Saving Money on Stitching

I am on the mailings lists of several local needlework shops. I read the cards and fliers announcing sales and find they’re dangerous, because when I get to the shop, I see other items begging to be taken home. If I really have to go to a shop, I find it helps to leave my credit card and checkbook at home. It doesn’t help that all the things I buy I can claim as "research," and make them tax deductible.

Y’see, I didn’t get into this game of writing needlework mysteries because I loved needlework. I have come to love needlework because I am writing a mystery series about it. This came about because my then-editor at Berkley/Prime Crime was looking for someone to write this series. I had just broken up a collaboration with dear friend Gail Frazer, and was at loose ends. It turned out to be a terrific idea my editor had – once I learned enough needlework to make the first book believable. (To this day I am embarrassed to see the several errors that snuck in that first book about needlework – and no, I won’t tell you what they are.)

Anyway, another way to save money on needlework is to substitute the high priced silks some patterns call for with low-priced DMC or Anchor cotton floss. If you miss the subtle sheen of silk, a spool of Kreinik Blending Filament can add a slightly-less-subtle glitter that is very attractive. Plus, you get to work your pattern twice, when you go over it again with the filament.

But probably the best way to save money is to ignore that flier and go into your stash (you DO have a stash, don’t you?) and start sorting through, straightening out, bringing some order to the thing. I’ve been doing that and came across a piece of crewel I’d almost forgotten I had. It’s a bit more than half done, and a very attractive thing. So next time I’m looking for something "new," I’ll get out the sheep in the meadow piece and just maybe get it finished this time.
I spent two days last week in Duluth, at a quilt show. I have given up any ambition to make a quilt on my own; it’s just not something I have any talent for. But I love to go around at the shows looking at the gorgeous quilts. For me, the highlight of the show was a king-size quilt depicting a realistic bear splashing through water. I’m sure I’ve seen a photograph of that bear in that pose, but what the artist in fabric did was cut out thousands – literally, thousands – of one-inch squares and painstakingly stitch them together to make a pixel-ated picture. Up close it’s barely recognizable, but the farther back you stand, the sharper the image. When I think of this quilter with her eyes inches from the fabric, my own cross in sympathy. What an acheivement!

Emotion Motion

Find me on Fridays on Killer Hobbies while Kathryn is on hiatus. Join me at my launch party at the Jose Higuera Adobe, Wessex Place in Milpitas on Saturday from 1-4pm.

I just finished reading Brian Copeland’s “Not a Genuine Black Man.” Great read. I highly recommend it. Brian was a keynote speaker at East of Eden Conference and his story of how he came to write first the play, and then the book is full of drama and surprise.

When I stopped to analyze why Brian’s story of growing up black in San Leandro connected with me, I realized it was because he delivered his story with emotion. I was angry when the nun punished the eight-year old Brian for fighting instead of the four kids that jumped him. My stomach twisted when the tall white man followed Brian around the five and dime, hoping to catch him shoplifting. I cried when the young man lingered by the Golden Gate Bridge, trying to get up the courage to jump.

Emotion. The best stories—and the best quilts—are packed with it.

Think about it. Someone at guild shows off her latest creation. It’s pretty, nice colors, good construction. Okay, next. You’re ready to move on to something else. Then she tells you the story behind it, her voice cracking, eyes welling. Her best friend from childhood is suffering from breast cancer. The quilt is going to a soldier in Iraq. The colors are the favorite of a neighborhood autistic child.

The emotion is what we react to. Quilts and books give us an express train into the heart.

THE WINNAH!!

We have a winner! The winner of two pounds of chicken-themed fabric did not even submit her name to me – it was submitted on her behalf by a woman I’ve heard from before. Her name is Noreen and she suggested I send my fabric to the flood victims of Iowa. (Actually, she wrote to say that Kaye England sent out an e-mail suggesting that.) So I sent the box to the person collecting it:
Jill Reicks
Pine Needles Sewing Center
1000 Old Marion Rd NE
Cedar Rapids, IA 52402

I could do worse than suggest my readers – those who find themselves threatened by an avalanche of fabric every time they enter their sewing room, and you know who you are – might consider thinning the herd, so to speak, and sending the result to Ms. Reicks. Or even just going through the shelves and/or drawers and pulling that length of gorgeous fabric you are ready to admit you’re not ever going to use and gladden the heart of someone who could use a little gladdening.

Thank you, Noreen! And thanks to everyone who sent an entry. If it weren’t for the obviousness of Noreen’s entry, I’d be in a real quandry deciding who the winner was. The entries were cheery and creative and plaintive and inspiring. It would have been extremely difficult to pick a winner. I am glad I didn’t offer second and third place prizes, because I’d still be arguing with myself over whom to place. I am pleased that so many of you thought to enter. Thank you so much. Happy stitching!

I am going to be in upstate Minnesota most of next week, staying in a cabin on the fringe of a state forest, researching a novel I hope to be writing in 2009. Working title: Buttons and Bones – I’ve talked about it a little on this blog. I will bring my laptop with me and will try to find an Internet connection to send a report to Killer Hobbies from up there. But places out of reach of the ‘Net are becoming truly rare, aren’t they? And that’s a good thing. Really. Isn’t it?

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.

A Contest, A Character

I’ve been encouraged to offer a contest, but I couldn’t think what prize to offer. Then, going through our storage room and making a final sort of boxes left over from our move a year ago (!) I realized I still have rather a large quantity of quilting fabric. I’ve got my quilt, it’s beautiful, but I’m not going to make another. And here’s this lovely fabric, many varieties and colors with one theme: Chickens. Realistic chickens, cartoon chickens, artistic chickens, big and little. Even eggs and chicken wire. Black and white, bright colors, pastels. I don't know how many yards, maybe four? A couple of pounds, anyway. Some cut into squares, others in fat-quarter size.

If you would like this fabric, write and tell me why. Twenty-five words or less. I’ll even pay postage.

Go to my website, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me through that. Contest ends July 31, 2008.
All writers know the phenomenon: a character in a book suddenly rising and taking over the reins of his or her role from the author. Disconcerting and sometimes exciting – but sometimes it’s annoying. I have been inventing a new boyfriend for my gay character Godwin. Goddy lost his long-time lover quite a few books back, and was accused of his murder. Of course he didn’t do it, Betsy proved that. But since he got over the shock and mourning, he’s been kind of playing the field, date-wise. I have finally decided he needs to settle down, find someone really nice who is also good for him – and whom he can be good for. I came up with this gorgeous young man named Rafael Centillas, a naturalized American citizen born in Mexico. He was supposed to be aloof on the surface but kind and funny underneath. Sweet and perhaps a trifle shy. But the guy who walked into the needlework shop in this scene I’m working on is self-assured and just the teensiest bit abrasive. Fortunately, he still really likes Godwin. I think Godwin likes him, too.
I like a character who knows his own mind, and who will grow into a role in a book. But it’s annoying how, after two dozen novels, I can still lose control over a character right at the start. I’m tempted to tear down that scene in the novel and start it again. Re-boot, so to speak. But maybe I should just let him have his head, at least for awhile.

Blessed to Receive, Too

I have been a devout Anglophile (lover of things British) since childhood. When I was five, I was given a record that had several of A.A. Milne’s poems set to music. I probably drove my mother nuts by playing it over and over (“They’re changing the guard at Buckingham Palace/Christopher Robin went down with Alice . . .”). When I was in sixth and seventh grade, I used to hurry home from school because there was very often a showing of an English movie such as “The Cruel Sea,” and “The Lavender Hill Mob.” My mother and I would sit on the couch together and revel in the scenery and accents and attitudes and the weird sense of British humor. One thing I remember seeing in a war movie was just very brief: a sign on a brick wall that said, Take Courage. I found out later that Courage was a brand of beer, and that was their motto. I thought to myself then – and over the years – that I’d like one of those signs.

So last week I decided, for the upteenth time, to try to find one. And by gum, I found an e-Bay ad for a brass sign from before World War II, featuring a slim rooster embossed in the center, a fancy frame of embossed hops and barley, and, above and below the rooster the motto: Take Courage. It was about fifteen by twenty-two inches. Well, I just knew the thing would go for hundreds of pounds, but the starting bid was only twenty-two pounds. I was certainly willing to pay twenty-two pounds for that beautiful thing. Heck, thirty pounds! So I clicked on it and made my bid. The auction had three days to go, and when I checked back the next day I was still the only bidder. Encouraged, I looked at how much it would cost to get the thing to me. Ouch! It was overweight and oversize for their regular mail service and it would cost almost exactly twice what I was bidding to send it to the United States SURFACE MAIL (i.e. slow boat). To send it by air would double the rate. I began to hope for other bids. None came. On the third day, as the hours ran down, I was still hoping for one of those clever people who wait till the last minute to outbid me. None did. I won the auction. It cost me a little over a hundred dollars for a piece of dented brass.

But the next morning, as I was whining to a dear friend about my expensive mistake, she said, “In one year, you will have forgotten the money; but if you didn’t get it, in one year you would be crying that you let it go.” You know something? She’s right. In fact, it took less than a year. I looked at the picture of it again the next morning, and was so pleased I won the auction! I can’t wait for it to come, I have already have selected the wall it will hang on, and have told my husband that it’s my Christmas present.

So for all of you out there: Take Courage.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Cozying up to Killer Hobbies

I recently took it upon myself (along with co-blogger, Linda O. Johnston) to do a bit of research into hobby-oriented mystery series. We came up with some interesting information--in fact, we've prepared an entire discussion/presentation on the subject of hobby-oriented mysteries that we are taking "on the road" in the Southern Califonia area. If you would like us to appear at your book club, library, bookstore or discussion group, please contact one of us through our web sites. (We can also teleconference in to groups that meet in other locations).

But here's a little preview of some of what we talk about:

What’s a “hobbyist’s” cozy mystery?

· By a conservative estimate, about 60-65% of Berkley/NAL Prime Crime imprints are based on hobbies.

· Most cozies are geared toward a female audience.

· The story stars an amateur sleuth, usually a well-educated female.

· Her life experiences have given her special skills that she uses in the course of solving a crime.

· Her hobby can be very diverse (scrap booker, oenophile, B&B owner, art collector, quilting).

· The location of the story is usually a small town or confined environment. This makes it believable that all the residents know each other.

· She usually has friends, relationships, or family that can get her “uncozy” police procedural information (autopsy results, investigation updates).

· Most cozies are series.

· Most of the characters in the story are fairly likable, often quirky.

· Cozies are “kinder, gentler” stories—no overt violence or overt sex (okay, well, except for my series, the Fat City Mysteries. There you get a lot of sex and violence!).

· The story is fast-paced, with lots of red herrings.

· Often, two people die before the book ends, both offstage. The first murder often takes place before the story opens. The connection between the two people is what helps the sleuth solve the crime. She is able to make that connection in a way the police fail to.

(One more disclaimer about DYING TO BE THIN—it shows the murder victims splat on the page. I think I have a few uncozy "bones" as a writer!)

What are the current trends in cozy mysteries?

The current trend is to make cozies “educational” and include bonus information, such as patterns, diet tips, or recipes.

For example, DYING TO BE THIN has diet tips at the beginning of each chapter, like the following one:

There’s an old saying: Scratch a depression, and you’ll find an anger. Well, scratch an overweight woman, and you may find an angry one underneath. Many of us eat to repress angry feelings—over a rotten childhood, over a chintzy news budget that doesn’t cover wardrobe expenses…you name it, we’ve got plenty to be angry about. Learn to express anger in a healthy, assertive way. Which doesn’t include diving into a pint of Chunky Monkey.

—From The Little Book of Fat-busters by Mimi Morgan

What about you? Are there things about hobby-oriented cozy mysteries that particularly attract you? Are there things you wish were different about the stories? We'd really love to hear your feedback. Best, Kathryn

Saturday's guest blogger - Kathryn Lilley

Greetings, and thank you for inviting me to be your Saturday guest blogger!

I'm Kathryn Lilley, and you can think of me as something of a failed hobbyist. "No hobby project too simple to be botched up," could be my motto.

But recently, I discovered that I've been redeemed.

First, a bit of personal background: I come from a long and distinguished line of crafty, hobby-oriented women. My mother (and her mother before her, and so on, and so on), could have written a chapter in the book about that most quintessential of American crafts, quilting.

Back in the day (aka Whistler, Alabama, circa 1930) quilting was much more than a hobby. The ladies of the quilting bee ruled that town. They were that era’s equivalent of today’s blogosphere. Did you want the the latest gossip? You had to ask the Quilting Bee ladies. Who was schtupping whom? Again, consult the QB’ers. The Ladies of the Bee were the go-to gals for matters matrimonial, mordant, or just plain malicious. While they hand-stitched their Double Wedding Ring quilts, pinwheel designs and Sunbonnet Sues (which they called “Dutch Dolls”), the quilting ladies quietly kept the social order of that time and place.

My mother inherited the craft/quilting gene. As a child, I was the happy recipient of her wonderful, hand-made Halloween costumes. Cooking, decoupage, making Christmas decorations—it was all good.

But soon after I was born, it became clear that the crafts gene had skipped a generation. The first major sign of my uncraftiness was a Four-H sewing project. My mother was a club leader, and she sewed, for heaven’s sake. Expectations for my creation ran high in my little group of eight-year-olds.

And my finished project was indeed stunning—and would have looked wonderful on an organ grinder’s monkey. If the monkey’s left arm was three inches shorter than his right, that is.

Fast forward to my college years, and I could be found trying to develop a sport/hobby that I thought might come in handy someday: golf. My dorm at Wellesley College was right next to the golf course, so it should have been easy for me to learn, right? But by the time I graduated, my nickname was “The Divot Queen.” When I went to Wellesley, the school still had a sports requirement. Luckily for me, the coaches there had a sense of humor—or maybe it was pity. I graduated.

A few years later, I was trying to impress a date with my newest hobby, this time cooking. The poor guy made it gamely through the paella, which looked like fallout from some kind of saffron dirty bomb. After choking the last of it down, he looked at me with a strangely hopeful expression and suggested that we go to the Cheesecake Factory for dessert.

But now my own daughter is in college. And I’m pleased to say that, like our family’s recessive gene for red hair, the crafts/cooking/hobby gene has reemerged. I visited her a week ago, and she made a dinner that was a tour de force. Spanakopita, honeyed chicken kabobs, a fruit trifle (topped with a pattern of kiwi and strawberries that was reminiscent of a six-point star quilt). With no training from me whatsoever, my daughter has taken crafting to the next level. She does glass blowing, which has always struck me as a craft on steroids. You get to work near a blast furnace, wear goggles, and turn out spectacular things. Take, for example, a vase she made for me. It swirls and blooms with the colors of a Caribbean sunset. The vase sits in our kitchen’s solarium window, casting rainbows.

To me, those rainbows are my quilting ancestors, smiling. Their rainbow smiles tell me that all is forgiven—through my daughter, our family’s crafting honor has been restored.