Peace, Love, and Chocolate

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by Susan McBride

In my last post I bemoaned Scrooges so my intention today was to write something filled with sugarplum fairies and sparkly snowflakes and “it’s the most wonderful time of the year” sort of things. Only it didn’t quite pan out. I blame it on The Fray. You see, I had my iPod on shuffle while I treadmilled, and The Fray’s “Over My Head” began to play, and I started thinking of how much there always is to do and how I so often feel like I’ll never keep on top of things. I don’t even have a January deadline this year (merely a proposal to write and my debut in women’s fiction coming out on January 26!). Still, all the things I’m working on behind the scenes–plus getting ready for the holidays–are enough to make me hyperventilate.

In fact, on Sunday while personalizing mailings to some of my favorite library peeps around Missouri, I had a near melt-down. It had just been one of those days…make that one of those weeks low-lighted by a very strange and surreal situation (let’s just say, some people don’t see the line between reality and fiction as clearly as others). Anyway, as I worked on the mailings, the cats kept racing across my desk, scattering paper and scaring me to death; and I kept messing up the letters, wasting toner and holiday stationery. Nothing life or death, but it was enough stress on top of stress that I popped. Luckily, Ed managed to talk me down quickly enough. Having dinner at my Mom and Dad’s also helped, as did trimming their tree and watching my three-year-old niece puke up blue frosting from a kiddie birthday party earlier in the day.

But it got me remembering how I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do this frantic routine anymore or worry about what I couldn’t control. During my breast cancer ordeal, I kept saying, “I will never let stupid s**t drag me down again. I will learn to take things slowly. I will accept that I can’t handle everything alone. I will let myself breathe.” Whoops. Somewhere along the road, when I got to feeling awfully close to back-to-normal, my attempt to be Zen fell by the wayside and my impatient must-do-a-million-things-every-minute side took over again.

The lovely Maggie mentioned in her post on Wednesday how she felt anxious after sending off her latest manuscript, only to remind herself that the most important things in life have nothing to do with reviews or online numbers. Having your health (especially after losing it for even an instant!), having a family who loves you, living your passion: these are what matter. How right she is (honestly, this Stiletto Gang is full of wise women–I have a long way to go in that department!).

So I’ve been reminding myself of the great philosophy that “whatever happens, happens.” Once I began to let go, the bad started fading away and the good took its place. On Monday, I heard from my agents and editor about a good review for The Cougar Club in Publishers Weekly (and the fab Misa has a nice review for Hasta La Vista, Lola in the same issue!). On Tuesday, I received even more amazing news (I’ll share it as soon as I’m able!). It was more proof to me that positive energy flows when I stop worrying and trying to control everything. You would’ve thought I’d learned by now that stressing myself out only harms me (and makes my family concerned). Nothing good comes of negativity. Period.

I do get it. I really get it. And since I’d like to keep it, I’m going to practice my mantra of “peace, love, and chocolate” during the Christmas holiday. I’m not even turning on my computer unless it’s absolutely urgent. I always feel so much calmer and more grounded when I’m fully in my “real-life” as opposed to when I’m doing my “crazed-author-trying-not-to-miss-a-beat” routine.
So in case I’m not around much in the coming week, I want to wish everyone a very happy holidays, whatever you celebrate. May you get off the Internet long enough to really enjoy your friends and family, read a good book or two, listen to music, or find a quiet space to think. And here’s hoping we all learn new ways to free stress from our lives in the year ahead. That’s one New Year’s resolution worth repeating!

P.S. On a very positive note, my kick-off event for THE COUGAR CLUB on January 26 will be a fundraiser for Komen St. Louis! I’d like to put some baskets together to raffle with signed copies of books by cool authors. If you’re an author and are willing to donate a book or two, please email me. And thanks in advance!

The Mighty Tiny Tim

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Vincent H. O’Neil (http://www.vincenthoneil.com) is the award-winning author of the Frank Cole murder mystery series (Murder in Exile, Reduced Circumstances, and Exile Trust). His short story “Finish the Job”, about a father-daughter team of art thieves who don’t know when to quit, was recently released in the anthology Quarry: Crime Stories by New England Writers from Level Best Books (http://www.levelbestbooks.com/). His short story “Blood Tells”, about a money launderer who feels unappreciated, will be released in the anthology Bad Cop-No Donut from Padwolf Publishing in the spring of 2010.

Recently, I had the good fortune to have two short stories included in anthologies. So when The Stiletto Gang (I have to work that name into one of my mystery novels) offered me the chance to guest blog for them, I decided to try and write something in praise of the short story.

Considering the season, I was not surprised when the image of Dickens’ Tiny Tim came to mind during my brainstorming. Not only is Tiny Tim short in stature, but he also employs a marvelous economy of words. “God bless us, every one!” is, I believe, his only line in A Christmas Carol and yet it sums up the story and its spirit quite nicely. It also ranks up there with “Bah, humbug!” as the most memorable line of that Christmas classic.

Tiny Tim’s kind of pithiness is an absolute must in short story writing, where the dreaded word limit sometimes suggests that we might have to sacrifice important elements. While it’s true that we don’t have a limitless number of pages for things such as character development, this in no way lets us off the hook. Just as Tiny Tim manages to cap Scrooge’s long night using only a few words, in the writing of short stories we have to look for more concise methods of communicating our ideas and information.

Although it’s taken from the world of theater, here’s an example of how a few actions and limited dialogue can yield a big result: On stage, a young woman is nervously hosting her father-in-law, who has dropped by the newlyweds’ apartment unannounced. The young woman offers the father-in-law some coffee, and leaves him in the living room while she goes into the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, the father-in-law quickly and efficiently goes through the newlyweds’ mail, which was sitting on the table in front of him. He puts the letters and bills back in exactly the same place just before she returns, and is sitting there as if he’d done nothing in her absence.

The director providing this example described it as an efficient way of getting the audience to ponder many different possibilities regarding the character of the father-in-law. Is he merely a snoop, or is he worried about the young couple’s finances? Is there something in his son’s background that prompts him to be watchful? And why is he so good at snooping in the first place? All of these ideas and questions were conjured up in the minds of the audience by a few actions on stage, just like the space-saving devices we use when writing short stories.

To continue the topic of brevity, one of my instructors at The Fletcher School was noted for the pithiness of his class lectures. Commenting on that topic, he once said, “If you want me to speak for five minutes, I’ll need a week to prepare. If you want me to speak for a half an hour, I’ll need a day. And if you want me to speak for an hour, I’m ready right now.”

This was a comment on the demanding taskmaster that is brevity. In a seeming contradiction, it can take longer (and involve more work) to communicate your point in a single sentence than by using several paragraphs. It was also an observation that bamboozling an audience for an hour requires little preparation, while doing the same thing in five minutes is almost impossible. The requirement to organize our thoughts, and then express them succinctly in a convincing presentation of short duration, can be a very difficult task indeed.

And that’s why I like short stories. They’re the literary equivalent of the five-minute speech that takes so long to prepare—but hits the nail directly on the head.

Just like the mighty Tiny Tim. God bless us, everyone.

Vincent O’Neil

First Drafts

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I have the distinct honor and privilege of having had my fourth book published last week and my fifth book, which will be published next year, done and submitted. It is called “Third Degree,” and I finally let go and sent it off yesterday. Although I’m overjoyed by the publication of “Final Exam,” which so far, has been well received, I’m a nervous wreck having submitted the new manuscript yesterday. You’d think that a day as joyous as that would leave me relaxed and serene.

Far from it.

Let the nail-biting begin.

Thanks to fellow Stiletto-wearing Susan McBride, I’ve stopped (kind of) engaging in risky behavior once a book is published. To wit: I no longer Google myself. I no longer read reviews unless my publisher sends them via email with a cover letter that’s either filled with glee or comes with a warning to not open until I’m sitting down (hate those, by the way). I definitely don’t check my Amazon numbers. These are all very wise instructions from a very wise, and not to mention, fabulous, writer.

But when you turn a manuscript in, there’s nothing left to do but wait. I hemmed and hawed about this latest manuscript’s “doneness” for far too long. Let’s just say that after repeated calls to the only other member of my writing group, the supremely-talented, Alison (no relation to Bergeron), to get assurance that I could indeed send it in and not be embarrassed, I hit the ‘send’ button. Honestly, I thought that I would be happy and relieved that I had beat my deadline by not one, but TWO, weeks. But instead, I feel anxiety.

Why is that?

I’m sure that the venerable Stiletto Gang ladies and all of our faithful followers can weigh in with a variety of theories. I’m fairly sure that they’ve all felt what I’m feeling right now in varying degrees during their writing careers. You worry that it isn’t as ‘done’ as you had thought. You have separation anxiety, thinking that with just one more day, or one more edit, it will be perfect. You have concern that your agent and/or editor won’t ‘get it’ and that they will look askance at you like “what the heck were you thinking, girlfriend?” You fret that it’s just not good.

But after four books that have gone into the interwebs and to my editor and agent, I can tell you that a variety of these things happen, sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in batches. It may not be perfect or they may not ‘get it.’ Or they get it, but it needed one final edit. Or some parts are great, and others just don’t work.

When all is said and done, it’s a first draft and you’ve been treating it like a printed book.

You’d think I would have avoided this pitfall because as you all know, my day job is an editor. But the wise counsel, hopefully, that I give to the authors with whom I work apparently doesn’t apply to me. It takes some getting your mind around but everything that one puts on the page is not brilliant the first time around. That’s why we have editors, and agents, and trusted friends who tell us the god’s honest truth when something just isn’t that good.

Until that time comes, however, I’m going to revel in the wonder that is good health, a wonderful family, a fulfilling career, and an overall feeling of happiness and well-being that a perfectly-constructed mystery can add to but can never bring totally.

Best wishes, Stiletto faithful.

Maggie Barbieri

Christmas is Coming, Tra La Tra La

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Thought I’d show off one of great grand-daughters in her Christmas finery. Her daddy brought her to church yesterday and I thought she looked really cute. She’s six going on sixteen. She has beautiful curly hair and informed me that she’d straightened it.

That reminded me of when my girls were young they wanted their hair to be straight (no one really had curly hair but they wanted straight hair like the Skipper doll) and so they took turns ironing each other’s hair, putting waxed paper over it and ironing it with a regular iron. Things are much easier nowadays to make oneself beautiful.

Frankly I think Kay’Lee’s hair looks great curly, but I’m only her great-grandmother, my opinion doesn’t count. We took her and her dad out to lunch after church and she seemed to know everyone in the restaurant, her school bus driver who came in to get a to-go order, a fireman who was standing outside with other firemen when we went in, and others who came in. (That’s sort of the way her dad is too.)

You may have guessed, I just wanted to write something a bit lighter than what we’ve been reading and hearing lately. I hope everyone is enjoying their holiday time and for those who celebrate Christmas, I hope you’ve finished decorating, bought most of your gifts and have your Christmas cards ready to go.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays,

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Your Momma Taught You Better than That – I Hope

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Bottom line: It’s none of my business if Tiger Woods has slept with 1 or 100 women during his marriage. He took a vow to be faithful – and he clearly skipped over that part without nary a nevermind, as my mother, the original Evelyn would say. So what happens between the sheets (or anywhere else for that matter) – is really between Tiger, Elin, his wife, and what appears to be a host of lawyers all salivating at the big bucks to be made for lurid stories.

Shame on them all.

But here’s where I’m going to be judgmental. Yep, I know ’tis the season to be forgiving and indulgent of transgressions – look for the good in mankind, yadda, yadda, – but actually let me make it clear I’m talking woman-kind. Frankly, these party girls are trolling the Internet, sharing the intimate details of their sex lives with a guy whose only claim to fame is that he can hit a golf ball far and accurately. He did not, I repeat, find a cure for cancer. And these women? They intend to make big bucks by sharing their sordid stories. Hmmmm, this sounds suspiciously like the old story told about Winston Churchill.

Churchill: Madam, would you sleep with me for five million pounds?
Socialite: My goodness, Mr. Churchill… Well, I suppose… we would have to discuss terms, of course…
Churchill: Would you sleep with me for five pounds?
Socialite: Mr. Churchill, what kind of woman do you think I am?!
Churchill: Madam, we’ve already established that. Now we are haggling about the price.

Because the truth is – even if Tiger Woods is the sleaze of the Western World. Even if he is motivated by sex addiction, opportunity, an ego the size of Sweden or Florida – even if he totally amoral and has absolutely no compunction about screwing anything that even remotely interests him – Women, you still should know better. You should still have your own moral compass. You should still tell a man who has two children under the age of three, that whether or not his wife understands him (and who the hell cares if she does); even if his wife is thrilled that he’s found some outside interests and hey this all just a business arrangement (and try explaining that to a three year old!) – any woman given the opportunity to sleep with Tiger Woods should have sent him packing faster than a New York minute because it’s just plain wrong. Not fuzzy-fuzzy wrong, not even close to where anyone should wonder on which sides the angels will come down – nope, put two kids in the mix, and the deal is over. You want to fool around, Tiger, get out your prenup papers, figure what it’s going to cost you, and get a divorce – then fool around with whatever idiot who is willing to put up with you.

And women – you’re not entitled to money for putting out. You can dress that up any way you want to try – but at least my Momma knew exactly what that was called – and it ain’t pretty. Being sexually liberated doesn’t mean you can take advantage of another woman’s family or life. Go find your own man – no matter what story some guy is peddling.

I can write on and on about how this is a media bonanza comparable to Tickle Me Elmo in terms of sales. But the truth is deeper. We need to respect each other’s lives – and in this case – I haven’t seen a sense of honor among any of these thieves. For shame!

Marian aka the Northern Half of Evelyn David

An Excerpt from “Final Exam” (Murder 101 series)

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In this latest entry in the Murder 101 series, Alison Bergeron, college professor/amateur sleuth finds herself living in a dorm on campus, taking the place of missing Resident Director, Wayne Brookwell. When she arrives at the dorm, she finds that the suite she was promised is really more than two tiny rooms accompanied by a decrepit private bath that has seen better days. We pick up with moving day, her devoted Bobby Crawford by her side, as they survey the premises and wonder how Alison is going to survive living in her new digs until the end of the semester or until she finds Wayne Brookwell, her main goal.

I leaned in and discovered my suite was basically a long, narrow room with hardwood floors and one window next to a twin-sized bed. The suite part, I surmised, was the small living area to the left of the bedroom that contained a desk, an old musty chair, and a book shelf that was separated from the bedroom by rather nice French doors. A bathroom was next to the bedroom and while I’m a fan of period detail, the subway tile that encased the shower looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed in what I guessed was the 1940s. I looked and Crawford and said, “Get me some Comet.”

“You’re not even in the door,” he said. “Let’s go in and see what else you need before I go to the store.”

“Besides a blow torch to burn this place down?” I asked, sitting dejectedly on the bed. A puff of dust flew up around me and I shivered in revulsion.

“Is there a laundry area in this building?” he asked, pulling me up off the bed and placing me in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. He pulled the bedding off and threw it onto the floor. “I don’t want you sleeping on Wayne Brookwell’s dirty sheets,” he said.

“That’s Wayne Butthole, to you.” I leaned on the door jamb. “Forever more, he’s Wayne Butthole.” I crossed my arms, and continued my visual reconnaissance of the area. “I hate him.”

“Laundry?” Crawford repeated.

“No idea,” I said. “I assume it’s in the basement but I can’t be sure.” Although I had parked outside of this building for the better part of a decade, I had never been inside, save for the lobby. The building was five stories high, with men housed on all but one floor, a floor that had been reserved for the overflow of female students in any given year. But Siena was still known as the men’s dorm and had been since I had been a student here, years previous. It looked pretty much the same as I remembered it—ornate, varnished mouldings; marble floors; heavy mahogany doors stained a dark, cherry brown. It smelled of Pledge and floor polish and decades’ worth of smelly gym socks and young adult hormones.

Crawford picked the pile of dirty bedding up and started down the hall, his sneakers making a squish-squish noise as he proceeded. I back went into the bedroom and sat down on the denuded bed, surveying my surroundings. I couldn’t imagine spending one night here, never mind five weeks, but that was my lot and I had to suck it up. I don’t want to suck it up! I wanted to yell, but I made an attempt at maturity and swallowed whatever feelings I had. The one thing I couldn’t ignore was my bladder, which obviously was past the point of no return. I got up and went into the bathroom, looking around as I did my business, taking in the rust stains in the porcelain pedestal sink, and the dirty ring around the tub. There were a few squares of toilet paper left on the roll and I made a mental note to tell Crawford to get toilet paper, too.

When I flushed the toilet, a torrent of water, toilet paper, and various other bits of flotsam and jetsam that had been residing in the toilet since the Mesozoic Age came spewing up at me from the filthy bowl, and I put my hands over my face to protect myself, a little too late. The front of my shirt and my jeans were instantly soaked, and water poured onto the tile floor and puddle around my feet. I spit a few times, wondering exactly what I had almost ingested. I grabbed a less-than-clean towel from the towel bar and wiped off my face and hands. I looked at the floating detritus on the floor and stifled a gag.

Crawford returned and knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Everything okay in there?”

“No!” I called back while attempting to open the door with the ancient door knob. I finally got it open and gave him a view of what the bathroom looked like.

“What the hell happened?”

“What do you think happened?” I asked and threw the soaked towel at him, catching him squarely in the solar plexus. “We are not off to a good start here.”

He went into the bathroom and threw the towel on the floor, attempting to sop up the mess from the exploding toilet. I riffled through my suitcase, finding a clean pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I stripped off my clothes and put them in a pile by the door. Once I was redressed, I stopped by the bathroom. “I’m going to go down to the laundry room and throw these clothes in, too.” I watched as Crawford raised the toilet seat and stared solemnly into the toilet. I had no idea whether or not he was handy and I wasn’t sticking around to find out. “It’s in the basement, right?”

He didn’t turn around but put his hands on his hips, surveying the damage. “Right.”

I padded down the hall toward the grand staircase which led me to a laundry room that was much nicer than my new accommodations. Six new, state-of-the-art washers and companion dryers lined one wall, the other wall lined with vending machines with soda, candy, and snacks. There was a change machine, and a machine to buy bleach and detergent. It was clean, well-lit, and modern with signs advertising its wi-fi access. I looked around enviously. My basement was musty, dusty, and home to more than one mouse, I suspected. Okay, so things were looking up. A little bit.

I threw the dirty clothes into the wash that Crawford had started and returned to the lobby floor, which was still empty. I had forgotten to ask Merrimack if any students were staying on campus during Spring Break and made a mental note to send him an email once I unearthed my computer from the mound of my possessions in the middle of the little patch of floor between my bed and the dresser.

“Do you want to get Chinese food, Crawford?” I asked, back upstairs and going through items in my open suitcase. He didn’t answer. I guess I owed him an apology for biting his head off and throwing the dirty towel at him but I didn’t expect the silent treatment. “Crawford?” I went to the bathroom door and found him kneeling on the floor in his undershirt, the toilet off its seal, the top removed. His shirt was draped over the side of the tub and he was dirty and wet, his dark hair flopping over his sweaty brow. “Crawford?”

He leaned over and stretched out, ending up on his right side, his left arm disappearing into the gaping hole of the upended toilet. He came out with a ziplock bag filled with something that I knew wasn’t Mrs. Brookwell’s famous home-grown tea.

He looked up at me. “Call Fred.”

Maggie Barbieri

Final Exam at Amazon

The Seven Deadly Sins Sure Come in Handy

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Leann Sweeney writes the Yellow Rose Mystery Series set in Texas and the Cats in Trouble Mystery Series set in South Carolina, both published by NAL/Obsidian.

Once I finish a book and it goes to the editor for that first read, my thoughts turn to the seven deadly sins. No, Tiger and I are not hooking up in Vegas, but I could make a case for him having committed all seven of those sins. I couldn’t mention sins without mentioning him, could I? But this isn’t about golf at all. It’s about the secret. Not the book The Secret, the secret at the center of every mystery.

As soon as that manuscript goes to NYC, I begin thinking about the next plot, the next book. What will the secret be? I love the thinking part of starting a new novel because it makes me feel like a child again. I love to make stuff up. Thank goodness I found a profession where I’m encouraged to do so. (Otherwise I might be in jail.) Part of my process is to pull out those seven sins–wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy and gluttony—and ponder each one. What motive this time? What fun can I have with each of these sins? (Sins I have never, ever committed myself, mind you.)

You might think a few of these sins would be difficult to create an entire mystery around. But that’s what so great about the vices. They are the basis for most, if not all, books. Think about it. I’ll wait.

See what I mean? Wrath and greed may come to mind first when it comes to crime fiction, but sloth and gluttony can be about so many things. The challenge of coming up with something that hasn’t been “done to death” (excuse the pun) is a test I fully embrace. And I must enjoy myself in the process, because if I don’t, my readers won’t enjoy themselves either. You only need turn to the Bible and the Book of Proverbs to come up with the best list ever for creating an intriguing plot. To quote via that wonder of wonders, Wikipedia, test out these plot teasers:

Haughty eyes
A lying tongue
Hands that shed innocent blood
A heart that devises wicked plots (uh oh ..am I in trouble?)
Feet that are swift to run into mischief
A deceitful witness that uttereth lies (don’t you love those old “eth” verbs?)
Him that soweth discord among the brethren.

Isn’t this great? A plethora of ideas in one small list.

I just agreed to a new contract for two more books in the Cats in Trouble Mystery Series and after a truly grueling rewrite of the book that comes out in May, The Cat, The Professor and The Poison, I came up with a plot, thanks to my “puruse the sins” technique involving a motive I do not believe I have used before—at least not as the big secret that pushes someone to murder. Am I going to tell you what that sin is? Your odds of guessing correctly are one in seven. But I won’t be taking bets in Vegas. Apparently what happens there doesn’t really stay there after all. Here’s a hint: the working title is The Cat, The Lake and The Liar.

Leann Sweeney

Idle Threats

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I was making the bed one morning, the television tuned to a morning program on a national station, when James Patterson’s voice implored me to buy his latest book or he would “kill Alex Cross.” Oh, really? You would? This advertisement from the thriller-meister has generated a great deal of talk on DorothyL, a listserv that I and many of my Stiletto brethren subscribe to. People fall firmly into two camps when it comes to expressing their opinions about this ad: brilliant versus schlocky. I think I’m somewhere in the middle.

The first thing I wondered is exactly how much does it cost to get thirty seconds worth of air time during “Good Morning, America”? I’m sure it’s more money than I have but I wonder nonetheless. Second, I wondered how many people actually believe Patterson. Is there a contingent of die-hard Patterson fans out there who would trudge to the bookstore (or to their computer keyboard) to order the book just because he said so? Obviously, Patterson is being tongue-in-cheek. But I’m curious to know how successful an ad like that is in generating sales.

I don’t know that I’ve ever read an Alex Cross novel, so I don’t know whether to be chagrined or not that he might travel to the great unknown in Patterson’s next novel. Is Alex Cross the guy that Morgan Freeman always plays in the movies? If so, please don’t kill him, Mr. Patterson. I love Morgan Freeman and want him to have work well into his 80’s, some 50 years after it is unacceptable for women to have a decent leading role.

Let’s remember that Patterson began in advertising, something that’s been pointed out several times on DorothyL. According to one of the posters—our friend and fellow mystery writer, Chris Grabenstein—the sign on Patterson’s door to his band of ad copywriters was “Startle me.” I actually have a friend who worked for him, and by all accounts, he was a master at the game. So it’s not surprising that he would pull out all of the stops to sell books, which got me wondering (once again…I do a lot of wondering), “Just how far would I go to sell a book?”

Conclusion? Not far.

People know what they like to read and they are not usually persuaded to go outside of their comfort zones, in my opinion. I think back to one of the first book signings I ever did, as the guest writer featured during our middle-school’s Barnes and Noble fundraiser. I sat, all alone, at a table in the middle of the store, smiling and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. A woman approached me and asked me what kind of book “Murder 101” was. I gave her a rambling synopsis of the plot, and she took the book over to where she was sitting to look through it to see whether or not it was worth the twenty or so bucks B&N was charging for it on that particular day. She walked back to me a few minutes later, her face stern. She handed me back the book. “I don’t think I want to read this,” she said. And instead of screaming, “Buy this book or I will kill Alison Bergeron!” I bid her a nice day and sunk a little lower in my hard-backed chair.

I used to work in college textbook publishing and one of my jobs was to support our sales reps in the field by traveling with them and making sales calls. I have to say, I was pretty good at closing the deal. And I will admit I once used the old “baby needs a new pair of shoes” line to a professor who was considering one of our books. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and he was so surprised by my cheekiness that he ordered 150 copies of a $40.00 book on the spot. Yes, that’s $6000 worth of business in a five-minute call. All this to prove that when necessary, I can sell. But there’s something different when it’s a book that you wrote, that your blood, sweat, and tears went into, that came from your heart. The hard sell just doesn’t seem to apply.

All this to say that I applaud Mr. Patterson. I won’t buy his book (“I don’t think I want to read this”) but I will probably buy a copy for a family member for Christmas. Because in a thirty-second ad, Patterson piqued my interest. People obviously care enough about Alex Cross as a protagonist that killing him off would upset them greatly. And that makes me wonder.

“Final Exam” came out yesterday. If you like my kind of mysteries, I hope you’ll buy it. More than that, though, I hope you enjoy it.

And in the interest of blatant self-promotion, commonly called BSP on DorothyL, what I will do is offer an excerpt of “Final Exam” here at the Stiletto Gang on Friday. Please check back if you’re interested in finding out what kind of trouble Alison Bergeron gets herself into this time. Let’s just say it involves exploding toilets, drugs, aliases, and one very hot and bothered Crawford. Interested yet?

Maggie

A Wonderful Christmas Past

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Years ago I belonged to a sorority–no, not the college kind, this one was social–whose primary purpose seemed to be having fun. We had once a week get-togethers and a party once a month at someone’s house which our husbands were invited to. There was always a theme and we usually danced. We also had get-togethers with other sororities in our area, ones where we wore long dresses.

During this time I was a teacher at a pre-school for developmentally disabled kids.

It bothered me that our sorority didn’t do any service projects, I’d never belonged to anything where we didn’t do anything useful for anyone else. One of the consultants who worked with the kids at our school told me about a family with three kids, one developmentally disabled, and the father had lost his job and they had no money for Christmas.

I approached the sorority members, told them about the situation and proposed that we provide Christmas for this family. The women thought this was a great idea. We found out the ages of the children and everyone bought gifts. We also got a tree and decorated it. (This was before they sold all the pre-decorated phony trees.)

We gathered all the food needed for a Christmas dinner including homemade pies and some extra groceries too.

We loaded up the back of my station wagon (I always had station wagons, after all, we had five kids) and four of my sorority sisters went with me on delivery day. We located the address, an apartment house. A man was working on his car in front of one of the garages. We called out and asked if he knew this particular family. He said that was his family.

“Great, we have something for you.”

He looked bewildered, but started helping us carry everything upstairs to their apartment. He opened the door and we brought everything in. The mom and kids stared at us wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

When we’d deposited everything, the man asked, “Who did this? Where did this all come from?”

One of the gals said, “You have heard of Santa Claus haven’t you?”

We left giggling all the way down the stairs and on the drive back home. What a wonderful feeling that was and I didn’t feel quite so bad about belonging to a sorority that’s primary goal was having fun.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

The Search for Plots

/in /by

Where do mystery plots come from? National news broadcasts, local newspapers, obscure blogs – they are all great resources for a mystery writer.

The following are some of the news bits that caught my eye recently.

A searcher dies: Robert Rines died at age 87. For 35 years he’d been spending his free time at Loch Ness looking for evidence of Nessie. As a biologist in addition to being a mystery writer, I’ve always been interested in the search for unknown species. I think Mr. Rines must have enjoyed the adventure and the thrill of the search; otherwise he would have give up the hunt years ago. Many books have been written with the theme of “the searcher.” And many more will be.

A celebrity crashes his SUV: An expensive SUV driven by a sports celebrity strikes a fire hydrant and tree at the end of his driveway in the middle of the night. The air bags don’t deploy. His wife uses a golf club to shatter the back windows and pulls her semiconscious husband out. Or at least that’s the surface story. The next day reports of affairs fill the tabloid and mainstream news sources. Then the celebrity apologies for letting his family down and pulls out of scheduled events. Wouldn’t be hard to pen a plot with this scenario.

A couple crashes a White House State Dinner: Had Evelyn David included an event like that in a mystery, readers would have howled, claiming it was unbelievable. Now we all know different. All the Secret Service agents, metal detectors and firepower in the world is sometimes not as effective as one strategically placed secretary with a guest list on a clipboard. The couple’s totally inappropriate, even dangerous, actions have opened up all kinds of plot opportunities for writers who want to use the backdrop of the White House.

A murder trial in Italy: The American student studying in Italy is on trial for the murder of her housemate, a British student. An innocent, young American woman who is being mistreated by a foreign justice system? Or is she a monster who masterminded a sexual assault and bloody killing of another young woman? The jury just found her guilty and sentenced her to 26 years in prison. There’s tons of material for a fictional mystery in this sad set of circumstances.

What kinds of non-fictional mysteries are you interested in? Which ones would you like to see used as the basis of a novel? Or do you tire of the ripped-straight-from-the-headlines, Law and Order type of scenarios and would rather not recognize the events when you read a mystery book? Is it cheating to base the story on real life and simply manipulate the ending you prefer? Or is all fair and game in the mystery biz?

Rhonda aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David