Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

by Bethany Maines

Anddddd… we’re back from NYC! After a week long trip to the Big Apple where we sampled the food, the night life, the culture and of course, the shopping, I realized that I may possibly be the only vactioner who includes signs as part of my list of tourist attractions. I’m not talking the big important monuments, I’m talking about the little tragedies of government signage or the er… “modifications” that have occurred to everyday signs.

As I back-tracked through the subway to capture this beauty about the Essex Street subway stop, I received strange looks from locals and my friends a like. Personally, I think this sign “correction” shows a flare of genius! The sign artist had to capitalize on the multitude of “wet paint” signs that were at a previous stop and apply them to the Essex St. sign without getting caught by the MTA employees and without committing the cardinal New York sin – getting in the way of people trying to get on the subway.

The Essex St. sign is second only to the series of masterpieces I captured while on honeymoon in the Virgin Islands. The Dip Series showed not only a one-time creativity, but the extended oeuvre of the artist. And while the Dip Series artist might not have been faced the threat of law enforcement the way the Essex St. artist was, his/her odds of getting run over were much higher.

A second category of sign that I much appreciate is what I term “unintentional art.” It’s a category exemplified by this little gem discovered in Brooklyn. Yes, that’s a New York City Department of Environmental Protection truck, and yes, it wants “Gasoline Only.”  Because gasoline is what environmental protection is all about, right?

Then there’s this classic from a previous trip to New York. Yup, that electrically lit sign is indeed telling you that it’s conserving electricity.

So as we march through life looking for the next “important” thing to look at, I think it’s also imperative to remember the advice I once got from my mother as I pushed a pull door – “Stop and read the sign.”

All hail technology

By: Joelle Charbonneau

The age of computers and the internet is a wonderful thing.  Facebook and Twitter, blogs and e-mail allow us to keep in touch with friends and family in way that weren’t possible before.  I, for one, am thrilled because I’m pretty bad at writing letters.  Well, actually the writing part I did pretty well.  I sat down with stationary, got out my pink (or green or chartreuse) pen and started scribbling.  Sadly, unless I’m being really careful, my penmanship looks a lot more like I went to school to be a doctor than a singer.

Still, I was great at putting pen to paper and writing line after line of chat.  When I was done, I’d happily put the paper in the envelope, print the name of the lucky recipient on the front and put it to the side with the intention of digging out my friend’s address and mailing it the next day.  Only, the next day never seemed to come.  At least, not for the letter.  The poor thing would sit there like an abandoned toy.  Waiting for someone to put it to use.  When I finally did remember that I was supposed to send the letter, several weeks or months had passed which meant I needed to write the thing all over again because my news was outdated.

Yep.  I was the person that e-mail was created for.  Sit down.  Type out a message.  Hit send.  No street address or stamp required.  Hurrah!  Let us all worship at the altar of technology.

Or not.

While I understand e-mail and mostly get how Facebook, Twitter and this blog work (I say mostly because much to my dismay the internet elves keeping changing the rules on those programs) there are certain pieces of technology that have me baffled.  With the upcoming release of MURDER FOR CHOIR, I was encouraged by those who are smarter than I am to put some clips of my singing up on YouTube.  They reasoned that since my amateur sleuth is a classically trained singer, it might be nice for the internet using public to see where I got some of my inspiration from.  Since everyone I talked to said it would be easy to pull some clips off of a DVD and stick them up on YouTube, I agreed to take a whack at it.

And another whack at it.

And another.

Oy!

So much for easy.

I guess one person’s easy is another person’s tension headache.   

However, despite the headache, seven or eight hours of shaking my head at the computer screen and a bunch of reboots later – I am happy to report that perseverance and dumb luck won out. 

Of course, now that I am sitting back basking in the glow of my accomplishment (which I am not sure I know how to repeat) I am wondering – what types of technology have you struggled with that everyone else claims is easy?  Please share!

Oh – and in case you are interested…here is one of the videos I managed to upload.  Here is hoping that it works!

Hello, I Must Be Going

by Susan McBride

I've been part of the Stiletto Gang for just about four years, and it's been an absolutely wonderful experience. When Maggie asked me to guest blog in 2008, I had no idea that it would turn into a regular gig. I had once sworn I wouldn't do blogs again because it involves more time than you'd think; but she convinced me that twice a month at Stiletto was completely doable.  Oh, yeah, and she assured me the group was comprised of the nicest bunch of women you could ever hope to meet.

She was definitely on the money about the "nicest bunch of women." It has been a real pleasure dealing with such a helpful, considerate "gang," and I have so enjoyed getting to know everyone better, through emails and through the always entertaining and insightful daily blog posts. I'm not sure I'm going to miss writing my two posts a month (with Emily coming along and deadlines galore, it was getting hard coming up with fresh ideas to expound upon!); but I will miss being a Stiletto chick. Luckily, the Stiletto ladies have become friends whom I intend to bug even after I'm officially off the blog as of June 1. So I won't give them a chance to miss me!

Thanks also to my friends and dear readers who've commented on my posts through the years and who've supported me behind-the-scenes in so many ways. I feel fortunate to have connected with you through my words, and I hope to see you elsewhere, perhaps on Facebook or just via emails now and then. It is reassuring to know how many kind and caring people there are in the world when sometimes reading the daily news headlines makes me wonder how much goodness still remains.

For now, I'm looking ahead to Emily's birth in June, to October (aka Breast Cancer Awareness Month) when my HarperCollins e-book about my breast cancer experience is released [In The Pink:  How I Met the Perfect (Younger) Man, Survived Breast Cancer, and Found True Happiness After 40], to February of 2013 when my next women's fiction book for HarperCollins, The Truth About Love and Lightning is out, and so much more. Even when I try to calm things down, life feels crazy-busy, and I'd like to savor each moment as much as possible. I'm fortunate that I'll be able to stay home with Emily while I work and, when I need to get out, we've got both grandmas in town. So we're pretty well set!

My heartfelt thanks and best wishes to the ladies of the Stiletto Gang. You have made my time on this blog something special, and I will always think of it fondly. Hugs and kisses!

A Multi-Talented Artist

The Stiletto Gang is pleased to welcome Elizabeth Zelvin. Author, therapist, singer, Liz has lots to share about her new book, new CD, and so much more!

1. Where does your new book, Death Will Extend Your Vacation, pick up the story of Bruce Kohler?

Bruce got sober at Christmas at the beginning of Death Will Get You Sober. In fact, waking up from a blackout in detox on the Bowery on Christmas Day was his wake-up call, or as they call it in AA, hitting bottom. The short story, “Death Will Clean Your Closet,” takes place when he’s 90 days sober, which is a big milestone in recovery. He’s still in early recovery in “Death Will Tie Your Kangaroo Down.” There’s an unpublished novella (formerly a novel) that covers Bruce’s first sober summer. Death Will Help You Leave Him takes place in the fall. “Death Will Trim Your Tree” covers his one-year anniversary Christmas. And his sobriety is well established in the latest story, “Death Will Tank Your Fish.” So Death Will Extend Your Vacation tells the story of his second sober summer—long enough for him not to worry much about drinking again, no matter what’s going on, and ready for a girlfriend, if he can only get to first base with Cindy, the attractive and slightly mysterious woman who’s one of his housemates in the clean and sober group house in Deadhampton (Dedhampton on the tax map) where everybody has at least one secret. Bruce’s, by the way, is that the beautiful housemate whose body they find on the beach is the first girl he ever almost slept with when he was fifteen. Actually, he’s keeping another secret from his best friends Jimmy and Barbara, because he thinks they’d kill him if they knew. But you’ll have to read the book to spot it.

2. Has your writing routine changed since the publication of your first book, Death Will Get You Sober? Tell us about a typical day.

The nice thing about my typical day is that there’s nothing typical about it. I have, not one, but two careers that let me spend the day at the computer in my jammies: writer and online therapist. I usually say “sweats and bunny slippers,” but in fact, it’s usually one of a collection of ankle-length sleep T-shirts—very, very comfortable. My prime writing time is in the morning, but since the morning is my best time overall for anything that requires a lot of focus, I don’t always use it to write. I see my therapy clients regularly, but none of them is on a fixed schedule. One of the advantages of online therapy is its flexibility. For example, a client who lives in the UK is five hours ahead of me, so I have to see her during my afternoon, her evening; but when she goes on vacation to Australia, we can meet at my 8:30 AM, her 10:30 PM. And if she’s visiting her dysfunctional family for three weeks, believe me, she doesn’t want to skip her therapy sessions. Anyhow, I start the day with stretches. I run for an hour every day, usually around the Central Park reservoir. And when I’m in the zone with the writing, I might take a little nap on the couch in the afternoon (ah, the joys of not having a day job!) so I can go back to the computer with zest. But the best thing about an unstructured day is that I allow time for my mind to be in that relaxed state in which the characters start talking to me, the mist parts, and I can see where I’m going, at least enough to go forward. It frequently happens when I’m running or in the shower, but the best time is when I’m lying in bed, definitely awake but not yet ready to open my eyes and get up. If I had to leap out of bed to the jangling of an alarm, the way I did when I was working full time, my muse (or whatever you want to call it) would be a dead duck.

3. What have you learned from your fans?

The best thing I’ve learned from my fans, to my grateful astonishment, is that I can write the kind of characters I love to read: endearing characters who feel real to the readers. I’ve also learned that book club readers pay very close attention to details: the members of two book clubs—one mostly women over 50 and the other women in their 30s—noticed a problem with the age of the victim in Death Will Get You Sober. Guff, the déclassé aristocrat with the dysfunctional Park Avenue family who dies unexpectedly in detox on the Bowery, setting off Bruce’s sleuthing career, is supposed to have gone to Viet Nam just before the end of the conflict in the early Seventies. Then, when Barbara reads his medical chart, it says he’s 47, which these two groups of ladies pointed out didn’t make sense. They were right. I had a good excuse: the six years between when I started sending the manuscript out and when the book actually got published. I spotted many needed changes—for example, when the book was in galleys, I realized I couldn’t have the patients smoking in detox any more—but I missed that one.

4. Tell us about your new CD, Outrageous Older Woman?

This is a project close to my heart. I’ve been singing almost as long as I’ve been writing, I learned to play guitar when I was 13, and for the past half century or so I’ve been writing songs and performing them for my friends with an occasional coffee house gig. Over the last two years, I finally recorded them, singing lead vocals myself but getting some terrific musicians far more skilled than I as backup. The result is Outrageous Older Woman, which is available in CD or mp3 download form on my music website at  lizzelvin.com as well as CD Baby, iTunes, and Amazon. If you go to my site, you can hear six of the songs in full and previews of all sixteen. If you’re in New York this weekend, I’m performing live with a couple of those musicians on Saturday May 19 at 8 pm at the People’s Voice Cafe, details on my music site. What are the songs about? A very nice review by John Lindermuth said, “Love is a consistent theme, though only three of the songs actually deal with love.” He got that exactly right. The title song is about empowerment, and there are songs about Internet dating, aging, family, alcoholism and recovery, abuse and healing, moments of decision, and characters who have inspired me. As with my books, I want to make the listener laugh and cry.

5. What's new on the horizon for you? What projects are you working on? Another sequel? A new series?

Death Will Extend Your Vacation is just out, so I’m trying to spread the word about that and the Outrageous Older Woman CD. I’m also trying to find a home for Voyage of Strangers, a YA novel about what really happened when Columbus discovered America. It’s the sequel to my two short stories about Diego, a young marrano sailor with Columbus, which both appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. And Untreed Reads is publishing “Shifting Is for the Goyim,” an 11,000-word paranormal whodunit about a nice Jewish girl who’s a rising country music star and happens to be a shapeshifter. Either of those protagonists might be the star of the next manuscript. Or if Bruce and Barbara start talking in my head, the next story could be about them. But in fact, I’m currently working on an academic piece, revising my chapter on partners of substance abusers for the third edition of a friend’s book.

Elizabeth Zelvin is a New York psychotherapist, a three-time Agatha Award nominee, and author of the mystery series featuring recovering alcoholic Bruce Kohler, starting with Death Will Get You Sober.  The third book, Death Will Extend Your Vacation, is just out, and “Death Will Tank Your Fish” was a 2011 Derringer Award nominee for Best Short Story. Liz has also just released a CD of original songs, Outrageous Older Woman. Her author website is www.elizabethzelvin.com  and her music website, www.lizzelvin.com. Liz blogs on Poe’s Deadly Daughters and SleuthSayers.

Shop Local...If You Can

In the little village in which I live, we have two “business” districts.  I use that term loosely because for one area, there is no business to speak of, and any business that does exist in either zone is struggling mightily for its life.  There are a few brave souls who continue to try to make a go of it:  a guy who opened a shop for birders, a friend who opened a microbrew place, an intrepid hair stylist who has to stay open seven days a week to make ends meet.  This is not a town with a “big-box” store, or even a fast-food chain. It’s small, and by extension, so are the businesses.  But they are having a tough time surviving in this economy.

Enter a group who sought to “rezone” the first business district, the one closest to the highway and most accessible to our train station, a major hub on a major railroad.  Backed by the then-mayor, their idea was to take existing storefronts and modernize them with a unified façade while creating mixed-use space—that is, space for retail on the bottom and apartments on the top—thereby adding to the village’s tax base.

To say that they were meant with vociferous derision and negativity is a gross understatement.  Even the mayor who approved the whole shebang is now against the plan for reasons that are still unknown to me.

We are a village of about 7,500 people and if our local political landscape is any indication of what is writ large on the national stage, we are in serious trouble.  Reports of last night’s village board meeting seem to indicate incivility, rudeness, and a general indecorousness abounding, things shouldn’t exist in a town where your mayor is also your next-door neighbor, and your trustee’s kids play Little League with your own.  Where you ride the train with another of the trustees and inquire about his or her elderly parent.  Where, adjacent to the majestic Hudson River, we should all give thanks for the beautiful vistas that surround us as we nod a greeting to those we pass on our daily walk instead of seeing the person passing us as either someone “for” or “against” whatever development the majority sees as responsible and fair for our little burg.

This debate has resulted in a lot of shouting and a lot of hard feelings.  People who love the village and want to see the best for it scream about progress but also about blighting the landscape.  It’s hard to know what’s best because there is just too much noise.  Letters to our local paper abound and in about ninety percent of them, politeness has taken a flyer.

Have the days of dialogue and reaching consensus gone the way of the landline and dial-up internet?  Is it impossible in today’s world to have a conversation with someone and see their side, even if you agree to disagree?  As someone once famously said, “can’t we all just get along?”

In books, conflict is good; without it, your story is flat, your characters not compelling at all.  Conflict is what led me to make Alison Bergeron a divorcee with a dead body in her car.  If not for that conflict, no other story could have flowed freely about her life.  Sure, she could have been happily married, but what’s the fun in that?  Having an ex-husband to act as her annoying foil made the writing, and her journey, more fun.

In real life, however, conflict is an annoyance, a nuisance.  Constantly battling with people over issues large and small results in indigestion, and ultimately, a stalemate.  Agreeing to disagree means, in the case of our little village, stagnation.  No new business for the citizens to “shop local.”  No new apartments for people to enjoy what we long-time residents have enjoyed for many years.  No new taxes to help the rest of us stave off bankruptcy in the face of rising fees.

My advice to my neighbors?  Go to the local microbrew with someone with whom you disagree and get a pint.  Discuss “progress” and “change.”  See where you stand after ingesting a sudsy brew, one that was made special for you by a homegrown girl who came back to give back to her beloved village.  Then see if you can’t reach consensus.

Tell me, Stiletto readers, what are things like where you live?  Is it hard to get one decision made in your town or city?  Is stagnation—and noise—the order of the day?

Maggie Barbieri

More About Weddings

Ever since attending grandson's wedding, I've been thinking a lot about the weddings in my past.

Guess who? October 24, 1951 and yes, it's me and my husband. We were married in the minister's home with my mother and my husband's dad as witnesses. Afterwards, we went back to new husband's grandmother and maiden aunt's home (where he grew up) for wedding cake. My dress was blue velvet (looks purple in the photo) and I had a blue hat with a veil.

When my eldest daughter got married we didn't have the money to put on a huge wedding--but we did have a really nice wedding and reception because we did it all ourselves.

Daughter found a wedding dress pattern and some lovely satin material. She was afraid to cut the material so after she pinned the pattern I cut it out. She did a great job actually sewing it. For her bridesmaids and flower girl she found some light green material with daisy's embossed on it. She helped everyone make their dresses. Her best friend was maid of honor, a sister and another friend a bridesmaid, and her youngest sister was the flower girl and her little brother, the ring bearer. The girls carried daisy's we picked from a neighbor's yard in baskets we bought at a thrift store. Her other brother was one of the grooms' men along with the groom's friends. I made the flowers for the men from rosebuds in our garden.

The ceremony was performed by a Navy chaplain in the chapel on the base. (Hubby was still a Seabee at that time and we lived about a  block from the base.)

A neighbor made the wedding cake. We had the reception in our family room and outside in the back yard.
Guess who prepared all the food? Yep, me. I don't even remember what all I fixed, I just know it was enough to feed about 50 people.

I had practice though, I'd done the same things for this same daughter's graduation from high school that same summer.

After that I went on to make the wedding feasts for the other two girls--and for the two boys' weddings too.

When my daughter told me she was having her son's rehearsal dinner at her house I said, "Oh, you're following in my footsteps and preparing the meal." She's a really good cook.

She laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm having the meal catered."

Looking back, it amazes me that I did all that--but when you don't have any money and we sure didn't, you do what you can. I don't think any of the kids felt deprived.

When my granddaughter got married a year and a half ago--her mother-in-law to be prepared all the food for a huge crowd. Fortunately, she had lots of relatives who helped her.

So there are all different ways to do it--all I hope is that everyone's marriage last as long as mine has.

Marilyn, who promises to write about something else next time.

Make My Day

By Evelyn David

I talk a very good game. I'm the mother of four. I've given that speech about you shouldn't need outside validation to feel worthy more times than Kim Kardashian goes to the tanning salon.

I know authors, actors, musicians, all insist they don't read reviews.  Kevin Bacon was absolutely right when he said, " I don't read criticism of my stuff only because when it's bad, it's rough-and when it's good, it's not good enough."

And yet…

I obsessively check Amazon rankings and reader reviews. No question that one small note of reproof is enough to put me in a depression so deep that there isn't enough chocolate on this earth to make me happy (and believe me, I've tried). But conversely, there are times when the self-doubt as a writer is also so strong that a complete stranger taking the time to post a positive, yea, a glowing review, is enough to sustain me for at least 24 hours before the doubt creeps in again.

ZONED FOR MURDER is our newest, full-length mystery and it's not set in any of the universes we've previously created. It's a little more serious with a higher risk quotient. It's scary to create something different. Reader expectations of who you are as a writer can force you into a mold that you might be eager to break or maybe just expand. Sometimes it works. Ask Stephen King, who can pen both Carrie and On Writing, with equal brilliance. And sometimes it doesn't. Check with Arthur Conan Doyle. He had to bring back to life a character he loathed because his readers demanded it and didn't care to read anything else he wanted to write.

So the decision to try something new? Fulfilling as an author; terrifying as a writer who needs…wait for it: outside validation that she really is an artist, not just a pretender.

So forgive me for tooting my own horn, since I just finished saying that I wanted someone else to blast it, but this review of ZONED FOR MURDER, from someone I don't know, gave me, if only briefly, the courage to write again. Because fear can paralyze the creative juices.

"I fell in love with the characters in this book, especially Maggie. I found this book entertaining and spell binding." Then she adds, "I will recommend this books to my friends."

Not only did she like it, but that critical word-of-mouth campaign that marks the success or failure of most projects – this wonderful lady was happy to participate.

Stephen King, whose books terrify me, the Northern half, but absolutely delight the Southern half, is a wise writer. I respect him enormously. He explained why he writes, "The answer to that is fairly simple—there was nothing else I was made to do. I was made to write stories and I love to write stories. That's why I do it. I really can't imagine doing anything else and I can't imagine not doing what I do."

Ain't it the truth?

I don't know if Stephen King reads reviews. I suspect not. He also said, "If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn't bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented." And perhaps for him, the check is validation enough.

But for me, I need more. Maybe I should work on that, but in the meantime, whether it's to an author with a new book, or to the plumber who just fixed your leaky toilet, taking a moment to compliment someone on a job well done may be just the thing that makes a stranger's day.

Marian, the Northern half

-----------

Zoned for Murder - Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)

Brianna Sullivan Mysteries - e-book series
I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah- Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)
The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Undying Love in Lottawatah- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
A Haunting in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Lottawatah Twister - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Missing in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Good Grief in Lottawatah - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Sullivan Investigations Mystery - e-book series
Murder Off the Books Kindle (Exclusive at Amazon this month)
Murder Takes the Cake Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Riley Come Home (short story)- Kindle - Nook - Smashwords
Moonlighting at the Mall (short story) - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

Romances
Love Lessons - Kindle - Nook - Smashwords

They Always Ask: What Comes After THE END?

       By Laura Spinella     

It’s itchy palms and a cold sweat, a compulsive urge that a team of interventionists couldn’t thwart. That’s what I’m down to.  No, don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t quit drinking. I said compulsive not insane. But what I have done is turn in a manuscript. It leaves me with time, a gaping hole from 7 a.m. until noon. Initially, I’m dazzled by the prospect—think cats and a tinfoil ball. By living in the mainstream I can get things done, big and small.  I'll chase time until it lodges itself under my sunroom sofa, moving something like this: Instead of brushing by old newspapers and dirty toilets, I take the papers to the recycle bin, scrub the toilets until I’ve drowned the Ty-D-Bol man. I make every bed and vacuum the floor of my closet. Afterward, I’m surprised but only marginally alarmed to find that morning has two hours left.  Not a problem. I have a 30%-off Kohl’s coupon. By noon everyone has new underwear and I have half-a-dozen potential outfits for a trip that’s three months away.   On day two, dinner is a planned event.  My usual incidental dash to the microwave morphs into a Julia Child effort, one that involves béchamel sauce and a 1,000 calorie French dessert.  By day three, my real jobs are organized as if they are my goal. Newspaper stories are booked weeks in advance; my editor is dazed but delighted.  Normally, I’d segue from my WIP to my cyber-gig needing a shower and wearing pajama pants with a hole in the crotch. Not now. Now I show up in makeup and clothing that does not involve an elastic waist. Day four I surprise my son and pop in at track practice. I bring brownies for the hardworking boys. From across the field, his head pivots sharply. It’s as if he smells something repugnant in the air. I wave. He trots steadily in my direction, glancing right at a gaggle of girls who, apparently, also stopped by to watch.

            “What are you doing here? Is someone dead?”

            “I had free time. Can’t a mother watch her son practice?”

            “Seriously, why are you here? It’s track practice. I’m perfectly safe.”

I assume he’s alluding to his younger years when I tended to hyper-fret about things like child abduction. I decide it’s still plausible. “You never know who’s lurking.”

What happens if you're not careful with your javelin

              “I have a black-belt in Taekwondo and a javelin in my hand.  Go home; go write something.”  He darts across the field, taking his position. Only for a moment do I think he’s considering hurling the javelin at me.

            And this is where dazzle turns to disaster. I’m not the mom who goes to practice. The thrill of a three-course meal can only satisfy for so long. I hate shopping and my day jobs function fine on the fly.  Twenty-four hours later, I stare at my sunroom writing chair. It’s wrapped in metaphoric yellow caution tape.  I may not enter; I have no business there.  There’s a hard rule about revisiting a manuscript that’s no longer in my possession. I’d only see a thousand missteps, unable to change anything. Rationally, I should look forward to this break. Downtime is supposed to be beneficial, an opportunity to recharge the muse. Well, clearly, my muse is an addict. I sit and write a blog, thinking it’s a quick fix.  Two paragraphs in and I find my knee bouncing like a drunk with a Dixie cup. It’s not enough. This is not to say the muse has anything remotely brilliant to relay. In fact, it’s the very reason I equate it to an addiction. A wiser person would seek help. Besides, what would I write?  The muse has a suggestion.

            “Remember that idea I spun a year ago? We were driving. Instead of the license plate game we played the what if game.  What if that girl, the one with the crummy newspaper job and the psychic gift, landed in your lap top?  Come. Sit. You know you want to.”

            “No I don’t. What I want is for you to quit delivering half-baked ideas, expecting me to fill in the blanks.”

            “Sorry, if you wanted a thorough muse your last name should have been Rowling or Roberts. I work with what they give me.”

            “Do you have any idea how much time and commitment your ideas take? Someday I’ll regret it, the endless hours I’ve wasted on you.”

            “And still, you would have spent more time sleeping. You're not getting that time back either. So come, sit. Just try it. One sentence, a character name, the way he looks at her—focus, you’ll see it.  And I haven’t even told you the best part of my idea.”

            “Ha! I’ve lived your ideas, holistic designer, rock star, a rogue man on a motorcycle.  They’re absurd.”  Yet, ruefully, I inch into the room.

“Maybe. But the motorcycle man worked out fine. I heard he’s up for a few nifty awards.  Besides, what are your options?  Plant a garden, take up golf, stalk the high school cafeteria?”

“Shut up.” But as I speak, I’m fighting temptation and gravity.  I move closer.

“That’s it. Ease your way in. We’ll go slow. We’ll talk. Hell, maybe I’ll even float you some backstory.”

My fingers move past the cautionary yellow tape. The leather chair does feel good.  It’s only been a week, but there’s dust is on the keyboard. We can’t have that.  Okay, I’ll sit—but only for a minute…  

Laura Spinella is the author of Beautiful Disaster, a 2012 RITA Finalist, Best First Book; NJRWA Winner, Best First Book; Wisconsin RWA Write Touch Finalist, Best Mainstream Novel; Desert Rose RWA Finalist, Best First Book and a Favorite Book of 2011 at SheKnows.com. Visit her at www.lauraspinella.net