The Weirdness of Being a Writer

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by Susan McBride

Here I go again, getting all geared up and nervous for a new book release (11 days from today, to be exact!). I’m strapping on my mental Kevlar vest and my sturdiest virtual helmet, and I’m crossing fingers, toes, legs, eyes, whatever’s remotely cross-able. On January 26, THE COUGAR CLUB will be available in bookstores all over the place, and three women who have lived in my head since I signed a contract in September of 2008 will be unleashed on the world, at which point they will cease to belong only to me. They will be wide open to public scrutiny, and I’ll have to accept the inevitable: some readers and reviewers will find these women fabulous and inspiring and all sorts of good things, and others will hold their noses and declare them odious, pounding out angry one-star reviews on Amazon that warn others not to spend a single penny on such drivel. Gulp! And I will have no control over either. (Sweat is breaking out on my upper lip as I type this but my positive thinking will surely evaporate it in no time, right?)

It’s a weird thing sometimes, being a writer. I mean, it sounds really fabulous when you decide at some point, “I want to be Margaret Mitchell (or Harper Lee or Barbara Taylor Bradford)! I have stories to tell! I want to share my wild imagination and love of words with the universe!” Only you don’t stop and think how unsafe an occupation it truly is, and there are no OSHA rules to protect those of us determined enough to proceed. It’s one thing to have your mother read your first manuscript and declare, “This is brilliant! Pure genius!” It’s another to peel one eye open enough to read what Publishers Weekly or Library Journal or Romantic Times decided about your latest opus. To put it bluntly, publishing can be scary!

Like, simply writing a book isn’t tough enough. I was emailing with Ellen Byerrum (who’s on a crazy deadline) the other day, and she asked me if the process ever got any easier. I didn’t need to think too hard to answer, “Nope, it never does.” THE COUGAR CLUB will be my 10th published novel–and number 11 has been in the can since last January–and even before I was under contract, I wrote 10 manuscripts that will never see the light of day. Whew, it makes me tired just recalling how much blood, sweat, and tears I’ve dripped on my keyboard through the years. Those of us who write don’t do it for the glory or the money. Anytime I hear a starry-eyed novice proclaim, “I’m going to write a book and make a lot of money so I can quit my job and support my family,” I have to fight the urge to say, “Are you crazy?” How nice it would be if it worked out that way! (Plus, you never know. I mean, if your name is Stephenie and you had a dream about a vampire, then that’s pretty much how it went.)

For those of us who are mere mortals, success doesn’t come overnight. It comes through persistence, determination, sacrifice of time with friends and family, lots of travel and self-promotion, and the unflagging hope that “maybe this will be the one.” Because, honestly, in this business you never know. It’s not always possible to predict where lightning will strike in book publishing (or else publishers would only be putting out best-sellers, as they say).

Despite the odds, despite how weird this game is to play (with the rules ever-changing), despite the naysayers declaring things like, “Books will be obsolete by 2025”–okay, I made that up but someone probably did say it!–I can’t imagine doing anything else. Words have always been my passion. I was the kid in grade school scribbling stories in my Big Chief tablet just for fun, not because it was homework. I was the student who grinned when I heard the phrase “essay test,” because I knew I could write my way through anything. I’ve always played “what if” in my head: “What if that boy on the bike is running away from something…what did he do and where is he going?”

It’s who I am, it’s what I do, and, God help me, but I love it. It’s never easy, but it satisfies some part of me that I can’t even explain. And I worry over every new book that’s about to be released, no matter that I realize I can’t control what happens to it any more than I can control the weather. So in eleven days, I’ll hold my breath for a second when I wake up, knowing that I’m letting THE COUGAR CLUB out into the wild. At least I can be sure of what my mom will say about it: “This is brilliant! Pure genius!” (You’ve gotta love moms!)

Sneak Peek at The Cougar Club by Susan McBride

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Kat Maguire on getting older:

Aging gracefully isn’t about aging gratefully. It’s about living life with your engine on overdrive, making love with all the lights on, trashing your diet books, and diving into the chocolate cake.

Chapter One

When it rains, it pours.

The sky opened up just as Kat Maguire exited Grand Central Station after taking the express train from Chambers Street in Tribeca. She’d left Roger’s loft without an umbrella as the chirpy meteorologist had promised “cloudy skies with a slim chance of afternoon showers.” Right! Maybe she should have peered out the window instead of sparring over whose turn it was to pick up the dry cleaning and running around like a chicken with her head cut off before dashing out the door. She had a client meeting scheduled for eight-fifteen, and it was nearly that now.
The late February drizzle turned the air gray around her, and Kat shivered in her trench coat. Mist settled on her face and falling drops pelted her hair. With a resigned sigh, she did the only thing she could, much as it pained her: she set her black leather Coach briefcase atop her head and merged into the mass of shuffling humanity. She noticed plenty of them had umbrellas.

She ignored her stomach which loudly complained about skipping her daily fix of coffee and bagel from Hot ‘n Crusty. She was running late and couldn’t afford to slow down much less stop. The BuzzShots account was too important to the advertising agency’s bottom line since profits weren’t what they used to be. With an unsettling shake-up in the employee ranks of late—“thinning out faster than Donald Trump’s hair,” as one nervous staffer had put it—Kat felt like her career was on the line as well.

Just a block to go and she’d be standing in front of the building that housed Dooney & Marling set smack across the street from the stone lions guarding the New York Public Library. Good thing she could walk it blindfolded after fifteen years, because she could hardly see two feet ahead of her. She didn’t slow her brisk pace until she pushed through the glass doors. With a “woo” of relief, she lowered her briefcase and her aching arm then brushed damp strands of hair from her brow.

“Raining cats and dogs out there, eh, Kat?” the white-haired security guard quipped as she passed his desk with a cursory wave. “Bet it’s the dogs part you hate.”
Ha ha. He was lucky she didn’t have a moment to waste, or she might have tasered him with the lonely weapon dangling from his utility belt. Her mood was as foul as the weather.
“Hold it, please!” Kat called out as she made a beeline for the bank of elevators just as a pair of doors slapped shut. Dammit. Sneezing, she sent soggy brown bangs into her eyes again as she pressed the “up” button. While she waited, she stamped on her drenched leather boots, leaving tiny puddles on the marble floor. She watched the long hand on the clock above the elevators tick ahead a notch, to 13 minutes past eight, and panic set in.

Mindful of the slick tiles, she hurried toward the stairs. High heels tapping, she climbed rapidly at first but had to slow down around the fourth floor. When she arrived on nine, she was panting, heart skidding against her ribcage. With no time to catch her breath, she pushed open frosted glass doors and trudged through the lobby of D&M, homing in on the glorified cubicle that served as her office. She’d scarcely gotten off her coat to hang it up when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Ms. Maguire? Mr. Garvey wants to see you.”
“Now?” Kat blinked at the pony-tailed stranger standing at the cubby’s threshold. Gertrude, her secretary for a decade, had departed just last week in another round of brutal lay-offs, and everyday there were fewer familiar faces and more per diem fill-ins floating around the place. “I’m sure it can wait.”

“He said ASAP,” the girl insisted, her un-rouged skin positively blood-less. She gnawed on her lower lip, most of her plum-hued lipstick already chewed away.

Kat laughed. “Like that’s gonna happen.” She quickly wiped off her boots and briefcase with a handful of Kleenex and tried not to drip on the paperwork she’d dumped atop her desk. “I’ve got a meeting in the conference room that started already. I’ll duck into Chace’s office after I’m done.”

The temp cleared her throat again. “He said it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” As in her client meeting had been canceled? Kat couldn’t imagine any other reason for being summoned pronto. Had she missed an important text?
Kat snatched her BlackBerry from her bag but it didn’t show anything but a fresh message from Roger—the only way they communicated lately besides arguing—getting in the last word on the Great Dry Cleaning Debate: Its UR turn! And wld U plz get Chinese 2 nite while UR at it? Wow, placing his dinner order already? Well, at least he’d said “plz.”

“Mr. Garvey’s waiting, Ms. Maguire,” the girl prodded, obviously not going away. “You want me to walk you down there?”
“No, thanks, I can manage,” Kat said brusquely and left her BuzzShots files on her desk. She couldn’t very well blow off her boss, even if it meant having to apologize profusely to the energy drink execs. Kat just hoped her two juniors on the account had arrived early enough to ply the clients with Krispy Kremes and coffee. “You can let Mr. Garvey know I’m on my way.”

The temp scuttled back to her desk as Kat marched toward the office of Chace Haywood Garvey, Jr., the very young senior vice-president who lorded over the New Accounts division. She passed the conference room en route and glanced through the glass panels to see Steph and Marsh on their feet, well into the Power Point presentation she’d been working on for weeks.

Kat jerked to a stand-still, so startled they’d begun the pitch without her that her head spun. She nearly barged into the room, forgetting Chace altogether; but a weird feeling in her gut made her reconsider. Something bad was brewing, and it wasn’t the Sam’s Club Kona. One foot in front of the other, as her daddy liked to say; so she moved on.

“Morning, Maryanne,” she greeted her boss’s secretary on the way into his office; but the frizzy-haired woman didn’t even peer over her monitor. In fact, she seemed intent on looking down at her keyboard, avoiding Kat’s eyes.

Uh-oh. Kat drew in a deep breath before briskly knocking on her boss’s door. She didn’t wait for an invitation to step inside.

“Do you realize Steph and Marshall are mid-pitch with BuzzShots, and I’ve been slaving over that account for months?” she complained as he rose from his desk and motioned for her to take a seat. “Whatever you have to say, please make it quick.”

Chace frowned, puckering his baby face. “Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” He seemed to have as much trouble looking up at her as Maryanne. Usually, he was all smiles and back-slapping, like he was still in the frat house at Penn State and not a decade removed. He didn’t even mention that she looked like a semi-drowned rat.
Run, Kat’s intuition was telling her. Run straight back to the loft and call in sick. Only it was too late for that. She sat down opposite him, and the anxious knot tightened in her belly.
“I don’t know an easy way to put this.” Chace leaned forward and blinked pale-lashed eyes in her direction. “The economy’s not doing us any favors. We’ve had to make some tough choices here at D&M, and sadly that means letting go of valuable employees on every level.”

“I’ve already lost Gertrude so what else do you want from me?” Kat asked and rubbed her hands over her knees, wondering who was next. “Are you breaking up my team? Steph’s a little green, but she’s a fast learner and ambitious as hell—”
“We’re not letting Stephanie go,” Chace interrupted.
“You’re laying-off Marshall?”
As soon as Kat said it, she knew it wasn’t possible, considering her boss had been the one to hire him, a fellow Penn State grad and brother in Sigma Chi. The two of them hit bars together after work. Which could only mean one thing, couldn’t it?

Oh, shit, it’s me, Kat realized just before Chace puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “I’m sorry, Kat. We hate to lose another seasoned player, but things are tough all over. We either have to trim the budget or take down the whole ship.”

A neon EXIT sign started flashing in Kat’s head, though the rational part of her thought no, no, no, this can’t be real.

“I’m being pink-slipped?” She grinned like a goof, praying it was some kind of bad joke. She’d been with the agency since well before Chace’s family connections had gotten him his cushy veep gig. Hell, since before Chace had taken his first legal drink. “You’re kidding, right?”

For a third of her life, she’d devoted herself to this place, sacrificing holidays, her family, and her social life, all so she could ravage her manicure climbing the ladder from lowly copy writer to New Accounts Team Leader. If the BuzzShots campaign scored a hit, she’d be due a more senior position with plenty of perks and more job security.

“It’s a scary world,” she heard Chace saying as he slid a dreaded red folder from beneath his pudgy hands. “Nothing’s certain these days.”

Like loyalty of any size or shape?

“I think you’ll appreciate the package we put together for you. A year’s severance, a year of Cobra, glowing references,” her boss intoned as he rose from his ergonomic leather chair and skirted his desk to drop the red folder in Kat’s lap, snapping her out of her momentary haze. “It’s painful, I know, and I guarantee it hurts us as much as you.”

“So you feel like a million Ginzu knives just impaled you?” she asked, bitterness flooding her voice as she flattened her palms on the file, unwilling to open it up and look inside. That would make it all too real. “How can you do this to me?”

They were keeping Marsh and Steph, who were barely out of school, but letting a veteran like her go? Kat suddenly wondered how many of the recently shed D&M staff were old-timers like her, deemed too expensive to keep?

“Please, don’t take it personally,” Chace murmured, giving her a wounded look, but Kat wasn’t having it. “We certainly appreciate all the contributions you’ve made to this company. If only things were different.”

But Kat heard instead: if only you were younger. She felt like she’d been kicked in the gut.

A Ghost Story

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Everyone I know loves a good ghost story. I come from a long line of believers in the other world, some of whom claim to have had visitations, dreams, or visions from the other side. As for whether or not I believe, I guess I’m not sure. I think I’ve decided that there is no harm in believing, as long as you don’t bet the house on it.

I was thinking about this because I just read a story in our local paper about a house that was recently purchased from a local family to become the new headquarters of our EMT group. The house had belonged to a long-time Village resident, a lovely woman who went to my church. She was blind, yet ran the very hectic newsstand at the train station in town, and was known to everyone who commutes to New York City from this major hub. Sadly, two years ago this March, she stepped out from behind the newsstand, as she did every day, and lost her way during her trek to her usual break spot. The elevator that she normally took to go to the platform was broken so she took a different one, confusing her. She ended up on the tracks and was killed by a speeding Amtrak train on its way north. Her daughters, who worked side-by-side with her every day, were there when the EMTs and our pastor came to shepherd her body to the medical examiner’s office.

The family home sat vacant on a street not far from the train station and her children decided to sell it to the Village so that our brave and compassionate EMTs would have a new, state-of-the art building from which to conduct their business. Everyone was thrilled at this turn of events and the EMTs moved in recently, taking some time last summer to do some renovations prior to setting up shop.

One by one, they began reporting strange and inexplicable occurrences. First, there was the laughter coming from various rooms of the house. Somewhere, merriment was being made, despite the fact that nobody lived there anymore. Children could be heard giggling, as could the sound of a woman laughing. After that, things began moving. First a roll of paper towels, then a few other things. The wind was not an explanation during the still heat of an East Coast summer. Finally, there was the story of the EMT chief in the attic. While fixing the attic fan—which resided below him, it’s large, sharp blades turning as he worked—he grew dizzy and passed out, falling toward the blades of the fan and to his certain death. When he awoke? He was beside the fan with nary a scratch on him.

Once a skeptic, he’s now a believer.

The newsstand woman’s family is comforted tremendously by these stories of sprit interventions and goings on in their childhood home. Nobody seems frightened by the fact that something is going on there; from all accounts, the vibe is positive and good. No poltergeists or demons, just the laughter of a woman and her children and some prank playing in the form of misplaced paper towels. And one life-saving intervention, if all is to be believed.

It got me thinking: why is it that we love these stories? Is it proof that there is life beyond our death? Is it a comfort to know that the people we loved, or even knew tangentially, are looking out for us, resting on our shoulders, providing us with solace and safety? I’m not sure. For me, it’s all about the comfort. I remember, during a particularly difficult time during my cancer treatment, prone on the couch, sick as a dog, a voice spoke to me. I was somewhere between sleep and waking, that lovely calm place that brings us peace before we go into our dream space. As I lay there, I thought about my situation and how it was going to take nothing short of a miracle to get me well, when a voice inside my head said, “You’re going to be ok. You’re going to be ok.” It wasn’t my voice, nor was it a voice I had ever heard. It wasn’t male. It wasn’t female. It just was.

Maybe it was just my subconscious sending me a message I wanted to hear. Maybe it wasn’t. All I know is at that moment, I felt a spiritual intervention on my behalf. Does that make me crazy? Maybe. But I’m ok, just as the voice told me I would be. I’m ok just like the EMT chief who surely should be dead, if something hadn’t intervened on his behalf. So I’m going to continue to open my heart and head to the laughter of those who came before us. Because it doesn’t cost us anything to believe.

What do you think, Stiletto faithful?

The Good Old Days

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Dana Cameron pointed out the good old days weren’t always that good. However, my memories of the ’50s which is a period that’s often mentioned as good old days, were for the most part just that.

This photo was taken in 1958, not exactly sure when though the baby in my arms was born at the end of 1957 and he only looks a few months old. The handsome fellow next to me of course is the one I always refer to as hubby, and the two girls are now grandmothers.

We were standing in my parents’ front yard in Los Angeles where I grew up.

At the time, hubby was in the Seabees (he made a career of it and did three tours in Vietnam) and we lived in Oxnard near the Seabee base.

Most of my memories of this time period are wonderful. Not all of course, it wasn’t easy raising kids sometimes alone when hubby was overseas. I was fortunate in having supportive parents and grandparents who didn’t live all that far away.

The baby in my arms was our first son and hubby was really proud of him. Unfortunately Mark died of cancer when he was in his early forties. We both feel blessed we had him in our lives for that long. He was a fun kid and grew into a remarkable man. He was always happy with whatever he had–which never was a lot. He never envied anyone. As a kid he had all sorts of jobs: dishwasher in restaurants, fileting fish on a fishing boat, janitor at the Navy base. As an adult, he worked as a janitor in two different hospitals, a gardener at a golf course, a bus driver for a camp for developmentally disabled children and adults, was an instructor at a sheltered workshop, ran a forklift at a Wal-Mart Distribution Center, and his last job was in a box factory. He helped raise his second wife’s three children and dearly loved his two grandchildren.

I didn’t mean to spend so much time talking about Mark, but talking about the good old days made me remember a lot about him.

Going back to the photo–I can see that hubby and I seriously need to go on a diet. Back in those days we could eat and drink what we wanted and still stayed skinny–may have had something to do with taking care of those kids. We had two more after that picture was taken, another girl and a boy.

Yes, I have fond memories of the good old days. And now you know I’m really as old as I’ve been saying.

Marilyn

http://fictionforyou.com/

Sherlock Who?

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I think it’s a generational thing. ***Spoiler Alert*** for books and movie.

We walked out of the movie theater: husband and wife of a certain middle age; son and daughter, young adults. The movie? Sherlock Holmes. The reviews? Nothing short of fantastic, according to the younger set.

For us older folks, it was a perfectly fine movie. Entertaining, beautifully shot, incredible costumes, and zero relationship to the books by Arthur Conan Doyle. Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law are terrific actors – but bear almost no resemblance to the Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson that I know.

I confess that I have special feelings about the Holmes books. It was probably the first mystery series I ever read – eagerly returning to the library to get another book as soon as I had finished the one I had in hand. Doyle taught me two things that have affected my writing. First, it never crossed my mind that an author could kill off his protagonist – but that is exactly what Doyle does in “The Final Problem.” I still love his mother’s reaction when Doyle informs her, “I think of slaying Holmes…and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things.” His Mom points out (and let’s hear it for Mom’s intuition), “You may do what you deem fit, but the crowds will not take this lightheartedly.” And guess what, Mom was right.

Which taught me the second important lesson – well maybe third, since learning that Moms are usually right is a point I often try to make with my own kids. But as to writing, under pressure from the public, Doyle brings Holmes back to life in “The Adventure of the Empty House,” and I discovered that an author creates and controls the fate of her characters. You may have some unhappy readers – you might even lose some of them – but as the author, it’s up to you.

But back to Sherlock Holmes, the movie. It’s been said that Holmes as portrayed by Robert Downey, Jr. has become an action hero, a romantic leading man. It’s not that Doyle doesn’t make reference to Holmes’ knowledge of the martial arts – but that’s not the focus of the novels. It’s his deductive powers that always resolve the mystery. Maybe having an actor who is good looking and in good physical shape made it an easy decision to have Holmes in one fight scene after another – preferably without his shirt. And the scene of nude Holmes, handcuffed to a bed and a pillow strategically covering his private parts is funny – and gratuitous.

Which leads me to Irene Adler, the romantic heroine for Mr. Holmes, played nicely by Rachel McAdams. But let’s put Irene Adler in perspective. In the Doyle books, she appears but once, in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” although she is mentioned in other stories. There’s no question that Doyle makes clear that Irene Adler is smart, a fitting intellectual foil for Holmes, but Ritchie puts the emphasis on the unfulfilled romantic longing between these two characters – and that’s a plot invention of the director’s imagination, not Doyle’s.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that Ritchie has essentially taken a well-known character and morphed him into someone that fits today’s movie standards. I don’t miss the deerstalker hat, but I do miss the concept that being smart is as valuable as being good-looking or an outstanding fighter. But maybe, a movie of watching someone think wouldn’t draw in the crowds? Instead, for me, one of my new year’s resolutions is to reread the original Sherlock Holmes books. Cheers to Mr. Ritchie for producing a pleasant afternoon’s interlude. Bravo to Mr. Doyle for creating characters that have lasted for generations.

Marian aka The Northern half of Evelyn David

Boning Up On Books

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The WOOFers, Mary (Milkbone) and Diana (d.d. dawg) have stopped by this weekend on their 2010 WOOF Blog Tour to promote reading for all ages. Be sure to leave a comment for a chance to win a free copy of the newly released download, “Accentuate The Pawsitive.”

I’m pleased to report this WOOFer’s reaction to learning her granddaughter read Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. I did not go to that all-too-familiar place of feeling like a dinosaur. Instead, I was overwhelmed with excitement that she’d discovered Holden Caulfield.

I devoured the first-person narrative when I was about her age. I remember my daughter reading it when she too was around 15 or 16. A great age to be introduced to that icon of teenage rebellion while experiencing a master writer’s creative style.

As it turns out, my granddaughter inspired her mother to re-read the 1951 novel. My daughter related how she not only gained a new appreciation for the book, but more importantly, an opportunity to discuss its topics with her teenager.

So nothing would do but that I trek to the library and check out one of the worn copies lining the shelf, the one with the least amount of tape holding it together.

What a treat! How wonderfully the book has aged. It is truly timeless. The characters, the dialogue, the issues as relevant today as they were when the book was first published.

But the real joy of re-reading that book at this point in life has manifested in other ways:
• I appreciate that my granddaughter, my daughter and I shared the experience.
• I know I am still basically that same girl who first read those pages.
• I am grateful to authors who write books worth reading again and again.
• I am reminded that as we mature, we gain new insight and perspective.

Perhaps some books should be re-read every decade. Interestingly enough, I saw somewhere that a number of people feel guilty reading a book a second time. They say they feel like they’re wasting time. They believe they should always be reading something new. Exploring the unknown!

Well, I would argue I was exploring the unknown. I’d never read The Catcher in the Rye with +2.50 readers. I’d never read the classic after becoming a mother or being divorced or losing both of my parents.

And a waste of time? Did I mention the discussion with my “girls”?

So, if there is still anyone out there who thinks a re-read is frittering away precious hours, well, you can just give me back my hunting hat!

What are you reading now? In addition to WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty, that is. Leave a comment here and enter a drawing for “Accentuate the Pawsitive,” a WOOFers guide to realigning your life!

“Mind spinning? Mood Swinging? Middle sagging? Get used to it! When you reach 50, shift happens. But, you’re not alone. WOOFers to the rescue!”

Diana aka – d.d. dawg

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WOOF – Women Over Fifty – “Hilarious! Made me laugh out loud!” Blog Critics – Reviewed by Mayra Calvani

Like to laugh? You’ll discover more funny women stories, limericks and poems when you…

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Mary Cunningham is author of the award-winning, four-book ‘tween fantasy/mystery series Cynthia’s Attic (Quake) and two short stories Ghost Light, Christmas with Daisy, a Cynthia’s Attic Christmas story, and is co-author of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A member of the Georgia Reading Association and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club, she lives in the mountains of west Georgia.

Diana Black is the third author of the humor book WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A published songwriter and cartoonist, her professional work also includes illustrating children’s books as well as graphic and cover design. Her project, Wendel Wordsworth: No Words for Wendel, a picture book, song and educational materials, is designed to encourage young readers. Black is a member of the SCBWI (Southern Breeze Chapter) and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club.

The Bad Old Days

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In addition to her award-winning archaeology mysteries, Dana Cameron’s Fangborn short story, “The Night Things Changed,” won the Agatha and Macavity and was nominated for an Anthony Award. Her historical short story, “Femme Sole,” appears in BOSTON NOIR and an historical Fangborn story, “Swing Shift,” will appear in CRIMES BY MOONLIGHT (April, 2010). Dana lives in Massachusetts and you can learn more at www.danacameron.com.

In between gatherings with family and friends, we spent the end of this holiday season as we traditionally do: flaked out on the couch, eating too many chocolate shortbread cookies and drinking just enough whiskey, while watching whole seasons of serial drama. Last year, Rome was the focus of this marathon. This year, it was Deadwood, The Sopranos, and Mad Men. Criminal behavior set in the past (even seen through flashbacks) makes for a fine time, even if it meant our new shelter kittens Kaylee and Zoë learned some exceedingly bad language.

One of my most memorable moments as an archaeologist was the day I was working on a 17th-century house site. The guides would lead groups of visitors past, and usually they’d ignore me, pretending perhaps I was an over-sized and grubby garden gnome. Or maybe a vole. On this particular day, a woman gazed at me dreamily and said, “Wouldn’t you love to have lived back then?”

My first instinct was to say, “Lady, are you kidding me? Potential attacks from pirates, Europeans, andIndians? Rampant epidemics battled with medieval medicine? Limited legal rights for women? And that’s before you consider what this waterfront would have smelled like back then. Alex, I’ll take the category “Things That Make A Seagull Retch” for $100, please. Rotting fish, garbage dumped outside, oil lamps, and privies? I think not. Give me indoor plumbing, electricity on demand, and antibiotics any day.”

Being a well-behaved garden gnome, I said, “The past is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”

Apparently, that was not concession enough; she looked disappointed. She clearly believed the good old days were better than these, that big skirts + petticoats + horse-drawn carriages = fine manners, crossed legs, and decency. To quote the Bart: Au contraire, mon frere. Do some spelunking through the court records of the era, and you’ll see what I mean. Better yet, check out The Naked Quaker. This splendidly fun book runs down some of the highlights of 17th-century New England police blotter: violent fisticuffs in church, highwaymen, sex scandals, theft, cheating, witchcraft. I mean, it might as well be an episode of Maury.

Romanticizing the past is one of my pet peeves. It’s something I frequently invoked in my Emma Fielding novels, and more recently, in my short stories. “Femme Sole” (in Boston Noir) is set in 1740s Boston. Anna Hoyt owns a North-End tavern and all the local toughs—including her husband—want a piece of it. I chose the setting because I’d never written noir and didn’t want to sound like I was imitating Cain, Hammett, or Chandler (or Lehane, Pelecanos, Abbott, or Lippman), so I put my story a bit further back into the past. To me, noir isn’t restricted by time or place; it’s a story wherein people who live outside the law have to find their own solutions to life-and-death problems. I also wanted to see how a woman at that time might respond to the threats to her livelihood.

The story coming out in April is part of the MWA anthology Crimes by Moonlight. “Swing Shift” features elements from my “Fangborn” world. It’s also set in historic Boston, but this 1940s Boston is full of vampires and werewolves, as well as Nazi spies, jazz, and nascent computer technology. Greed, crime, and secrets are as old as humankind.

The bad old days are familiar to mystery readers. From Didius Falco to Benjamin Weaver to Amelia Peabody to Paddy Meehan—who are your favorite historical detectives?

(Thanks to Maggie Barbieri and the Stiletto Gang for inviting me!)

Dana Cameron
www.danacameron.com

Up in the Air, It’s Complicated

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In keeping with my New Year’s resolutions in which I vowed to view more movies in the movie theater because that’s what Jim—aka best hubby ever—likes to do, we went to see “Up in the Air” this past Saturday. George Clooney stars, along with Vera Farmiga—who who did admit to having a body double for the nude scene and forever cemented herself as a new favorite actress in my mind—and spunky kind-of newcomer Anna somebody or other, who didn’t look old enough to get into an R-rated movie never mind act in one. I found the entire story line—man travels the country firing people—to be extremely depressing and in the third act, when the man finds redemption or something resembling it, I found myself not rooting for the man but wondering what had happened to all of those loyal, dedicated people that he had fired. People who had lamented that they would need to vacate their homes, use less heating oil, and go on food stamps, all in the name of a company’s “downsizing.” All of this was made more poignant because the people who were fired in the film were real people, not actors. And that made the viewing of this movie all the more depressing and sobering.

And now I am reminded of why I hardly ever go to the movies, and when I do, shy away from the “important” and “star-making” ones like “Up in the Air.” Because they are just too damn depressing.

As we exited the movies, I implored Jim that we see “It’s Complicated” next weekend. Because you know what? It doesn’t sound complicated at all. Middle-aged women has two sexy men vying for her affection. Sounds like it’s right up my alley. Sure, I’ve got the middle-aged deli guy at the local gourmet store who smiles at me when I go in, but two middle-aged deli guys? That’s something a gal can only dream about.

But as I was pondering when we would go see “It’s Complicated,” I came across a small blurb in one of my favorite magazines, which touted the movie as “feminine middle-aged porn.” Really? So this is what an enjoyable movie made for my demographic is described as? “Middle-aged porn”? It’s a popular movie, starring the wonderful, sexy, and gorgeous Meryl Streep and now we’re supposed to feel bad because we buy into the story that two men could be interested in her? Or that she lives in a gorgeous house that is almost a character in the movie, so well-appointed and decorated it is? That was described as “architecture porn.” Seriously, people, enough with the “porn” references. If it isn’t porn, well, it just isn’t porn. Don’t try to be clever.

Anyway, we’ll go to see it and I’ll let you know what I think. There are so few movies made for women like me—basically, women who are not seventeen yet want to be entertained—that I’m looking forward to it. Have movie makers not figured out yet that it is we women, the middle-aged ones, who have the money? Because if they did, we’d be seeing a lot more movies in which women like Meryl Streep, and Helen Mirren, Joan Allen, and Vanessa Redgrave, and a host of other gorgeous women over thirty are given interesting and compelling storylines that may or may not involve pursuit by the opposite sex. Or their own sex. I don’t care which. Just stop showing women being mean to each other, or not supporting each other. We don’t want to see that because although movie makers think that this is what goes on in everyday life, it’s just not the case.

Just look at the Stiletto Gang. One for all and all for one.

Maggie Barbieri

Looking Forward to 2010

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I’ve been reading everyone’s resolutions with interest–some have long, long lists filled with self-improvement ideas, other write about hoped for achievements in the coming year, even a few include what they’d like to see happen on a more global aspect.

Frankly, I don’t write resolutions because to put them down on paper would mean I’d be overcome with guilt when I didn’t do them. Instead, I’m just going to try to do what I know I need to do.

First, because I write two series, I know I must hunker down in front of the computer and get my imagination fired up and put myself inside the world of Deputy Tempe Crabtree and make sure she has some intriguing mystery to solve along with a great deal of adventure. (That’s the book I’m working on now.)

My latest Rocky Bluff P.D. crime novel will be coming out sometime soon and I’ll need to plan a book launch, a virtual book tour and all the other things I do to promote both books.

A little more exercise wouldn’t hurt since I notice I’ve gotten a bit rounder after all the good holiday eating.

Spending time with my hubby and family is always a must–I don’t need to write a resolution to do that.

As far as what’s happening in the world, I know I don’t have any control over that–frankly, I don’t have any control over what happens in my family. I’ll pray for them both, that’s the best I can do.

For my fellow members of the Stiletto Gang and all those who read our blogs, I wish you the very best of 2010 and may all your dreams for the year come true.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

One Little Step or Maybe One Big Shove

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One step at a time. One piece at a time. One word at a time.

Any task that seems impossibly big, incredibly complicated, or too much to accomplish can usually be done with some thought or research, careful planning, and pressing ahead slowly, one step at a time.

You think I’m talking about writing a book? Right?

Well, yeah, that advice applies to writing but it also applies to just about everything else in life that you’re unfamiliar with doing: like putting together one of those “some assembly required” vacuum cleaners or bookshelves; hooking up a new DVR or sound system to your tv; installing new software; or adding additional memory to your computer. Often you can palm those tasks off on someone else. Usually a guy.

I’m just old enough to have been socialized to think that the males of our species are more competent at building things and putting mechanical or electronic things together than females. I’m just young enough to know it’s not the “Y” chromosome, but experience that really counts. Guys had more chances to do those things; while girls from a very early age were subtly told that they were good at other things. No one told me I couldn’t learn to use a table saw, but no one told me I could either. And of course there is a difference between not doing something because you can’t and not doing it because it’s difficult and you choose not to try.

When you have an older house and live alone, it’s vital that you develop some courage and learn to do some things for yourself – that’s if you don’t want to be constantly at the mercy of other people’s schedules. I’ve found that, outside of climbing on the roof (I have this fear of heights thing I can’t shake) or crawling under the house (I have this fear of spiders thing that I won’t shake), I can do most things if I take my time and do a little research. I’ve changed out the guts on my toilet several times. I’ve figured out how to seal a broken window in the middle of the night during a power outage in the middle of an ice storm. I’ve had to find the outside water cutoff when an old plumbing value in the kitchen gave way. And I can follow the vague and deliberately misleading instructions that come with anything requiring “some assembly.”

Okay, I admit it takes me about four times as long to affect a repair or put something together as it would my father and the results aren’t very neat, but I am getting faster and better the more I try. And I confess that I don’t enjoy doing any of those repairs or furniture construction projects, but it’s my suspicion that my father doesn’t really like doing any of those things either.

My latest project was moving out my old non-working television so I could replace it with a new flat screen television. Besides having to make a major purchase at Christmas, the problem was that I had an older 46 inch Sony Wega with a picture tube – it weighed about 200 pounds and was as deep as it was wide. Think baby elephant with a glass screen. My father had promised me when he and a neighbor struggled to move it into my house in the late 1990s, that he would not be moving it again. I took him at his word. It was up to me to get it out.

I knew if I could get it off its stand – about two feet high – I could put it on a dolly and move it. The trick was getting it to the floor without breaking anything – my bones and/or the wooden floor. It took me about a week to figure out a way. I used large sofa cushions piled next to the tv stand. Then I tipped the front heavy (unplugged) tv onto the cushions. Having the tv on the stack of cushions, allowed me to tilt and move the tv anyway I wanted.


I know – I’ve heard all my life that tvs were dangerous and you could get an electrical shock from something inside them, even unplugged. I couldn’t figure exactly what that “something” was, but I was properly fearful the entire time I was gutting it. (Note: Nothing happened but I should probably caution you not to repeat my actions, just in case.) As soon as I had removed enough to make the size more manageable I got “walked” it out the door, then wheeled it to the end of my carport. I’ll figure out what to do with the carcass another day.

Meanwhile I’m watching my new 46″ HD Samsung flat screen, wondering why I had to upgrade my cable in order to receive HD channels, and contemplating knocking out a wall between my kitchen and my dining room. I’m pretty sure I’ll need a sledgehammer. Anyone know an easy way to pinpoint something called a “bearing” wall? Just kidding. Well, maybe not.

Rhonda

aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David