Happy Birthday, Donald Scott Honey !

Today is my Donald's birthday.

My adorable, sweet, smart, handsome, funny, husband.

The man who, after almost 25 years of marriage, can still make me laugh till I fall out of my chair, and then have to go re-do my make-up 'cause I've laughed so hard I've cried it all off.  And who still gives me a thrill when I see him walking down the hill.

Happy Birthday, Honey!

AND

Happy Valentine's Day!

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone - Sending you some hugs and virtual Valentine Goodies  -  Enjoy!

A Place Called Spring Hollow by Radine Trees Nehring

For more than 20 years, Radine Trees Nehring's magazine features, essays, newspaper articles, and radio broadcasts have shared colorful stories about people, places, events, and the natural world near her Arkansas home.

In 2002, Radine's first mystery novel, A VALLEY TO DIE FOR, was published, and in 2003 became a Macavity Award nominee.  Since then she has continued to enthrall her original fans and attract new ones with her signature blend of down-home Ozarks sightseeing and amateur sleuthing by lovable active retirees Henry King and Carrie McCrite King.

This blog post is taken from an essay in my non-fiction book DEAR EARTH: A Love Letter from Spring Hollow.  It tells a bit about why John and I live in the Ozarks, and has nothing at all to do with my mystery writing--other than the enormous fact all my "To Die For" mysteries are set in the Ozarks that I love.  (The book is available a multitude of places, including for Kindle.)
                                                                               Radine

    
    
A Place Called Spring Hollow
by Radine Trees Nehring

        It didn't happen because we were planning an escape. We didn't know we needed one.

        I did believe what Grandpa told me. He said it was important to love the land. He lived that love. He owned a farm.

        Most people in the city would have said Grandpa was poor, at least if you were counting money. I noticed, though, that his chickens had a bigger yard to run in than his city grandchildren did. On Grandpa's farm there were pastures, woods, and a creek. Playing at the farm on weekends, I began to think like Grandpa: "The land is wealth."

        When I was five, my father dug up part of our backyard and planted a vegetable garden. I followed behind him in the freshly turned dirt and helped push bean seeds out of sight. A few days later I saw the bent stems of bean sprouts backing up out of the ground, pulling casings and embryo leaves behind them. Even in the city the earth was full of miracles.

        I think the real reason it happened, though, is because John and I are dreamers. We have known that for a long time.

        When we were first married, many people were talking about going back to the land. John and I read books about homesteading. The idea of living in the country sounded romantic, but homesteading made us think of cutting firewood with an ax and milking goats. Neither of us wanted to milk goats, and we were trained for city jobs. How could we live in the country?

        I compromised. We dug up a square in the backyard and I planted tomatoes. My few tomato plants, protected and fed by chemicals in bottles, eventually expanded to two hundred square feet of organic garden with all kinds of vegetables growing in manure and compost.

        One summer when vacation time came, John and I drove east. We were looking forward to L.L. Bean and all the lobster we could eat. We found a log cabin on the coast of Maine, and sat on its porch dressed in jeans and T-shirts, looking out at acres of forest and a patch of wild blueberries. As we sat there we began talking about owning a log cabin and living in it, and about what kind of jobs we might find. Two weeks later we drove two thousand miles so we could put on our oxford-cloth shirts and go back to work in the city.

        And we kept doing that. Every summer during vacation we found a remote spot, and before we had been there a week we were pretending we belonged. We always talked about buying land, and building a cabin, and moving. We talked about jobs we might find. Then we went back to Tulsa, our city in the center of the United States, and to the same jobs we had returned to the year before, and the year before that, and ....

        When I think about it now, the three weeks each summer when we were pretending are clearer and more real to me than any of the other forty-nine weeks of the year ever were.

        One April we went on a weekend camping trip in the Ozarks highlands, one hundred twenty-five miles from our home city.

        We came to the campground after dark on Friday. In the morning we woke up in a grove of dogwood trees in full bloom. We sat together in the open back door of our van looking out at acres of dogwood blossoms, and we began talking about buying land, and about building a cabin, and about what kind of jobs we might find. When we went back to work on Monday we were still only one hundred twenty-five miles from the dogwood grove.

        Four weeks later, an Ozarks real estate agent showed us the tree-covered hillside that tilted down into a hollow holding a spring and a tiny creek. The hollow was filled with dogwood trees.

        The following Saturday we were signing papers at the bank. On the first of June our place had a name. We called it Spring Hollow.

        Now it was time to stop dreaming. We still had city jobs and a home and garden in the city. Spring Hollow was our future. The land was ours; it could wait. We could now tend to business in the city without dreaming.

        Until Friday.

        On Fridays, most city dwellers finish planning weekend activities. There is housecleaning, and maybe yard work. In a city full of working people, the most pleasurable diversions take place on weekends, and city newspapers have long lists of things to see and do.

        On the Saturday after we bought Spring Hollow, John and I didn't discuss weekend plans. We got out the picnic basket and made lunch. Before nine A.M. we were in our old van, heading for the Ozarks highlands.


Radine Trees Nehring
http://www.RadinesBooks.com
JOURNEY TO DIE FOR--print, Kindle, Nook, ebook
Silver Falchion winner, 2010 

My Office, My Pet, and Me by Patricia Stoltey

Patricia is the author of two Sylvia and Willie mysteries, The Prairie Grass Murders and The Desert Hedge Murders. She is now seeking representation for a novel set in Frontier Illinois, Wishing Caswell Dead, and is working on manuscript revisions for a novel of suspense.

Visit her here - http://www.patriciastoltey.com/

and follow her blog here - http://patriciastoltey.blogspot.com/

My Office, My Pet, and Me

by Patricia Stoltey

Kaye, thanks so much for inviting me to visit Meanderings and Muses. The idea of posting a photo of my work place, or my new pet, was fun, so that’s where I’m going in my wandering, rambling way.

My husband and I have gone a bit kitten crazy since we adopted Katrina Katie Kitten from our local animal shelter in January. She’s a brown tabby, about four months old, and she’s taken over our house and lives. We’re downright silly about this cat. My husband builds pillow pyramids on the bed because Katie likes to take her afternoon nap inside. I have special toys I pull out for our morning and evening playtime. She’s demanding and bossy, and we love it.

Katie reminds me to stop and…well…pet the kitten. And laugh. A lot. Bless her sweet little heart, she’s brightened our lives and lifted our spirits and pushed us to have a bit more fun in this sometimes not-so-much-fun world.

So on to the photos. This was more of an adventure than you might imagine. My office is way too messy to show the whole room to the world. And I’ve had a lot of trouble getting great shots of Katrina Katie Kitten because she’s constantly on the move when she’s awake. The first photos I posted on my own blog were mostly of Katie’s tail.

Sometimes, however, photo ops come along exactly when you need them and when the camera is handy. Katie likes to watch the birds and squirrels, so she has a viewing windowsill or table in three different rooms. This one is in my office. The mess of papers on the table is all I’m going to show you. And I’m definitely not going to reveal where I hide my stash of dark chocolate.

The other photo is of my lap, topped with a pillow and a sleeping Katie. I’m sitting on an office chair in front of my computer, trying to read and comment on blog posts.

See what I mean? Downright silly.

Think Before You Ink by Gerris Ferris Finger

Gerrie Ferris Finger is a winner of the Malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Novel Competition.  She lives on the coast of Georgia with her husband, Col. Alan Jay Finger, USMC (Ret.), and their standard poodle, Bogey.  Gerrie is also retired after twenty years in journalism at The Atlanta Journal Constitution where she edited the columns of late humorist Lewis Grizzard and covered local and national news.   You can read more about her here:  www.gerrieferrisfinger.com, follow her blog here:  www.gerrieferrisfinger.blogspot.com 

About THE END GAME -
Moriah Dru’s weekend off with her lover, Lieutenant Richard Lake, is interrupted when Atlanta juvenile court judge Portia Devon hires Dru to find two sisters who’ve gone missing after their foster parents’ house burns down.

This winner of the Malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Novel Competition, The End Game features a strong new heroine in a vivid Southern setting. Gerrie Ferris Finger puts a new spin on the classic mystery novel – From the Publisher, St. Martin's Minotaur.

The second in the Dru/Lake series, The Last Temptation, is under contract; no release date set.



THINK BEFORE YOU INK

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

If symbols on cave walls were man's earliest form of communication, what do artful (or awful) tattoos communicate?

Ewwww, pain. Tatted-up basketball players must not feel pain. Some years ago, before the tattoo rage, I interviewed a tattoo artist in Atlanta for a newspaper story (I am a retired editor/reporter). He said that if you can't stand the sight of blood, and if needles make you cringe, you're not someone he wants in his shop.

People have fainted, thrown up, ran out screeching. Most people, though, grit and bear it. As with dentistry, technology has improved the implements of torture.

I do not like needles or the sight of my blood flowing outside my veins, but I had no trouble watching him tattoo a woman's shoulder. The needles didn't go in far and moved in an up-and-down motion, spreading the ink below her skin's surface. While he wiped blood pricks, and with her smiling valiantly, he told me that he doesn't work on drunks. That belies the notion that people get drunked up, sentimental and decide to have their girlfriend's name tattooed in places where you shouldn't have tats. His wasn't an indictment against alcohol or girlfriends names on the odd body part, but because alcohol makes you bleed more profusely. As he pushed red ink beneath the girl's white skin to make a rose, he pointed out that the girl had very little bleeding. Nevertheless, she was going to need bandages and iodine, and have a perfect excuse for her pain killer of choice.

Back to symbols as a form of communication. What are the most popular tats, and  what do they say to us? I believe symbolism plays a significant role in our lives, a lot of it unconsciously. Most of us believe our Zodiac signs have meaning, so why not have them permanently emblazoned on our skin. I'm a Sagittarius. I kind of like the half horse, half woman (wearing a cover-up) aiming a bow and arrow at anything displeasing. My husband's a Scorpio, and I'm  glad he doesn't like tattoos. He's a dedicated, career Marine, but still wouldn't let a body artist pierce the Eagle, Globe and Anchor into his skin.

The beautiful rose is a favorite of women. I went to the internet (of course) to learn the meanings of the most popular symbols. A rose can mean several things:

beauty, deception (?), femininity, love, lust.
 

Mariah Carey made the butterfly popular during her "Butterfly" days. A daisy represents innocence. That would be for those under the age of six, right?
 

Anyone not seen a heart tattoo? My father had one with a purple banner across it. He got it in World War II, and sixty years later, at his passing, it was still quite visible.

A Celtic knot symbolizes the eternal nature of the human soul and is usually worn as an armband. I like the Celtic Cross (being Irish), but there's also the Egyptian Cross, Maltese Cross and the Iron Cross (for the Goths in our midst).

An Iron Cross with barbed wire means mystery, pain and anger. But coil vines around it, and it becomes a feminine symbol.

Angels express a wearer's belief in his own goodness. The archangel Michael, the field commander in the army of God, trampler of Satan, projects might. And Satan himself is all the rage with those who sport Harley-Davidson tats.

The Phoenix and the Dragon (Chinese anyone?) symbolize power and mystery in Eastern and Western cultures. They are to be feared and worshipped. The Phoenix tattoo expresses one's hunger for immortality.  I'd go for it, but for the needle and blood thing. I'd stay away from anyone tattooed with a snake, skull, spider and pinup girls. No kidding. They're popular with the guys.

What's the best time to get a tattoo? Not summer when you think they'd look cool with your halter tops, tanks and flip-flops. The answer is winter. They have to heal. All that scabbing and peeling. Ewww.

They say a tiger tat never looks bad. I wouldn't know, but as the epitome of strength, I had to get a tiger in my tale.

Thanks, Kaye, for allowing me to have fun.

Saturday Evening Meanderings - My Week

So many of you have sent me cards and notes and emails to wish me well in my retirement - Thank You.  And a lot of you have asked how my first week in this new phase of my life has been going.  Well, I have to say, in all honesty, so far it only feels like I'm on vacation.  Just one of those lovely "stay-at-home" vacations. 

I've read a lot (imagine that!), and I've done some blogging and I've played a lot on my laptop.  I have one very big complaint.  I'm able to read my favorite blogs, but leaving comments on some is problematic (heck of a problem to have, huh?).  You know, we're on dial-up here on the edge of the wilderness.  So those of you who think I've been missing your blogging this week - not so.  I just can't always leave my comments.  And then too, some of you might have wished I had left some of my comments to myself this week.  I'm speaking of the heartbreaking piece Sarah Strohmeyer wrote for The Lipstick Chronicles about Melissa Mia Hall. If you missed it, I encourage you to read it, even though it will break your heart.   It may make you furious, and it may make you want to do something, like write to your representatives (like I did).

Sticking to my rule about attempting to balance out the negative with the positive - - there are benefits to our internet service being slow, so I'm not going to complain too loudly about it.  Actually, it's one of those things I could use to my benefit.  I could use it as an exercise to learn a bit of patience.  (we'll see how that goes . . . ).

I've also been able to keep up with the laundry this week.  AND the dishes, and I've actually even cooked a few meals.  All this in an effort not to feel that "I am already dreadfully inclined to indolence, lassitude, self-indulgence and procrastination."  (that's stolen borrowed directly from Amanda Cross IN THE LAST ANALYSIS.  I've recently discovered Ms. Cross' Kate Fansler mysteries and am besotted with them).  Aside from that, all in all, I think living the life of a reclusive housewife suits me to a "T."  I know that it wouldn't have a few years ago (I tried it, and it didn't), but the role seems to fit quite nicely now.

Another really good thing is being home with Harley Doodle Barley.  Margaret M. thought it would be fun for me to see what he's up to while we're gone.  Well, so far - he appears to just kinda sleep a lot.  Tasha Tudor said she believed Corgis have a lot of "cat" in them, and I do believe she was right.  Not that he has turned down any offers for a little walk outside though.  

Another good thing this week brought was an end to my haggling with our insurance company.  You'll remember, perhaps, the blog I wrote back in July about the insurance company denying claims for the helicopter ride Donald had to make from Boone to Asheville in May when he had a heart attack.

Well, this latest battle has been with the same insurance company denying the claims for the hospital stay during this same incident (or as we now refer to it here at home "that incident from back in May").

Suffice to say - with perseverance (like a pit bull), the good guys (that would be US), win again.  Y'all - I know many of you have had very good response from your insurance.  But some of you,  in all likelihood, may go through this torture of fighting them for what's fair and right at some point in your lives.  Please, please, please don't give up the battles.  Seek help anywhere and everywhere you can.  Keep a log of every phone call you make to the hospital, the doctors' offices, and the insurance company.  Note every person's name you speak with, the date AND the time and what the discussion included.   Arrange for a conference call with all parties involved and take notes on what everyone says.  Get your insurance commissioner involved.  Get your government representatives involved.  Get the media involved if necessary.  Do NOT let them intimidate you into giving up.  If you need to hire an attorney - do it.  A good attorney will handle this on a contingency basis so that you shouldn't end up winning the battle, but coming out of it broke.  

So, as you can see - it's been a week of ups and downs.  But more ups.  Way more ups.

My office sent me off with a lovely "do."  Nice things were said and lovely gifts were given. 

 

 
I only teared up a little.  No big emotional scenes, but I admit I came close.  The first time when my first Chair (Dr. Jesse Taylor, the man who hired me) in the Dept. of Philosophy and Religion said some awfully sweet things - 

Remember me telling you about how very much I loved and would miss a particular piece of art which hung in my office?  

A collage by Janet Bloch.

Dear Prudence.

I adore this collage.  I would even make up little stories in my mind about it.

My department decided to give the collage to me as my retirement gift.  But.  That didn't work out.  It's part of a permanent collection at Appalachian State University's Turchin Center for the Visual Arts (which is faboo!).  But the Turchin Center got in touch with Ms. Bloch and made arrangements for me to have a signed print.

How sweet is that?!

Was I touched?! Pfttttt - I guess!  I was a puddle!

I don't have the print yet - but soon.

What I do have is a framed certificate saying "The bearer of this certificate is entitled to a framed, artist-signed print from the original "Dear Prudence" by Janet Bloch.

I love this.  And I've chosen THE perfect spot for it to hang.  Life is good.

And then came one more teary moment (but not till I had left the building), and it came when I said good-bye to my present boss - well, present up until we said out good-byes.  Dr. Conrad Eugene Ostwalt. aka "Ozzie."  No one could ever make up a boss as good as this one.  I will miss him.

 Then, the next evening my neighborhood gave me a little party.  One again - another of life's little gifts; our neighborhood.   It's the type of neighborhood people dream about living in, but don't really believe they exist.  Well, I''m here to tell you - they do.  How we were lucky enough to find this one is beyond me, but we do dearly love it.  (as a side note - they're all just the teeniest bit nuts - I mean that, of course, only in the nicest way).

Next up -

dinner with some of my favorite women on God's green earth - The Nutz - ta DA!

And rambling on, as I'm wont to do - there were some additional lovely things associated with my retirement.

Lovely words written by very good, and very cherished friends.  Bo Parker, Earl Staggs, and Ken Lewis.  Thank you - you guys are the best  . . . 

"I want to take this opportunity to offer a testimonial and a toast.

As one who has spent only a few minutes compared to the many hours

Kaye Barley has spent promoting the mystery genre as the host of

Meanderings and Muses, words within my vocabulary are not adequate to express the appreciation I have for her efforts.

Nor are they adequate to express the pleasure I have received from

the fact she opened her virtual door to others, providing an

opportunity for enjoyment and enlightenment that I know I would not have otherwise experienced.

So I ask all other DLers to join me in a toast to Kaye, Donald, and

Harley (yes, they are part of M&M).

Retirement opens a door to an almost endless list of opportunities.

It is my wish that you experience all of them, and find joy, peace,

and contentment in each and every one."

Bronson L. "Bo" Parker

January 27, 2011

It started right here on DorothyL. Kaye posted a picture of her mom and dad. I went to have a look and saw something familiar behind them. They were standing in front of Memorial Stadium on 33rd Street in Baltimore where I spent many Sunday afternoons cheering for Johnny Unitas and the Baltimore Colts. I had to write her a private email to ask if she was from my hometown.

That started a long line of correspondence between us. Turned out she was not from Baltimore, but her family visited there often. Kaye grew up in Cambridge, a small town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. I passed through there hundreds of times on my way to Ocean City. We chatted about how you can’t get better crabcakes anywhere in the world, about the magnificent beach and Boardwalk in Ocean City, the fudge they make there (finger-smackin’ good), Thrasher’s French Fries (world famous), and Maryland-grown tomatoes (slurpable right off the vine).

Before we were halfway through sharing our memories of Maryland, I was completely and unabashedly charmed. I’d never met anyone so delightful in my life. The way she talked about her adored husband, Donald, and Harley Doodle Barley, the Wonder Corgi. From her “Boy, howdy” to her signature “Pfffft,“ I looked forward to her emails with a warm smile.

She even sent me a box of fudge.

Then, she dropped the bomb. “I’m not a writer,” she said. “I’m only a reader.”

ONLY a reader? Pffft! Readers are more important than writers. Readers like her are why we do what we do.

NOT a writer? Boy, howdy! What is a writer but someone who strings words together in such a way you’re drawn into her world and want to stay there and whose infectious personality and love of life shine through in every sentence?

“You’re the most naturally gifted writer I know,” I argued. She countered with she’d have to learn how before she could be a writer. “Don’t even think about learning how to be a writer,” I persisted. “Just be natural and be yourself.”

I may have gotten through to her because she started a little blog called “Meanderings and Muses.” She began by writing about her life and the people in it and “squealed” about books she liked. Then she started inviting other people to guest blog on the site. Now, the guest list looks like a Who’s Who of the best writers around. I know those writers, like me, look forward to the entries by the Belle of Boone herself.

So that’s how it started, and my love affair with Kaye is still going strong, even though we’ve never met in person. One of these days, I hope to drive up to her house in Boone, North Carolina, and give her the biggest hug she’s ever had in her life. I’ll shake Donald’s hand, give Harley a good scratching behind the ears, and go inside full of hope she baked a cake that day.

Then I’ll pester her once again about writing her memoirs, something she absolutely must do now that she’s retired.

Tonsahugs to you, Kaye Darlin', as you begin a new chapter in your life.

Earl Staggs

January 29, 2011

Dear Kayester:

A little retirement poem for you:

For years she labored

And slaved at school

Then started a blog

That's oh so cool

She's retired now

And home every week

But all of us know

She's not ready to peak

She'll Meander here

And Muse over there

Keep on trimming

Her cute pixie hair

She'll laugh, and cry

Spit coffee from her nose

While bringing her readers

The best in prose

She's "Kaye from Boone"

Remember her name!

Retired, or not

She'll still be the same

Chief Kenneth R. Lewis

January 29, 2011 

Did I boo-hoo when I read these sweet words from friends I treasure?!

Pfft!

what do you think?!

a total and complete puddle.



but in a very good way.

Learning to Swim by Sara J. Henry

Sara J. Henry’s debut suspense novel, Learning to Swim (Crown, Feb. 22, 2011), been called “emotional, intense, and engrossing” by Lisa Unger and an “auspicious debut” by Daniel Woodrell. In her previous lives Sara has been a soil scientist, sports writer, newspaper editor, correspondence writing school instructor, book editor, bicycle mechanic, copyeditor, and webmaster. She’s from Tennessee and now calls southern Vermont home. Her website is SaraJHenry.com.  Here's a link to the first chapter of LEARNING TO SWIM.

LEARNING TO SWIM

by Sara J. Henry

Yes, it’s an exciting (and busy) time with my first novel about to come out, and finishing up the sequel. For this post I’ve chosen some of my favorite questions from a round of interviews (picture me sitting around with all these people asking me questions – no, of course, these were all emailed exchanges ... but it’s a nice image.) And thanks to Kaye for hosting me here, and to the interviewers.

Learning to Swim opens with a disturbing scene, that of a young child being thrown off a ferry into Lake Champlain. What was the inspiration for that scene? And was that one scene the inspiration for the entire book itself? – Adam Purple

I was driving along Lake Champlain in upstate New York on an overcast day and just imagined that scene: a woman on one ferry seeing the child going overboard from the ferry going the opposite direction and in a split second making the decision to dive into the lake after him. It stuck with me, and when I finally sat down to write a novel, that was the first chapter. And yes, it was the inspiration for the whole book, and I can tell you, it was a challenge coming up with a plot that fit that little boy and that woman: how they ended up on those passing ferries and how their lives intertwined.

So, it was killing me as I read – how much of the protagonist Troy Chance is you, or should I say how much of you is in her? – Joanna McNeal

If I say she’s a lot like me, it seems I don’t have enough imagination to create a main character out of thin air. But if I say she isn’t at all like me – I’m lying. I think many first-time novelists use a lot of themselves in their first-person main character. Mine lives in the house where I used to live in Lake Placid and worked at the newspaper where I used to work, and many of her experiences and feelings are mine. We both like bicycles and computers and dogs and kids. And when I write her, I am her.

Before it was sold, how long did it take you to write Learning to Swim? – Reed Farrel Coleman

The first draft appeared over a decade ago – I churned it out in less than eight months, largely because I was meeting with another writer who expected me to hand over chapters every week and I didn’t want to show up empty-handed (thank you, Mac Clayton). Unfortunately the middle of the book was a complete muddle and I had no idea how to rewrite, so it went in a drawer for a very long time.

I’d take it out and stare at it occasionally, and poke at it, like prodding a sleeping tiger, then put it away again. Then I broke my foot, had surgery and went off to Australia on crutches for a five-week house swap. There I learned to rewrite and earned the nickname “Boot Girl” from Michael Robotham, who I’d met briefly at a Bouchercon – and who told me I had to change the original title of the book because it sounded like a Bobbsey Twins book.

Was it difficult to get an agent and publisher interested? – Adam Purple

No. I know that sounds cheeky, but once the rewrite was done, it all happened very quickly. Mind you, I revised until I was literally wearing Band-aids on my fingers and I thought my brain would break. (And long ago a friend had offered the manuscript to half a dozen publishers, who said politely: Er, the middle needs work. Then another friend's agent took a look and said, My, you certainly can write, which translated to But you can't plot worth a damn.) But once the rewrite was done I sent out queries and my first chapter, and requests came rolling in. It was surreal. Like winning a lottery you didn't know you'd entered.

In general, what kind of books do you best like to read? Favorite authors? – Deb Boyken

I like books with realistic inner dialogue and strong characterization, and I tend to lean toward somewhat quirky books. Two favorites this past year, Innocent Monster and Please Ignore Vera Dietz are by personal friends, Reed Farrel Coleman and A.S. King. I adored The Memory Of Running by Ron McLarty; I recently read and loved Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman; I’m mad about the new series by Jodi Compton, who shares an agent with me (clearly my agent has wonderful taste) and a book called Benighted by Kit Whitfield, and I read everything by my Aussie friend Michael Robotham. Oh, and Daniel Woodrell, who is simply brilliant. Start with Winter’s Bone, and don’t stop.

I know you have ties to the south. Why New York and Vermont? Isn't it cold there? It seems like such a foreign place to a southerner like myself. – Joanna McNeal

I was born and grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and lived for years in Nashville. My first full-time job was in Adirondacks in upstate New York, as the sports editor on the daily newspaper there, and I nearly froze my tail off before I learned how to dress warmly enough (layers, lots of layers, and Sorel boots with thick wool liners). Later, at a crossroads in life, a friend who lived in Vermont said, “Why don’t you come up here and work at the bicycle shop?” and so I did – I’m glad no one suggested going to work on a freighter or moving to Antarctica. But in many ways Vermont suits me – I can run to the grocery store or post office in ripped painting overalls and no one gives me a second look.

Are you going to haunt your local bookstore on publication day? (Feb. 22) – Deb Boyken

Nope, I’m going to be in New York, getting ready to launch at Partners & Crime in Greenwich Village at 7 pm, Wednesday, Feb. 23. Anyone in New York, come on down.

Is there anything else you'd like us to know about you and/or your book? – Margo Kelly

I can beat Scott Phillips at arm wrestling. Or almost, anyway. And the sequel to this book will be out next year.