Gratitude

What a powerful force for good. Not just a simple, verbal thank-you for a service provided (though that's important too), but a heartfelt, almost prayerful, sometimes unspoken, thanks for blessings received, blessings given.  From now until Thanksgiving, I'm going to choose one thing I'm extremely grateful for in my life, and give thanks.  Hopefully, it will become a habit, and I'll find a reason every single day to stop and say "wow, I am so blessed because . . . "

Today's expression of thanks: for my family. Loving, supportive, funny, kind, giving, and the kind of people of I would choose for friends if we weren't already related. I am more than grateful these people are in my life.

What's the difference?

I write mysteries. Red herrings (love that visual - where did it arise, anyway?), lots of possible suspects, all kinds of twisted paths, lead the reader to a hopefully logical ending, where s/he can say "But of course he's the killer!". Those mysteries that drag a killer out of thin air, a character who doesn't appear until the last chapter, drive me nuts. But it has always seemed to me that the joy of a mystery happens as the reader follows the clues along with the fictional sleuth. Then voila! (Not viola, as in the musical instrument, but the French word that the iPad doesn't accent for me.) The crime is solved!

Thrillers, on the other hand, need a known bad guy right up front. The reader is made well aware of the level of danger involved in stopping this evil. Stakes are high, because the readers, along with the protagonists, are biting their nails, praying the evil they understand is out there won't succeed. Often, the protagonist's fear and dread are aggrandized as the reader is sucked into the driving need to stop the baddies. When the reader knows the consequences of failure as well as the protagonists, you have a thriller.

Sure, mysteries can be tense nailbiters. Will the unknown bad guy strike again? They can also be more leisurely, character studies dipped in a poisoned pen. Or they can be cozies, with humor and silliness. Thrillers, though, are never funny or cute. They are driven by action and the need to stop the known enemy.

That's my take on the difference between the two genres. What's yours?

More Shock/Elections

I just found out it costs $20,000 to file to run for the office of state senator in my home state. What ever happened to democracy being free and open to all (legal) comers? A filing fee that steep sure discourages anyone but the wealthy from trying for state office.

I'm really upset. Here I am, a regular voter and follower of local and national politics, and I had NO idea that this stupid fee hinders office-seekers without deep pockets.

It's not right. I'm going to have to do something about it. Letter writing campaign, here I come.

Horse Memories

I was working through my father's filing cabinets (he never saw a piece of paper he didn't have to save!), and found old newspaper clippings.  A 1938 copy of the Roosevelt Rough Rider high school paper was a real gem. Anyway, I was reading old clippings, trying to figure out why he saved them, and there were the usual investing advice columns, how to protect your identity online, how to graft fruit trees, how to save your bees from hive rot (no kidding), and a ton of how-to articles. My dad figured he would do anything if he read up first, LOL. And he was right.

In between all these how-to articles were some clippings from the Leavenworth, Kansas, newspaper about horse shows at Ft.Leavenworth. My 15 and a half hand Quarter horse mare and I showed in novice hunt classes (we were both beginners),and dad saved every single article where our names were listed. She was a flashy red roan with four white stockings and a white blaze down her face, and let me tell you, she was as sassy as her coloring. A true redhead in temperament. We were quite a pair, I can assure you. Most of all, we had fun. What more can you ask for when you're a teenager?

I began reading the lists of event winners, and remembered quite a few names. Of the horses, that is, LOL. They stuck in my brain long after the names of their riders/owners.  One of them, Box Canyon, was an elegant, long-legged bay thoroughbred mare who was the dream of every rider in Kansas. She floated over jumps, had exquisite manners, and made any rider look wonderful. All you needed was quiet hands and a light touch, and she won. Everything.

Today I can see that learning the ropes with a young horse was perfect for a young girl. We mastered our skills together, if it can be said we mastered anything. Probably not a lot. We both loved a flat-out gallop, and I still remember the time we raced down the edge of the small air field, hit the earthen barrier at the end, she swerved left, and the saddle flew off to the right, taking me with it. I certainly checked my cinch after that!

Those horse-memories will be with me forever. They were alien creatures with incredible beauty and complicated natures.  And I still wish I'd gotten to ride Box Canyon, just once.

Anniversaries of Sorts

I like the French word for birthday. Anniversaire. I think I remembered its correct spelling. As a mom, I really think birthdays should be extravagant parties thrown on behalf of she who looked like a whale for nine months, then pushed that piano through a transom window. (My husband's description, not mine, LOL.) The kids get their parties when they're adults and parents.

Having just celebrated my own piano-through-the-transom day, I was mulling over things I still want to do in this lifetime. The list isn't long or extravagant, which surprised the heck out of me. Guess I have already knocked a lot of goodies off, which means I'm a happy girl by any standards. However, these few remain.

1. I want to see where the Battle of Greasy Grass was fought. Don't care a lot about the Custer monument, but I really want to see the terrain where the Sioux beat the tar out of the 7th Cavalry.

2. Learn to play the piano. I'll probably be awful, but what fun to create your own music.

3. Raft the Colorado. Speed on white water, oh yeah.

4. Take stock car driving lessons. End goal? Hitting the track over 100 mph. Or faster.

That's the list for today. All do-able. I'd better get cracking!

Nascar and Kyle

Nascar has to decide if it's Big Daddy or a business. Maybe the two are the same, but I don't think so. Kyle Busch lost his temper Friday night and slammed Ron Hornaday into the wall, nose first. Not the first time this has happened, won't be the last, and Kyle will probably do it again someday. If he keeps his job.

Seems to me it's up to the sponsor to decide who represents its brand. Gun Broker.com might be a better fit for Kyle than M&Ms after Friday, but you know what? Let the Mars Company decide the punishment. Allow the other drivers to take care of Kyle's behavior. Believe me, they will.

I was much more upset when Carl Edwards flipped Brad Keselowski last year. That was more than scary, with the car ending upside down after it stopped doing barrel rolls through the air. What happens to Crazy Carl? Put on probation, the naughty boy, even after he said the hit was deliberate retaliation. Haven't liked the dude since. I vote with my purse and will never buy a single product from any of his sponsors.

There are ways to punish drivers who act like brats. The public and the sponsors do a pretty good job of it.

What the heck is going on?

I'm not an "occupy" fan. I don't study the issues these protestors avow, but I do know one thing. It's very American to hold group protests. Where would we be without all those rowdy Revolutionaries dumping tea in the Boston harbor? So when I see pictures (taken by a reporter who was arrested on a sidewalk because the police told him to stop with the camera...uh, excuse me. Are you kidding?) of the police arresting protestors at 1 a.m., I get really upset.

In the middle of the night the authorities conduct a roust? I'm aghast. What's next? The protestors get locked up and held incommunicado and without legal counsel? Oh wait, that happens in Cuba, not America. While it may seem far fetched, it's a slippery slope when you don't think it's a big deal that a few protestors get locked up.

We should all be outraged.

The Big Picture - Halloween Story 2011

Every year, I try to post a (slightly) scary story for your holiday pleasure. Enjoy!

Halloween 2011

THE BIG PICTURE

            Everyone has a childhood monster story.  There are the little yellow men with sharp knives who live under your bed and come out at night to slice your ankles to ribbons if you have to get up to go to the bathroom. Or maybe you were terrorized by huge furry creatures who popped out of your toy box when your parents were sound asleep. Creatures of the night have terrorized children for hundreds of years.  Most of us outgrow the bone-numbing fear.  Some of us don’t.

            Jean was one of those who didn’t. I’d ask her why she was half-dead at work, and she’d give me one of those martyred smiles that women perfect, and I could tell she wanted me to drag it out of her, but to be honest, I wasn’t too interested. Because we shared a cubicle, I tried to be friendly and interested in her personal life, but I don’t have too much in common with a married mother of two boys under the age of four.  Bachelorhood suits me just fine, and if I’m dragging my ass into the office on Monday morning, it’s because I spent the weekend with a hot hook-up and imbibed a bit too much of the cheap stuff.   Jean’s husband sounded like a lazy monster himself, from the way she talked about how he never helped her around the house or with the boys, and I always figured she looked like hell because she was taking care of three babies over the weekend, not just the two who really were. Some monsters are real, and they don’t come out only at night. Some, you marry.

            She was pretty once, I guessed from looking at the wedding photo she kept on her desk, beside the color pictures of her kids when they were in the hospital nursery, all red and faces screwed up like they were constipated.  Brown hair that was once long, but now cut short and not very well, and a nice figure if you liked women without boobs, didn’t have a chance on Jean, with the huge circles under her eyes.   In the year we shared office space, she got skinnier by the month, and I just assumed it was because she never had time to eat, given the pressures of our jobs and the double load she carried at home.

            I know it sounds like I was interested in Jean, but really, I was just a head with two ears who half-listened when she needed someone to dump her complaints about her family crap.  We never socialized after work, since she wasn’t into the bar scene, and our projects always got finished at the office. So we were colleagues, I guess is the definition of our relationship, which really wasn’t one.

            That’s why I was surprised when she didn’t show up for work for one solid week.  We were busier than heck, and she was always good at the detail work, which meant I had to do double duty.  I tried to not resent her absence, but she knew we were on a deadline here, and she could at least have taken some of the work home to do while she was lying around drinking her herbal teas and sucking down vitamins like candy.

            The big project deadline is my excuse for burying my head in computer programs and not taking the time to find out what was really going on.  When our boss, Kev, dropped the bomb about her missing kid, I was like, totally shocked. 

            “They go to day care, how can one of them be missing?”  I knew that much, at least.

            “The husband said the youngest got snatched out of his bed in the middle of the night, when he called to explain why Jean wouldn’t be in.  The one and a half year old. The three year old saw it, said it looked like a big black blob was standing over the baby’s crib, so the police are coming the area.”

            “Sheesh, I’m sorry to hear that.  Do they have any leads?”  I sounded like a bad Dragnet actor.

            Kev shook his head. “It’s crazy. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing to find the guy.  Even the Boy Scouts are out there.  Don’t you watch the news?”

            “Not if I can help it.”  I glanced at Jean’s desk, at the pictures of the ugly, red baby faces.  “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

            Kev shook his head. “She’s totally in pieces, according to her husband. May be a while. I’ll pull Rocco from the other team to help you out.”

            “Don’t do that,” I protested. “He’ll just slow me down.  I can pull this out, just keep everyone away from me for the rest of the week.”

            Kev made good on his promise, and I cranked out the final program and got it off to our client without too many hitches.  Since I had the weekend free, I figured I’d go to Jean’s house, make an appearance, a few sympathetic noises, and try to scope out when she’d be returning to the office.  I didn’t expect what I found.

            Jean and her family lived in an older neighborhood filled with huge oaks and cracked sidewalks.  Some of the bungalows hadn’t had much done to maintain them, but Jean’s looked pretty nice. Bright yellow paint, white wooden rockers on the front porch.  Right now, they were filled with neighbors, their butts planted on the rocker seats as they blew their noses and rubbed their gloved hands in the cold.

            “Jean in?” I asked from the bottom step.

            An older woman wearing a really ugly blue knitted hat that she should have thrown away thirty years ago, nodded.  “Who’re you?  Only police and family allowed inside. Jim’s orders.”

            “I work with Jean. She’ll want to see me. Grayson Whiting.  Tell her I’m here.”  I was pretty sure she would. Then I’d feel like I’d done the right thing, and I could have a nice weekend after all. “Please.” I added as an afterthought.

            The Blue Hat Biddy stared at me through black framed glasses and after glancing at her fellow cronies, who gave her reluctant nods, she stood up and went into the house.  I could hear her lock the front door behind her. What did she think I was going to do, storm through after her?

            Jean appeared at the front door, and boy howdy, was she a mess.  “Gray, come in, please. I’m so sorry I didn’t call and explain in person, but I’m so glad you’re here.”  Grabbing my arm, she hauled me into the front room.

            Even though it had big windows facing the porch, no light  could penetrate the gloom caused by the pulled curtains. Everything smelled stale and musty, and I could see dust on the coffee table, even though it was piled with Styrofoam cups and plates with half-eaten donuts.

            “Sorry for the mess,” she fussed, shoving aside a blanket and some pillows crumpled on the sofa.  “Have a seat. Please. It’s so nice to see someone who isn’t the police.  They think we did it, you know, killed our baby. They’re here nonstop, asking us the same questions over and over, and I said I’d take a lie detector test, but they said it wouldn’t help find Stevie, and we had to tell them where we put his body.”  

            Any hold she had over herself melted as she crashed into my chest, clearly expecting a comforting set of arms. After a few tentative pats, I gave up and held her as she soaked my jacket with snot and tears.  At that moment, I was so grateful I wasn’t married, I could have sworn off sex forever.

            “Where’s your husband?”  I was looking for someone to take over who knew what to do better than I did.  “Um, Jim, right?”

            She reared back. “The bastard says he’s out looking, but I know what he’s up to. He’s just pretending.  He knows where Grayson is, I just know it.  He never believed me when I told him about the attic.  Now there’s proof, and he won’t let me tell anyone.  Oh God,” she wailed loudly, scrunching my good Burberry jacket in her hands, “it took him. I know it did.”

            I waited for her to dump more of her craziness, but she was sobbing so hard, she couldn’t speak.  Taking her shoulders, I gave her a little shake.

            “Jean, you’ve got to hold it together.”  I had a flash of inspiration.  “For the sake of your other boy.  He’s around, right?”

            “My mother took him home so he wouldn’t get snatched too.  I’m going to kill that bastard, he wouldn’t nail the closet door shut, no, not when I told him what I’d seen as a kid when my family lived here.  This was my grandparent’s house, and I spent the night with them when I was little, sometimes a whole weekend, and I knew what lived in the attic. I saw it, but I screamed, and it ran away. I was older than Stevie, though, and he was too young to cry out before it snatched him.”  Louder wailing. Oh great.

            This was getting too creepy for me. She needed drugs, serious ones at that.  “Do you have a doctor?” I asked loudly, so she’d hear me over the sobbing.  “You need something to calm you down, and I’ll be glad to pick up the prescription.”

            “Screw that,” she snapped, all white fury and red eyes. “Tell them, tell the police about the monster in the attic. Please. Maybe they’ll listen to you.  You’re not a suspect.”  She began hiccupping, she was weeping so hard.

            I didn’t know what to say to calm her down, other than “Okay.”  I finally disentangled myself and let myself out the front door.  The Blue Hat Biddy and her cronies stared at me as if I were a child snatcher.

            “She needs help,” I offered, hoping they’d take over where I’d left off. “Anyone know her doctor’s name?”

            “She’s not crazy,” Blue Hat Biddy snapped. “Everyone knows the monster has lived here for centuries.  Her grandparents finally believed her, and they moved out.  But her cheapskate of a husband said they had to live here because it was free, and poor Jean has slept with the kids every night since they came home from the hospital. Did her jackass of a worthless husband help keep watch?” The glares of the tree women grew uglier, and my manhood was feeling threatened.  I crossed my hands in Adam Pose Number One in front of my crotch.

            “I don’t know what to say.” I really didn’t. Insanity seemed to run in the neighborhood. “If there was a problem with the house, and I’m not saying there is, why didn’t Jean leave with the kids?”

            “She was going to go.  The weekend the baby was snatched.  She said she could hear the monster pacing, and she knew it was getting ready because it hadn’t had a baby in a long time.  The people who lived here before Jean’s grandparents, they lost their only boy to it.  We found out later he didn’t die of SIDS, like they told everyone.”  Blue Hat Biddy wiped a tear of her own with her gloved hand. “I was just a girl back then, and my mother told me to stay out of this house.  She knew.”

            Mass hysteria had a longer shelf life than I imagined it could.  “Okay, well, Jean needs some serious medical help, and if you won’t call a doctor, I’ll get an ambulance here.  She’s falling apart, and it’s not going to get better.”  I’m a good big picture person, which is why Jean and I worked so well together. I knew I’d never get her back on my team, not for a long time, but I owed her something for all her hard work. The least I could do was get her medical help.

            I pulled out my cell and started to dial 911 when Blue Hat Biddy smacked it out of my hands. It bounced on the cracked walkway and the screen shattered.  I couldn’t help it, I almost grabbed her by the throat. “That cost $700, and I expect you to pay for it!” I yelled.

            “Screw you and your phone. You want to help Jean, get into the attic.  The police went up there, and they said they couldn’t find anything.  Jean’s too emotional to see what’s there because she doesn’t want to, and her so-called husband won’t.”

            “You go,” I snapped, scooping up the remnants of my expensive and very cool phone. I was more than angry.  “I’m outta here.”

            “We can’t,” Blue Hat explained as if I were an idiot who didn’t know what two times two equaled. “It knows us. It’ll hide. You’re a stranger.  You might catch it.”

            “The police are strangers. Why can’t they catch it?”

            “It’s hidden from the authorities all its life.  For over a hundred years. It can smell a uniform a mile away.  Please, do this for Jean. She deserves to know what’s happened to her baby, so she can finally leave this horrible house with her other little boy. She won’t go as long as she knows her baby is up there with that monster.” Blue Hat Biddy grabbed my arms and clung like a drowning woman.  “You’re the first person who isn’t police to come here and get inside. Jean won’t let any of us in.”

            I shook my head. “No way. I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

            “Please. Do it for the sake of a woman who needs to bury her child.”

            The other two women, eyes reproachful, joined Blue Hat Biddy in surrounding me.  I was either going to have to knock them over, and probably break their fragile bones in the process, or do as the old woman asked. 

            “Oh hell.”  I was stuck and I knew it. I couldn’t hurt a woman, especially an old one who could have been my great-grandmother. “Okay, get me back inside.”

            I’d run up to the attic, stir up some dust, tell Jean her baby wasn’t stashed in the rafters, and leave.  My brownie points with the Big Guy upstairs were adding up, I hoped, even though I wasn’t sure the Big Guy even existed.

            Blue Hat and her cronies approached the front door and Jean let them in. A few minutes later, Jean came to the door and reached out her hands for me, her eyes even redder than when I’d left her a few seconds ago.  I really wished I’d gone to Hooters instead of Jean’s, but I said I’d do this thing, so I had to do it. Then maybe I could call an ambulance for Jean and my conscience would be clear. Only my phone was now destroyed.

            “Where are the police?” I asked Blue Hat as she took my elbow and steered me into the house as if she was afraid I’d bolt.  “Shouldn’t they have left someone here in case a kidnapper calls?

            “They don’t think it’s a kidnapping. They said they had to coordinate the search, but that just means they’re idiots who can’t see what’s right in front of them. We told them, all of us, when they wouldn’t believe Jean.”

            I was starting to understand Jean’s husband a little better. He’d probably had enough of this crap, too.

            “Okay, let’s get this over with. How do I get into the attic?”

            “Are you sure? It’s so dangerous.  It might try for you, though historically, it only takes children.”  Blue Hat looked at me as if I wasn’t strong enough to fight my way out of a paper bag.

            “I do Pilates, I’m stronger than I look.” Plus, Pilates classes are a great place to pick up hot chicks.  I wished I was in one right now.

            “He’s the only person I trust.”  Jean managed to calm down enough to speak.  “He’s a good man, and he’ll see the truth.”

            I don’t know where she got her confidence except out of a bottle of delusion, but I was ready to get this over with.  They led me to a closet in one of the rooms via some creaking stairs.  A door inside the closet lead to the attic, I assumed.  All four women backed away and I put my hand on the door knob. 

            “If I don’t come back, call the cops, right?”  I was joking, but they looked so stricken, I was sorry I’d said anything so glib.

            I could tell an army had been up those narrow stairs, just from all the disturbed dust.  At the top of the steps, I had to duck my head to crawl into the attic itself.  It couldn’t have been any larger than ten by fourteen, and nothing had been stored there in a while.  A quick glance showed me nothing but a dark and empty space.

            I was just about to duck back down the stairs when a slight shift in one corner caught my attention.  The air shimmered and for a second, I thought light was leaking through from the second floor, between the rafters.  Then it was like a movie, where all these tiny bits of black swirl around and suddenly, voila, there’s a solid shape. Usually an alien or something like that.

            I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. It was as if my hands and feet had been nailed to the rafters.  Tugging as hard as I could, I couldn’t get free.

            The bits of black changed colors, and a man, crouched over, his head lifted and eyes on me, glared.  I couldn’t have screamed if I’d been offered a million bucks.  I couldn’t look away, either.  With a shock, I realized the form glaring at me resembled Jean’s husband, the man in the wedding picture on her desk.

            “Tell her I said I’d get her.  She thought she was so smart, when she was a little girl.  Then she believed she could save her children from me.  They never win, these mothers.  I always take what I want.  Tell her the boy was mine from the minute he was born.”

            I understood every word, even though his mouth didn’t move.  I wanted to ask him if he was Jean’s husband, but I figured he was as crazy as she, and between the two of them, I was in trouble if I stirred the pot.  I nodded, because that was all I could do.

            “Go.  Don’t come back.  If she leaves this house, the boy dies.  He’s mine now, and I will do with him as I want. She knew the risk when she moved in here.”

            I prayed the police would come running when I called them to arrest the son of a bitch.  Any father who’d kill his own kid was dog food, as far as I was concerned.  After giving me one more sneer, the man disappeared.  I figured he had a hidey hole he used, and I hadn’t been seeing anything more than a sick bastard who tormented his family.  Jean needed a divorce lawyer more than she needed a doctor.

            Backing down the attic stairs as soon as I could move, I tried not to shake with the anger I felt.  The three older women huddled around Jean, their protective stance both heart rending and silly. They couldn’t save her from a marriage to a sicko.

            “Your husband took him,” I blurted, grabbing Jean’s arm to pull her away from the women. “Call the cops, they have to arrest him. I don’t know how he gets up there and out so fast, but he’s your monster.”

            Jean started shaking, every inch of her vibrating.  “You saw my husband up there?”

            “In the flesh.  I’m telling you, he’s your monster.”  I wiped the attic grime from my hands on the front of my jeans, feeling dirty inside and out. How could someone so sick manage to marry a normal, ordinary woman like Jean, much less father two children by her?

            Blue Hat Biddy hauled Jean into her arms and gave me that killer look again.  “You don’t need to make up stories.  Jim has been in the police interrogation room all morning. They came by at eight this morning to get him.  He called twenty minutes ago to tell Jean to get him a lawyer down there.”

            My stomach heaved. “I’m not lying. I saw him, the man in the wedding picture on your desk, Jean.”

            Her closed eyes opened, and she looked into mine with infinite sadness and resignation.  “I believe you.  It can look like whatever you want it to resemble.  It has Stevie, and I know what I have to do.”

            “No!” The three women threw themselves at the door leading to the attic stairs. Though elderly, they looked pretty formidable to me.

            “I’ve always known. I just didn’t have the courage.  Thank you.”  She squeezed my hand before she charged the door.  “It wants me. Maybe it’ll give Stevie back if it gets me.”

            A force stronger than any hurricane blew the door open and scattered the three biddies and me onto our asses and back into the bedroom.  Running, Jean threw herself at the stairs, and as she landed on the first steps, the door smacked shut behind her.  I was pretty stunned, but those old ladies scrambled for the door quicker than women half their ages.  No matter how hard they tugged and jerked on the handle, the door stayed shut.

            A phone rang downstairs.  I left the women still trying to pry open the attic door, and figured I’d use the phone to call both the police and an ambulance. Jean had snapped for good, I was sure of it.

            I picked up the phone, ready to tell whoever was there to hang up so I could make an emergency call.  Instead, I listened as an excited man screamed into my ear.

            “We found him, the little boy! Tell Jean he’s safe, they’re taking him to St. Catherine’s Hospital to check him out, she can meet him there!”

            I hung up the phone without saying anything.  I knew before I ascended the stairs to the second floor that the attic door would open and that we wouldn’t find any trace of Jean up there.

            Unfortunately, I was right. I did as the three old women ordered and kept my mouth shut about what had happened in the attic. 

            No one but they would have believed me, anyway.

           

           

Life and Interruptions

Still dealing with stuff. You know how it goes. Life shifts, you think it's an earthquake, but it's really just a normal slip in the tectonic plates.  You adjust, you clear the debris, you think you are doing just fine.  Then you do something stupid, like leaving your iPad in a hotel room many hours from home, and you know you're not yourself, not yet. Time races by faster than the proverbial sand through the hour glass, and each day speeds by more and more quickly. Jumping off the speeding bullet is my next goal.We writers need hours for thinking and working, solitude that feeds the inner vision.  It will come, I tell myself.

BTW, major props to the Best Western hotel for calling about the iPad and promising to put it on a UPS truck that day, even before I realized it was missing.  I will be back, I promise.  Nice people, and honest to boot. Can't ask for more.

In between all the estate legal work and the house-clearing, I'm trying to get back to working on a Kindle version of BELIEVE IN ME, a mystery set on the Mattaponi Indian Reservation in Virginia.  Love this story of the clash between the traditional Native American and the modern (white) way of dealing with murder and death. My heroine is caught between two worlds, and she's really not ready to leave her high-powered job in the white world until two family members die on the Reservation, and she's the next target. Hope to have it finished by the end of next month, at the latest.

Hang in there, I tell myself.  The dust will settle soon, literally and figuratively.

Lauren Myracle

Lauren Myracle is my kind of lady. If you have been following the brouhaha about her book, SHINE, showing up on the National Book Award list for Young Adult, you know she was asked to withdraw her novel from the short list of the final five books. Lauren is one of those writers who regularly ends up on the banned book list because she's unafraid of tackling tough topics. SHINE takes on the issue of bullied gay teenagers, as I understand it.

Without rancor or taking any potshots, Lauren did withdraw her book. When asked how the Committee could make it up to her, she requested a donation to the Matthew Shepherd Foundation. $5000 was sent in her honor.  Lauren said she'd much rather have the donation than any gold medal.

To say that good has resulted from a nasty situation is mildly put. Lauren says she has received unanimous support from other authors, and her book has received new publicity. For a writer, publicity is pure gold. I hope she goes on to write many more controversial books that speak to young people.

What a classy lady. She has my eternal admiration.

Death on the Track

I wasn't watching Sunday, but I heard, via Twitter, about Dan Weldon's death at Las Vegas on an oval track where Nascar races. It's horrible to realize a young man with two small children died in the cause of entertaining race fans. I tell myself he was a racer, that no one forced him into the driver's seat, that he knew the risks.

Doesn't help. While football players get injured, some seriously, and basketball players blow out knees, they don't die going 220 mph to collect a paycheck. I wonder if I'm enamoured with a sport that encourages the bloodthirsty and crashmomgers to cheer big wrecks. I will never understand how anyone can take joy in devastation suffered on the track, or the first time I watched as cars careened into safer barriers and each other. No, I'm not a wreck-lover.


Such a sad day.

Creative types

A friend was telling me about a book that defined how creative people work. They want to play sports, not watch them, for example. Only blue collar types watch auto racing, because it takes no involvement of self.  Creative people, in other words, aren't Nascar fans.

You can imagine what I thought of that idea. Clearly, the NYC editors who let that one slide haven't a clue. Sitting next to us in Daytona one year during the season - opening race were lawyers and accountants from NYC. We were all wearing T-shirts emblazoned with our favorite drivers' numbers, hats with the same, and having a good ole time. Not a blue collar in the crowd. And if there were, so what? That doesn't mean you're not creative. The strategy of Nascar, the science of getting the car to handle for each track, the terrifying speeds of the racing, all make it not only fascinating, but a subject of endless study. 

Guess I won't be reading that book. We creative types have our own novels to write, between Nascar races.

Nesting

When I was expecting, I'd go into super-nesting overdrive just before the baby came. I had the cleanest baseboards in town. You couldn't find a dust bunny if your life depended on it. It was hormonal, for sure, but it also presaged months of minimal housekeeping as we dealt with diapers, sleepless nights, and an altered focus. Life changed, big time.

Nothing was more important than that new baby.

I do the same thing before starting a new book. Major cleaning, dusting, organizing. The new book is like a new baby, all-consuming. Who cares about polishing silver when you're deep into another, fictional world. Crawling into real life takes a ton of effort, and when the book is going well, it's not worth expending the energy. You need to hoard the hours for this new baby, this creative work.

So let the small stuff go. Give that WIP your all. It's a process, and you don't want to miss a second of its new life.

Junk

I declare, I am going to clear out files, toss all those clippings I hoard as if they're gold, and have a bon fire in the back yard with twenty-year-old tax files. Clearing out my dad's house has made me swear I won't do this to anyone else. Of course, I talk a good game. We'll see how brutal I really am with the old junk crammed into cabinets and desk drawers. I really get in trouble when I start reading what's in the files, and before you know it, I talk myself out of hitting the trash pile with the excess paper.

How do you know when to cut your manuscript? Whenever your attention wanders as you're
reading through it. It's as simple as that. You know you love rereading your own words. What could be better? So if you get bored, hit the delete key. Try reading it aloud to yourself. You'll hear the clunkers.

It's always better to do your own dirty work.

Rereading favs

A writer compatriot, Mona Ingram, wrote recently about the books she likes to reread. The Power of One is tops on her list, and I have to echo her praise. My list is shorter than Mona's, because I'm going on the names that come to mind without staring at my bookcase. Elkhorn Tavern, The Barefoot Brigade, Gone the Dreams and the Dancing by a retired army officer whose name escapes me, (Douglas C. Jones?) are wonderful. Lucia St. Clair Robson's Ride the Wind about Cynthia Anne Parker takes me to the Comanche plains every time. Pat Murphy's The Falling Woman is still tres cool (and won a Hugo, I think). Laura Kinsale's Flowers from the Storm, with a hero whose speech is taken by a stroke, never fails to amaze me.

Montana 1948 is a mastery of an innocent's voice telling a sordid tale. It reminds me of To Kill a Mockingbird. Hard trick to pull off, an adult story through a child's eyes.

Each book is an old friend I rediscover with joy.

New Book up on Amazon! The Golden Door

Once I got over being cold, I got busy! THE GOLDEN DOOR, an historical romance, is now on Kindle's list on Amazon. I'm thrilled with the cover and the fact that this book I adore is available.  Golden Door is one of those books an author has to write, knowing full well it won't fit into any pigeon hole. So I wrote it and let it sit, not willing to risk my happiness in the finished product to the snarky comments of an editor or agent. (I know I'm being universally unfair. I never once heard anything even remotely resembling snarky from Gail Fortune when she was my editor.) But this book is/was special. A book of the heart always is.

The setting is the Ottoman Empire at the beginning of the 20th Century.  The hero, Winslow Ertegun, is half-Turkish, half-British, and a spy for the Sultan sent to find out why the new railroad crossing the country is taking so long to complete and is costing such huge sums of money, as well. The heroine, Hope Mountcastle, is on the run from her stuffy aunt's house in York, England, hoping to join her father on his current project in the wilds of Eastern Turkey. She wants nothing less than freedom from her corset and her prim and proper life.  Her father has been hired by the Germans to build a portion of a railroad across the Ottoman Empire, but he's been murdered before Hope can reach him.

Unaware her father is dead, Hope must resort to subterfuge to get to the railroad camp. Dressed as a mute Turkish boy, she's the caravan's cook's helper. Her disguise works only so long, however, and Winslow must marry her in a Muslim ceremony to preserve her reputation and chastity, promising her the ruse will last only until he delivers her to her father at the railroad camp.

All is far from well at the camp, and Hope and Win fall in love, fight for their lives, find Hope's father's killer, and return to Constantinople so Win can report the real status of what's happened with the railroad.  The world is on the brink of war, and politics have become a precarious way of life for a spy. Win fears for Hope in his anti-Western world, and sends her home to her aunt, promising to divorce her according to Muslim practices so she can get on with her life.  Only Hope doesn't want a divorce, but she doesn't want to add herself as another burden in Win's life, either.

The ending is happy, as is the norm for a romance, and blissfully so. I still sigh over it whenever I read it, and I'm quite the cynic.  A romance with murder, sensuality, politics, and a Muslim and Christian falling in love isn't your normal, everyday book, and I hope some of you will like it. Maybe even love it, as I do.
BTW, the cover art was done by Jessie Gemmer. Email me for contact information.

It's Cold Outside!

I swore I'd dance naked in the streets if the summer heat ever broke, but I lied. It's too danged cold out for naked dancing! (Not to mention I'd scare the neighbors). We dropped 25 degrees in one day, and no one was prepared. Well, I wasn't. I like to ease into these things. A couple of degrees here and there works just fine, kinda like shuffling into the cold waves by inches. The bright side is that snuggle weather is here for the weekend, at least. No more lying on top of the sheets, wishing the air conditioning would make a dent in the aching humidity.

I have to recommend Kiana Davenport's short stories. They're on Amazon for Kindle, and dirt cheap. In each story, I'm not only sucked into the stories, peopled with people so alive I feel they have breath, but I'm learning a lot about the art of the short story. Less really can be more. Give HOUSE OF SKIN a buy for 99 cents.

Oh, I was quoted by Nate Ryan in his USA Today article about Brad Keselowski's full day that culminated at RIR for a fan meet-and-greet. Hi, Nate!

New Car v. Old Car

In our family, cars never leave.  Personally, I don't like to "break in" a new car, learn the dashboard, the feel of brakes, an engine, how it handles corners, etc. My cars become family members, and sometimes I even name them. Now and then, we finally sell a car because we're simply tired of driving it for years and years, and it's in great shape, but it's become boring. When we do this, I instantly feel seller's remorse and want to buy the car back. I still fondly remember a stick shift Honda Accord that I wish I'd garaged until I could teach the children to drive a stick. Then again, who drives a stick these days? It went on to bless a college student who needed sturdy transportation and great mileage, so selling it was a right move.

My beloved wanted me to drive something newer, so we hit the dealer lots. Interestingly, I never saw anything I liked. Some detail always held up my ability to buy a new car, such as blah colors, no GPS in the dash, stiff ride, seats uncomfortable, etc. I could fill a page with the details I found to dislike in the new cars at every dealer.  It became clear that I don't need a new car, much less want one. Nothing came up to the high standards of my current ride, so I'm going to keep it.

I realize this sounds un-American, but I don't want a new car. So there.

Finality and Bullies

Richmond's decision has been made - and nothing has changed in the Chase. Saturday's race was a wreckfest under a full moon. For a while there, I thought the winner would be the last car running with all four wheels on the track. Despite a hard bit of racing at the end, Harvick pulled out his fourth win of the season. Now we head into the final ten races to determine the champion. Ho hum. If someone other than Jimmie Johnson doesn't step it up, the chase will officially be a bore.

On a more scary note (and it's not even Halloween yet!), I just read a blog by author Kiana Davenport dated August 24. You can read it at kianadavenportdialogues.blogspot.com. Ms. Davenport is being punished by a Big Six publisher for putting two short story collections up on Amazon. One of these books had been rejected by the same publisher before she went digital with them. However, this publisher did offer a contract for another, different book, and paid an advance of $20,000, which they are now demanding back since Ms. Davenport refuses to remove her short story collections from Amazon.

Wow, is all I can say. Amazon must be terrorizing traditional publishers to the point of panic. And you know what? About time! You better believe I'm going to buy Ms. Davenport's short stories on Amazon. No one likes a bully, and if I can help finance Ms. Davenport's legal team, I'll buy her ebooks for that reason alone.