Castles, Crowns and Cottages - Sparkling Moments

My friend Nan sent me THE loveliest email today, and I just have to share.

Please visit

Castles,  Crowns and Cottages - Sparkling Moments

http://wwwcastlescrownscottages.blogspot.com/2011/08/theres-room-for-us-all.html

For your feel good moment of your day. Maybe you whole week-end

I Can’t Believe I Read the WHOLE Thing by Jen Forbus

After the stork accidentally dropped Jen Forbus in the wrong place - NE Ohio for God's sake - she has spent the better part of her life not knowing what she wanted to be when she grew up: she’s worked in the high school classroom, as a tech writer, a spec writer and a software programmer. These days she’s back in the education realm, coordinating adult professional development at the National Association of College Stores. Her love of crime fiction was ignited by Linda Fairstein and Robert Crais who hooked her on their respective series. From there the obsession snowballed and Jen’s Book Thoughts was born. Jen contributes to CRIMESPREE MAGAZINE, SHELF AWARENESS and is proudly a member of Team xuni.

 I Can’t Believe I Read the WHOLE Thing

by Jen Forbus 

In quite a few circles the question of “do you finish every book you start?” has come up. There was a time when my answer to that question would have been, “Absolutely! Are you kidding me? It’s sacrilege not to finish a book.” In the last few years my response has done a 180, “Life is too short for bad books.” Or rather, “Life is too short for books I don’t like.” I’m sure the towering pile I want to read has a lot to do with my change of heart. And reading is my hobby, why would I want to torture myself in my free time forcing myself to…wait, that sounds a lot like the time I spend at the gym…never mind, I digress. 

 The real question is what makes me want to stick with a book to the end? What grabs me and won’t let go until I find the resolution?

  The key for me is character. A book could have the most amazing, action-filled plot, but if the characters fall flat I’m gone by page 30. The book could have stunning imagery and flowery, poetic language, but if the characters aren’t interesting to me I don’t care.

 So then that begs the question, what makes the characters interesting to me? There are many factors that can come into play here. I look for characters with character. We’re all unique people and I look for that uniqueness in my characters. When I was young, I loved MacGyver but I don’t need seven different versions of MacGyver. I’d like something different, please. 

 I look for realism. I’m far more likely to connect with a character I believe I could meet on the street, work with, or live next door to, than say a super hero or a zombie. While Superman is fun, I know I’m not going to see a grown adult in blue tights flying overhead anytime too soon. But an ordinary person doing something extraordinary because of special circumstances; that grabs me. Alafair Burke pulled me in to Dead Connection with Ellie Hatcher experiencing online dating. I experienced that! I made a connection.

 I look for depth and dimension and growth in characters. While growth takes a little more time to establish, depth and dimension show up fairly quickly in a book if they are going to be present at all. And that’s important because if they aren’t there by page 30, I’ve moved on to the next book. The character doesn’t even need to be a “good” person to keep me interested. If the character is a felon, but has depth and dimension, I’ll be just as hooked as I am with the cop who might be pursuing him/her. A great example of this is Robert Crais’ last book, The Sentry. I was absolutely fascinated with his antagonist and thought I’d love to read a whole book about just Daniel.

As for growth, this is especially important to me in a series. There have been many very popular series that after two books I’m done. The main reason is the protagonist. He/she is fun in the first book but after that the character is exactly the same. I know some readers are comforted by that predictability but personally, I’m bored and moving on. Craig Johnson’s Vic Morretti never fails to surprise me. And I’m always anxious to find out what Linda Fairstein’s Mike Chapman is going to pull.

In genre fiction there are a series of loose rules that govern the structure, but with character there’s a lot of freedom. I look for the books that take advantage of that freedom and create characters I want to spend hundreds of pages getting to know…and love. That, above all else, motivates me to finish a book.

Your turn! What grabs you and engages you so that you want to finish a book?  

A Tribute to my Father by Julia Buckley

Julia Buckley is a Chicago area writer. Her first mystery, The Dark Backward, was released in June of 2006 and earned high praise from Crimespree and others; her next book, Madeline Mann, was lauded by Kirkus and The Library Journal.  It is now available for the first time on Kindle, as is as its sequel, Lovely, Dark and Deep. 

Her short story, “Motherly Instinct,” will appear in Anne Frasier’s Halloween Anthology Deadly Treats this fall.

Julia is a member of Sisters in Crime, MWA, and RWA.  She keeps a writer’s blog at www.juliabuckley.blogspot.com on which she interviews fellow mystery writers; her website is www.juliabuckley.com.  She is one of Poe’s Deadly Daughters, and posts weekly on their blog: www.poesdeadlydaughters.blogspot.com.

She is about to launch a new mystery series featuring an amateur sleuth and English teacher. 

 

A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER
by Julia Buckley

On August 11 my father will turn eighty. Once I would have thought that sounded ancient, like the age of a Biblical prophet.  My father has redefined the number for me, since he is youthful, energetic, and always on the run.  He has five adult children in their forties and fifties who still go to him with just about every question of household, garden, finance, philosophy, trivia, family lore.  He is a true patriarch, and I would like to use the blog space that Kaye has kindly given me to pay tribute to a remarkable man.

Anne Sexton once wrote "It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was."  That's true to an extent, I suppose, since we all filter the truth through our own reality.  But I also think it matters very much who my father is, since he is a truly good person, and more than that--he is a noble person, in a world where we don't find a reason to use that word very often. 

My father is the son of Hungarian immigrants who was never given an easy way, and yet he never lost his good humor.  He grew up on a farm in Michigan that did not have running water, indoor plumbing, or electricity.  For many years he also did without television, radio, or an automobile.  He lost an older brother to scarlet fever when he was only a little boy, and then was cast into a lonely existence while his mother shrouded herself in grief and his father labored on the railroad. 

From the time he was eleven or twelve he always had jobs. He learned to work hard, and he learned to save (if only the gift of budgeting were hereditary!).

He went to Leo High School in Chicago and U of I when the campus was still at Navy Pier.  He was drafted into the army during the Korean War, but because he was one of few soldiers in his unit who spoke a foreign language he was sent to Europe on a troop ship.  Serendipitously he was stationed in Germany, where his pen-pal happened to live.  He arranged to meet her one day while he was on leave.  They almost passed each other when he got off the streetcar, but it's a good thing they both turned around and took a second look--she would eventually become his wife, and my mother.

My father has been a good and devoted husband for fifty years.  I have never known him to put himself before his wife or his five children.  He has always made the hard task of parenting seem effortless and natural, and I never wanted for anything as his child. 

The older I get, the more I love and appreciate my father for his history, his kindness, his wealth of knowledge, and his unswerving faith.  It matters who he is, both to me and to everyone he meets.

We are throwing him a giant party, but that’s the least of what we owe him for all that he has given to us.

Please celebrate my father (along with all wonderful fathers) with me this week!

A Bed With A View

I love mornings.


I especially love mornings waking up in our own bed in our own home.  Since we've been gone a lot the past couple of months, I've become even more aware of how much I love our bed.  It's true, you know - there's no place quite like home.


I love what I see when I open my eyes these mornings at home.


And I love seeing the occasional surprise.  

No, the surprise was not SissyFriss SockMonkey - she drops in unexpectedly from time to time, so I'm never surprised to see her staring at me first thing in the morning any more.  It IS a little unsettling, however . . . .

This morning the surprise was a sweet little vase of flowers from Donald and Harley.  That's like waking up and finding a little love note.  Actually, it's exactly like waking up to find a little love note.  And nothing could be any sweeter.

I wake up most mornings to a cup of coffee on my nightstand.  Now, just to keep all you folks from rolling your eyes too badly.  If I happen to wake up before Donald, then he gets a cup of coffee on his nightstand.  That doesn't happen too often, granted, but believe me - I know how lucky I am.  So, he gets little treats and "random acts of kindness" tossed his way pretty often.  It's my way of saying  "Thank You" for the sweetness of finding that cup of coffee each morning.  I try very hard to never ever take him for granted.  And, I think he does the same.


Because we live in a small house, we're trying to adhere to the philosophy of having nothing in our home that we don't believe to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.  It's much harder to do than it sounds.  At least, it is for us - who happen to be a couple of hoarders collectors and pack-rats.  But.  We're doing the best we can.  


And if waking up in a room you love, which is filled with things you love, is a step in this direction, then I have to think we're doing the right thing.


Our bedroom is definitely filled with things we believe to be beautiful.


Some of my favorite books, by some of my favorite authors, fill the bookcase.  There's Anne Rivers Siddons, Pat Conroy, Rosamunde Pilcher, Margaret Maron, J. K. Rowling, Louise Penny and Sarah Addison Allen.  Beth Hoffman's "Saving CeeCee Honeycutt," Laurie King's "Folly," Sue Monk Kidd's "The Secret Life of Bees," Anne Fairbairn's "Five Smooth Stones," Kay Thompson's Eloise Books, Frederic Clement's "The Merchant of Marvels and the Peddler of Dreams," Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows' "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,""Moments with Eugene," edited by Rebecca Barrett and Carolyn Haines, "Milking the Moon" by Eugene Walter and a Willie Nelson biography, along with copies of the two regional anthologies I contributed to (well, duh!).   Savannah artist Ray Ellis' "Savannah and the Lowcountry" art book, Lulu Guiness' "Put on Your Pearls, Girls," Nick Bantock's Griffin & Sabine trilogy, and "The Store of Joys - Writers Celebrate the North Carolina Museum of Art's Fiftieth Anniversary."   And The American Heritage Dictionary.  I can't stand being too far from a dictionary!

Those aren't all my favorites - but, you know, it "is" a small house and that's all we have room for in the bedroom.


A few of our favorite paintings and prints are in this room.

These are the ones we see first thing when we wake up -

The water color is by local artist, Joe Miller.  It was painted in the South Carolina low country near Charleston.


The print is by a Savannah artist.  It's of E.Shaver Bookstore on Bull Street in Savannah which specializes in local history and architecture.  E. Shaver is a Savannah institution and a spot we never miss when we're visiting.  On a trip several years ago, we saw a beautiful piece in a gallery, and fell in love with it.  A painting of E. Shaver Bookstore.  It was, sadly, way out of our price range.  I asked the gallery attendant if there was, perhaps, a print and was told no.  As it turned out, the person I asked happened to be the artist's wife.  A couple years went by and I received a letter from her stating that they had decided to do a limited run of prints for some of his originals after all.  She had just run across my name and wondered if I was still interested.  I was, of course, and she sent me this small print as a gift.  How lovely is that?!  I treasure it - along with the thoughtfulness which brought it to us.  Unfortunately, I cannot for the life of me remember the artist's name!  How bad is that?!  I'm trying my best to decipher the signature on the print so I can share it with you - but so far, no luck.  dang.  I'm also trying to locate the letter from his wife so I can get the name from it.  big sigh.  No luck there either, but I haven't given up yet.

I seem to have this affinity for art featuring windows and doors.  Anyone have any thoughts about what that might be all about??

  
And looking to my right from the bed, here's the window through which we're able to watch the world as it changes with the seasons.  And watch the sunrise.  Right now it's all trees, but before we know it, we'll be able to see Elk Knob, and before too long we'll be looking at Elk Knob covered in snow.

like this - - 

And sometimes, just looking out the bedroom door, I get to see something like this to help me start the day with a smile.  

A guy and his dog.  

It would appear that picking those flowers this morning was hard work.

I love mornings.

Writing for a living ...it's all in your head by Gary Corby

Gary Corby is the author of a mystery series set in ancient Athens, starring Nicolaos, the elder brother of Socrates.  The first in the series is The Pericles Commission (2010).  The Ionia Sanction is scheduled for November 2011. 

Why does he write in the ancient world?  Because what those guys got up to thousands of years ago was just as exciting and even more bizarre than any modern thriller, with the added fun that it really happened.  

He lives in Sydney, Australia, with one wife, two daughters, and four guinea pigs.  Even the guinea pigs are female.  As the only male in the house, he is, of course, the one in charge.

You can catch him on his blog at GaryCorby.com, on twitter where he's GaryCorby, or on GoodReads. 

 

Writing for a living…it's all in your head

by Gary Corby

Writing for a living is like a bizarre dream.  What other grown-ups get to live in make-believe worlds?  Not only that, but we get paid for it (well…sort of...enough for a cup of coffee anyway). 

There's a ritual played out by men when they're thrown together at parties, kids' sport on the weekends, school events etc.  It goes something like this:

Man A:  "So, what do you do for a living?"

Man B:  "I'm an IT analyst at Big Corporation.  What about you?"

Man A:  "I'm an accountant at the well-known firm of Dodgy, Screwge & Penny-Pincher. "

And then they talk about the football.

This doesn't work for me. 

Man A:  "So, what do you do for a living?"

Gary:  "I'm an author."

Man A:  "Er…"

I've tried varying my answer.

Man A:  "So, what do you do for a living?"

Gary:  "I kill people.  But only on paper."

Man A:  "Er…"

This does however have the advantage that no one tries to get me to talk about the football.  Inevitably I'll be asked, "What was your name again?"  They're wondering if they're supposed to have heard of me.  I'll prattle on about my books.  At some point Man A will tell me he likes to read. 

A few days ago I was throwing a baseball back and forth with a fellow dad while my daughter was at her T-ball practise.  He's a seriously good baseball player (not a major sport in Australia) and I was amazed at the strength and distance of his throw.  It caused me to wonder what would happen if you filled the ball with Semtex and added a remote-controlled detonator.  This probably isn't the first thought that would occur to most people while learning to catch a baseball, but it's most definitely what a mystery and thriller writer will think of. 

It seems to me too that most people don't tend to self-analyze, whereas a writer is always on the lookout for material, and it comes quite naturally.  To go back to throwing that baseball, I'm a good catch, but that's with bare hands, and that actually made it harder for me to learn.  In baseball you're supposed to catch the ball in the sock of the baseball glove: I had to put my left hand in the wrong place.  Decades of ball catching reflex went out the window.  That's the sort of life detail I store away for use in a story.  Maybe it'll be a clue in a mystery some day.

I'm interested by the number of people who've asked me how I cope with the isolation of sitting on my own in a room day after day.  Apparently the people who ask this find the social interaction of working in an office stimulating, even therapeutic.   Um…okay.  Whatever. 

It's very hard to explain.  If I told them the truth—"I find the inside of my head endlessly fascinating."—they'd reach for the phone to call in emergency psychological help.  Which I don't want because I'm very happy with my current mental state, thank you very much.

Small-Town Living: The Bell Tolls for Thee and Me by Nikki Strandskov

 





















Nikki Strandskov, aka Auntie Knickers or Nikki in Maine, is a (lately quite infrequent) blogger at http://auntieknickers.blogspot.com 
and member of the DorothyL group. She was born in Maine and grew up in various places as an Army brat, graduated from Brandeis University and Defense Language Institute-West Coast, and served as a Russian interpreter on the “duty train” from Berlin to West Germany in the early 70s.

Since then she has raised three children (with quite a bit of help from her husband), worked in libraries and as a church secretary, and done quite a bit of genealogy. Mostly it seems she buys books and reads them. She fights a never-ending battle with disorganization. Her dog’s name is Rusty.

Nikki Strandskov
auntieknickers@gmail.com
Bayberry Hill Genealogy
http://auntieknickers.blogspot.com
http://queuingup.blogspot.com

SMALL-TOWN LIVING: THE BELL TOLLS FOR THEE AND ME

by Nikki Strandskov


       Nearly six years ago now, my husband and I left Minneapolis, which had been his lifelong home and mine for more than half my life, for my home state of Maine. We bought a house in the town where I finished high school, in the midst of many relatives – a town of about 20,000.  We had lived in an even smaller town for a few years in southern Minnesota early in our marriage, but still many aspects of small-town life continue to surprise us. Here’s one.

       When local disasters happened in Minneapolis, we felt sorry for the victims, but they usually weren’t anybody we knew. Any help we gave was at arm’s length or farther, through the Red Cross or church perhaps. Even on the few occasions where someone we knew needed help with medical expenses, opportunities for donations were set up through church and the recipients were not told who did or didn’t give. Not so here.

       It’s a rare week in our town and those surrounding it that doesn’t have a number of public suppers (and sometimes breakfasts and lunches) to choose from. The regularly scheduled ones tend to be in aid of a church or some other organization like a volunteer fire department, Scout troop, lodge or Grange.  

Bowdoinham Volunteer Fire Dept. Bean Supper and Dessert Table

But quite often, the meal will be a benefit for someone who’s having financial trouble because of an injury, illness, or fire. I’ve attended several of these; two, in fact, for cousins.  Although Maine has a high proportion of people with health insurance, there are also many people who are self-employed or work in jobs with little or no sick leave, and they can have trouble paying for housing, heat and food if someone in the family can’t work. In these cases, friends and neighbors step in and hold a supper, sometimes with a silent auction as well. And whenever possible, the recipient and his or her family will be present to greet and thank everyone who comes.  There is no shame in their faces at such times, because everybody concerned knows that next week, next month, or next year, the tables could turn and today’s donor would be the one in need.

       I said earlier that I don’t remember seeing events like this in the city, but there’s an exception. The music and theater communities, whether in big cities or small towns, tend to look after their own in this way. It’s probably because being a musician, actor, or playwright is not unlike being a lobsterman or free-lance carpenter in terms of benefits and job security – there usually isn’t much of either.

       One of the communities I belong to is the mystery community of DorothyL, through which I “met” Kaye and was invited to guest-blog here. Other than attending a few reading-and-signing events, I don’t think I’ve met any of these folks in person. Yet we rejoice in each other’s triumphs and share in each other’s trials. Right now, one of our community members, writer and reviewer Kevin Tipple, needs help.  Through a perfect storm of health and financial problems, things that could easily happen to any of us, Kevin and his family need help paying for the bare necessities of daily life. You can donate securely here http://kevintipplescorner.blogspot.com/

       There are a lot of great things about living in a small town. One is the opportunity to know and help our neighbors, and another is the chance for our neighbors to help us. Isn’t it nice that virtual communities can function in the same way? If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’re part of my virtual community, or Kaye’s virtual community, and thus within “six degrees of separation” of Kevin – and now you have the opportunity to help him. Another time?  Well, who knows. Could be you, could be me.
 

Workspace photos: Workspaces center, left and right comprise my computer desk. Among the projects which litter it are cataloging (in a very simple way) our 2,000+ book collection, adding to the collection, and trying to come up with a list of all the plays I have seen on stages since my first such experience in about 1962.  The other photo, of the tidier desk, is my latest completed small project – tidying that desk, which serves the family. The photo on the desk is of our daughter Cordelia, who was ordained as a United Church of Christ minister last fall and serves a church in Santa Cruz, CA.

Workspace Left

Workspace Center

Workspace Right

Family Workspace - photo of daughter Cordelia

--

EEK!

I hate snakes.  

I don't even want to hear about what they're good for, how they really are not as slimy as they look, and that they might be my friend.  I hate 'em.  

If you've been following me here and/or at Facebook, you know we have a lot of critter company.  Little Deer, two sheep and a goat, a parade of chickens and roosters, and some bunnies.

They're all sweet and they're all welcome, although I'd like the goat more if he wouldn't poop in our carport.

Little Deer even lets us touch him - although he seems to be getting wise to the ways of his fellow deer, and is keeping a little more distance than he once did.

Well, today we had another visitor.  Not a welcome one.  And not in the yard.

I walked over to the shredder to shred this afternoon's junk mail and Harley started barking at the thing like a house afire.  He does not like the shredder, but this did seem a little excessive.  When I looked at him, he wasn't really looking at the shredder, but at the black cord beside it.  Welllllll, I didn't have my glasses on, but I did notice that the black cord seemed to be moving, and it didn't appear to be attached to anything.

My brain screamed "SNAKE!"  

I screamed "HOLY SHIT!"

Harley agreed, loudly barked his assent and up the stairs we ran, stumbling over one another like crazy  -  taking time only to slam the door behind us.

This is when I remember to say my "Thank You's" for a husband who will answer the phone at work, hear me say "SNAKE!," and respond "I'm on my way."

Harley and I spent the next 20 or 25 minutes telling one another it probably really wasn't a snake.  Just the cord.  And boy was Donald Barley gonna tease us about this for years to come.

Noooooooooooooo.

Snake has been found (under the washer).

Snake has been removed.

Yay, Donald!

My hero!

And Harley's too (who still hates the shredder, now more than ever).

Good Riddance Mr. Snake!!  Don't come back!  (pretty please)

The Wild Hog Murders by Bill Crider

I was borned on a mountain top in Tennessee and kilt me a b’ar when I was only three! No, wait, that was Davy Crockett. Sometimes I get the two of us confused. I’ve been in a bar or two, though, and in the winter I sometimes cover up with a kilt. Or a quilt. I’m getting confused again. At any rate, I’m pretty sure I’m the author of more than fifty published novels and numerous short stories and that I won the Anthony Award for best first mystery novel in 1987 for Too Late to Die. I was even nominated for the Shamus Award for best first private-eye novel for Dead on the Island, and I won the coveted Golden Duck award for “best juvenile science fiction novel” for Mike Gonzo and the UFO Terror. My wife, Judy, and I won the best short story Anthony in 2002 for “Chocolate Moose.” My story “Cranked” from Damn Near Dead (Busted Flush Press) was nominated for the Edgar award for best short story. Check out my homepage at http://billcrider.com/ or take a look at my peculiar blog at http://billcrider.blogspot.com/

The Wild Hog Murders

by Bill Crider

What’s all this about wild hogs?  

Well, the truth is that feral pigs are a terrible problem in Texas. For years they’ve infested the country, and now they’re moving into the cities.  There are over two million of them in this state alone, probably about half the nationwide population.  They’ve gotten so bad that the during its last session, the Texas legislature made it legal to hunt them from helicopters. 

Since I’m always ahead of the curve on these things, I’ve been featuring wild hogs in my Sheriff Dan Rhodes series since the very beginning, back in 1986.  The sheriff had a pretty serious encounter with some feral pigs in that book, and for some reason they’ve been mentioned in just about every book since.  My sister called me one day after reading an article about them and said she thought it was time for me to make them the focus of a whole book.  I was thinking about starting a new book at the time, and it sounded good to me, so that’s what I did.

Someone asked me the other day if I’d ever gotten up close and personal with any feral pigs.  The answer is that I haven’t.  I do, however, own some land that’s overrun with them.  When my father died some years ago, my brother and sister and I inherited his ranch.  My brother now oversees the property, and he’s tried just about everything (except hunting the porcine destroyers from a helicopter) to get rid of them.  

Nothing works.  They root up the fields, they carry parasites and disease, and they breed faster than rabbits. 

I’m not the only one who’s talking about those pesky porkers these days.  You can check out YouTube if you want to see videos of people hunting them.  Or if you like more conventional television, the A&E network is about to present a new series called American Hoggers, about a family that makes a profession of hunting feral pigs.  I suppose this is more toward the “entertainment” half of the network’s name rather than the “arts” part.  Some people might even find it questionable entertainment. 

My book is plenty entertaining, though.  Trust me.  And while you’re trusting me, buy a copy and put a nice review on Amazon.  Help me to become rich and famous and to start living in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed. 

The sheriff and I thank you.

Why I Write Mysteries by Judy Hogan

Judy Hogan was born in Zenith, Kansas.  She has lived in the Triangle area of N.C. for 40 years.  She brought to the state a new poetry journal (Hyperion, 1970-81) and in 1976 she founded Carolina Wren Press.  She has been active in the area since the early 70s as a reviewer, book distributor, publisher, teacher, writing consultant, and organizer of conferences, readings, and book signing events.  She was Chair of COSMEP (Committee of Small Magazine Editors and Publishers) 1975-78.  In 1984 she helped found and was the first President of the N.C. Writers' Network, serving until 1987.

She has published five volumes of poetry with small presses, and two prose works, Watering the Roots in a Democracy: A Manual for Combining Literature and Writing in the Public Library (1989) and The PMZ Poor Woman’s Cookbook (2000).

A translation of her poetry book, Beaver Soul, was published by the Kostroma Writers’ Organization in 1997.       

Her papers, correspondence, and 25 years of extensive diaries are in the Special Collections Department of the Perkins Library at Duke University.

She has taught all forms of creative writing since 1974, through libraries, in extension programs, and on her own.

She taught Freshman English 2004-2006 at St. Augustine’s College, an historically black college in Raleigh.  She does free lance editing and offers workshops for creative writers.

Between 1990 and 2007 she visited Kostroma, Russia, five times, teaching American literature at Kostroma University in 1995 and giving a paper to a Kostroma University Literature Conference in March 2007.  She worked on five exchange visits, as well as cooperative publishing with Kostroma writers and exhibits of their painters.  She has been active in environmental and community issues in Chatham County.

She’s also a member of Sisters In Crime (Guppies, GuppyPressQuest list).

Judy lives in Moncure, N.C., near Jordan Lake, in Chatham County.

                          

Why I Write Mysteries

by Judy Hogan

I began reading mysteries in 1980, when my elder daughter left for college. Once the two younger children were in bed, and I'd finished my work for the day (I was editor and publisher of Carolina Wren Press, as well as teaching some writing classes for adults), there was an hour or so when I wasn't sleepy yet. I began with Agatha Christie. Amy and I had watched Mash together. Now I read mysteries.

My father, a United Church of Christ minister, had read mysteries to relax, so I asked him for suggestions and began with British women: Dorothy Sayers, Josephine Tey, Ngaio Marsh, P.D. James. Friends suggested Sara Paretsky, Sue Grafton, Amanda Cross, Martha Grimes, Arthur Upfield, and over the years I've been delighted to read all the books of: Louise Penny, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Elizabeth George, Laurie King, Peter Robinson, Stephen Booth, Lindsay Davis, Charles Todd, Eliot Pattison, Michael Innes, Margaret Maron, Marjorie Allingham, Jacqueline Winspeare, Barbara Hambley, Alexander McCall Smith, Tony Hillerman, Margaret Coel, Elizabeth Peters, Ellis Peters, Reginald Hill, and new favorite, Sasscer Hill.

I liked a plot, but what gave the most pleasure were the subplots, the exploration of human relationships, and the different worlds I could enter. Mysteries became a way to relax and let go my worries and responsibilities for awhile, yet have new things to think about. I especially liked strong women protagonists, but I loved best the books that gave me what I call the cozy feeling. I liked it when the protagonist and friend would have comfort food, give each other emotional support. The crime had to be solved, but there was time for food, drink, humor, and love.

These days a cozy has come to mean a craft mystery novel, but when I think of a cozy mystery, it's more in the Malice Domestic Traditional Mystery mode (as in their contest sponsored by St. Martin's Press for the first best of these novels): no explicit sex or violence. The victim and the murderer are known within a limited world; there are suspects, and the reader is given enough clues to be able to guess whodunit.

In 1981 I began going abroad when I could afford it, as my ex-husband took the children more in the summer. I called these trips writing vacations, and my favorite place to go in the 80s was to the Gower Peninsula in Wales, where I could explore a variety of landscapes and historical sites down through the ages, from Ice Age caves to prehistoric stone monuments like Arthur's Stone, Norman castles, limestone cliffs, bays with their exotic wild flowers and tide pools teeming with sea life. I'd write poetry, but in the evening, I'd read what my landlady called "murders." She couldn't get me to watch the telly. I'd be too caught up in a "murder" provided by the little local library.

Then in 1990, on one of my long walks between Rhossili and Llangennith, I sprained my ankle. No more long walks that year. I wrote poetry and read, but I was housebound for several weeks. My landlady said, "Why don't you write a murder?" I'd never thought I could do it. They seemed at the opposite end of the literary spectrum from poetry, but, for fun, I began to plot my first mystery, set on Gower in a Bed and Breakfast, and the next summer I wrote The Sands of Gower.

I've begun my eighth mystery this month, going back again in imagination to Gower. In between, over the last twenty years, I've had my amateur detective, Penny Weaver, a mid-fifties poet, who likes to cross the ethnic and cultural boundaries that usually keep people apart, working on environmental and other local issues as part of an interracial community group. She is married to a Welsh Police Detective. Killer Frost, the sixth novel, when Penny teaches in an historically black college, was a finalist in the St. Martin's Malice Domestic First Best Traditional Mystery contest this year. It gave me my first major lift up. By 2007, when I became semi-retired, I joined Sisters in Crime and the Guppies (the great unpublished) and worked on finding an agent for the early books in the series. But, even with being a finalist, no agent grabbed up Killer Frost. I'm now querying small presses, using information provided by the SinC GuppyPressQuest listserve. Generally, I have had more interest from the small presses doing mysteries than from the agents.  I think the early ones are worth publishing, but for me now, I want to get Killer Frost out there first, and then I'll see how to handle the earlier ones.

Why do I write mysteries now? There are human experiences I've had and things I know that I can't get into poetry or my journal and autobiographical books but only into fiction. It also gives me an opportunity to take up social and cultural issues I care about. I have been an activist like Penny, working on safe nuclear storage, air pollution, local elections, etc., but I feel now that what I have to give the wider world that is potentially the most helpful are my writings - all of them - and the way I see people and the world we live in.

Our two biggest issues, I believe, in the twenty-first century, are learning to take care of our earth so we can continue to live on it and learning to understand and appreciate people different from ourselves, instead of warring, persecuting, and generally reducing to less than human those with whom we share Planet Earth. Like my favorite mysteries do, I want to give the reader cozy moments, time to eat, laugh, and love, between the difficult issues we all have to cope with, and I take the opportunity to explore what I know and didn't know I knew about people, as my characters interact.

Thank you, Kaye, for inviting me to blog here on a blog I deeply respect, Meandering and Muses.

Judy Hogan, Moncure, N.C.

<judyhogan@mindspring.com>
web page: http://judyhogan.home.mindspring.com
blog: http://postmenopausalzest.blogspot.com
 

LIGHTS! CAMERA! LEVINSON! by Robert S. Levinson

You can find some of Robert S. Levinson’s early novels and short story collections at Amazon Kindle and other ebook locations, among them THE JAMES DEAN AFFAIR, THE JOHN LENNON AFFAIR, and THE ANDY WARHOL AFFAIR. Learn more about Bob, who “mixes Hollywood fact and fiction with a master storyteller’s magic wand,” according to William Link, five-time Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award winner, at www.robertslevinson.com or check him out on Facebook.

LIGHTS! CAMERA! LEVINSON!

by Bob Levinson

Robert S. Levinson’s bestselling crime novels and short stories have featured star-powered Hollywood settings and situations from his first book, THE ELVIS AND MARILYN AFFAIR, to his ninth, A RHUMBA IN WALTZ TIME, due in September, which Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Joseph Wambaugh has applauded as “a nostalgic, wisecracking, action-packed romp filled with an insider’s knowledge of show business and the movie star gossip mill.” 

“Insider,” indeed. Before turning to fiction, Bob wrote about the movies and movie stars for newspapers and magazines, created and headed what became the world’s largest music public relations firm, wrote and produced more than two dozen comedy, variety and music specials for television, and special events for the Friars Club and Hollywood Press Club.

Earlier this year, the Derringer Award winner toyed with movie history in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine (“The Killing of Stacey Janes” ) and Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine (“Any Similarity to Persons Living or Dead is Purely Coincidental.” ) He’s currently putting the finishing touches to PHONY TINSEL, a novel set, like RHUMBA, in the movie world of the 1930s. Also in the works, a non-fiction collection of memories that recount his adventures as a pre-teen chasing after autographs, CONFESSIONS OF AN AUTOGRAPH HOUND IN THE GOLDEN AGE OF HOLLYWOOD, that starts:

I  got  it  in  my  head  one  day, when  I  was  ten  years  old  and collecting autographs  regularly on the most notable streets of Hollywood, one of  those "hounds"  who  clustered wherever movie stars were known  or  expected to congregate, that a signature in less than real ink was less than satisfactory.

And that's what I was getting every so often.

It  wasn't enough to carry an ink pen and, sometimes, a second in  reserve.  It wasn't  enough that a fellow collector would be there to volunteer his own in the event your pen ran dry.

There  were  some  stars  who, however  amenable  to giving  an  autograph, insisted  on using their own pen, and chances are it would be a ballpoint.


Everybody  knew that  ballpoint  ink  wasn't the real stuff. It was impermanent. No  chance  it would last the centuries these autographs merited.

Or,  it might be pencil or crayon. Edward G. Robinson carried a  thick  drawing pencil—take it  or leave it. Herbert Marshall preferred  a  black  crayon; better  anyway  than  pencil.  Metro- Goldwyn-Mayer's  resident  opera  singer, Lauritz  Melchoir,  went  them  both one  better.  He  passed out pre-signed, postcard-sized pictures. At least, they were personally signed in real ink.

Well,  I got Robinson to sign in real ink and Melchoir to sign in real ink on real paper, and I even finally got that damned crayon away from Herbert Marshall.

But  the  horrors  of ballpoint were consistent, especially with celebrities not seen  too often, visitors from another coast or another country, or those who lived normal lives outside their professional obligations.      

One  of my pals came up with a solution. Cover the ballpoint signatures  past correction  with  clear  Scotch tape. The tape would  protect  the  autographs against the eroding elements of air and water and fire and large criminals  who might  try to  steal  the  pint-sized,  2 1/2  x  4  1/4-inch  autograph books I preferred to any other type. 

I did it immediately. (Remember, I was ten years old.)

I  deprived  myself  of lunch and spent the money on a  roll of  clear  Scotch tape.  I  located  the offending autographs and, one after  the  other,  covered them  with  tape, carefully measuring out and applying bits  and  pieces, first over  the body  of  the  signature,  then  smaller  strips  for  the arc of a mountainous "b" or the last-gasp extension of a "y."

Thus, all these years later, Arthur Kennedy remains entombed in Scotch  tape. So does Robert Keith, Henry Daniell, Ann Rutherford and Elioj Mjn.

They  don't  seem any worse for wear than any autograph signed in  real  ink, except  that the Scotch tape has yellowed with age, contrasts with  the  page color and made dark patterns on the back side of the pages.

What is sad is Elioj Mjn.

That  is  how the signature reads today, to somebody who was  delighted  to collect  the  autograph,  promptly enshrined  it  in  permanent  memory,   and continued pursuing  his boyhood avocation with an ongoing  vow  to always remember how to decipher even the most illegible scrawls and flourishes.

I have failed you Elioj Mjn. 

Or were you possibly Eliot Imju thirty-odd years ago, generous enough to take the book from the young boy and to even inscribe the autograph, "To Boby"?

"Boby."

That was something I couldn't control.

"Will you sign it, 'To Bobby'?," I requested.

Most  of  the  time  I got "Bobby." But sometimes I  got "Bobbie"  and  other times,  mainly  from foreigners, I got "Boby." And many times I  only  got  the name.  These were celebrities either in a hurry or rude. I would like to believe, even now, after all these years, that most of them were in a hurry.

Sometimes, I got nothing.

Most  of  these  people  were  not  in  a  hurry.  Some  were constrained  by circumstance  or some personal phobia against giving autographs. Some  were polite,  but adamant, and even bothered to explain their reasons while  posing for the regular collectors who preferred snapshots to signatures.      

But  most of these people couldn't be bothered. They were beyond their  fans and unlike the giants, the Gables, Bogarts, Stanwycks and Crawfords, who  in the course  of   becoming   "stars"  had  studios  to train them in the responsibilities of stardom. 

I'd like tell you who they are, but I don't remember their names.

One name I’ll never forget, however, is Alan Ladd, whose stardom was forged as “Sparrow,” the killer on the run in This Gun for Hire.
                             
"Hollywood   Star  Preview."   Sundays  over  the  NBC Radio  Network.   An established  name and his personal choice for future stardom co-starring  in  a drama  tailored for them. A clever format for radio and, for  a  movie studio, clever  opportunity  to  promote a new film, generally one in which the two actors just happened to appear.

An  informal conversation followed the performance, the listeners'  chance  to get acquainted with this unfamiliar name (and the unreleased film). For us, the chance  at somebody  who might not be signing autographs one day soon, after stardom grabbed him by the box-office.      

Alan Ladd came one Sunday to introduce his choice, Douglas Dick, who had a Big Break kind of major role opposite Ladd in Paramount's upcoming "Saigon."  Ladd was  at the peak of international fame then, rarely seen  in and around Hollywood, and a coveted target for the autograph hounds.

We  missed  his arrival.  He'd been early, and we were late leaving Lux  Radio Theater rehearsals up Vine Streeet and a stakeout  on  Dana  Andrews.  We couldn't  afford  to  miss his departure following the broadcast. It would be our only shot at him.

Ladd came out of the Artists Entrance thirty yards away.  We were ready for him and broke fast from  the gate, at top speed before we saw that three uniformed ushers  were immediately behind Ladd, escorting him to his car.

We stopped.  We froze.  But we didn't retreat.

The ushers, as if they practiced drill team maneuvers in their off hours, turned as  one and leveled three index fingers in our direction. It meant, Out!  Scram! Through the gate.  You know the rules.

We  were  too  close to scoring to obey.  We  capitalized on the  momentary standoff, as we had on several previous occasions.

During  those earlier encounters, the stars left the ushers to their  duty.  They would  keep  walking  across  the driveway,  climbing  the  stairway to the network's parking lot and a waiting limousine.      

Something   made  Ladd  stop  half  way  up  the  stairs. He   observed   the confrontation, while we began calling, "Please, Mr. Ladd, please."

He pulled the cigarette from his lips, nodded, and said, "Okay."  His voice  was low, almost a whisper, and when it become obvious the ushers had not heard, he raised it. "I said it's okay."

One  usher turned to tell him, in a manner canned with simplistic  seniority, it couldn't  be okay. There were rules and they had their instructions.  We were on private property. We had to leave.  Now.      

Ladd  didn't  change  his  expression,  the  one  that  over the  years riveted Veronica  Lake,  Brian Donlevy, William Bendix, Preston Foster,  Laird Cregar, other actors and millions of moviegoers.

"I said it's okay," he said. He looked through them while instructing us, "Come on."

He  signed  autographs for everyone who had made the run. Nervous  hounds who had  stayed behind the gate because of the ushers  quickly  covered  the thirty yards  distance  to Ladd.  He signed for them, and he posed for  the cameras.

The ushers, roundly defeated, could only look on. And Ladd left only when  he knew all the hounds had been satisfied, adding a polite "Thank you" to us and to the ushers.

  

I  encountered  Ladd  a  few years later outside  Paramount Studios,  at the DeMille Gate, and  my memory went immediately to that scene on the steps—

The star sides with the kids against their natural enemies, the ushers.      

As  he  signed for me again, I realized that I had grown  over those  summers since NBC.  I was now taller than he was.      

Or so it seemed.

Today, upon reflection, I know I was wrong.

Alan Ladd has always been ten feet tall.

Rosie says "Arf"