Tag Archive for: Rachel Brady

Bizzy Schmizzy

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Rachel Brady

The busiest time of my life was the winter of 2006. There was my day job in the research lab at NASA. I taught three fitness classes each week in the evenings. I was on a home-cooking kick and spent inordinate amounts of time making up advance menus and shopping lists each week, plus making those meals. I had 5- and 3- year-old daughters, and a newborn son. I was a nursing mom. (Anyone who questions why that last part matters has never been the exclusive food source for another human being.) That year was my first triathlon season too. I did everything I could to participate in group workouts with my tri training team. And, I was finishing my first novel.

I’m tired just thinking about 2006.

The thing is, at the time it didn’t occur to me that I was busy. In fact, I’ve been living more or less the same lifestyle since then, just with a different mix of “stuff,” and I didn’t figure out I was busy until earlier this year.

I began to understand it when, each time I went to my fridge to add something to the calendar, some other thing was already written there. These weren’t always my events, either. My kids are 10, 8, and 4 now and have busier social lives than I do. Birthday parties, lessons, sports . . . you know the deal.

I decided to wipe my calendar. While I was at it, I wiped theirs too.

I dropped a few fitness classes. Vowed to take a one-year break from races. Didn’t sign the kids up for sports or music lessons. (Still encouraged birthday parties, though. Those are fun.) I started saying no to requests to go to events I didn’t want to attend. That was hard at first but got easier with practice.

My hiatus from Busy has fundamentally changed who I am. It afforded me an opportunity to really evaluate what is important to me. Strangely, my days are still full. Just with different things. Folks often say that if you haven’t worn something in a year, you obviously don’t miss it and should donate it. I think this is true for all our Busy Tasks too. Not doing some things I used to do, and not missing them, has made it pretty clear what I need in my life and what I don’t.

Don’t get me wrong. I still swim, bike, and run. I just don’t pay $80 to do it on a specified Saturday morning with a number pinned to my shirt. And I still teach those fitness classes, just way less often. My kids are back in sports. Sometimes one or more of them decides to take a season off. That’s fine.

The other day I asked myself what was most important to me. What things am I doing when I’m happiest? When I feel like the best person I can be? When I feel calm, or strong, or just when I feel like me?

It’s a short list: Engage my kids. Read. Exercise.

So these are the things I do. I can’t fit them all in, all the time, but you can bet I’ll be doing any one of these things before I bog myself down with useless tasks that are only disguised as important.

I recently read an article on my favorite website, ZenHabits. Leo Babauta summed it up better than I ever could, and I hope you’ll take a look.

My wish for the Stiletto Faithful is that we each determine what is most important to us and design a life centered on these joys.

Sneak Peek at Dead Lift

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Hi, everyone. I hope you’re enjoying the Stiletto Excerpts! Today I’m sharing a sneak peek at the first few pages of Dead Lift, coming on December 1st.

Claire Gaston’s amber hair rode flat against her head, giving the impression she’d just climbed out of bed. Any make-up had worn away too, yet she still looked closer to forty than her real age—which I knew from her file was fifty-three. In any case, Claire was twenty years my senior, had spent a day and a night in the clink, and still looked better than I did after a comfortable night of sleep and a shower.

We picked up telephone handsets on either side of an opaque window in the jail’s visitation room, and I tried to ascertain whether she regarded me with hope or just curiosity.

“I’m Emily Locke,” I said, “part of your defense team.” I smiled, trying to give the impression I withheld judgment, even though I wasn’t sure that was true. “Sorry about the circumstances.”

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on a countertop that extended away from the dividing window. Richard Cole, the private investigator I worked for, often said that it was a good practice to mirror a subject’s body language during interviews, so I did. My forearms ended up in something sticky.

“Are you the investigator my lawyer hired?”

“I’m that investigator’s lackey.”

She tipped her chin up but didn’t speak.

“Hope you don’t mind.” I pulled a folded paper from my purse. “I brought a list of things to clarify. My boss is painfully deficient with specifics.”

“What every woman looks for in an investigator.”

“Actually, he’s very good. We just work differently.”

Claire surveyed the tiny countertop on her side of the glass and brushed invisible debris onto the floor. “Ask away.”

“Let’s start with your kids.”

She inhaled and seemed to hold the breath. “They’re all I think about.”

“Who’s keeping them?”

“My parents.” Her gaze fell. “Even though they’re too old to be caring for kids.” She traced imaginary shapes on the countertop with neatly manicured fingers that reminded me of my best friend Jeannie’s hands. “You probably know I’m in the middle of a divorce.”

She glanced up long enough to see me nod.

“Daniel’s not their father. My second husband, Ruben, moved back to Argentina last year. Our custody fight was . . . I’m ashamed of it. And now with me here—” she looked around our tiny, divided cubicle— “he’ll come back and take them away, I know it. I didn’t kill Wendell Platt. You have to help me prove it before Ruben swoops in and disappears with the boys.”

“It would help me to understand what’s going on with Daniel.”

Claire leaned back and crossed her arms. Richard would have said I’d put her on the defensive.
“What does he have to do with this?”

I cupped my chin in my hands and watched her for a moment, trying to figure out if she was angry. “Police are reconstructing your day on Thursday, trying to figure out where you went and what you did before Dr. Platt’s murder. I hear you and Daniel had quite a fight.”

She straightened and opened her mouth to argue, but I raised a hand and continued. “We’ve all said things we didn’t mean, don’t worry. The trouble’s that the police want to interview Daniel but can’t find him. You were the last person to see him and witnesses say you were enraged. It doesn’t help to have extra suspicion directed at you.”

“No one can find Daniel?”

I shook my head. “Know where he might be?”

She shook her head in return.

“Why the divorce?”

Her shoulders relaxed, like she was resigned to surrender her privacy as well as her marriage.

“Neither of us could be faithful.”

My stomach flip-flopped, but I stayed quiet. Richard said sometimes people will volunteer extra information if you give them a chance.

This didn’t turn out to be true for Claire. After a few moments, I asked her to continue.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “For years we’ve talked about parting ways. Last month I finally filed.”
“What was your relationship with Platt?”

Claire shook her head, more to herself than to me, and screwed her face into a queer sort of smile that could only be described as sarcastic. I was considering how to re-phrase when she surged toward the glass and banged it with her fist, sending me back in my chair so violently its legs scraped the linoleum.

“I’ve never met Wendell Platt!”

All I could do was try to control my breathing.

“Never met him,” she said. “No one believes me.”

She settled back into her chair and I tried to convince myself the person in front of me was the same woman from thirty seconds ago.

“He was murdered in his home,” I said. “Your fingerprints were at the scene.”

“Worse, honey. They were on the weapon.”
________________________

Rachel Brady is the author of Final Approach and the upcoming mystery, Dead Lift. Rachel lives near Houston, Texas, where she’s an engineer in a research lab at NASA’s Johnson Space Center.

Dance (and write?) Like Nobody’s Watching

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Rachel Brady

Maybe it’s just me, but publishing a book feels a little bit like getting a serious groove on when you think you’re alone but people are watching. Dang. If I knew you were standing there during my unabashed booty-shake*, I’d have worked on my moves a little more.

When I wrote my first novel, I had no idea my friends and co-workers would read it one day. That is probably a good thing, because just like we should dance like nobody’s watching, I also think we should write like nobody’s reading . . .

. . . but only during the early drafts.

Later in the process, we have agents and editors to prevent us from embarrassing ourselves and help us shine.

Thing is, I don’t like my agent or editor to see my early drafts. I don’t like to publicly mess up. But in the life cycle of a book, this is required. So I have a few close writing friends who look over pages before I do the literary equivalent of busting a move on the dance floor with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

Their job is to tell me which parts are humming and which parts I should cut and delete off my hard drive so they can never be traced back to me.

Rules of engagement go something like this.

1. Must be frank.
Recently, I got a note in one scene that just said: Huh??
Enough said. Thank you, it’s fixed now.

2. Must tell me when I use the wrong word.
You were right. A voice “crackles” on a speaker, it doesn’t “cackle.” Thank you for preventing me from being exposed as the imposter I am.

3. Must call Bullsh!t on me when I handwave around an ill-conceived plot point.
Perhaps I’m inherently lazy or just hopeful nobody will notice, but my friends always do. A good reader will tell you it doesn’t make sense and spare you from hearing it from an editor, who I promise will always notice.

4. Must wield a pen like a machete.
There’s a prevailing notion that getting copy back with a lot of red ink (or tracked changes) is a negative thing, but I love it. When this happens, a reader isn’t trying to re-write your stuff so much as suggest an alternate way to present it. I usually like the new way better and almost always use it, sometimes shamelessly ripping off a line and passing it off as my own. Before you judge me, my friend David says there’s no such thing as plagiarism between friends*. He calls it an homage, which sounds so, so much better.

My editor likes to see the first 100 pages of a new story before I get too far along with the book. It’ll be a while before that happens, because right now my fave writing buds, Bill Tate and David Hansard, are off employing rules 1-4, helping me make sure I don’t go out on the dance floor looking like Elaine.

Writing is solitary sometimes. Other times, it’s a tremendous team effort. This post is a virtual hug to Bill and Dave, who are reading for me now, and to Laura Weber and Nikki Bonanni, who read for me earlier and helped me get this story off the ground.

Thanks to you all, maybe next year I’ll be rockin’.


*Clips are more fun in foreign languages, don’t you think?
**When employing the homage approach, it’s good to have reader friends who won’t sue you. Good luck.

Greatest Hits: My Kids’ Best One-Liners

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by Rachel Brady

Some of you know that I frequently use my Facebook status to share amusing things my kids say. A friend encouraged me to start saving those gems in a Word file too, and I was recently surprised to find that I’ve been at it now for a year. Here are their Greatest Hits of the last 12 months in reverse chronological order. From the mouths of babes . . .

June 2010

Jill and I were having a general discussion about kids and how they can be tough on furniture. She nodded toward her brother and sister. “That’s why you should have stopped before you had those two.”

While we were driving down the highway, Jill said, “See that place called Kids For Less? You think that’s an adoption center?”

Me, to the kids: “Trust me guys. I’m old and wise.” Lindsay (conciliatory): “Don’t say that, Mom! You’re not wide!”

May 2010

Sam unwittingly corroborated my impressions of last weekend’s slumber party: “Mom, where is that necklace that Lindsay got at her screaming girl party?”

Maybe I use my laptop too much. When asked to name a “D vegetable”, Jill came up with a Dell pepper.

Me, to the slumber party: “Does anyone have to use the restroom before bed?” Visiting child, worried: “Why? Are you going to lock it up for the night?”

Sam: “Are you sorry?” Me: “For what?” Sam: “For not letting me have that piece of caramel this morning.” Me: “No. I’m your mom. It’s my job to make sure you have a real breakfast.” Sam: “No, it’s not. Your job is to push me on the swing.”

Me (thinking I was alone): “Heeeeyy, good lookin’…” Sam, from the other room: “Whaaaatcha got cookin’?”

April 2010

Lullabye update. “Mom, sing that ten more times.” Me: “Ten? That’s too many.” Sam: “How about four times because I’m four?”

My nine year old kid just “yada yada yada”d me.

Doing an art project with Jill, I got: “Looking pretty good, Mom. You should be an artist instead of a scientist or engineer or whatever you are.”

Me to Jill: “Well, one reason I don’t buy you more stuff is because I think it diminishes your appreciation for what you have.” Her reply: “I do appreciate those things, Mom. I’m just saying I’d like to have more things to appreciate.”

Sam wanted an explanation for “butt talk,” and I was concerned he’d come home with some new language for rude behavior, but it turns out he’d only learned the word “buttock,” pronounced Forrest Gump style.

I awoke at 3 a.m. to Jill prowling the house with her reading flashlight, searching for the Easter baskets. By 6:30 a.m. all three were in the back yard vying for the eggs. Red Bull, please.

March 2010

Fun clues I got from the girls playing Catch Phrase: “The hat of Texas” turned out to be Oklahoma, and “Those yellow people on TV” turned out to be The Simpsons.

Sam: “Mom, on your next birthday, wish to be a boy. Then you can pee standing up. Got it?”

Me: “You sure ask me some funny stuff.” Jill: “We’re kids. It’s our job to crack up our moms.”

February 2010

From Lindsay tonight, a note with MOTHER as an acronym: Mom, Outstanding, Terrific, Huggable, “Exelent,” Radiant. What a great way to end my day.

Public service announcement from Sam: “If you get near a jelly fish, stay away from his tempicles.”

Me: “What’s so hard about being a kid?” Jill: “Having a sister.” Me: “I never had one. I think that would be fun.” Jill: “Well, maybe we can switch places sometime. Then you can feel my pain.”

January 2010

Sam: “Is this how you spell your name? O-M-O?” Me: “Pretty close. M-O-M.”:-)

Sam: “Can I have a piece of candy?” Me: “Who’s the best mom ever?” Sam: “You.” I gave the nod. Next it was Jill: “Can I have one? You.”

I was making lasagna, radio playing, when my 4-year-old turned and quoted: “Just the two of us. We can make it if we try, Mom.”

I recently asked Jill if she knew what oatmeal was good for. I was going for “your heart.” Her reply: “Cookies.”

Woke up snuggled next to Sam this morning, who opened his eyes and immediately said, “No singing in the shower, Mom. I want to sleep.”

December 2009

Another round of Outburst with Jill. “Parts of the body that come in pairs”… Jill’s answer: Butt cheeks.

Played Outburst with my girls. Jill’s category was Pizza Toppings and I was trying to clue her into anchovies: “Do you know the name of those disgusting little fish some people put on their pizzas?” She snaps her fingers and her face lights up: “MINNOWS!”

Sam caught the garter tonight. Says he has to find a “yittle girl to get married with.”

Sam put me on the Naughty list. No explanation was offered. The statement was: “I’m putting you on the Naughty list because you’re naughty. How do you spell your name?”

Sam has been giving me stickers this morning. He just confided, “Mom, don’t let Jill see these.” I said, “Are these Jill’s stickers you’ve been bringing me?” He said, “Yes, and if she finds out, it’s gonna be BAD.”

Me (singing): “Oh, Sammy, I love you so! Never never never gonna let you go!” Sam: “Why will you never never never let me go? Does this mean we’ll be stuck here at basketball practice forever?”

Driving in the rain with Sam, a wiper blade came loose: “Uh-oh, Mom. Looks like we need a new car.”

Jill: “Mom, who was the first person on the planet?” Me: “Not sure, I wasn’t there.” Jill: “Sure you were.”

Lindsay: “I love you mom. I hope you never die.” Me: “Love you too, baby. I’ll do my best not to die.” Lindsay: “Me too. I’ll eat a lot of carrots.”

Sam: “Why does the sky have to rain?” Me: “Because clouds are made of water. When they get too full of water, that’s when it rains.” Sam, after a thoughtful pause: “Mom? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

After seeing Lindsay kiss me under the mistletoe, Sam announced that “only one person has to do it,” thereby absolving himself of any kissing-Mom duties. They learn to break hearts young.

November 2009

Jill, on our drive home from Target: “Mom, are there any famous singers besides Taylor Swift and Hannah Montana who aren’t dead?” …Maybe it’s time for me to roll some contemporary artists into the mix.

Sam proclaimed a new allergy, this time to milk. Me: “You’re not allergic to milk.” Sam: “I am.” Me: “Do you know what ice cream is made of?” Sam: “What?” Me: “Milk.” Sam: “No. Ice.” Me: “Afraid not. Milk.” Sam: “Then why is it ice cream?” Me: “Cream is made from milk.” Sam: “I know that mom.” And I have these conversations why?

Lindsay on orbits: “It’s like the sun is just sitting there, watching TV. Being lazy. The Earth wants some exercise, so it runs around the sun, around and around. And the moon wants in on it too, so it runs around the Earth.”

Sam asks for the crust to be removed from his sandwich. Claims allergy to crust.

Crimebake writers’ conference is having a costume banquet Saturday evening… anything from the late 1800s to mid-1900s. I asked Sam if he’d help me find a costume today, and he expressed strong feelings that I attend as a vampire.

Tough Mommy moment tonight. The note I found waiting at Jill’s room: “Keep out! Don’t touch! Don’t donate! Stay out of our stuff! Stay out of our tareotory!” I don’t think my efforts at clutter elimination were appreciated.

Watching Sam’s soccer practice together, Jill was telling me about her friend’s theories regarding gerbil heaven when she randomly smacked me in the side of the head: “Mosquito.” And then right back to what she was saying.

October 2009

Jill’s new career aspiration: “Mom, when I grow up I’m going to write commercials for food, but only for the foods I like. Oatmeal, candy, and cookie dough.”

Jill and Lindsay’s new way to mess with Sam: tell him he’s “fired” as uncle to their pets. You would not believe how many times my shower was interrupted with complaints from a recently fired three-year-old.

Jill: “Mama, when you’re a Grandma are you going to spoil our kids like Grandpa spoils us, or are you going to act to them the way you act to us?” Me: “I’ll probably spoil them.” Jill: (squinting at me and pointing a finger…) “Naughty.”

Me: “Whose birthday is it today?” Sam: “Jill’s.” Me: “How old is she?” Sam: “Nine.” Me: “How old is Lindsay?” Sam: “Seven.” Me: “How old are you?” Sam: “Free and… a half.” Me: “How old am I?” Sam: “Seventy.”

All together now, to the tune of “She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain”: Water travels in a cycle, yes it does. Water travels in a cycle, yes it does. It goes up as evaporation then comes down as precipitation, water travels in a cycle, yes it does.

Lindsay is singing “King of the Road” in the bathtub, but her lyric is slightly off: “Two hours of pushing broom buys an eighth or twelve four do soon.”

Jill asked whether there were TVs when I was a kid. That one kind of made my stomach flutter.

I was just admonished by a three-year-old. My speaking while he played GameBoy apparently caused him to die.

September 2009

On the way home from school, Jill asked, “Mom, you know how you look right now? Is that as good as you can do, or can you look better?” I replied that I was sure I could do a lot better. “What prompted that?” I asked. She described a facial product on TV that makes women look younger and finished with her hands up defensively: “Not that you need it! I’m just sayin’.”

Getting ready for my lunch with some big-wigs at work, I told Sam I was going to be having lunch with some scary people. He asked, “Are they Halloween people?” Jill’s advice was simply not to order the okra since, I guess, that’s the only thing that might really make a bad impression. Lately, all of Lindsay’s make-believe characters are talking with British accents.

Sam: “Mommy, can I watch SpongeBob Squarepants?” Me: “You know mommy doesn’t like SpongeBob.” Sam: “Then don’t yook at him.”

Jill turns her attention to marketing. “If IHOP changed their name to *Incredible* House of Pancakes, I bet they’d get more business.”

August 2009

When Sam goes swimming he requires a “babing suit and gobbles.”

I was getting out of the shower and Jill kept talking to me through the bathroom door so much that I felt like I was being stalked. I told her to go play. “I can’t,” she said. “I accidentally tied myself to the door knob.”

Sam, reflecting on his soft pretzel today at the zoo: “Mm. This white stuff’s super good.” (the salt)

I must be getting predictable. I told Sam, “I think I’ll put on some music.” He said, “Patsy Cline, mom?” Which I thought was fun enough. So I told him yes. And he said, “She’s *Crazy*.”

Took the kids to see a movie at the local *Cinema 6*, but Sam was under the impression we were going out for “Cinnamon Sticks.”

Another Jill classic: “If Johnny Cash were alive would you let him sign your guitar?” “Yes.” “I wish I could sign your guitar.” “If you ever do I’ll kill you.” “What? You love me more than Johnny Cash but he could sign it and I can’t? Well, that’s just weird.”

Jill and Lindsay asked me why Nintendo doesn’t make a Gamegirl.

Me: “Why is there a soccer goal in my bathroom?” Jill: “I just felt like it.”

Lindsay smoked me at air hockey. While playing, she said, “Sorry to do this to you, Mom. I’m not even playing my best game.” And she meant it sincerely.

Driving home from a date with Lindsay. “We are the Champions” came on the radio. She asked me who was singing. I said, “I’m not sure but I think this is Queen.” She said that no, it wasn’t. I asked if she knew who it was. She said, “It’s the Champions.”

I asked what the best part of the museum was. Jill said the dinosaur bones. Sam… the elevator. I called Lindsay my mini-me and she responded by calling me her huge-me, which somehow seemed less endearing.

July 2009

Jill, 8, announces career plans: “First I’m going to be an actress, maybe make a few movies, and then I’m going to buy Sea World.”

Night 3 at the forts disappoints. Much chit chat, whispering, and lollygagging. Also questions I can’t answer, such as, “Mom, how do fish drink water?” They taunt me.

Second night for the individual living room forts. Like yesterday, they all went right to sleep in an eerily compliant sort of way. You don’t suppose they are storing up energy, preparing for The Great Coup of ’09?

My kids are sleeping in individual living room forts. I find this adorable.

Sam asked for Bobby McGee as his lullaby. He calls it Bobby BaGee, otherwise known as “the train song.” Knows most of the words! Tonight’s twist? “Mommy, sing it sixty times.” Got upset when I stopped after three.

* * * * *

These guys are my greatest joys. I can’t begin to imagine what they’ll come up with between now and next summer. What are your best kid and grandkid quotes?

Because I Feel Like It

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Rachel Brady

Last week I took a shine to doing things just because I felt like it. It started with painting my toenails glittery orange. Then there was an impromptu trip to the beach with my little boy. Soon I reversed course and started skipping certain things I didn’t feel like doing. I walked past the dishes in the sink and let the unfolded laundry wait for later. I deleted a few events from my calendar. Decided I’d rather do something else instead.

Gotta say, I liked where this was headed.

Some of you may wonder what the big deal is here. Aren’t we all free-thinking folks with the ability to choose a course for ourselves? Sure. But something about my internal wiring has left me forever reluctant to hop on board the train to Changed My Mind. Seems like any time an activity has ever hit my To Do list, it has been cemented there.

Normally, I wouldn’t have made that beach trip until all the other undesirable chores were finished first. Ditto for settling in at night to read a book or work on my manuscript. Those things feel too leisurely, as if surely some punishment must be completed first. All this stems from my responsibility gene, I’ve decided. The same one that has me attending social functions out of a sense of duty and obligation, even if I’d rather be somewhere else. I’m starting to change my mind about all kinds of things lately, and in most cases I don’t even feel apologetic about it anymore.

It began with a comment from my friend Carrie last February. After asking me to go running with her on the upcoming Saturday, she told me it was okay to just say, “Maybe. If I feel like it.” No yes or no required.

Strangely, this response would never have crossed my mind had she not put it out there. I’d have either said “yes,” and honored that commitment, or I’d have said “no,” and then felt obligated to offer up a really good explanation of why not. And I never would have been so rude as to remain non-committal like she was suggesting. But having her permission, I took her up on it. And I discovered that I liked leaving my calendar open to make last-minute decisions depending on whether or not I felt like doing something.

It started spilling over.

Carrie was the only person in my cast of friends to offer this carte blanche approach to planning, but I started using it with everyone else around me anyway. I said no to requests for volunteer work (don’t judge me!), turned down invitations to do local races with friends, and even (yes… Mom Guilt here) set boundaries with my family.

I learned a few things. My young son can dress himself and brush his own teeth. My daughters can put away laundry and pour their brother’s cereal in the morning. And somebody else around here has been feeding all the pets because I stopped doing it a long time ago and, as yet, none are dead.

What do I feel like doing instead? Writing.

For years, I waited until everyone in my family was asleep before I started to write. I made all their lunches, loaded the dishwasher, picked up toys, and did laundry–all after bedtime–and then turned on my laptop at nine or ten o’clock and wrote if I had anything left to give. I don’t feel like doing it that way anymore.

I want to write a book this year. A whole book, not a few disjointed chapters spread out wide over the course of months and years. So, twice a week I’ve been leaving and going to my local library for about three hours at a time to write. Alone.

Do I feel guilty? You bet.

Is it stopping me? Nope.

Somewhere in here, there must be a balance. I’m still looking for it, just like everyone else. The day may not be far off that I’ll decide my new M.O. is selfish and then revert to my old ways. I’m open to that possibility. But this year I’m serving others less and writing more.

Admittedly, I’m having a little rebellious streak right now. Still, I hope the Stiletto Faithful will also consider what you’d most like to do in life. Once in a while, I hope you’ll pursue those things too, because you feel like it. No apologies required.

She Said/She Said: Sixteen Degrees of Separation

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She Said/She Said: Sixteen Degrees of Separation by Maggie Barbieri and Rachel Brady

We’re doing this blog a little differently today because I had the pleasure of sharing a hotel room this past weekend with the lovely and talented Rachel Brady. The song asks “Who can turn the world on with her smile?” and insinuates that it’s Mary Richards, but I’m here to tell you that it’s Rachel Brady. A more positive and uplifting person you will never meet. Besides the whole getting up in the morning to exercise thing, I thought we would be completely compatible as roomies.

I was wrong.

I checked into the room around dinner time on Thursday night after a five hour drive to D.C. The air outside was thick and muggy, unseasonably warm for a night in late April. When I entered the room, I felt as if I had entered a cabana in Belize, moisture dripping from the humidity affixed to the plate glass window overlooking the street below. Surely, Rachel wouldn’t want to be melting in this incredible heat, not to mention having her already-curly and gorgeous hair grow in size from just two minutes in the room? Before even stopping in the restroom (something I do frequently, if only to wash my hands, as Rachel learned), I headed to the thermostat and promptly dropped the temperature from seventy-four degrees to fifty-eight degrees. In about fifteen minutes, the room had that lovely arctic chill that I have come to expect in all of my sleeping quarters. (And yes, my husband sleeps in sweatpants and sweatshirts most of the time so as not to succumb to hypothermia.)

I immediately got into bed with a bag of pretzels and a glass of wine and proceeded to watch television until Rachel showed up a little after nine o’clock. As I had predicted to her when we first spoke, I was almost asleep even though she was still full of energy and ready to head down to the bar.

She was kind enough not to mention that the temperature in the room was akin to that in a meat locker and hastily retreated to the lobby bar where drinks—and heat—were in abundance.

I fell asleep as soon as she left, peaceful under the down comforter, and clad in fleece pajama pants. Some time around two in the morning, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat, wondering how the temperature in the room could have shot up so dramatically in such a short period of time. Now, Rachel’s hot, but was she that hot?

The next morning, I checked the thermostat, set to seventy-four degrees. After some tense interrogation, Rachel admitted that she had nearly frozen to death in bed and got up, using her cell phone as a flashlight, and turned the temperature to seventy-four.

We were sixteen degrees apart in the comfort zone.

We negotiated. I cajoled. Rachel cried. I think I passed out at one point. How could we reach consensus? Finally, we decided that we would set the temperature at sixty-four, even though that was way too hot for me and way too cold for her.

Did I mention that Rachel’s an engineer by day? Did I mention that I can only fiddle with things, or fix them, if I have a butter knife? I’m not accusing her outright, but the temperature was set at seventy for the entire weekend and I couldn’t figure out how to lower it.

Coincidence? I will let you decide.

~ ~ ~

Hmmm. Rachel here. That is not exactly how I remember it. Except for the complimentary parts. Let’s go with those. (Thanks, Maggie! )

This is what really happened.

I rolled in sometime after nine on Thursday and found Maggie cozied up in bed, watching TV in our room. We spent a few minutes catching up and talked about all sorts of stuff, but the only piece relevant here is her passing remark that she “could sleep with the window open when it is 35 degrees outside.” She said it drove her husband nuts.

“You mean you leave it open a crack, for fresh air?”
“No,” she said. “I pretty much leave it wide open. Then he closes it during the night and I wake up sweating.”

Soon afterward, I went down to the bar to see which of my writer friends I could find. An hour or two later, I came back to the room. Maggie was sleeping.

And it was nippy.

My epiphany came on slowly. Under a thick comforter, in flannel pj pants and a cotton tee, and even wearing socks, at first I didn’t know just how cold I was. Thought I could gut it out. Have you ever been so cold in your bed that you don’t want to roll over because then you will have to warm up a new cold spot, and it’s just too dang cold to suffer through that process again?

Most of me thought that the room temp was probably due to some glitch in the thermostat’s auto timing feature. I didn’t remember seeing my breath earlier when I’d brought up my bag.

But a small, kind of worried part of me feared that maybe Maggie hadn’t been exaggerating about that 35 degree, open window remark.

What to do.

If it were an auto-timer glitch, I might shiver needlessly all night. If she’d done it on purpose and I switched it back, she would sweat all night instead.

Better her than me.

Maggie had a good sleep going. I decided to fix the temp and then just play dumb later if she brought it up. The room was pitch black, so by light of my open cell phone, I crept to the thermostat, aimed my phone at it, and was surprised and horrified to find it set at 64 degrees. Definitely, an auto timer glitch then.

I changed it to 74 and went back to bed. In the morning, I confessed all to Maggie. She said, “Oh that. I actually prefer 58 degrees but I thought I’d meet you in the middle.”

?!

I did math. “That means you think 70 is room temperature to regular people. This is sixteen degrees of separation.”

A long discussion ensued, mostly through tears of laughter. We knew we had Wednesday’s blog covered.

Maybe living in Texas has made me soft. But I offer this evidence in my defense, Maggie. Just sayin’.

I should also add here that Maggie is unequivocally the more gracious and flexible of the two of us, meeting me far to the right of Middle, usually at 70 degrees.

Interesting paradox there. One of the coldest rooms I’ve ever encountered, but one of the warmest friends.


How Sexy Shoes Will Write This Book

/in /by

Rachel Brady

I’ve just started my third novel. Historically, these things take a while for me to finish. Four years for the first, two for the second. It’d be really nice to do this one in a year like normal writers.

My friend Laura is at the beginning of a project too. Check out her blog, One More Thing to Feel Guilty About. The woman is hilarious, and unfortunately that becomes frightfully important when you see where this story is going. Anyway, we agreed to keep each other honest this year as we muddle through our first drafts. Over dinner, I told her I was contemplating the idea of paying her a fee if I didn’t hit my word count goal each week. She favored the idea, but having already run it by my husband, I knew that he did not.

“Then I’m going to have to do something to humiliate myself if I miss the count,” I said.

She said, with a touch too much enthusiasm, that she’d like to participate in choosing what that humiliating thing would be. I’m afraid of her. Which is exactly why I said that would be fine.

At one point during the meal, I had a better idea:

“Maybe if I miss my word count, I won’t eat for a day.”

“Like, a whole day?”

“Yes, I’ll starve myself. I’m sure if I starved for a day I would never miss my word count again.”

“I could do that too. We’d be looking pretty hot.”

“The less we wrote, the better we’d look.”

We decided that the use of fasting to incentivize writing could potentially be a conflict of interest.

Somewhere between my second and third enchilada, Laura asked me about the Stiletto Gang and wanted to know if I actually, in fact, owned a pair of stilettos. I couldn’t just say yes or no, because the answer turns out to be quite involved. (Hang with me, it becomes important.)

Last April I attended the Malice Domestic Mystery Conference for the first time. On the evening of the Agatha Awards banquet, I changed clothes and joined everyone in the lounge area, where I found them all to be wearing full-up evening attire. I was in a casual dress. No big deal, I still had fun, but I did take note. Embarrassment leaves an impression, no?

Flash forward to my first Bouchercon World Mystery Convention last October. Now initiated, I shopped for some nice evening attire as soon as I sent in my registration check. This time, I’d fit right in. Got a cute LBD (little black dress) and some smokin’ black stilettos. Packed them up for Bouchercon . . . where the banquet required a ticket that cost something like a mortgage. I did not attend, nor did my LBD or sexy shoes.

“So you see,” I concluded, “I do own a pair, but I’ve actually never worn them.”

None of that matters for now, but just store it in your short term memory for a sec.

Laura and I returned to the topic of how best to humiliate myself. I said, “Maybe I’ll ask my blog followers and Facebook friends to suggest horrible things.” Most of you reading this fall into one of those camps, so I’m sure you can imagine how colorful those suggestions would likely be. “Whoever chooses the winning punishment could name a character in the book they shamed me into writing.”

This idea, we agreed, had merit.

But then after dinner, walking to our cars, Laura said, “What if you had to wear those stilettos to work?”

And we both kind of looked at each other like they do in the movies when the montage music gets cued.

“I didn’t tell you the best part,” I said. “They’re strappy sequin stilettos!”

She burst out laughing. “People will think you have no taste.”

Turns out, I actually don’t have much, but it’s easier to hide that when a girl wears business casual to work every day. Maybe it becomes more apparent when she adds sequin black stilettos to khakis and a polo.

“Of course,” she added, “I would expect photos for proof.”

“Can you imagine?” I said. “Stilettos and my NASA badge, in the same outfit?”

She feigned a pose. And so it was born. Either I’m getting a book out of this arrangement or you’re getting pictures.

Fun starts May 1st.

In My Mind, I Run Like a Kenyan

/in /by



Rachel Brady

Lee Child made what I thought was an interesting remark at Left Coast Crime earlier this month. Paraphrasing, it was that the fun part of writing is the daydreaming, and that the hard part is getting the words onto the page.

Ain’t that the blazing truth.

I’ve been thinking about that remark for weeks. Somehow I’ve had the notion all this time that getting words onto the page is easier for everyone else than it is for me. Given a choice, I’d rather visualize scenes hundreds of different ways than actually sit down and write one down. Why? Because the version I choose might not work, and then I’d have to cut all those pages.

I know: “Get over it.”

But still.

It takes a long time to put down thousands of words. Cutting them is hard. Why not decide first how I want the book to go, by daydreaming through dozens of plot lines, and then writing down the version I decide is best? For me, daydreaming is oodles more fun than typing words. Many writers say they have to write, that they are addicted to writing. Not me. I’m addicted to daydreaming.

A few years ago, David Morrell shared an interesting story about daydreaming that I’ll never forget. Coupled with this new statement by Lee Child, I grow hopeful now that my Writer Imposter Complex might possibly be unfounded.

The keyboard does not call me. I don’t get a charge out of putting down the words. My charge is always in the imagining.

In this regard, I fervently hope that my future as a writer will parallel my history as a runner. There was a time I did not enjoy running. The only thing I liked about it was how I felt afterward, and fortunately that feeling was good enough to keep me lacing up and coming back. Writing, the actual act, is a little like that for me now. Making a synopsis, staring at a blinking cursor, struggling for a word, or figuring out the best way to express an emotion is often frustrating. As with my running years ago, writing is frequently painful while I’m doing it. But, like the running, I feel an indescribable sense of accomplishment when it’s over. Huge. It’s the buzz that keeps me coming back.

Twenty years later, I’m still running. Now I actually love the run while I’m doing it. I feel disappointed when I miss a run and I’m always looking forward to the next one.

Today I’m daydreaming about a time when writing will feel like that.

Just Say 10 Words and Shut Up.

/in /by

My friend Carrie and I ran a half marathon together on the beach this month. It was her best race ever and my worst. Afterward, I told her that if anyone asked me how I did, I would say, “I finished strong and felt great at the finish.” Not a lie.

I was sick that day, so I took the whole thing easy. Really easy. Almost-walking-easy. Therefore, I had plenty of gas left in the tank at the end. “In fact,” I added, “I’ll tell them I ran a negative split.” Also not a lie. She laughed at me.

“Negative split” is runner lingo for completing the second half of your race faster than the first. It’s a good thing. In my case, I’d jogged that whole course at a consistent snail’s pace and then punched it at the end, only because the race photographers were there and I try to look fast for them. So if we’re splitting hairs, my second half really was faster.

You see, it all depends on what you want to focus on.

We sat down to eat some post-race snacks and started talking about her upcoming iron distance triathlon. Each leg of the race (swim, bike, run) has a time cut-off, and if you don’t make it, your race is over. This will be Carrie’s first iron distance tri and she worries that she might not get back from the ride in time for the run. “If that happens,” I told her, “I’ll start introducing you as my friend who just swam and cycled a personal best in an Ironman tri.” We kind of liked the way that sounded.

This is when the light came on. We could transform our lives, one problem at a time, by keeping things short and sweet. It’s about choosing the right sound bytes.

Someone asking personal questions?

“How are things in your marriage?”
Sound byte: “We saw a very funny movie yesterday. We laughed sooo hard together.” Enough said.

Nasty reviewer? “The plot was confusing. It took me in a new direction on every page and left me confused and aching for more explanation. The characters were clichés and the dialogue was flat. I was expecting something replete with depth and emotion, but instead I got the worst surprise of my life! I’ll tell all my friends about this miserable waste of time and advise them to steer clear of this author!”

Sound byte: “The plot . . . took me in a new direction . . . left me . . . aching for more. Characters . . . and dialogue . . . replete with depth and emotion. Surprise of my life! I’ll tell all my friends!”

A few days passed. Carrie e-mailed to ask if I’d join her for a long run and training swim that weekend. I expressed interest but saddled my response with a long explanation about my family’s schedule and a general desire to remain non-committal for a few more days. Carrie pointed out that, in sound byte format, the correct answer should have been, “Maybe. If I feel like it.”

So true.

Restructuring the things I say into sound bytes has been a good exercise in spotting the bright side. It’s marvelous practice in not being apologetic for saying what I mean. Sound-byting has been liberating and fun, if not slightly misleading and self-delusional, and I’m pretty sure it’s here to stay. Highly recommended for those seeking self-improvement with a side of good laughs.

Rachel Brady^2

Post script: I signed this “squared” because Carrie’s other friend Rachel Brady (yeah, she really knows two of us… no, we’ve never met) came up with this great blog title. I don’t think it’s plagiarizing if the guy you steal from has exactly the same name as you, but I appreciate the sweet title just the same. Thank you, Rachel Jingleheimer Brady. Your name is my name too.

You Know in Your Heart You Want this Skittle

/in /by

Think back to the last time you surprised yourself and accomplished something you weren’t sure you could pull off. Maybe you did it last week.

Maybe it’s been a few years. Regardless, I’d wager that all of us can come up with something, maybe several things.

I’m in the middle of one right now. On New Year’s Day, probably sometime around lunch, I logged onto my Facebook account and saw that a friend had posted: “I haven’t had any junk food yet this year.”

I smiled. The year was about as young as it could be. I hadn’t had any junk food yet either. As far as 2010 was concerned, I was a clean, nutritiously balanced slate. I’m not the resolutions-type, but this one caught my fancy so I ripped it off.

Today it has been twenty-nine days since I’ve had chips, desserts, sodas, candy, or anything with grease. I’m not on a diet and this isn’t about weight loss. In fact, my weight is the same as it was on January 1st. I eat as much food as I ever did, it’s just better food.

I didn’t eat many of those things before January 1st anyway, so this might not seem like much of a sacrifice, but you’d be surprised. The hardest part is passing on the homemade brownies and cakes that co-workers leave in the conference room.

Just Tuesday, my supervisor brought in a glorious tray of huge assorted cookies.

Anyone who experiences an afternoon “brain sludge” at work might relate to my temptation.

Last weekend, my nine-year-old held up a blue Skittle: “Come on, Mom.

You know in your heart you want this Skittle.”

She knows me well.

But I’d committed: No Junk.

Though my goal was arbitrary, my mind was made up, and I passed. This started me thinking about other things I’d done once my mind was set. I made a list to include here so I could make a big, terrific point about what huge things we can accomplish if we really, really want to.

But then I tossed it.

Compared to personal hurdles others have tackled, my list is small. But it’s mine. In my opinion, it’s less important what’s on our lists than that we have one, period.

Everyone should know the joy and pride that comes from accomplishing something they believed was impossible. I worry sometimes for those among us who are too afraid to try.

In making my list, I realized I’ve done some remarkable things. That sounds egregiously egotistical, but what I mean to say is that I’ve done several normal things that seem remarkable to me because at one time I didn’t think I could. Why’d I think that?

Only recently have I learned that I can take on those big goals as long as I do them one at a time. It seems incredibly obvious, but Type A’s like me are thick sometimes. We have a long list of stuff to do, we desperately want to do it all, we really want to do it all well, and there is an overriding feeling that if we don’t do it now, we might never get another chance to try.

I’m learning to let my goal list be dynamic, to let it ebb and flow. I’m learning that balance doesn’t mean putting everything on the tray and finding a place where it doesn’t tip. In my case, everything does not fit on the tray. Sometimes I have to take an item off, just for now, and put it back later, when I’m finished with something else. Otherwise, all it takes is one blue Skittle to bring the whole tray crashing down.

I propose that sometimes it’s a good idea to challenge ourselves, no matter how frivolous. Tell me how you’ve surprised yourself by putting your mind to something, big or small. What’s next on your list?

Rachel Brady