Tag Archive for: Susan McBride

The First Rule of the Writing Club: There Are No Rules

/in /by

by Susan McBride

I was going through old files the other day and dug up notes for a month-long online workshop I taught to 65 aspiring authors a few years back when I was writing my Debutante Dropout series. The topic was “Making Mysteries Memorable.” I focused on choosing your protagonist, casting your secondary characters, dialogue, setting, plotting, and pacing. We covered a lot of turf, but most of the questions I got in the end–which I jotted down for posterity–had nothing to do with any of those things, not really. They had to do with the “rules,” as in:

“Exactly when should the body be found?”

“How many suspects must I have?”

“Am I allowed to cross genre lines or will that confuse editors?”

“Precisely how many words should my manuscript be?”

“What kind of quirky job must my protagonist have in order to carve a niche in the traditional mystery market?”

To every one of those questions, I replied: THERE ARE NO RULES.

Look, the Big Guy might’ve scribbled His Ten Commandments on stone tablets, and every politician in D.C. has a different slant on what the amendments in the Constitution actually mean (depending on which lobbyists are footing his or her vacations). But there is no single Guru of All Things Written who has laid down unbreakable rules for composing a short story or book (save for format, though I’m not talking about fonts and margins here).

Let me repeat that in case you were distracted by Snooki Snickers hawking her, ahem, debut novel on TV (yeah, seriously! Like she even knows how to spell “Simon & Schuster”):

No one is God or governor of your novel but you.

I know Elmore Leonard has some wonderful rules floating around out there. They come from his experience as a writer and a reader. And good for him. I’ve heard other writers speak about their own rules, which dictate everything from a particular word count to acceptable number of suspects to what kind of first sentence you must have and on which page the body should be found.

My theory is this: if we all followed one set of rules, our books would seem eerily alike. Isn’t the point of creative writing to be creative? Telling stories involves using your imagination, going boldly where no writer has gone before. You don’t want to be like everyone else. Think of books that really hit it big in recent years, or at least captured a good deal of attention from readers and critics (and I’m obviously including non-mysteries here):

THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN
THE DA VINCI CODE
THE HELP
TWILIGHT
All the HARRY POTTER books

What makes them stand out?

They’re unique. They’re intriguing. They express a fresh point of view. They don’t limit their audience. Best of all, they don’t follow rules.

Here’s another place where rules don’t count: how long it takes you to get published (or in these days of publishing alternatives, how long it takes you to turn any kind of profit).

I’ve heard authors who give clear advice on this subject, too, namely that if you can’t cut the mustard within a handful of years you should drop out of the game.

If someone—anyone—feeding you arbitrary guidelines is enough to convince you to quit then, for Pete’s sake, quit. Because you’ve got to be tough in this field. The publishing business will eat you up and spit you out if you let it. It’s competitive, it’s rough, it’s unpredictable. If you can’t hack it—and all you want is to be published as opposed to feeling a compulsion to write—cut yourself some slack and do it as a hobby. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

If you’re in this to establish a career, you will do it for AS LONG AS IT TAKES. You will keep writing, try your hand at new things, adapt to the ever-changing market, and never give in to discouragement. As my mom likes to say, “Nothing worth doing is ever easy.”

A few more pearls of wisdom:

Don’t let other people tell you what to do. Write the book you need to write. Use whatever messy, ungrammatical, un-rule-like methods you need to lay down the first draft of your opus. Nobody can do it for you. No one can instruct you on what’s best for your novel. Listen to your heart and your gut. (And then listen closely to the critique of at least one or two disgustingly honest friends who are voracious readers.)

The most important aspect of writing a novel is finishing it. Otherwise, you’re just like, well, Snooki. Because, Lord knows, that girl probably can’t write anything more complicated than “BUY MORE BRONZER” on her grocery list. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if she even has a ghostwriter for that.

Christmas Memories

/in /by

My family moved around a lot when I was growing up (my dad worked for IBM, aka I’ve Been Moved). So every few years, we celebrated the holidays in a different place. My mom was good about keeping up traditions so that Christmas was Christmas, no matter where we lived. Sometime after Thanksgiving, she’d pillage packing boxes marked “Xmas Stuff;” and once she got going, there was no stopping her. The scent of evergreen permeated the house as she wrapped boughs of it tied with red bows up and down the banisters. Other decorations crowded table-tops, bookcases, mantles, and the piano. Mom’s mix was eclectic: an elaborate nativity set from Italy, trees made from tuna cans, sculptural metal angels, and paper-mache snowmen. No surface remained free of holiday cheer.

But before any counting down of days ‘til Christmas could commence, we had to do two things: (1) Bake my great-grandmother’s shortbread cookies (that had at least 150 ingredients and all had to be iced in appropriate colors), and (2) Get a real tree. The cookie part was almost easy compared to the tree trip. Mom had to bundle up three kids in enough layers to nearly render us immobile then we’d pack into the station wagon, bound for the nearest lot. My dad would grab the first tree he saw and ask, “How’s this?” A half hour and two dozen trees later, my mother would nod and say, “That’s it!” She always liked the biggest, fattest balsam that took eons for them to tie up. Once home, Dad stuck the tree in a bucket and prayed the water didn’t freeze overnight. The next day, he’d stuff it into the stand and put the lights on, and Mom would spread the skirt beneath. Ta-da! Let the tree-trimming begin!

Hanging the ornaments was a huge honkin’ deal. My mother made sure the whole family was present before she put out eggnog and placed a holiday album on the stereo. While my sibs and I unearthed equal parts hand-made doo-dads and delicate glass baubles from the tissue stuffed cavities of cardboard boxes, Nat King Cole crooned of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. I loved glass birds with clips for claws so I could stick them on the ends of branches, like they’d flown in and were just resting. I adored silver orbs that reflected every color in the rainbow. But one pair of ornaments remained the most special for years: a burlap man and woman my sister and I had named “Speed” and “Trixie,” after the characters in Speed Racer. Every Christmas, their ink faces rubbed off a little more and their yarn hair disappeared, but Molly and I couldn’t wait to place them on the tree next to one another so they could chat about Spanky and Racer X.

Once the ornaments were up, it was tinsel time! We were tinsel-flinging fools back then. Despite Mom’s instructions to put it on one piece at a time—“like a dripping icicle”—we’d toss fistfuls at the higher branches and see what would stick. By the time we’d finished, our tree looked gaudier than a Vegas showgirl.
We had our big family dinner on Christmas Eve. The menu echoed our Thanksgiving meal: turkey, spiral ham, green bean casserole, corn casserole, cranberry mold, and fat black olives that my sister plucked off the garnish tray and stuck on each fingertip. After dinner, we opened one present from a far-away relative before we put on our coats to attend Christmas Eve service. I loved to warble with the choir on “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and sit in silent awe as the star vocalist belted out “Ave Maria” and “Oh, Holy Night.” Once home and sleepy, we’d set out cookies and milk for Santa, glance at our empty stockings, and head up to bed. Before I nodded off, I’d listen for reindeer on the rooftop (I swear, one night, I heard them!). At the crack of dawn, I’d awaken and fling on my quilted robe as the rest of the house slowly roused. My dad would bark a reminder not to go downstairs until he had his camera ready.

While Dad played Spielberg and Mom sipped coffee, my siblings and I tore through whatever Santa had brought, usually something like Tonka trucks, games, and trains for Jimmy; stilts, a slide-making kit, and a baseball mitt for Molly; a rock tumbler, dolls, and books for me. Always books. My favorite part of Christmas, once the chaos had ended (and it was always over quickly), was curling up somewhere quiet with Nancy Drew, Black Beauty, or Laura Ingalls Wilder. Bliss!

Much about the holidays has changed since my childhood as my husband and I strive to keep life—and Christmas—simple. We don’t go heavy on decorations and never get the biggest tree in the lot. I don’t bake shortbread cookies with 150 ingredients, and I’m not much for turkey. But, as long as I have a pulse, two things will never change: the pleasure of being with family and the joy of un-wrapping a book. Honestly, was there ever a better gift?

Any favorite Christmas memories you’d like to share?

P.S. And don’t forget to leave a comment today and on each weekday post through December 31 to be entered to win a $70 gift card at Amazon! See the right-hand sidebar for details. And good luck!

Feast or Famine

/in /by

by Susan McBride

I’ve been wishing for calm and peace around here lately, particularly after finishing up a really tough deadline for LITTLE BLACK DRESS (which you all heard about in my last post!). It’s been a crazy few months what with putting on the “Wine, Wit & Lit” fundraiser for Casting for Recovery back in early October, my mom’s diagnosis of breast cancer and her treatment, and LBD’s due date. I kept telling myself, “This too shall pass,” and it did. The fundraiser went beautifully, and we raised enough money to send 1-1/2 women to a Casting for Recovery retreat for breast cancer survivors; my mom made it through her surgery and treatment with flying colors; and, I finished LBD in the nick of time AND am so proud of how it turned out.

“Can I have a week of calm?” I asked. “Just one week?”

I figured that would be a given. I mean, what could go wrong? I had the days ahead all planned out: lounging in front of the boob tube in my jammies (as opposed to slaving away at the keyboard in said jammies); watching endless HGTV until I began to have dreams that Clive and Lisa had shown up to stage my house; reading all the books I’d put aside while I was in deadline hell; and sleeping so much my husband would check my pulse to make sure I was alive.

What happened instead was our youngest kitty Blue crashed within 24 hours of turning my latest book in. She was listless that Friday, but I was listless, too. So I kind of thought her need to sleep reflected my need to sleep. But she didn’t eat that night (which is when we KNEW something was wrong). By Saturday morning, she had yellow inner ears, skin, and inner eyelids. I called our vet and we took her in ASAP. We found out she had something called hemolytic anemia, which is when the cat’s immune system turns on itself, and we have no idea what triggered it. Sometimes they can identify the culprit–fleas, ticks, vaccinations–but in many cases, like ours, they can’t find a reason why.

We had to take her to the emergency animal clinic, where she was admitted and stayed for two days. It killed me to leave her there with strangers, even ones who could care for her better than I. She had a blood transfusion to get her hemoblogin count up. I called several times a day, and we took in food and tried to feed her when they said she wasn’t eating. We finally sprung her on Monday afternoon, after basically camping out at the hospital because I knew she’d be better off at home.

So much for peace and quiet. Our last week was filled with twice a day meds (antibiotic pills and steroid syrup), trying to get her to eat and drink, making sure she went potty, and keeping her away from the other cats. I feel like all I did everyday was wash cat dishes, open cans, take up food, take down old food that was rejected, lather, rinse, and repeat.

The good news is that Blue is doing much, much better. Her hemoglobin count has risen to almost normal levels, which means her meds are working. She had lost 1.6 pounds within 48 hours at the vet hospital but has regained 1.4 (hooray!). Within about three weeks, once they taper her Prednisolone, we’ll know if she’s going to survive this. We have high hopes. Blue’s a super kitty.

In the meantime, other things have cropped up in my life–personal and professional–that put off any chance of peace and quiet for the near future (like, the crazy backdoor neighbors shooting rifle pellets through our brand new fence! But, hey, I made a new contact at the local police station when I filed my report. He’s a lieutenant with a 30-year background in law enforcement who’s agreed to be my consultant when I write my young adult thriller next year). My mother likes to say, “feast or famine,” and sometimes I think life just loves throwing us those “feast” curveballs to keep us on our toes.

You can understand why I didn’t go shopping on Black Friday. I didn’t want to chance being crushed.

So I guess I’ll take my calm when I can get it, in tiny snatches here and there. And perhaps I’ll put “peace and quiet” on my Christmas list and see what happens.

Ding Dong, Deadline Calling!

/in /by

As I write this, I’m down to the wire on my deadline for Little Black Dress, my tale of two sisters, a daughter, and a magical dress that changes all their lives forever. It’s something different for me after writing series mysteries, a YA nonmystery series, and contemporary women’s fiction. Little Black Dress mixes the past and the present (okay, with a pinch of mystery!), and it alternates between two very different voices.

I just finished proofing 300 pages after staying up late and working through the weekends to get this baby done. It’s weird how deadlines never seem that intimidating until, oh, about six weeks beforehand. That’s when you realize that maybe you shouldn’t have scheduled a fundraiser you’re spearheading that close to D-Day, and innumerable real-life crises rear their ugly heads (never fails).

It’s when you tell yourself, “Hey, this is life. Put on your big girl pants and deal with it.” Only that doesn’t keep the clock from ticking or that danged deadline from looming like Fraggle Rock (wait, that’s a kid’s show, right? Not very scary, huh?).

When I realized I had, oh, five chapters left last weekend, I went into panic mode, staying up way past my usual bed-time, working like a maniac (and, no, I don’t drink coffee!). It helps when hubby has a late night hockey game and doesn’t return until after midnight so I can write until he gets home and finds me with my face on the keyboard, QWERTY squished into my forehead. (All right, it never happened, but it was a constant threat.)

Ed has gotten used to seeing me in my pajamas 24/7, often with my hair sticking out like a rat’s nest. I would mumble inanely, “I swear, I’ll shower after dinner,” and then I’d disappear into my writing room and not emerge until 11 p.m., still a mess. But I would have gotten another chapter done.

If all goes well, by the time you read this deadline-itis inspired babble, I’ll be hitting “send” and turning in Little Black Dress to my agents and my editor at HarperCollins.

At which point, I plan to sleep for days, watch mindless HGTV, read the books stacked on my bedside table, eat chocolate, and pray that they don’t come back and say, “Er, Susan, that thing you sent us? It’s a pile of poo.” (Has anyone ever had that happen, God forbid?) And soon enough, I’ll have to do revisions, turn in a proposal for the next book, and get back to writing again. No rest for the wicked, eh?
With two books due in 2011, I should really take a spin in the nearest phone booth (er, if I can find one) and emerge in my super-powered, superhero suit, consisting of plaid flannel jammie pants, the “rock star” T-shirt Maggie gave me, fuzzy socks, and rat’s nest hair. “Ah-ha-ha,” I’ll say in my throaty–um, squeaky–voice, “I am Deadline Girl! Look out!”

Or else I’ll just take a nap.

Little Black Dress has been bumped up in the schedule and will now be out in June from HarperCollins instead of next fall (or, actually, May 17, 2011 if we’re being particular). You can already pre-order it online, which is kind of funny as of this moment, since I just finished writing it. Toodles and TGIF!!! –Susan

Another Year Older

/in /by

Tomorrow’s my birthday (na-na-na na-na-na!), and I’m gonna have a good time! Well, at the very least, Ed and I will go to dinner and a movie after dropping by Antony John’s get-together of local authors, which will be fun in itself.

I’m okay with turning a year older. I don’t cry and curse Father Time, nor do I feel particularly ambivalent, thinking that another 365 days has come and gone with often only hard work–and a few extra wrinkles and/or pounds–to show for it.

To me, birthdays are like holidays, another excuse to celebrate being alive and loved. Maybe they mean even more to me now after surviving a health crisis, because I’m so much more appreciative of everything I have (and more cognizant of how quickly things can change when you least expect it).

The only thing I even mildly freak out about is that age-old question from my husband and family members: “What do I get you?” Argh. That’s always hard for me to answer because I feel like I have everything I need (and anything else will just end up as clutter).

So when this comes up, it makes me even more intent on celebrating everyday. If there’s something I want to do or want to get–and, I’m talking, like, a new bird feeder, a dinner out, or a donation to the local animal shelter–I just do it. I don’t wait. I’ve even told my husband more than once, “Every day should be like a birthday.” I’d rather have him surprise me with flowers or a new cartridge for my laser printer (well, they’re expensive!) “just because,” rather than wrapping something up on specific days of the year.

Besides, the only person who truly deserves gifts on my date of birth is my mother. I mean, she worked hard for it.

So here’s my birthday request of you all: do something kind/fun/good to yourselves or for someone you love, or give to a charity you support. And if anyone asks you, “What’s up? What’s so special about today,” you can tell them “It’s Susan’s birthday, and this was on her wish list.”

Now help me blow out all these candles so we can get to the cake and the ice cream. Woo hoo!
P.S. I got carded today buying beer for Ed! Not bad for an almost 46 year old chick. 😉

How Not to Win Fans

/in /by

Last week I told about my time at the Valley Authors Event and mentioned that afterwards, several writer friends and I went to dinner together.

One of the conversations was about authors each of us would never buy another book from because of their actions. Everyone had a story.

One told about hearing an author at a conference, enjoying hearing, buying the book and taking it to her to sign. The woman was in the book room at a signing table talking to the author next to her. She took the book, signed it and handed it back without interrupting her conversation or even acknowledging the person who’d bought the book.

Another told about a rather well-known author who won’t even talk to people even those she’s met before.

And yet another, bad-mouthed authors from small presses and blamed them for a smaller turnout than anticipated at a large mystery conference. Hello, small press authors buy books too.

And then there are those who can’t stop talking about their own books and greatness when on a panel, never giving anyone else an opportunity. This is really bad when that person is the moderator.

I’m sure we’ve all had those experiences.

On the other side of the coin, some of the most famous and well-known authors are friendly to everyone.

Years ago I met Mary Higgins Clark at a small mystery conference. Nearly twenty years later I saw her at a cocktail party in New York during Edgar week. I spoke to her and told her where we’d met, she insisted she remembered me and introduced me to her at the time new husband. She also asked how my writing was coming.

Any time I run into Jan Burke she’s as friendly as can be. We once spent a long afternoon in an airport together with our husbands waiting for weather to clear and had a great discussion.

William Kent Krueger is another author who always remembers everyone he’s met, or at least acts like it, and if he really does know you, you’ll probably get a big hug.

Our own Susan McBride is another one who is always friendly–a joy to see at any time.

I’ve also met 1/2 of Evelyn David who is sweet as can be.

I’m heading to San Francisco for Bouchercon tomorrow, I hope I mostly run into friendly authors.

I could name lots more authors who are always charming whenever you have the opportunity to meet them.

Of course I’m not a famous author, but I do hope people perceive me as a friendly one. I honestly love to meet new people and I’m thrilled when they buy one of my books and even more so when they let me know they enjoyed reading it.

Have you got any stories about authors whose books you won’t buy any more because of how they acted? Or how about the other side, authors who make you feel like they are your friend.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

I Heart Boobies

/in /by

by Susan McBride

At the moment, I have boobs on the brain.

As I write this, I’m finally home after spending 2-1/2 hours at The Breast Center in West County, getting my annual mammogram and contorting into positions that I’m not sure the Rubberband Man could accomplish very easily. I saw my surgeon afterward, and she did a good old-fashioned exam of my chestal area. It’s something I’m used to now, nearly four years post my lumpectomy. I alternate a mammo with an ultrasound every six months so nobody misses anything (at least that’s the plan!).

When I was diagnosed back in December of 2006, I was considered at low risk for developing breast cancer. I was 42 years old, healthy as a horse, and the only woman in my family who’d had breast cancer was my maternal grandmother. What a difference a few years make. In November of 2007, my maternal aunt was diagnosed and, just recently, my mother. These days, it’s not enough to worry about myself, Aunt Mary, and my mom. I worry about the next generation of girls in my family.

Gulp.

It’s one of the reasons I’m so open about my experience. I know so many women whose lives have similarly been touched by the Big C, and it’s a relief when you can talk about it. Certainly, it’s everyone’s choice whether to keep their journey personal or not, and I respect that. My view is that discussion–and even laughter about some of the crazy aspects of muddling through a diagnosis–makes it seem less frightening and perhaps less of a stigma.

My first time speaking in public about my boobs was at the big Susan G. Komen Survivors Luncheon at the Ritz-Carlton in St. Louis back in April of 2009. Before an audience of 800 survivors and co-survivors, I shared my story. I was told “don’t make anyone cry!” Which I didn’t want to do anyway. I mean, geez, just getting through it, you cry enough. My sense of humor kept me from crumbling, and that’s what I focused on in my talk: seeing the quirky side of things.

More recently, I spoke at the Horizon of Hope Dinner in Edwardsville, Illinois, which raises money for the American Cancer Society and breast cancer research. Again, I shared the crazier aspects of my path from the dark side into wellness. Although it’s never really over for survivors, is it? Someone once told me, “Breast cancer is the gift that keeps on giving,” and I believe it. If it’s not weird aches and pains, it’s anxiety. A survivor-friend and I have decided that cancer leaves a bigger scar on your psyche than on your body.

Before this all happened to me–and to others in my family–I’m not sure I could’ve stood up in front of hundreds of strangers to discuss my boobs. Books, yes. Those have always been easy for me to yak about. But breasts? Not until almost four years ago. When I suddenly shed any modesty. When so many people in white coats from doctors to nurses to rad techs saw my bare chest that I was tempted to unbutton my blouse when I sat down in the dentist’s chair. It kind of got to be a habit.

And I shed my verbal modesty, too. It became way too easy to say “boob” in all kinds of company. I didn’t even blink when one of my rad techs showed up at my book signing in a “Save the Ta-Tas” T-shirt. It’s part of the Culture of Pink.

So I was rather dismayed to read about fundraising bracelets stamped with “I Heart Boobies” being worn in high schools and the adverse reaction to them.

Okay, yeah, it gives teenaged boys something to snicker about (and maybe some of the girls, too). Yes, it probably leads to jokes; but if we think high school kids aren’t talking about boobies anyway, we’re naive. Have you seen what kids watch on TV these days? Or view on the Internet?

For me, it’s a matter of awareness and getting comfortable with the idea that breast cancer–and other cancers–are all too common these days. People are being diagnosed at younger and younger ages. If you make it to 70 now and don’t get cancer of some kind, you’re very fortunate. It doesn’t matter whether you believe the cause is genetic or environmental (or a mix of the two). It’s how things are, and we need to talk about it.

So if having “I Heart Boobies” on a bracelet makes one young woman who feels a lump go see her doctor to get it checked out, it’s worth the snickers and the gasps and the jokes. I don’t know any way to discuss cancer that isn’t uncomfortable on some front. Until you’ve been through it. Then some days you feel like it’s all you can talk about.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month so think Pink! I recently spoke on “Great Day St. Louis” on this very subject. If you’d like to take a look, click here.

Walking Naked Through the Mall

/in /by

by Susan McBride

My good buddy Maggie Barbieri emailed the other day to say she’d had a dream about walking naked through the mall, and her husband had very astutely remarked, “You must be feeling vulnerable.” Which got me to thinking that as a writer in today’s instantly-connected society, I feel like I’m walking naked through the mall just about everyday!

I often say to my husband, “Someday, I just want to write and not worry about the other stuff.” Because I do worry, way too much. But that’s how it goes these days when you’re still building a career and haven’t quite reached the New York Times bestsellers list (and, perhaps, even after you have). When I daydream, I imagine doing nothing but composing more novels and enjoying my real-life without so many other frantic items on my to-do list. And the only instance when I’d feel especially vulnerable would be the release date for my latest opus, when I wonder how my readers will react.

In days of yore (okay, like ten years ago), everyone seemed to be reading their daily newspapers and most people depended on those for book reviews. Not today. The new daily paper is the Internet, for me and for a lot of other people around the planet. So turning on the computer, booting up, and getting online is what slapping open newsprint with our cereal used to be.

There are tons of web sites and blogs offering information and opinions. It’s almost scary how quickly “news” appears. Folks can pick up a book and review it within minutes after they’ve turned the last page. Interviews and articles can pop up within 24-hours and can remain cached for years and years and years.

So what makes me even more nervous than having to speak in front of 300 people at a fundraiser or appear on a local TV segment is my presence everyday on the Web. And it’s not just about seeing negative reviews (although that’s never pretty, and I’d love to tell the mean reviewers who ruin things for everyone by spilling plot points to go to–well, you get my drift).

I’m one of those “foot in mouth” people who speaks from the hip (and the heart). I don’t work from a script. What you see is what you get, and I know that–in the past–my bluntness has upset a few people. I tend toward sarcasm, and not everyone likes or gets that kind of humor. So every time I post on Facebook or write a blog entry (like this!), I hold my breath and hope that no one sends me hate mail.

I even debate whether or not to comment on posts at the various blogs I like to visit throughout the day. I’ve seen name-calling and flame wars in some comment sections that scorched my eyebrows. It’s gotten nasty out there, and often I decide to keep my opinion to myself, if only for my own peace of mind. I don’t think they make flak vests yet to wear when you’re online, ones that deflect angry rhetoric rather than bullets. Until they do, I’m going to try to stay out of conflict. I do love words, but I want to use them to tell stories, not to argue with someone I’ve never met face to face.

Even emails can make me nervous, especially the ones that come through my web site and seem to be waiting in my in-box every morning. Opening these are like tearing through wrapping paper on Christmas gifts. What will I get? Pearls? Or coal? A lovely note from a mystery fan who wonders if I’ll be writing any more Debutante Dropout books? (Sadly, no, I won’t be, not in the near future anyway.) Or a newly-divorced woman over-forty who discovered The Cougar Club and wants to say “thank you” because it hit the right spot? (Man, I love those!) Or an invitation to speak, a message from a childhood friend, an inquiry about foreign rights? (Thank heavens for web sites! Lots of wonderful gigs, friendships, and even business connections come to pass because of it.)

Or will it be a list of typos from my backlist mysteries (how I wish I could correct those after my books are in print, but I can’t)? Or might the message be like a finger shaken at me, describing something that made someone mad (say, a reader didn’t appreciate the opinion of a character so I emailed back to explain, “I’m sorry this struck you wrong, but I can’t control everything the characters in my books say or do. Sometimes, despite my best intentions, they act in a way I don’t expect. But the way they feel doesn’t necessarily reflect how everyone feels in the book, or how I feel for that matter. Please remember that”). Sigh.

Whatever I do online, I always get a little pang in my heart as I hit “comment” or “send.” I hope I said the right thing, what I meant to say, and I worry that maybe someone will take something the wrong way. Oy. Much as I appreciate the Internet for the ease with which I can grab information and/or communicate, it still makes me a wee bit uneasy. I often feel like I’m walking naked through the mall when I’m on the Web, just as I do when a new book I’ve written is out in bookstores (and on e-readers!), completely out of my hands.

So I’m wondering, what makes you feel most vulnerable? I’d love to hear some of your “walking naked through the mall” moments, if you’re willing to share!

The Cougar Club

/in /by

CARLA
Carla Moss in an interview
with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch:

Aging anchormen are like Santa Claus. The more pot-bellied and bald they get, the more revered. Anchorwomen, on the other hand, are pretty much like Kleenex: disposable and always replaceable

with a newer, prettier box.
***

“Welcome, everyone, to our annual Survivors Breakfast,” Allison Hoffman greeted the crowd. She theatrically fluffed the fuchsia feather boa draped over her shoulders, flinging its tail-end around her neck. “I do hope you’re all feeling as in the pink as I am this morning. Diva pink, I like to call it, though I believe our guest of honor has put on Chanel pink, isn’t that right, Carla?” the director teased, looking in Carla’s direction.

Carla called back, “It beats Pepto-Bismal pink,” which sent a wave of laughter rippling through the enormous room.

“You all know and love her as the face of Channel Three news. She’s been one of our biggest supporters for over a decade, headlining fundraisers and leading the pack at our annual Save the Ta-Tas Walk. In fact, I can’t think of enough good things to say about her, so why don’t I just let her speak for herself. Without further ado”—she made a grand sweep of her arm, shedding feathers from her boa—“Ms. Carla Moss.”

Carla rose to her feet amidst a thunder of applause and hoots. With a graceful wave to all, she ascended the steps to the stage, accepted a hug from Allison, and settled behind the podium. She adjusted the mike before saying, “Thank you so much for the warm welcome,” as the noise slowly died down.

The lights glinted off her auburn hair and the gold buttons of her suit and shone so brightly in her eyes that she could see no farther than the first row of tables. Beyond that, heads appeared faceless, no more than blurred shadows. But Carla smiled and let her gaze roam the room, as if she could see them all.

As she leaned toward the microphone, she lightly clutched the sides of the lectern. “Wow, what a gorgeous group of woman, oh, and you don’t look too shabby either, sir,” she said, winking at a lonely gentleman surrounded by ladies at a first-tier table. The crowd chuckled heartily, and Carla paused before going on. “I’m here today in celebration of all of you, survivors and co-survivors alike. Honestly, after meeting so many of you before breakfast and hearing your stories, I think this amazing tribe of pink could run the world if it wanted to.”

The audience cheered, and Carla hesitated until the ballroom grew quiet again. “As you know if you’ve heard me speak before, I come from a long line of tough broads. My grandmother had breast cancer when I was in grade school, too young to realize what was going on. All I remember about her diagnosis was my mother crying on the phone and then packing her suitcase to head to Texas. She left my dad and me alone to fend for ourselves for a month while she cared for my grandma. But Granny was a fighter, and she made it through just fine.”

Carla’s finger curled around the lectern’s edges, and her voice wavered ever so slightly. “When I envision a survivor, I think of my grandmother living another twenty years after her breast cancer before she died at 85 of something else entirely. No, the breast cancer didn’t get her. She’d never have let it best her. She’d made it through the Great Depression and several World Wars to see men walk on the moon. A pesky thing like Stage 2a invasive ductal carcinoma wasn’t going to bring her down, and it didn’t.”

More hoots and “here here’s” erupted from the depths of the ballroom, and Carla paused until things quieted down again.

“After she was cancer-free, I stayed with her one summer. Every morning, she got up, stuck on her bra, tucked in her prosthesis, and she soldiered on. It was like nothing had ever happened, and it was like everything had happened. She’d become even more of what she was: more loving, more giving, and more fun. Granny took life by the balls, and she held on,” Carla declared and wet her lips, keeping her composure though the memories touched her still. “She lived her life to the fullest, as we all should, every day, no matter what our circumstances. And I challenge each and every one of you to do the same.”

A disjointed chorus of “amen’s” rang out and others clapped, and Carla felt her nerves finally easing. Her grip relaxed, and she exhaled softly through her glossed lips, holding her emotions in check.

“Even though my mother never had to deal with breast cancer, I still worry about her health, and I worry about my own. I try not to dwell on what I can’t control, but I can’t help wondering sometimes what’s in store for me and my boobs”—she lifted her hands to theatrically cup her breasts, glancing south-ward as she did so—“besides the tug of gravity, pulling them down more every year, of course.”

She smiled at the ensuing laughter, pleased she kept hitting the right notes. Her voice stronger now, she carried on. “What I do know for sure is that I’m not leaving much to chance. I’ve been having mammograms annually since I turned 35 and now with digital mammography—and the occasional ultrasound when my doctor sees something she doesn’t like—I feel like my knockers are being monitored more closely than any Playboy playmate’s.”

A broad grin slipped across Carla’s mouth at the raucous sound of hooting and hollering that followed that remark, which was when even the most lingering of butterflies fled her stomach altogether and she realized her audience wasn’t eating their $30 per plate breakfast so much as eating out of the palm of her hand.

You like me, you really like me, she mused happily and finished up her talk in twenty minutes flat, right on schedule, and left the podium to a standing ovation.

***
Excerpted with author’s permission from The Cougar Club (HarperCollins, 02/10). For more on this book, visit SusanMcBride.com.

Five Things I Do Not Like

/in /by

by Susan McBride

We’re about to start something new and fun here at the Stiletto Gang. Beginning on July 23, the Gang will do regular joint posts with our various opinions on a single subject. But before “Soapbox Stilettos” debuts, I decided I’d get into the spirit by writing about Five Things I Do Not Like. Yes, I know, I could’ve listed 100 Things I Do Not Like, but then this piece would’ve had to run for a week, and I’m not sure anyone would enjoy that (unless they’re being punished for eating the last pint of Ben & Jerry’s or for telling a spouse, “Yep, you do look fat in that”). So here goes!

1. Going to the Dentist

Yes, I’m a good girl so I see my dentist twice a year, and I love her. I really do. She’s about my age, and we always chat about boys, books, and boobs (she’s a survivor, too). But I am not fond of dental cleanings in the least. I can’t think of much I like less than someone’s latex-gloved hands stuck in my mouth while they’re scraping my teeth. Sometimes I wonder if they’re pick-axing for gold, they’re in there for so long. And while I am a chat-aholic, it’s awfully hard to talk when my mouth is wide open and someone’s scraping, flossing, and/or polishing my pearly whites. I’ve had a fear of the dentist’s office since I was a kid. I remember gagging into a spit-sink once because I hated the taste of the gritty paste. I still hate it, although I somehow refrain from gagging. However, I do like my teeth and would prefer to keep them. So I’ll fight my fear and show up for my every-six-month visit even though I’d rather run naked through Six Flags (and I so don’t want to do that!).

2. Clowns

When my brother was a baby, my mom had clown portraits hanging over his crib, and I always figured that’s why he screamed so hard when she put him down at night. The paintings frightened me to death, that’s for sure. On my first trip to Ringling Bros. Circus, I sat in the front row with my family, and a clown approached to pull an egg from my ear. Like any normal, well-adjusted child with a Bozo phobia, I began shrieking and crying my eyes out. And, no, I haven’t gotten over this. So don’t surprise me with a Clown-O-Gram on my birthday, okay?

3. Multitasking Drivers

I’m not even sure talking on cell phones is the most dangerous distraction for drivers. I’ve seen folks eating meals, icing cupcakes, styling their hair, putting on makeup, and reading newspapers all while commanding the wheel of large vehicles that weave over the lines and cut across multiple lanes of traffic because they nearly missed their exit (go figure). I understand how busy everyone is, but Multitasking Drivers are a menace to the rest of us. Since my car is small and lots of Multitasking Drivers helm oversized tanks, it’s almost life or death heading out to the grocery store these days. Is it too much to ask drivers to just, um, drive???

4. Celery

I am a big fan of green food. Give me a plateful of broccoli any day, and I’ll devour it. Green beans, lima beans, spinach, green peppers, and green onions all make me go “yum.” But celery? It tastes like nothing. No, I take that back. It tastes like a stalk of crunchy, stringy nothing. I don’t want it in my tuna salad, and I don’t want it in my stuffing. The only way it’s remotely enjoyable is filled with cheese or peanut butter. If it were up to me, I’d say, let the rabbits have it!

5. Toddler Beauty Pageants

Tiny children dressed in bikinis with fake hair and fake teeth, shimmying and posing in front of grown-up people all for the sake of winning giant tiaras too big for their little heads. What is the point here? To begin training a new generation of reality show hos, plastic Barbies, and porn stars? To keep the offices of every psychotherapist and psychiatrist in the country full for years and years to come? Whenever I’ve even glimpsed these sad contests, I feel as I do when I’m at the APA to pick out one cat: I want to let them all out of their cages and say, “Run! Run as fast as you can!” I wish someone would do that for these poor pageant babies. A pack of wolves in the wild could raise most of them more sanely than their stage parents.

Whew! I feel better after writing that! If anyone should want to join my rant, please do! I’d love to hear things that you really don’t like, too. I’m sure you’ll pick up on plenty that I missed.