Tempus Fugit

I had coffee last week with Todd Strasser, a prolific author of a gazillion wonderful books that kids of all ages adore. Like any two authors who meet, we swapped war stories (writers block survival tips, reviews that pierce the soul, clever ideas for how to commit [fictional] murder without being caught -- frogs are involved). We then talked a little about how hard it is to remain focused and how to fight those distractions that take us out of the stories we’re writing.

Knowing that admitting a problem is the first step to dealing with it, I then made a confession. Checking to be sure that I wasn't overheard, I mumbled my dirty little secret. "I'm a free cell addict."

For those unfamiliar with the games feature on their computers, it’s an ostensibly straightforward solitaire game that sucks you in with its simplicity until you realize you’ve just played 12 games in a row and nobody has been fictionally killed in at least an hour.

His face lit up in recognition of a fellow traveler. He checked my credentials. Did I let the computer randomly pick the games or did I hand select which ones I took on?

Here was a real pro. He promised to send me a list of the 100 toughest games; he’d found a web site that ranked them. I was set for life – or at least three books!

The seventeenth century English poet Edward Young warned “Procrastination is the thief of time.” On the other hand, Young was just penning rhymes about the execution of Lady Jane Grey. He wasn’t trying to figure out a method for Queen Mary to murder Ms. Jane without detection – or how Mac Sullivan and Rachel Brenner could trip up Mary before she killed again. Of course, another fabulous procrastination technique is Wikipedia where you learn incredibly useful information that you never previously knew – like who the heck is Edward Young and what did he have against an innocent game of free cell.

Frankly, I suspect that if Ed Young felt the need to make grand pronouncements about the folly of procrastination, then he probably had quite a few secret vices of his own to kill time when the iambic pentameter wasn’t flowing like water.

I always marvel at the author who explains, in her New York Times bestseller interview, that she got this inspiration for a book and the words just seemed to appear in full paragraphs on her computer screen. She wrote the entire draft in a single sitting of 67 days and never even checked a thesaurus because each word was perfect the first time around.

But I always identify with the writer who confesses that it took her three years and seven drafts to finish the stupid book and every word was like pulling teeth without Novocain.

Which is why I play Free Cell. I make little deals with myself when I’m working on a book: If I write two paragraphs, then I can take a break and play a quick game. Ask me how many games I’ve played since starting this blog.

I know there are other fine ways to procrastinate. Believe me, when I’m really looking to kill time instead of victims, I’ve been known to take down all the curtains in the house and wash them. My husband can tell from the bare windows as he pulls into the driveway that I’ve hit a brick wall in the plot. But it could have been worse. I know one author who surfs E-bay to avoid writing. He recently bought himself a bison head instead of finishing chapter three.

Tempus fugit indeed.

Evelyn David

The Book Matchmaker

Sally MacPherson, an independent bookstore owner from Portland, Oregon guest blogs today.

Hi, I’m Sally the book matchmaker. Thanks, Stiletto Gang, for asking me to guest blog! Hmmm. What to say….

Hey, I’m a bookseller. Maybe I should talk about selling books. Better yet, I think I’ll talk about buying books. Recently I came across a survey of where people buy books. The percentage of books purchased in grocery stores was 3%. That’s not too surprising; lots of grocery chains now stock books.

But then I saw this: The percentage of books purchased from independent bookstores was…wait for it now…also 3%. Wow. That number floored me. Chain bookstores accounted for more than 30% of sales, and the Internet rang up another 20%.

So, who cares? Well, the most immediate benefit to shopping at a local independent store is that the money stays local, as opposed to being sent to corporate headquarters. More important to me as a reader is that I don’t want to see my reading choices shrink as books get squeezed through an increasingly narrow consumer channel. If the majority of books are sold through chains such as Barnes & Noble and Costco, those vendors will have a whopping huge say in what is published. And that scares the pants off me – as a bookseller AND as a reader – and it should give pause to anyone who is or wants to be a writer.

Why? Isn’t it better for writers to have lots of places their books can be sold, including drug stores and grocery stores? Certainly, there are some positives to that distribution model. But in most cases the people making those book-buying decisions are not booksellers and aren’t likely to buy with an eye to nurturing new talent or even to satisfying specific local tastes. They will be attracted to the sure bets – the John Grishams and Stephen Kings of the world. And they aren’t likely to sit on books that don’t sell quickly.

At our store we labor over publishers’ catalogs, thinking of individual customers and our neighborhood as a whole, and selecting books that we think will strike a chord with our customers—even if it’s a chord of disagreement. And when customers come into the store looking for something to read, we can tell them about specific books—why we bought them and why they resonate with us. New authors have a better chance of building an audience when their books are sold with the zeal of a passionate bookseller than they do with a stack of books at Costco, a grocery store, or a large bookstore chain

When a customer comes into our store, my goal isn’t to pitch the latest bestseller from a rainmaker author, or to sell a book that the publisher has frontloaded with incentive discounts. It’s to find out what makes those customers tick, and then find the books that will resonate with them. And then to do it again and again as they come back. I love introducing new authors to receptive readers and watching those authors build a following.

After pondering this, I decided to revisit my own buying habits. For instance, lately I’ve gotten in the habit of buying music on-line through iTunes. But I’ve come to understand that, just like I don’t want to see independent bookstores disappear, I also want independent music stores to stick around. So, last weekend I treated myself to a mini spree at a local independent music store.

And then I needed some parts to fix my toilet. Typically I would head to the large chain store selling hardware / automotive / plumbing / groceries / furniture / clothing / music / whatever. This time I found a local independent hardware store and got what I needed there. And I had a great shopping experience.

So now I’m rethinking everything I buy—not just books and music and “parts,” but also food and clothes and coffee and pet supplies and everything else. Because I’ve realized that where you buy something makes as much of a statement about what you believe and support as what you buy.

Sally MacPherson

My Jonquils Are Blooming!

My jonquils are blooming and I'm thinking spring! In Oklahoma it's generally accepted that after Easter you can start your spring planting without too much worry of another hard freeze damaging young plants.

I don't plant vegetables although each year I consider planting some tomatoes. There is nothing better in this world than a home grown tomato. But I never get past the thinking stage, mostly because my parents plant a garden and usually supply me with all the tomatoes I can use.

What I like to plant are flowers—flowers that don't require lots of attention. My backyard has perennials: purple wisteria, blue hydrangeas, shrub roses, climbing roses, peonies, Rose of Sharons, and other varieties of hibiscus. I love lilies—all kinds. I like tulips and irises too, but if I plant them the moles and gophers act like I've invited them to an all-you-can-eat underground buffet.

Although the area where I live is known for beautiful azaleas—the town has an azalea festival in the spring—the soil in my yard is not acidic enough to sustain them. I've tried and failed at least a half dozen times to get some established, but eventually they've all turned brown and made me feel guilty for their untimely demise. I should never have brought them home with me—they might have had a full life somewhere else. But I look across the road and see the azaleas in full bloom, and once more consider buying a plant or two.

I'm partial to pansies and petunias and other colorful annuals. They are fun and instantly brighten up my yard. Last weekend I visited a local nursery and forced myself not to buy anything yet. I need to get the flowerbeds ready first.

Yesterday, I mowed my yard for the first time this year. I had a nice crop of henbit to mow, not much bermuda grass. My lawn mower started without much trouble—a miracle in itself after its long winter hiatus. The ground was wet—too wet to do much more than mow and then maybe some raking.

Maybe next Saturday, I'll get to dig up the beds and buy some plants. I'll have to be smart about it, not just buy everything that looks pretty. Believe me, I've done that before and regretted it. Nothing worse than lugging home twenty odd potted plants that you need to get into the ground right away, then running out of daylight or good weather or energy...or inspiration to get them planted.

Spring is the time for new beginnings, both for gardeners and writers. Besides my gardening ambitions, my co-author and I are starting a new short story and plotting a new mystery.

I need new gardening gloves—and maybe a new keyboard for my computer.

Here's to Spring!

Evelyn

Eco-Wars

I live in a village that many consider to be “crunchy”—a term that encompasses our liberal leanings, our “green” ways, the number of writers and artists who dwell here. We got this way after being the settling place for many a communist in the 1920s, and a summer vacation spot for actors and actresses over the years, including—according to local legend—Jackie Gleason. These days, we’re a mix of the old and the new, but the leftover hippy vibe that permeated the village for so many years still resonates with many of us.

To wit: my friend, Eileen, who I met as a gawky nine-year-old in Mrs. Darken’s Fourth Grade class, visited one Fall Saturday to see her son’s high school football team taken on our team. As we sat in the sun-drenched stands, she looked around, surveyed the crowd, and asked, “Does anybody dye their hair in this town?” I reached up self-consciously to my own grey-streaked mop and stammered, “well…yes…no…some do…” She looked down at my feet, shod in Dansko clogs. “And what’s with the clogs? Do you have to wear them in order to buy a house in this town?” Again, I was dumbfounded. “Uh, no,” I said, this time a little more defiantly. But looking around, I couldn’t dispute that we Village denizens embrace a vibe not found in the neighboring towns of Westchester County.

Which leads me to my new car. I had been driving a station wagon for the last several years and got nauseous every time I went to fill it up with gas. Because, as time went on, I realized I was getting a mere seventeen miles to the gallon. It wasn’t the amount of money I was spending that bothered me, it was the amount of environment I was abusing that was the crux of the problem. And I knew it was just a matter of time before the thousands of Prius-driving Villagers began pelting me with stones. Because they take their grey hair, their clogs, and their green-ness very seriously. So I started thinking about buying a new car. Five years or so ago, I noticed a man in town driving an adorable little car; he had whizzed by me in what I later found out was a Mini Cooper. I did a little research and found out that yes, four people could fit comfortably in one of these; they got more than thirty miles to the gallon; they had a good safety record; and I could fit several bags of groceries in the almost non-existent trunk. I thought about this car as my station wagon up and died a few months ago, leaving a plume of white smoke in its wake.

Let me, at this juncture, tell you how flexible and reasonable I am. My conversation with my husband went as follows:

Me: “We need to buy a new car. I want something smaller that gets better gas mileage.”Him: “Let’s get something practical. How about a Honda Civic?”

Me: “Absolutely not.”Him: “How about a Toyota Camry.”Me: “What? Are you kidding?”

Him: (getting exasperated) “How about a Prius?”

Me: “We’re getting a Mini Cooper.”

He was slightly flabbergasted, a tad reluctant. But I won him over with my impassioned arguments about the environment, our carbon footprint, our commitment to the earth. (And the fact that I told him that at my age, there was no way I was putting my flabby middle-aged behind in anything but a fun, little sports car. Grey hair? Yes. Practicality? No way.)

Suffice it to say that we have a brand-new, Mini Cooper Clubman (a new, slightly larger model than the traditional Mini) in our driveway. I can’t get the keys out of my husband’s hot little hands.

Now I’m feeling great about myself. If I drive correctly, I can get up to forty miles a gallon on the highway. The car is compact and easy to park—not to mention the most adorable car I’ve ever driven. I fill up at the gas station with far less regularity than before. I’m delighted with myself and honestly, feeling a bit smug when I pile my two kids, my dog, my daughter’s violin, my son’s lacrosse stick, and four bags of grocery into the car. Who needs a minivan or an SUV? Not me. I’m RESPONSIBLE. I CARE ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT. I don’t have to tell anyone. They can just tell. It’s the classic case of “show, don’t tell,” right?

I went to a small, local grocery store the other day, proud of myself and my commitment to the environment. I got out, took out my reusable grocery bags and looked around, wondering why nobody in the parking lot was giving me kudos for being so responsible. How about some props, people? As I slammed the trunk shut, a little, teenie-weenie car came motoring toward me, driven by the man who I had seen driving the original Mini Cooper lo those many years ago. But now?He was driving a SmartCar.

I slumped a bit against the Mini Cooper. “Foiled again,” I thought. What’s next? A bicycle built for two? There was no way I could keep up.

Nothing like a six-foot three man in a car with no back seat to ruin your feeling of bonhomie over your wonderfully green ways. I guess you could say that I had gotten my eco-comeuppance.

What's a Succesful Writer?

This is what I wrote for last week, and just didn't get it posted.

Wow, what a busy week–as usual. I’m working on a ghost writing project which is taking a lot of my time. I’m also judging the fiction part of a writing contest–something I really like to do.

In between I’ve given two classes on Planning for Emergencies for people who are administrators of licensed care facilities in California. I’ve been teaching and organizing continuing education for this industry for over fourteen years. Many of you may not know that for over twenty years my husband and I had a licensed care facility in our home and cared for six women with developmental disabilities. We both loved doing this. Our women were like family. Then our own family life became so complicated, we knew it was time to retire.

I’ve continued with the education part of the business because I truly care for the people who are doing this important job. (Also it brings in a little cash which helps pay for all the trips I go on.)

Of course my writing is of utmost importance to me–and of course, promoting what I’ve already written. Saturday I was fortunate to have been asked by the Writers of Kern (Bakersfield chapter of California Writers Club) to come and talk to them about What is Most Important in a Mystery, Plot or Character? Of course the answer is both are important. I love talking about mystery writing and this was a great group.

Also speaking was Mike Russo of Russo’s Books. He talked about the state of the book business–which isn’t so hot right now. He encouraged everyone to support their independent bookstores. Steve Mettee, publisher of Quill Driver Books, told everyone what it took to be a successful writer.

I’m not sure what being a succesful writer means. If it means making lots of money, than I’m not one. However, if being a successful writer means enjoying what I do, getting to meet lots of wonderful people and doing fun things and going to new places, then I am most certainly successful.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Down Memory Lane

I've been thinking about my sixth grade graduation. Yes, I know it's been a couple of years, but it's been on my mind recently. I can clearly picture that sunny June day. At our all-girls parochial school, the graduation attire was a white dress. It was the first time I wore heels, which were essentially my Mary Janes without the straps. It was long before pantyhose were invented, and even longer before I needed control-top pantyhose. So my solution that day was to keep up my first nylons with garters.

Unfortunately that decision didn't take into account that 11-year old girls still like to run around, so I spent an inordinate amount of time that day chasing my friends – and stopping frequently to haul my hose back up my skinny legs. It was also the first time I'd had my hair "done," but it would be three more years before I would be allowed to wear lipstick.

In that same memory photo are two other girls in white dresses: my best friends in grade school. There was Rhonalee, who always had a perfect ponytail of long straight hair, which was the diametric opposite of my curly mop, and Sarah, who was as petite as I was not.

Graduation day ended and we drifted apart as we entered a larger, less insulated world of different public schools. Decades passed and sixth grade graduation was all just a sweet memory until I found a surprise in my e-mailbox last week. The subject line: "Are you the same…" was intriguing. And there, thanks to the power of Google, was Sarah, asking if I were the same person who went to parochial school with her. She had found my nonfiction web site and looking at my photo she thought she caught a glimpse of her former classmate.

The prompt for her search? It was February 22, my birthday. She remembered that we used to get the day off from school, back when George Washington's birthday was a Federal holiday. Something that sadly changed in 1971 when the powers that be decided we would celebrate President's Day on the third Monday in February (needless to say I was annoyed at that decision).

Anyway, Sarah and I have been trading e-mails, catching up on the intervening decades. We've lived very different – and yet very similar – lives. We both have been married forever and we each have four kids. We both have struggled with career goals, aging parents, and the grief of losing a sibling. She's planning for the holidays with her family – me too. But she lives in Northern Israel and that fact alone changes some of her daily life. I've known war from a distance; her children have all served in the army. We both want peace, here, there, everywhere.

On that sunny morning in June, those many years ago, we couldn't have known the paths we each would take. We also never envisioned that we could meet again in cyberspace. Back then, lost friendships were mourned and then forgotten. But through the remarkable power of the Internet, an idea as foreign as the concept of adulthood to those young girls in white dresses, we are able to revisit our pasts and talk about our futures.

To that I can only add -- l'chaim!

Evelyn David

I Love Books!!

Our guest blogger today is Tina Jordan, senior editor/book reviewer for Entertainment Weekly.

I love books. As a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly—one who writes book reviews and edits book features—I'm immersed in the publishing world, and my office is inundated with galleys and books. My house, too is full of books—great teetering piles in places, in fact, since we ran out of bookshelf space long ago. Books are often found crammed between couch cushions, beneath the ottomans, under the desk in the study. I'm no highbrow snob, either. Heck, on the right day, I like Emily Griffin as much as John Updike. And yet, the older I get (let's just say an important birthday is looming) the harder it seems to be to find books to swoon over. The ones that keep me up late turning the pages. The ones that lkeep me glued to the couch, ignoring my family for hours on end (if one of my teenagers gallops into the room, I look up a trifle resentfully and say, "Yes?").

So why is that? Why is it that I don't find as much that utterly, completely thrills me, that sends me over the edge? I don't think I'm jaded or cynical. I don't deplore the state of publishing or wring my hands over the quality of what's written today. Sure, I like a lot of what I read. Sometimes I like it a lot. And I know exactly which book last made me weak in the knees: the new Elizabeth George novel, Careless in Red, coming out in May. For those of you who haven't read her mysteries, well, I could write an entire column about her. Suffice it to say her books are intelligent, complex, and deeply, hugely satisfying. Reading one is like realizing that I'm ravenous, I haven't eaten in days, and I can't gulp down the pages fast enough.

So when the galley for Careless in Red arrived at my office, I felt a frisson of excitement. Like all Elizabeth Georges, it is enormous, an absolute doorstopper; I started reading that night when I got on my train in Grand Central, nearly missed my stop 40 minutes later, and, once home headed straight up to the bedroom, followed by a gaggle of dachshunds and kids. When I finally had some peace, I dove back in. I put it down, reluctantly, a little after midnight (can't stay up as late as I used to!), and picked it up the next morning around six when I made some coffee. It was a Saturday, and I put all the usual weekend fun—laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping—on hold, raptly turning the pages, occasionally sipping some cooling coffee. By the time the girls were up I'd finished, closing the galley with a happy sigh. That was two weeks ago, and Careless in Red is still vivid, some of its passages imprinted in my mind. George's Scotland Yard characters, so familiar to me after many books, are old friends by now, so I ache for Thomas Lynley, whose wife was murdered, and Barbara Havers, as scraggly and socially inept as ever.

Who knows why I find fewer Careless in Reds than I used to? If this were a proper essay, I'd have mulled this over and come up with all kinds of smart reasons. But I do a lot less smart reasoning than I used to. No, I've decided there's nothing to do but savor those special books when I DO find them. Right now, the new Benjamin Black is at the top of my nightstand stack, beckoning me. Right underneath is the new Jesse Kellerman. Then there's a novel that looked good, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming. All of them look terrific. (But no dutiful plowing-through for me—if I detest a book, I just toss it aside.) It's likely I'll enjoy all three of those novels. And maybe—if I'm really, really lucky—one of them will tickle that elusive place in my brain, and, addict that I am, I'll be consumed by a book once again.

Tina Jordan

After "The End"

"The End."

The sense of euphoria lasted about 24 hours after the Northern half of Evelyn David typed those magic words. She claimed it was her turn since I'd typed them for Murder Off the Books.

What my family and friends all refer to as "The Book" is done. Our manuscript for Murder Takes the Cake is finished!

Hurrah!

Now it's time for the nitty-gritty part of writing—self editing and formatting the manuscript.

Yea! Not!

We're in a dash to slash passive verbs, count the dots in ellipses, and conduct a head count of all our plot bunnies. We need to objectively examine each scene and decide if it's necessary. Does it add to the plot; provide an important clue or red herring; give depth to a character? Or, as we sometimes discover, is a scene just useless padding, words that increase the page count without offering any other added value.

We also need to prepare the manuscript in the right format. That means literally going through every sentence to be sure that we have doubled-spaced after each period, question mark, and exclamation point. Why not just use the search and replace function? Because sometimes a sentence is enclosed within quotation marks, so a double space after a period doesn't belong. As the Northern half often says, Oy!

This is not the fun part for me. This is like cleaning the kitchen after cooking and enjoying an elaborate feast. It has to be done, but it's not fun.

Both halves of Evelyn David have reread "The Book" from start to finish at least four times over the past couple of days. The Northern half's husband was the first to read the full draft. He gave it a thumbs-up and advised us on our hard liquor choices for the book. We needed an expensive malt whiskey for our plot. I didn't have a clue. Me? I'm a connoisseur of wine coolers. Smirnoff's Green Apple Bite is my alcoholic beverage of choice. For some reason I haven't been able to envision a scene where "Mac Sullivan," a retired D.C. police detective orders a Green Apple Bite.

We'll read "The Book" a dozen times more before we show it to a couple of eagle-eyed friends for proof-reading. Tonight, I'm hoping to get through about 5 chapters before giving my eyes a rest from the computer screen, then I'll pass the book (electronically) back to the New York half. We'll continue to work off of one copy now that we're in the home stretch.

As I told a group at the Will Rogers Public Library in Claremore, Oklahoma on Monday night, writing a book is like riding a bicycle. By the time you're coasting down the hill, enjoying two full minutes of the wind blowing your hair and reveling in your well-deserved sense of accomplishment, you forget the long days of pedaling up the slope. You forget the excruciating leg cramps, the painful blisters, the heat of the sun beating down on your head, the sharp rocks in your shoes, the multiple flat tires, and …. Well you get the idea.

Anyone for a bike ride?

Evelyn David

T.M.I (too much information)

Sorry about the repeat blog entry last week. I was down for the count with what we will politely call a prolonged case of “gastro-intestinal disturbance.” You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t have to go into graphic detail, do I? No…because we share the same sensibility, I’m sure, about things that go on the boudoir and the toilette. No need to elaborate.

So, what’s going on today’s world? In the last week, I have had to run the gauntlet with my kids on topics related to prostitution, infidelity, and the mother of them all—three-ways. Our new governor—inaugurated after the old governor admitted to soliciting a prostitute—assures us that he’s not “having an affair right now.” Whew! That’s good, right? Maybe now he has time to deal with the one gazillion dollar deficit the New York State budget is facing instead of what to eat at the continental breakfast buffet at the Upper West Side hotel that he admittedly has taken his paramours to.

I consider myself your garden variety prude. I don’t talk about bodily functions, sex, how much money I make, or anything I consider “private” in public. Some of my friends might dispute this contention, but believe me, I try not to. Sometimes, it's unavoidable. I will not use the more common word for “gastro-intestinal disturbance” in mixed company. (Unless it can get me out of a three-hour nuptial mass for a couple I know will be divorced before my check clears or an extended stint of watching someone else’s home videos.) I just don’t think it’s right. But I’ll laugh heartily at a naughty joke, have been known to cuss every now and again, and enjoy certain déclassé reality television shows, like Rock of Love. But the fourth wall, so to speak, has come down in America and we’re becoming a class of divulgers, a population of people who think that everyone needs to know everything all the time. Is it “Larry King Syndrome”? Or the “Jerry Springeritization” of America? (I’m trademarking those, by the way.) I’m just not sure.

Let’s think back to a simpler time. Do you remember when Jimmy Carter said that he “lusted in his heart” and the country nearly shut down for a week? People were gouging their own eyes out to think that our President looked at women and—gasp!—thought about them in a lustful way. God, I miss Jimmy Carter. This week alone, we learned that former Governor Spitzer likes it au naturel (and frankly, who doesn’t?), Dina McGreevey may have had sex with another man while her husband watched (and if your husband is gay, I say you get a pass on that one), and that you can book a one, two, three, or four “diamond” woman on-line (by the way, it’s all the same woman, you moron johns out there) with your credit card. Who knew? But more importantly: who wanted to know?

It’s titillation overload, and I, for one, am tired of it. I’m thinking that a moratorium on all things licentious and lascivious is in order but how does one go about instituting that? In the world of twenty-four hours cable news, I am afraid it’s going to get worse and worse as time goes by. And if I’m so sick and tired of this, I imagine others must be as well.

I was talking with my friend, Carol, about this yesterday and she reminded of something that I should have been thinking about all along: the children in this equation. Can you imagine being an adolescent or a teen and having the details of your father or mother’s sex life splashed across the front of every tabloid? I can’t. The most embarrassing thing I remember is my mother starring as a Carmen Miranda-type singer in the annual church variety show, belting out “The Girl from Ipanema” (ah, good times). I can’t even begin to comprehend being in one of the most turbulent periods of life—and let’s admit it, anything from about eleven to twenty years old qualifies—and having all of these intensely personal details about your family brought forth on a daily basis. This, as you are undergoing emotional, physical, and hormonal changes while trying to deal with the challenges of socialization in middle or high school. It’s just not fair.

Let’s put this stuff away, people. Please. Let’s do it for children. Yours, mine, and theirs.

Irish Wolfhound on the Prowl

I hate to fly, as I confessed here on February 18. Despite this phobia, or maybe because of it, I've always wanted to skip "across the pond" aboard the Concorde. I may not believe in the physics of flying, but anything that would shorten the time I had to spend in an airplane sounded good to me.

Unfortunately they grounded the SST in 2003. Still, there are other hypersonic possibilities on the horizon – and last week I got itchy for one of them to be rolled out for the regular public. I'm talking about NASA's Scramjet. It cruises at Mach 7, seven times the speed of sound. That makes the Concorde look like a Model-T Ford. At 2km per second, it could fly from New York to Tokyo in under an hour. I could probably handle that.

And why, you might ask, do I want to go to Tokyo? Some delectable sushi perhaps?

Nope, even better. Last week we sold the Japanese rights to Murder Off the Books! Great advance, great press run, and can't you just imagine the book tour – assuming the Scramjet is ready for me?

The foreign rights of a couple of my nonfiction books were sold to Pakistani publishers. I wasn't surprised that my book, The Baffled Parent's Guide to Sibling Rivalry, sparked international interest. Cain and Abel's sorry tale explains why parents worldwide, from the beginning of time, have been trying to figure out how to keep their kids from figuratively, if not literally, killing each other. Hopefully, my book is the perfect antidote to prepubescent familial warfare.

The most recent statistics I could find on Japanese publishing were in a Publishers Weekly article from 1998. Foreign works account for only about 8 percent of all new Japanese titles each year. What I found especially interesting is that while the percentage of foreign titles hasn't changed much in the last 30 years, the type of books has. In the 60's, Japanese publishers primarily imported literature and philosophy titles. Today, the emphasis is on commercial titles, mainly mysteries and thrillers. How exciting that Japanese readers can discover the sleuthing team of Mac Sullivan, Rachel Brenner, and of course, Whiskey!

So, until the Scramjet can get me to Tokyo in under an hour, I'm thrilled that our Irish wolfhound will be visiting the Far East.

Arigato gozaimasu to our new friends in Japan, from your pals in America, Evelyn David.

Exploring Cynthia's Attic

Children's fantasy author, Mary Cunningham, makes her home in the beautiful mountains of West Georgia. The idea for the series, Cynthia's Attic, came about through a recurring dream. Upon realizing that the setting for the dream was in the attic of her childhood friend, Cynthia, the dreams stopped and the writing began.

Tell us who Mary Cunningham is - I'm a wife, mother and grandmother with an off-the wall imagination. I'm a loyal friend and am crushed when that loyalty isn't returned. I adore writing and loathe marketing. Perhaps my favorite saying sums it up. "I live in my own little world, but, it's okay...they know me here.

When did you start writing? - I began writing in elementary school. I was told, at an early age, that I had a "gift," but I didn't know exactly what that gift was, or how to use it. But, being a quick study, it only took another 45 years to figure out!

Why children's books? - I have such vivid memories of my childhood, and loved the simple time in my life between ages 8-12. When I wasn't playing baseball, golf, swimming, or generally having fun with a neighborhood full of friends, I was immersed in a fantasy world ... imagining I was Alice In Wonderland. So, I quite naturally gravitated toward children's books. I also love the innocence and, sometimes, brutal honesty of children. If you want a true gauge of your work, ask a young reader.

How is writing children's mysteries different from writing adult mysteries?Would you ever consider writing an adult mystery? - I don't think there is a difference. A mystery is a mystery is a mystery. I recently had a reviewer say she loved the fact that I didn't "talk down to kids." Also, you'd better have your facts straight for young readers, because they'll find any and all discrepancies. Of course I'd consider writing an adult mystery. I'm kinda working on (translation: have shoved it aside for almost a year!) an adult time-travel/mystery.

When is your next book coming out? - My next project is a co-written (with Diana Black, Melinda Richarz Bailey), non-fiction titled, Women Only Over Fifty (WOOF), a humor book targeted toward the over-fifty woman itching to howl at the aging process. It will be published by Echelon Press, LLC., and is set for release in May, 2008. I'm also several chapters into Cynthia's Attic: The Magician's Castle, Book Four (2009).

Tell us a little more about WOOF? - Women Only Over Fifty (WOOF)...who are still puppies at heart. From Oprah to Ellen to our water aerobics instructor, it’s all about the joys of aging! How 50 is the new 30! Whatever! Some of us are hounded by middle-age. We’re dog-tired, wrinkled as a Sharpei and barking like a bitch. Enter WOOF: For the over-fifty woman itching to howl at the aging process. From issues of graying hair, expanding waistlines, and wrinkling tattoos, to embracing triumph over personal tragedy, WOOF raises four paws to our past accomplishments, present realizations and future dreams. Are you up to it...dogtrotting alongside this sisterhood taking the second half of life by the tail? We know you are. After all, the past 50 years you’ve gained freedom! You’ve gained power! You’ve gained wisdom! (Don't tell us you think weight is the only thing you've gained. Oh, you so need WOOF...)

What do you like to read? - Read? What's that? I spend so much time writing, blogging, marketing, etc., that I have very little time to read. I do love fantasy and historical fiction. I still laugh thinking about how, as a teen, my aunt, the local librarian, would sneak books by Kathleen Woodiwiss for my reading pleasure, although they were a tad too "mature." I'd already devoured all the age-appropriate fiction, and she was determined to see that I'd never get bored with books. And, I didn't!

Who has influenced your writing the most? -My dad was the biggest influence. He was an award-winning journalist for almost 40 years, and had a wonderful writing style and voice. His characters had such definition that, I'd swear, they almost jumped off the page! I'm also swayed by the writing of Harper Lee (To Kill A Mockingbird), J. R. R. Tolkien, and J. K. Rowling.

Pets? Hobbies? - We adore our senior-citizen mix-breed, Molly, and dread the day when she's no longer with us. As to hobbies, I enjoy golf, swimming, and watching all kinds of sports. I'm an avid Indiana Hoosier basketball fan, NFL football fan, and also enjoy watching NASCAR, golf, and the Olympics.

What's a typical day for Mary Cunningham the author? - I wake up and have some coffee. Turn on my computer. Have another cup of coffee. Open my e-mails. Hit delete 75 times, or so. Have another cup of coffee ... well, you get the idea. I try to write every day, but don't like to force it. If the words aren't flowing, I do something else and then go back to it. I love writing when my brain is working so fast, my fingers can barely keep up. And, this is going to sound really weird, but I must have my shower and be dressed before I can write. I have a friend who writes in her jammies. Not me! Now, I don't have to be in black pants and white cashmere sweater! Jeans and a t-shirt will do quite nicely. Just so I'm dressed.

What's your favorite pair of shoes? - My favorite shoes are a pair of navy slippers my husband gave me for Christmas. They're made out of the same memory foam used in mattresses and feel like comfy pillows for the feet. They're warm, too!

Thanks, Stiletto Gang! It's been fun!

Mary Cunningham

http://www.marycunninghambooks.com/
http://www.cynthiasattic.blogspot.com/
www.myspace.com/booksbymarycunningham
http://www.quakeme.com/

Clock Day – A Holiday We Celebrate Twice a Year

Twice a year we all reset our clocks, watches, vcrs, and any other appliance that keeps track of our time. Sounds like a simple task. But it's not. For instance take the clocks in the cars I drive – a secret combination of buttons on the radio is involved, which requires a thorough review of the owner's manual. And of course this change cannot be effected when you remember the need for it – which is at sixty miles an hour in heavy traffic. I wonder if there is a marked increase in traffic accidents the first Monday after Clock Days?

I wear a watch every day. If I leave the house without it, I have to come back home and get it. I check it hundreds of times a day, if not for the time, the date. The date is the reason I wear a digital watch. This digital watch is set by….wait for it …. A secret combination of buttons which requires a thorough review of the owner's manual! And this is made more difficult because the owner's manual on the watch is about 2 inches square folded and about 2 inches by 36 inches unfolded. If I can find the manual (a real problem since unlike the glove box in the car, there is no perfect place for storage) and reset the time, the odds are high that I've mistakenly also set an alarm and changed the date. I own about a dozen watches all but two of questionable value, but I only change the one I wear on a weekly basis. With any luck, by the time I want to wear any of the others, the time will be correct again.

It's four days and counting since the last Clock Day. I'm still working on changing all my timepieces. The clock on my desktop computer changed automatically; thank heavens, although it still needed my personal reassurance that it changed itself correctly. I haven't powered on my laptop since Sunday, so it's still unaware of the time shift. I'll keep it in the dark awhile longer. One of my vcrs changed itself; the other, a much older model, didn't. The clock on the DVD player is off, but who cares? The numbers are so small that I can't read them anyway.

The clock on the microwave is flashing the wrong time – but since it does that every time there is the slightest fluctuation in the electrical power to the house – I don't worry with it until my mother visits and she remarks on it.

I set the clock on my coffeemaker the day before yesterday. I was due to leave the house at 5 a.m. for an early meeting in Oklahoma City and I desperately needed that coffee to be perked and ready when I rolled out of bed. It wasn't. The little a.m. or p.m. light was not correctly lit.

Oh well. McDonalds has great coffee. And no buttons or flashing lights are involved.

Here's to Clock Day and getting on with it! Time waits for no woman!

Evelyn David

What I've Learned from Watching TV

The best thing about reading all of my co-bloggers' entries is that I learn something new about them every week. Last week, it was that Marian (like me) can’t write sex scenes. And the week before that, it was that Rhonda loves television, seemingly, as much as I do. I almost wept with joy. Because I don’t know if it’s the same where you live, but I seem to reside in an area where television is both disdained and deplored.

I consider myself pretty well-read and educated, yet I love television and feel that some of my most important life lessons have come from watching the tube. And my all-time favorite show? “The Brady Bunch.” God forbid there is a marathon on TV Land, because I’ll drop everything. I drop Bradyisms into conversation with regularity.

Let me share a few of the things I've learned.

At a recent dinner party, one of our friend’s sons threw a ball and knocked over a vase. My reaction? To exclaim, “Mom always said, ‘Don’t play ball in the house!’” a classic line that was uttered by Bobby to Peter after Carol had admonished the boys about horseplay in the Brady split level. Most of the partygoers nodded in agreement; they knew that the Brady’s had this gem and many others. What could be more true after all? I also learned some wicked cool cheers from one of the cheerleading episodes. Who, after a glass of wine or two, hasn’t gotten up in the middle of the living room, shouting “F-F-F-I-L, L-L-L-M-O, O-O-O-R-E, FILLMORE JUNIOR HIGH!” just like Greg’s girlfriend?

Just me? I don’t believe you. Come on. Come clean. It feels good.

Other things I learned:

Never wait for the man to ask your hand in marriage. For an example, see Sam the Butcher’s courtship of Alice. Fortunately, my husband proposed with a bit more expediency than Sam, who at the end of the series, was still courting Alice, bringing her ground round as a romantic gesture of his love. Alice? Still single.

If you see an idol in Hawaii, DON’T PICK IT UP! Otherwise, you’ll lose the surfing contest, have a tarantula crawl up your leg while in bed, or misplace the important architecture blueprints. It’s just not worth. You can buy an idol at the local giftshop that probably doesn’t have a hex on it or will bring a pox on your family.

If you don’t have a boyfriend, don’t pretend that you have one, and especially, don’t give him the pretend name of “George Glass.” Everyone will see right through it, no pun intended. And then you’ll just look pathetic. (That means you, Jan.) Do it the old-fashioned way and pretend you can’t do your French homework so that the cute guy in your French class will come over and help you. It worked for me. (I can’t speak a word of French, by the way, despite a French major and a French-teacher husband.)

If you want to make a lot of money, not work very hard, and take a lot of vacations, become an architect. Did anyone work less than Mike Brady? Sure, he talked about the Anderson account incessantly, but I never did see him actually work on the Anderson account. Those Andersons must be pretty ticked off by now...and have limited shelter options if their architecture needs were left up to Mike Brady.

And I learned that family is all you need, love and understanding solve every problem, and all the words to the Davey Jones’ song, “Girl.” I challenge you to top that with something that you learned from reading a newspaper. Can’t come up with anything? I didn’t think so.

Maggie Barbieri

Back from Epicon

Yep, I went to another convention--this time Epicon--the convention for electronically published authors. All cons are fun--unless you're someone who doesn't like to have a good time, and thank goodness, I'm not one of those.

This time we flew to Portland OR. Straight foreword to get there: Bakersfield to San Francisco to Portland. We had such a wild taxi ride to get to the hotel, I feared for my life (well, not really, but I did grip my hubby's hand pretty tightly.)

This was the kind of conference where there were panels to teach writers something. A whole track was on different kinds of promo--in fact I taught one on promoting trade paperbacks. Also taught another on Bringing Characters to Life. One of the others I went to that was fun was Mayhem and Murder (always good to learn more ways to do it), and a fun one on the serial killers that Oregon has produced. (Well, I am a mystery writer, after all.)

Best part of any of these shindigs is seeing old friends and meeting new ones--something we did a lot of. Though I came down with a cold or allergies or something annoying like that, I didn't let it stop me.

On Saturday night there was a great awards ceremony--far more entertaining than the Academy Awards even if I didn't win an Eppie for mystery. I'll just have to be happy being a finalist.

Sold a few books and bought some others.

The trip home was a bit stranger--Portland to Phoenix, Phoenix to Bakersfield. Of course there was a pile of mail, jobs to finish, laundry, and emails to answer. It was worth it.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Taking Comfort (Food) Where I Can Get It

Finishing a book is like the 25th mile of a marathon…except I'm not looking for water to get me through that last chapter. I'm looking for rice pudding with raisins.

I don't think I realized just how fattening writing a book could be. Personally I think I ought to get caloric credit for all the running that Rachel Brenner, my protagonist, does. I mean I'm the one who cracks the whip and keeps Rachel in such good shape. Here's a woman who can whip up a pasta dinner for eight without breaking a sweat, keeps home-baked oatmeal cookies in her pantry, loves a good sauvignon blanc – and never seems to gain an ounce. So far she has no clear workout routine, although she does walk to work. Now I like to cook, I don't have a regular workout routine, and I too walk to work, although admittedly that's approximately ten feet, the distance from my bed to my computer. So how come I'm getting fat and Rachel isn't?

And the answer is: I'm a writer; Rachel is the makeup artist in a funeral home, apparently an aerobic profession. When not creating fictional murder and mayhem with the Southern half of Evelyn David, I write nonfiction books on everything from veteran's benefits to playgroups for toddlers. Apparently there aren't nearly as many calories as I thought moving your fingers over the keyboard.

But it's not only the sedentary life of a writer (and is that what attracted me to the career in the first place?) that packs on the pounds. Writers block, which can strike without warning at least twice a day, can only be cured by chocolate or rice pudding with raisins or in a pinch, Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.

According to Wikipedia, "comfort food is typically inexpensive, uncomplicated, and easy to prepare…Small children often seem to latch on to a specific food or drink (in a way similar to a security blanket) and will repeatedly request it in high stress situations." I confess that it's been quite a few years since anyone considered me a small child, but I think trying to find fresh ways to create murder and mayhem definitely qualifies as a high stress situation.

Maybe that's why I've always liked the Nero Wolfe mysteries. Wolfe weighed one-seventh of a ton, which is just a Thin Mint away from 300 pounds. He understood that cerebral detecting requires a lot of calories. His dinners, prepared lovingly by Fritz the chef, always had at least four courses, including some divine dessert. I would be more than happy to chow down with Nero and sidekick Archie Goodwin. I'll pay for my meal by challenging them to figure out the killer in Murder Off the Books.

I've never known anyone, other than my mother-in-law, who considered carrot sticks a comfort food. Macaroni and cheese qualifies. So does tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Pudding of almost any flavor would also make the list.

Those are some of the foods that sustain me as I struggle to create memorable characters, laugh out loud humor, and a believable fictional world where the good guys always win. How about you? What are your comfort foods?

Evelyn David

Too Much of a Good Thing ... is Filling My House

I’m Amy Alessio, a YA librarian and an author. I was delighted to meet half of the fabulous Evelyn David team at the Love is Murder conference. I told her to hurry up with the next book, and she suggested I help with a guest blog spot.

I have my own blog on Vintage Cookbooks to share my addiction to old cookbooks, and I have fun failing to make some of the old creations. (Think lots of lard.) I also blog for the Love is Murder conference and for Echelon Press’s Teen Scene.

Blogging is an excellent way to procrastinate writing my own fiction. I have some librarian books published and I have a short story published in The Heat of the Moment, an anthology by Echelon Press which benefits the victims of the CA wildfires (anthology pictured on the nightstand). My YA mystery is with an agent.

I read almost as voraciously as I eat baked goods. In addition to books I review for Teenreads.com and Crimespree magazine, I bring home several books a week from the library. To narrow it down, I love romance, mysteries, especially those with Chicago authors like Michael Black, J.A. Konrath, Tom Keevers and Julie Hyzy, fantasy, teen books, any kind of chick lit, anything with a librarian character or by a librarian, anything written up in People magazine, anything with food on the cover and maybe the occasional non-fiction. Cookbooks also of course.

This week I’ve had the flu, so I’ve been reading 3-4 books a day. Yes, even with my four year old at home some of those days. It’s amazing how much you can read during a Backyardigans episode. Sounds like a dream, right? One was a romance anthology on chocolate. Another was the new Carole Matthews Chocolate Lovers Club or something like that – it had to go back before I ate it. I also read Mary Kay Andrews’ new one about two cooks who fall in love, complete with tomato soup cake recipe. Yesterday I broke down and made a chocolate cake. Really – you can’t read that stuff forever and not eat something really naughty.

I’m also reading Kate MacAllister’s Aisling Grey series. I like the occasional paranormal romance, like a MaryJanice Davidson, or Jayne Ann Krentz/Jayne Castle (who used to be a librarian), but I think this is my first dragon series. These are great spicy fun. I think she’s writing mystery under a pseudonym too. Having a pseudonym is like waving a red flag in front of a librarian, by the way. We love tricky questions.

So you see it’s imperative that I have an entire library at home. On top of the nightstand is what I want to read soon. In the nightstand are my all time favs and autographed books. Under the bed are mainly YA I want to read less soon. Then – there are the 300 cookbooks. They are in 5 locations, that I can remember, in the house. Most of those cost very little at antique or used book stores. Who else would want a Blender or Meat Stretcher cookbook from 1970?

It’s interesting that while my son is adopted, he has similar book habits. Next to his bed is the first pile, photographed here. Then there’s the dresser and the bookshelf. He may have to clean them up soon, though – to make room for more of my cookbooks!

How many books are in your nightstand? Ok, now how many are hidden in your house?

Amy Alessio

Well Caramelized

Can we talk hair this week? For years I did my own. Color. Trimming. I did it, myself. Of course I mostly wore my reddish brown hair in one long braid down my back so any mistakes were easily hidden.

Just before Murder Off the Books was published I decided I needed to do something with my hair; something that would leave the 70s behind and look good for book signings.

I made an appointment with a local hair salon. I told them I needed a cut, color, the works. I also warned them that I had long hair and to plan on slotting me in for more than 30 minutes. They assigned me a brand new hair stylist; I think she'd just been out of school a week or two.

Nicki, was about 20 years old, cute, and very soft-spoken. I was lulled into a false sense of security. Nicki talked softly, but knew which end of the scissors were which. She immediately, and in my own opinion with very little show of regret, cut off twelve inches and asked how much shorter I wanted to go. With my voice an octave higher than when I entered the salon, I advised that was far enough on a first date.

Nicki then took a hard look at my color. Coloring long hair at home is no easy feat. You've got to fashion an outfit from garbage bags, layer the bathroom floor with newspapers, and make sure you have plenty of alcohol (the rubbing kind) for clean up, and the other kind for afterward. Then you sort of massage the color into your hair, using clips to keep the uncolored from the colored, as you work your way around your head. I thought I'd been doing a really good job. Apparently not.

Nicki searched through the strands and asked which color I liked best, the dark brown ends, the lighter top where I have a few (very few) gray strands, or the middle part which had a kind of reddish cast to it. I shrugged. She waved a bunch of hair color samples in front of my face. She asked me to pick two that I liked; one light, one dark. I did. She said no. She picked two. One was kind of beige, the other was blonde. Nicki said those two colors would really lighten up my face. I hesitated. She countered with, "Just for the summer." Thinking back on it, I'm not sure why I agreed. It was January.

Nicki is an artist. She applied the color to my hair with a paint brush and with the same precision that I imagine the Masters used on their oil paintings. She did one color, then applied the second color to select strands. Ninety minutes later, I was caramelized. I also had enough foil on my head to get great TV reception.

Whatever nervousness I might have been feeling about the cut and the color, all disappeared after Nicki directed me to the shampoo room. Did I mention that Nicki is the best shampooer in the world? Total head and neck massage, no pulling, water temperature just right, perfect positioning of the towel under your neck, and she takes her time. Shampoos twice, then conditions.

My hair looked better than it ever had. The color was wonderful. The cost was in the same range as my car payment. I don't know if my face was looked lighter, but my mood was. The cost was worth every penny.

It's been just over a year now. I have to make my appointments with Nicki well in advance. She's very popular and she only works a few days a week. I've tried to interest her in my book, but she says she's not really into reading.

Oh, well. No one's perfect.

Evelyn David

What I've Learned from Watching TV

The best thing about reading all of my co-bloggers' entries is that I learn something new about them every week. Last week, it was that Marian (like me) can’t write sex scenes. And the week before that, it was that Rhonda loves television, seemingly, as much as I do. I almost wept with joy. Because I don’t know if it’s the same where you live, but I seem to reside in an area where television is both disdained and deplored.

I consider myself pretty well-read and educated, yet I love television and feel that some of my most important life lessons have come from watching the tube. And my all-time favorite show? “The Brady Bunch.” God forbid there is a marathon on TV Land, because I’ll drop everything. I drop Bradyisms into conversation with regularity.

Let me share a few of the things I've learned.

At a recent dinner party, one of our friend’s sons threw a ball and knocked over a vase. My reaction? To exclaim, “Mom always said, ‘Don’t play ball in the house!’” a classic line that was uttered by Bobby to Peter after Carol had admonished the boys about horseplay in the Brady split level. Most of the partygoers nodded in agreement; they knew that the Brady’s had this gem and many others. What could be more true after all? I also learned some wicked cool cheers from one of the cheerleading episodes. Who, after a glass of wine or two, hasn’t gotten up in the middle of the living room, shouting “F-F-F-I-L, L-L-L-M-O, O-O-O-R-E, FILLMORE JUNIOR HIGH!” just like Greg’s girlfriend?

Just me? I don’t believe you. Come on. Come clean. It feels good.

Other things I learned:

Never wait for the man to ask your hand in marriage. For an example, see Sam the Butcher’s courtship of Alice. Fortunately, my husband proposed with a bit more expediency than Sam, who at the end of the series, was still courting Alice, bringing her ground round as a romantic gesture of his love. Alice? Still single.

If you see an idol in Hawaii, DON’T PICK IT UP! Otherwise, you’ll lose the surfing contest, have a tarantula crawl up your leg while in bed, or misplace the important architecture blueprints. It’s just not worth. You can buy an idol at the local giftshop that probably doesn’t have a hex on it or will bring a pox on your family.

If you don’t have a boyfriend, don’t pretend that you have one, and especially, don’t give him the pretend name of “George Glass.” Everyone will see right through it, no pun intended. And then you’ll just look pathetic. (That means you, Jan.) Do it the old-fashioned way and pretend you can’t do your French homework so that the cute guy in your French class will come over and help you. It worked for me. (I can’t speak a word of French, by the way, despite a French major and a French-teacher husband.)

If you want to make a lot of money, not work very hard, and take a lot of vacations, become an architect. Did anyone work less than Mike Brady? Sure, he talked about the Anderson account incessantly, but I never did see him actually work on the Anderson account. Those Andersons must be pretty ticked off by now...and have limited shelter options if their architecture needs were left up to Mike Brady.

And I learned that family is all you need, love and understanding solve every problem, and all the words to the Davey Jones’ song, “Girl.” I challenge you to top that with something that you learned from reading a newspaper. Can’t come up with anything? I didn’t think so.

Maggie Barbieri

What's Next?

Sometimes trying to think up what to write on a blog is daunting. You’d think a writer wouldn’t have a bit of trouble coming up with something. Unfortunately, it isn’t always that easy. This week has been filled with the piddly things that take away from what I’d really like to be doing–working on my own novel, of course.

Instead I’ve made trips to the bank–twice for the church. No, I’m not the treasurer, nobody in my right mind would let me take care of figuring out the church’s finances–but I am the church clerk which means I’m the second signer on all the checks.

Ever so often, the treasurer has me sign about a hundred checks so they’d be ready when she pays the bills. While I’m doing that, I’ve often thought how marvelous it would be if I were autographing my books instead.

Having said what I did about the church finances, I also must admit to finishing with my income taxes. Yes, I do them myself. These wonderful program to do your taxes on the computer have made it almost like a game. (I did say "almost".) My biggest problem with math has always been adding (even with a calculator), but the computer takes care of all that.

I’ve also been to the grocery store, done the laundry, written a newsletter I get paid to do, attended a meeting, got my hair cut, done some promotion on the Internet, read a zillion emails (almost an addiction), and started packing for Epicon. Yeah! I can hardly wait.

Oh yes, I’m also busy with a ghost writing project that’s taking a lot of time. Not really something I would write on my own, but rather fascinating just the same. And yes, I do get paid for doing it–actually much more of a sure thing than what comes in from my own writing.

And by the way, the virtual book tour I’ve been on has paid off–at least the Amazon numbers for Smell of Death are far lower than any of the rest of my books, except for Deadly Omen which continues to do well. Lower numbers means the books are selling--at least one or two.

So, now that I’ve bored you with what a mystery writer does when she’s not working on her own mystery, I’ll sign off until next week.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

How Shall I Kill Thee? Let Me Count the Ways

If you're tired of death by bullets (and I still like a good Glock 9mm to do the trick), there are lots of other options. You might consider the more high-tech thallium or stick to the old-fashioned, but still effective, stiletto.

Murder can be accomplished in lots of ways. Personally, I'm intrigued by spontaneous human combustion. Years ago I read a great Scottish mystery where the victim dies ostensibly under those circumstances. Of course the killer has manipulated the situation so that it appears that the body burned of its own accord. I wish I could remember the author or title. Help please??

Since Evelyn David knocked off her first victim, we've gotten quite adept at new and interesting ways to commit murder. Should it trouble me that my favorite bedtime reading is Murder and Mayhem: A Doctor Answers Medical and Forensic Questions for Mystery Writers (D.P. Lyle, M.D., St. Martin's Minotaur, 2003)? On the other hand, I'm a firm believer in the 50-page rule. Somebody's got to be dead in the first 50 pages or generally speaking, I've moved on. Heck, in Murder Off the Books and the forthcoming sequel, Murder Takes the Cake, somebody dies in the first paragraph. Now that's how to get the show on the road!

I enjoy, probably more than I should, discovering new ways to commit murder. But here's a word to the wise. Remember that your Internet research is fair game for the prosecution should you decide to use your murder skills in real life (elimination of the spouse who leaves dirty clothes on the floor or the neighbor with the windchimes on the porch). I came across a news story recently about a woman who was on trial for murdering her husband. Chief among the evidence arrayed against her were her Google searches for "instant poisons", "undetectable poisons", and "fatal digoxin doses." And then apparently the coup de grace was her search for "how to commit murder."

Sometimes you don't really want to kill – just maim slightly. A wound that permits your injured hero or heroine to still be healthy enough to foil the bad guys. I spent hours trying to find a gunshot wound that wouldn't require major surgery so that one of our characters could be released from the hospital within six hours. Of course, when I was writing that scene, I had other worries. Even with the correct wound, who could guess how long the hero would sit in the Emergency Room waiting to see a doctor?

But then I remembered – this is fiction. I can move our hero to the front of the line, have him see a brilliant doctor with a wonderful bedside manner without filling out 30 pages of financial information, and get his bullet wound repaired with a liberal application of Crazy Glue.

Okay, I know. Fiction does have limits and your plot has to be believable. Some of what I just wrote will have to be deleted; probably everything except the bit about the Crazy Glue.

Evelyn David

http://www.evelyndavid.com/