Mystery Plots

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A priest hanging from a bunch of helium-filled balloons disappears. A caller reporting child abuse at a polygamist compound can’t be found. A mail carrier catches a baby who falls from a second story window. The daily news is a great source of “plot bunnies” for mystery writers. It’s just a matter of choosing a subject that will hold your and your readers’ interest for 100,000 words.

With the advent of 24-hour cable news and the Internet, today’s writers have access to an endless stream of interesting stories and events. Unsolved murders, missing persons, haunted houses, treacherous weather, family feuds, dangerous jobs, and unexplained events are wonderful building blocks for your next mystery novel. Many writers keep a notebook filled with plot ideas; others, like me, file the information away in memory for future use.

It’s time for “Evelyn David” to start a new book. Since there are two writers involved we not only have lots of plot ideas, but have to negotiate with each other to narrow the choices. Sometimes one of us will take an idea and run with it, writing a few pages to see if we can truly turn the idea into a viable storyline. I have at least five such partial stories parked on my desktop – everything from a sequel to our short story, I Try Not To Drive Past Cemeteries, to a children’s story involving Jesse James loot, to a couple who run an antique store and solve murders in their spare time. From time to time I write a little more on each, depending on my mood. I’m not sure any will ever make it to a publisher’s desk, but maybe.

How to start? I bring up a blank sheet of paper on my computer screen. I type a working title. Then save the blank page. (Note: it’s always wise to save your work every half page or so. I haven’t lost any work yet to a power surge and I don’t intend to – bowing my head and offering a silent prayer.)

It’s usually best to start in the middle of the action – the scream of the baby falling, the ring of the anonymous call, the man hanging from the balloons drifting out of sight. You want to start with the “good stuff” then back up and describe your setting and your characters. Some people work off of an outline. My co-author and I don’t – or at least we don’t have a hard and fast one. Later in the writing, as the subplots develop and begin to take on a life of their own, we start structuring the chapters and the scenes.

We keep a running list of character names, descriptions, occupations, etc. – all the details you don’t want to forget (i.e. your hero drives a Ford Bronco on page 20 and suddenly leaps into a Chevy Tahoe on page 187.)

As I mentioned earlier, it’s time for Evelyn David to start a new book.

The sticky tabs on the diaper held. Twenty pounds of screaming baby dropping two stories at the speed of gravity. Only fragments of seconds to act. Reaching up, my fingers found purchase between the leg opening and the waistband. Pampers were tough. And on sale at the local super center. Strange the thoughts that run through your mind at times like these.

Dead silence. The baby and I looked at each other in amazement. My heart felt like it was going to explode; I couldn’t seem to take a deep breath.

The baby had no such problem. The noise was deafening.

I got a better grip. The sudden moisture on my hands had me checking the baby for injuries. There were none.

The diaper was strong—but not leak proof.

Okay, not great. But it’s a start. Maybe I need to watch CNN for more ideas.

Good luck with your own writing!

Evelyn David

Girls’ Night Out–Archaic Ritual or Necessary Endeavor?

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I was recently watching one of my favorite reality television shows—The Real Housewives of New York City—and the subject came up among the women on the show about the old “girls’ night out.” One woman took umbrage at the fact that her girlfriends had invited her over, yet had a collective freak out when she brought her husband. This caused much drama, with a conversation ensuing about the whole concept of the girls’ night out. The woman who had brought her husband made it a gender equality issue which one of the housewives—with whom I agree—thought was a bit over the top. The woman with the husband thought that it was discriminatory or some such hogwash that her husband couldn’t attend the dinner, which was supposed to be ladies only.

First question, why would she want him to attend?

Second, and more important question, why would he want to?

I haven’t been able to get my husband’s take on this yet, but being as he greets my girls’ nights out with a wave of the hand and the cracking open of a beer, I don’t get the sense that he’s too troubled by the whole notion. Nor do I get the sense that he wants to come along. Or that he feels discriminated against. Because, face it, at this point, all my girlfriends and I are talking about are the kids and peri-menopause. What man in his right mind would be interested in that?

And I’m not interested in finding out what goes on after his softball team, the Ducks, leaves the field and hits the bar for some cold ones and a rehash of the game. That’s for the Ducks.

Are we the odd balls? Should we, like this glamorous and madly in love couple on the Real Housewives (or so they profess), want to spend every waking moment together?

The answer, my friends, is a resounding “no.” (In my humble opinion.)

As I mentioned above, a girls’ night out affords me the opportunity to talk about those things that my husband isn’t really all that interested in talking about. To wit, has Target embraced “vanity sizing” whereby your old size twelve is now a fourteen? He is just not interested in the answer to that question, much less discussing it for close to an hour. And because he has a thirty-two inch waist and has since he was sixteen, couldn’t give a rat’s behind about vanity sizing. But for me and my girlfriends, this is a discussion that could go on as long as a Security Council meeting at the U.N.

Example #2: Are boot-cut jeans, in, out, or timeless? He doesn’t care. He wears the same jeans that he’s always worn—the ones that were on sale when he went shopping for jeans.

Example #3: How does one get out of their PTA position—the one that they have held since their now-fourteen-year-old was in kindergarten? Answer? One doesn’t. One has it until one succumbs to Dutch Elm disease. Or moves to another state. Or when one’s child graduates from the school (but even that’s not a guarantee). But until any or all of these things occur, one (me) stays on the PTA.

My husband, if I chose to bring this up, would tell me to just quit. Oh, if it were that simple. Does he realize the looks I would get at the produce counter? The hurt feelings? Or that I would have to find my own replacement and lie about how rewarding it is to do the things that I do? My girlfriends understand all this and more. (One of them is still wearing a wig and sunglasses out so that she won’t be recognized and put on a committee to run the next social event.)

Obviously, I’ve simplified things a bit. We do tackle some topics that are more mundane, and some that are more serious. We’ve done religion, politics, divorce, teenagers, marriage, and double coupons—but not necessarily in that order. I need my girlfriends to assure me that I’m on the right track, doing the right thing, doing the best by my kids and my husband. It’s a gut check, a panacea for paranoia.

I head out tonight with two friends for a couple of glasses of cheap wine and some burgers. I can only hope that they leave half as happy as I do after spending a few hours on the topic of my muffin top.

Maggie Barbieri

Jackass Mail Run, Come and Gone

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The second page of the Fresno Bee had a photo and story about the Mail Run, the Porterville Recorder thought it to be front page news. Tells you how important this rowdy event is. Hubby went up to town at 9 a.m. and set up the home made booth. When he was done, I went up and set up my books–we were in front of the dentist’s office.

Immediately, the scent of cooking tri-tip and popcorn and other wonderful smells drifted my way and I was ready to eat. I ended up going across the street and buying a torta a local church was selling. People started wandering down the street long before noon–the official opening time.

At first, no one stopped by my booth–books aren’t exactly tempting when there’s so much other stuff going on–mostly people driving up and down the street showing off their vehicles.

Finally, things got serious and I spent a lot of time describing my books and yes, before the day was over I’d sold 10. Not bad–better than I’ve done at some bookstore signings. Yes, I did see a lot of people I haven’t seen for awhile and met some new ones as I’d expected.

A flock of middle-aged saloon “girls” strutted up and down the streets with heaving bosoms and appropriate costumes. A group of varied aged belly dancers also wandered down the street on the way to the stage set up in front of the pizza place. We could only hear the entertainment, too far away to see it.

Around 4 p.m. the sounds of gunshots rang out. A posse came galloping in ahead of the mail wagon, shooting in the air to scare off the bad guys. Didn’t work. Once the mail wagon came right in front of my booth, the bandidos stole the mail sack. Didn’t keep it long though, they were soon shot dead right in front of my eyes. The mail sack was retrieved and the mail delivered safely to the post office. (The bandidos came back to life in minutes.)

I made the cost of the booth and some profit and had fun, so it was a good day.

My writing friend and long time mentor arrived Sunday afternoon and we talked writing all evening long. In the night, a skunk decided to stroll past one of the dogs and he barked his annoyance waking me up. I knew it was a skunk because of the distinctive stench that floated in my bedroom window.

In the a.m. we talked more writing (great fun) and at noon I took her to Porterville, where we had lunch with another writer friend who will be the hostess for the next couple of days. Now it’s time for me to pack for Las Vegas and the Public Safety Writers Conference.

(While we’re gone, the Springville Rodeo will go on. Not sorry I’ll miss it–very difficult to get out of our driveway with all the cars passing by.)

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Spitting in the Wind

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I don’t think of myself as superstitious. I prefer to present myself as just an average woman taking reasonable precautions so the fates don’t barrel in and knock me flat. I will concede, however, that what seems like sensible safety measures to me, might seem like Looney Tunes to the next person.

So where does it all begin? Remember the saying, “step on a crack, break your mother’s back”? My mother had severe spinal arthritis. As a child, I couldn’t help but wonder if my sister and I had raced too carelessly up and down the block? Picture six-year-old Evelyn David laboriously stepping over each crack in the sidewalk until her big sister lost patience with her geriatric progress to the movies and knocked her flat. Forget the fates when you’ve got older siblings.

Rational people have to be intelligent about their superstitions – and that’s not a contradiction in terms. Hear me out. I don’t throw salt over my left shoulder if I spill any. Why? First, who uses much salt given all the fears about hypertension? But more importantly, who the heck is going to clean up the salt if I do toss it willy-nilly over my shoulder? I’ve never noticed any fates picking up a broom.

But as anyone who spends thirty seconds with me, in person or online, knows, I seem to be constantly spitting. No it’s not denture plates flapping in the wind. Instead, and I confess I have yet to meet anyone else who seems to have heard of this superstition, I follow the “poo, poo” rule.

It’s a multi-purpose, one-size-fits-all superstition. At its core, it is used to provide cover from the evil eye. So when I see a new baby, as soon as I finish saying, “he’s so beautiful” I immediately add, “poo, poo.” I don’t want those pesky fates anywhere near an innocent child.

But poo, poo, is also used to ward off the fates looking to up-end a cherished dream. So if I were to say, “I wish that Tom Selleck would decide to star in the movie version of Murder Off the Books,” I would then add, “poo, poo.” This will prevent those ornery fates from deciding to have Dr. Phil sign on for the role. Of course, the rational me says that if Dr. Phil does decide to make the movie, and more importantly, if his check to buy the movie rights clears, then maybe those fates do know a thing or two and I should stop spitting.

Sometimes I’m the designated spitter. It’s the same principle as the designated driver at a fabulous party. The champagne is flowing, the margaritas are plentiful (and so is all that salt dropping from the rims, I might add), people are laughing and forgetting all caution because they know that dull as dishwater Evelyn is in the corner ready to take up the slack, and drive everyone safely home, or in this case, spit as necessary. So when the Southern half announces gleefully that our sequel, Murder Takes the Cake, is going to win an Agatha, an Edgar, and land on the New York Times best-seller list, who do you think is left spitless trying to cover all the evil eyes undoubtedly looking to send our book directly to the remainder table?

That’s okay. You can count on me…poo, poo.

Evelyn David

Jane’s First Book Trailer

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The Stiletto Gang is pleased to welcome as our guest blogger, Jane Cleland. She is the author of the Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries (St. Martin’s Minotaur). Her latest book, Antiques to Die For, debuts this month. Jane is also President of the New York chapter of Mystery Writers of America. Welcome Jane!

For the first time, I created a book trailer to celebrate my new book, Antiques to Die For. You can view it at http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=janecleland.

It was quite an experience creating it.

I worked with a terrific independent film maker named Kat. http://www.spygirlpix.com/ Kat taught me the process: strategy, script, casting, setting, shoot. Sounds easy, right? Hardly.

The strategy was pretty straight ahead because I knew what I wanted. I had a clear vision—strategically, I wanted to both show what the book was about and what the experience of reading would feel like. I wanted to provide enough information to intrigue readers of traditional mysteries while creating a strong sense of place and atmosphere.

Here’s what the book is about:

After setting up shop as an antiques appraiser, Josie Prescott’s life has not gone according to plan: business is booming and she has good friends and a promising romance—but dead bodies keep crossing her path. And now, a friend is killed just hours after confiding a secret to Josie, leaving a bereaved sister who reminds Josie of herself when her mother died.

It turns out that the victim had other secrets, too: a mysterious treasure she told her sister she was leaving behind—and a secret admirer who now seems to be turning his creepy attention to Josie. Can you imagine what it would be like to be a 12-year old orphan whose sister is murdered? Can you imagine what it would be like if your sister told you that you owned a treasure—a priceless antique—but you don’t know what it is or where it is?

Set on the beautiful and rugged New Hampshire coastline, Antiques to Die For is filled with antiques lore and complex plot twists. In the end, using her knowledge of antiques, Josie finds the valuable treasure—and solves the crime. And in doing so, she gives a young girl hope.

At first, when thinking of the trailer, I focused almost exclusively on the young girl, but that took me off on the wrong track. Certainly, the girl, she’s a little blonde pixie named Paige, by the way, is a central character in the book. But Antiques to Die For is a Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery—and that means the trailer should focus primarily on Josie’s world—antiques, not a single character.

Casting was something else all together. I wanted to hire a girl to play Paige, but only her rear view would be seen. I wanted viewers to fill in their own ideas about what Paige looked like.

Kat ran ads on Craig’s list, and we were flooded with blonde ambition. One girl, or rather, her mother, wrote that her daughter was fourteen, but could play twelve. Another wrote that her daughter was ten, but could play twelve. We had two mothers who wanted to fly their daughters to New York to audition. Enough said. We picked a lovely 12-year old local girl named Shannon.

Perhaps the greatest challenge was finding a New York City shoreline location that looked even remotely like Rocky Point, the New Hampshire shoreline community where the Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries are set. Leave it to Kat! We did. When you view the trailer, keep in mind that you’re looking at a New York City beach. Pretty incredible, isn’t it?

In the end, I couldn’t be happier with the finished product. It expresses exactly what I wanted to express. A excerpt of the book is available in text or audio on my website, http://www.janecleland.net/. I love to hear your thoughts about book trailers—and the Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries, too.

Jane Cleland

The Books on My Desk

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My second novel is finished and I’m more than ready for a quiet vacation somewhere with a sandy beach, but until Oprah discovers a fondness for Irish wolfhounds, my trips will all be to mystery conventions. I’m going to Mayhem in the Midlands in May – no beaches, but Omaha is a great place to visit. Since I’m driving this year, I hope to have a chance to see all the sights.

Speaking of sights, my house looks like a disaster area. Or maybe just a house where nothing got done the past couple of months except writing. Looking around my living room, the place where I write (yes, I have a spare bedroom that I will eventually turn into an office but for now I’m superstitious about changing anything), I see the effects of the “write until you drop” effort. Office supplies, Christmas wrapping paper, TV Guides from November, receipts from Staples, pens with mismatched caps, sticky notes with all kinds of important information (i.e. the Pizza Hut delivery number, the name of a poison I researched, and a plot point I feared forgetting), and books. I have lots of books stacked on my desk, on the floor, even part of the sofa has been commandeered to serve as a temporary bookshelf.

I love books. I love reading. So when I decided I wanted to learn to write fiction, my first instinct was to purchase books on writing. I devoured dozens of “how-to” books. Some were useful, others not so much. Some yielded practical information – the correct punctuation of dialogue; others gave me hints for structuring a plot, introduced me to pacing, and clarified the finer points of “point of view.”

My favorites are already showing signs of wear and tear – I’ve read them more than once and refer to them often while writing.

Here’s the best of the best – my recommendations for any mystery writer’s desk.

For help with the nuts and bolts:
Writing the Novel – From Plot to Print – Lawrence Block.
Self-Editing for Fiction Writers – R. Browne & D. King.
Save the Cat! – Blake Snyder.

For research:
Death’s Acre – Dr. Bill Bass & Jon Jefferson
Deadly Doses, A Writer’s Guide to Poison – Stevens & Klarner.
Death to Dust–What Happens to Dead Bodies – Kenneth V. Iserson M.D.

For inspiration:
On Writing – Steven King.
To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
Anything by Laura Lippman or Nevada Barr

Evelyn David

The Best and Worst Things about Being a Writer

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I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately, possibly because I’m set to begin work on my fourth installment in the Alison Bergerson mystery series. I already have a title—“Extra Credit”—so that’s a start. My editor and I are usually throwing around words and phrases long after the manuscript has been submitted and approved, hoping to land on that one turn of phrase that will pique a reader’s interest. The third novel—out in December of this year—will be called “Quick Study” and many thanks to my friend Kelly, optometrist extraordinaire, who came up with that one.

I’ve also been thinking about the things I like the most about writing and some of the things that I’m not so crazy about and have compiled a list. Here are my top three:

1. My home office: One of the best things about being a writer? My home office. One of the worst things about being a writer? My home office. Being able to amble up to the third floor and sit at my pine table and work away for the day is really a blessing; I’m here to ship the kids off to school and here when they come home (is it three o’clock ALREADY?). But truth be told, I haven’t really left that attic space to do anything approaching physical activity in a really long time. I had a friend over the other night for a glass of champagne (no occasion; I think drinking champagne should make its way into the normal and mundane days just as often as it makes its way into the celebratory and exciting ones) who is a personal trainer. I asked her her secret to having abs that you could bounce a quarter off of. Apparently, scientists haven’t invented a secret pill since I stopped exercising that will guarantee you abs like my friend’s. Her advice? Eat less fat, cut out the Chardonnay, watch your carb intake, and take a brisk walk every day. My advice? Personal Trainer Friend, do not ever set foot in my house again. That solves that.

2. Talking about writing: One of the best and worst things about being a writer is talking about writing. I love talking to other writers, hearing their secrets, bouncing ideas off of them. I like how a great conversation about writing can get the juices flowing for everyone involved. I admire other writer’s work ethics, their ability to write through writer’s block, and how they turn a phrase. What I do not enjoy is people asking me what it takes to be a writer or when they devalue what writers do. Usually the people asking me about writing discuss the excuses they have for not writing first: “I have a full-time job,” (me, too); “I have kids,” (got two of my own); “I have a great idea for a novel but am way too busy to write,” (join the club). But you know what? Just like there’s no secret pill to having rock hard abs, there is no secret pill that will allow you to sit down and write a novel. It’s hard work and requires a bit of skill. And if you want to write, you have to write (just ask my fellow Stiletto-ites). Nothing will get in your way. Let’s revisit this in nine months when novel #4 is due, the abs are still the consistency of Jello, and I’m really cranky. Make sure you’re not the person I run into at the grocery store who announces to me that writing is easy, they have a book in them (that’s gotta hurt), and after they’re done, they’d love to have me edit it for them.

3. Book reviews: Good reviews? The best thing about writing. Bad reviews? Do I even have to answer that? A good review will make my day. The birds will sing, I’ll make cornbread from scratch—just because!—and I will be whistling a happy tune. But get my day started with reading a bad review and I’ll turn into a beast that should only show its face during the full moon. Why do I let reviews—both good and bad—affect me like this? I don’t like everything I read and I don’t have to. Neither should anyone else out there (and I’m thinking of those reviewers on Amazon for whom one-star is a rave). There’s some kind of saying involving not believing the good reviews or the bad reviews and all will be well, but I haven’t been able to listen to this sage advice and continue on this roller coaster of emotion for the few months after I publish one of my novels.

The best thing I’ve done in the past several months related to writing is visiting the book club at my husband’s school. This group is comprised of about ten teachers who read and discuss the chosen book at length. They have just finished “Extracurricular Activities” and we had a spirited discussion about the book, mysteries, and writing in general. It was a fabulous evening, with some of the best refreshments I have ever seen at a book club. (Braised short ribs? Potatoes au gratin? Asparagus? I guess I’ll work all of those butter-filled calories off at some point but for today, I am salivating just thinking about that meal. Don’t tell Personal Trainer Friend—who, incidentally, I adore—she’ll have me in exercise boot camp before long.)

But since this is a combo best/worst list, I can’t leave out the part of the evening that will live in infamy: I got up to say goodbye to an old friend, tripped in my new high heeled giraffe-print shoes and took a header into the dessert table. I don’t think that even having perfectly sculpted abs and a killer rear end would have kept me upright or from grabbing the Shop teacher’s leg in an effort to ward off a head wound.

Even though it was the worst thing for me, I’m going to hope that that was the best thing about the book club meeting for the book club members. Because, let’s face it, how many times do you get to have the writer at your book club AND see her do a face plant?

Maggie Barbieri

Looking Forward

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It seems I’m always looking forward to something. This weekend it’s having a booth at the Jackass Mail Run. This is the beginning of Rodeo Weekend in Springville, CA. This particular event begins at noon with booths lining Main Street. (The part of Highway 190 that goes through town.) My booth will be in front of the dentist’s office.

Most everyone will be dressed up like cowboys or saloon girls of the Old West. If a woman wears pants, she might be thrown in jail. If a man doesn’t have a beard, the same thing will happen to him. It can get pretty rowdy, but not nearly as bad as it was when we first moved here, and the drunks took over by late afternoon.

There’ll be some local bands playing and games for the kids. Plus it costs a buck to get out of jail if you’re caught breaking the only two laws that are enforced. About 100 horse and riders will come up 190, having started in Porterville (17 miles) in the morning, escorting the mail wagon. Some of these folks do too much drinking along the way and get a bit wild. Sheriff’s cars escort them as well as an SPCA truck and horse trailer.

When the mail wagon reaches Springville around 3:30 or 4, they are attacked by bandits. Lots of gun fire. Sometimes the Civil War Calvary gets in on it and shoots a cannon. The bandits drop dead in the street, but miraculously rise to fire again. It gets pretty darn noisy.

Most of the booths are manned by people selling food and trinkets. Our youth group will have a booth with popcorn and cotton candy. I’ll be there hoping that, among the attendees, a reader or two might drop by and take a peek at my books. One thing I do know, is that there will be some folks I know who I haven’t seen for awhile and they’ll stop and chat.

After all that excitement, there’s a dance in the Inn. I won’t be attending. After being outside all afternoon, I’ll pack up my books and head for home.

The next day, I’m having a visitor, a dear writing friend, Willma Gore. She taught me more about writing than anyone else while we attended the same critique group for many years. She moved to Sedona AZ a few years ago, and I’ve only seen her a couple of times since. We’ll have all Sunday afternoon and evening as well as Monday a.m. to bring each other up-to-date. I can hardly wait.

Next on my agenda, is the Public Safety Writers conference in Las Vegas.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?

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I’ve got a ton of people coming for dinner on Saturday night. It’s the start of Passover and we celebrate with a ritual meal called a Seder. This holiday marks the Biblical exodus of the Jews from Egypt. We sing songs, say prayers, and eat certain traditional foods (yes, this is the origin of matzoh ball soup).

Holiday preparations start a month in advance. I dig out huge pots, originally owned by my husband’s grandmother, source of generations of chicken soup. I can make the broth ahead and freeze it, but the matzoh balls must be made the day of the Seder, bubbling away to perfection as we chant the opening prayers. When the crowd is large, we switch the furniture in our dining room and living room, to have space for extra tables. My husband grumbles as he schleps the folding chairs from the basement, but beams when he looks across the full room at family and friends joining in song.

Seder means “order” in Hebrew and there is an order to the evening and to the Haggadah, the prayer book we use for the holiday. But “order” and even tradition don’t have to mean stagnant. Over the years, we’ve introduced new songs, tested new recipes for familiar foods, and researched subjects we take for granted looking for new insights. We’ve tripped over our tongues trying to make the traditional prayer book gender-neutral – and for some of us, we’ve shrugged our shoulders, read aloud the traditional masculine pronoun for God, confident that She would understand. At the end of the Seder, we leave feeling satisfied that we haven’t just paid lip service to ancient traditions, but instead have made them our own.

In an odd way – and I’ll grant that it may seem a stretch –there’s a similarity between being a mystery writer and preparing the Seder. There’s a well-known “order” to books, with the traditional elements of hero, murderer, red herrings, minor characters, place, setting. But how you mix these up, how you make these basics your own, is what defines you as a writer. I don’t want my books to be any more of a formula than my Seder.

Sometimes our choices, in cooking or writing, work perfectly, pleasing the palate and the imagination. And sometimes, they are abysmal failures and our only choice is to delete, rewrite, reseason, or dump in the garbage can. That’s okay too.

One of the traditional foods for Passover is Charoset, a sweet mixture of apples, walnuts, wine, and cinnamon, to represent the mortar used by Jewish slaves to build the Egyptian storehouses. It’s a family favorite and will be on the table in my mother’s cut glass bowl, as usual. But I’m also offering something new: Persian Charoset, made with dates, pistachio nuts, pomegranate, banana, cloves and cardamom. It’s a spicy alternative that hopefully will prompt discussion about history, ancestral connections, and the meaning behind these symbolic dishes.

So this week, in addition to the usual murder and mayhem I try to create, I’m polishing silver, moving furniture, cooking, cleaning, and getting ready for a crowd. I can’t wait.

Happy Holidays to all.

Evelyn David

Split Personality

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Lorraine Bartlett is the author of Murder Is Binding, the first in the Booktown Mystery series, now available, and the author of the Jeff Resnick Mystery series. Dead In Red will be released in late June by Five Star.

I’m writing under two names: L.L. Bartlett writes the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, which are either psychological suspense or paranormal thrillers, and Lorna Barrett, who writes the Booktown cozy mysteries.

I’m also promoting in harmony:

How the heck did both books happen to come out so close to each other? Karma? Just plain dumb luck? It would’ve been better had they been half a year apart, but that isn’t what fate handed me.

So while I’m pushing one, the other is always on my mind.

It’s been a little over a week since Murder Is Binding came out (my cozy), but in eight weeks, Dead In Red (the second in my Jeff Resnick series) will debut. I should be concentrating on pushing MIB, but DIR is coming up fast.

My solution? Push them both.

The problem is–they’re two distinctly different kinds of stories. The Booktown mysteries are set in a small town, where “everybody knows your name” (a la Cheers), and it’s also the first murder in over sixty years in the safest town in the state. The Jeff Resnick series is set in the second biggest city in New York; Buffalo–and my protagonist is definitely NOT known by anyone except his family in the book…until Page 1. And crime in a big city isn’t as “personal” as it is in a small town. Except for those people it directly affects.

So what’s the common ground?

Actually, there is one. The Booktown mysteries feature sisters–Tricia and Angelica; the Jeff Resnick books feature brothers–Jeff and Richard.

For some reason, sibling relationships fascinate me. What makes me qualified to write about brothers? I have two. One older; one younger. Growing up, I had a first-hand view of the relationship between my brothers–the ups and the downs–and how that relationship changed as they became adults.

So what makes me qualified to write about sisters when I have none? Wishful thinking? Maybe. Observing my friends and their sisters? Definitely.

The thing about siblings is–come hell or high water–they will be there for you. (At least one hopes so.) And that’s a recurring theme in my work. When the worst happens, the brothers–and the sisters–can be sure that one person in the world will risk everything for them.

Has that ever happened to me in real life? Kinda…sorta. I saved my younger brother’s life twice. (Once from drowning.) When I was in my early twenties, I moved away from home. Not just across town, but two states over. It didn’t take long before I realized I wasn’t prepared to leave the nest. Who came and bailed me out? My big brother. Now that my Dad can no longer help me with home chores, who do I call? My younger brother. (He has neat things like chain saws and can take down an ailing tree during his lunch hour. What a guy!)

These are the kinds of real-life situations that inspire the relationships my characters have–be they brothers or sisters. True, no brother of mine has had to take a bullet for me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

Lorraine Bartlett/L.L. Bartlett/Lorna Barrett
http://www.llbartlett.com/