Writing short

I feel like I'm channeling our on-leave Kathryn Lilley, who gave KillerHobbies some of its most memorable images. This photo is of a termite. In a minute you'll see what it has to do with writing.

I attended a short story workshop, given by Sophie Littlefield and Tim Maleeny, two very talented Sisters in Crime.

Having just submitted my twelfth novel to my editor, I found it a bit daunting to think short! Sophie and Tim were wonderfully instructive about structuring short stories in a different way from novels. Start with one idea, add one "concept" or story thread. Keep it simple, easy to pitch.

Hearing the various ideas and stories of the attendees was inspiring, but one stood out —from a woman who did a stint as a writer of radio commercials. She'd have to get a message across in as little as 30 seconds.

Here was her example, a commercial she wrote for a pest control company:

How does a termite hide in a wall?

He puts on a helmet and pretends he's a nail.

Canned laughter – then:

Termites – it's no joke.

Now I'm trying to squeeze my short story idea into a 30-second jingle!

Does anyone else find it hard to write short?

I wish I was John McClane

I wish I was John McClane.

I’ll bet even Bruce Willis wishes he was John McClane.
Here’s why I wish I was John McClane: Because, in every episode of Die Hard, you know the following about his character:

• He’s going to see a huge threat before the rest of us do
• He’s going to jump into action
• He’s going to get in way over his head
• He’s going to get scared
• He’s going to get hurt— hurt bad
• He will nearly get killed.

But all the while, no matter what goes wrong in for him in the story, here’s what you also know about John McClane:

• He will not give up. Not ever.
• He’s will kick the f*cking sh*t out of the bad guy.
• In the end, he will save the building/city/nation/planet.

If I were John McClane, I’d somehow know these things about myself, and I would not be worried about the following mundane facts of my author’s life as Kathryn Lilley:

• I have a full time “day job” as an editor, where they have apparently mistaken me for Superwoman (or Joan McClane), and so expect me to work miracles on an increasing number of increasingly difficult projects.
• I am the mom of one adolescent, plus one young adult woman.
• I have a book manuscript that is due at the end of November (really, it’s due October first, but my angelic editor has given me a much-needed extension).
• I am married to an amazingly tolerant and patient man, but he needs a bit of my undivided time every once in a while.
• I have taken on an unwise quantity of promotional and marketing tasks.
• I have a book tour coming up in October for the second book in the Fat City Mysteries, A KILLER WORKOUT.

All that being said, I have to make a very un-John McClanish announcement:
I will be taking a three-month vacation from my Friday blogging responsibilities at Killer Hobbies.

My Killer Hobby colleagues have heroically stepped in to fill my shoes. (All together, now: Let’s visualize Camille or Terry or Linda with an AK-47 slung around their shoulders, cigarette hanging from their lips, shouting Yippee-Kai-Yay!).

When my manuscript (MAKEOVERS CAN BE MURDER) is finished at the end of November, I hope to return to my regular posting duties at Killer Hobbies, if the hobbies gang still has space for me.

Meanwhile, you can find me on my web site, http://www.kathrynlilley.com/.

Until then…Yippee Kai Yay!

Oops…I have no idea how that McCain-as-McClane photo slipped in. That's why you gotta to watch out for those aging hero-types…they’ll survive no matter what you throw at them.

All I need to know in life, I learned from a koala

By Kathryn Lilley

I’ve never even been to Australia, but by reading, I find all sorts of wisdom from the continent Down Under.

For example, my life is filled with the odd bit of stress here and there. Now, have you ever seen a stressed-out koala? ‘Nuff said. Must be the power of those eucalyptus leaves, and lots of sleep.

I subscribe to a number of Aussie publications, and here are some recent tidbits that caught my eye:

• Generally, Aussies are not coffee snobs. They don’t waste their time debating the merits of Peet’s versus Starbucks versus a cuppa Dundee instant. It’s all good.


• Playing peek-a-boo with a kid on a plane can drive you bonkers, but it's really good for the kid's brain.


• To keep your own brain young, take a walk. This probably explains why Jack Lalanne still talks like an eighteen-year-old adolescent.
  
• A mother’s stress is linked to obesity in kids. Like we didn’t know that? Who likes their kids being subjected to taunts of, “Your mama’s so big, she couldn’t float through the Panama canal.” It’s enough to drive any kid into a Twinkie rage.
  
• Oh, and not to mention the fact that Australian men prefer larger women. I wrote about that happy news in a previous post.

They were the odd news items that didn't appeal to me so much. To wit:

• Being unique is a mental disorder. This one rule would send me and most of my friends and family straight to the loony bin.

Now, it's not as if my world-traveler-from-an-armchair reader's POV has any currency in terms of judging the real Australia. For that, I suggest you read a recent post by Clare Langley-Hawthorne, a real Australian. But for the most part, I'm a Down-Under kind of gal when it comes to my attitude toward life.

Any other Aussie-istic wisdom anyone can share? Keep it clean!

Body image from Hell

One of the realities of writing a regular blog is that you wind up writing about yourself.

I mean, you really write about yourself.

Take me, for example. My "hobby" is diet and exercise. But the meaning of that topic has evolved for me over the years.
When I was in my teens, twenties, and thirties...hell, even into my forties--my only concern was weight control. All I saw was the number on the scale. If I weighed below 150, that was good (I'm almost 5 foot six); above 160, that was disaster.

Fast forward to the golden milestone of 50, and everything changed.
For once, the scale was not my enemy. Thanks to some alchemy of habit, discipline and possibly pharmaceutical intervention, my weight is under control.

My body is not.

Loose flesh, cellulite run wild, a waistline that curves in only when constrained by a breath-stealing waist-cincher--this is my current reality.

What the hell happened? This is not the way it was supposed to be.

This is the way it was for years: You lose weight, you're happy. You gain, you're unhappy--that's the mantra of the teen-to-forty-somethings.

Come fifty, and all of a sudden, everything changes.

Take your underarms, for example. When did they start waving independently of your hands and lower arms? Oh, the shame of it all.

Then there's cottage-cheese upper thighs. Let's not even talk about that.

In the midst of all this middle-aged decay, there are glimpses of hope.

My breasts, for example, Currently, my boobs are like the eighth wonder of the world. I used to be a size 38DDD. Thanks to the intervention of a talented Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. who removed two pounds of fat and rearranged the support structure. for once in my life I can actually go braless. I haven't gone braless since I hit puberty. That's my one body-joy in life. I also got an eye-lift and some fat grafts--which means they extract some fat from your stomach and inject it into those marionette lines around your nose and lips. That one procedure was responsible for erasing at least five years from the mirror's reflection.

But there are so many areas left to address. Underarms, stomach, upper thighs--I have enough body zones in distress to keep a plastic sugeon busy until retirement. By the time all those are done, I'm sure I'll be ready for a facelift.

Is this a byproduct of the fact that I live in LA? America, please give me your feedback. Are you okay living with body areas that are far less than subpar?

My denouement came recently, when a down-on-her-luck homeless woman started haunting a particular corner in my Southern California seaside village. Okay, overall, she looked terrible. But her arms were way tighter than mine. (Of course, she might have been twenty years younger than me, but only looked sixty).

But the arm thing pissed me off. Where was the justice in that? What did I do to deserve a body from hell?
Is it just me? Does anyone else suffer from middle-age body blues? Aargh!

Any input would be most appreciated.

A week of Zen hell on the Okinawa Diet

By Kathryn Lilley

My sister, that guru of body wellness, put me on to the Okinawa Diet recently. The Okinawans are reportedly the happiest, healthiest people around.They're not only the longest-lived people on the planet, but they have a good time while they're here—reportedly, they have great centenarian sex. And if that's not a reason to hang around Earth for a long time, what is?

Unlike in the United States, where youth is worshipped and age is shunned, Okinawan elders are revered. Women in particular are the keepers of the spiritual bonds between the present and the past. In Okinawa, age is celebrated with healing rituals. They promote lifelong health through the practice of dance and martial art, which they believe nurtures your chi.

This was all sounding very good to me. I could do with less stress, more chi, and I could definitely do with more exercise and a better diet.

But then, I tried living the Okinawan way.

I read that the Okinawan diet staples include green tea (good), seaweed sheets (not so good), tofu, and eggs.

So I launched myself on Week 1. The first day’s breakfast was actually pretty decent: Toaster waffles, orange juice, and jasmine tea. Hmm…not that different than what I usually ate, if you substituted four cups of milk-laden coffee for the cup of tea.

Lunch was a bagel with nonfat cream cheese, salad, and more juice. By now, I was hankering for a little protein. Was the whole day going to taste like breakfast?

Dinner was much better. Beef Teriyaki with brown rice, ¼ cup low-fat vanilla ice-cream with strawberries (for which I substituted a scoop of Light Phish Food by Ben & Jerry’s), and papaya.

I enjoyed a newfound emphasis on exercise and de-stressing techniques. I bought little stones that say “Peace,” “Harmony,” “Positive Energy.” But was I supposed to carry the rocks around with me all day, or just arrange them on a shelf where they’d emanate good vibes my way?

My hometown lacks shamans, which are evidently critical to the Okinawan health practices. But there is a local masseuse in town who acts a tad shaman-like—she hums Zen-ish ditties as she shakes drops of tutty-fruity oils on your back during her aromatherapy special. She also does a nice ritualistic laying-on of cucumber slices over your eyes. So I payed sixty bucks to be turned into a fruit basket, and chalked up the fee to the cost of going native.

I have to say, after a few days on the program, I did feel more relaxed, centered, and I’d lost a few pounds. But honestly, the whole thing was a lot of work. Every day involved different menus, various healing stone messages to study, plus a valiant struggle to down something called Mugwort tea. I also confused some of my friends, who were surprised by my newfound, desperate desire for social connection, which is something else that helps the Okinawans live a long life. Ufortunately for the diet, my friends and I always do our social connecting at Houston's, where we wouldn't dream of bonding without our ritual of a shared pot of spinach-artichoke dip and tortilla chips. Probably real Okinawans let their hair down over something healthier, like stirfried sea horses.

Exercise, on the other hand, was a roaring success all week. I walked down to the beach each day and chatted with a guy who does Falun Gong exercises every morning on the sand. He’s a mondo harmonious, peaceful fellow—or at least he became peaceful after he made a running escape from mainland China. Evidently in China, they feel threatened by too much harmony. I'll bet anything they don't live as long in Beijing as they do in Okinawa.

Frankly, I don’t know if the Okinawa lifestyle is right for me. That’s my problem with diets. I’m stellar for a week or two, and then suddenly, I never want to see a sheet of seaweed or a “Joy” stone in my pocket again. And next thing you know, I’ve slipped back into American fast food slumming, which involves hanging around the corner of 31 Flavors and Mrs. Field's. And those good ole Yankees always welcome me back with open arms and a free cookie.

Kathryn Lilley is a mystery writer and a recovering journalist. She recently broke the Okinawa Diet by diving into a pint of Brownie Madness. If pint-diving qualified as an Olympic event, the judges would have given her solid "10s" for angle and speed of entry.

French Women DO Get Fat

By Kathryn Lilley

The headline this week read: “French paradox a diet myth.”

It turns out that French women (and men) are struggling with a steep rise in obesity rates.

I pause now to snort out a supersized American, “Hah!”
Let me repeat that: Hah!

It’s not that I’m happy that my Liberty sisters across the Atlantic have had to join us in the Battle of the Bulge.

It’s just that I’ve been haunted over the years by too many well-meaning people who have cheerfully handed me that book: You know the one—French Women Don’t Get Fat.

Just eat like the French and you’ll be fat free, the book promises. Eat three meals a day, walk everywhere, and take the stairs instead of the elevator. Oh, and drink lots of red wine, and don’t forget to indulge in your favorite foods every once in a while.

Hell, that’s what I thought I was doing! Okay, maybe I was over-overindulging in my fave foods (especially Chubby Hubby by B&J). But could the whole thing really be this simple?

Evidently not, at least if you measure by the recent results of the French population. Over time they have evidently become a lot more like us: eating meals on the run, consuming fast food—and getting fatter.

The average size of a real French woman, studies suggest, is likely to be on the surplus-side of size twelve (Okay, that’s still smaller than the average American’s size 14. But the point is, they’re catching up).

I hear the French government is fighting back by proposing anti-obesity measures and promoting public ad campaigns that exhort our Gallic guys and gals to take the stairs. We’ll see if it helps them return to the Land of the Annoyingly Thin.

But whatever happens to their waistlines over there, just don’t anyone write a book about it. And if you do, don’t hand it to me, okay? Je suis fini with French diets, but I'm keeping the french fries, thank you very much.

Kathryn Lilley is a writer and former journalist who lives in Southern California. She's currently on the Okinawa diet and dreaming about éclairs and pain perdu.

Oh, the fun places you'll go!

Last Friday's guest, author Michelle Gagnon, just wrote a funny post about her recent book tour over at the Kill Zone. Now that I'm preparing to launch my own book tour for A KILLER WORKOUT, which hits the bookstores on October 7th, I'm in the mood to anticipate and do a little neurotic worrying ahead of time:



Gas. Yikes! Gas is nearly five dollars a gallon in LA! It puts a pricey pall on those long drives to Phoenix, Las Vegas and points north. If I wind up running out of gas and hitchhiking down a lonely stretch highway, don't worry--I won't climb into any pickup trucks or white panel vans.

Book signings. You just never know what to expect. Some bookstores promote your appearance and assemble people for a discussion--others stick you in the "gilded cage" to the side of the front entrance,where you basically collar anyone coming through the door with a pitch. Sitting quietly does not sell books, so I've developed a special smile and greeting that makes me feel like an airline stewardess. The funny thing I notice is that there are two types of people--those that engage with you easily, and those that avoid eye contact and actually do a flanking maneuver around my table to avoid interacting. The second group are the people who hate a hard sell. But they sometimes sneak back and shyly buy the book on their way out.

Bringing goodies. I always bring cookies and water with me to hand out. I don't know if that helps me sell books, but I'm a hit with kids and homeless people.

Being a trooper. I hate canceling things at the last minute. One time I was scheduled to do a signing, but I woke up that morning feeling sick, and getting sicker by the minute. Twenty minutes before the signing was supposed to start, I was sitting in the car with my husband, projectile vomiting into a plastic bag. The appearance went off flawlessly. I had a surge of adrenaline that magically suspended the illness for precisely one hour. The instant I got back into the car after the signing, I resumed vomiting, and continued do so, all the way to Urgent Care.

Maximizing family connections. I combine book tours with as much family interaction as possible. Fortunately, I have family spread all over the east and southeast, so I can combine book stops with mini-reunions. My husband is used to chugging along in my wake, and he tries not to fall asleep as I give the same talk or sign books. I suspect this year, however, he may chug off in search of a golf course while I'm doing my book thing.

Being zen about what you can't control. Things I can't control 1) the book retailing model, 2) the publishing business, 3) the fact that people who can't find my book in the bookstore, because they've sold out, wind up buying them at deep discounts online.

I just have to smile, show up, and keep on writing no matter what.

What about you? Are there any things you most like, dislike about pitching your book on the road?

Ten Reasons Why She Dumped Him

My mood went sour and surly this week. Maybe it’s because we’re officially entering the Dog Days of August. Or maybe it’s because several of my friends find themselves stuck in an endless down-cycle, a death spiral that is also known as Breaking Up a Long-term Relationship. Whatever the reason, thoughts about the end-game of love have been kicking up divots in my head lately.

I’ve observed a lot of breakups among my friends over the years. I’ve even initiated a few, myself. From those observations, I’ve composed a composite list. (Oh, and before anyone starts screaming at me in the comments, of course—of course—I know that men their own reasons for dumping us. But you can assume that this particular list is the equivalent of Girl’s Night Out, and we’re all already two Fuzzy Gimlets to the wind.)

Here, in no special order, are the Top Ten Reasons why women I know have broken up with their men (Note that specific circumstances have been altered to protect the innocent and the guilty):

1. He exhibited symptoms of chronic MIR, aka Male Irritation Syndrome.
(If you want to see a hopeless case of MIR, observe any NY cab driver at a traffic light.)
2. He made a joke at my expense in public, one too many times.
3. He replaced too many loving gestures with sarcastic come-backs (closely related to Reason 2).
4. He took some photos for our friends, but then he charged them for the film.
5. He forgot that passing gas (in either direction) is something best reserved for the restroom.. He especially forgot this when we were out together in public.
6. He kept doing that thing that I knew he did when they first got together. But then he kept on doing it. And for some stupid reason, I thought he wouldn’t.
7. He commented on famous women’s bodies in such a negative way that I became convinced I would never live up to his standards.
8. If he become aware of reason Number 7, he never did anything to convince me otherwise. And then, I stopped caring.
9. He loved me, but it turned out that he resented my (fill in the blank: dog, child by a previous marriage, parents). And worse, he didn’t bother to hide it.
10. All of the above.

Okay, I know this post makes me and my home girls sound like a bitter ball of bile. Really we're not—I’m just reporting from the Recently Broken-up battlefield..

And I know that, to woefully misquote some Russian author—Tolstoy, I think—“happy relationships are all the same. Unhappy relationships are each unhappy in their own way.” It takes two people to break up any relationship, and there’s plenty of just cause to spread around.

But I would love to know—what was your most noteworthy reason for breaking up with someone? Or, if you’re really feeling brave, tell us: Why did they break up with you?

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!

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.

Too noir for comfort

I think I just checked into the Bates Motel.

Actually, it’s a nationally-advertised economy chain, but at the rate things are going, I’ll be amazed if I come out in one piece.

Here’s how it started: I was on my way to my mother’s house in South Carolina, and somehow got off course between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Palmetto State. At close to midnight, I pulled off the interstate and entered the lobby of a motel. It belongs to a chain that advertises on national TV, so I figured it had to be decent.

The night clerk, a portly, red-haired gentleman, actually tried to talk me out of staying at this establishment. If I hadn’t been drop-dead tired, he would have succeeded.

The first thing out of his mouth was, “If you’re used to mid-service level motels, this isn’t the place for you.”

By “mid-service level,” I’m thinking he meant the Ramada, or maybe a Holiday Inn Express.

Now, I’m no snob, and I was so bleary-eyed by this point, I would have accepted the room key to a pup tent.

So I said, “As long as you have wifi, I’m your gal.”

He took my charge card, handed me a map, and told me about a few things about the lay of the land, so to speak.

“This building here, this is where the truckers and prostitutes are,” he said, pointing to the farthest-outlying row of rooms on the map. “But you’re on the other side. Your room has a microwave and wifi. It’s nonsmoking”

I blinked. “Beyond nonsmokers, who stays on that side?”

“Mostly construction workers,” he said. “They stay here for months at a time. They get a little noisy, so be prepared. Do you want first floor or second?”

“First,” I replied. “How noisy do they get, as a general rule? Like, do they get knocking-on-doors noisy?”

He gave me a solemn look. “Yah. But we got security. Our guy’s got a crazy stare and one of his hands only has two fingers. So they don’t give him any crap. Gimme a call if they bother you and I’ll send him right over.”

That was vastly reassuring, I gotta tell ya.

As I drove around the building to get to my room, I saw a young woman in short-shorts and platform heels entering a truck. I have to assume she was not there for the wifi or the nonsmoking room.

There were three or four men hanging around the second-floor walkway as I parked in front of my room. They stared curiously as I unpacked my laptop and a pink stuffed horse I was taking to my niece as a present. Those men looked like they might be horse thieves, so I wasn’t taking any chances--Pink Horsie was coming with me.

My nonsmoking room has an acrid atmosphere that’s making my eyes water, so I think that part of the clerk’s description was a flat-out lie.

I think he was right about the prostitutes, though. And the noise in the parking lot is ramping up, so he might have been right about the party-hearty construction workers.

All I know is, if I hear a knock on the door, I’ll be calling on Crazy Seven Fingers, the security guard.

I can’t wait to make his acquaintance.

College reunion time!

I'm posting early and muy rapido tonight, because I'm dashing off to catch a red-eye for the east coast--thank you Linda, for letting me barge into your Thursday posting! (And if you haven't seen Linda's post on her 20th book, DOUBLE DOG DARE, keep reading! Twenty books and going stronger than ever! Hooray, Linda!)

Back to reunion thoughts...

It’s been (gulp) thirty years since I set foot on campus. Last time I was there, I was a youngster. Now I’m—well, you do the math. (I always hated math, and a thirty-year milestone is only reinforcing my feelings on the whole subject.)

But I’m excited to be going back—I’ll be staying in my old dormitory, and seeing old friends and familiar faces. The reunion schedule is packed with wonderful lectures and discussion sessions. And to top it all off, they’re going to feature my book as the “class book” for discussion, so I’ll get to return as the “author” of the class, which is kind of a dream come true for me.

But the real reason I’m looking forward to it is the opportunity for reflection. Thirty years is a long, long time. I plan to do a lot of walking around Lake Waban and thinking about how life has changed. How I’ve changed, the good and bad of it. What I’ve learned. What I carry forward from those days. What I've left behind. I'll have more on that next week.

How about you? Have you attended any major milestone reunions from high school or college, and how did they go? What was the primary thing you valued from it, and were there any surprises?

I’d love to hear about it!

Reaching out to readers through Sisters in Crime

In author blogs and chat forums, writers are always asking each other, “How do I reach more readers and the public?”

Well, this week I’d like to talk up an organization that provides fantastic outreach opportunities: Sisters in Crime.

Last weekend, for example, I appeared at the Burbank Public Library on a panel called “So You Want to be a Writer?” that was sponsored by my local Sisters in Crime chapter in Los Angeles. About 30 people attended, and by all accounts it was a great success. From left to right, pictured in the first photo are moderator Eric Stone, Yours Truly, Darrell James, Gay Degani, and Jeff Sherratt.

Libraries are one of my favorite venues for panels and author events, because the program is organized around topics that attract a general audience rather than author BSP (blatant self promotion). And my chapter of Sisters in Crime is wonderful at working with libraries to bring writers and readers together. Sure, as a writer you get the chance to mention your work and sell a few books, but the primary focus is on communicating with readers about writing-oriented topics that appeal to a wide variety of readers.

By the way, you don’t have to be female to join Sisters in Crime; plenty of “sisters” are men. And you don’t even have to be published—the group includes booksellers, editors, librarians, teachers, and readers. It’s an incredibly nurturing, supportive group of people who have helped along many writers with their careers. I first joined Sisters in Crime a couple of years ago, when I had an unfinished manuscript in my hands and a dream of launching my own mystery series. I feel as though I’ve learned “the ropes” of meeting and greeting the public, networking, and—yes—even knowing when to throw in a little BSP from time to time.

How about you? Are you a “sister,” and what have been your success stories or events you’ve participated in through Sisters in Crime? I’d love to hear how some of the other SiC chapters go about connecting writers and readers.

Is there a reason why we become “cat people”?

I know I creeped out a few people last week with my post about corpse brides.

If it makes you feel any better, this week it’s my turn to freak out. That’s because I've learned that a strange parasite is trying to get cozy with our cats. And the bug might be capable of affecting human behavior.

I discovered this odd bit of news when I spoke to my daughter, who is doing some research into the Toxoplasma parasite. Toxoplasma is excreted by cats. The parasite can be found in cat litter. (It’s the reason why women shouldn’t clean the cat box while they’re pregnant.)

It turns out that in most infected people, the Toxoplasma parasite is fairly benign. Which is a good thing, because up to half the people on the planet carry the parasite’s tiny cysts in their brain (ugh). But Toxoplasma causes birth defects in fetuses, and I’ve also heard that it can cause blindness if the parasite migrates to your eye (so much for being benign).

Cats are the natural hosts for the parasite, which gets very crafty in its attempts to reach a feline. Research has shown that when a rat is infected with Toxoplasma, the rat’s brain is altered so that the rodent loses its fear of cats. The infected rat becomes much more likely to get eaten by a cat, and then—voila!—the parasite has reached its target host.

Some research I read about suggests that even human behavior can be affected by the Toxoplasma parasite.

A parasitologist (who knew such a field existed?) once reported that women who are infected with Toxoplasma tend to be more extroverted and caring—to what end, is not known. My personal theory is that perhaps the parasite is trying to make us take better care of its feline hosts.

I’m freaking out about the possibility that the bug might affect human behavior, because everyone in my family loves cats.

As a clan, we like dogs just fine. But we’re nuts about cats. For example, I have an aunt who has nine indoor kitties. She also feeds and takes care of dozens of feral cats.

My sister is another fierce protector of all things feline. She has appointed me executor of her estate on behalf of her two cats. I have precise instructions for where and how they’ll be cared for if they outlive her (her will even includes funding for a long-term kitty haven).

Then there’s me. My husband calls me a “cat whisperer.” When I see or hear a cat on the street, I’m magnetically drawn to it. I’m strangely drawn to it, I’m thinking now.

Our familial tendency to adore cats and care for them makes me wonder—could it be that we’re all infected with the Toxoplasma parasite, and we’ve been passing the bug down through the generations? Maybe the parasite has altered our brains to make sure that we take excellent care of its host, Mr. Cat.

Bottom line: Is a bug pulling our strings?

Technically speaking, I’m not even sure that a parasite is a bug (science teachers, help me out here). But I’m sure it looks like one under a microscope. I’ll bet it looks really disgusting, too.

The whole thing makes me think about some signs my relatives have hanging all around their houses. The signs say things like:

“The cat owns the house. We just work here.”

Things may be worse than they know.

We might all be working for a damned bug.

Update on treatment

I had a question from Sheila about treatment for toxoplasma. There are treatments available for the parasite (primarily with antibiotics), but--and this news won't reassure too many people--the treatments may not cure "latent" cases, where the brain cysts are just hanging out, biding their time. Also, some species are evidently exhibiting immunity to the treatments. Here's more from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toxoplasmosis#Treatment

Corpse brides, and other strange things people do with dead bodies

Call me morbid (which you kinda have to be when you’re a mystery writer), but I was fascinated to read an article put out by CNN, which describes all the strange things people do with dead bodies.

Corpse brides and ghost marriages

In China, there is an old practice of providing “ghost marriages” between women and deceased bachelors. I gather the practice got started so that no woman would have to die as a spinster (no way to verify the rumor that some women preferred to marry dead guys so that they’d escape a fate of faked headaches and arguments over the dinner table with breathing spouses.).

After nearly dying out during the cultural revolution, ghost marriages have recently come back into vogue, but evidently with a new, more prurient purpose. In a country that’s chronically short of women, the practice is now aimed at making sure that dead bachelors are…ahem…satisfied in the afterlife. Tales have been told of people killing prostitutes and other unfortunate women so that these men will get some nooky in the netherworld.

Got some cold cream for that freezer burn?

The much-ballyhooed experiments into cryogenics have evidently run into a snag—frozen bodies are developing wicked cases of freezer burn. Who’d want to be revived in 200 years if you’re doomed to walk around looking like Night of the Shriveled-green Dead?

Here’s a link to the article on CNN, for further reading on the strange things that people do with dead bodies:

http://www.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/wayoflife/04/30/dead.bodies/index.html


Even before I read this article, I was in the process of working one of these practices into my third book, MAKEOVERS CAN BE MURDER. (Won’t reveal which one, though—stay tuned for the book in ’09).

But now I’m getting obsessed with the subject of ghost marriages and corpse brides. The practice sounds so macabre. But it’ll make a killer subplot, won’t it?

Oprah coined it first: Shlumpadinka

Shlumpadinka – Per Oprah, “A woman who dresses like she has completely given up.”

I think I must be the last person on the planet to discover this word. Oprah has evidently been using the term for years. If you don the same threadbare black shirt every day before shopping, if you discover you haven’t washed your face midway through the grocery store, only to discover that you’re sporting raccoon eyes, voila! You’re having a shlumpadinka day.

We all have our shlumpadinka moments. In my case, I actually have shlumpadinka cars. When I’m not driving in to my day job, and I’m just dropping my daughter off to school before heading right back to my laptop in the dining room, you’ll find me wearing ancient sweats, a holy t-shirt (not in a blessed way), and—yes—even traces of yesterday’s makeup that didn’t completely wash off the night before. That’s mondo shlumpadinka mode. When I’m in that frame of mind and dress, I drive my ancient Infiniti J30, which looks like it’s been through a fender-ding machine.

But when I’m pulled together, hair blown dry, outfit killer (or my closest proximity to it), made up to the moon, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the dent-mobile. I roar out of the driveway in my snazzy little Z4, happy to be stared out by guys half my age (even though they’re probably really looking at the car).

Oprah coined the term shlumpadinka; but as a writer, I feel compelled to come up with an antonym. What would be the opposite of shlumpadinka? Snazzarazz? Okay, so when I’m in snazzarazz mode, it’s Z4 and minis. Shlumpadinka means drugstore underwear and clothes that scare the crows off our roof.

What about you? Do you have a favorite shlumpadinka outfit? And what’s its snazzarazz opposite, for you?

In the Land Down Under, Bigger is Better

Breaking news! Australian men like everything big—including their women, it turns out.

According to an article in the Brisbane Times, an online survey conducted by the men’s magazine FHM found that most Australian men prefer women who are a size 14 over a size 8.

Let me repeat that: Australian men prefer a size 14 to a size 8.

They don’t “accept” larger women. They don’t “tolerate” them, while ogling the size-6 beach bunnies They prefer them.

Oh joy! Oh rapture! As a woman who has fluctuated between size 12 and 14 most of her life, this is truly cause for celebration. In fact, if I were still a single gal, I’d book the next Quantas flight from LAX to Sydney, and go me a huntin’ my own Crocodile Dundee. I’d sachet my plus-sized derriere in his general direction, and ask him if he’d like to toss an extra-big one on my barbie.

But now I’m blushing. So for details, here’s the link to the article:

http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/news/life-and-style/what-men-want-thins-not-in/2008/04/05/1207420346331.html

This is by far the best news I’ve had all week. I’ve never been to Australia, but now I see it has a lot going for it besides cute koalas and kangaroos.

Like, a lot of happy women who are shaped like me.

Contest winner from last week

And in the spirit of big is better, I have to proclaim H's IFNWK from last week, the one about one ostrich egg being the equivalent of 21 chicken eggs, as the winner of last week's contest. H, I posted on your blog to let you know, but email me to let me know where to send your signed copy of DYING TO BE THIN!

More breaking news!

I’ll be doing a joint signing on Saturday the 19th at Metropolis Books in Los Angeles, with Christa Faust and Sue Ann Jaffarian. For details, see my web site: http://www.kathrynlilley.com/news.html

Sex and the Single Octopus

Who knew octopuses could be kinky?

Well, it turns out that the males are, anyway (big surprise there).

A UC Berkeley graduate student has done research showing that octopuses flirt and appear to hold “hands” during sex. The males exhibit macho behavior, engage in wrestling matches, and even strangle each other to compete over females.

Unlike in the human realm, big females are apparently better when it comes to cherchez l’octopussy. A male will seek a big female and stick with her, but he doesn't turn down the opportunity to mate with smaller fry if one happens to stumble across his path. (I’m assuming these quickie encounters are the octo-equivalents of one-night stands, and are never observed by Big Mama waiting at the home rock.)

Small males evidently get quite creative and sneaky when it comes to nicking a little nooky from a larger male. They hide behind rocks and pounce when Big Daddy is away, or they change their color to masquerade as a female, and do the nasty right under Big Daddy’s beak. (Male octopuses must think they’re watching two females going at it, which I guess is every guy’s fantasy, no matter what the species.)

Here's a link to the press release about the study:

http://www.berkeley.edu/news/media/releases/2008/03/31_octo.shtml

So what do the mating habits of octopuses have to do with this blog and writing? Well, I’m an avid collector of IFNWKs (pronounced if-en-wicks). This stands for “Interesting Facts Not Worth Knowing.” My mind attracts them like cat hair on a black suit, and they often find their way into my writing.

I know that somehow, someday, a randy octopus will make its way into one of my stories.

How about you? Do you have any IFNWKs that you particularly like?

Update: Hey, Camille had a great idea to run a contest for the best IFNWK. Post your comment and IFNWK in the Comments section of this blog by 9 p.m. PT this coming Thursday. Winner gets a signed copy of DYING TO BE THIN.

The many faces—and other reworked body parts—of La La Land

Today I’d like to talk about plastic surgery.

This topic’s on my mind these days because I’m in full-tilt writing mode on the third book in the Fat City Mysteries. It has a brand new working title, MAKEOVERS CAN BE MURDER, and a plot that involves plastic surgery, murder, and mayhem.

Full disclosure: I know something about the subject area, because I’ve had a bit of “work” done along the plastic surgery lines; it’s a topic that simply fascinates me. Living in LaLa land, aka Los Angeles, I can’t turn a newspaper page or walk down a local street without bumping into reminders that my city is the capital of the Land of Plastic. Yesterday, I discovered that there’s a Botox room in my gym. In my gym! (Which is fine, actually. At least I won’t have to drive to Beverly Hills from now on to get rid of my crow’s feet.)

Many, many of my friends (and I) are familiar with some of the following procedures:

Wrinkle fillers, both artificial and natural (The natural one is fat injections. They extract your own fat from your stomach, or from wherever you can spare any, I guess. Then they inject it into your “marionette lines”. You know, that pair of annoying lines that run from your nose to your lips. And from your lips to your chin.).

Wrinkle removers (Botox. Man, that stuff works. But don’t get started on it unless you’re prepared to develop a mondo expensive habit).

Arm “lifts” to remedy underarms that keep waving when you stop (I haven’t had that one. Yet).

Breast implants (That procedure is done in droves here. Or should I say, in pairs).

Breast reductions (The grass is always greener on the other side).

Eye lifts (It’s probably the quickest way to take off five to ten years, especially when combined with Botox and wrinkle fillers).

The Tinseltown pressure to be "perfect" leads women around here to get a tad carried away. Especially when it comes to boob-and-lip plumping. Lipwise, I guess they're trying to look like Angelina Jolie, but they let their dermatologist go way overboard with the collagen needle, and they wind up with the lips of Clara the Clown. There's a special "lip look" that you get used to around LA, especially Malibu and Beverly Hills--these womens' lips seem to have been pumped up with a tire hose. And the lips always seem to come with a matching pair of hyperinflated breasts. Some docs must run a four-for-one special, like tire specials.

I also know a little about the ultimate plastic surgery procedure that’s available for those of us who have lost an extreme amount of weight. Called a “full body lift,” it involves cutting a circle around your body, roughly in the hip area. The surgeon pulls the loose skin from the upper part of your body down, and he pulls the loose skin from the bottom of your body up; then he removes everything between the two ends, and sews you back together. There are only a few surgeons who specialize in full body lifts, for understandable reasons. It’s beyond extreme. (Not that I haven’t considered it. But I’m way too chicken).

I’ll never become a full-blown plastic surgery junkie, because it takes way too long to save up for a procedure. But I kind of understand people who do. You get some work done on one part, which only serves to draw your attention to the other parts that are starting to sag and bag. Then you think, Well, just one more, then I’m done…

Of course, a major disincentive to cosmetic surgery is all the horror stories about surgery-gone-bad. And of course, any surgery has risks, which is why most people (the ones who don’t live around here, anyway) carefully consider the consequences before leaping under the knife.

There will be more than a few horror stories in MAKEOVERS CAN BE MURDER. But I’ll save those for the book…

What about you? How to you feel about plastic surgery? Anyone care to share? Can we let our hair down here?

Crime in the Kitchen

Note: I’m on a killer deadline at the moment, so pardon if I commit a drive-by blog this week.


I can’t cook.

I know many people say that, but I Really. Can’t. Cook.

The situation is so dire that I’m thinking of possible terms for this condition to submit to the medical lexicon. Should I call it Kitchen Disaster Syndrome? Attention Recipe Disorder?

I’ve always been a lousy meal maker, but I used to maneuver around my shortcoming with a combination of take-out dinners, meals-in-a-box, and frozen-stuff-in-a-bag-that-you-can-dump-into-a-pan meals. But the whole noncooking thing came to a head recently, because for once, I’ve actually been trying to follow recipes. I’ve been really trying. And failing.

Here’s what happens every time I try to cook:

1. I think of what my family and I might want to eat.
2. I search on Yahoo for a recipe, which usually lands me on http://www.recipe.com/.
3. I attempt to follow the instructions.
4. I forget a minor-sounding step.
5. I study the results, which look nothing like the picture on the web page.
6. I bury the evidence and dig up the delivery menus.

It’s that damned Step Four that gets me every time. Even if I print out the recipe and keep it by my elbow, I get distracted during the actual cooking process and leave something out. I leave out something important.

Take last night, for example. I was trying to make Southern Fried Chicken Legs. Not hard, right? Women like me who were raised in the south are born knowing how to make this dish.

I looked up the recipe, printed it and followed it assiduously. The results, however, looked like the shriveled stumps of thousand-year-old chicken mummies. So of course, I reread the recipe with righteous anger. Then I spotted my mistake. I was supposed to have covered the chicken at some point. Probably I was supposed to have covered the chicken at the moment that I was busy dodging ammunition bursts of hot oil droplets that spattered every time I got close to the pan.

So I don’t know. Maybe I’ll keep trying to cure this thing, and learn how to cook. Or maybe I’ll simply give the disorder an official name, like my current favorite, Chronic Inedibility Fatigue. And call it a day.

Suggestions?