail

2 qt. water
1 cup sugar
3 allspice berries
1 stick cinnamon
2 cloves
1 qt. cider (not apple juice!)
1 qt. orange juice
1 cup lemon juice

Tie spices in cheesecloth. Combine water, sugar and spices; bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 1 hour. Remove spices. Add remaining ingredients and heat through. Refrigerate until used. Heat before serving.

From Our House to Yours - - -

2011-12-13T16:36:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidays!!

Neighborhood Christmas Party

2011-12-11T13:26:00.000-05:00

A few pictures from our little Christmas "do."


Our hosts, Judy & Fred - Thanks, guys!!!!!!

After snackies and drinks, then dinner - we got down to the business of the gifts.

This is always a highlight.

Some of the gifts are hysterical and silly, a lot of the gifts are lovely handmade items, and there are some wonderful pieces of art. We have a potter, a sculptor, a collage artist, a couple of painters, a woodworker/furniture maker, a leather worker, a couple of knitters, a stained glass artist, a weaver, a couple of writers, and a faux bois concrete artist. Some of them are fortunate enough to earn their living with their art. It's a wonderful group to be a part of.

I wish I had thought to take pictures of all the gifts, but oh well - I was too busy laughing and enjoying the moment. But I did get a few.

The pink hat has been passed around the past several years.

Will this be its last??

Noooo, these shoes were not one of the gifts, but I fell in love with them and had to share them with you. Aren't they adorable?!

The baby of the neighborhood makes her entrance. Meet Smudge. Can you tell she has quite a fan club?!

And Smudge shares a little of the attention with Whitey. who is one of the Grand Dames of the neighborhood.

This is the bowl I really wanted to win during our Christmas gift game. Unfortunately, it wasn't part of the game.

But this was! Made by one of our neighbors who is a potter and carved by his wife who is sculptor. And it's mine, all mine. And I am over the moon about it! Gorgeous.

I love this painting. The title is "Firefly." It was painted by one of our resident artists. I "almost" had this, but it was taken away and will be living in someone else's home. Lucky souls.

I stepped out on the deck to take a picture of the moon over the mountains and I have no idea what happened, other than I guess I moved and ended up with this shot. Which I like.

Another wonderful Christmas gathering in the neighborhood. Here's hoping for many, many more.

Baking for Our Neighborhood Christmas Party

2011-12-11T01:46:00.001-05:00

If you know us, or if you've been reading my blog for even a short little while, you know how very much we love our little neighborhood.

Tonight was our annual Christmas Party.

And, as usual, it was a delight. We have the best neighborhood parties in the history of neighborhood parties, I do believe.

Everyone cooks and/or bakes, and we end up with a lot of wonderful food, served up with a more than generous helping of good old-fashioned neighborly love. We've become a bit of a family, I think. And it's a very special place.

For tonight's "do," I made the Country Pâté I wrote about a few days ago. (recipe here:
http://www.meanderingsandmuses.com/2011/12/cooking-baking-and-all-that-jazz.html), and I baked a Mocha Pound Cake. The cake tasted great! But. It didn't come out of the pan nicely, which made me sad. So I smooshed white powdered sugar all over it in an attempt to hide the flaws. I told Janet Rudolph I'd take a picture, so I did, but because it wasn't a pretty cake I decided to fudge on the picture a little bit. I figured that in a photo this busy, you just don't notice the fact that the cake didn't turn out just right. Right?!

And do you see Donald Scott Barley Honey playing peek-a-boo through the window? He is a silly boy. Silly is good.

We took tons of pictures at the party, but seeing as how it's now waaaay past my normal bedtime, I'm gonna wait and post those tomorrow. See you then!

Remember the good things about yourself - - -

2011-12-10T11:37:00.001-05:00

I have dropped all the names into the pink Willie Nelson baseball cap and pulled out the winning entry.

And - - -

The winner of an ARC of Lauren Groff's ARCADIA

Phyllis

Congratulations, Phyllis!

Send me an email with your mailing address, please - and I'll get your book off to you next week.

Thanks everyone!

I'm going to try to do one more give-away this year. My way of thanking you all for your support.

Remember the good things about yourself - - -
and celebrate them!

source: catherinepaturet.typepad.com

Leave a comment about how you celebrate yourself and I'll drop your name into the famous pink Willie Nelson baseball cap for a chance to win an ARC of Lauren Groff's ARCADIA

Drawing will happen on Saturday, Dec. 10.  I'll post the name right here, so be sure you remember to check back!

A Writer's Life by Michael Crawley/Felix Baron

2011-12-10T09:29:00.000-05:00

Michael Crawley was born in London, England, and was brought up in one of the poorest districts, Canning Town. He earned a scholarship to a Grammar School but the education was wasted on him. He dropped out at fifteen. A variety of jobs followed, from factory worker to street vendor to dancing teacher. At eighteen he joined the British Army and was sent to the Middle East as a peace-keeper. He was shot at twice; once by each side. Both missed.

Back as a civilian, he pursued a number of careers and relationships, none of them successfully, until he emigrated to Canada, failed some more, but eventually took up writing and met Laurie Clayton, both of whom he has been happily faithful to ever since.

The highlights of his life so far have been his entire platoon standing up for him in defiance of a warrant officer, even under the threat of Court Martial, delivering his eldest daughter, Victoria, feeling a woman’s heart restart beating under his palm when he was giving her CPR, and Laurie Clayton.

Michael has been writing and teaching writing for over twenty years, so far. He won the Mississauga Arts Council’s Award for Literature and has frequently been head juror for the same award, since. About a score of his books have been published, not counting books he “ghosted,” plus several thousand short stories and articles.

He, with Laurie Clayton, has just completed writing a Course in Screenwriting for Winghill College, a correspondence school that he has worked with for almost two decades. (WWW.WINGHILL.COM)

Michael’s latest novel, The Women’s Club, co-written with Laurie Clayton, is available from bookstores in the UK and on Amazon elsewhere.

A Writer’s Life

I’m going to start writing a new screenplay, I forgive You, today. Writing scripts isn’t unusual for me. If I’m not teaching, ghosting, or on a novel or a short story or an article, that’s what I do. What’s unusual is that not only do I not have a market in mind for this one, but I’m pretty close to certain that I will never sell it. In fact, I doubt that anyone but me will ever read it, including my partner, Laurie Clayton. When it’s done, I’ll most likely save it on a memory stick and bury the stick somewhere in a bottom drawer. The writing should take me about fourteen days. That’s two weeks of my life that I plan to waste. Crazy?

H.L.Mencken admitted that he wrote for the same reason that a cow gives milk. If he didn’t, it hurt. I can sympathize. It’s all about the writer’s subconscious mind. I have a pretty good relationship with mine. Whatever I work on by day, during the night my subconscious goes through it, looking for phrases that could be tweaked, dialogue that needs livening, and so on. It then considers the text that I should be writing the next day. When I get up in the morning, there’s a neat stack of mental notes waiting for me at my breakfast table, just to the right of the salt.

Most of the time, my subconscious is my unacknowledged collaborator. The only recompense it demands, as a rule, is what I call my “3ams” If I’m not really busy, once in a while my subconscious wakes me in the wee small hours and presents me with a completed short story. As is only fair, considering the help I get from the same source, I get up and type the tale as it’s dictated to me. There’s never an immediate market for it; my subconscious doesn’t care about our income, but there have been a few instances when a market has shown up for a 3am, usually years later.

I can understand why, from my subconscious’ point of view, there’s always a degree of urgency. My subconscious doesn’t have a subconscious. It has very little storage capacity. It’s like Mencken’s cow, with tiny udders. Right now, it’s suffering.

Almost a year ago, I managed to contract flu. Within a few hours, it turned to pneumonia. I spent ten days in hospital, nine of them on oxygen, eight of them delirious. I was totally out of it. My subconscious took full advantage. It projected a movie onto the insides of my eyelids. If my eyes were closed, the movie was playing, in full Technicolor. When I opened my eyes, it paused and waited for me to close them again. The problem is, both my superego and my ego were out of commission. The movie was a collaboration between my subconscious and my id.

It has to be a foul creature, my id. All it seems to be interested in is sex and violence. The movie was a cross between torture-porn and a bacchanalia. Thank goodness my sense of humor woke and managed to inject a few gags – as in “jokes” not as in “vomiting.”

Even so, this damned thing is so extremely obscene that I wouldn’t even watch it, not by choice.

When I came out of hospital my subconscious fully expected me to sit down and write the script. As it happened, I was busy with a ghosting job and right after that I was commissioned, with Laurie Clayton, to create a course on screenwriting for Winghill College. I told my subconscious, “Sorry, I’m too busy.”

From time to time, that damned under-mind of mine reminded me that I owed it the script but for the most part, it left me alone.

The Screenwriting Course is now written and delivered. I’ve got a spec novel I’d like to be working on but my subconscious has lost all patience with me and I’ve run out of excuses. Every night, without fail, I dream my way through that nightmarish script. I’ve fought a good fight, I think, but a man has his limits.

I promise, O my subconscious, that I’ll get to FADE IN, right after lunch, okay? Then will you let me sleep in peace?