Disaster and Animals

Like Kathryn Lilley, I live in California. The firestorms haven’t affected me directly, except for some coughing and breathing problems because of all the smoke that hung in the air. The smoke was sometimes so visible that I felt as if my glasses needed to be cleaned constantly, thanks to the haziness! Plus, my husband and I weren’t able to drive my younger son to his apartment in San Diego on the day we wanted because the 5 Freeway was closed at Camp Pendleton due to the fires. All relatively minor.

But so many people lost homes and vehicles. A few lost their lives. Really terrible stuff.

Then there was the effect on animals. I saw on TV how people flocked to evacuation centers such as Qualcomm Stadium, living in tents and on bleachers and wherever else they found space. Their pets couldn’t be there with them, so special rescue centers were set up.

The pictures of those poor animals were heart-wrenching. Cats hissed at the cameras. Dogs cowered in fear. Volunteers expressed their sorrow for these pets, but said that at least they had moms and dads who would come for them when they could.

I missed seeing the segment, but I was also told that the news featured a man who was permitted to go into endangered homes to rescue pets who’d been left behind. That would be a hard job even if the animals had cooperated, but many were scared and attempted to protect their homes--and therefore fought with their rescuer. From what I heard, he hung tough and got them out, like it or not. Good man!

Horses and livestock were evacuated to local college campuses and other places set up to house them.

What about the pets and livestock who didn’t get out? And the wildlife? I shudder to think of all the animals who may have attempted to flee but couldn’t escape. A lot of people were given voluntary or mandatory evacuation orders. Most animals got no advice or assistance; they either got out or died. At least the animals at the San Diego Wild Animal Park were safe, protected by firebreak and irrigated areas, and even able to take refuge in their watering holes.

One thing I hope is that, with some of their senses so superior to humans, as many animals as possible became aware of the fires and fled safely. Where would they go with so many acres of their habitat destroyed? That’s a whole other issue.


By the way, hope everyone's Halloween has been fun and safe!

--Linda

Galena!

Once again I am safely back at home, this time from Galena, Illinois, where one of the most amazing and humorous Halloween parades in the country takes place. It starts off with a remnant of World War II veterans forming a color guard – proud, not quite remembering the drill or unable to hear the commands from up front. It was sad to see how old they’re getting, how thin their ranks are getting. Then a couple of fire trucks, lights flashing, and once they started moving, setting off their sirens.

Then a marching unit made up of children. There is something adorable about a group of youngsters in widely varied costumes marching behind a horizontal banner naming their school, some of them wishing they were somewhere else, others waving like experienced politicians. Then comes a high school band, its members dressed as convicts, porn stars, devils, angels, ballet dancers, and ex-presidents. Only the drummers are good musicians – but they are really good.
It was a very chilly evening, with an icy breeze blowing, so when a wicker basket big enough to hold six people, if they were good friends, came along on the back of a trailer, I smiled. I’ve been to this parade before, so I knew it was one of the baskets that rides under a hot-air balloon. The balloon wasn’t there, but the burner was – the mechanism that fills the balloon with hot air. And there was someone in the basket, one hand on a blackened pipe sticking up in the center of the basket. WHOOOSH!! A huge orange plume shot three stories up in the air. I could feel the heat clear over on the curb. I joined the cheers, which encouraged the operator to let loose another blast. WHOOOOOSH!! Ahhhhh . . . warm! There were eight or ten baskets, each with a burner. One operator was blasting flames upward in time with the music of the band in front of him. The yellow-orange flame shot upward and, when he cut it off, a rolling ball of flame continued upward just for a second. Amazing!

The Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit was closer to the center of the parade rather than bringing up the rear as it did last time I saw them. About a dozen strong, they were all in shorts and muscle shirts, though some of them wore white or black long Johns under them. They formed a straight line, did a “wave” movement down the row with their lawn chairs and back up again, turned around, snapped the chairs open, sat down, stood up, snapped them shut, right-faced, and marched on. Silly but fun.

There were floats, all done by amateurs and often showing it. A very ragged corpse rising from a coffin, a gathering of the characters from Wizard of Oz (including one of those plastic toy houses found in many back yards serving as Dorothy’s house). An ambulance came by, its pristine white sides ornamented with spider webs and posters featuring vampires. There were costumed adults carrying buckets and bags of candy which they threw to the crowd.

Now, imagine all this going on along a narrow street lined with nineteenth-century brick shops – and one hotel – while trying to find someone in that crowd. The burner in a basket flares and you catch sight of him, but the next instant the flare is gone, leaving you dazzled, and meanwhile your quary vanishes.

Then, the parade over, you are walking up a side street when a shape comes toward you. It is a woman, all in black, and her dress has a huge skirt that brushes the ground. She is carrying a lantern on a pole, a lantern with a single candle in it. A big hat is on her head, with a heavy veil draped from it. She turns as if to speak to you, and there is only a black emptiness where her face should be.

That is “Annie Wiggins,” who owns a bed and breakfast in town, and she wears that costume to conduct night-time tours of Galena, telling ghostly stories about the various old houses as you pass them. Galena has lots of ghost stories to be told. Some of them are true.

I want this to be in the book Blackwork, which I will write if ever I finish Thai Die. All I have to do is find a reason for Betsy to be chasing someone in Galena, Illinois.

So long as I was in town, I did a book signing at Timeless Needle a beautiful (and expanding) needlework shop. The part of the building they expanded into used to be a bank, and the huge, walk-in safe is still there. The door weighs a ton, but moves smoothly on its hinges -- once you get it going.

I’ve been having a sleep problem lately. I want to stay up later, and so I don’t want to get up. This morning I woke up to my clock radio, shut it off and lay there awhile, thinking about how I didn’t want to get up. Next think I knew, it was six-thirty, too late to go to water aerobics. So I’ve been puttering around the apartment, then got awake enough to realize I hadn’t posted this.
Maybe it’s daylight savings time. I hate daylight savings time. If people want more daylight in the evening, fine. Everyone reset your clocks an hour early – AND LEAVE THEM THERE! This business of going on and going off is painful and aggravating. And yes, I know we get back the hour we donated in the spring, but it's still aggravating.

New Ideas from the Road (or Shower)

by Deb Baker

I get some of my best ideas in two places – the car and the shower. Don’t ask me why. My husband bought me a recording unit so I would stop making notes on paper napkins while driving down the interstate. And the shower thing. I don’t get that either. My memory is so short, I’ve been known to rush through the house wrapped in a towel, leaking water and searching for pen and paper.

So it wasn’t surprising that I had new thoughts about the direction of my career while driving home from Magna cum Murder (one of the best fan events around). Seven hours of epiphanies.

The main one is this – I love, love, love writing multiple points of view, which I discovered while working on the first of my doll collecting mysteries. A little nervous about exploring a new area, I only had two different povs in the first book—Gretchen’s and her mother’s. The next book had more. To tell you the truth, I’m having trouble controlling an urge to add too many. I have to rein in my eagerness. A plot becomes very complex when viewed through eyes other than those of the protagonist and at times I feel horrible lost. But then it all comes together.

Once I have more time, I’m going to try a stand-alone suspense novel. In the meantime, I want to push the fourth doll book even closer to the edge of cozy mystery and into suspense where life is a little scarier. What do you think? A shower scene perhaps?

Halloween Special--Shirley Damsgaard and a Contest!

In keeping with the season, I interviewed my good friend Shirley Damsgaard, author of the chart-climbing Ophelia and Abby Series. If you believe in magick--and 'tis the season, right?--you'll love the spunky Ophelia, her smart and sassy friend Darci, and her wise-woman grandmother Abby.

To launch my new website http://www.joannacampbellslan.com/ Shirley and I have "brewed up" a special Ophelia and Abby CONTEST, deadline October 31, 2007. Go to my website http://www.joannacampbellslan.com/ add your information in the appropriate box (lower right corner), and you could win all five Ophelia and Abby books. I'll draw a name from that list on Halloween and notify the winner around November 5, 2007. (By the way, I'd love feedback about the website. Email me at joannaslan@aol.com)

1. Okay, Shirley, how did you get started writing?

When my late husband was hospitalized for several months at the Mayo Clinics in Rochester, MN. I spent a lot of time driving. It was during those long drives that I started playing with the idea of writing.

2. Does writing “run” in your family?

Yes it does—there seems to be a lot of creativity on my father’s, the Damsgaard, side of my family. My aunt, Maggie Damsgaard, began writing at the age of sixteen and didn’t stop until her death at the age of ninety-two. She had several short stories published and self-published a Young Adult novel. She weathered many rejections and never gave up. A good lesson there!

3. How did Ophelia and Abby come to be?

My husband pointed out I always ruined movies for him by telling him how they would end, so why not put that talent to a more productive use! Because my background has been a typical, small town in the Midwest kind of a life, I knew I would need to create an amateur sleuth. I’ve always been interested in the paranormal, so I thought giving my sleuth psychic talents would be fun.

4. What was the germ of the idea that became the books?

At the first writing conference I ever attended author Donald Harstead pointed out that every story starts out with one question, “What if…?” That started me thinking—what is it like to be a psychic? What if one felt their talent let them down at the moment they most needed it? Can one ever be who they’re meant to be if they don’t follow their destiny? Those questions were the beginning of WITCH WAY TO MURDER.

5. I know you have a “day job” as a Post Mistress. Tell me about your work habits.

I’ve found the most creative time for me is early in the morning, when the house is quiet. When I’m working on a manuscript, I usually begin my day about 4:30 and try to write about 5 pages before getting ready for work. On the weekends, it’s more. In the evenings, I work on marketing, updating my mailing list, responding to emails, etc., while I watch TV.

6. You seem like such a normal person! Why paranormal?

One of my favorite quotes is “There are more things, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” I like the idea that we don’t know everything, that the world is full of mystery, that there is a little magick to be discovered.

7. Did you know a lot about the paranormal world when you started?

A little—but I’ve learned a lot more through research and having the opportunity to interview some very amazing people! My research started with one book, AMERICAN FOLK MAGICK, by Silver Ravenwolf. It seems that I’ve met the people I needed to--when I needed to. I’ve learned is not to be afraid to ask questions—as long as you approach people with respect, they’re usually more than happy to answer your questions.

8. Do you have any self-imposed rules? Things you refuse to include, no matter how interesting?

I don’t put actual spells in the stories—I don’t believe magick is something to play around with unless you have an understanding of how it’s supposed to work.

9. Did you originally believe in the paranormal world when you began writing?

To a certain extent—I’ve always believed that there are true psychics. (There are charlatans out there, too! In fact one psychic that I’ve gotten to know recommends that you stay away from anyone who’s styled as “Madame So and So!” They probably aren’t for real!)

10. Do you believe now? Why did you change your mind, if you did?

I would say, because of the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had, I definitely think more outside of the box now!

11. How much is Ophelia, your main character, like you?

According to my oldest daughter, she talks just like me! And we definitely have the same sense of humor. And, unbeknownst to me when I was originally creating it, her relationship with Abby is much like the relationship that I shared with my mother when she was alive.

12. In what ways is she different?

I think I’m a little more open than Ophelia is—not so reluctant to express my feelings as she is. She’s younger. Oh, and she’s a witch and a psychic and I’m not! (Even though my nine year old granddaughter has been known to try and impress her little friends by telling them I am.)

13. If you could share one idea with aspiring authors—one suggestion which has made a difference in your career—what would that be?

Don’t give up—be persistent—but at the same time, roll with the punches—be flexible. If the first pitch doesn’t work, think of a new one. If you receive advice from someone who knows what they’re talking about—listen. Try and take every situation, even the negative ones, and learn from it to improve your craft!

To view the full Ophelia and Abby Series, go to

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_gw/104-6563304-3269513?initialSearch=1&url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Shirley+Damsgaard&Go.x=3&Go.y=10

A trip to Egypt

I'm such a parasite, working off the great ideas from all my sister bloggers … and this is no exception.

I started thinking about my favorite places, where I feel at home, relaxed yet energized, creative.

On my top ten list: The Temple of Dendur (ca. 15 B.C.). The structure was thoughtfully given to the United States by Egypt in 1965 and presented to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, so that I wouldn't have to make the long trip in time and space to see it.

I spent some time in this "room" a couple of months ago. The top photo shows the water that surrounds the temple; the bottom one gives you the setting: overlooking the east side of Central Park.

There is nothing missing in this wonderful spot, especially if you've managed to sneak a cappuccino in from one of the Met's many kiosks.

A series of photographs and documentation along the wall show the history of the temple and its amazing trip to Manhattan.

Here you can sit on the rim, walk into the temple, stare at the magnificent Central Park, take photos, write, or read, or pray.

Has anyone been here? Did it make your top ten?

An ill wind, and then...

From the moment we heard the Santa Anas would blow at hurricane-force levels, we knew what was coming.

And still, the onset of the first fast-moving, rampaging firestorm came as a shock to the community, because it hit the sector of our society that is usually the most privileged and protected—Malibu. I heard about the fires when I clicked on the television news that morning at nine a.m. I immediately called my best friend from college, who lives on the beach in Malibu. Turned out she had no idea there was a major fire going on, because her power was out.

I gave her updates from the reports on CNN, and told her to pack up her most important items. But like any good Malibu-ite (Malibuan?), she already had everything organized, the same way Californians learn to keep an "earthquake survival kit" tucked away in some dusty corner of their garages.

I kept hearing local reports that people were trying to get into Malibu, not leaving. I remembered my friend who had no clue that a disaster was racing down a canyon toward her house. Her church had already been destroyed, and it was directly across the street from her son's school.

And so, like the former journalist that I am, I called the CNN news tip line and told them that power was down in some areas of Malibu, and suggested that perhaps people who had friends in the area should call them on their landlines, which still seemed to be working. The CNN tip-taker was very nice and took a lot of notes, but I never saw the tip come over the news that friends should call their friends and family in the area to roust them out.

That day ushered in a strange, surreal week in Los Angeles. We woke up each morning to discover a fine layer of ash—like dust in the attic—settled over cars and surfaces. The skies seemed permanently overcast, but from smoke, not clouds. It became slightly irritating to breathe, no matter where you were. People all around me were coughing more. We had spectacular, firestorm-fueled sunsets that were even more beautiful than our worst pollution-caused sunsets. In some places in Southern California, you could stare directly at the sun, because it had diminished into a swollen, tangerine orb behind the layers of smoke.

My Malibu friend seemed quite relaxed about the flames that were racing her way. She even met me for lunch Monday afternoon—and then was turned back by police when she tried to return home. She and her family spent a couple of days as Malibu refugees, which does seem like an oxymoron.

But still, this experience hasn't soured any of us on living in California—or even in Malibu. We do have occasional impressive catastrophes here. Earthquakes, firestorms, city-wide riots, to name a few. But every other day, it's paradise here. The weather is so wonderful and consistent, you almost forget what "real" weather is. And we don't deal with the far more frequent disasters that plague other areas of the country, such as hurricanes, snowstorms, and tornadoes.

When all is said and done, I'm staying put. Everyone I know is, too.

Where you live, are there any recurring disasters that you've just learned to accept, prepare for and deal with? Do other aspects of the environment offset the occasional problems?

Life—and the book tour—continues...

I had a wonderful book signing event on Wednesday at the
B Dalton in the mall at Los Angeles City Hall. The bookseller, Candace Davis, set up a nice table—complete with a vase of flowers!—and I sold lots of books. I was impressed by how many men bought the book. But that was encouraging--I think diet, exercise, humor and murder mysteries is a combination that will interest many readers in America, not just women.

On Saturday, I spoke to a nice-sized crowd at Mysteries To Die For in Thousand Oaks. The staff and Heidi made me feel very welcome. I recruited a good friend of mine who once attended the same diet clinic as me in Durham, North Carolina (DYING TO BE THIN is set in a fictional diet clinic, AKA fat farm). We regaled the crowd with stories about how the real diet doctors would roam the town, tracking down and busting people who were cheating on the program.

Whenever a diet doctor entered the building, the cheating dieters would flee--running for the ladies room, exits, wherever we could find to take cover.

Ah, those were some good times.

Dog Story

As a pet lover, I found the media brouhaha about Ellen Degeneres’ dog story fascinating. I tend not to pay a whole lot of attention to the rich, famous and paparazzi-fodder types, but in this instance my interest was hooked.

Why? Because of the dog. What was most important, from my perspective, was to determine what was in poor Iggy’s best interests.

In case anyone reading this is unaware, the situation apparently started out when Ellen adopted a tiny and adorable dog from a shelter. Unfortunately, Iggy supposedly didn’t get along with the household’s cats, so Ellen decided to give him to her hairdresser’s family to adopt and adore.

The problem? Apparently, she had signed a contract not to re-home the dog. Finding a new family was to be the agency’s responsibility, not the adopter’s.

From a lawyer’s perspective--which I happen to be--Ellen purportedly breached a contract, so the agency’s “rescuing” the dog from its new home to force compliance with the agreement was entirely appropriate.

From the dog’s perspective? That’s what I really wonder about.

Poor Iggy. Dogs most often shower love and affection on their owners. Being in a shelter had to hurt, in the first place. And then being shuffled to Ellen’s home, then her hairdresser’s, and then a whole new adoptive family found by the shelter... talk about canine confusion.

I guess the outcome was that Iggy will stay at this new and latest home. As long as it’s a loving family who can help him past this trauma--well, okay. I can buy that.

I don’t believe Ellen Degeneres set out intentionally to do anything against the adorable dog’s interests. In fact, she may have felt she was doing everything exactly right, giving up little Iggy to a family she believed would adore him. And, in fact, one of the children in that household was apparently devastated to have Iggy repossessed.

But on the whole, I’m really sad about how all this came down. The shelter owner was subject to death threats. Ellen wept on camera. The child who thought she was getting to adopt Iggy lost that precious puppy. And poor Iggy was cast from home to home. All of them deserve a whole lot better than what happened.

Still, the upshot was to put shelters and pet adoptions in the public eye--not necessarily in the best light, but even so, some attention may wind up being better than none.

I hope that lots more homeless dogs--and kitties too, of course--wind up finding wonderful new homes as a result.

--Linda

Autumn

I’m safely back at home – again. This time I was in Hiawatha, Iowa. That’s a suburb of Cedar Rapids. I went down Friday, gave a talk at their library Saturday and came home the same day. They have a nice library, and we had a good turnout, especially for a magnificent Saturday early afternoon. It was sunny and in the low seventies, which is as good as it gets in later October. If it had been me, I would have been out walking in such weather, raking leaves, or watching children play in the park. But about two dozen showed up to listen to me blather on about what fun it is to write about murder. A representative from Barnes & Noble was there selling books, and I noticed as I signed a copy of the first one in the Betsy Devonshire series, Crewel World, that it was in its fifteenth printing. Delighted, that’s what I am!

I love autumn. It’s my favorite season. I once thought that was uncommon, because so many people greet spring with such enthusiasm. The end of harsh winter, the tender green of new growth, every living plant in flower – there is much to recommend spring. And autumn, with its promise of harsh winter back again, the sun fading south, the leaves skittering down the street sounding the death rattle of the year, can seem downright sad. But there’s the crisp air, the tart apples, the heaps of produce – spring’s promise is kept in autumn – the cozy drawing in, the hearty soups, the brilliance of the dying leaves. Don’t you sometimes wish humans could put on such a beautiful display at the end of their lives? Wouldn’t it be fun to suddenly drop the gray and find under it a rich purple or brilliant blue or bright green? Of course that would mean the end is near, so maybe not so much.

I thought we’d have a bad autumn for color this year. In the city, some of our trees are
already naked, a few are glowing orange, and others are still green. Usually our interim seasons (spring and fall) move fast. One weekend the pools are open, the next weekend the leaves are spectacular, the third weekend we can park only on the odd-numbered side of the streets so snow removal can commence. The last few years we’ve had drawn-out autumns, when you don’t have to keep careful track of leaf colors’ progress down the state in order not to miss the one Saturday you can take an autumn drive up the St. Croix to see the colors and buy apples from a roadside stand.

I thought we weren’t going to see autumn out in that blaze of color. But on my drive down Interstate 35 into Iowa the color was lovely, especially on the low shrubs that line the freeway. I think they are the variety called “burning bush” and that’s a great name for shrubs that turn such bright reds, oranges and yellows in the fall. But oh, the hills too! They looked like giant bouquets, the evergreens standing among the maples, aspens, and oaks serving as the greenery tucked among the flowers. This year even the elms and oaks are bright.

I’m going to Galena, Illinois, this weekend. It is small, full of quaint , antique buildings, very touristy – and one of America’s most haunted cities. Virtually every old building has a story of ghostly children’s laughter, a silent figure in a doorway or window, or a mischievous sprite who keeps turning on the lights. So, naturally enough, the town loves Halloween. They have a parade the Saturday in October closest to October 31, which is this coming one. I want to have the climax of the book I will write next set there on that weekend, so I simply must go there for another look. And so long as I am there, I’ll do a signing at Mike and Kathy’s Timeless Needle shop. I’m taking my friend and needlework pattern designer Denise along. A really fun trip, and tax deductible, too.

How I suffer for my art!

A Day in the Life

I’m in the thick of things, living in my made-up world of murder and intrigue. Doll Book #4 is coming along just when I thought I’d never get any of it right. All kinds of unplanned problems are presenting themselves to Gretchen Birch and the Phoenix doll community’s active members, and that’s a good thing. I’m speeding around a series of turns and can finally see a straight-away ahead. I know what happens in several upcoming chapters. Finally. But there’ll be another blind curve. And another. I’d like to think, as I write my 7th mystery, that I’m a pro, but I don’t feel like one. I still worry about plot points and character development and mind blocks just like I did with book one. My biggest fear is that I will sit down someday and not be able to write a single word ever again.

Shouldn’t I have more confidence by now? Established authors tell me they experience the same feelings with every book they write.

I live one day at a time, like a recovering addict, never sure where tomorrow will lead. But on a day like Monday, when the writing worked, I’m flying high. Wonder what today will bring.

DebBaker

Unchained Melody, Unchained Me

Lyrics by Hy Zaret, Music by Alex North

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea,

To the open arms of the sea.

Lonely rivers sigh,"Wait for me, wait for me!

"I'll be coming home, wait for me!

Oh, my love, my darling,

I've hungered, for your touch a long, lonely time.

And time goes by so slowly and time can do so much,are you still mine?

I need your love I need your love,

God speed your love...... to me!


There are the places we live because we must, and the places we would live if we could. For me, the coast of South Carolina has always been my spiritual home—the place of my dreams and wishes. It is where I return to find strength and solace. I love everything about the area called “the Low Country.”

The moment I step outside the Charleston airport, I stand and sniff the air like a lost dog searching for home. My heart thrills and my spine stiffens as we drive over the Cooper-River Bridge, with a main span of 1,546 feet (471 m), the longest among cable-stayed bridges in the Western Hemisphere. For more about this fabulous structure go to http://ravenelbridge.net/

Rituals shape my visit.

1.) I stay on Kiawah (KEE-ah-wah) Island, a place as ecologically near to its beginnings as possible considering the human habitation. I’ve seen bobcats, herons, alligators, loggerhead turtles and crabs. http://www.kiawahisland.org/

2.) I eat at Rose Bank Farms Restaurant—My salad of choice is a wedge of lettuce with Clemson cheese, my main dish is shrimp in tasso gravy on cheese grits, and dessert is blueberry buckle.

3.) I buy books at Indigo Books.

4.) I walk the beach.

5.) I walk the beach.

6.) I walk the beach.

7.) And I read books and listen to the ocean.

How about you? What’s your favorite place? Is it where you live? Or just a place you get to visit?

"Everyone has a holy place, a refuge, where their heart is purer, their mind clearer, where they feel closer to God or love or truth or whatever it is they happen to worship," writes J.R. Moehringer in The Tender Bar.

Where is that place for you?

Hobby disorder

Linda blogged earlier this week on the plethora of hobbies and crafts out there. I'm embarrassed to say I've tried almost all of them. If the term had been around when I was kid, I'm sure I would have been diagnosed with Something-DD.

I have a short attention span, no discipline, and get bored easily. The way I deal with this is to add another project or hobby to my life.

One time I was frustrated with the designs on common items like dishtowels, sweatshirts, babies' bibs, Frisbees. So I made up some with designs I liked. Instead of a teddy bear on a bib, I put an image of Marie Curie, and a quote of hers: "All my life through, the new sights of nature made me rejoice like a child." Instead of a mushroom, I put Marconi on a dishcloth. Instead of a puppy, I put Einstein on a Frisbee. I learned silk screening to do this, but eventually outsourced that part of it.

That done, I moved on to cartooning. Then I'd be able to make my own images for products. I made up a Christmas card one year with a cartoon drawing of my husband and me, then moved on to beading.

The next year, everyone I know got beaded presents as I mass-produced zipper pulls and bookmarks. Another time they all got ornaments that were small balls to which I'd glued a computer chip and painted the greeting: "Tech The Halls." The image above is of a card I designed with the same sentiment, in the era of 5-in. floppies.

Every baby of a friend who turned one got a numeral one, made of colorful fabric that I sewed and filled with batting (an alternative to stuffed animals in costumes that belittle them).

Of course there has been the usual knitting, wreath-making (using electronic components), crocheting, embroidery, calligraphy, stamping, and scrapbooking—but not the way Joanna does it, which requires Discipline, Attention, and Patience, not to mention Talent.

That might be it. I am DAP- and T-challenged.

The only two hobbies that have been long-lasting in my life are dollhouses/miniatures and card making. I wonder why.

If anyone would like a sample product from any of my above-mentioned hobbies, let me know!

Cozy mysteries and Sex! Violence! Chicks Gone Wild!

I have a confession to make.

When I started writing DYING TO BE THIN, the first installment in the Fat City Mystery series, I was not fully aware that the mystery sub-genre known as “cozies” had to follow certain restrictive guidelines. With some glaring exceptions, most cozies are written according to the following rules:

• They have “kinder, gentler” story lines.
• There is little graphic violence.
• Murders are mostly presented off-stage.
• Sex tends to be delivered in “fade to black” mode. (You know, like the couple in From Here to Eternity; you get to see them thrashing around in the surf. But then, just when the action gets interesting, the scene ends.)

And so…ahem. In the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know that even though DYING TO BE THIN often gets lumped in with cozy mysteries, readers will encounter a few “uncozy” passages:

• Murder victims are presented splat on the page, complete with a discussion of the deceased-one’s physical appearance (including, in the case of one victim, the impact of weaponized fondue forks).
• There are frequent and colorful references to a fictional S&M scene in the story’s locale, Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina.
• The plot line is neither kind, nor particularly gentle. But it is often humorous.

My thought is that the concept of a "cozy" mystery is expanding in terms of the amount of sex and violence that readers will accept. What do you think?

And if you have a chance to read DYING TO BE THIN, I’d so appreciate it if you’d go to my web site http://www.kathrynlilley.com/, and send me an email with your feedback.

Visiting Thousand Oaks, California on Saturday

This weekend I'll be visiting Mysteries To Die For for an informal discussion and signing, so please drop by for a chat!

Saturday, October 20, 1 PM
Mysteries To Die For
2940 E Thousand Oaks BlvdThousand Oaks, CA 91362-3278

Hobbies--Killer or Not

The other day, I was at a writers’ group meeting that was held in a bookstore. The initial speaker was an agent whose comments were addressed mostly to writers who were fairly new at finding and working with agents. Since I have an agent with whom I’m delighted, I didn’t pay as much attention as I otherwise might. Instead, my mind wandered to our environment--the part of the store where the books were on crafts, antiques and collectibles.

There were an amazing number of subjects! Crafts included everything from genealogy to journals to creating Christmas ornaments. Designing different kinds of jewelry. Lots of types of needlework and sewing, including making lace, knitting, crocheting, hooking (presumably involving needlework and not the cruder connotation of the word, which I suppose can be a hobby, too). Gardening. Papercrafts such as origami, collages, and, of course, scrapbooking.

Then there were the collectibles: old phonograph records. Model cars. Pottery. Toys such as Star Wars memorabilia and Transformers and Hot Wheels. Sporting stuff including trading cards and fishing lures. Traditional sorts such as coins and stamps and model trains. Hallmark keepsakes. Coca Cola memorabilia.

Each of these activities and more, were featured in books describing, extolling and advising about them as pastimes.

Now, there are definitely a lot of people in the world, and many of them have hobbies. It’s fun to think of how different we all are, yet we tend to gravitate toward others with similar interests.

I wonder how many of these varied hobbies have mysteries set in their special venues. Even if all of us, the Killer Hobbyists, took on a bunch of extra hobbies to set murders in (with really only a minimal amount possible, with our existing writing schedules), there would probably still be plenty out there for other mystery writers to leap into. And blog about!

Of course, I’m quite content with my usual subject: pets, as featured in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery series. And I’m especially content witih my own pet. My Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Lexie has been especially adorable lately, resting her head soulfully on my legs as I try to eat, ramping up her already intense begging mode.

So, as impressed as I was with that plethora of additional hobbies, I’ll leave them to others to evolve into mystery settings... at least for now.

--Linda

Mind Games

I’m safely back at home. I’d forgotten to bring my needlepoint with me on my trip to Wisconsin – had it packed up and everything, then walked out without it. I have a very real talent for doing that. In fact, on my way home, driving up I-94, I stopped in Toma, Wisconsin, for supper. Had a delicious club sandwich on toast at the Perkins restaurant, went to pay my bill only to pause by the glass case of pies. There were some beautiful pies on display and I wanted one – but I couldn’t decide which one. Some were not labeled and I soon had several employees trying to find out if one was a peach pie (I LOVE peach pie!), but they’d sold their last peach pie earlier in the day. I finally settled on a pumpkin pie. Somehow, in the tangle of a restroom visit (can anyone eat a club sandwich without getting mayonaise on every finger?), and paying by credit card, I managed to walk out without the pie. I was miles down the road before I realized it and called myself names for another ten miles. Then I saw that Black River Falls was coming up. I knew there was a Perkins there, having stopped there many times. So I pulled in. I didn’t think they could do anything, but maybe . . . Well, maybe they could contact the Toma restaurant and let me instruct them to give the pie away to a customer who wanted a pie – I didn’t want it thrown away. At the very outside I thought maybe I could get the card charge for it taken off. Well, the manager in Black River Falls is a friend of the manager in Toma (who remembered me because of all the dithering I did over selecting a pie) – and she gave me a replacement pie! “I’ll take it out of his hide,” she promised with a smile, pretending to be annoyed that they let me walk out without it. Now THAT’S customer service!

Knitting isn’t all that hard – I say that now, having found knitting to be easy once you learn it (it’s purling that is harder) – but there are people who just aren’t satisfied learning a craft. They have to find ways of making it extremely difficult. I am not just speaking of people who knit Aran sweaters. (Go to http://www.aransweatermarket.com/catalog/ for a look at some.) I am speaking of this woman: http://www.bugknits.com. Itty, bitty sweaters. No, littler than than itsy bitsy. I mean, sweaters the size of a dime! There is not a reason in the world for this woman to knit something that small. Is this just sour grapes? Well . . . yes, because I can’t do it and therefore say they are ridiculous. On the other hand, why do people do these ridiculously difficult things? God knows.

I thought Thai Die was going to come in short. Maybe as much as ten thousand words short. I called my agent, who said not to start padding but to go ahead and finish it and we’d worry about it later. So, thinking I had the end in sight, I set off toward the it – and the problem seems to have gone away. There are so many tangled strands to this thing that it is taking me longer than I thought to sort them out. I am no longer worried about it being too short. Funny how these things happen. People who don’t write ask us how we can write so many words. That’s easy to answer. We don’t think about writing 60,000 words at the start. That would scare anyone. We just start telling the story and pretty soon there is a great heap of words. Mine usually take between 55,000 and 65,000 words. I was afraid Thai Die was going to come in at 50,000. I have one published novel that is closer to 90,000. The problem for some of us is making it short enough to fit in just one volume. I sometimes think of the first four Betsy Devonshire novels as a single story in four volumes. It took that long for Betsy to discover her wild card talent for sleuthing and accept that her fate was to get mixed up in mysteries ever after. The first one was relatively easy – first ones often are. But I remember writing that fourth one, in which she declares she is through with sleuthing, it’s too scary and too difficult, and she’s not going to do it ever again. That was a great idea, and I thought it was realistic. I mean, what would you do if all of a sudden everywhere you go there’s a dead body? And people expecting you to find out why and who dunnit? I wouldn’t like that. The problem was, as I neared the end of the novel. Betsy, though sleuthing like mad, still didn’t want to sleuth. How to change her mind? I had to call in the big gun – Jill Cross Larson, who can talk sense into anyone. She and Betsy have a conversation, and Betsy gives in.

Does this sound like I’m talking about real people? They are real to me. That’s part of the fun – and insanity – of being a writer. To make it work, you have to think of them as real. What’s really interesting is when a fan takes them for real, too. We can sit and gossip about these people just as if we live in the same neighborhood. Are they insane, too?

The Procrastinator's Handbook

by Deb Baker

I’m hardly ever a procrastinator. Really I’m not. Living in a house full of them has forced me to be extremely organized. Otherwise the family infrastructure would collapse.

However, since learning that I have three months to plot, write, and submit doll collecting mystery number four, I’ve found myself making excuses for not starting. You’d think I’d be working day and night, but no.

After this weekend, though, I’m ready to stop procrastinating. I’m going to do it now. Rita Emmett gave me the push I needed. She’s the author of a little book with a big message called The Procrastinator’s Handbook. We both had presentations at the Edgerton (Wisconsin) Book Festival at different times, so I had the opportunity to hear her speak and to buy her book.

Here are a few of her words of wisdom and advice:

“The dread of doing a task uses up more time and energy than doing the task itself.”
“The mother of all excuses: I work better under pressure.”
“Obsession with perfection is the downfall of procrastinators.”

I realized that I was using all the get-out-of-starting tactics she lists on page 49. Shuffling papers, surfing the web, playing computer games, doing an excessive amount of preparation instead of doing it, talking on the phone with everybody and anybody.

Reading her book showed me that I’m procrastinating out of fear. I suddenly realized that I’m afraid that the words and ideas won’t come, afraid that I’ll write a really bad book considering the looming deadline, afraid that I can’t do it. This isn't a new phobia. I get it every time I write a story.

I know I can finish. I've done it six times. What's one more?

So I’m off to write my story.
Just as soon as I finish her book.

The Procrastinator's Handbook

by Deb Baker

I’m hardly ever a procrastinator. Really I’m not. Living in a house full of them has forced me to be extremely organized. Otherwise the family infrastructure would collapse.

However, since learning that I have three months to plot, write, and submit doll collecting mystery number four, I’ve found myself making excuses for not starting. You’d think I’d be working day and night, but no.

After this weekend, though, I’m ready to stop procrastinating. I’m going to do it now. Rita Emmett gave me the push I needed. She’s the author of a little book with a big message called The Procrastinator’s Handbook. We both had presentations at the Edgerton (Wisconsin) Book Festival at different times, so I had the opportunity to hear her speak and to buy her book.

Here are a few of her words of wisdom and advice:

“The dread of doing a task uses up more time and energy than doing the task itself.”
“The mother of all excuses: I work better under pressure.”
“Obsession with perfection is the downfall of procrastinators.”

I realized that I was using all the get-out-of-starting tactics she lists on page 49. Shuffling papers, surfing the web, playing computer games, doing an excessive amount of preparation instead of doing it, talking on the phone with everybody and anybody.

Reading her book showed me that I’m procrastinating out of fear. I suddenly realized that I’m afraid that the words and ideas won’t come, afraid that I’ll write a really bad book considering the looming deadline, afraid that I can’t do it. This aren't new phobias. I get them every time I write a story.

I know I can finish. I've done it six times. What's one more?

So I’m off to write my story.
Just as soon as I finish her book.

The Great Lover

Ellen emailed me and offered to send me a tiny book she made. "I know you scrapbook, and I thought you'd be interested," she wrote.

(You know Ellen, she's one half of the dynamic Monica Ferris and Ellen duo, those intrepid travelers who visited Thailand.)

Of course, I was interested. In fact, I was delighted and honored she thought of me. A few days later, I opened a padded mailing envelope. My jaw dropped. "Wow," I said, over and over. "Look at this," I shared the lovely tiny item with my son and a female friend of his.

They said, "Wow." (You know, teenagers are hard to impress. But Ellen's work did exactly that.)

I carried the little book lovingly downstairs to my office. I held it, turned it over, enjoyed both sides, and stared. The gorgeous miniature piece gives me a giant case of scrapper's block. What ever could I put inside it to be worthy? There are 16 pages, which yields 32 surfaces. What could I put on these to do justice to the workmanship?

I've mulled it over. There's only one subject worthy of this lovely, handmade piece: I'll scrapbook my favorite things.

I'll use my favorite poem as a springboard:

**

The Great Lover

by Rupert Brooke

These I have loved:

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

Ringed with blue lines; and feather faery dust;

Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust

Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;

Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;

And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours;

Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;

The, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon

Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss

Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is

Shining and Free; blue massing clouds; the keen

Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;

The benison of hot water; furs to touch

The good smell of old clothes; and other such--

The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,

Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers

About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . .

Dear names,

And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;

Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;

Holes in the ground; and voice that do sing;

Voices in laughter, too; and bodies' pain.

Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;

Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam

That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home...

All these have been my loves.

**

Tell me...do you love this poem as much as I do? I'm eager to hear your reaction.

This and that for fall

THE BOOKS
Like most series authors, I'm working on three books at once: proofing the galleys and working on my promo for Book 1 (pictured here): creating a new database, setting up launch parties and flyers. I'm wrapping up edits for Book 2; and starting Book 3—manuscript due March 1.

THE OTHER WRITING
… because no one can write only one kind of book. I'm moving ahead a miniature inch at a time on a nonfiction self-help book, a "mainstream" novel, and a bio-pic.


THE ONLINE CLASS
I blogged on my gender-neutral online class for Golden Gate University in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago. It's the only class I have where I'm actually responsible for 16 weeks of homework, term papers, and grades. As opposed to ...


THE IN-PERSON CLASSES
…. where it's mostly adults who have come to writing later in life (like me) and now are ready to get serious. I teach these workshops through community colleges, adult ed programs, and organizations like the California Writers Club and my chapter of Mystery Writers of America. No grades, just a lot of satisfaction.

THE EDITING JOB
I work part time as a scientific editor at a large laboratory, which will go nameless for now. I undo all the passives and a tad more.

THE ORGANIZATIONS
I'm on the board and Speaker Bureau coordinator for NorCal Sisters in Crime, booking our published members in bookstores, libraries, and other venues. Got a venue for us? Let me know. This fall I'm running a bookfair at a local Barnes & Noble for California Writers Club, on the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend.

THE HOBBY
I work on miniatures for gifts and for charity auctions. Also it's time for my niece and me to work on a dollhouse for a school holiday raffle. This week I'm off to my favorite Cooper's Dollhouse Studio in Benicia, California, to pick up a kit or (better) a ready-made dollhouse to prepare for the raffle.

THE LIFE
… spending time with my wonderful husband, extended family, and friends.

THE SLEEPING
…. is overrated.

Sometimes I let myself get drawn into an "I'm busier than you" contest with someone complaining about having too much to do … but really these are all my choices and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's my position that unless a person has at least 7, preferably 10, things going at once, he/she is very boring.

Oops, I need another couple of projects.

On the road for DYING TO BE THIN: week two

This past week has been incredible.

My week-that-shall-live-in-fond-memory started last Friday, when I attended the book launch party for DYING TO BE THIN. And what a party! The hostess, Mary Farrell, pulled out all the stops to make the party a night to remember. She brought in an awesome caterer, Jen Sweet (gotta love that last name), who produced Whoopie Pies wrapped in ribbons that were made from the text of my book (you have to read the first chapter of DYING TO BE THIN to understand the Whoopie Pie thing); Jen produced to-die-for empanadas, as well as dessert “cones” made out of facsimiles of the book cover. I’ve never before been to a party with such imaginative catering—I hereby nominate Jen for next year’s Top Chef!

There was a big, festive crowd, and everyone had a blast! On hand were Sisters-in-Crime LA Chapter Prez Diana James, SiS LA V.P. Susan Kozar Beery, writer-comrade Kathy Kinston, and Diana’s husband, Darrell James, who won the 2007 DEADLY INK award for his work, Trust A Dead Man To Keep A Secret. Also in attendance were my writing critique group members: Elizabeth Ralser, Lynn Schwartz, and Warren Deasy, who helped organize the event. Our critique group’s fearless leader, Lyn Stimer, could not come due to a family illness, but she was there in spirit! Oh, and Pamela Eells, the Emmy-nominated writer of Disney’s The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, was also there. She’s been my best friend ever since our Wellesley College days!

On Saturday, I appeared with fellow Killer Hobbies blogger, Linda O. Johnston, at the Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore near San Diego (check out Linda’s newest book, Fright of the Iguana—it’s a great read!). Even more fun than selling books was getting the chance to meet the bookstore staff, both of whom are named Linda. We had three Linda’s in the house!

On Sunday, I gave a talk at the San Diego Public Library. The talk was titled (somewhat self-importantly) as “From daydream to reality: one writer’s journey to publication”. But in reality, it was a fun discussion of anything and everything about the writing process. Lynn Whitehouse and her entire staff, including technical guru, Alan Bugg, made me feel very at home.
Upcoming

The fun continues this weekend:

This Saturday, October 13th, I’ll be signing DYING TO BE THIN at 1 p.m. at The Mystery Bookstore, 1036-C Broxton Ave in Los Angeles (aka Westwood), California.

I’ll appear at another signing that same day in Valencia at 4 p.m., at Borders Books and Music #297, 24445 Town Center Drive.

Please stop by for a visit at either location, and say Howdy!

Short and Sweet

Since I live on the West Coast, and because I have a so-called temporary part-time law job on weekday mornings, I generally write my blog entries on Wednesday and post them before I go to bed, which means they’re there early Thursday morning East Coast time.

So, as usual, I’m writing this on Wednesday. But life is getting in my way. I didn’t get an opportunity to do any writing yesterday because of a trip to a doctor’s office for an annual physical exam--and although I’ve lived in L.A. a long time, I’ve never seen traffic in that area so heavy. Today, I had to stay late at my morning job, and tonight my critique group is coming over to accommodate my schedule since I can’t meet on our usual night, Thursday, because I’m giving a talk at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood.

As a result, I’m keeping this blog short so I can squeeze in some writing time. That’s a really important thing to me--being able to write. So, hope you all understand: that’s why this is short and not very exciting.

One thing, though: I’ve been missing my older son, who moved to Chicago, but he and his delightful girlfriend have been sticking bookmarks for THE FRIGHT OF THE IGUANA in copies of that new release and the other Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter Mysteries, that they’ve found in bookstores. Great to have promotional assistance other spots in the country!

Okay, now’s my writing time, at last!

--Linda

Mom and The Pack

I’m in Richfield, Wisconsin, staying at my sister’s house. Our mother lives with her and her husband, Thomas. Mom is 89 and getting frail. Her mind is clear, most of the time. Now and again she has hallucinations: a boy with sharp features is looking out of the ceiling at her, one of the dogs has thrown up in a corner, an old friend visits, she sees one of us as a child, there is water running in a flood down a wall. Most of them are benign, very few are scary, some are bizarre. When she’s feeling good, which is most of the time, she is sharp and funny. Thomas teases her, and she gives back measure for measure, both laughing. Her vision isn’t good and her fingers are no longer clever, so she’s had to give up needlework. But she still works word puzzles and peruses every catalog that comes to the house, looking for bargains. She loves sports, especially football, baseball and golf. She’s been a Packers fan since as far back as I can remember; and though I’m not a football fan, when I do pay any attention, it’s to the Pack.

Here’s a challenge to those of us sixty and older: Somewhere between forty and fifty years ago there was a football game on television. The Packers versus . . . somebody. Those were the days of Vince Lombardi. There was a short film someone put together of quick shots of the players from many games. The film was probably played at halftime. It was set to the words of “If” by Rudyard Kipling. The poem begins, “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, and blaming it on you,” and there were a quick series of players colliding so hard their helmets were knocked off. It continues, “If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you . . .” and there was a referee with his arms folded, grimly ignoring the screams and waving arms of outraged coach and players. And so on, until the final verse, “If you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds worth of distance run,” and there’s the clock counting down the final seconds while the players battle it out on the field. “Yours is the earth, and everything that’s in it” (trophy held high), “and which is more, you’ll be a man, my son!” And there’s a grinning player, standing against the sun on the sidelines, proud and tall, while someone throws one of those old-fashioned heavy winter cloaks around his shoulders. It was wonderful, it made me appreciate the fun and glory of the game – and started me on a lifelong appreciation of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry. Question: Am I the only person in the world who remembers this short film? I only saw it that one time. My Mom doesn’t remember it. No one remembers it – but me. I even asked the people at Lambeau Field in Green Bay (home of the Packers), who have archival film of every game, I think, and they didn’t know what I was talking about. Did I dream it?

The book is changing shape as it comes into the later chapters – interesting the way a book will do that. Books tell their own stories, of course, if you let them. And you have to let them, otherwise the book doesn’t work. But I wonder if some of this shape-changing isn’t because I’m in a very different environment. Having to pay attention to Mom yanks me out of the writing mode: time for a bathroom break? Time for another pill? Is she too warm, too cool? Snack time, meal time, bed time. She loves to sit by the big front window and watch the birds coming to the feeders Therese has out there. I sit with her and we talk about everything. Great stuff sometimes, unimportant stuff, valedictory stuff. Night falls and she goes into her room to watch sports. She sleeps a lot. I’m blessed to have this time with her. Then the book calls, and I write easily, rapidly – then she calls me. She wants the visitor by her chair to go away. She is alone in the room and I say so. She looks at me with clear blue eyes, unafraid, unapologetic. “I’m having a hallucination,” she explains.

You're Invited to a Wedding

by Deb Baker


Tonight at 7pm, Woody and Emma, a cloth doll couple, will renew their wedding vows in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Thirty years ago today, this lovable twosome attracted hundreds of people and media coverage when they tied the knot. Tonight, the same minister will preside over the exchange and some of the same musicians will play.

Emma is a retired Piggly Wiggly clerk. Woody’s a retired bus driver. At the first wedding, people dressed up as dolls, brought their dolls, donated a limo, and sent flowers. Not to mention the three-tier wedding cake.

The renewal of their vows tonight promises to be an even more spectacular event. And we’re all invited.

The Blessing in Disguise

Usually I blog late on Sunday night. I either save the draft or write the blog in MS Word and then post it early Monday morning.

But these weekend I was exhausted on Sunday night. Saturday was The Big Read, a huge book festival, and our Sisters in Crime chapter had a booth. I was encouraged by one of the members to come in costume. "That'll be fun--and we'll draw attention to ourselves."

Not exactly.

Drawing Attention to Myself at the Big Read

More like, I drew attention to MYSELF...because I was the only fool who showed up in costume. Did I mention it was 90 degrees? A record high for St. Louis this time of year? And humid? And that I wore a black witches costume? Or that in order not to be X-rated, I had to put on a slip under that costume? Plus, I'm sure I neglected to mention I had on the de rigeur witch's hat, right? There were also short black boots that have to be worn with socks or I'd get blisters.

I arrived at 8 a.m. My pal Michelle Becker helped me haul four boxes of books, each at about 30 lbs. to the booth. I left at 3 p.m. I was a soggy, sticky mess. In fact, I was woozy from the heat.

So I took Sunday off.

No problem. I could get up bright and early today (Monday) and do my blog.

Other Plans...

But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you make other plans."

First there was the sick kid. He'd been snuffling and hocking and generally making congested sounds all weekend, but this morning he didn't feel like getting out of bed. "Call the doctor," he croaked.

Then, my husband asked, "Does Vicky need more ear medicine?" The vet said, "No, but she does need an ear cleaner to follow the treatment. You can come by and pick it up." At that point, I mentioned the small bump I'd found on Rafferty's back. Since he'd had another cancerous lump removed less than a year before, I was vigilant. "Hmmm," said the vet. "Better bring him in so we can do a culture. That was an aggressive cancer. Can you come by in an hour?"

An hour gave me just enough time to shower and dress. Fortunately, Rafferty's bump was not cancerous. I brought him home--and he was happy to get the heck out of Dodge, believe me. The poor dog has lost his testicles to neutering, his right hind leg to being abused, and had a big lump taken out of his back. I'm sure he's convinced we're whittling him down to a nubbin--and the vet is NOT his favorite spot.

Now, I rounded up my son for his doctor appointment. After getting him going, I'd have just enough time to blog, right? Wrong. The power went out. The smoke detectors went on. Amidst the shrieking, I discovered I'd forgotten to recharge my phone last night. I used my son's phone to call my husband. He called AmerenUE. The same people who were responsible for 2 1/2 days without power over the winter and a 1/2 day without in the worst of the summer. "Scheduled maintenance," they explained. Ha! They didn't consult MY schedule.

It took both my son and me to open the garage door. Without power, it's very uncooperative. We went to the doctor's to discover my son has allergies. Then we went out to eat.

The Blessing in Disguise

Usually, I'd be thinking...I have to get back, I have to finish my work...but the power outage was a gift. I had a leisurely late lunch with my eighteen-year-old son. We talked about this and that, college, school, his future, and his friends.

So finally, I'm here blogging. I doubt that you missed me. But if the day hadn't gone the way it did, I would have missed something very, very precious....time with my son.

Books -- light and heavy

What makes a mystery "literary?" I started a thread, sort of, by a posting on Dorothy L about the Dexter novels by Jeff Lindsay. I love the books and the TV show, and put the writing in the class of novels of Martin Cruz Smith, Thomas H. Cook, and Joanne Harris, all favorites of mine.

Some disagreed, which, of course, makes for a good discussion.

Whether or not you've read Dexter, the question is still an interesting one. Put differently, why do many libraries and bookstores put "mysteries" on one rack, and "fiction" or sometimes "fiction and literature" on another? Aren't mysteries literature? Aren't they "fiction?"

I don't pretend to have a definition of what makes a work literary, just an informal, personal assessment. For me, it's a matter of the writing. I can forgive a lot of faults in plot if the writing moves me.

Not that I don't want a good story and interesting characters, but the books and authors that I remember and keep going back to are those that make me want to stop and reread a phrase or a sentence just for the surprising and pleasurable way the words are on the page.

Someone suggested that literary novels have big themes; in the case of mysteries, then, not just "who dunnit." (In Dexter the theme of good/evil is present in a much deeper way than in my books, for example.)

What do you think? Who are your literary favorites? Or don't you make that distinction?

Notes from the road: launch week for DYING TO BE THIN

On Tuesday, DYING TO BE THIN began appearing in bookstores everywhere.

Launch day began with a bang—early Tuesday morning I appeared on regional radio, AM 1290 KZSB in Santa Barbara, which gets distributed all over the world. My host was the genial Baron Ron Herron, who started off the interview by making me laugh with a discussion about Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and his affair with a Telemundo TV reporter (who, when last heard from, had been exiled to Riverside—which is kind of like Siberia, only hotter).

From there, we went on to talk about my book, and we touched on the next installment in The Fat Series Mysteries series, A KILLER WORKOUT.

On Wednesday, I visited AdviceRadio.com with host Megan Willingham. Megan is a truly wonderful interviewer. She has a warm, intime interviewing style, and asked many thought-provoking questions. She’s the kind of interviewer who makes you want to confess all your secrets! We were laughing together like a couple of old friends after just a few minutes on the air. I really enjoyed the hour. You can listen to the podcast this week at:

http://www.adrenalineradio.com/podcast/

(Click Writers).

Later that day, bearing cookies in hand, I started visiting bookstores to sign stock. The staff at my local Borders bookstore rewarded me by moving my books from the shelf to the table in the front of the store, where the featured releases are. I call it the Power of Cookie Persuasion!

This weekend, on Saturday, I’ll be appearing with fellow blogger Linda O. Johnston at Mysterious Galaxy bookstore in San Diego. We’ll be interviewing each other and talking about the cozy mystery genre.

On Sunday, October 7th, at 3 p.m., I’ll be giving a talk at the San Diego Public Library. I’m billing the talk “From Daydream to Reality: one writer’s journey to publication.” But in reality, we’ll be talking about anything and everything when it comes to writing. Hope to see you there!

Lexie and the Book Fair

The West Hollywood Book Fair was held last Sunday. I was there all day, and so was Lexie, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who happens to look exactly like, and have the same name as, the dog owned by Kendra Ballantyne, protagonist of my Pet-Sitter Mystery series.

Oops! I shouldn’t say Kendra owns her Lexie, any more than I own mine, since we visited West Hollywood, nicknamed WeHo. There, people are officially, by law, pet guardians. I brought another guardian along especially for Lexie--my husband, Fred, who took care of her at times when I couldn’t.

I participated in a panel on cozy mysteries along with fellow mystery writers Joanne Fluke, Susan Kandel and Linda Palmer, moderated by Sue Ann Jaffarian, with a signing afterward. It went great! I also signed at the Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America booths. Fellow blogger Kathryn Lilley was there, too. And when I wasn’t scheduled for something else, I had the great joy of hanging out at the Arfriend booth, where Lexie and I were featured attendees.

Arfriend is a wonderful local organization that is a resource for people and pets. I held a drawing for the benefit of Arfriend, with the winner’s pet to appear in the 7th Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery. But I requested that a donation be made to Arfriend to enter and there were quite a few entries. The winner was Mooch, a terripoo mix. I’ll be receiving more info about Mooch soon.

Also at the Arfriend booth most of the day were the delightful Arfriend founder and coordinator Janet Cole and her wonderful adopted pug Humphry, as well as veterinarian Dr. Karen Halligan, author of Doc Halligan’s What Every Pet Owner Should Know. It was utterly enjoyable hanging out with them, and Doc Halligan gave me lots of good pointers for caring for Lexie’s health.

Lexie and Humphry weren’t the only dogs at the WeHo fair. In fact, there were quite a few. We didn’t get to meet them all, but I did admire many of them from afar. Lexie even got nose to nose with one or two, which is a wonderful thing for her. She isn’t as well socialized as I would like, since her dear friend Sparquie, whom we recently lost, used to nip at canines of all sizes, so when we had the two of them out together (which we did most of the time so one wouldn’t be left behind and feel bad about it) we kept them apart from other pups. As a result, Lexie is a bit timid when it comes to other dogs. She’s much more of a people pup, but I want her to get along with pets of other persuasions as well.

In any event, a good time was had by all. And I got to pass out bookmarks for my new release, now officially available since it’s October: THE FRIGHT OF THE IGUANA.

Thanks, Arfriend and WeHo and everyone else who helped to make this a really fun and memorable day.

--Linda

Michaelmas

The Feast of St. Michael and All Angels – called Michaelmas, pronounced “mikkelmus” in England – is one of the “quarter days,” dividing the year into four approximately equal periods. This is a very old division, Medieval or even earlier. The four quarters are Candlemas, Lammas, Michaelmas, and Christmas. Michaelmas is September 29. Close to thirty years ago a friend of ours introduced us to a custom she re-created (or perhaps invented) of eating goose at Michaelmas. Certainly there is the “sickle goose,” a Medieval feast given by the lord of a manor to his villeins (unfree tenants) for helping out at harvest. (Some just gave each family a goose of their own.) Anyway, our friend declared that if you ate goose at Michaelmas you wouldn’t want for money for a year. It wouldn’t make you rich, she declared, it just stopped fiscal emergencies. Example: Before Michaelmas, you had fifty dollars in the bank and your car had a ninety-dollar breakdown. After Michaelmas the breakdown cost forty-seven dollars. Interestingly, it seemed to work!

Anyway, she married and moved to Vermont, and we were glad for her until September rolled around. It’s very hard to find a goose in September – they come in around Thanksgiving – but a butcher found a small forgotten one in the back of his freezer for us. We invited two other couples, each of whom brought a dish to share, and we were off. We’ve done it every year since, and it’s grown into a big party. One year we had forty guests! This year there were about twenty. I buy free-range geese nowadays, which are costly but lower in fat and really delicious, and stuff them with a mix of whole cloves of garlic, tart apples, green grapes, onions and fresh parsley, with savory and poultry seasoning, salt and pepper. My supplier phoned to say she didn’t have two large geese for me and would I take four smaller ones. I said yes, and managed to roast two at a time in my own oven and the oven in the party room.

We sing a song of my own composing, “Amazing Goose,” and say a for-real prayer to St. Michael (“. . . defend us in battle . . . [against] evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the destruction of souls”). Everyone still brings a dish to share and they were all spectacular this year, from a red-cabbage dish made with wine and goose fat to an enormous chocolate cake to popcorn flavored with almond bark. We eat around seven. I will note that somewhere around four, when I was dashing up and down from the first floor (party room) to the third floor (our apartment) to baste the geese every fifteen minutes and burning my fingers (the ovens were set at 425 degrees -- apply ice immediately and there are no blisters), I was swearing off Michaelmas.

But when first-time attendees were asking hopefully if I was going to do this again next year, I blithely said, “Of course!”

Paper Dolls

by Deb Baker

When I was a girl, I played with paper dolls. All kinds of paper dolls. But my favorite was Betsy McCall, the best known magazine paper doll in America. She debuted in 1951 with Nosy, her dachshund, and her parents. In the fifties, she stayed close to home. By the 1960s she had traveled to California and down the Mississippi River. In the 1970s she visited Europe. Throughout the decades she modeled fashions that could be made with McCall’s patterns. Since I’m sewing challenged, I never created any of her clothes.

I loved, loved, loved my paper dolls. How about you? Did you play with them? If not, you can start now by downloading your very own.

Since Joanna blogged yesterday about royals and Diana, I thought it might be a good time to give you a link to print out a Princess Diana paper doll and some of her wonderful outfits, go to
http://www.100megsfree4.com/gogators4/DianaDoll.html

Why the Brits Loved Princess Di

While living in the UK back in 2002, we requested and received invitations to attend the Order of the Garter Ceremony on the grounds of Windsor Castle. The invitations came along with a small map. A key indicated where we were to watch the ceremony. The day dawned unusually warm. We drove to the town of Windsor early and hustled Michael along. At almost thirteen years old, he wasn’t thrilled about “seeing history.” He’d had a full year of such parental nonsense, thank you.

We took our spot in line and presented passports and invitation to security. Windsor sits on a hill, majestically overlooking the town of the same name. Thick stone walls circle the castle and its outlying buildings, including the famous St. George’s Chapel where the induction was to be held. We spectators were accorded spots along the route winding from the castle to the chapel. Once inside the grounds we quickly found the small island of grass that corresponded to the number on our map.

And I do mean “small island of grass.” We were located on a berm, a grassy knoll, a small divider in a sea of pavement. There was no seating and no shade. No shelter from the summer heat. And we had dutifully—as suggested--arrived hours early.

The sun beat down on us. Our little spot filled up with more spectators. Soon we were cheek to jowl with hundreds of others “banished” to our tiny patch. There was barely enough room to move. The Brits came well-prepared. They brought folding chairs and coolers of champagne. We (David, Michael and I) didn’t know to do that…and we were parched and miserable. I did my usual survey of ladies restrooms and I’ll grant HRH this: She has the classiest Port-a-Potties in the world. A huge trailer with white siding and gold trim was parked on the grounds just for this purpose. The inside was lavish, and the taps were gold. It changed forever my expectations of Johnnies on the Spot!

Michael was restless, hot and miserable. We were all getting sunburned. We were squished against other people. Finally, he slumped down onto the grass and immersed himself in his Game Boy. So much for introducing him to living history!

I was especially interested in this ceremony because family lore has it that one of my ancestors was a Knight of the Gartner. That explains the blue garter on the family coat of arms. I had grown up being told the story of “Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Ponce” by my maternal grandmother. In fact, during our first tour of Windsor, a docent asked if anyone knew the motto of the Knights of the Garter. I popped out with “Honi Soit…” and his jaw dropped. He said that in fifty-plus years of working at the castle he’d never had a visitor who knew the motto, much less an American!

The Queen's guests began to arrive to take their places inside the chapel. They were foreign heads of state, royalty from all over the world, and relatives of the monarchy. All left their cars and carriages and turned to wave to the crowd, to give us a chance to snap a photo.

Our closely-packed group serged forward again and again, never stepping beyond the roped stanchions that corralled us, but lurching as close to the dignitaries as possible so we could see. By then, we were a pretty smelly, tired, dusty and stinky lot.

After we’d been sitting in the heat for more than two hours, Prince Edward and his wife Sophie stepped out of a new Mercedes limo. Unlike the guests before them, neither Andrew nor Sophie turned to face the crowd. Indeed, they didn’t even acknowledge our presence. Attendants helped them out of the car on the side close to the chapel. With their backs to us, they chatted to each other and greeted the others at the chapel door. Without so much as a backward glance they walked into the cool of the church; they ignored all of us.

“And that,” said the Brit standing at my elbow, “is why we loved Princess Di. Look at him. Hasn’t worked a day in his life. Never has a worry or a care. All he has to do to make us lot happy is to wave—and does he? No. Can’t be bothered. Diana would have walked over and shook hands. She would have smiled and waved and been happy to see us. That’s why we loved her.”

Suddenly, I understood. The rigid class system in the UK is such that commoners can never challenge the accident of their birth. They can never become royalty. The regular “guy” is forever relegated to the small, green patch of grass. He is always on the outside, gazing in at the pomp, circumstance and privilege. All he asks for is a tip of the hat, a wave of the hand, a nod to acknowledge that but for a switch of infants in the crib, that HRH could have been the poor sod out on the grass, sweltering in the heat, and hoping for a good line-of-sight to gawk at the rich and famous.

For more about the Order of the Garter go to http://www.writersworkshop.co.uk/garter.htm

The scrapbook page pictured is one I made from my photos of the day. Unfortunately, because I'm so short and the crowd was so dense, I didn't get many good shots...but it still was a memorable event...for many reasons.