What’s a Succesful Writer?

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This is what I wrote for last week, and just didn’t get it posted.

Wow, what a busy week–as usual. I’m working on a ghost writing project which is taking a lot of my time. I’m also judging the fiction part of a writing contest–something I really like to do.

In between I’ve given two classes on Planning for Emergencies for people who are administrators of licensed care facilities in California. I’ve been teaching and organizing continuing education for this industry for over fourteen years. Many of you may not know that for over twenty years my husband and I had a licensed care facility in our home and cared for six women with developmental disabilities. We both loved doing this. Our women were like family. Then our own family life became so complicated, we knew it was time to retire.

I’ve continued with the education part of the business because I truly care for the people who are doing this important job. (Also it brings in a little cash which helps pay for all the trips I go on.)

Of course my writing is of utmost importance to me–and of course, promoting what I’ve already written. Saturday I was fortunate to have been asked by the Writers of Kern (Bakersfield chapter of California Writers Club) to come and talk to them about What is Most Important in a Mystery, Plot or Character? Of course the answer is both are important. I love talking about mystery writing and this was a great group.

Also speaking was Mike Russo of Russo’s Books. He talked about the state of the book business–which isn’t so hot right now. He encouraged everyone to support their independent bookstores. Steve Mettee, publisher of Quill Driver Books, told everyone what it took to be a successful writer.

I’m not sure what being a succesful writer means. If it means making lots of money, than I’m not one. However, if being a successful writer means enjoying what I do, getting to meet lots of wonderful people and doing fun things and going to new places, then I am most certainly successful.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Down Memory Lane

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I’ve been thinking about my sixth grade graduation. Yes, I know it’s been a couple of years, but it’s been on my mind recently. I can clearly picture that sunny June day. At our all-girls parochial school, the graduation attire was a white dress. It was the first time I wore heels, which were essentially my Mary Janes without the straps. It was long before pantyhose were invented, and even longer before I needed control-top pantyhose. So my solution that day was to keep up my first nylons with garters.

Unfortunately that decision didn’t take into account that 11-year old girls still like to run around, so I spent an inordinate amount of time that day chasing my friends – and stopping frequently to haul my hose back up my skinny legs. It was also the first time I’d had my hair “done,” but it would be three more years before I would be allowed to wear lipstick.

In that same memory photo are two other girls in white dresses: my best friends in grade school. There was Rhonalee, who always had a perfect ponytail of long straight hair, which was the diametric opposite of my curly mop, and Sarah, who was as petite as I was not.

Graduation day ended and we drifted apart as we entered a larger, less insulated world of different public schools. Decades passed and sixth grade graduation was all just a sweet memory until I found a surprise in my e-mailbox last week. The subject line: “Are you the same…” was intriguing. And there, thanks to the power of Google, was Sarah, asking if I were the same person who went to parochial school with her. She had found my nonfiction web site and looking at my photo she thought she caught a glimpse of her former classmate.

The prompt for her search? It was February 22, my birthday. She remembered that we used to get the day off from school, back when George Washington’s birthday was a Federal holiday. Something that sadly changed in 1971 when the powers that be decided we would celebrate President’s Day on the third Monday in February (needless to say I was annoyed at that decision).

Anyway, Sarah and I have been trading e-mails, catching up on the intervening decades. We’ve lived very different – and yet very similar – lives. We both have been married forever and we each have four kids. We both have struggled with career goals, aging parents, and the grief of losing a sibling. She’s planning for the holidays with her family – me too. But she lives in Northern Israel and that fact alone changes some of her daily life. I’ve known war from a distance; her children have all served in the army. We both want peace, here, there, everywhere.

On that sunny morning in June, those many years ago, we couldn’t have known the paths we each would take. We also never envisioned that we could meet again in cyberspace. Back then, lost friendships were mourned and then forgotten. But through the remarkable power of the Internet, an idea as foreign as the concept of adulthood to those young girls in white dresses, we are able to revisit our pasts and talk about our futures.

To that I can only add — l’chaim!

Evelyn David

I Love Books!!

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Our guest blogger today is Tina Jordan, senior editor/book reviewer for Entertainment Weekly.

I love books. As a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly—one who writes book reviews and edits book features—I’m immersed in the publishing world, and my office is inundated with galleys and books. My house, too is full of books—great teetering piles in places, in fact, since we ran out of bookshelf space long ago. Books are often found crammed between couch cushions, beneath the ottomans, under the desk in the study. I’m no highbrow snob, either. Heck, on the right day, I like Emily Griffin as much as John Updike. And yet, the older I get (let’s just say an important birthday is looming) the harder it seems to be to find books to swoon over. The ones that keep me up late turning the pages. The ones that lkeep me glued to the couch, ignoring my family for hours on end (if one of my teenagers gallops into the room, I look up a trifle resentfully and say, “Yes?”).

So why is that? Why is it that I don’t find as much that utterly, completely thrills me, that sends me over the edge? I don’t think I’m jaded or cynical. I don’t deplore the state of publishing or wring my hands over the quality of what’s written today. Sure, I like a lot of what I read. Sometimes I like it a lot. And I know exactly which book last made me weak in the knees: the new Elizabeth George novel, Careless in Red, coming out in May. For those of you who haven’t read her mysteries, well, I could write an entire column about her. Suffice it to say her books are intelligent, complex, and deeply, hugely satisfying. Reading one is like realizing that I’m ravenous, I haven’t eaten in days, and I can’t gulp down the pages fast enough.

So when the galley for Careless in Red arrived at my office, I felt a frisson of excitement. Like all Elizabeth Georges, it is enormous, an absolute doorstopper; I started reading that night when I got on my train in Grand Central, nearly missed my stop 40 minutes later, and, once home headed straight up to the bedroom, followed by a gaggle of dachshunds and kids. When I finally had some peace, I dove back in. I put it down, reluctantly, a little after midnight (can’t stay up as late as I used to!), and picked it up the next morning around six when I made some coffee. It was a Saturday, and I put all the usual weekend fun—laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping—on hold, raptly turning the pages, occasionally sipping some cooling coffee. By the time the girls were up I’d finished, closing the galley with a happy sigh. That was two weeks ago, and Careless in Red is still vivid, some of its passages imprinted in my mind. George’s Scotland Yard characters, so familiar to me after many books, are old friends by now, so I ache for Thomas Lynley, whose wife was murdered, and Barbara Havers, as scraggly and socially inept as ever.

Who knows why I find fewer Careless in Reds than I used to? If this were a proper essay, I’d have mulled this over and come up with all kinds of smart reasons. But I do a lot less smart reasoning than I used to. No, I’ve decided there’s nothing to do but savor those special books when I DO find them. Right now, the new Benjamin Black is at the top of my nightstand stack, beckoning me. Right underneath is the new Jesse Kellerman. Then there’s a novel that looked good, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming. All of them look terrific. (But no dutiful plowing-through for me—if I detest a book, I just toss it aside.) It’s likely I’ll enjoy all three of those novels. And maybe—if I’m really, really lucky—one of them will tickle that elusive place in my brain, and, addict that I am, I’ll be consumed by a book once again.

Tina Jordan

After “The End”

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“The End.”

The sense of euphoria lasted about 24 hours after the Northern half of Evelyn David typed those magic words. She claimed it was her turn since I’d typed them for Murder Off the Books.

What my family and friends all refer to as “The Book” is done. Our manuscript for Murder Takes the Cake is finished!

Hurrah!

Now it’s time for the nitty-gritty part of writing—self editing and formatting the manuscript.

Yea! Not!

We’re in a dash to slash passive verbs, count the dots in ellipses, and conduct a head count of all our plot bunnies. We need to objectively examine each scene and decide if it’s necessary. Does it add to the plot; provide an important clue or red herring; give depth to a character? Or, as we sometimes discover, is a scene just useless padding, words that increase the page count without offering any other added value.

We also need to prepare the manuscript in the right format. That means literally going through every sentence to be sure that we have doubled-spaced after each period, question mark, and exclamation point. Why not just use the search and replace function? Because sometimes a sentence is enclosed within quotation marks, so a double space after a period doesn’t belong. As the Northern half often says, Oy!

This is not the fun part for me. This is like cleaning the kitchen after cooking and enjoying an elaborate feast. It has to be done, but it’s not fun.

Both halves of Evelyn David have reread “The Book” from start to finish at least four times over the past couple of days. The Northern half’s husband was the first to read the full draft. He gave it a thumbs-up and advised us on our hard liquor choices for the book. We needed an expensive malt whiskey for our plot. I didn’t have a clue. Me? I’m a connoisseur of wine coolers. Smirnoff’s Green Apple Bite is my alcoholic beverage of choice. For some reason I haven’t been able to envision a scene where “Mac Sullivan,” a retired D.C. police detective orders a Green Apple Bite.

We’ll read “The Book” a dozen times more before we show it to a couple of eagle-eyed friends for proof-reading. Tonight, I’m hoping to get through about 5 chapters before giving my eyes a rest from the computer screen, then I’ll pass the book (electronically) back to the New York half. We’ll continue to work off of one copy now that we’re in the home stretch.

As I told a group at the Will Rogers Public Library in Claremore, Oklahoma on Monday night, writing a book is like riding a bicycle. By the time you’re coasting down the hill, enjoying two full minutes of the wind blowing your hair and reveling in your well-deserved sense of accomplishment, you forget the long days of pedaling up the slope. You forget the excruciating leg cramps, the painful blisters, the heat of the sun beating down on your head, the sharp rocks in your shoes, the multiple flat tires, and …. Well you get the idea.

Anyone for a bike ride?

Evelyn David

T.M.I (too much information)

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Sorry about the repeat blog entry last week. I was down for the count with what we will politely call a prolonged case of “gastro-intestinal disturbance.” You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t have to go into graphic detail, do I? No…because we share the same sensibility, I’m sure, about things that go on the boudoir and the toilette. No need to elaborate.

So, what’s going on today’s world? In the last week, I have had to run the gauntlet with my kids on topics related to prostitution, infidelity, and the mother of them all—three-ways. Our new governor—inaugurated after the old governor admitted to soliciting a prostitute—assures us that he’s not “having an affair right now.” Whew! That’s good, right? Maybe now he has time to deal with the one gazillion dollar deficit the New York State budget is facing instead of what to eat at the continental breakfast buffet at the Upper West Side hotel that he admittedly has taken his paramours to.

I consider myself your garden variety prude. I don’t talk about bodily functions, sex, how much money I make, or anything I consider “private” in public. Some of my friends might dispute this contention, but believe me, I try not to. Sometimes, it’s unavoidable. I will not use the more common word for “gastro-intestinal disturbance” in mixed company. (Unless it can get me out of a three-hour nuptial mass for a couple I know will be divorced before my check clears or an extended stint of watching someone else’s home videos.) I just don’t think it’s right. But I’ll laugh heartily at a naughty joke, have been known to cuss every now and again, and enjoy certain déclassé reality television shows, like Rock of Love. But the fourth wall, so to speak, has come down in America and we’re becoming a class of divulgers, a population of people who think that everyone needs to know everything all the time. Is it “Larry King Syndrome”? Or the “Jerry Springeritization” of America? (I’m trademarking those, by the way.) I’m just not sure.

Let’s think back to a simpler time. Do you remember when Jimmy Carter said that he “lusted in his heart” and the country nearly shut down for a week? People were gouging their own eyes out to think that our President looked at women and—gasp!—thought about them in a lustful way. God, I miss Jimmy Carter. This week alone, we learned that former Governor Spitzer likes it au naturel (and frankly, who doesn’t?), Dina McGreevey may have had sex with another man while her husband watched (and if your husband is gay, I say you get a pass on that one), and that you can book a one, two, three, or four “diamond” woman on-line (by the way, it’s all the same woman, you moron johns out there) with your credit card. Who knew? But more importantly: who wanted to know?

It’s titillation overload, and I, for one, am tired of it. I’m thinking that a moratorium on all things licentious and lascivious is in order but how does one go about instituting that? In the world of twenty-four hours cable news, I am afraid it’s going to get worse and worse as time goes by. And if I’m so sick and tired of this, I imagine others must be as well.

I was talking with my friend, Carol, about this yesterday and she reminded of something that I should have been thinking about all along: the children in this equation. Can you imagine being an adolescent or a teen and having the details of your father or mother’s sex life splashed across the front of every tabloid? I can’t. The most embarrassing thing I remember is my mother starring as a Carmen Miranda-type singer in the annual church variety show, belting out “The Girl from Ipanema” (ah, good times). I can’t even begin to comprehend being in one of the most turbulent periods of life—and let’s admit it, anything from about eleven to twenty years old qualifies—and having all of these intensely personal details about your family brought forth on a daily basis. This, as you are undergoing emotional, physical, and hormonal changes while trying to deal with the challenges of socialization in middle or high school. It’s just not fair.

Let’s put this stuff away, people. Please. Let’s do it for children. Yours, mine, and theirs.

Irish Wolfhound on the Prowl

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I hate to fly, as I confessed here on February 18. Despite this phobia, or maybe because of it, I’ve always wanted to skip “across the pond” aboard the Concorde. I may not believe in the physics of flying, but anything that would shorten the time I had to spend in an airplane sounded good to me.

Unfortunately they grounded the SST in 2003. Still, there are other hypersonic possibilities on the horizon – and last week I got itchy for one of them to be rolled out for the regular public. I’m talking about NASA’s Scramjet. It cruises at Mach 7, seven times the speed of sound. That makes the Concorde look like a Model-T Ford. At 2km per second, it could fly from New York to Tokyo in under an hour. I could probably handle that.

And why, you might ask, do I want to go to Tokyo? Some delectable sushi perhaps?

Nope, even better. Last week we sold the Japanese rights to Murder Off the Books! Great advance, great press run, and can’t you just imagine the book tour – assuming the Scramjet is ready for me?

The foreign rights of a couple of my nonfiction books were sold to Pakistani publishers. I wasn’t surprised that my book, The Baffled Parent’s Guide to Sibling Rivalry, sparked international interest. Cain and Abel’s sorry tale explains why parents worldwide, from the beginning of time, have been trying to figure out how to keep their kids from figuratively, if not literally, killing each other. Hopefully, my book is the perfect antidote to prepubescent familial warfare.

The most recent statistics I could find on Japanese publishing were in a Publishers Weekly article from 1998. Foreign works account for only about 8 percent of all new Japanese titles each year. What I found especially interesting is that while the percentage of foreign titles hasn’t changed much in the last 30 years, the type of books has. In the 60’s, Japanese publishers primarily imported literature and philosophy titles. Today, the emphasis is on commercial titles, mainly mysteries and thrillers. How exciting that Japanese readers can discover the sleuthing team of Mac Sullivan, Rachel Brenner, and of course, Whiskey!

So, until the Scramjet can get me to Tokyo in under an hour, I’m thrilled that our Irish wolfhound will be visiting the Far East.

Arigato gozaimasu to our new friends in Japan, from your pals in America, Evelyn David.

Exploring Cynthia’s Attic

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Children’s fantasy author, Mary Cunningham, makes her home in the beautiful mountains of West Georgia. The idea for the series, Cynthia’s Attic, came about through a recurring dream. Upon realizing that the setting for the dream was in the attic of her childhood friend, Cynthia, the dreams stopped and the writing began.
Tell us who Mary Cunningham is – I’m a wife, mother and grandmother with an off-the wall imagination. I’m a loyal friend and am crushed when that loyalty isn’t returned. I adore writing and loathe marketing. Perhaps my favorite saying sums it up. “I live in my own little world, but, it’s okay…they know me here.

When did you start writing? – I began writing in elementary school. I was told, at an early age, that I had a “gift,” but I didn’t know exactly what that gift was, or how to use it. But, being a quick study, it only took another 45 years to figure out!

Why children’s books? – I have such vivid memories of my childhood, and loved the simple time in my life between ages 8-12. When I wasn’t playing baseball, golf, swimming, or generally having fun with a neighborhood full of friends, I was immersed in a fantasy world … imagining I was Alice In Wonderland. So, I quite naturally gravitated toward children’s books. I also love the innocence and, sometimes, brutal honesty of children. If you want a true gauge of your work, ask a young reader.

How is writing children’s mysteries different from writing adult mysteries?Would you ever consider writing an adult mystery? – I don’t think there is a difference. A mystery is a mystery is a mystery. I recently had a reviewer say she loved the fact that I didn’t “talk down to kids.” Also, you’d better have your facts straight for young readers, because they’ll find any and all discrepancies. Of course I’d consider writing an adult mystery. I’m kinda working on (translation: have shoved it aside for almost a year!) an adult time-travel/mystery.

When is your next book coming out? – My next project is a co-written (with Diana Black, Melinda Richarz Bailey), non-fiction titled, Women Only Over Fifty (WOOF), a humor book targeted toward the over-fifty woman itching to howl at the aging process. It will be published by Echelon Press, LLC., and is set for release in May, 2008. I’m also several chapters into Cynthia’s Attic: The Magician’s Castle, Book Four (2009).

Tell us a little more about WOOF? – Women Only Over Fifty (WOOF)…who are still puppies at heart. From Oprah to Ellen to our water aerobics instructor, it’s all about the joys of aging! How 50 is the new 30! Whatever! Some of us are hounded by middle-age. We’re dog-tired, wrinkled as a Sharpei and barking like a bitch. Enter WOOF: For the over-fifty woman itching to howl at the aging process. From issues of graying hair, expanding waistlines, and wrinkling tattoos, to embracing triumph over personal tragedy, WOOF raises four paws to our past accomplishments, present realizations and future dreams. Are you up to it…dogtrotting alongside this sisterhood taking the second half of life by the tail? We know you are. After all, the past 50 years you’ve gained freedom! You’ve gained power! You’ve gained wisdom! (Don’t tell us you think weight is the only thing you’ve gained. Oh, you so need WOOF…)

What do you like to read? – Read? What’s that? I spend so much time writing, blogging, marketing, etc., that I have very little time to read. I do love fantasy and historical fiction. I still laugh thinking about how, as a teen, my aunt, the local librarian, would sneak books by Kathleen Woodiwiss for my reading pleasure, although they were a tad too “mature.” I’d already devoured all the age-appropriate fiction, and she was determined to see that I’d never get bored with books. And, I didn’t!

Who has influenced your writing the most? –My dad was the biggest influence. He was an award-winning journalist for almost 40 years, and had a wonderful writing style and voice. His characters had such definition that, I’d swear, they almost jumped off the page! I’m also swayed by the writing of Harper Lee (To Kill A Mockingbird), J. R. R. Tolkien, and J. K. Rowling.

Pets? Hobbies? – We adore our senior-citizen mix-breed, Molly, and dread the day when she’s no longer with us. As to hobbies, I enjoy golf, swimming, and watching all kinds of sports. I’m an avid Indiana Hoosier basketball fan, NFL football fan, and also enjoy watching NASCAR, golf, and the Olympics.

What’s a typical day for Mary Cunningham the author? – I wake up and have some coffee. Turn on my computer. Have another cup of coffee. Open my e-mails. Hit delete 75 times, or so. Have another cup of coffee … well, you get the idea. I try to write every day, but don’t like to force it. If the words aren’t flowing, I do something else and then go back to it. I love writing when my brain is working so fast, my fingers can barely keep up. And, this is going to sound really weird, but I must have my shower and be dressed before I can write. I have a friend who writes in her jammies. Not me! Now, I don’t have to be in black pants and white cashmere sweater! Jeans and a t-shirt will do quite nicely. Just so I’m dressed.

What’s your favorite pair of shoes? – My favorite shoes are a pair of navy slippers my husband gave me for Christmas. They’re made out of the same memory foam used in mattresses and feel like comfy pillows for the feet. They’re warm, too!

Thanks, Stiletto Gang! It’s been fun!

Mary Cunningham

http://www.marycunninghambooks.com/
http://www.cynthiasattic.blogspot.com/
www.myspace.com/booksbymarycunningham
http://www.quakeme.com/

Clock Day –
A Holiday We Celebrate Twice a Year

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Twice a year we all reset our clocks, watches, vcrs, and any other appliance that keeps track of our time. Sounds like a simple task. But it’s not. For instance take the clocks in the cars I drive – a secret combination of buttons on the radio is involved, which requires a thorough review of the owner’s manual. And of course this change cannot be effected when you remember the need for it – which is at sixty miles an hour in heavy traffic. I wonder if there is a marked increase in traffic accidents the first Monday after Clock Days?

I wear a watch every day. If I leave the house without it, I have to come back home and get it. I check it hundreds of times a day, if not for the time, the date. The date is the reason I wear a digital watch. This digital watch is set by….wait for it …. A secret combination of buttons which requires a thorough review of the owner’s manual! And this is made more difficult because the owner’s manual on the watch is about 2 inches square folded and about 2 inches by 36 inches unfolded. If I can find the manual (a real problem since unlike the glove box in the car, there is no perfect place for storage) and reset the time, the odds are high that I’ve mistakenly also set an alarm and changed the date. I own about a dozen watches all but two of questionable value, but I only change the one I wear on a weekly basis. With any luck, by the time I want to wear any of the others, the time will be correct again.

It’s four days and counting since the last Clock Day. I’m still working on changing all my timepieces. The clock on my desktop computer changed automatically; thank heavens, although it still needed my personal reassurance that it changed itself correctly. I haven’t powered on my laptop since Sunday, so it’s still unaware of the time shift. I’ll keep it in the dark awhile longer. One of my vcrs changed itself; the other, a much older model, didn’t. The clock on the DVD player is off, but who cares? The numbers are so small that I can’t read them anyway.

The clock on the microwave is flashing the wrong time – but since it does that every time there is the slightest fluctuation in the electrical power to the house – I don’t worry with it until my mother visits and she remarks on it.

I set the clock on my coffeemaker the day before yesterday. I was due to leave the house at 5 a.m. for an early meeting in Oklahoma City and I desperately needed that coffee to be perked and ready when I rolled out of bed. It wasn’t. The little a.m. or p.m. light was not correctly lit.

Oh well. McDonalds has great coffee. And no buttons or flashing lights are involved.

Here’s to Clock Day and getting on with it! Time waits for no woman!

Evelyn David

What I’ve Learned from Watching TV

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The best thing about reading all of my co-bloggers’ entries is that I learn something new about them every week. Last week, it was that Marian (like me) can’t write sex scenes. And the week before that, it was that Rhonda loves television, seemingly, as much as I do. I almost wept with joy. Because I don’t know if it’s the same where you live, but I seem to reside in an area where television is both disdained and deplored.

I consider myself pretty well-read and educated, yet I love television and feel that some of my most important life lessons have come from watching the tube. And my all-time favorite show? “The Brady Bunch.” God forbid there is a marathon on TV Land, because I’ll drop everything. I drop Bradyisms into conversation with regularity.

Let me share a few of the things I’ve learned.

At a recent dinner party, one of our friend’s sons threw a ball and knocked over a vase. My reaction? To exclaim, “Mom always said, ‘Don’t play ball in the house!’” a classic line that was uttered by Bobby to Peter after Carol had admonished the boys about horseplay in the Brady split level. Most of the partygoers nodded in agreement; they knew that the Brady’s had this gem and many others. What could be more true after all? I also learned some wicked cool cheers from one of the cheerleading episodes. Who, after a glass of wine or two, hasn’t gotten up in the middle of the living room, shouting “F-F-F-I-L, L-L-L-M-O, O-O-O-R-E, FILLMORE JUNIOR HIGH!” just like Greg’s girlfriend?

Just me? I don’t believe you. Come on. Come clean. It feels good.

Other things I learned:

Never wait for the man to ask your hand in marriage. For an example, see Sam the Butcher’s courtship of Alice. Fortunately, my husband proposed with a bit more expediency than Sam, who at the end of the series, was still courting Alice, bringing her ground round as a romantic gesture of his love. Alice? Still single.

If you see an idol in Hawaii, DON’T PICK IT UP! Otherwise, you’ll lose the surfing contest, have a tarantula crawl up your leg while in bed, or misplace the important architecture blueprints. It’s just not worth. You can buy an idol at the local giftshop that probably doesn’t have a hex on it or will bring a pox on your family.

If you don’t have a boyfriend, don’t pretend that you have one, and especially, don’t give him the pretend name of “George Glass.” Everyone will see right through it, no pun intended. And then you’ll just look pathetic. (That means you, Jan.) Do it the old-fashioned way and pretend you can’t do your French homework so that the cute guy in your French class will come over and help you. It worked for me. (I can’t speak a word of French, by the way, despite a French major and a French-teacher husband.)

If you want to make a lot of money, not work very hard, and take a lot of vacations, become an architect. Did anyone work less than Mike Brady? Sure, he talked about the Anderson account incessantly, but I never did see him actually work on the Anderson account. Those Andersons must be pretty ticked off by now…and have limited shelter options if their architecture needs were left up to Mike Brady.

And I learned that family is all you need, love and understanding solve every problem, and all the words to the Davey Jones’ song, “Girl.” I challenge you to top that with something that you learned from reading a newspaper. Can’t come up with anything? I didn’t think so.

Maggie Barbieri

Back from Epicon

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Yep, I went to another convention–this time Epicon–the convention for electronically published authors. All cons are fun–unless you’re someone who doesn’t like to have a good time, and thank goodness, I’m not one of those.

This time we flew to Portland OR. Straight foreword to get there: Bakersfield to San Francisco to Portland. We had such a wild taxi ride to get to the hotel, I feared for my life (well, not really, but I did grip my hubby’s hand pretty tightly.)

This was the kind of conference where there were panels to teach writers something. A whole track was on different kinds of promo–in fact I taught one on promoting trade paperbacks. Also taught another on Bringing Characters to Life. One of the others I went to that was fun was Mayhem and Murder (always good to learn more ways to do it), and a fun one on the serial killers that Oregon has produced. (Well, I am a mystery writer, after all.)

Best part of any of these shindigs is seeing old friends and meeting new ones–something we did a lot of. Though I came down with a cold or allergies or something annoying like that, I didn’t let it stop me.

On Saturday night there was a great awards ceremony–far more entertaining than the Academy Awards even if I didn’t win an Eppie for mystery. I’ll just have to be happy being a finalist.

Sold a few books and bought some others.

The trip home was a bit stranger–Portland to Phoenix, Phoenix to Bakersfield. Of course there was a pile of mail, jobs to finish, laundry, and emails to answer. It was worth it.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com