Tag Archive for: Evelyn David

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

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

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

Don’t Give Up Your Day Job

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Coming late to a writing career, the first piece of advice I was given was not to quit my day job. Unless lightening strikes, it could take a decade of work before the income from your writing pays the bills. And that’s the optimistic view.

For more than twenty years, my day job has been with the Oklahoma Department of Mines. A few years after college I started as a surface coal mine inspector. Besides acquiring my first pair of steel-toed work boots and hard hat, I quickly learned that coal mines are dusty and miners don’t much like state environmental regulators. I wish I could say that I envisioned that first day a long-term career in the field, but I was primarily focused on having a paycheck that covered my rent and car payment. But as the years passed, I slowly became an expert in my small slice of the world. I acquired new skills that made my biology degree a lot more useful (lots of training, classes, networking, and practice). I worked hard, learning how to do a little of everything when budget cuts left me shorthanded. Then through attrition (my supervisors left, retired, or died) and sheer stubbornness (refusing to quit when the job seemed impossible), I worked my way up the regulatory agency ladder.

Eventually I achieved the job I have now – Administrator of the Coal Program for Oklahoma. The pay is not very good, the work sounds more exciting than it is, and I’ve had to get used to lots of criticism. In other words – the perfect preparation for life as a writer!

Four years ago I started writing for fun, fortune, and fame. Didn’t take long for me to learn that there would be no fortune, little fame (my family is impressed), but the fun was actually endless and the opportunity to try new things and go new places has been scary and exciting.

The first time I gave a library talk, I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. I couldn’t imagine what I had to share with the audience. I felt like a fraud. (Especially when I discovered the case of books I’d ordered for the event actually held someone else’s book). But when I started talking I discovered that I could easily fill an hour just by talking about Evelyn David’s writing journey and answering questions from mystery lovers and aspiring writers. I love sharing my continued sense of “wonder” about the process of turning thoughts into words and words into a novel.

Sometimes when I’m giving a speech at a library or civic club, I’ll get questions about mining instead of mysteries. And that’s okay. Without my day job, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to write.

The Northern half of Evelyn David has suggested we write a mystery using a coal mine as the setting. Maybe someday!

Evelyn David

Ruby Slippers Don’t Help In Tornado Alley

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It’s that time of year again. Tornado season. Monday was the first day of 2008 that eastern Oklahoma was under a tornado watch.

Of course I’m used to Oklahoma’s wild spring weather. I grew up here. Some of my earliest memories are of being bundled up in the middle of the night and taken to my grandparents’ cellar. We’d spend an hour or two in that small, humid, underground room with its metal door, then go home. My grandmother stored canned vegetables from her garden down there on metal shelves that lined the concrete walls. There were also chairs and a metal cot with an old mattress and heavy handmade quilts. I don’t ever remember being scared down there – it was more an anticipation of something that might happen but never really did. I’m sure my grandparents felt something entirely different during those times we were huddled in that cellar. They were remembering an evening in 1950, before the National Weather Service broadcast weather warnings; before towns had tornado sirens.

On April 28, 1950, at 7:05 pm, an F-4 tornado ripped through Holdenville, Oklahoma with no warning. My Dad was 13 years old that year. As he tells the story, he and his parents had been planting corn all day in the adjacent field. There had been a light rain and they had returned to the house to get cleaned up – they were planning to go downtown to eat dinner. By 7:00 pm everyone except my grandfather was ready to go. With only one bathroom, he was the last in line to take a bath. My grandmother and my Dad were in the kitchen, waiting for him, when they heard the sounds of a train. That wasn’t an unusual sound for their area, but it was coming from the south. There were no train tracks in that direction. My grandmother and Dad went to the window. First they saw 50 gallon oil drums spinning in the air, then noticed the dark funnel cloud approaching.

Things happened very fast after that. My grandmother screamed for my grandfather, “There’s a tornado coming right at us!”

My grandmother and my dad then tried in vain to open the cellar door. It was a trapdoor in the back porch and the metal file that they used to pry up the door was missing.

The sound of wind attacking the house was incredible. My grandmother sent my dad to lock the front door, but he found the living room and the front door gone. By that time my grandfather was dressed – his shoes on the wrong feet. He tried to get everyone into the cellar, but before that could happen, the kitchen roof fell in on top of them.

As suddenly as it came, it was over. My grandmother ended up in the bathtub – no one was ever quite sure why or how. They teased her for years about taking a bath during the tornado.

They stood on the back porch and watched the tornado destroy a pond dam and two more houses before disappearing. Horses from a nearby stockyard were scattered in their pasture – two by fours piercing their bodies, nailing them to the ground.

My grandparents were lucky. They survived the tornado without any injuries. They lost livestock, outbuildings, their barn, and their house. At least five people in Holdenville died that day. Thirty-two were reported injured. I asked my Dad what they did that night after the tornado struck; where did they go? He said they stayed right there. It was their home and they had to keep looters out. The next day they searched for items that had been blown away. He remembers finding his saddle about a half-mile from where the barn used to stand. Their two-car garage was gone, a car and truck that had been parked inside were still there, although slightly smashed together. The four dogs eventually all made it home; one remaining glued to their ankles for the rest of the summer.

My dad’s older brother was in the Air Force, stationed in Illinois when the tornado struck. He was allowed to come home to help during those first two weeks; a short time after that he was given a hardship discharge and returned home for good. The National Guard was called in to protect the town.

That summer my grandparents rebuilt their home. First a garage and then an apartment located over it; someplace with a roof to live in while they constructed the new house, barn, and cellar- the cellar I spent so much time in fourteen years later.

I think about that day in 1950 when I hear the weather alerts on the television and the radio. I marvel at how far we’ve come in predicting when and where tornados will strike.

Like I said, I’m used to Oklahoma’s spring weather. I don’t get upset. But I do watch the skies.

Evelyn

My Jonquils Are Blooming!

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My jonquils are blooming and I’m thinking spring! In Oklahoma it’s generally accepted that after Easter you can start your spring planting without too much worry of another hard freeze damaging young plants.

I don’t plant vegetables although each year I consider planting some tomatoes. There is nothing better in this world than a home grown tomato. But I never get past the thinking stage, mostly because my parents plant a garden and usually supply me with all the tomatoes I can use.

What I like to plant are flowers—flowers that don’t require lots of attention. My backyard has perennials: purple wisteria, blue hydrangeas, shrub roses, climbing roses, peonies, Rose of Sharons, and other varieties of hibiscus. I love lilies—all kinds. I like tulips and irises too, but if I plant them the moles and gophers act like I’ve invited them to an all-you-can-eat underground buffet.

Although the area where I live is known for beautiful azaleas—the town has an azalea festival in the spring—the soil in my yard is not acidic enough to sustain them. I’ve tried and failed at least a half dozen times to get some established, but eventually they’ve all turned brown and made me feel guilty for their untimely demise. I should never have brought them home with me—they might have had a full life somewhere else. But I look across the road and see the azaleas in full bloom, and once more consider buying a plant or two.

I’m partial to pansies and petunias and other colorful annuals. They are fun and instantly brighten up my yard. Last weekend I visited a local nursery and forced myself not to buy anything yet. I need to get the flowerbeds ready first.

Yesterday, I mowed my yard for the first time this year. I had a nice crop of henbit to mow, not much bermuda grass. My lawn mower started without much trouble—a miracle in itself after its long winter hiatus. The ground was wet—too wet to do much more than mow and then maybe some raking.

Maybe next Saturday, I’ll get to dig up the beds and buy some plants. I’ll have to be smart about it, not just buy everything that looks pretty. Believe me, I’ve done that before and regretted it. Nothing worse than lugging home twenty odd potted plants that you need to get into the ground right away, then running out of daylight or good weather or energy…or inspiration to get them planted.

Spring is the time for new beginnings, both for gardeners and writers. Besides my gardening ambitions, my co-author and I are starting a new short story and plotting a new mystery.

I need new gardening gloves—and maybe a new keyboard for my computer.

Here’s to Spring!

Evelyn

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

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

Well Caramelized

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Can we talk hair this week? For years I did my own. Color. Trimming. I did it, myself. Of course I mostly wore my reddish brown hair in one long braid down my back so any mistakes were easily hidden.

Just before Murder Off the Books was published I decided I needed to do something with my hair; something that would leave the 70s behind and look good for book signings.

I made an appointment with a local hair salon. I told them I needed a cut, color, the works. I also warned them that I had long hair and to plan on slotting me in for more than 30 minutes. They assigned me a brand new hair stylist; I think she’d just been out of school a week or two.

Nicki, was about 20 years old, cute, and very soft-spoken. I was lulled into a false sense of security. Nicki talked softly, but knew which end of the scissors were which. She immediately, and in my own opinion with very little show of regret, cut off twelve inches and asked how much shorter I wanted to go. With my voice an octave higher than when I entered the salon, I advised that was far enough on a first date.

Nicki then took a hard look at my color. Coloring long hair at home is no easy feat. You’ve got to fashion an outfit from garbage bags, layer the bathroom floor with newspapers, and make sure you have plenty of alcohol (the rubbing kind) for clean up, and the other kind for afterward. Then you sort of massage the color into your hair, using clips to keep the uncolored from the colored, as you work your way around your head. I thought I’d been doing a really good job. Apparently not.

Nicki searched through the strands and asked which color I liked best, the dark brown ends, the lighter top where I have a few (very few) gray strands, or the middle part which had a kind of reddish cast to it. I shrugged. She waved a bunch of hair color samples in front of my face. She asked me to pick two that I liked; one light, one dark. I did. She said no. She picked two. One was kind of beige, the other was blonde. Nicki said those two colors would really lighten up my face. I hesitated. She countered with, “Just for the summer.” Thinking back on it, I’m not sure why I agreed. It was January.

Nicki is an artist. She applied the color to my hair with a paint brush and with the same precision that I imagine the Masters used on their oil paintings. She did one color, then applied the second color to select strands. Ninety minutes later, I was caramelized. I also had enough foil on my head to get great TV reception.

Whatever nervousness I might have been feeling about the cut and the color, all disappeared after Nicki directed me to the shampoo room. Did I mention that Nicki is the best shampooer in the world? Total head and neck massage, no pulling, water temperature just right, perfect positioning of the towel under your neck, and she takes her time. Shampoos twice, then conditions.

My hair looked better than it ever had. The color was wonderful. The cost was in the same range as my car payment. I don’t know if my face was looked lighter, but my mood was. The cost was worth every penny.

It’s been just over a year now. I have to make my appointments with Nicki well in advance. She’s very popular and she only works a few days a week. I’ve tried to interest her in my book, but she says she’s not really into reading.

Oh, well. No one’s perfect.

Evelyn David

Where Are My TV Shows?

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Ever since I was old enough to understand that those tiny people in the box were telling me stories, I’ve been hooked on television. And each year since I was about five years old, I’ve had a couple of favorite programs; my shows. Something I looked forward to each week, my little escape from a not-so-glittery reality.

My brother and I used to watch Dark Shadows, hiding behind a blanket on the sofa, knee socks tied around our necks to prevent vampire bites and drinking cold sweet tea in goblets – to mimic Barnabas’s brandy snifters

For my shows I’ve given up much and suffered mightily: I’ve done chores early so I could watch the original Cinderella; rushed through homework so I could see the Big Valley; fought bloody battles with my sibling for control of the tv remote (and before that the tv knob) so I could watch Here Come the Brides and Emergency; skipped high school play practice to watch the movie Sybil; developed 24-hour illnesses so I wouldn’t miss a minute of a Cagney & Lacey marathon; considered changing my major in college so I wouldn’t miss Ryan’s Hope; and warned people I would not be answering the phone or door or tolerating any conversation whatsoever during my Wednesday night episode of The West Wing.

And today? I love Medium when I can find it and remember the day it’s airing. Where has all the excitement gone? I mostly channel surf now. Remember the thrill of getting the Fall Preview edition of TV Guide? I’d pick out my new shows for the year by pouring over the blurbs and photos. Then I’d fix my tv watching schedule with the skill of an air traffic controller – my old favorites plus four or five new ones that I would sample. If I didn’t like the new ones, there was always time to give the second stringers an audition.

Not any more. New shows come and go within the first couple of airings. The older shows don’t stick to any discernable schedule. And if you miss an original episode because of breaking news, weather advisories, or power outages? Don’t count on seeing it during the summer reruns. Reruns are scattered during the regular season and the summer has morphed into a reality-tv nightmare.

I admit it. I love dramas and light romantic comedies. I’m not entertained by watching people eat fresh cow tumors or some other stomach-churning oddity. I don’t like watching people being ridiculed by other people. I want the good guys and gals to win; the evildoers to get their just rewards; and the hero and heroine to ride off into the sunset at the end.

Where are my tv shows?

Evelyn David