Intermittent Internet

How many of you reading this are addicted to the Internet? I certainly am. And when my Internet Service Provider goes bonkers, so do I.



These days, the Internet is a necessity of life, both personal and professional. It's how I keep in touch with family and friends. How I find out what is going on in the multiple fiction genres in which I write. How I learn some of the news, and what the weather is going to be like, and what any medical symptoms shown by my pups or other family members, or even myself, might mean.



How I do a heck of a lot of the research I need for my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries, including locating people who can help me find answers... such as potbellied pig people who were wonderful about helping me research the next Kendra mystery, NEVER SAY STY. I also use it to research supernatural legends and other lore I incorporate into my Silhouette Nocturnes.



So when it¢s not working, my temper rises to boil.



We¢ve tried different providers over the years. Right now, ours is a nice, fast cable-related system. Or at least it's fast when it's working. But lately, it's been ornery enough to work intermittently, much too often.



I¢m the kind of person who hollers at the computer, now and then, when the system is down. My husband is a lot calmer than I... except recently, he, too, has taken to swearing at the computer. We started complaining by calling the customer service number and were routed to some very nice, but unhelpful, people whose accents suggested they were possibly in India or another foreign country. This was after waiting for a while. Then, ascertaining we had followed all of the recorded instructions such as turning things off and rebooting, that customer service person would route us to a technician in the U.S.--who was also very nice but not extremely helpful. However, now and then they would schedule us for a service call--and the problem still wasn't fixed. We did this procedure often over the course of months, keeping a journal about when the Internet went out... usually daily, at least for a while.



Finally, one of the technicians gave us the name and number of a supervisor, who has really taken an interest in our problem. It's not just us, by the way, but at least one other household on our street, and sometimes the whole system goes out area-wide. Anyway, we¢ve seen some trucks with the company's name parked around here lately. And... dare I say it without knocking on wood, or cursing myself--today the system seems to be okay.



But who knows what it¢ll be like tomorrow?



Is anyone else out there as frustrated with their Internet service as I sometimes get? And before you ask, we¢ve looked into other services and, when this one's working, it's the best for our area.





--Linda

Not-So-Hidden Agenda

Last Call: Tell me in twenty-five words or less why you think I should send you the prize of two pounds of chicken-themed fabric. Contest ends July 31. Contact me through my web site: Monica-Ferris.com

Whew, it’s hot in Minneapolis! Ninety-one degrees yesterday afternoon! It was hot the day before, it's going to be hot today, and probably again tomorrow. I had to make a trip to the post office in my car whose air conditioning is broken and I was kind of dreading coming out of the cool post office building and climbing into the oven my car had become in the parking lot. But then I came to a stop in the middle of the macadam and just let a baby breeze ruffle my hair while the heat beat down from the sun and rose up from the blacktop. Because I told myself very firmly to build a memory of that moment to comfort myself with this coming January, when that same lot is frozen over with trampled snow, the breeze has icy razor blades in it, and the sun has become a small, feeble light in the sky.

Still, I hope it has cooled down a lot before the State Fair starts August 21. I guess I’ve become a true Minnesotan. It’s not even August and I’m starting to look forward to the State Fair. Minnesota’s is the second-biggest in the nation (Texas is first). It’s so big that I’m fairly sure that most people who go only once (many people go three, five, even seven times!) see a different fair from others who go only once. It's impossible to see it all in one trip. There is, of course, the basic and original reason for the fair: to compete in the farm animals shows, craft contests, and food/drink contests. I’m not big on the swine or cattle barns, but I love the horse and poultry barns. Then there’s the food. The big thing at our Fair is food-on-a-stick. Fruit (dipped in puffy batter, deep fried, and rolled in powdered sugar) on a stick – did I mention that if it’s healthy food you want, eat before you come? Pork chop on a stick. Deep fried Snickers candy bar on a stick. Even spaghetti and meatballs on a stick (I’m serious – they form the meatball around the spaghetti). There are free music shows and shows you buy a ticket for with serious performers. There’s a long building in which you can watch pigs and cows give birth, and chickens hatch. There’s a Midway, featuring that terrifying "ride" where two people are belted into what looks like a couch and launched what seems like a hundred feet into the air on bungee cords. There’s "under the grandstand" where vendors will sell you everything from real estate to an electric organ to one of those trick knives that slices and dices and turns radishes into roses to computerized sewing machines, among several hundred other interesting things. I have agreed to write a short story for a new anthology called Murder on a Stick and I’m stuck for an idea. (I think I have the setting down pretty good.)

Yesterday’s post, from Camille Minchon, spoke of authors with "hidden agendas," and she asked if we (fellow authors) had them. Well, yes, I do, sort of. That is, often I have a goal or aim in mind when I write a book – but it’s not hidden. I’ve been quite open about things that set me off. I’ve also shot myself in the foot that way. One in particular was Show Stopper, set at a Class A Arabian Horse Show. This was the Peter Brichter series, written as Mary Monica Pulver. My heroine bred show-quality Arabian horses in this series and I went to a lot of shows gathering information. Some of what goes on at these things is not very nice and at last I decided to write a mystery in which a trainer is killed at a show. (Everyone I talked to involved with these beautiful horses agreed a trainer should be the victim.) I had a great time writing the book, and people in the horse business agreed it was accurate. But it wasn’t pleasant to see some of their lesser tactics exposed and the book did not sell well among them. But I’m still not unhappy I wrote it.

Not so hidden agenda

The setting for "Mayhem in Miniature," due August 5, is a senior residence facility … what my parents called an Old Age Home. The plot revolves around a senior who's a murder suspect, and all her friends in the home who offer the police information about the night of the murder.

What they claim to have seen seems incoherent and unlikely, so it's immediately discounted, but—and this is not a spoiler at all—they all turn out to be right.

One "message" I'm sending is that we shouldn't tune out old people! [Did I feel this way before I was old? I don't remember.]

For the periodic table mysteries, I wanted to present some basic science for the general reader, without being heavy handed. I hope it worked.

So my real question here is, do you as writers have "hidden agenda" in your books? Do you as readers want that? Resent that?

I've heard observations like "I write (or read) just for entertainment, not to learn anything."

But are they mutually exclusive? Don't we learn best while we're enjoying ourselves?

Need a Good Night's Sleep? Read this...

The Over-Stimulated Mind

I've learned the hard way not to read a scrapbooking magazine before bed. The ideas buzz 'round and 'round in my brain and I don't drop off to sleep. Has that ever happened to you? Ever get so wrought up about a project that you can't sleep? And I don't mean worried. It's not that...it's more like creative overdrive. The ideas fly around like popcorn in a ripped bag in the microwave.

I mentioned this to my sister, Jane. She works in a sleep lab. Honest! Her job is to help people figure out the reasons behind their insomnia. According to her, insomnia is a national epidemic, one that never happened until our nation went to 24/7 television.

At http://sleepcompass.blogspot.com/ she's posted a list of great tips for getting a good night's sleep. One being never to use your bedroom for anything but sleep and sex. (No idea books allowed.) She shares her blog with another sleep tech and a doctor who specializes in sleep issues. Visit them for all sorts of ideas on sleep--gleaned from decades of working with the problems that keep us from catching those much needed ZZZZZZs.

Here she writes about Courage, her delightful Chihuahua and what we can learn about our sleep from his...and how what we think about can give us--or keep us from--a good night's sleep. (The lovely young lady in the photos is my gorgeous niece, Lexie.)

The Courage to Sleep Like a Dog

by Jane Campbell

And he does, bless his heart. He's a happy boy. Cheerily dragging one of my nieces' Beanie Babies down the hallway, through the kitchen off into the netherlands of the laundry room. Checking out the cat's food and ignoring his own. Pouncing on Spike, the only 20 lb cat with claws in the house, eager to play. When he wants to play, he does, when he wants to eat, he does and when he wants to sleep, down goes the eyelids on those huge Chihuahua eyes. Wherever there's a bed, he lays his head. 180 count sheets or 500, Ralph Lauren bedding or Dora the Explora, 11 o'clock in the morning or 11 o'clock at night, down he goes. He never has "one more thing to do," one more email to check, one more deadline to meet.

Courage trusts. Courage believes. Courage has no fear. That when he shuts his eyes, he'll sleep, opens his eyes, he wakes.

All this is nice and poetic and politically correct. But in my heart of hearts, I know there is another reason why sleep comes so easily to him. He has a clean soul. (Spike sleeps well too, but clean slate? That's another story.) Courage is a little furry piece of Paradise dropped down from heaven in the form of a very, very small dog. Yes, I know dog=God spelled backwards. And so must he. I look at him wonderingly as he sleeps, paws pointed heavenward and know, just know, he's never lived with regret. No "what ifs" and "should haves." He never has a day where he hates himself or life or when he has to convince himself the purpose of it all. He shuts his eyes and sleeps and as I rub his ears or stroke his fur when he snuggles up against me, he shares with me his Peace.

My Mother's Daughter

It’s official. I have become my mother. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. No, I am developing one of my mother’s best traits. She could strike up a conversation anywhere with anybody. You could have dropped her on Mars and she would have been friends with those Martians in no time. She met Florence who became a life long friend on a street corner.

The downside was my father was always worrying when she went out on an errand and never came back – until he learned to look outside. Sure enough it would turn out my mother had run into somebody and lost track of time as they stood on the street talking.

For years I never shared her ability to strike up a conversation with anyone. I was the wallflower who couldn’t think of anything to say.

WAS is the operative word. A few days ago I was in Michael’s picking up some more yarn for the crocheted Cuddle Blanket in DEATH AND DOILIES. I often pass other shoppers, but it always pretty much been a ships passing in the night sort of thing. But this time it was different. A woman came down the aisle and joined me looking at the baby soft yarn. She glanced at the skein I was holding and the next thing I knew she was telling me that her daughter who lived in Hong Kong had one birth child, but had chosen to adopt a sibling. She was a knitter and wanted to make a blanket for the new addition. Her daughter was adamant it not be a gender specific color.

She asked about the Baby Cloud yarn I was holding and then showed me a creamy yellow baby soft yarn and wanted my opinion. Together we picked out an off white to go with it – she wanted to make a blanket with two strands of yarn.

Then I was telling her about the crochet and knit group I belong to and inviting her to join. She took down the details and I remembered I had some bookmark for HOOKED ON MURDER in my purse and gave her one.

It turned out she only read mysteries and was just now looking for something new to read. The fact that my book take place in Tarzana and we were standing in Tarzana made her that much more interested.

As I walked to the front to pay for my yarn, I knew my mother was smiling from wherever she is. I finally got her ease of conversation.

I hope this new found ability is here to stay. I am going to be on a radio show again and this time for more than five minutes. It’s a show called A Touch of Grey ( www.atouchofgrey.com) and is syndicated on 50 stations including WABC 77 in New York (Saturday nights between 10:00 pm and 11:00 pm) and KRLA 870 in Los Angeles (Sundays 12:00 noon to 1:00 pm). The taping is next Thursday and I am going to be talking about how a few years ago my life went from not being close to my dreams to taking a right turn on the road to everything I ever wanted.

What about you? Do you see your mother’s traits in yourself?

Inspiration

My readers ask me all the time about my protag's boyfriend, Buster. If you haven't read Wild Goose Chase (why not?),Buster is a tall, broad-shouldered, black haired, blue-eyed hunk. A homicide detective, he wears his hair short and his button-down shirts starched.

When people would ask me who Buster was, I'd lie. Up until now, that is.It's time to come clean.

This is the real model for Buster:



What? Want to see that again?



It's true. His name is Bo Bice and he was runner-up on American Idol, Season 4. Four years ago, I was writing the 200th draft of Wild Goose Chase and watching this rocker sing his heart out every week. I'd wait with girlish anticipation for the show to begin to see what he was going to do. It didn't hurt that he sang like a dream, really knew how to work the stage, and was easy on the eyes.

There’s a little Buster in Bo, and a lot of Bo in Buster. That's because underneath this tattooed, long-haired exterior is a Southern gentleman who loves his mother, has a silly love of puns and an innate talent that he’s passionate about sharing with the world.

There’s the nicknames. Neither one goes by their given name (Benjamin and Harold). There’s the guitar playing, although I’d admit Buster had never picked up a guitar until I saw Bo on American Idol. There’s the underlying sweetness that infuses their being.

But mostly it’s about following your dreams. Bo Bice was a guitar store manager, a bar band lead singer, when he went on American Idol. He came in second to Carrie Underwood. Since then he's put out two albums and traveled the country despite major health problems and starting a family.

I went to see Bo in concert this week, when he finally came to Northern California and was reminded how much he'd inspired me. Each morning before writing, I'd play me a little Bo Bice, just to get the creative juices flowing. His voice served to remind me about people who are lucky enough to realize their dreams.

So I gave Buster a little Bo to keep the dream alive.

One more. Just for inspiration.

The Shocking, True Story behind my Russian Supper Club Performing Career

Note: Our guest blogger today is the multi-talented Michelle Gagnon. Michelle is a former modern dancer, bartender, dog walker, model, personal trainer, and Russian supper club performer. Her debut thriller The Tunnels was an IMBA bestseller. Her next book, Boneyard, depicts a cat and mouse game between dueling serial killers. In her spare time she wonders what happened to Miami Sound Machine.

I confess, this doesn’t really count as a hobby since I was paid to perform (not well paid, but money was involved). But the item on my resume that elicits the most attention is always the bit about how I was once a performer in a Russian Supper Club. This generally provokes questions running along the theme, “Were you naked?” (I wasn’t, I swear).

So let’s clear up any misconceptions. I got the job through a friend from one of my dance classes who knew I was between gigs (which is a nice way of saying I was out of work at the time). I usually filled those interims with bartending jobs, but had a bad experience recently and wasn’t eager to continue slinging drinks. Rent was coming due and my bank account hovered around zero. My friend approached me after class one day and said, “I know how you can make decent money for a half-hour show three nights a week.”

Sounds sketchy, right? But my friend assured me that there was no nudity involved, in fact the costumes were elaborate to the point of being ridiculous. I tentatively agreed to come to rehearsal that afternoon. If all went well, I’d be onstage the following night. I walked in and met the seven other performers (six dancers, two singers). Over the space of two hours they taught me six dance numbers. I found it curious that everything was set to early-eighties tunes like “Beat It” and “Turn the Beat Around,” (this was the mid-nineties), but figured it could be worse.

I was still reluctant, but agreed to try it out for the weekend. I left the club address with my boyfriend just in case I arrived home with one less kidney (or didn’t turn up at all) and headed to Times Square. A van shuttled us from there to Brighton Beach, where a huge neon sign announced “Club Versailles” on a building that looked like a storage warehouse plastered with fake Doric columns. We went in the back way. I followed my friend down a narrow staircase that opened into the kitchen. The room was filled by men in ragged tank tops, most with a cigarette dangling out of their mouths (and dropping ash into the food, at which point I made a mental note not to eat the free dinner). They all leered as we passed, following the snaking corridor to a tiny room at the end of the hall where we were meant to change. A rickety screen in front was supposed to shield us from prying eyes, but let’s just say that it was fairly ineffective.

As for the show itself, let me give you the backstory (yes, there was a running plot):

Aliens have landed in Brooklyn (this was illustrated by the descent of a miniature spaceship from the ceiling, accompanied by clouds of fake smoke. I was actually fairly impressed by the recent immigrants metaphor). The singers (aka the aliens) learn all about American culture via a series of songs and dances. These included, paradoxically:

1. a disco routine where we wore towering French powdered wigs, lacey bodices, and hoop skirts.


2. a Michael Jackson number complete with Jerri-curl wigs and black spandex outfits, and


3. a flapper-style tap routine featuring the Charleston.
   Confused? I was. The modern day equivalent would be teaching people about American History by showing them Youtube clips.

The dining room was packed with families seated at long tables (I was told most of these were local mobsters). Vodka flowed freely, and kids ran around the room despite the late hour. We closed the show every night by grabbing people from the crowd, dragging them onstage, and forcing them to perform the Macarena with us. I’m not kidding.

And here’s the funny thing: in retrospect, it was the most fun I ever had dancing. Up until then I’d worked with a series of very serious modern dance companies doing “important” pieces. So I’d be rolling around the stage in a black leotard simulating the situation in Rwanda, or wallowing in pieces called “Disconnected” that were supposed to illustrate the dehumanizing effect of machinery on modern existence (mind you, this was pre-internet). And the Club Versailles job was just pure fun, the dance equivalent of a summer blockbuster film. I had a blast doing it for the three months the gig lasted. Then one night, we were all abruptly terminated. Apparently the owner suddenly realized she could hire Russian dancers for a quarter of what she was paying us, and wouldn’t have to provide van service.

So I bid the mobsters a forlorn dasvidania and returned to the bar scene. A few months later, in the face in worsening knee injuries, I hung up my dance shoes and moved west in search of a new life. So in the end, Club Versailles closed out my dance career. I’ll admit it, I still get a little teary whenever “Beat It” comes on the radio...

Sign up for my newsletter at www.michellegagnon.com and I’ll toss your name in the hat for an Amazon Kindle, iPod Shuffle, Starbucks gift certificates, and other fabulous prizes.

Unbloggability

My apologies this week, but I have nothing exciting, or even pet-related, to blog about--mostly because I got myself in a fix because of remembering a deadline date wrong. In my defense, I’m juggling a lot of writing things at once, but it’s not really a good excuse.

I admit that I’m the kind of person who’s compulsively early, or at least on time. Knowing I’m going to be a little late is driving me nuts, even though I’ve been given a short extension.

What about you--do you try to get things done on time? Do you beat yourself up when you’re even a little late? I do!

--Linda

A Little Learning

Wow, I got a new-angle entry for my Win Two Pounds of Chicken-Themed Fabric Suitable for Quilting! And another very touching one. And a couple of enthusiastic ones. Anyone else want to try? Write in twenty-five words or less why you think I should send this fabric to you. Contest ends July 31. Contact me through my web site: Monica-Ferris.com.

Research can lead to some interesting places. One place it very often leads to is . . . more research. Just as I was thinking I had found the handle on making beer, I find I haven’t even scratched the surface. I connected with the owner of a microbrewery named Herkimer’s in Minneapolis. He is a young man with a work ethic bigger than Mount Everest. He barely has this place off the ground, paying for itself, when he goes and buys another building and is going to start a new brewery – brewing saki! Did you know saki was brewed? I always heard it defined as rice wine, but apparently it’s a beverage more like beer (without being beer) than like wine. But that isn’t the kicker from my angle. It seems Herkimer’s brews German beer. And from my descriptions given to him, my heroine is brewing English beer. I didn’t know that, I was just picking up recipes that sounded interesting. And there are other kinds of beer, too. Austrian monks invented their very own varieties, for example. And then there is Russian Beer . . .

Mr. Richardson let me enter the glassed-in room where the beer is brewed at Herkimer’s. (Every microbrewery has this glassed-in room for customers to admire.) It is full of round and tall and immense stainless steel tanks, and a control panel with red and green lights, and long, fat rubber hoses. I took lots of photographs. Then he told me what each stainless steel tank is for, and took lots of notes. But where, I wondered, is the beer when it’s finished? In more tanks in the basement. That’s also where things are drained into after being filtered. So what you see in the glassed-in room is not the whole operation. A grand metaphor for learning about this business – that there is a whole other set of learning yet to be discovered. in the basement!
On consideration, I have found this to be true of almost every subject I’ve gotten interested in, from horseback riding to medieval English history.

But I never consider this when I’m setting off, all excited, to learn a new thing. Wouldn’t it be interesting to find myself on my deathbed, excitedly reading all the literature I can find on it, looking forward to actually experiencing it – only to find that I’ll never get a chance to share what I’ve learned with my readers? Which is it I’m more interested in, learning it or using what I’ve learned in a story? Is that too macabre a thought?

I’ve got the galleys of Thai Die and am going through them making corrections to spelling and typographical errors. I have an enormously good and kind friend who came over today and is staying through tomorrow, who is sitting and letting me read the galleys aloud to him. He is blind and says I am doing him a favor, but he’s the one doing me the bigger favor. I am so used to the words of the story that reading them silently, I tend to skim. Reading them aloud I have to read every single word, and I catch many more errors that way. God bless John!

A crush of books

by our guest blogger, Jeffrey Marks

My hobby truly does have dead bodies in it, and plenty of them. I collect mystery first editions and have since I was 16 years old. When I first was able to earn my own money, a good part of each week’s salary went to used books. I figured that if I bought used books, I could get more pages per dollar than with new ones. New books were all of $2.95 back then and I could get perhaps 10-12 used paperbacks for the same price.

After I’d managed to forage through all the local bookstores, I discovered Bill Dunn’s store in Connecticut. I’d wait anxiously for the catalogs which came every couple of months in a huge stack of pages stapled together. Since he didn’t have many paperbacks, I switched to hardbacks of the 1940s and 1950s. Many of those were first editions. I bought books by Craig Rice, Phoebe Atwood Taylor, Rex Stout, SS Van Dine, and of course, Agatha Christie.



By the time I was out of high school and several part-time jobs later, I was able to amass a respectable collection of books. I had collected probably half of the Christie oeuvre by that point. For my high school graduation, I had bought myself the crown jewel of my collection, a first edition of The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Christie’s first work. I purchased it for $90, but it’s now worth $4000 conservatively.

Last year, I finished up my collection, 30 years in the making. I have American firsts for all of Christie’s books along with a few reference works as well. They fill a full bookcase in my house.

Of course, another bookcase (there are 7 in my house if you care!) in my home is filled books by the authors I’ve profiled. I have all of Craig Rice’s works including the extremely hard to find works under her Venning and Sanders pen names.



As my new biography of Anthony Boucher just come out last month, I have nearly all of Anthony Boucher’s books too. I’m missing just one of his 7 novels, Nine Times Nine, the novel that introduces Sister Ursula. I plan on picking up an extremely nice copy with my first royalty check.

Next up for me is likely a biography of Erle Stanley Gardner, the creator of Perry Mason. With a canon of over 150 books, his books might crush my shelves – but I’m sure I’ll have fun trying to get them all.

Behind the Scenes at the Best of British Scrapbooking

By Rosie Waddicor of ScrapBook inspirations Magazine

You may not know it, but across the pond the Best of British Scrapbooking awards are just getting underway. The contest is the biggest of its kind in the UK and it’s hosted by the magazine I work for, ScrapBook inspirations. Every year the contest gets bigger, and the quality of entries gets higher, so you can imagine the excitement that’s already building!

When Joanna invited me to share some of my thoughts about Best of British Scrapbooking with you I jumped at the chance – it’s the UK’s chance to shine! Joanna began the contest back in 2003. In 2005, the winning work first appeared in a book called The Best of British Scrapbooking and Cardmaking. Shortly afterwards, our magazine approached Joanna about working with her on the contest. Over the last three years the contest has evolved but I’m pleased to say that Joanna is still with us. From encouraging readers to enter to looking at each and every submission (no mean feat!) and declaring the winners, Joanna is very much at the heart of Best of British.

If you want to see how the contest works you can visit our blog http://blog.fph.co.uk/page/scrapbook?entry=best_of_british_scrapbooking_2008 So rather than repeating myself, I thought I’d let you know a bit about what went on behind the scenes last year.

In 2007 we had our biggest number of entries ever, so many in fact, it crashed our email for a little while. Much hair-pulling ensued and eventually I had to get one of our tech guys to come in save the day! Fortunately the entries were all rescued and quickly burned to disc. We zipped them off to Joanna and anxiously waited for her decision. I have to say, I do not envy her the task of judging the contest. The quality of entries is tremendous and it’s the little details and heart-felt stories that make Joanna want to declare everyone a winner! I’m pretty strict though and make her whittle the entries down to just six and from this shortlist an overall winner was chosen.

Once I had the winners’ names I settled down for the very best bit about my job – ringing them up to tell them the good news. Oh there was disbelief and shock, squealing and laughing from six very giddy scrappers (and me too!). And it was then that our work really began as we prepared to showcase the winners in the magazine. As well as featuring the winning layouts, our Best of British Scrapbookers (affectionately referred to in the office as the BoB ladies!) got paid commissions to do work for the magazine, a heap of prizes from our generous sponsors, and new for this year, we’ll also be displaying their layouts at the Stitch & Craft Show in London.

Since our Best of British Scrapbooking 2007 winners were announced I’ve had the privilege of watching them grow as scrapbookers, taking confidence from their win and feeling proud that their talents have been recognised. I can’t wait to see what this year’s contest will bring (I have a good feeling about it!) and I look forward to meeting the BoB ladies of 2008!

Where Did the Time Go?

I am still finishing up making the crochet projects to go with DEATH AND DOILIES. I noticed that without the focus of working on a the manuscript my time seemed to be disappearing. In a few blinks of the eye my whole morning is gone. When I started to pay attention, I found the leak.

It started innocently enough. I noticed that Love with the Proper Stranger was on TCM the other night. Natalie Wood is in it, along with Steve McQueen. I think it was his only romantic lead. I have seen the movie enough times to practically know the dialogue, but hadn’t watched it for a long time, so I set the TV to record it.

As I was watching it, it occurred to me that Steve McQueen and Natalie Wood were both dead and then I wondered how old Steve McQueen was in the movie. Now, in the old days, I would have probably just made some kind of guess and forgotten about it. Instead, I headed for my computer and www.IMDB.com. I typed in Steve McQueen and within moments had ascertained that he was 33 in the movie. I noticed there was a Chad McQueen listed as well. Was it an offspring?

A few more clicks and I knew he was Steve McQueen’s son from his first marriage and that there was another child named Terry who died. Male or female and what happened? A few more search words typed in and followed, and I now knew that Terry was a woman and she died of respiratory failure at age 38. While I was thinking how sad that was, I began to wonder about Steve McQueen’s death.

Not hard to find out. He died at 50 from the kind of cancer you get from being exposed to asbestos. One website said no one knew how he had contact with asbestos, but another website offered the fact that the suits he wore when racing cars had asbestos and he had dipped cloths in liquid asbestos and put them in his mouth. It gave me the heby jebies to read that last part. Did he know what he was doing? Didn’t he care? Did he think he was invincible? Did he think that the fact the asbestos was liquid, it wouldn’t get in his lungs? Did they even realize the danger of asbestos then?

I clicked around some more and the next thing I knew I was reading bios about his first wife, and then watching a recent interview with his last wife on David Letterman has she promoted a book of photos she’d taken of him. The interview was in 2005 and he died in 1980. Interesting that there would still be a desire for books of photos of him.

Hidden in all the information about his love of motorcycles and action – he was clearly an adrenalin junky – there was something that surprised me. It only came out after his death, but he had done a lot for children in need. He had a rough childhood abandoned by both of his parents and ended up in something called the Boys’ Republic – no, I didn’t start doing a search on that. But I found out when Steve was rich and famous, he went back there every year at the holidays with presents and understanding. He wanted those forgotten boys to see he had survived all the hard knocks and managed to succeed in an effort to give them hope.

I clicked around some more websites and found more stuff. There seemed to be some disagreement about whether he said “Racing is life... Everything before and after is waiting,” or his character in Le Mans said it. I also found out the movie that started my whole search Love with the Proper Stranger was considered one of his lesser movies. Who knew? But one thing I did know by then – the secret of my melting time. Hours had gone by as I wandered around the Internet and for what? I’m not really looking to become a Steve McQueen expert.

I am going a diet – not food, but time wasting. Next time I watch an old movie on TV I’m just going to ignore my curiosity.

Get a gang

I was listening to an old interview of one of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut. His advice for a happy life was to "Get a gang." By that, he meant family or friends. A family of origin or one that you make up, gathering people as you go through life. People that loved you, supported you, shared your interests, he said, was all you needed to go through life.

I so agree with that. When Annie Smith interviewed me on her Quilting Stash podcast, (here if you haven't listened yet: http://simplearts.com/blogs/index.php?blog=2&title=quilting_stash_podcast_124&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments
she asked me for advice for the beginning writer and quilter. The answer was the same: get a community. Vonnegut and I were on the same track but I like Vonnegut's Get a Gang so much better.

Besides the family I was born into (The GSI gang), I've been lucky enough to get at least two other gangs. The quilting gang and the writing gang. I'd be a much unhappier person without one or the other.

The best part about having a gang based on your passions is that you can usually find like-minded people to share it with. This is especially true now that we have the internet. When I lived in rural Pennsylvania in the 1980s and wanted to write a romance, there were jolly few people I could share that idea with. And finding the local quilt guild, located 40 miles away, without even so much as a phone book listing, took all of my research skills. Now a google search will find you an online quilting group or writing group in two clicks of the mouse.Killer Hobbies is a great example of an online gang. (If you misspell Killer Hobbies, you get KillHer Hobbies, which might just be the husband gang equivalent.)

A gang comes in handy. I can always find someone to visit a quilt shop, offer an opinion or solution, or just sew with. My quilting gang has taught me me how to quilt better, opened my eyes to art and sends the coolest links around. Like Pete's Pond in Botswana. http://video.nationalgeographic.com/video/wildcamafrica/

My writing gang is responsible for the career I have now. Without them, I'd still be composing the perfect first paragraph in my head. (I was trying to find the best possible way to describe the way the wind blew the curtains into the bedroom.)

My mystery writers gang (a subset)is very important to me. Who else will talk about blood spatter and poisons over lunch?

Needless to say, I agree with Vonnegut. A gang is important thing to have. We don't necessarily wear colors and or have hand signals, but we're bound by our interests, our love of craft, and our love of each other.

Balancing the scales

From recent headlines, you might have concluded that the United States is exporting our high tech and manufacturing jobs, plus much of our national wealth to China in the form of Treasury Bills.

Now, it turns out that we’re also exporting our lifestyle woes: China is experiencing a staggering increase in the national obesity rate, especially among children.

According to new research reported by BBC News, more than 25 percent of adults in China are now considered overweight or obese. And the news is getting worse.

A national symposium has determined that one in five Chinese children is overweight. The causes? An increasingly Westernized diet, overindulgent parents, and lack of exercise. Most of those changes started coming about twenty years ago, when economic reforms were introduced. The changes led to a gradual straying away from the traditional Chinese diet of simple rice, vegetables and protein. Now, KFCs can be found everywhere; McDonald’s is in the process of infiltrating urban Chinese neighborhoods. And—gack!—even Starbucks has started a caffeine invasion, opening 66 stores in Beijing alone.

Ah, yes—how did the Chinese ever live without access to a Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino Blended Crème on every corner? At 680 calories a cup when loaded up with whipped cream, it’s a real girth buster.

In the wake of the western invasion by KFC, McDonald’s and Starbucks, has come news of the next logical franchise to take root in China: Weight Watchers. Last spring, Weight Watchers International announced it had signed an agreement to open a weight management business in China. The program will use the Weight Watchers' program for weight loss, which includes weekly meetings and weigh-ins.

With a population of 1,330,044,605 in that country, there’s plenty of room for market expansion and growth. So to speak.

Of course, they'll probably have to tweak their program materials a bit. For example, how many Weight Watcher points does one calculate for fried seahorses-on-a-stick, the popular national snack?

By the way, any of you weight Watchers out there--what's your most points-efficient snack? Mine is currently the cranberry-mango-blueberry Zen muffin, which we have around LA. Tons of fiber, and it's supposed to be just 3 points (if it's more than that, I don't know if I want to know (grin)).

Long Lost Dog Found!

I included in my blog a few weeks ago how sad I was when a local dog went missing. I don’t know its owner, so I’m unaware whether that pup returned home. How sad if it didn’t! And since I still see flyers here and there that were posted then, I suspect the poor thing is still gone.

What got my attention this week was a really wonderful story about a dog being returned to a child after being missing for five years. Rocco the beagle was microchipped, so I don’t know why he wasn’t returned home sooner--unless whoever took him in and moved him to another part of the country didn’t know, or care, that he might have had a home and people who loved and missed him.

The person who missed him most was only 5 years old when Rocco disappeared from his home in Queens, New York. He was found 850 miles away, in Georgia. The article I first read about him said that he didn’t seem to remember the little girl, Natalie, who’d been devastated when he disappeared. Meantime, her family had acquired another dog who apparently wasn’t pleased to have her territory muscled in on by this interloper.

But Natalie and Rocco appeared on The Today Show yesterday along with a couple of other human family members. Natalie is 11 now, and unsurprisingly seemed a bit overwhelmed with her sudden notoriety. Rocco was calm and seemed to be in good health, although they pointed out a scar over one ear.

I tried Googling microchips to find out how successful they have been in reuniting pets with owners. There are at least a couple of different systems. With both, once the chip is inserted into the pet, the owner has to keep information up to date with the tracking systems. Apparently, they’re fairly successful in getting owners and pets back together--although if someone picks up a wandering animal, and chooses not to try to find the owner, having the pet microchipped obviously won’t help. But if the lost pet is taken to a shelter or a vet, a scan is usually done so the pet can be reunited with his/her family.

Both of my Cavaliers are chipped, although I of course hope there will never be any reason for it. I don’t know whether I’ve ever addressed that Lexie, the Cavalier owned by Kendra Ballantyne, the protagonist of my pet-sitter mysteries, also is chipped. That’s something I should probably clarify in a future book. Kendra would have certainly done the right thing--everything to ensure her Lexie is cared for in the best way possible.

Sure, there are supposed downsides. It may hurt to get the chip injected. Maybe they move and are hard to find to scan. And, if enough tests are done, perhaps lab rats or mice develop problems.

But I think it’s a real kick to hear about a situation like Rocco--who’d been taken to a shelter and probably had his life in jeopardy--to finally, after so many years and miles, get home.

What do you think--are your pets chipped?


--Linda

An Adoption Story

As I have written before, I drive once a week for Wildlife Rehab and Release, a volunteer organization that rescues injured or orphaned local wild animals. Tuesday evenings is my day, and I had to drive a fledgling robin (adorable!), a couple of sparrows (one shouted from inside his box the entire trip) and some mallard ducklings. The place that took the ducklings had a pen with an assortment of chickens in it – I don’t know if they were rescued chickens or just acquired at random, but there were about six, no two the same breed. There was a magnificent red rooster that was the very image of a painting of a rooster I bought – in Thailand! I have also mentioned before that I like chickens, right? And that I had a quilt made of chicken-themed fabric collected over about two years? And that I’m running a contest to give away the leftover fabric, about two pounds of it? Tell me in twenty-five words or less why you think you should be the happy recipient of the fabric. Contest ends July 31. Contact me through my web site: Monica-Ferris.com.

The ducklings are orphans and at the home I took them to, there is a mallard female who will adopt them. She is herself a rescue, came in injured, starving, and confused early this spring. She had to be force-fed, as she was so far down the road to death she had stopped eating. About the time she began to realize her life wasn’t over after all, another mallard with four ducklings was brought in, so severely injured (struck by a car) she had to be euthanized. One of the ducklings was injured and died. In the rescue room at the Humane Society, Laura heard the desperate cheeping of the newly-orphaned ducklings, and saw the sad, confused mallard and put them together in a bigger cage. The adult pecked half-heartedly at one of the ducklings but then left them alone. They, on the other hand, crowded around her. When Laura came in the next day, one was perched on her back and the other two were under her wings. The mallard now has fifteen (FIFTEEN!) adopted ducklings of various ages. She cares for them all, and they cluster around her when she calls. I brought her three more Tuesday evening. This is not something that would happen in the wild; free adults don’t expend energy on any but their own offspring. Is she still confused, living in a strange new world whose rules she cannot understand? Or is she just big-hearted? Whichever, when the ducklings become ducks, they and their adoptive mother will be set free. And we are grateful. And charmed.

I failed to post last week because my computer and I were in Ft. Myers, Florida, in a "gated community" that has free wireless connections. But when I told my computer to listen for the connection, it muttered the computer equivalent of "I don’t hear nothin’" and so I missed my chance. I had taken my mother to Florida to live with my sister Dolores and her daughter Reggie. Mom is confined to a wheelchair nowadays and is not always firmly in touch with reality, so I was expecting a nightmare journey. Instead, it went very smoothly. The airlines are all up to speed on this sort of passenger, and handled Mom with efficient kindness. The only minor glitch came when we were deplaning in Ft. Myers and the wheeled chair they took her off the plane on was a little low and she could not rise out of it. A wonderful and powerful man bent over her and told her to put her arms around his neck. She did, and he straightened, lifting her easily. "Now, don’t go blowing in my ear," he teased, to her delight. Mom will be 90 in November.

Writers' retreat

I went on a writers' retreat this weekend. It was an easy and inexpensive trip – I never left my house.

It started out as a kind of favor to my good friend, the wonderful writer, Ann Parker, who blogged about it yesterday. With too many distractions at her house, which fits pretty much all of us at one time or other, she needed a quiet place to get back into the zone of her third novel in the Silver Rush series. I invited her to stay in our guest room for the weekend. She brought her flash drive and lots of chocolate (she knows me well) and my IT husband set her up with a computer, streaming classical music, and a couple of TV trays for a desk. I promised I wouldn't bother her except to call her for meals.

We have no view of the ocean or rolling hills, just our newly tan-barked front lawn. But maybe that's a good thing when you're trying to create your own fictional environment.

For Ann's sake, I gave up things I would normally do on a "free day." The washer/dryer is right behind the guest room, so no laundry work for a couple of days. I usually take a TV movie break in the evening, but that would be too noisy right outside her room. Our house is not that big, so I felt I shouldn't have long telephone conversations, as voices carry.

Also no errands, in case my guest needed something. And certainly no vacuuming, or other noisy housework.

Finally, it didn't seem right for me to be reading at leisure while Ann was working. So what was left?

I had to write myself. So, like most "favors" the giver got more than the receiver.

The result was an enormous output for both of us and a promise to do it again. We recommend the practice!

Murder Most Crafty

I’m still working on my niece’s album…sigh. Here’s a rendition of the teddy bear I’m planning to use. If you’d like a copy, email me at savetales@aol.com and I’ll send the file to you. He’s cute enough for a card topper or to use on a layout or to paste onto an inexpensive gift bag.

I’m not happy with how the album is coming, however. I’m getting better and healthier every day, but I don’t have the stamina I’m accustomed to having. The good news is…I’m getting a lot of reading in. (Sometimes I’m not as astute of a reader as I usually am, but that’s okay.)

I picked up Murder Most Crafty, an anthology edited by Maggie Bruce, at the local library. It’s touted as “15 All-New Stories of Criminal Handiwork and the Art of Detection.” Included is information about papermaking, gourd art, macaroni crafts, mosaics, the sewing of an okesa (a Buddhist robe), knitting, lanyard, fly tying, basketweaving, wreathmaking, indigo dying, candlemaking (two times), potpourri, and collage. It's always hard without pictures to really help people go step-by-step, isn't it? The authors are Susan Wittig Albert, Maggie Bruce, Jan Burke, Dorothy Cannell (always an absolute hoot), Susan Dunlap, our own fabulous Monica Ferris and Denise Williams (with a crackerjack story), Parnell Hall (he’s a very nice man, very generous with his experience), Victoria Houston, Judith Kelman, Margaret Maron, Sujata Massey, Tim Myers, Sharan Newman, Gillian Roberts, and Paula L. Woods.

The stories are great fun. A glance at these names will tell you why. The contributors are all top-notch writers. The ways the authors have chosen to weave crafts throughout the stories are ingenuous. Monica's was a fascinating Sherlock Holmesian bit of detection. I also liked the one by Sujata Massey which was set in Japan. I’ve traveled through that county, and I find the culture fascinating. Sujata also did a great job portraying the rigid hierarchy in Japan, and some of the ways people incorporate Buddhism in their workplaces. I really love when I learn new factoids, and the story about the making of the okesa was a good example.

Jan Burke injected a real spotlight of humor with her craft-impaired Irene Kelly. When pushed into coming up with a craft project, Irene resorts to coloring macaroni and letting the women glue it to paper plates. Shades of summer camp!

While I’m on the subject of book reviews, I’ve just learned that Kirkus Reviews has said that Paper, Scissors, Death, “Kiki's debut, a well-turned cozy with loads of scrapbooking tips, will drive many a like-minded reader to indignation on her behalf.” Hip-hip-hurrah! Okay, I might not be 100% but I’m positively glowing about the kind words.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to get organized. (Right, like that's EVER going to happen). I'm working on the baby album, an afghan for my son in his new school colors, a Rastafarian cap for him as a birthday gift, and I have a new Work-in-Progress (WIP) set in the Lowcountry of South Carolina.

I'm curious... My new heroine is a breast cancer survivor who teams up with her guardian angel to solve a crime she's accused of. How would you expect a guardian angel to act? What might defy your expectations, but be fun or exciting?

Meanwhile...tonight is the return of The Closer and Saving Grace. I'm psyched!

BREAKING NEWS

Stop over at Criminal Briefs for a new look at the ladies of killer hobbies!

Handmade versus Store-Bought

I belong to a knit and crochet group that meets once a week. Our leader Paula always reads something from a book of knitting thoughts. Most of them are appropriate for crochet too, except maybe when the author commented on how wrong crochet was – but that’s another story.

A few weeks ago, Paula read a piece about why people bother spending hours and hours making something when they could just go buy the same scarf or afghan at the store.

It made me think about it. There is definitely something magic about watching a ball of yarn turn into some usable item. But it’s more than that. There is something about a handmade item that a store bought one can never measure up to even if it is more perfect than the slightly crooked edge of the handmade version.

I think when you make something, you put something extra in it. Call if love, your vibrations, or your feelings – the item carries something of you with it. Why else would my agent Jessica Faust tell me she likes to use the pot holders her grandmother made even though they are old and stained. Why else would Karen write a post to my last week’s blog and mention the crocheted items she has from her grandmother and how she wants to learn to crochet so she can leave things for her grand kids. It isn’t the what the items are, it’s about who made them.

I read a post on the Crochet Partners list about a woman who had lost someone close and the people in her office wanted to do something for her and so they got together and crocheted a blanket. She kept it on her chair at work and wrapped it around herself and took it home and did the same. It was as if the feelings, the caring, and the time the makers had put into it had all became part of the blanket and it helped the woman through a terribly painful time. Just buying a blanket no matter how lovely would never have done the same.

In my crochet series, the Tarzana Hookers are always making something for charity. In HOOKED ON MURDER they all make squares that are joined into an afghan for an auction to raise money for a pet charity. In DEAD MEN DON’T CROCHET they make shawls they call Hugs of Comfort for women at a shelter. In DEATH AND DOILIES they make book marks for a library sale and blankets for traumatized children. As I wrote about their efforts, I realized how much more meaning there is to donating something that has been handmade.

Obviously it doesn’t have to be crocheted to have meaning. Anything handmade is the same. It is all about putting something of yourself into the making. My mother didn’t knit or crochet. Her only craft work was a few needlepoint pieces she had turned into pillows. And every time I look at them, I think of her. My husband treasures the toy dog his mother made even if it’s head is not completely attached anymore.

And there is a gift for the makers as well. What could be more satisfying than knowing you’ve created something that is going to mean so much to someone else? Somewhere a preemie is going to be cuddled by a pink hat with a pom pom you made. A friend’s spirits are warmed by the scarf you made just for her in her favorite shade of purple. Or your grandchild naps peacefully under the sunny yellow coverlet you made.

Handmade things always come from the heart.

What's in a name?

The life of a writer is full of unseen perils. Cats that walk across the keyboard, viruses that eat our manuscript. Since we’ve given up the typewriter for the word processing, we’ve come to rely on our software to make our lives easier. We cut and paste with impunity. We delete with abandon. We create macros for oft-used phrases. (Hey, you would too if you had to write Fourteen Annual Quilt Extravangza over and over again.)

But some of Word’s helpfulness can get in the way. Anyone was has tried to clear a document of wacky formatting can attest to that.

Remember Pat, the gender ambiguous SNL character? Her name was no clue as to her identity and frustrated people who were meeting her for the first time (I always thought she was a girl). Well, Pat is a name that frustrates the Word user, too. More about that in a minute.

We name our characters carefully. In real life, I love a girl with a guy’s name—I’d always wished my name was Frankie, Bobby or Jonnie. In fiction, it’s just an obstacle that the reader stumbles on. The name must sound age appropriate (no Grandma Tiffany yet). The name can evoke masculinity (Butch). It has to have the right etymology (there is no Sanchez in Gone with the Wind, for example). The name can tell us right away about a character’s basic essence (Are you going to get into a car alone with Spike if he’s not a dog?) or we can name them against type. I’m not sure I considered Stephanie tough girl’s name until Stephanie Plum came along.

As a reader, one of my pet peeves is characters with the same letter or sound beginning their name. A best selling author confused the heck out of me giving his main character friends named Claire and Cindy and the boyfriend, Chris. It took too much energy to keep track and I gave up. I try to avoid this. Try being the operative word.

We want our characters to be memorable, to make it easy for the reader to distinguish one from the other. I like to give my characters somewhat unusual names. A former critique partner complained that there were no Dick or Jane in my books. (There are however, a few dicks. Sorry, couldn’t resist.) I’ve used Lark, Ina, Vangie, Pearl, Buster, Deana, Rocky, Clive, on purpose so the reader doesn’t have to work so hard.

And then there’s the not so subtle reason. Reasons that matter only to a writer who has to proofread 80,000 words and three hundred pages. If you don’t think that’s a big deal, just remember I’ve written four books to date. 300,000 words and 1200 pages. Imagine what Nora Roberts or Danielle Steel must go through.

A name like Pearl causes a problem that is not anticipated. The author is typing as fast as she can (Thank goodness I only flunked the first semester of typing in high school.), trying to save every keystroke so as not to wear out her wrist before she hits the NY Times Best Sellers list. She types Susan and Word automatically changes the s to an S. Nice. She writes the word pearl. She doesn’t notice that Microsoft Word hasn’t recognized the word as a name and automatically capitalized it. The consequence is that author has to spend time going through the manuscript making sure every pearl is Pearl. It’s tedium and makes it easy to miss one or two.

So I go one step further. I try to find names that are not common nouns as well as names. No Pats. No more Kens. No more Buster (well, except for, you know, Buster). In the new stamping book, I have a character named Xenia. Xenia. Unusual, right? Exotic, yes? Pretty? Just like the character. And definitely a name, not a common noun.

Imagine my surprise then when Microsoft Word allowed me to type this: xenia. With no auto correct! Huh? What’s up? Checking their Encarta® World English Dictionary, I find that xenia (with a small x) is: the effect of genes carried by pollen on the food storage tissue (endosperm) of the pollinated seed.

What the heck? For that obscurity, I have to check my capitalization? I ask you. Is that fair?

So Xenia may have to be renamed. What do you suggest?

Sassy Sleuths on the Prowl

Life continues to be a blast! Last Saturday, I joined a great group of cheeky-gal mystery writers (aka Sassies) at a panel event at Vroman’s in Pasadena, CA (if you live in the area, you should check out this fabulous independent bookstore.)

That’s me on the photo's far right, holding the Groucho skull (Oy, how I wish I’d stood in a more slimming three-quarter profile pose—black-and-white leopard spots are the worst when they billow about your hips, lol!). From left to right are fellow Sassies Harley Jane Kozak, Sue Ann Jaffarian, and Patricia Smiley.

We took turns doing a couple of readings from our latest books—one dark section, one light. I’d just started reading my “dark” scene, which is set in an S&M club, when I suddenly realized we were in the middle of the children’s book section. No way could I read a line like “hairy, purple penis” in that area! I tried cutting sentences, then substituted my own bleeps for the most offending words, and then finally gave up on the "dark" reading in a fit of giggles.

Thanks to Sisters in Crime LA for arranging the event, and to our fearless moderator, Gayle Bartos-Pool. Photo courtesy of SinCLA.

Sunday’s coming—we're calling on Criminal Brief—stay tuned!

This Sunday the 13th, the Killer Hobby Ladies will be guests at Criminal Brief. We’ll be doing a little group introduction of ourselves on their blog, including mini-bios, talk a little about our books, and maybe give a few IFWKS about ourselves (Interesting Facts Worth Knowing).

Come a callin' with us over there on Sunday!

Pet-People for President!

Okay, I know it’s not a great idea to talk politics on a blog devoted to mysteries, especially cozy mysteries involving hobbies.

But I happened to see some interesting commentary on how pet lovers are likely to vote for the presidential candidates. Supposedly, they will prefer John McCain over Barack Obama. McCain is said to own a couple of dogs, two turtles, a cat, a ferret, three parakeets and some saltwater fish. Obama supposedly has no pets.

On the other hand, I also saw an interview with Obama’s family. One of his daughters was asked what the big event in November would be. She said that they would be getting a dog. Sure, that’s not as many pets as the McCains have. But it also indicates to voters that the Obamas aren’t pet haters.

I’ve also seen that the American Kennel Club is giving Obama advice on the type of dog his family should adopt. The frontrunners? Bichon Frise, Chinese crested, poodle, soft coated Wheaten Terrier or miniature Schnauzer.

Why these breeds, you ask? So did I. I consequently went to the website where the American public can vote for one of these for the Obamas, by August 19 (although I’m not sure of the significance of the date, if no dog will be adopted by the family until November): www.presidentialpup.com
The criteria: hypoallergenic coat; child-friendly; a good travel companion (aboard Air Force One); moderate energy level; and a stable and social temperament - meaning, visitor-friendly.

I suspect that my older son’s Puli would have fit these criteria, too, since her coat is also hypoallergenic, and she’s an absolute sweetheart--although, as a Hungarian sheepdog, she might herd children and the press corps. Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are not hypoallergenic but would otherwise fit as well.

I don’t think I’ll base my vote on who appears to be the best pet-lover, although I’d most likely vote against anyone who clearly hated pets.

How about you? Are you going to vote for which dog the Obamas should adopt? Will you consider pet-affinity as a criterion about casting your presidential vote?

I suspect that Kendra Ballantyne, my pet-sitting, pet-loving mystery protagonist, would at least consider dog-friendliness as a consideration for the chief executive of our country...

--Linda

Going all the way

What are writers willing to do for their craft?

Mystery writers will go a long way for verisimilitude. NorCal Sisters in Crime took up arms at a gun range a couple of weeks ago, to experience what so many protagonists do.

Writers go on ride-alongs with local police and sometimes take on the jobs of their protagonists. I myself risk sniffing too much glue in order to carry out the miniature projects my character does.

How important is this? Of course we need to get our "facts" straight, and experiencing the weight and feel of a gun can be useful as we write.

So, should we walk down a dark alley in the worst part of town late at night, hoping we'll have the experience of a mugging or a gunshot wound?



Marie Curie, who discovered radioactivity (loosely speaking), left many notebooks and diaries for posterity. The problem is that they're all still radioactive and whoever wants to read them has to be carefully monitored. Biographers have to sign a medical release before being granted access.

What's the most dangerous/risky thing you've ever done for your craft?

Readers: what would you like to see writers do?

Crafting as a Nearly Olympic Sport

Before she left to return home to Florida, my sister Margaret re-read the doctor’s instructions for my post-surgery recovery. The pamphlet suggested I spend my days in a variety of quiet, non-stressful activities such as reading, piecing together puzzles and working on a photo album. Meg snickered, looked up at me, and said, “Uh, that’s not going to work for you.”

Yeah, she’s right. For me, scrapbooking is a near-Olympic event. I run frantically around my craftroom/office gathering all sorts of supplies. I pop up from my chair to get punches or rubber stamps from the next room. I lift heavy equipment like my die cut base. I reach low for papers. I reach high for templates and alphabet stamps. I pick up and push aside a slantboard that my husband has inconveniently rested against a file cabinet of patterned papers. I lean all my weight on an eyelet setter to poke a hole through paper and then again I push to spread the backside of the eyelet so it stays attached to the paper.

And what a mess. I don’t like to put anything away until I’m positive I won’t be using it again. That means, uh, a mess.

AN ALBUM I'M WORKING ON...

Today I climbed downstairs (I’m only allowed a certain number of trips up and down stairs per week) to my craftroom and started an album for my niece Lexie who’s having a baby boy in August. Creating an album is like making a Thanksgiving dinner. You have to do a certain amount of shopping, planning, and breaking down your project into “what comes first.” Several weeks ago, I picked up a $1 album from the Dollar Spot area in Target, one of my favorite shopping places. The album is adorable, 16 pages with a blue and yellow choo-choo on the cover.

PICK A THEME OR IMAGE

I’ve learned the hard way: the best approach to an album is to pick a theme and keep your pages all a variation on that theme. I like the theme to start with my title page. I fell in love with a cute rubber stamp image of a little boy on the beach picking up seashells with his toy boat and teddy bear nearby. I stamped the image on white paper many times until I could select one stamped image that was perfect. (I’m picky about how dark it is and whether every line shows up.) Then, I used colored pencils to fill in the image. I covered the finished piece with a thin layer of 3-D glue to make the image “pop.” (This is the "turkey in the oven" part of the creation. The 3-D glue needs to dry.) I also stamped SKYLER LOGAN, the baby’s name and put the 3-D glue on the letters.

FIGURE OUT HOW YOU'LL REPEAT IT

Hmm. How will I repeat the boy/beach/toy image? Good question. Stay tuned.


A QUESTION

Are you a messy crafter or do you put your things away like a good egg?

My Fourth of July Staycation

The end of the holiday weekend. I guess you could say I did a staycation. That word is going to wear thin soon. I keep hearing it on the news before they do a segment on people staying in town. Actually staying in L.A. isn’t without things to do.

When I was growing up we lived in a somewhat run down building. It had been built as a hotel for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. It only occurred to me later that was why all the rooms were the same size except our living room which was two rooms with a pocket door in between and must have been a suite.

Every summer I would fix up the back porch. Well, back porch was a generous term. It was more like a landing, so small there wasn’t even room for a chair. And so dark that the mother in laws tongue plant I put out there barely survived. Still, I would put my plant out and sweep the winter dirt away and sit on the steps and dream that someday I might have someplace a little bigger.

Now, I have a real backyard and even though it is many years later, every time I look at it, I think how lucky I am. There are orange trees and redwood trees and flowers and sun light and room for lots of chairs. So, the idea of staying home this weekend and spending it in my own backyard was nice.

It wasn’t totally a weekend off. I went into the city and signed HOOKED ON MURDER at a Barnes & Noble in a shopping area called The Grove. It looks like an idealized downtown of a small town. Last summer when I was in Iowa City, I realized it looked like The Grove, but it was real. The Grove has become the celebrity shopping area of choice.

I am still finishing creating the pattern for the filet crochet bookmark that will be in DEATH AND DOILIES along with a pattern for making a cuddle blanket. And there is the recipe. Putting the polish on the recipe is my family’s favorite part of my writing. They get to be the tasters. This time the recipe is for California Noodle Pudding, which I plan to make today. Even the cats and the dog are excited as they get to be tasters, too.

Instead of a barbecue, we went to a restaurant on the beach for dinner Saturday night. The drive to Malibu was a little eerie as there was a wildfire along the road the day before. We passed lots of blackened grass, but the fire was completely out. And all the smoke gone, which was a relief as it was blowing our way last night.

The beach is always refreshing and we had a view of the water from our table. Sometimes when we eat at this particular restaurant, dolphins swim by. None this time, but it was late. We got there just as the water and sky were melting together. The tide was coming in and a big waves crashed against the rocks right outside the window sending up a lot of something heavier than spray. Just a subtle reminder that in the past storms have sent the waves crashing through the restaurant.

I liked my Staycation. Did anyone else have one too?

I miss purses

Recently, I noticed a purse on a young Starbucks customer. It caught my eye because it was made of pretty floral fabric, a stunning relief after the line up of brown and tan designer bags that I usually see as I people watch (I mean, write). Nine women out of ten that I see is carrying a version of the identical purse. The same print—usually the company’s logo repeated over and over again so that the purse becomes a walking billboard. When did this happen? Sometimes it seems like every purse in America has been hijacked and replaced with a Stepford bag.

I didn’t know a Coach from a Dooney & Burke until I received my education on the streets of NYC from a thirteen year old niece. She announced at lunch that she’d counted thirteen Coach, and six Louis Vuitton on the arms of the New Yorkers or tourists. In an hour. And I’d thought she was admiring the hustle and bustle of Times Square. Girl has an advanced degree in designer.

I miss purses. A purse used to be a window into a woman’s personality. Were you the type to carry a small clutch with only a comb and a quarter to call home with? Did you carry a bright red nylon parachute fabric bag, big enough to double as an overnight bag? What wonders lingered in the bottom of the tapestry backpack style with its zippers and inside pockets? Try to imagine how dull Let’s Make A Deal would have been if every woman searching for a stray bobby pin or stick of gum was carrying a designer knock-off. Boring!

I can mark the phrases of my life by my purses. When I moved from upstate New York to Long Island at the end of sixth grade, the fact that I didn’t have a “pocketbook,” the lexicon used there, was the impetus for much teasing. The black velvet clutch I borrowed from my mother in desperation sent the culprits into overload. I was saved from complete social ostracaization by a Christmas present from a favorite aunt who came through with a stylish bucket purse.

Macrame shoulder bag, the first good leather bag, the slick patent (that was a mistake), the purses came and went, first useful then discarded, as life changed. Each one a statement on my arm.

So I protest the mindless adoption of the designer bag. Perhaps that’s why, when I sewed this week, I made another Miranda bag.

Picture to follow. Camera swears the battery is exhausted, although I know it just had a refreshing nap less than a week ago.

In the meantime, what’s your favorite purse?

The chickadees—and the angels—watch over them

The month of June has been filled with missions and memories.

Mission-wise, I attended my college reunion; threw a joint 80-th birthday party for my parents (who’ve been divorced for 50 years, but who’s counting? It’s the era of nontraditional families, after all); saw my mother through knee surgery; and, last but not least, visited my newly purchased cottage in rural Connecticut.

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, this cottage is not exactly “new” to me—it was my childhood home, decades ago: http://killerhobbies.blogspot.com/2008/02/house-part-2.html

What I didn’t mention in that post is the reason that I bought this particular property. I have a strong emotional connection to it, because it’s the home I shared with my sister—Suzanne—who died of leukemia when she was five years old (I was two at the time). She was buried in a little cemetery that lies within easy walking distance of the house. All you have to do is climb a small hill, cut through a wild blueberry patch and a thicket of old forest and you’re there.

My decision last summer to purchase the house last fall was purely, intemperately emotional—of all the places I’ve ever lived in my life, I’ve always viewed this particular place through a gauzy, nostalgic filter. When I conjure up a picture of “home,” I always think of this house, even though we moved away when I was nine years old. For decades, this dwelling has held a special place in my heart. When the property finally came back on the market last summer (I’d been scanning the multiple realty listings for years), I had to have it. It felt as if the house was calling out to me.
Last week, I did my first walk-through of the property since the purchase. (My neighbors must wonder who the crazy lady in California is who bought the old Browne cottage, and has been letting it sit ever since, uninhabited.).

To put it mildly, the place needs a lot of work. A lot of work. The walls are covered with soot; the inside of every appliance is colored orange from exposure to the undrinkable well water. At the very least, I’ll have to sink an additional fifty thousand dollars into the place to drill a new well and replace the septic tank.

I couldn’t care less. That day, I spent very little time doing the actual tour of the property. My real goal was to visit the cemetery where my sister Suzanne is buried.

Suzanne’s headstone looks well-tended and peaceful. It has an inscription on it, “Sleep in Heavenly peace,” which, my mother once told me, was a refrain from her favorite lullaby. Next to the grave is a tall evergreen that was planted at the time of her burial.

I spent a long time in front of my sister’s final resting place, reflecting on a life not completed. What would Suzanne have been like as an adult? What would life have been like for me, if I’d had an older sister all those years? Would her presence have made the trials of multiple divorces, addiction issues, and geographic disruptions any less painful? I feel that it would have. Family stories highlight how special Suzanne was, how gifted, how close we were as sisters. I feel cheated of a future that was lost. Hers was a life that was denied to the world, and to me in particular. Even though I never really got a chance to know her, I miss her. I miss her so, so much.

During visit to the cemetery, I stood silently at her resting place, not changing expression. I didn’t know how to feel. Then, as I was turning to leave, I spotted another grave. This one was much newer—you could tell by the engraved picture of the deceased on the stone facing. It was the portrait of a little boy, about ten years old. His name was Jeremy.

Jeremy died in 2004. On top of his headstone, there was a line-up of tiny toy cars and trucks. One of the trucks had fallen into the dirt; I picked it up and placed it carefully on top of the granite.

At the base of the headstone were several statues—two angels, a cherub, and one of a mother holding a baby. Next to that was a statue of a child holding a sign that said, “Miss You.” Someone—a sibling, perhaps?—had wrapped a child’s magenta fabric headband around the base of the sign.

I looked to the right, and for the first time, noticed a wooden bird house planted in the ground. Sitting on top of the birdhouse was a black-and-white chickadee. I remember chickadees from my days living in the house in Connecticut—if you held your hand out long enough, they would swoop down and sit on your finger.

I stared for a long time at the bird, who stared back at me, not moving. Finally, I got back in my car. As I was leaving the cemetery, I passed another birdhouse. A female chickadee was sitting on top of that one.

Somehow, the presence of the birds comforted me. It felt as if Nature’s spirit was keeping watch over Suzanne and Jeremy.

After all of that, what lingers in my mind is the inscription on Jeremy’s headstone:

“Life is a journey
Our paths are different now
Someday our roads will corss and we will be together again
Farewell my son, my little angel.”

At the base of Jeremy’s headstone was a little plaque that said:

“No farewell words were spoken,
No time to say goodbye
You were gone before we knew it
And only God knows why.”

When I think back on the sister I never had a chance to really know, those words give me comfort.

The Mystique of Series

I’ve been writing for a while. My first published novels were mostly time travel romances, all of them stand-alone stories that had no sequels. I soon started writing Harlequin Intrigues, and, again, each story mostly stood by itself--although in one instance I was asked to write a book in a miniseries in which other authors wrote the related books.

And then I began writing the Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries. DOUBLE DOG DARE, which was published in June, is the sixth in the series, and Kendra will have at least three more adventures. I adore writing the Kendra books!

I’m also writing Silhouette Nocturnes. My first, ALPHA WOLF, will be a January 2009 release, and another one about a woman with Valkyrie powers will be published in June 2009 (the title isn’t certain yet). When I sold ALPHA WOLF, I had ideas for sequels, since the hero of the book is a werewolf who’s a member of a very Special Ops military unit, Alpha Force, composed largely of shapeshifters. At the time, I was told that sequels might not be in the cards, since there were already so many miniseries within Nocturne. That’s why I went to Valkyries instead of more shapeshifters. However, readers apparently like Nocturne miniseries. I’ll also have a Nocturne Bites e-published in January 2009--a novella, and my second e-story. (I did a short Kendra story for Amazon Shorts.) I haven’t written my Bites yet, but it will star a member of the Alpha Force. Perhaps there could be other Alpha Force stories to come. In any event, I’ve introduced some other Valkyrie sorts in my June 2009 book, and hope maybe to tell their stories, too. The possibility of one or more Nocturne series is a lot of fun, too.

So what’s a series? It’s more than one novel, where each follows in some way from the previous one(s). In a mystery series, there’s generally one primary protagonist who has a support cast appearing along with her (or him). In a romance series, though, each story focuses on the relationship between a different hero and heroine. There needs to be a satisfying ending regarding each relationship, in addition to whatever else happens in the plot, which also must be resolved. (I’m distinguishing a romance series from series romance here. Silhouette Nocturne, for example, is series, or category, romance. My Alpha Force novel and novella are potentially a romance miniseries which are Silhouette Nocturnes. Have I confused you enough?)

For someone who’s not the most organized person, I’ve found writing series a challenge. I have to keep track of people, pets, places, plots, time-lines, shapeshifters... lots of stuff! Thank heavens for computers. I’m able to keep lists of important details, and add to them as needed.

But I’ve always enjoyed reading other peoples’ series, and now I take great pleasure in writing them, too.

How about you--do you enjoy reading series? Writing series? What do you like most about them? Least?

--Linda

CONTEST, Golf, Singing

About the contest: I’ve already gotten some very nice entries. I can tell it’s going to be hard to decide. I wonder if it would be legal to have a tie-breaker? No, probably not, since I didn’t announce one at the start. But some people can be very convincing in only a few words.
If you’re wondering what I’m talking about, I’m offering a contest, the prize to be about two pounds of quilting fabric, various patterns but all featuring chickens. Realistic, cartoon, artistic, chicks, roosters, hens. Even eggs. And chicken wire. This fabric is left over from a beautiful chicken quilt I had made last year.

So tell me in twenty-five words or less why you think I should award the chicken fabric to you. Go to my web site, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me via that. I’ll pay postage. Contest ends July 31.

I’m still intrigued by golf. A friend drove all the way from North Dakota to see the Ladies Professional Golf Tournament which took place just a few miles from our apartment. She had two tickets, but the friend who was coming backed out at the last minute, so she asked if I would like to go. Wow! Now, I’m arthritic, so I couldn’t do what my friend wanted to do, which was follow her favorite around the course. So I found a seat in the bleachers set up at the eighteenth green and watched them come in. One thing surprised me: how badly some of them putted! Okay the green was very fast and they were tired, but still. Anyway, it was a lovely setting, the magnificent Interlachen clubhouse in the background, a large pond guarding the second half of the fairway, tall trees and bright flowers and polite applause. It’s a different world. What I was surprised to learn was that I’m not anxious to be a part of that world. I just want to smack the ball hard enough to get to the green in two or three strokes. I don’t need applause or trophies or the rarified air of the private golf club. It might be a futile dream I do have. I played a par-three course on Saturday and it took me eleven strokes to finish the first hole – nine of them just to get to the green!

Oh, and here’s a golf hint for free: If you’re writing a murder mystery and want the weapon to be a golf club, don’t pick a driver. They look formidable, with that huge knob on the end, but they’re not all that heavy. Instead, choose a nine iron. They’re big compared to the other irons, and they’re heavy. Somebody, trying to help me out, went to a garage sale and bought me a whole set of golf clubs, and the bag. Paid five dollars. They are exactly what I need at this stage of my game. The clubs are elderly but good and not damaged. I think the seller went around collecting old clubs, because there were three seven irons, two five irons and two putters in that bag, along with the other clubs. Including that impressive nine iron.

Sunday evening our church put on a little recital. The three Eschweiler children, Ted, Phillip and Emma sang. They are twenty, seventeen, and fifteen years old. They sang some opera, some Broadway songs, and an arrangement of a hymn made just for them. They are so bright, competent, intelligent and level-headed (well, Phillip has a little bit of artistic temperament, but he also has the best voice), that it was another lesson in "not to worry." You know what I mean. My generation (how predictably like previous generations!) is sure the rising generation is going to rack and ruin and will tear down the country, if not the world, about their ears. But now and again I’ll meet young people like the Eschweilers and I know that isn’t true.