It's a Small, Small World

Last Saturday I attended the Central Valley Jane Austen Fest as a vendor. Frankly, I felt a bit out of place--though I wasn't the only one. Selling modern-day mysteries at an event celebrating Jane Austen didn't seem quite right--but the organizer insisted that I come. I'm glad I did because I really had fun meeting people, seeing the costumes some of the attendees wore, and talking about my books to the different people who stopped at my table--and I even sold quite a few books.

One of them came directly to me and asked, "Are you Marilyn Meredith who is part of the Stiletto Gang?" I assured her I was and she identified herself as Anjali Kapoor-Davis and she's related somehow to Misa. We had a super visit. I included the photo even though my eyes are closed--that's why I put in the one of me with my eyes open.

I had no idea so many people were so enthusiastic about Jane Austen and her books. Most of the people who came were women, but as you can see, even men came dressed in authentic clothing.

Most interesting was a group of teenage boys who stopped to talk for awhile. They were reading Jane Austen in high school and said they loved the books and their teacher suggested they come to the event.

Will I go again next year? Sure, if they invite me.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Mystery Conventions: To Go or Not To Go? That is The Question (or at least, the topic of this blog)

by C.S. Challinor

I just returned from Malice Domestic in Arlington, VA, featuring an all-star cast, including Mary Higgins Clar, Rhys Bowen, and Bill Link, co-writer and producer of, among other TV shows, Columbo and Murder She Wrote. “Malice Domestic,” a quote out of Shakespeare, is an apt name for the type of mysteries represented. Held at the Crystal Gateway Marriott, this was the 22nd convention of that name for writers and fans of cozy mysteries, and is home to the Agatha Award. That it has been going on so long and is enthusiastically attended by hundreds of people is a testament to the popularity of the genre.

Writers go to these conventions to meet other authors and, more importantly, the readers, who are, after all, the lifeblood of the publishing industry. These loyal fans are the aficionados, the experts, the dictators of what publishers ultimately buy and agents acquire--so it was instructive to mingle with these VIP readers and run into this special elite in the elevators. I have a composite picture of My Reader. It is from my heart that I write, but She (it is usually a “she”) whom I aim to please--a pretty taunting task considering the range and scope of mystery novels cramming the book shelves and vying for attention.

At this point, I would like to give a shout-out to another important group: the volunteers and moderators, who work tirelessly to keep the convention schedule running like clockwork. Patti Ruocco, the moderator of my panel, “Murder in Paradise: Mysteries Set In Vacation Spots," clearly put a lot of thought, effort, and creativity into her task, casting herself in the role of Cruise Director and distributing leis. Fellow panelists were Aaron Elkins, Marcia Talley, and Kathryn R. Wall.

Of specific interest to me among the panels was the talk on poison given by Luci Zahray, a pharmacist in a Texas hospital. I use poison in Christmas is Murder and in the fifth novel in the Rex Graves series, so I was all ears for this one. (“Would you like some wolfsbane with your tea?”) Valuable tidbits can be gleaned from these lectures and panels, and it is worth keeping a notebook handy.

I have read in novels about snarkiness among authors at conventions, and was glad not to encounter anything of that sort at Malice, and certainly not among my fellow Midnight Ink authors ;). They proved to be the friendly lot I expected from having read some of their work and perused their blogs. It was a particular pleasure to meet Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli, my partner-in-crime in the Malice Go Round; the irrepressible Sue Ann Jaffarian (three series and a full-time career as a paralegal); and Deborah Sharp, who lives in Florida, as I do; and also Elaine Viets, who writes the Dead-End Job series set in South Florida for NAL/Signet. Malice Go Round, incidentally, is where a pair of authors fly around a room, alighting at 21 tables, and speed-pitch their novels to a handful of readers. It’s thirsty work, but people came to my signing based on that event and on my assigned panel, so it was definitely worthwhile.

Probably the crowning moment of the convention for me was talking to Queen of Suspense, Mary Higgins Clark, whose memoirs, Kitchen Privileges, are a page-turner in their own right and reveal gems regarding her personal path to publication. This lady is a class act. My book signing coincided with hers. She'd been signing for the better part of an hour, and I asked her how her hand was holding out. She smiled and said, "Just fine. Authors love signing books!"

Too true!

_______
C. S. Challinor was born in Bloomington, Indiana, and educated in Scotland and England. She now lives in Southwest Florida. She is the author of five titles so far in the Rex Graves Mystery series featuring Scots barrister-sleuth Rex Graves. Visit her on the Web at www.rexgraves.com.

"A must for cozy fans."--Booklist starred review for Christmas is Murder.

Happy Mother's Day

The Different Meanings of Success

by Susan McBride

I had originally written a post about rejection that was set to go up today. But with all the disasters in the news of late, I decided that topic seemed too depressing! So I wanted to talk about something more positive, like how we define success. It's very subjective, I know, and means different things to different people. So I'll meander on about how the idea of "being successful" has changed for me through the years, and I'd love to hear what it means to you.

When I was growing up and moving about with my family, we always settled into a fixer-upper in an upper middle class neighborhood (my mom tried valiantly to place us in the best public school district available), where we'd rub shoulders with folks who often had a lot more than we did, materially anyway. I got a lot of insight into what it took to try to keep up with the Joneses, and for a time--probably through high school--I bought into the notion that having things with pricey labels proved to the outside world that you'd achieved something in life. Don't get me wrong: I also realized being smart, making good grades, and having responsibility was important. But having a Polo man on your pocket (and your socks, too) seemed like a popular way of letting people know you were worthy.

By my freshman year in college, after being around plenty of sorority girls, frat boys, and debutantes whose behavior made me question if money = worth after all, I understood it was a bunch of hooey. Even without a trust fund, anyone with a credit card could buy expensive cars and clothes. Although it made for a prettier facade, it didn't mean anything, not really. Some folks may define success as having more $$$--or at least borrowing more!--and showing it off, but I didn't want my adulthood to be all about accumulating stuff. I wanted to write books, and I knew I wasn't going to get rich off that (not anytime soon!). With that decision made, my idea of success changed. On the everyday front, it meant having a job that would allow me to write as much as possible and pay for postage to send off queries and manuscripts with SASEs. Being successful meant doing what I loved and being happy, regardless of how much (or how little) stuff I accumulated.

My goal initially was to be published by a traditional press--whether small or big, I didn't care--and I did that eventually. At 34, I won a small press contest where the grand prize was publication. When AND THEN SHE WAS GONE came out, I was thrilled. And so was everyone who'd ever known me who realized how hard I'd worked for over a decade to reach that point. I sold something like 150 books at my first-ever signing, and, holy cow, I felt like a million bucks! Then I signed with an agent, got a deal with a big NY publisher, and my idea of success shifted again. Sure, I wanted to hit the New York Times list as much as anyone (seriously, what writer doesn't?), but that wasn't a deciding factor in whether or not my career was successful. I dreamed of being able to support myself writing, and by age 40, I was doing that as well.

I remember saying to a friend back then, "You know, I have everything I could possibly want. I'm passionate about what I do, I can't wait to wake up every morning, I love my friends, I have a cozy condo, my car is paid off, what else could there be? I'm about as happy as they come!" I didn't have a lot, but I had all I needed. That seemed like the penultimate success to me. And then I met Ed, and I realized, "Ah, this is like the cherry atop the icing atop a really amazing cake!"

Ed is someone who also appreciates simple things over material things. His definition of success is much like mine: being able to do what you love for a living and sharing your life with someone who understands and appreciates you. He reminds me everyday of what's important, and I feel beyond fortunate to have him in my life.

When I was worrying about THE COUGAR CLUB and how it would do, since it was my debut in women's fiction, and wondering if I would get another contract for more women's fic books and what I would do if that didn't happen (well, with the economy the way it is, money is tight and publishers are being extra-careful). I thought about it and I thought some more, and I finally said to Ed, "No matter what happens, I will always write. No one can stop me from doing that, ever. And I will always have you. With those two things in my life, how could I not feel successful?" Yeah, that sounds terribly corny, but it made me feel so much better and less frantic to realize it.

Which reminds me of a gift-type book I wrote eons ago that one of my sister's long-gone artist boyfriends was going to illustrate. It was called YOU'RE NEVER A FAILURE IF YOUR SOCKS MATCH, and it listed a whole bunch of really simple things that make everyone "worthy:" You're never a failure if your dog loves you, your cat loves you, you love yourself...and so on. I wish I could find that danged manuscript. It's somewhere in a folder in a box in the basement. If I ever unearth it, I'll share it in a post. But the gist of the book was that being happy with who you are, wherever you are in your life = success. Truly.

So what makes you feel successful in your everyday life? Is it seeing the smile on your child's face? Watching the bulbs you planted last fall grow into gorgeous flowers? Is it volunteering? Completing a project at work? Inquiring minds want to know!

Don Does the Dangerous Research

By Elaine Viets

Potato chips orange as a traffic cone. A sandwich that would defeat a slew of Certs. An omelet that looked like an accident scene.

My husband, Don Crinklaw, ate these foods and more. I wrote about these culinary delights in “Half-Price Homicide,” my ninth Dead-End Job mystery.

I do the job research for that mystery series. In “Half-Price,” Helen Hawthorne and I worked at a designer consignment shop. I buttoned shirts, hung up shirts and dusted pricey knickknacks. The only real threat was when my butter fingers handled the breakables. I managed not to drop anything the whole time I was at the store.

Don did the gut-wrenching research. Helen’s future husband, Phil, is based on my Don. Both have blue eyes and silver hair. Both have shadowy backgrounds as spies. Both adore foods blacklisted by the Heart Association.

Phil and Helen have dinner at the Floridian, an old-style diner on Las Olas, in “Half-Price Homicide.” It’s hard to escape many Las Olas restaurants without a bill the size of a mortgage payment. But the Floridian, affectionately known as the Flo by locals, serves generous portions at reasonable prices.

These are meals for “serious grease abusers,” as I wrote. “If you were in the right mood, the Flo was friendly, funky and affordable. If you weren’t, you could turn up your nose and decide the place needed a good scrubbing. In that case, the Flo hoped you’d order braised quail with kumquats somewhere else. It didn’t need your business.”

The Flo is a favorite of Helen and Phil’s. “Phil ordered a beer and a ham-and-cheese omelet with a side of chopped onions.” That dish was a little heavy maybe, but fairly reasonable.

Here’s where the meal crosses into the red zone. “When his omelet arrived, Phil smothered it in ketchup until Helen couldn’t see any egg, then topped it with onions and hot sauce.”

Phil ate the whole thing. So did Don.

One day, Don brought home a giant bag of cheddar-and-sour-cream potato chips. The chips were blaze orange – the color hunters wear to keep from getting shot. A color not found in nature.

"Ew,” I said.

“They’re pretty good once you get past the first bite,” Don said.

I couldn’t. He ate the bag alone. But I felt readers had to know about that death-defying feat. Phil ate the same chips in “Half-Price Homicide.”

Phil doesn’t have to worry about heart attacks in his fictional world, but I worry about Don’s eating habits. I tried to persuade him to eat healthier food. Later I discovered him eating a sandwich. A really smelly sandwich.

“What’s that thing?” I asked.

“Onion with rye bread,” he said.

“What else is on the sandwich besides onion?”

“Irish butter.”

“You’re eating a butter-and-onion sandwich?” I couldn’t hide my horror.

“You’re always telling me to eat healthy,” Don said. “This is a Bermuda onion. It has powerful antioxidants.”

“It has something else powerful, too,” I said, waving my hand. “At least it’s not Limburger.”

“I can’t find that cheese down here.” Don looked innocent as a puppy.

“Good,” I said.

***

Elaine Viets’ “Half-Price Homicide: A Dead-End Job mystery” received a starred review in Publishers Weekly. Its food will never get gourmet stars, but the mystery is meaty. For more information, go to http://www.elaineviets.com/

Elaine and other authors from The Lipstick Chronicles have donated books to the Brenda Novack On-Line Auction to support Diabetes research. Click here to view the collection.

She Said/She Said: Sixteen Degrees of Separation

She Said/She Said: Sixteen Degrees of Separation by Maggie Barbieri and Rachel Brady

We’re doing this blog a little differently today because I had the pleasure of sharing a hotel room this past weekend with the lovely and talented Rachel Brady. The song asks “Who can turn the world on with her smile?” and insinuates that it’s Mary Richards, but I’m here to tell you that it’s Rachel Brady. A more positive and uplifting person you will never meet. Besides the whole getting up in the morning to exercise thing, I thought we would be completely compatible as roomies.

I was wrong.

I checked into the room around dinner time on Thursday night after a five hour drive to D.C. The air outside was thick and muggy, unseasonably warm for a night in late April. When I entered the room, I felt as if I had entered a cabana in Belize, moisture dripping from the humidity affixed to the plate glass window overlooking the street below. Surely, Rachel wouldn’t want to be melting in this incredible heat, not to mention having her already-curly and gorgeous hair grow in size from just two minutes in the room? Before even stopping in the restroom (something I do frequently, if only to wash my hands, as Rachel learned), I headed to the thermostat and promptly dropped the temperature from seventy-four degrees to fifty-eight degrees. In about fifteen minutes, the room had that lovely arctic chill that I have come to expect in all of my sleeping quarters. (And yes, my husband sleeps in sweatpants and sweatshirts most of the time so as not to succumb to hypothermia.)

I immediately got into bed with a bag of pretzels and a glass of wine and proceeded to watch television until Rachel showed up a little after nine o’clock. As I had predicted to her when we first spoke, I was almost asleep even though she was still full of energy and ready to head down to the bar.

She was kind enough not to mention that the temperature in the room was akin to that in a meat locker and hastily retreated to the lobby bar where drinks—and heat—were in abundance.

I fell asleep as soon as she left, peaceful under the down comforter, and clad in fleece pajama pants. Some time around two in the morning, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat, wondering how the temperature in the room could have shot up so dramatically in such a short period of time. Now, Rachel’s hot, but was she that hot?

The next morning, I checked the thermostat, set to seventy-four degrees. After some tense interrogation, Rachel admitted that she had nearly frozen to death in bed and got up, using her cell phone as a flashlight, and turned the temperature to seventy-four.

We were sixteen degrees apart in the comfort zone.

We negotiated. I cajoled. Rachel cried. I think I passed out at one point. How could we reach consensus? Finally, we decided that we would set the temperature at sixty-four, even though that was way too hot for me and way too cold for her.

Did I mention that Rachel’s an engineer by day? Did I mention that I can only fiddle with things, or fix them, if I have a butter knife? I’m not accusing her outright, but the temperature was set at seventy for the entire weekend and I couldn’t figure out how to lower it.

Coincidence? I will let you decide.

~ ~ ~

Hmmm. Rachel here. That is not exactly how I remember it. Except for the complimentary parts. Let's go with those. (Thanks, Maggie! )

This is what really happened.

I rolled in sometime after nine on Thursday and found Maggie cozied up in bed, watching TV in our room. We spent a few minutes catching up and talked about all sorts of stuff, but the only piece relevant here is her passing remark that she "could sleep with the window open when it is 35 degrees outside." She said it drove her husband nuts.

"You mean you leave it open a crack, for fresh air?"
"No," she said. "I pretty much leave it wide open. Then he closes it during the night and I wake up sweating."

Soon afterward, I went down to the bar to see which of my writer friends I could find. An hour or two later, I came back to the room. Maggie was sleeping.

And it was nippy.

My epiphany came on slowly. Under a thick comforter, in flannel pj pants and a cotton tee, and even wearing socks, at first I didn't know just how cold I was. Thought I could gut it out. Have you ever been so cold in your bed that you don't want to roll over because then you will have to warm up a new cold spot, and it's just too dang cold to suffer through that process again?

Most of me thought that the room temp was probably due to some glitch in the thermostat's auto timing feature. I didn't remember seeing my breath earlier when I'd brought up my bag.

But a small, kind of worried part of me feared that maybe Maggie hadn't been exaggerating about that 35 degree, open window remark.

What to do.

If it were an auto-timer glitch, I might shiver needlessly all night. If she'd done it on purpose and I switched it back, she would sweat all night instead.

Better her than me.

Maggie had a good sleep going. I decided to fix the temp and then just play dumb later if she brought it up. The room was pitch black, so by light of my open cell phone, I crept to the thermostat, aimed my phone at it, and was surprised and horrified to find it set at 64 degrees. Definitely, an auto timer glitch then.

I changed it to 74 and went back to bed. In the morning, I confessed all to Maggie. She said, "Oh that. I actually prefer 58 degrees but I thought I'd meet you in the middle."

?!

I did math. "That means you think 70 is room temperature to regular people. This is sixteen degrees of separation."

A long discussion ensued, mostly through tears of laughter. We knew we had Wednesday's blog covered.

Maybe living in Texas has made me soft. But I offer this evidence in my defense, Maggie. Just sayin'.

I should also add here that Maggie is unequivocally the more gracious and flexible of the two of us, meeting me far to the right of Middle, usually at 70 degrees.

Interesting paradox there. One of the coldest rooms I've ever encountered, but one of the warmest friends.

Stilettos, High Heels, Crocs

Despite being a part of the Stiletto Gang, I wince whenever I see an actual Stiletto. No, I've never had a pair.

Years ago, though, I did wear high heels everyday to work. Looking back I wonder how I did it. I had my first real job working as a file clerk for Pacific Bell in downtown L.A. To get there, I rode the bus, then the streetcar to 8th street, then I walked four blocks up hill to the office building.

Like everyone else back in that time period, besides the heels, of course I wore nylons (no pantyhose yet), and dresses.

At the job, we often sat on little stools to get into the bottom drawers to do our filing, what a trick with skirts. Nylons didn't last long either.

I even had high heels for leisure, cute sandals.

As I got older and had more kids, the high heels were saved for dress-up occasions and work. On and off I worked as a telephone operator, mostly in Oxnard while hubby was stationed there. Even though no customers ever saw us, we were required to wear nylons and dresses to work. And yes, I wore my high heels then, even when I was pregnant. Three times I worked at the phone company, got pregnant, worked until they wouldn't let me any longer, and left.

But, I digress. Back to the heels. I didn't feel dressed up unless I had on heels.

When we moved to where we live now and took over the residential care facility, I didn't wear heels while I was working with the ladies we cared for, but I wore them when we went to town, or I had to go to a meeting.

I did this for several years until I finally realized, I could still look fine with a nice pair of flat dress shoes. Now that's all I have--and they better be comfortable.

Really, since I'm now a great-grandmother there's not anyone I need to impress. You'll not find a single pair of high heels in my closet today.

Okay, big confessions of the day, do I still get to play with all you Stiletto Gang cuties?

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

New York, New York

New York City is a magical place filled with wonderful museums, a vibrant theater community, and, as the old television show reminded us, “eight million stories in the Naked City.” It’s a tourist delight, a writer's treasure trove – and a terrorist target.

I live outside the city, in a quiet suburb about 20 miles from Times Square. I vividly remember September 11, 2001 – and the consuming fear of not knowing for sure where my husband, loved ones, and friends were during those chaotic hours. This time was different. I didn’t hear about this latest threat until Sunday morning, many hours after the event, but the emotions slipped right back into place.

A quick recap: On Saturday night, someone tried to detonate a car bomb in Times Square. If the twin towers of the World Trade Center were seen as symbols for America’s wealth, surely Times Square represents the heart of the people of this great city. Walk through the crowded streets that surround this iconic corner of New York, and you see rich and poor, every color of mankind, young, old, tourists and citizens, all intent on soaking in the energy of the city. It is the center of the theater district and on Saturday night, the shows went dark, as audiences were evacuated. The Lion King, the long-running musical made from the Disney cartoon, was the first to cancel the performance. Tickets for this show, a delight for families and especially young children, are still, after all these years in production, in such demand that there is months-long wait before you can purchase an evening of enchanting theater.

Saturday night, Mayor Bloomberg flew back from the annual Correspondents dinner in Washington, DC, where the jokes and the liquor flowed freely, to deal with this latest danger. He said pointedly, “Terrorists around the world feel threatened by the freedoms we have in this country and want to take our freedoms away from us. (That's why) they always focus on the symbol of that freedom, and that is New York City.”

It’s trite, but true, that we can’t let them win. When the lights go out on Broadway, it shutters the freedom of expression that is the hallmark of a free society. It closes the feel-good-musicals that have us humming when we leave the theater – as well as the intense, drama-filled plays that make us think about issues long after the last curtain call.

My suspicion is that this will not be a foreign terrorist plot. I suspect it’s another homegrown thug, like Timothy McVeigh, with an agenda that has no respect for human life. It’s less than two weeks after the anniversary of the Oklahoma City Bombing. Homegrown terrorism is, in some ways, harder to stomach than foreign invasions. These are men and women who are permitted to espouse ideas that are an anathema to the very being of our country. But our land thrives because we permit them to speak these hateful thoughts – but they are not permitted to act on them. Your right to speak loathsome concepts ends when you act upon them (or push others to act in your stead).

New York City police understand the constant daily threat that faces this phenomenal city. But in every town, village, and hamlet of our great nation, it’s up to each one of us to help our local law enforcement keep us safe. If you see something, say something. Had a t-shirt vendor in New York City not spoken up on Saturday night, the tragedy that might have ensued is too hard to even contemplate.

The photo at the top of this blog appeared in Life Magazine. It caught a couple in Times Square, celebrating with a kiss the end of World War II. If only this current war on terrorism could have such a definitive ending.

God Bless America.

Marian, the Northern half of Evelyn David

Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com