Archaeology Can Be Murder

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By day, I’m an archaeologist at the University of Illinois. At night and on weekends, I morph into a mystery writer. My series is the Lisa Donahue Archaeological Mysteries, and my protagonist is a lot like me. She’s a museum curator trained in Classical and Near Eastern archaeology, she spent a junior year in Israel, and she has a daughter, a cat, and a medical husband (not necessarily in that order!).

So how does one go from archaeology to murder? I grew up in a household full of moldering old paperback mysteries (mostly Golden Age British novels), and my parents liked to read aloud to us from Sherlock Holmes (The Hound of the Baskervilles) and the like. Then I got a job in a dusty old attic museum where broken windows allowed pigeons to fly in and out and leave their deposits on Greek statues and suits of armor. While working on an interdisciplinary mummy project, I realized that my workplace was the perfect setting for murder.

Thus my first novel, “Bound for Eternity,” was born. In this story, Lisa discovers that an Egyptian mummy holds the secrets to two murders in her Boston Museum. (My old museum was moved from Illinois to Boston to protect the innocent). The prequel, “The Dead Sea Codex,” allowed Lisa to revisit Israel, hook up with an old boyfriend, and crisscross the desert looking for an ancient manuscript before Christian fanatics destroy it. Book 3 in the series, “The Fall of Augustus,” takes Lisa back to her museum at a time when the staff is supposed to move enormous plaster statues of Roman emperors and Greek gods down through an old elevator shaft. Sounds dangerous, right? Some of my colleagues actually did this at Illinois without misadventure, but naturally I changed the facts in my mystery so I could have the vicarious thrill of killing off two museum directors.

Book 4, “The House of the Sphinx,” takes a new direction. Lisa and her radiologist husband, James, take a delayed honeymoon in Egypt, where they stumble upon a plot to infect Western tourists with smallpox. I like to say that this plot (instead of another archaeological caper) is my husband’s fault, and that he’s a ghoul. Actually, Charlie’s a retired pathologist, and a great source of information on all things medical. He used to work for the Centers for Disease Control, and pointed me to their website. There I found a public, fully detailed plan for dealing with a modern smallpox epidemic. Scary stuff. While I Googled bioweapons and tried to figure out how to weaponize smallpox virus, the thought did cross my mind that someone out there might be watching my Internet use…fortunately, no one showed up on my doorstep.

I see many similarities between mystery writing and my “day job.” Archaeology is like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing; constructing a mystery is like solving a jigsaw puzzle, but all the pieces must be there and should fit at the end. Archaeologists deal with layers (stratigraphy), with the stuff on top being the most recent and the stuff deep down being the oldest. Similarly, the visible story in a mystery is the top layer (what the writer wants you to see), and the deeper layers hold the motives, the clues, and the detailed plot that is gradually revealed. If you want to see how far this analogy can go, check out the wonderful free ezine, Mysterical-E, and the article I wrote for them.

For more on my mysteries, visit http://www.sarahwisseman.com/

Happy digging!

Sarah Wisseman

“I’m Bored!” Today’s Kids and the Dearth of Activity in Their Lives

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You can’t go anywhere in this village without hearing about a terrible problem that exists and that is compromising the future of young minds. It is talked about incessantly at parties, at the playgrounds, and in the gourmet shops in town. It’s the age-old problem that TEENS DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO IN THE SUBURBS.

I didn’t realize what an epidemic this was or how detrimental it was to our children’s psyches. To combat this horrible situation, the village board proposed the idea of a “teen center,” location to be determined, to be constructed somewhere in the village. This teen center would show movies, have ping pong tables, host discussion groups (ostensibly to talk about one’s feelings, I’m guessing), and be a place where kids could get together in a safe, controlled environment. All of this was received with open arms from adults until the discussion progressed to where this teen center would exist. At that point, it because a classic case of suburban NIMBY or “Not in My Backyard,” which happens with just about everything in this village.

One of the suggested sites was a village-owned building that is right across the street from my house. I didn’t have a problem with it being there because the building is generally unused and to my thinking, no self-respecting teen was going to hang out in a teen center anyway. There are far more interesting things to do than play village-endorsed ping pong when you could be out wandering the streets with your fake I.D. looking for action, which from what I understand, is what many teens do on a weekend night.

The problem with a teen center, in my opinion, is that the kids who actually need a teen center, the real mischief makers, aren’t going to go anywhere near such a place unless it is to make mischief. Mark my words: the teen center will be populated by the good teens and while there’s nothing wrong with that, it doesn’t solve the problem that parents seem to think exists in small towns everywhere which is that many kids have nothing to do. As a result, they get into trouble.

I have pondered this idea of “generation whatever”—heck, what generation are we on anyway?—being forced into a life devoid of intellectual endeavors and/or fun activities and then created a list of what kids could do to make their lives more interesting in the face of daunting boredom and ennui.

1. Get a job: It seems to me that not many kids have jobs these days. Many kids play a variety of sports which make it virtually impossible to get a job that fits their schedule. However, a friend whose son is a star on our high school football team has managed to do so, working at a local bagel store from six in the morning until nine in the morning on the weekends, after which he goes to practice. Another kid I know who is very active in school plays manages to work at the gourmet grocery store in his off hours. It can be done. And it might help with the boredom. Nothing says excitement like a suburban mom screaming about the price of Land o’ Lakes yellow American.

2. Volunteer: Volunteering opportunities abound in this village and the county in which it is situated. My daughter and I volunteer every month at a soup kitchen not five miles from here. I do know that a group of kids goes to Nicaragua each year to build houses and latrines, and spend a good part of the year fundraising to offset the cost of each kid’s trip. In this village alone, we have a group that cares for the sick, homebound, and poor, and opportunities to get involved are plentiful. Our local library looks for volunteers to stack books, manage donations, and keep the library running smoothly. Our church does “midnight runs” to New York City to feed and clothe the homeless. Our Little League team always needs volunteers to play with the “Challengers,” developmentally and physically disabled kids who have their own league. There is no shortage of things that privileged kids can do to help others. Finding a volunteer program to get involved with is a perfect way to stave off boredom.

3. Study: Here’s a novel concept: take even an hour out of the time that you would be out carousing and hit the books. There is so much talk about getting into a good college these days, much more so than when I was a kid. (Case in point: I applied to two schools. Today’s kids average around eight.) Getting into a good school—or the one you have your heart set on—requires good grades and the only way to get good grades is to hit those books. Ideally, I should apply this advice to exercise, but since I’m pontificating, my habits are not up for review right now.

I grew up in a suburb and my parents grew up in the city. When remarking upon today’s kids and their lack of activities, my father said, “I grew up in the Bronx. There was nothing to do. So we hung out.” There’s another idea: just hang out. Walk down to our beautiful river and stroll along its banks. Take the dog. Take your little brother or sister. Stop and smell the roses. Sometimes, doing nothing is the best activity there is.

Thoughts, Stiletto faithful? What should today’s kids be doing to keep themselves occupied?

Maggie Barbieri

Switching Gears

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Known as a mystery writer, it seems really odd to be promoting my latest, a romance with a supernatural touch. Actually, I wrote this book long ago because of a tragedy that happened in our family–I think I did it as part of my grieving process. It was only available as an e-book. My publisher wanted to make it into a trade paperback and who am I to argue?

So it is now available in all the usual places. Anyone who wants an autographed copy can order it from my website; http;//fictionforyou.com

My publisher sent copies to the Public Safety Writers Association conference and I really didn’t think it was the type of book that would appeal to cops, FBI and others in the law enforcement fields since it deals with the death of deputy sheriff and what happens after with his wife and kids–but it sold way better than the two mysteries I’d brought.

So, for the next few weeks I’ll be promoting Lingering Spirit while writing the next in my Rocky Bluff P.D. series.

Marilyn

Me and My Protagonist

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Diane Fanning is the Edgar-nominated author of ten true crime books and four mystery novels. She has been featured on 48 Hours, 20/20, Forensic Files and radio stations from coast to coast. She is currently under contract for two additional true crime books and has a new mystery novel coming out January 1, 2011. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, she now lives in New Braunfels, Texas.

How much of your main protagonist is autobiographical?

It seems to be a perennial question for fiction writers and I’ve heard it, too, since I started writing the series about Virginia homicide detective Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce. Simply put, in my case, the answer is not much.

For starters, Lucinda is 5’11” and I’m only 5’2”—wishful thinking? Maybe.

Our childhoods bear only the vaguest of similarities. Although I have some of my own traumas, they pale in comparison to the ones in Lucinda’s life. She was a teenager when she watched her mother crumple and die and then heard the gunshot that signaled her father’s suicide. Lucinda’s face is scarred and one eye missing as a result of her attempts to protect another woman during a domestic violence call early in her career as a police officer.

Lucinda and I have very different jobs. Although I write about crime and murder in my non-fiction true crime books and in my fiction series, I’ve never had to draw a gun and no one has ever aimed one at me. Lucinda does that and actually solves cases and puts the bad guys behind bars. I just write about it.

So where do Lucinda and I intersect? In some ways, I created the woman I want to be—a woman who stands up for her principles, empathizes with victims and lets nothing stand in the way of her ardent pursuit for justice. She’s a woman of courage who doesn’t hesitate in the face of danger—one who is ready to barge in where angels feared to tread.

But, I didn’t want to create a Superwoman—I wanted someone real, a person who screws up from time to time, like we all do. I gave her a couple of my flaws, like a constant questioning of authority and a willingness to forgo the permission process and hope to survive the forgiveness part.

Then, I gave her some faults of her own: her aversion to commitment that extended to friendships as well as relationships; an estrangement from her family; permanent impatience with process and occasionally with people; and a pathological aversion to the FBI and male drivers.

In The Trophy Exchange and Punish the Deed, Lucinda tracked down serial killers. In the latest book, Mistaken Identity, she chases the perpetrator of a double murder. The 11-year-old son of the two victims refuses to believe his father is dead insisting that his Dad gained immortal life after making a pact with the devil many identities ago.

To solve the murder, Lucinda needs to untangle the boy’s web of fantasy, unravel the lies that conceal the motive for the crime and travel to Texas in pursuit of a lead. Along the way, she breaks a few rules, irritates a number of people but gets the job done.

She feels very real to me—in fact, I even dreamed about her once, much to my surprise. I like Lucinda Pierce and I admire her. Unfortunately, I’m not really sure about what she’d think of me. Dare I insert a meeting in a future book? Do I really want to know how she’d react? I don’t know—do you?

Diane Fanning

Greatest Hits: My Kids’ Best One-Liners

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by Rachel Brady

Some of you know that I frequently use my Facebook status to share amusing things my kids say. A friend encouraged me to start saving those gems in a Word file too, and I was recently surprised to find that I’ve been at it now for a year. Here are their Greatest Hits of the last 12 months in reverse chronological order. From the mouths of babes . . .

June 2010

Jill and I were having a general discussion about kids and how they can be tough on furniture. She nodded toward her brother and sister. “That’s why you should have stopped before you had those two.”

While we were driving down the highway, Jill said, “See that place called Kids For Less? You think that’s an adoption center?”

Me, to the kids: “Trust me guys. I’m old and wise.” Lindsay (conciliatory): “Don’t say that, Mom! You’re not wide!”

May 2010

Sam unwittingly corroborated my impressions of last weekend’s slumber party: “Mom, where is that necklace that Lindsay got at her screaming girl party?”

Maybe I use my laptop too much. When asked to name a “D vegetable”, Jill came up with a Dell pepper.

Me, to the slumber party: “Does anyone have to use the restroom before bed?” Visiting child, worried: “Why? Are you going to lock it up for the night?”

Sam: “Are you sorry?” Me: “For what?” Sam: “For not letting me have that piece of caramel this morning.” Me: “No. I’m your mom. It’s my job to make sure you have a real breakfast.” Sam: “No, it’s not. Your job is to push me on the swing.”

Me (thinking I was alone): “Heeeeyy, good lookin’…” Sam, from the other room: “Whaaaatcha got cookin’?”

April 2010

Lullabye update. “Mom, sing that ten more times.” Me: “Ten? That’s too many.” Sam: “How about four times because I’m four?”

My nine year old kid just “yada yada yada”d me.

Doing an art project with Jill, I got: “Looking pretty good, Mom. You should be an artist instead of a scientist or engineer or whatever you are.”

Me to Jill: “Well, one reason I don’t buy you more stuff is because I think it diminishes your appreciation for what you have.” Her reply: “I do appreciate those things, Mom. I’m just saying I’d like to have more things to appreciate.”

Sam wanted an explanation for “butt talk,” and I was concerned he’d come home with some new language for rude behavior, but it turns out he’d only learned the word “buttock,” pronounced Forrest Gump style.

I awoke at 3 a.m. to Jill prowling the house with her reading flashlight, searching for the Easter baskets. By 6:30 a.m. all three were in the back yard vying for the eggs. Red Bull, please.

March 2010

Fun clues I got from the girls playing Catch Phrase: “The hat of Texas” turned out to be Oklahoma, and “Those yellow people on TV” turned out to be The Simpsons.

Sam: “Mom, on your next birthday, wish to be a boy. Then you can pee standing up. Got it?”

Me: “You sure ask me some funny stuff.” Jill: “We’re kids. It’s our job to crack up our moms.”

February 2010

From Lindsay tonight, a note with MOTHER as an acronym: Mom, Outstanding, Terrific, Huggable, “Exelent,” Radiant. What a great way to end my day.

Public service announcement from Sam: “If you get near a jelly fish, stay away from his tempicles.”

Me: “What’s so hard about being a kid?” Jill: “Having a sister.” Me: “I never had one. I think that would be fun.” Jill: “Well, maybe we can switch places sometime. Then you can feel my pain.”

January 2010

Sam: “Is this how you spell your name? O-M-O?” Me: “Pretty close. M-O-M.”:-)

Sam: “Can I have a piece of candy?” Me: “Who’s the best mom ever?” Sam: “You.” I gave the nod. Next it was Jill: “Can I have one? You.”

I was making lasagna, radio playing, when my 4-year-old turned and quoted: “Just the two of us. We can make it if we try, Mom.”

I recently asked Jill if she knew what oatmeal was good for. I was going for “your heart.” Her reply: “Cookies.”

Woke up snuggled next to Sam this morning, who opened his eyes and immediately said, “No singing in the shower, Mom. I want to sleep.”

December 2009

Another round of Outburst with Jill. “Parts of the body that come in pairs”… Jill’s answer: Butt cheeks.

Played Outburst with my girls. Jill’s category was Pizza Toppings and I was trying to clue her into anchovies: “Do you know the name of those disgusting little fish some people put on their pizzas?” She snaps her fingers and her face lights up: “MINNOWS!”

Sam caught the garter tonight. Says he has to find a “yittle girl to get married with.”

Sam put me on the Naughty list. No explanation was offered. The statement was: “I’m putting you on the Naughty list because you’re naughty. How do you spell your name?”

Sam has been giving me stickers this morning. He just confided, “Mom, don’t let Jill see these.” I said, “Are these Jill’s stickers you’ve been bringing me?” He said, “Yes, and if she finds out, it’s gonna be BAD.”

Me (singing): “Oh, Sammy, I love you so! Never never never gonna let you go!” Sam: “Why will you never never never let me go? Does this mean we’ll be stuck here at basketball practice forever?”

Driving in the rain with Sam, a wiper blade came loose: “Uh-oh, Mom. Looks like we need a new car.”

Jill: “Mom, who was the first person on the planet?” Me: “Not sure, I wasn’t there.” Jill: “Sure you were.”

Lindsay: “I love you mom. I hope you never die.” Me: “Love you too, baby. I’ll do my best not to die.” Lindsay: “Me too. I’ll eat a lot of carrots.”

Sam: “Why does the sky have to rain?” Me: “Because clouds are made of water. When they get too full of water, that’s when it rains.” Sam, after a thoughtful pause: “Mom? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

After seeing Lindsay kiss me under the mistletoe, Sam announced that “only one person has to do it,” thereby absolving himself of any kissing-Mom duties. They learn to break hearts young.

November 2009

Jill, on our drive home from Target: “Mom, are there any famous singers besides Taylor Swift and Hannah Montana who aren’t dead?” …Maybe it’s time for me to roll some contemporary artists into the mix.

Sam proclaimed a new allergy, this time to milk. Me: “You’re not allergic to milk.” Sam: “I am.” Me: “Do you know what ice cream is made of?” Sam: “What?” Me: “Milk.” Sam: “No. Ice.” Me: “Afraid not. Milk.” Sam: “Then why is it ice cream?” Me: “Cream is made from milk.” Sam: “I know that mom.” And I have these conversations why?

Lindsay on orbits: “It’s like the sun is just sitting there, watching TV. Being lazy. The Earth wants some exercise, so it runs around the sun, around and around. And the moon wants in on it too, so it runs around the Earth.”

Sam asks for the crust to be removed from his sandwich. Claims allergy to crust.

Crimebake writers’ conference is having a costume banquet Saturday evening… anything from the late 1800s to mid-1900s. I asked Sam if he’d help me find a costume today, and he expressed strong feelings that I attend as a vampire.

Tough Mommy moment tonight. The note I found waiting at Jill’s room: “Keep out! Don’t touch! Don’t donate! Stay out of our stuff! Stay out of our tareotory!” I don’t think my efforts at clutter elimination were appreciated.

Watching Sam’s soccer practice together, Jill was telling me about her friend’s theories regarding gerbil heaven when she randomly smacked me in the side of the head: “Mosquito.” And then right back to what she was saying.

October 2009

Jill’s new career aspiration: “Mom, when I grow up I’m going to write commercials for food, but only for the foods I like. Oatmeal, candy, and cookie dough.”

Jill and Lindsay’s new way to mess with Sam: tell him he’s “fired” as uncle to their pets. You would not believe how many times my shower was interrupted with complaints from a recently fired three-year-old.

Jill: “Mama, when you’re a Grandma are you going to spoil our kids like Grandpa spoils us, or are you going to act to them the way you act to us?” Me: “I’ll probably spoil them.” Jill: (squinting at me and pointing a finger…) “Naughty.”

Me: “Whose birthday is it today?” Sam: “Jill’s.” Me: “How old is she?” Sam: “Nine.” Me: “How old is Lindsay?” Sam: “Seven.” Me: “How old are you?” Sam: “Free and… a half.” Me: “How old am I?” Sam: “Seventy.”

All together now, to the tune of “She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain”: Water travels in a cycle, yes it does. Water travels in a cycle, yes it does. It goes up as evaporation then comes down as precipitation, water travels in a cycle, yes it does.

Lindsay is singing “King of the Road” in the bathtub, but her lyric is slightly off: “Two hours of pushing broom buys an eighth or twelve four do soon.”

Jill asked whether there were TVs when I was a kid. That one kind of made my stomach flutter.

I was just admonished by a three-year-old. My speaking while he played GameBoy apparently caused him to die.

September 2009

On the way home from school, Jill asked, “Mom, you know how you look right now? Is that as good as you can do, or can you look better?” I replied that I was sure I could do a lot better. “What prompted that?” I asked. She described a facial product on TV that makes women look younger and finished with her hands up defensively: “Not that you need it! I’m just sayin’.”

Getting ready for my lunch with some big-wigs at work, I told Sam I was going to be having lunch with some scary people. He asked, “Are they Halloween people?” Jill’s advice was simply not to order the okra since, I guess, that’s the only thing that might really make a bad impression. Lately, all of Lindsay’s make-believe characters are talking with British accents.

Sam: “Mommy, can I watch SpongeBob Squarepants?” Me: “You know mommy doesn’t like SpongeBob.” Sam: “Then don’t yook at him.”

Jill turns her attention to marketing. “If IHOP changed their name to *Incredible* House of Pancakes, I bet they’d get more business.”

August 2009

When Sam goes swimming he requires a “babing suit and gobbles.”

I was getting out of the shower and Jill kept talking to me through the bathroom door so much that I felt like I was being stalked. I told her to go play. “I can’t,” she said. “I accidentally tied myself to the door knob.”

Sam, reflecting on his soft pretzel today at the zoo: “Mm. This white stuff’s super good.” (the salt)

I must be getting predictable. I told Sam, “I think I’ll put on some music.” He said, “Patsy Cline, mom?” Which I thought was fun enough. So I told him yes. And he said, “She’s *Crazy*.”

Took the kids to see a movie at the local *Cinema 6*, but Sam was under the impression we were going out for “Cinnamon Sticks.”

Another Jill classic: “If Johnny Cash were alive would you let him sign your guitar?” “Yes.” “I wish I could sign your guitar.” “If you ever do I’ll kill you.” “What? You love me more than Johnny Cash but he could sign it and I can’t? Well, that’s just weird.”

Jill and Lindsay asked me why Nintendo doesn’t make a Gamegirl.

Me: “Why is there a soccer goal in my bathroom?” Jill: “I just felt like it.”

Lindsay smoked me at air hockey. While playing, she said, “Sorry to do this to you, Mom. I’m not even playing my best game.” And she meant it sincerely.

Driving home from a date with Lindsay. “We are the Champions” came on the radio. She asked me who was singing. I said, “I’m not sure but I think this is Queen.” She said that no, it wasn’t. I asked if she knew who it was. She said, “It’s the Champions.”

I asked what the best part of the museum was. Jill said the dinosaur bones. Sam… the elevator. I called Lindsay my mini-me and she responded by calling me her huge-me, which somehow seemed less endearing.

July 2009

Jill, 8, announces career plans: “First I’m going to be an actress, maybe make a few movies, and then I’m going to buy Sea World.”

Night 3 at the forts disappoints. Much chit chat, whispering, and lollygagging. Also questions I can’t answer, such as, “Mom, how do fish drink water?” They taunt me.

Second night for the individual living room forts. Like yesterday, they all went right to sleep in an eerily compliant sort of way. You don’t suppose they are storing up energy, preparing for The Great Coup of ’09?

My kids are sleeping in individual living room forts. I find this adorable.

Sam asked for Bobby McGee as his lullaby. He calls it Bobby BaGee, otherwise known as “the train song.” Knows most of the words! Tonight’s twist? “Mommy, sing it sixty times.” Got upset when I stopped after three.

* * * * *

These guys are my greatest joys. I can’t begin to imagine what they’ll come up with between now and next summer. What are your best kid and grandkid quotes?

Summer Reading List

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Lazy summer days are perfect for ready a drop dead excellent mystery. Cozies are my favorites. I definitely go through phases, and I’m in one now, devouring as many books as I can, using my time to enjoy new authors and reacquaint myself with old favorites.


Here’s a list of some great cozy mystery authors to dive into when you have a lazy summer day.


Agatha Christie = Mystery



Agatha’s the goddess of the the murder mysteries. Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot are two of the most recognizable sleuths in fiction and live on even today. Of course I have fond memories of Tommy and Tuppence, too, as my mom named two of our cats Tommy and Tuppence.


Cat Among the Pigeons was one of my favorites (I spent my entire high school career holed up in a math classroom during lunch reading Grand Dame Agatha’s books… no dances, no dates, no prom, just mysteries!).


All of her books may not be traditionally cozy, but she’ll always be my favorite.


Other authors I’m loving at the moment are:



Wendy Lyn Watson and her mystery ala mode books (book 2 will be out in September!). Ice cream and mystery, what’s not to love?

















Heather Webber and Truly, Madly, not to mention Deeply, Desperately. Matchmaker mysteries? LOVE them.

















Juliet Blackwell and her Witchcraft Mysteries. Now, I am in the middle of this book and I am really enjoying it. It has la Llorona in it! I wrote a romantic suspense that centered on la Llorona, so I was destined to love this.













Annette Blair and her Vintage Magic Mysteries. Vintage clothing store, ghosts, and small New England living. Just my cup of tea.














Charlaine Harris and her Aurora Teagarden and Lily Bard Mysteries. I haven’t tried Harper Connelly… any thoughts?




These are just a few of the many, many books on my tall, tall stack.


I’d love other suggestions, though, so I know what to move to the top (stiletto books excepted, as the high-heeled lady’s books already some of my faves!!).


Go ahead, help me craft my summer reading list!



~Misa


And check out Word Filled Writer’s Workshop Wednesday!! ( you can still play along, even though it’s Thursday, now! )

The Word Count

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I’ve been writing about “counts” a lot–pitch counts, word counts…when I get to “blood counts,” cut me off, okay?

A friend of mine, Jessica Park, author of the delightful Gourmet Girl mysteries, posed a question on Facebook a few weeks back. She wanted to know what her fellow authors’ daily word count was. In other words, how many words does each author aspire to write every day? People chimed in with a variety of responses, from “1000words is a great day for me,” to “any amount as long as they’re good.” I’m paraphrasing, but you get the drift. My response?

“If it’s the week before deadline, 45,000. Otherwise, 10.”

I’m really hoping my editor, also a Facebook friend, didn’t see that confession.

Due to the fact that I work full time—or maybe because I have Attention Deficit Disorder—I have a very scattershot approach to writing. If the mood strikes, I’ll put everything aside for an hour or two and write away. For instance, I had a great idea for the current work-in-progress last week, and banged out 5000 words, some of them pretty good, the rest just okay. That’s what revision is for. To my mind right now, though, they are there and they are words and they count. Other weeks, I won’t touch the WIP at all, focusing instead on my paying work, for which I have rolling deadlines and obligations that eat up anywhere between eight and twelve hours every day.

My deadline every year for a new Alison Bergeron mystery is New Year’s Eve. Generally, by about October, I have three quarters of a first draft which I mull over between Halloween and December 1st. Then, once December hits, I kick it into high gear and write the rest of the first draft, focusing on revising while trying to Christmas shop, meet work deadlines, and decorate the house for the holidays. All in all, December is a very stressful month. I usually finish the shopping, I always finish the book, and I never decorate the house to my liking.

I wish I was one of those writers who could sit down and bang out a thousand or so words every day, regardless of whether or not they are good words. I find that the more I write, the better I become and the more I want to write. But life—and work—keep intervening and I have a hard time finding a routine that works for me.

There are things I should do in order to establish a writing routine. Let’s ignore them for the time being and focus, instead, on things I won’t do to establish a regular writing routine:

1. Get up at 4 a.m. Some things are just not worth the bother.
2. Stay up until midnight. How would I get my ten hours of beauty sleep with that bed time?
3. Write on the weekends. This will only happen between the dates December 15th and December 31st. (Remember that yearly deadline?)
4. Write during my lunch hour. Lunch hour? What’s that?
5. Write at the local coffee shop to avoid interruptions. That would involve leaving the house. And that’s just not going to happen.

What do you do to establish a writing schedule? And what is your daily word count?

Maggie Barbieri

Murphy’s Law

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The Public Safety Writers Association had their annual writers’ conference in Las Vegas this past weekend. This conference is for anyone who writes fiction or non-fiction about or for any of the public safety fields–which includes mystery writers. I’ve worked all year as the program chair for this event.

Right before we left for the conference, I learned that one of the board members who also serves as the m.c. for the conference had been bitten by a spider and had a terrible infection and couldn’t come. His wife is the treasurer of the group and the one who takes care of book sales and of course she stayed home to care for her hubby.

My hubby, poor put upon soul who always helped the treasurer, stepped up to the plate and worked his you know what all weekend taking care of all the money that came in for books, extra lunches, and extra days at the conference. (He was too busy to fall asleep, something he’s done on past occasions.)

The president of the group m.c.’d and did a great job.

I took lots of pictures–and yes, some of the women who participated, but then my iPhone died and I couldn’t send them to my computers.

Two of my panels had to switch times because of a speaker having to leave early to catch a plane.

Other than that the conference really was terrific. The photos are of best selling author, Simon Wood, who was our keynote speaker and told us all about how to create suspense in our stories whether they be mysteries or thrillers. Simon also has the most wry sense of humor and is super friendly.

The other fellow is Kregg Jorgenson, who besides being Vietnam war hero, also has been in about every law enforcement organization there is including Homeland Security and the Border Patrol. He talked about how to sell articles to any kind of magazine. Terrific!

Sunny Frazier gave a presentation on how much sex is too much in a mystery–and she’d asked a lot of authors and the general consensus came down to whether or not the sex moved the plot along. Needless to say she held her audience’s attention.

Michael Black gave us a demonstration on how to plot a book in an hour that was terrific–complete with all kinds of colored post-it notes.

Morgan St. James gave a terrific presentation on POV. Retired FBI agent, Mark Bouton, gave us a demonstration complete with pictures about how to tell if someone is telling a lie.

We had lots of panels on all sorts of writing topics from using supernatural elements in our books to writing for trade publications.

Unlike many writing conferences, this one has one track and almost everyone stays for the whole day despite the call of the slot machines.

I told my husband it sure was a lot more fun to go to a conference where you never know what went wrong then to be the one who had to solve all the problems.

Despite all this, everyone had a great time and as soon as I recover, I’ll start working on next year’s program.

Marilyn

Vacation Anyone?

/in /by

I Know I Need a Vacation When ….

  1. I have trouble remembering what day of the week it is.
  2. I can’t even tolerate listening to the politicians with whom I agree. (To my Southern ears the phrase “with whom” grates, but I’ll try to dumb down the rest of my list.)
  3. I’m fascinated by reality tv – in particular Ice Road Truckers and Billy the Exterminator. (See that dumbing down thing is easy.)
  4. Book promotion feels like pulling teeth. (Okay it always feels that way to me, but at the moment it feels like having my wisdom teeth removed again – the way it was done 30 years ago – strapped down in the dentist chair with your mouth jacked open with some kind of rubber bracing. Only the dentist and the people in the adjacent buildings could hear the screams.)
  5. I’ll eat my Cheerios dry rather than make a trip to the grocery store.
  6. I resent having to explain “why” more than once. (Yes, I know. That’s just me getting old and cranky – taking a vacation won’t help.)
  7. I’m happy when I get one item on my “to-do” list done each day. Today I changed my central air conditioning filter. I had to use a flashlight to illuminate the operation since replacing the light bulb in the hallway would have just been too much effort. Maybe tomorrow.
  8. The highlight of the week is putting all my extra red pepper flake packets from Pizza Hut deliveries into a Tupperware container instead of stuffing them in a kitchen drawer to wander and breed with the Parmesan cheese and soy sauce packets.
  9. I seriously consider stocking up on disposable plates and cups so I never have to wash dishes again. (Along with this thought was a fleeting urge to toss all the dirty dishes in the trash and start over with new stuff. Lack of money and the fear my mother would find out held me back.)
  10. Even the Gulf Coast beaches with the floating tar balls and oily birds look like good places to park a lounge chair.

On a Serious Note: I’ve been to the Gulf Coast several times – New Orleans, Gulf Port, Biloxi, Ship Island, etc. It hurts to think about the damage the oil is causing to the environment and to the people who are losing a way of life. I hope the leaking oil well is plugged soon and we – the nation – find a way to prevent any similar environmental disasters in the future. I know we need the oil – but we have to protect our oceans and marshes too.

Rhonda
aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David

In the Pink

/in /by

by Susan McBride

Last Saturday, I woke up to the alarm buzzing at 6 a.m. and quickly dressed in my running shoes, yoga pants, and my hot pink T-shirt so I’d be ready at 6:30 when my ride showed up to head downtown for this year’s Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. St. Louis turned pink that day, from the fountain at Kiener Plaza to pink “ribbons” plastered on the sides of buildings. It was my fourth Race since I finished radiation treatment after my diagnosis of breast cancer in December of 2006, and I felt much different than I had back in June of 2007 when I first participated. Being a survivor was new to me then. Heck, I’d never felt “sick” in the first place, even after an MRI confirmed I had a lump in my left boob. It’s amazing how three little words like “You’ve got cancer” can change your life.

Although I’d tried to stay fit during my surgeries and rad therapy, it meant strolling on the treadmill or unloading the dishwasher so that my left arm could regain enough mobility to finally reach the top cabinet shelf. When I walked in the Race in 2007 with Ed, my good friend and fellow survivor Shelly, and Shelly’s hubby Jerry, I didn’t know what to expect. Would I even be able to finish the 5k? Would someone bump my left boob (I was afraid of that for a loooong time)? Would I be so overwhelmed that I’d cry?

Shelly and I did skip the “Survivors’ Walk,” which they do early on before the Race starts, because she warned me it was very, very emotional. I decided that I’d done enough bawling after my diagnosis, and I prefered to avoid further tears. So we ran around to some of the freebie booths (Ed thinks it’s funny that women who survive breast cancer aren’t afraid to trample each other to collect bags of free loot). Then we took our Race team pictures, and I hung out with some of the St. Louis Public Library team members (love those library ladies!). Music blared and people hugged, and a sense of affirmation bubbled up inside me so that I had tears in my eyes anyway!

Once the Race started, we were all business. I remember Shelly and Jerry booking so fast I wondered how I’d ever keep up! I kept downing bottled water as I walked, telling myself, “You can do this, you can do this.” That was important somehow, just finishing the Race and not collapsing. People cheering the Racers from the sidewalks hooted especially loud when Shelly and I passed in our “Survivor” T-shirts. At first, that unnerved me. Why all the fuss? What had I done? I mused until I realized we stood for something to them: HOPE. If we had survived and were fit enough to briskly walk a 5k, then, by God, they could climb over obstacles, too.

This year, it was weird to imagine that I’m 3-1/2 years post-diagnosis. I felt strong as I walked–and, baby, I walked fast!–and, once again, I was initially surprised to hear the loud cheers from the sidelines. Although now it’s more because I feel very ordinary compared to the many women I’ve met since my diagnosis who’ve gone through what I’ve gone through (and much tougher stuff, too). I am surrounded by these ladies–my heroes–on a daily basis, and I don’t know what I’d do without them. When I whine about aches and pains, they make me laugh and, as importantly, they make me feel like I’m normal (or at least as normal as I’ll ever be!). Because if there’s one thing that having had cancer takes away from you, it’s the sense of normalcy. Oh, yeah, the scars it leaves on your skin have nothing on the havoc it’s wreaked in your head.

Although when you’re walking in a sea of over 71,000 people, nearly 5,000 of them survivors, as I did at the Race this past Saturday, you realize how NOT alone you are. Once you’re a member of this huge pink army, you’re a member for life.

P.S. Speaking of being in the pink, I’ve got a PINK, GEEK, AND CHIC CONTEST going on at my web site. You could win a hot pink tote bag, some hot books, and a DVD of “Star Trek” (the one with Chris Pine as Capt. Kirk)! Good luck!