Mysteries for Kids & the Young at Heart

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Do you remember the first time you realized that books contained stories that could transport you to different times and places? I think I was about seven. Of course I’d been read to before that critical moment, but I don’t think I actually understood until then that there were stories on those pages that I could learn to read by myself. (I think the problem was that a lot of the people who read to me were known to veer off the printed words in a book and add their own. Not that I didn’t enjoy their elaborations, but it took me awhile to connect the printed words to the story I was used to hearing). Needless to say, after I learned to read, I didn’t want anyone reading aloud to me anymore.

There are a handful of books from my childhood that will always have a special place in my heart. They are the books I read over and over: Across Five Aprils, Where the Red Fern Grows, Up A Road Slowly, the Irish Red books, My Antonia, and A White Bird Flying.

Recently my co-author and I have been discussing the possibility of writing a middle-school or young adult (YA) mystery. My favorite mysteries at that age were the Trixie Belden series, but I didn’t have a clue what kinds of books were popular now – besides the Harry Potter books. As a first step in the process, this past week I’ve read a number of popular YA mysteries in order to understand the current market. I was surprised at what I found. Then I was surprised that I was surprised.

The themes in the YA books were very much adult themes – divorce, violence, and child abuse –all viewed through the eyes of the teen or pre-teen protagonist. Maybe I’ve just forgotten or maybe the reading material for twelve-year-olds has changed. Certainly today’s typical twelve-year-old is more sophisticated in some ways than I was at that age. Television and movies have seen to that transformation. And I suppose that in order to interest today’s teen or pre-teen reader, books will have to follow suit.

The YA books I read this past week included hardbacks and mass market paperbacks. The only things I found they had in common were the mystery element, a young hero or heroine, and a generally happy ending.

The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein
The Lost Boy by Linda Newbery
The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
Snatched (Bloodwater Mysteries) by Pete Hautman and Mary Logue
Mystery Isle by Judith St. George

Of the books listed above – all worthwhile reading, I found two were the best sources of information for my purposes: Lost Boy and Snatched.

Lost Boy is a beautiful, thoughtful book that both teens and adults will love. It will surely be reprinted for decades. Set in modern day rural Britain, a young boy, Matt Lanchester, and his family move to a new town and Matt tries to fit in. He learns to choose his friends wisely and rely on his own good sense. Matt’s chance encounter with the spirit of a dead boy, a mysterious old man, and charming legends of lost boys fuel a wonderful tale.

Snatched is a fun mystery – a quick read that follows a traditional whodunit format with a lot of humor mixed in for good measure. Roni Delicata , an 11-grade reporter for the school newspaper, investigates the assault of a fellow student. When that student goes missing, the young reporter and Brian Bain, her unlikely sidekick (a freshman science geek) join forces. Since they are both suspended from school for breaking the rules, they decide to use their unexpected free time to break a few more in their search for answers about the missing student.

Lost Boy is a book I will aspire to write someday. Snatched is something I could achieve now.

Do you have some recommendations for me? What else in the YA category should I be reading?

Evelyn

Toward a More Civil Union

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I am constantly amazed at the immaturity of adults and the nature of campaigns, two things that I’m finding are not mutually exclusive. Having watched now one presidential candidate debate and one vice-presidential candidate debate in which all four participants engaged in a “no, you did,” “no, you did!” forensic exercise of futility, I’m starting to lose faith in adults’ ability to get anything done. Or communicate civilly. Or effectively. (Sorry…I know you know who I’m talking about and if you don’t, just fill in the blank with someone else who says, “also, though,” as if that explains everything.) If you can’t even form a complete sentence with a noun, verb, and maybe even a direct or indirect object, you shouldn’t be allowed to run for anything, let alone a political office. And if the best you can do is tell lies about one another and sling mud and smear one another, then you should all put your toys back and go to your rooms for a collective time out.

It’s getting insane. And this lack of decorum, this lack of respect for others’ values, accomplishments, and opinions is all over television, cable and network alike. Today, I caught the slugfest known as The View. If you don’t know what this program is about, it’s basically five Democrats (an actress, two comedians, and Barbara Walters) and one Republican (someone who competed on a reality show) who argue incessantly, vociferously, and loudly about what’s going on in the news. Sometimes they interview an actor or actress who’s discussing their latest “project” (they used to be called “movies”) or they talk about the latest miracle skin cream or cellulite antidote. But generally, they sit around the kitchen table that they use as their bully pulpit and scream at and over each other about current events. And unless you’ve been living in a cave in Tora Bora for the last year, the news of the day concerns the presidential election with a little bit of the economy thrown in for good measure. But basically, they only discuss the economy in order to place blame at the feet at either the Republicans (the four Democrats) or the Democrats (the one Republican). Today, as with many other days, it got personal, the Democrats loading up on the lone Republican who kept chanting “consorting with terrorists” and “character matters” whenever the subject of one of the candidates came up (his name starts with Barack and ends with Obama) while one of the others intoned “Keating 5” or “deregulation” a thousand times over, as if that was a respectable counter-argument.

By the end of these segments, usually one or more of the women look like they’re going to cry, Barbara Walters is red in the face, and I sit and wonder how they’re going to talk to each other about the miracle cellulite cream if they’re not speaking at all.

At around seven o’clock every night, I watch Hardball. More yelling. More talking over one another. More “I know you are, but what am I?” verbal jousting. This is followed by Keith Olbermann, a man who can really turn a phrase, but who lets it fly when it comes to one of the candidates and not the other.

And don’t get me started on Fox News.

I also watch the Rachel Maddow show and have found that she is the only one of the lot who shows a modicum of class when it comes to discussing current events. Her foil is conservative Pat Buchanan and they go at it, but with dignity and a clear respect for each other’s opinions. It’s the definition of “debate.” Neither one hopes to change the other’s mind, but they listen to each other and respond accordingly. I really hope they can keep it up and that these other jokers on the other cable stations take notice. Civility increases ratings, at least in this house.

I have high hopes for the debate tonight but I know I’m just being silly and naïve. In reality, I don’t think it will be any more informative than The View, Hardball, or Keith Olbermann. Supposedly, this will be a “town hall style” debate. Does anyone even know what that means? I’m thinking that it’s the candidates, walking around with mics pinned to their suit jackets, doing folksy and “plain speak” to the people gathered, who supposedly get to ask the questions. But will they get answers? That will be the reason I tune in. Because for the life of me, I can’t understand why someone just can’t simply answer the question “What is your name?” without hyperbole, calling the other candidate’s record into question (or even calling them names), or calling themselves a maverick, patriotic, or an agent of change. Just answer the damn question. “My name is X. And we will do Y. That’s why you should vote for us.”

We’ve got less than a month until the election and my fear is that the level of discourse will sink even lower and that more mud will get slung. There will be more name calling, more supposed “skeletons” dragged out of closets that haven’t been open in twenty, thirty, or forty years, and more snarky sound bites.

And that’s just from the ladies of The View. I can’t even imagine where the candidates will take it.

Maggie Barbieri

What I’ve Been Up To

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None of this has much to do with writing–just what’s been happening the last week.

I was supposed to have a booksigning in Ventura, but heard from the owner that it had to be cancelled. We had planned to visit the Reagan Library while we were there and decided to go anyway. We had daughters who live in the area so we always like to visit.

The Reagan Library is fantastic. We happened to go during an Abraham Lincoln exhibit with the Emancapation Proclomation on display. That was worth the price of the ticket. But there was much more to see: the Oval Office exactly as it looked when Reagan was president, Nancy’s wardrobe including a note telling when she wore each outfit or gown, a replica of the White House Rose Garden and lawn and Reagan’s burial site.

The highlight of the trip, though, was Air Force One. It is displayed on a pedastal in a huge area with a window wall looking like it’s coming in for a landing. Everyone can walk through it and it looks like it did when Reagan used it, including the black box. Fascinating! The helicopter (or one like it) that flew the president from the White House to Andrews AFB is also on display, along with his limosine and LA escort police cars.

There’s lots more to see–we were there from 10:30 a.m. until 4. After that, we had dinner at our youngest daughter’s home along with her family and our eldest daughter and hubby who’d taken us to the Reagan Library.

Saturday, hubby and I attended a lovely party. We don’t go to many parties these days, so this was a treat. It was held outside–it rained all morning so wasn’t sure whether the party would still happen–in a beautiful garden. Tables and chairs were set up on the lawn with a wonderful spread of food and desserts in the patio.

The inside of the house was decorated with all sorts of scarecrows.

We didn’t really know many of the guests. The hostess is one of my biggest fans and asked me to bring a copy of Kindred Spirits for her to buy–which I did of course.

Up to this point I hadn’t found a place to launch Kindred Spirits in my home town. While sitting at a table with a local shop owner, Jenuine Junque, we got to talking and she is willing to clear out one of her rooms so I can have a book signing there. So, it does help to chit-chat with folks.

We did have a good time and solved a problem.

Next I’m off to the Wizards of Words conference in Scottsdale AZ.

Marilyn

Guilty!

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The mystery is how he managed to evade justice for 13 years.

It was a story with glamorous characters who hid nasty secrets. The red herrings were plentiful, but unbelievable. And it was only in the epilogue that you found a satisfying resolution.


Thirteen years to the day after he was found not guilty of the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman, “The Juice,” Orenthal James Simpson, finally heard a succession of guilty verdicts from a jury of his peers.

Most of us over 30 can remember with embarrassment the circus that masqueraded as a murder trial, that long summer of 1995. It was as if Warner Brothers had cast a remake of Judicial Animal House, featuring the wacky Judge Ito, the rhyming Johnnie Cochran, the frizzy-haired Marcia Clark, the freeloading houseguest Kato Kaelin, and starring as the romantic lead, but without a speaking part at this televised trial, the handsome football hero who couldn’t possibly have committed such heinous crimes.

And in the end, O.J. walked free, moving to Florida to escape paying millions of dollars in penalties when he was found guilty of these same murders in a civil trial a few years later. Over the last decade, we’ve seen OJ primarily on the front pages of the tabloids, as he continued his overindulged, entitled lifestyle, getting into brawls with new girlfriends and pirating satellite television to his mansion in Miami.

Like Al Capone who was finally convicted on tax charges, Simpson will spend time behind bars, not for the real crimes that most of us believe he committed, but for acting like a tough guy in Las Vegas. Like an Elvis impersonator who pretends to be the real thing, “The Juice” has fooled no one since that day 13 years ago in a California courtroom. He was a thug then; he is finally a convicted thug now.

May Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman rest in peace.

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/

The Mystery of the Vanishing Dollar

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I don’t have to tell you that the economy is in the tank. I think all of us know that everything from gas to milk to healthcare costs more; housing values have plummeted; jobs are disappearing. We’re all more nervous about our futures, unsure when, if ever, we can retire.

Though most of us think books are as vital as oxygen for our existence, a shaky economy means that there is less disposable income. Books sadly become luxury items. Book buyers are becoming a rare breed, with fewer dollars to spend. I think the big publishers are less willing to take a chance on unknown authors who don’t yet have proven track records. Even worse, public library budgets are being slashed. And here’s the conundrum: According to the American Library Association, in the face of economic hardship, visits to libraries and circulation are on the rise…and yet, budget pressures are forcing many libraries across the country to scale back hours or close.

Despite the fact that Wall Street and Main Street are both struggling, I think the case can be made that now, more than ever, we need cozy mysteries. As the wonderful Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand series, explained, she writes traditional mysteries (she loathes the term, cozies), because in her world, the good guys always win. While we deal with the practical, often dispiriting, issues of life, we need escapes that capture our imaginations and make us laugh. We need heroes and heroines who make sure that good triumphs over evil; that wealth and power don’t trump honesty and hard work.

I can’t begin to fix this economy, but the Sullivan Investigation mysteries are Evelyn David’s investment in the future — our readers, ourselves. We believe that a world of books is the foundation of a strong economy – in dollars and sense.

Evelyn David

Sometimes a Great Notion

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Writers love good stories – and for me movies have been almost as important as books in shaping my outlook of the world.

I’ve been enjoying Paul Newman’s movies for almost as long as I’ve been aware of movies. My mother was a big fan. As a nine or ten-year-old I can remember staying up late with her and watching The Long Hot Summer on television. The movie, based on a couple of William Faulkner stories, debuted in theaters in 1958 and was aired on television often during the 1960s. I adored everything about it: the multi-layered characters, the Southern setting, and the wonderful use of words- the movie has great dialogue. It’s also packed with strong female characters. The Long Hot Summer introduced me to Paul Newman. It’s been almost a 40 year, one-sided love affair. I believe I’ve seen all of his movies. Some I’ve seen many, many times. All were worth the price of a ticket.

This past Sunday I learned of his death. I offer my condolences to his family, friends, and all the people his life has touched – whether through his movies or his charities. The world is a lesser place without him.

Paul Newman may be gone but his movies will be enjoyed forever. These Paul Newman movies are my particular favorites. The characters he plays are all very different – an outlaw, a con artist, a cop, a Cold War spy, a logger, a freedom fighter, an aging husband, a mobster, and a house painter. Can you match the job to the movie? How long does it take you? More than a minute – then you need to break out the popcorn and rent some DVDs.

1958 – The Long Hot Summer
1960 – Exodus
1966 – Torn Curtain
1969 – Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid
1971 – Sometimes A Great Notion (aka Never Give an Inch)
1981 – Fort Apache the Bronx
1990 – Mr. & Mrs. Bridge
2002 – Road to Perdition
2005 – Empire Falls

Answers in the comment section of this blog entry on Saturday.

Do you have a favorite Paul Newman movie? Tell us about it.

Evelyn David

The Mystery of the Not So Amazin’ Mets

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I’m going to talk about collapse, but not the one that you think. Because if I started talking about that one, I may never stop, and that would not be good.

Why do we root for sports teams who break our hearts? Are we masochists? (Or is it sadists? I never get that one straight.) Or are we eternally optimistic? “This will be our big year!”

Well, as a long-suffering New York Met fan, our big year—our moment of glory, if you will—preceded my marriage to my husband by three years, was when I still had bangs, wore shoulder pads and mini-skirts to work, was eight years before my first child was born, and about thirty pounds ago. It was 1986. We were at a wedding in Massachusetts for two people who we saw maybe twice before they got married and never after. We were there when Buckner let the ball roll through his legs at first base and wondered if we would get out of Amherst alive. (It’s not all Emily Dickinson and poetry, at least not when the Sox are involved.) But we went back to the safety of our hotel room celebrated like it was 1999, as quietly as we could so that we didn’t get killed. Little did we know that that was our big break; although we went to the World Series in 2000 and faced the Yankees in a rare thing known as the “Subway Series” our hearts would be broken again. (I’m looking at you Armando Benitez.) Our hearts would be broken time and time again, starting with last year’s historic collapse (seven games ahead, seventeen to play) and followed up by this year’s kind of whimpering close-out of Shea Stadium, not exactly hallowed baseball halls, but a landmark for Met fans nonetheless.

My husband and I sat on the couch on Sunday, me suffering from a sinus infection (ever had one of those? Me either. They stink.), him suffering from Met fan syndrome, commonly called “chokus perpetualis.” We watched as they had chance after chance to tie the score, pull ahead on the scoreboard, put the whole thing to bed. Oh, but the Milwaukee Brewers had to lose, too, to make our post-season dreams a reality, so we watched the score in that game with baited breath knowing that one win and one lose would mean success or curtains, two losses or two wins would mean one more tie-breaking game.

It was not to be. But this time, instead of abject disappointment, all we felt was numb. Because you know what Mets? We’re onto you! We know you’re going to let us down. Like the guy who says he’s going to call and never does, like the box of color that promises cinnamon highlights and leaves you with spaghetti-sauce colored streaks from root to temple, like the water from the fountain of youth that tastes suspiciously like it came from our tap. We will not be had.

We turned the television off and went about our business: me, buying more tissues so that we wouldn’t run out (sinus infections require a lot of tissues—just letting you know), Jim getting another refreshment. I made dinner. But before we put the whole thing to rest, I asked him when opening day was next year for the new, beautiful, not smelly like Shea, Citi Field.

“April 13,” he said. “You watching?”

Of course I am. I’m a Met fan. I was annoyed that he even asked.

Maggie

Surviving the Family Reunion

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That’s a misleading title, because except for the fact that I was worn out, it was a great reunion. Two granddaughters planned it and they did a super job. It was held in the middle of the desert in Barstow, CA which was about halfway for the Vegas clan and the those of us scattered around California. About thirty-two relations attended, mine and my sister’s many offspring. The youngest was seven-months-old and my husband had the title of the eldest at 78–and he also was the best bowler over all. That’s how the weekend began, with a bowling tournament.

My sis and I realized that had our dad lived, his 101st birthday would be the day this appears. He and mom would have so loved this event–they were crazy about family and always amazed at how many we were since they’d only had two daughters. (Amazing to us too.)

The first evening, besides a lot of yakking, we were given cards to write down the information of how we came about our first name, something no one else has done, and our most embarrassing moment. We chowed down on Nachos with cheese, carrots, celery and dip, fruit and homemade cookies. Then we settled down to play our family’s favorite game of Estimation. (It’s not everyone’s favorite, some of the men sneaked off to watch the debate.) The thing about this game that’s so much fun is anyone can play and thought there is some strategy, you don’t have to be particularly smart.

One of my great-grandson’s who is a Sophomore in high school would consult with me on his hand–saying he had to find out what the “wise one” thought he should do. That tickled me.

We were at a Holiday Inn Express with a great breakfast which everyone enjoyed. Some of us were ready to eat and gab at 7 a.m. despite staying up way later than what I’m used to.

My job was making the chili beans which I got started fairly early. The wonderful smell of it cooking permeated the hotel. The kids had relay races beside the pool and swam. Lunch was hamburgers and hot dogs. Some went to State Line to Gamble, a son-in-law and grandson-in-law went four-bying, others went shopping at an outlet mall (I found some great bargains for Christmas). Of course you know there was lots and lots of gabbing going on. When we got back to the hotel, it was time for a Triathalon for the kids, jumping rope, swimming two laps, and a race around the outside of the hotel. Then everyone paticipated in a sponge relay which meant we all got wet. We were great entertainment for other hotel guests who were relaxing around the pool.

The chili beans were the best I’ve every made. What was left we shared with the hotel staff who were very appreciative. We had a talent show, and we learned everyone’s secrets from the cards filled out earlier. The youngest kids crashed, the next age worked on craft projects while the rest of us went back to playing Estimation. And I was just as wise as the night before–though I didn’t win. We had a great time.

It was great seeing the newest addition to the family and getting better acquainted with one of my grandson’s girlfriend–and best of all, just spending time with relatives I don’t see often.

Oh, and I sold four books! Better than some book events I’ve gone to.

Now I need to play catch-up again–the one drawback to going off and having a good time.

Marilyn

Happy New Year

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While it’s 93 more days until the big, glittery ball drops in Times Square, tonight is the start of Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish New Year. We celebrate with prayers and a festive meal (except for Yom Kippur, there is almost always food associated with Jewish holidays). It’s no time for nouvelle cuisine. I go back to basics, with brisket or chicken on the menu, maybe even some chopped liver. We also traditionally eat apples dipped in honey to symbolize our hope for a sweet new year. As I read in one source, “sweet means dear, precious, enjoyable, satisfying, serene, secure and something most pleasing.”

The time between Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, is called the Days of Awe. They are a period for reflection, an opportunity to atone for sins in the past, make amends with those we’ve harmed, and decide to do better in the future. I know that this type of inner soul-searching should be an ongoing process, not something limited to the 10 days between the two High Holidays. So one of my resolutions for this new year is to take more time for spiritual inventory and spend less time on book inventory. I think both the professional and personal side of me will benefit.

So as we enter the Jewish year 5769, may I take this opportunity to wish each of you, a healthy, happy New Year.

Shana Tova Umetukah (Hebrew for “A Good and Sweet Year.”)

Evelyn David

Death and the Lit Chick

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G. M. Malliet worked as a journalist and copywriter for national and international news publications and public broadcasters. Winner of the Malice Domestic Grant (Death of a Cozy Writer) and the Romance Writers of America’s Stiletto Award, Malliet attended Oxford University and holds a graduate degree from the University of Cambridge.She and her husband live in Virginia. For a description of Death and the Lit Chick, see http://gmmalliet.com/

Several years ago, my husband and I belonged to a neighborhood book club. It lasted only about two years, then the group dissolved: attrition, conflicting and busy schedules, and all the rest made it too difficult to meet. What was slightly unusual about this club was that it was comprised of three men and three women. I don’t have statistics to back this up, but I imagine most book clubs are female only or predominantly female.

What was also unusual was that, about eighteen months into our monthly meetings, we realized we had read only books by male authors. I don’t remember the books now, except for Peace Like a River (lovely writing) and some god-awful attempt at imitating the Travis McGee books. My point is: We may have come a long way, baby, but somehow, without even realizing it, the women had gone along with choosing the more muscular books they thought the men might like, rather than making the men struggle through something like Sex and the City. I guess we knew they would flat-out refuse and that would be the end of that.

This is a pathetic confession to have to make; to this day I can’t believe we women behaved like this, without even realizing we were doing so. The whole episode has been in my mind now that the ramp-up to my second novel in the St. Just mystery series has begun. A key–nay, a crucial–part of this ramp-up is the unveiling of the book cover, which, rightly or wrongly, can raise or sink a book. The first book was called Death of a Cozy Writer, and it was beautifully illustrated, I thought, by a fountain pen dripping blood (trust me, it sounds awful but it looks great). The second book is called Death and the Lit Chick, the cover for which appears above.

My first reaction on seeing this cover was that I loved it–I thought it was clever and impactful, looking like the spilled contents of a woman’s purse (although it did portray many items not mentioned in the plot–a subject many authors over the centuries have ranted about so there’s no need for me to repeat the rantings here). But my husband took one look and declared that no man would be caught dead buying that book unless it came supplied with a brown paper wrapper.

Worriedly, I reported the findings of my two-person survey to my editor, fearing I was going to lose the male audience that I knew existed for the first book. The second book was in the identical, traditional British mystery vein (there is nothing chick litty about the plot). But would I lose the men forever with this one? She told me that my audience would largely be female, anyway, and female was the target audience.

Is this true? I hate to lose the guys over a cover. Perhaps Death and the Lit Chick can be a litmus test, the way my book club was. If challenged, will “real men” buy a girly looking pink-and-red book with lipstick on the cover?

We shall see come April.

G.M. Malliet
http://gmmalliet.com/