Tag Archive for: Evelyn David

Let’s Talk About Sex

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Charlaine Harris, who writes the hysterical Southern vampire mystery series, swears that her books took off once she started putting sex into them.

Oy! I went to an Orthodox Jewish Day School through sixth grade (substitute Rabbis for nuns, keep the rules, and you get the picture). Try as I might to construct a love scene that involves nudity, I’m convinced that I will get struck by a lightning bolt at the first sign of heavy breathing.

Hey, I like sex – but even writing that sentence has me checking to see if Rabbi D is clucking over my lost soul.

Here’s the problem. My characters are two middle-aged adults who have been around the block a few times. At some point (should it be in Book 2? Hold out for Book 3?), they’re going to go steady, get lavaliered, maybe even get pinned, or the 40-something equivalent. In any case, there’s a point in an adult relationship that would suggest that somebody is getting some. So practically speaking, sex needs to be part of the Mac Sullivan-Rachel Brenner equation. Plus, circling back to Charlaine Harris, sex sells. What to do?

When I first started writing fiction, I described a love scene to my husband. I could see him trying to figure out how to phrase the question. Despite years of marriage and four kids, he thought he knew me, but perhaps, there was still a surprise to be had. Finally, he decided the direct approach was best. “Are you writing smut?” “No,” I answered indignantly. “I subcontracted it out.”

I suppose we could just have constant “fade to black” moments in our books, much like the Doris Day movies of the 1950s. It was a time when Hollywood was still peddling the idea that a “good” 30-something woman (Virginal Doris was 35 in Pillow Talk) would wait for a diamond on her left hand before any kiss would be permitted. Forget about any tongue involvement in those encounters. Kisses that ended up with the heroine actually sleeping with the hero, after the obligatory “fade to black,” still were not much more than a peck on the lips. Even I could have written those “sex scenes.”

We haven’t put it in the acknowledgements, but the Southern half of Evelyn David has agreed to write all steamy scenes. We don’t like to call it smut. We prefer to think of it as romance. Besides, she’s not worried at all about stray lightning bolts.

On the other hand, the Southern half is a Southern Baptist. Sex scenes don’t bother her a bit, but she is appalled at foul language. Put a damn in a sentence and she worries that her Mom will be disappointed in her. Me? I know words and combinations that would make a fleet of sailors blush. I don’t worry a bit if the good Rabbi will think I need to say any special prayers.

We’re finishing Murder Takes the Cake, the sequel to Murder Off the Books. Here’s a spoiler so don’t read the next sentence if you want to be surprised…but on page 98, there is a kiss. More of the Doris/Rock variety, but hey, there are 250 more pages before the exciting conclusion. A lot can happen between the sheets (of paper, that is). I’m making no promises, but I’m checking out rubber tires to sling around my waist…to ward off lightning bolts.

Evelyn David

News Junkie

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I admit it. I’m addicted to news. I listen to NPR in my office and car. I listen to CNN at home. It’s the background noise of my life.

I get antsy when I don’t have access to either. I feel disconnected, unplugged from the world. Camping trips are really hard. What if a war breaks out? What if there’s a mad cow loose somewhere? What if a politician flubs a speech? Or a dictator resigns? Or a Vice President shoots something besides birds? I need to know—immediately.

But I’m picky. Not just any news show will do. I need my CNN and NPR fixes. Fox won’t do. Neither will MSNBC. Give me Diane Rehms treating every guest with respect and allowing them the time to answer her questions. Or Anderson Cooper, hip deep in the New Orleans floodwaters or standing outside the Sago Mine, giving us his view on the latest disaster. For something lighter, give me All Things Considered, In This I Believe, and The Car Talk Guys.

I think my obsession with CNN started about the time of the first Gulf War. I was fascinated by the minute-to-minute coverage that CNN was providing. Remember the CNN reporters broadcasting from their room while the bombs were dropping? Talk about reality tv – that was incredible. During the second Gulf War, I traveled through the desert with the embedded reporters. Sometimes I left the television on while I fell asleep, the sounds of real war playing in my ears – all with a five second satellite delay.

I know exactly when my NPR addiction started. The O.J. Simpson trial. I was doing a lot of driving for my day job during that year. I ended up hearing most of the trial through my car radio thanks to NPR. Kato Kalin? Judge Ito? Marsha Clark? I learned so much about creating bigger-than-life characters from that trial. And the murders of Nicole and Ron? I cried with Ron Goldman’s father. I felt Nicole’s sister’s anger. I listened to the testimony like I was a juror. It began as a real who-dun-it and by the end? By the end the mystery was how the justice system ever manages to work.

At night when I write, I like to have the television on. Maybe it’s a hold-over from my school days when I did my homework in front of the set. But these days it’s not returns of Gilligan’s Island or the Love Boat that keeps me company. It’s news. I need it. I crave it.

BlueRay is in. Hillary is in trouble. An explosion in Texas may increase gasoline prices by ten cents a gallon. Bush is in Africa – I hope he doesn’t do any more dancing. And hey, did you know that a beagle was the top dog at the Westminster dog show? Should have been a wolfhound.

These things are important, people!

Tune in.

Evelyn

John Madden, Whoopi Goldberg, and Me

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Also: Isaac Asimov, Aretha Franklin, Woody Allen, the list goes on and on.

We’re all perfectly sane, rational people, who are reduced to whimpering, pathetic blobs or medicated walking zombies when we click on an airplane seatbelt. We’re aviatophobic or as Erica Jong would put it, we’ve got a fear of flying.

Have I gotten on an airplane in the last five years? Yes. Does my husband still have full circulation in his left hand? For the seven hours it took to fly to London last year, I had him in a death grip that made Darth Vader look like Barney Fife.

Personally, I believe that if God had wanted me to fly, she would have given me feathers. I’m still holding out for the Star Trek transporter. “Beam me to Paris, Scotty” or if I’m being energy efficient, “Beam me to Paris, after you drop off Uhuru at the mall.” I’m not sure why I think trusting my molecules to Scottie is safer than a Delta flight, but at least the Enterprise’s engineer had a perfect on-time record.

Unlike a fear of rectangles, aviatophobia is not so debilitating that I have to deal with it on a daily basis. Most of our family is within driving distance, if you define driving distance as being on the road for 15 hours straight. Oddly, I have no fear of putting my loved ones on planes. What does that mean Dr. Freud?

I’ve got bus envy. John, Whoopi, and Aretha all have luxury-fitted buses to criss-cross the country. Me? It’s either Greyhound or drugs. Consider Madden’s motor coach (since it cost $800,000, it’s no longer called a bus or even an RV). In any case, his home on the road has a master bedroom with its own bathroom and steam shower, a full kitchen with granite flooring and countertops, a satellite TV, three plasma television screens, surround sound and high-speed Internet access. Sounds better than the house I live in. Think how incredible book tours would be if you had one of these babies to fire up and go.

Best flight I ever had was last October. I flew to Jacksonville for a family wedding. My doctor had prescribed Ativan for me – a wonder drug that doesn’t take away the fear, but at least makes sure that I don’t make a total, hysterical idiot of myself during the flight. I’d successfully tried out this medication a few months earlier on another trip and felt like I’d finally found a solution. Not a cure, mind you, but a way to endure, if not enjoy, a longer trip. Dutifully, I refilled the prescription the day before the flight. I popped two pills just before I walked down the gangway.

I wish I could tell you that it was a smooth flight. I wish I could tell you that it left on time and arrived early. Actually I could tell you that, but it’s all hearsay. I had no more than sat down in my seat than I was asleep. In a move that would be perfect for a murder mystery, Death by Not Paying Attention, I had inadvertently ingested double the prescription dose. (Each new pill was 1 mg, instead of the .5 mg pills I had taken months earlier. Had I read the prescription, I would have realized that I was only to take one pill, not two).

“When is the plane taking off?” I roused myself from a very comfortable nap.

“It did, it flew, and it landed. You missed it.” My husband explained, not totally unhappy to have enjoyed a trip with the use of both hands.

“Huh.” I wasn’t very coherent (that day or the next). But it occurred to me that it was as close as I was going to get to Scotty and the transporter. A trip that was over in what felt like a minute. Granted I slept through it (at what point is it considered unconscious?). But worked for me, worked for my husband.

We’re thinking of a trip to San Diego next summer. Think that Aretha or Whoopi want to share a ride?

Evelyn David
www.evelyndavid.com

Valentine’s Day Blues

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I think Valentine’s Day is kind of a wimpy holiday. For a lot of people, it’s an afterthought. For the others? The ones with great expectations of romantic gestures and heartfelt expressions of undying devotion? Well, the results are usually a disappointment.

By the way, if you haven’t already figured it out, the author Evelyn David is really two people. The smart, witty posts on Mondays are written by the Northern Evelyn. The “what the heck does that have to do with writing” posts that show up on Thursdays are done by me – the Southern Evelyn.

Today, in between annoying coal miners, legislators, and federal regulators, all within the same eight hours (a personal best for me at my day job), I’ve been worrying about this blog. It should be easy for me to write 600 words on anything. Normally, I can’t even write the opening to a scene in less than 300. But today (which is yesterday if you’re reading this) my mind was scattered. Gathering any blogging ideas was much akin to herding cats (I know, I know, that phrase has been overused, but it’s still a favorite of mine and I intend to use it until I find another that means chasing down elusive, furry things that bite and scratch when you finally nab them.) I drafted several blogs – one on lying before congressional committees (don’t go before them and don’t lie) and one on the powers of the number 3 (don’t ask, I was digging deep for that one).

Valentine’s Day was an obvious topic choice. But what to say that hasn’t been said before? I could discuss the impossible search for a perfect card and color coordinated envelope (a real feat if you shop in a super store.) Ever notice how many people don’t take the envelope that the card gods intended to go with a particular card? What’s with that? By the time I start looking, the remaining cards and envelopes don’t match up – not even in size. Sometimes I’m choosing the card not for the design or sentiment inside; I’m picking it because it fits in the one remaining uncrumpled envelope.

And then there’s the chocolate . . . . I’ve always thought that chocolate was an excellent gift choice on Valentine’s Day – but please don’t give me those heart shaped boxes of chocolate wrapped in red foil and ribbon. For me eating the chocolate in those boxes is a scavenger hunt with some nasty surprises. I don’t like nuts. I don’t like coconut. I’m not crazy about caramel or hidden cherries. My favorites are those pieces that taste the most like a plain 3 Musketeers’ candy bar.

When I was younger, my brother always parked himself by my side when I opened the boxes of Valentine’s candy. One tiny test bite and I was usually handing off the offensive piece to him – who, like the Mikey of cereal commercials, would literally eat any kind of candy. One time I made the old fashioned fudge – the cooked kind with butter, salt, cocoa and sugar. I got some measurement wrong. The stuff set up harder than a brick and I literally used a dishtowel-wrapped hammer to break it into pieces. It was also lacking in sugar. I couldn’t eat it. My parents couldn’t eat it. It took my brother a couple of months, but he finally finished off the whole batch. He was a real trooper! Thinking of it – I probably owe him some money for dental bills.

Before leaving work, I took an informal survey of the other ladies in the office. What were they expecting to get for Valentine’s Day? Surprisingly, the answer was much the same. To avoid a lot of hassle and hurtful recriminations, they now bought their own gifts and picked out exactly what they wanted. Their husbands and significant others reimbursed them later for the costs.

I think I’ll do the same. Anyone care for a Klondike ice cream bar with a red ribbon?

Maybe, I’ll just skip the ribbon.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Evelyn David

Fiction is easy; Living is hard

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We all know that feeling. Those times, we’ve stared at the computer screen for an hour and found that we couldn’t even compose a shopping list, let alone the next chapter of an overdue book. We’ve all experienced that panicky sensation that our muses have taken a Celebrity cruise through the Panama Canal and forgotten to take us along or even send a post card.

And then there are those moments, when I’ve worked myself up into a frenzy, when I’ve started checking the want ads for administrative assistant jobs because I don’t think knowing how to make a fabulous matzoh ball soup is a marketable skill, and something happens which essentially is a message directly from the Lord telling me to “chill, girl.”

I had one of those epiphanies a few weeks ago. I was visiting the M. Allan Fogelson Regional Branch Library in Voorhees, New Jersey, with fellow Stiletto author Maggie Barbieri. It was a lovely, lovely event, billed as “Tea and Crumpets with Mystery Authors.” The turnout was great (and the refreshments were fantastic!).

I had just started talking about my book and the creative process when a group of 10 teenaged boys joined the audience. While they’re not the standard mystery fans found at these events, they listened respectfully as Maggie and I talked about our work.

Afterwards, one of the boys shyly approached me, encouraged by a man I assumed was the group’s leader. The teen told me he was 14 and liked to write. I asked him to tell me about one of his stories. It was a fantasy tale about a young boy who was locked out of his home for three days. He detailed a series of adventures and dangers, and the surprise twist at the end — the hero wakes up and finds it was all a dream.

Later, privately, the group leader explained that these teens were from a program funded by the Juvenile Justice Commission of New Jersey. They were at risk kids who’d already entered the court system. This program was an alternative to a detention center. A final chance to turn around lives headed for big trouble. And the fantasy tale this boy wrote? Not so much a fantasy. He lived it.

My emotions were all over the place.

I was furious that any child should have to worry about where he will sleep at night. That should be a given.

I was worried about this youngster’s future. On a basic level, would he learn from the program, get an education, pursue his dream? Or would he ditch this chance and end up back in the courts? Would he be locked out of a future?

And then there was the reality check. Was this child smart enough, strong enough, stubborn enough to pursue a life as a writer? For all the thrills and satisfaction that writing brings me, I also know how frustrating and disappointing this career can be when the mail brings another rejection letter. The odds of a high school basketball player making it to the pros are .03 percent. I’d bet that those are the same odds for a high school kid making it as a professional writer.

I don’t know what I can do to help that child – and the millions of others like him. Writing – his and mine – can be one answer. For him, it can be a way of channeling his emotions and using words, not violence, to handle the frustrations of his life. For me, writing can be a way of exposing the underbelly of life, with all its glory and despair.

I always end my library talks with the explanation that I write mysteries because I want the good guys to win. How I hope that there can be the same neat, clean resolution for the real-life story I heard in Voorhees.

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

My Love for Tom

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I freely admit it – I have no innate sense of direction. I can get lost going around the block. More than once I’ve pulled into a center travel stop off a major highway, filled up with gas and coffee, and promptly headed back in the direction from which I’d come. The problem was even worse when I was traveling on country roads – which I have to do quite often for my non-writing job. As a coping mechanism, I’d make notes to myself – right turn, left turn, two miles past the yellow house, etc. I could usually find what I was looking for, but getting back home was a real challenge even with the post-it notes turned upside down.

Recently, I took a trip back to a town where my family and I had lived for several years, starting when I was in the third grade. I hardly recognized anything. No familiar landmarks. Nothing. My brother, two years younger than I, and only a second grader the last time he’d been to the location, knew exactly where to turn off the country road to get to the place where our grade school used to be located (the building was no longer there). Do you think there is a GPS gene? Is this a male versus female trait?

In my defense I never had to read a road map until I was in college. How does that happen? Why didn’t someone teach me how to read a map in Driver’s Ed? Of course, those old folded maps you purchased at gas stations, didn’t always give you enough information to make a travel decision. Was that dashed line a goat trail or a perfectly passable two-lane road?

On-line Google and Yahoo travel maps with turn-by-turn directions substantially improved my life! Of course I still had to read and drive at the same time – which was always tricky in traffic. And what happens if you’re in the wrong lane to make your turn? Once you’re off the Google map, what do you do? I know what I did. I circled a lot. Two years ago I circled St. Louis for half a day – and visited three states – before finding the one I-44 W connection.

This Christmas, all that changed. This Christmas I fell in love. His name is Tom Tom.

I received a portable Garmin Tom Tom gps unit as a gift. Now I always know where I am, where I’m going, and when I’m going to get there. Life is good.

Last week I drove from Tulsa, Oklahoma to the Love Is Murder book conference in Rosemont, Illinois (a Chicago suburb) without even one missed turn. Snow was blowing the last hour and I couldn’t see the exits, much less read the road signs, but my buddy Tom kept talking to me, telling which lane to get in and when to turn, turn, turn.

In the hotel bar I told my publisher Karen Syed about my new love. She agreed that he was a great asset on a long trip, but warned me about becoming too dependent. Some day Tom might not be there. Her own Tom had experienced sudden death on her drive from Maryland. At a complete loss and feeling betrayed, she’d had to call her husband and get driving directions via her cell phone.

I guess at some point in any relationship, the romance is over. I’ll try to prepare myself for it. Maybe buy a few maps and stuff them in the glove box. Just in case.

But for now, Tom is here, glowing brightly on my dashboard. My love for him knows no end.

Evelyn David
(directionally challenged no more)

Does the Dog Die?

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The Southern half of Evelyn David thought things had gone pretty well. It was her first library talk after the publication of Murder Off the Books. Good turnout, delicious refreshments, the group had laughed at the jokes and listened with interest to the creative process that goes into writing a murder mystery. She opened up the floor to questions.

“Can you promise me that no dogs or humans are killed in your book?”

Hmmmm.

Well, it was easy enough to promise the first. We guarantee that no animals were harmed in the creation of this mystery.

But as to the second? No vows could be made.

In fact, as a murder mystery, it seems to me that there is an implicit agreement between readers and the author: somebody will bite the dust. In Murder Off the Books, in fact, somebody kicks the bucket (or has the bucket kicked for them) in the first paragraph.

We decided to ignore the old showbiz warning: Never work with kids and dogs. Whiskey, the adorable and adored Irish wolfhound in our book, weighs 120 pounds, is six feet tall when she stands on her hind legs, and has never met a cheeseburger she didn’t enjoy. She instinctively knows the good guys from the bad guys, offers licks to those she loves, and growls to those who are dangerous. She brings warmth, goodness, and yes, humanity, to a book that explores the origins and effects of evil.

Animals in books serve many purposes – much like they do in our lives. Of course, Whiskey is a plot device. In Murder Off the Books, the hairy beast is a sounding board for our protagonist Mac Sullivan’s inner thoughts. Whiskey is also comic relief, our version of the gravedigger in Hamlet. She provides the audience with a laugh in the midst of murder and mayhem. And unlike the humans who surround her, Whiskey is clearly drawn with no shades of gray. Everybody, but bad guys, likes Whiskey.

But including a dog in the narrative is tricky. You have to appeal to readers without turning them off. I still can’t re-watch Old Yeller because while I understand the dramatic purpose of the dog’s death, I vividly recall the childhood trauma of hearing the rifle shot and understanding what had transpired off-screen. I’m perfectly fine with killing all the villains in whatever gruesome manner an author chooses – but anything with four legs must survive. Thank goodness Trusty in Lady and the Tramp had no more than a broken leg.

I recognize that over-crowded animal shelters and Michael Vick’s off-season “hobby” are clear evidence that, in real life, animals are frequently at risk. And yet, I can’t write fictional stories with that kind of storyline. It’s not that those books can’t be done with taste and care – but my imagination won’t let me travel that road.

Clio, the Irish terrier who shares my office while I write, fulfills many of the same roles that Whiskey does. She’s privy to my musings on how to create fictional havoc; she offers comfort when writer’s block descends; she’s always good for a laugh as she rolls on her back, four legs in the air, and waits for a tummy rub. Maybe that’s the reason why I can’t create stories where animals are harmed? It’s too close to home.

In the meantime, I’ll just re-read The Thin Man. I’ll visit speakeasies, sip martinis with Nick and Nora, and toss a treat to Asta. She’s a schnauzer with a nose for murder. I’d like to introduce her to Whiskey.

Evelyn David

The Monster under the Crepe Myrtle

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When I was six years old my parents, younger brother, and I lived in a house next door to my grandparents in a neighborhood parked on the edge of a sleepy southern Oklahoma town. My brother and I had the run of both places, probably ten acres or more of hay pasture, vegetable gardens and flowerbeds to get lost in.

I look back on that summer before first grade as one big adventure. I had two friends my same age and gender who lived in houses off the same dusty road. And of course my brother was always three steps behind whether or not I wanted him to be. We played hard from early morning until the evening mosquitoes drove us inside.

Our favorite games were skits – Daniel Boone was popular on television that year. And we knew all the episodes by heart. We reenacted the battles, protected the fort, shared the genuine imitation coonskin cap owned by my brother, and of necessity, expanded the roles of the supporting characters (they got surly otherwise). Yes, I was usually directing the action and handing out lines to my cast. I loved making up stories.

My grandmother was a natural storyteller. I don’t remember if her stories were particularly good or bad, but they certainly held our attention that summer. She’d take us fishing and while we watched the cork bob up and down, she’d tell us real, blood and guts stories. She wasn’t afraid to kill off the main characters, leaving us in tears, or scare the you-know-what out of us with descriptions of creatures she had hiding behind every gnarly bush or plot twist. We took in every nuance of the yarns she told us and begged for more. No fairy tales for us, we wanted adventure and most of all mystery.

She also created and tended massive flowerbeds. Today, for most families, their whole yard isn’t nearly as large as her flowerbeds. Ornamental trees, shrubs, honeysuckle, rose bushes, tiger lilies, massive hydrangeas, she planted them all together and created a true riot of color and smell. Even though we weren’t supposed to, we played hide and seek in those flowerbeds, dodging honey bees, collecting horned toads, and finding the occasional turtle or two.

One hot summer morning I headed for my favorite hiding place – a hollowed out area under a massive crepe myrtle tree near the barbed wire fence separating the back of the flowerbed from the hay pasture. Running full out, bare feet flying, I dove under the heavy blooms and encountered my first real monster.

It was huge. At least three times my size. Bristly hair, stretched leathery skin, flat nose, and the smell … the smell was the worst thing I could have ever imagined. The gates of hell had surely been left open and something evil and vile had escaped. I screamed and scrambled backwards as fast as possible, catching skin and hair on rose thorns and barbed wire.

My location betrayed, my cohorts arrived posthaste and after a collective survey of my ragged condition, and with visible trepidation, they slowly advanced close enough to peer beneath the branches. While they stood with stunned disbelief etched across their faces, I went for help.

Okay – it wasn’t a monster. It was a 200-pound hog that had escaped from the stockyard about a mile away which had died in that dark spot under the crepe myrtle. The hog was so bloated, so badly distorted, that a six year old would never recognize it for anything other than a monster.

My friends and I told and retold that adventure until it barely resembled the original event. I made up whole stories about that hog and why it ended up in my grandmother’s flowerbed. In essence, I created my first murder mystery.

There was a real monster there with us that day, but we wouldn’t know it for several months; childhood leukemia – a death sentence back in 1964. One of my friends never started first grade with us that fall, she was too ill. But I can still see her face when we retold that story– that look of real pleasure as we scared each other over and over.

So you see, I’ve loved mysteries for a long, long time.

Today, I’m on my way to Chicago to attend the Love Is Murder conference. I’m going to be on two panels – “We Killed” and “Cupid’s Call.” Stop by and chat about monsters, mysteries, or even hogs, if you’re in the area.

Evelyn David

Shoes Make the Writer

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I promise to circle back to shoes. This is the Stiletto Gang and since we’re women and we’re mystery writers, we were impressed with our little wordplay. I know nothing about stiletto knives, but as a shoe whore I’ve got plenty to say about stiletto heels.

But first, why another blog from a bunch of mystery writers?

Here’s the down and dirty, simple truth. Why not? We’re writers. Blogging is a way of touching base with fellow mystery fans; a way of promoting our books; and it’s what we do. We write (or play free cell).

I’ve been watching a lot of political debates lately and always sympathize with the candidate who has to give the first answer. Sure you get your point out early, but you just know that the other guy (gal) has an extra few minutes to figure out something cleverer to say.

So it was probably not the smartest thing to volunteer to write the first entry for The Stiletto Gang. But then it struck me that the best way to meet the challenge is to quote somebody smarter than me: Carolyn Hart.

At the last Malice Domestic, she explained why she wrote cozy mysteries. “In my books, the good guys always win.”

It was the proverbial light bulb moment. Now I knew why I loved writing mysteries. Mini-control freak that I am, writing who-dunnits gives me the opportunity to create a universe with the outcomes I want. In the world of Mac Sullivan, Rachel Brenner, and Whiskey, the adorable and adored Irish wolfhound, the good guys always prevail.

That doesn’t mean that I want a Pollyanna solving mysteries in her spare time. Sure there are days when I want life to be simple. I want some blessings that aren’t in disguise. But I want to create complex, multi-layered characters who encounter conflict and struggle not with black-and-white issues, but with all the shades of gray that life entails.

My good guys love coconut cream pie, and have the love handles to show for it. My heroines have ex-husbands who cheated on them, and they have footprints on their backs from being doormats. They have pasts that haunt them, futures that worry them, and bills to pay. Me too. The question isn’t whether evil exists in my world. It most certainly does. It’s just that I get to thwart it, one killer at a time.

Now, a tad late in the essay, let me say welcome to The Stiletto Gang blog. We’re four writers, although two of us share a name. Evelyn David has a split personality. I’m Marian, the Northern half, and I live in New York. Rhonda, the Southern half, lives in Oklahoma. Our first mystery is Murder Off the Books (Echelon, 2007). We’re frantically finishing the sequel, Murder Takes the Cake. Check out our web site, http://www.evelyndavid.com/, and discover the intriguing secret of how our book was written.

Tomorrow you’ll meet Marilyn Meredith. Marilyn is the author of the acclaimed Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery series, as well as the Rocky Bluff P.D. series.

Wednesdays, Maggie Barbieri, author of the Allison Bergeron series (which has taken off like gangbusters), mans the helm.

Thursdays, Rhonda Dossett, the Southern half of Evelyn David, puts pen to paper (make that fingers to keyboard, but you get the drift.)

Fridays, we’d love to hear from you. Share your thoughts in a guest blog.

A promise is a promise. Let me circle back to stiletto heels. I’m a writer, so let’s be real. My default writing footwear is bedroom slippers. For dress-up, I wear a pair of black suede Merrell slip-ons. When I win an Edgar, I’ll wear stiletto heels. Promise.

My wish for you all: a world where the men are good looking; the women are brilliant and beautiful; the dogs are loyal and loving … and where the good guys always win.

Evelyn David