Editing blahs

Now that the kids are back in school (Hallelujah), I'm finally dealing with all the outstanding issues I've been conveniently ignoring since August 5.

Like edits and rewrites.

Bleah.

I have friends who love nothing better than to massage and remassage pages of prose. Personally, I'd rather pull out my toenails with pliers.

Originally, I was going to split my day, starting with a little writing on my work-in-progress followed by a fun-filled afternoon of editing, but my guilt is getting in the way. I find I can't concentrate on the fun stuff when I have the unpleasant stuff hanging over my head.

So I dug in two days ago and sat down with the most pressing ms and went through it by the numbers. And today I forced myself to input all of those changes on the computer. One more run-through tomorrow to add grace notes, and then...

I have to edit another one! Aaaaggghhh!

Honestly, I love having two series -- the variety is fun. The problem is, it's that many more books to rewrite/edit. Obviously, these editors need to just realize that my prose is picture-perfect the first time out. Grammar errors? I view them more as creative word use. Inconsistencies in plot? I think of them as little puzzles for the reader to think about -- or checks to make sure they're paying attention. And if you buy that, I've got a bridge you might be interested in...

The truth is, I'm glad I've got good people finding my mistakes. It takes a lot -- and I mean a lot -- of the pressure off of me. My only issue is my aversion to having to go through, reread the book, and fix them. Which, oddly, never takes as long as I thought it would and is always easier than I expected.

So why do I dread it so much? It's akin to cleaning out my closet. I feel better when it's done, but will do anything -- and I mean anything -- to avoid doing it.

Anyone else hate it as much as I do?

THERE'S ONE BORN EVERY MINUTE

I'm an ad man's dream come true.

Despite being reasonably intelligent and rather cynical, I am a sucker for advertising. I can hardly walk by a cosmetics counter without being snagged by that traction beam radiating from those enticingly stacked pyramids of power--er--product.

Those pastel covers with the retro icons that decorate chick lit novels? Those were aimed at me. Well-aimed.

Glossy magazine ads with sparkling jewelery, glossy lips, sparkling beverages...oh, yes. And even more attractive if they are a nostalgic black and white. Sepia gets points too.

What is it with me?

Why do I persist in thinking that a new pair of shoes or a new lipstick or gingerbread-scented body scrub at $30.00 a jar is going to change my life? Okay, in fairness to myself, I do not honestly believe the body scrub will change my life--maybe the lipstick (if it is the plumping kind), but not the body scrub. It's not even that I want to change my life--well, no more than any chick wants to change her life (which is pretty much confined to a major makeover every decade or so, which can result in new spouses or houses, but usually is solved with a new hair cut--especially if it is a good cut).

I think it has more to do with the lure of new beginnings than actually wanting to start over from scratch. It's more to do with the hook of a good opening line and the fantasy of the story that could follow.

I pick up a glittering pair of earrings and I suddenly see myself...in a smoky little bar in Shanghai...at a Highland Ball in an isolated castle while outside the snow drifts build...pushing back the shower curtain to surprise my half-awake husband...finding I am missing one earring, did I leave it beside the body...

You know, normal girl stuff.

But I think it is my very suggestibility that makes me a good writer (indulge me here, feed my fantasy). I know so well that tug of adventure, the romance of the new and unexplored, the wondering if this will be the moment that changes everything. Sometimes a cigar is not a cigar, sometimes it is a stick of dynamite, and sometimes a new haircut is a disguise--or a chance to start over where they can't find you.

This writing thing is hell on one's credit cards.

Having an Affair

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm cheating. I've spent this entire summer from mid-June until now running wild with these new mystery characters, spending every spare minute I can find with them, and generally carrying on like the brazen hussy I am. And, boy---am I having lots of illicit fun with Molly Malone and her friends.

As I told this crazy crew back in December/January when they first whispered in my ear, I only have the summer to give them to get on the page. Mid-September at most. Why? Because that's when I return to my---ahem, "committed" relationsiip. Kelly Flynn and her friends at Lambspun knitting shop in Colorado are waiting---none too patiently, mind you---for me to start knitting mystery #5 and pick up THEIR stories.

But until then, I'm still frolicking with Molly and her bunch, including the Bad Boy From the Past (who just walked onstage today in chapter four). I plan to stop after chapter five, when a body hits the floor. Actually, it won't hit the floor, but. . . well, you'll just have to wait and see.

And, in case Molly and her friends live to see the printed page, I have a question for my fellow Cozy Chicks and other writers reading this blog: How do you manage characters from two series? How do you schedule your writing time for two series? I feel like I'm in a parallel universe. But, then, I'm terminally weird. Oooops. I promised myself I wouldn't say that out loud.

Okay. You can see I need help. I feel myself merging, disappearing into. . .into. . . into an old Star Trek episode. Oh, look. . .there's Spock.

First Day of School

Today was it! All three of my children are officially back in school! Well, one started last week and i'll tell you about that in a paragarph or two, but I'll start with the oldest and youngets in my house--Alex and Kaitlin.

For those of you who read the blog reguarly, you know it hasn't been the easiest of summers for me. I am truly not unhappy to see it pass. I have never been too fond of summer anyway. I look terrible in shorts with my white as a sheet, short legs, and bikinis just don't seem to fit the way they did twenty years ago. Plus, for me being off of a schedule is really hard. I like the continuity of schedules, and summer tends to feel chaotic. Being a writer, I have to make time to write each day, and during the school year that is much easier to do. Kids go to school, mom writes. Kids come home, mom is taxi-driver, cook, and tutor. My kids range from ages 5-15, therefore they all have very different interests, so it's not always easy or fun to figure a summer day out. The beach works on occasion, but I always feel so antsy over the fact that I haven't gotten my work finished that I can't seem to relax and enjoy a day at the beach, which I know I need to learn to do. My youngest wants to play Barbies all the time, my oldest has this misguided belief that I should be available at his beck and call to run him to the mall or whatever friend's house he is wanting to go to, and I won't even go into the video game hassles that summer can present in my home. I really can't stand the person who developed those things. It is the main source of argument in the house. So, as you can tell, I am not going to miss summer all that much.

When my oldest (Alex) walked out the door this morning and got in the car pool, I did a little dance when I came back inside. Is that horrible? I feel kind of bad about it, but let me just say that fifteen is not a fun age. At least that has been my experience, and it happened suddenly one day that Alex stopped being "normal." One day it was as if he realized that I'm not all that smart and through the tone of his voice or a look of exasperation in his eyes he tends to remind me of this on a constant basis now. One day, he just stopped returning my hugs. If I want a real hug from him, I have to physically wrap his arms around me. One day, suddenly he seemed to stop realizing that the English language was actually composed of more than one syllable. I typically get a one word answer to any question that I might have. "Uh." The only way I can tell if the "uh," is a yes or no, is through the occasional nod or shake of the head. I will get a few words out of him when he needs money. That's when I am suddenly the walking ATM machine. I personally think that when kids turn 13 there should be a planet where they are beamed up to, in order to play out their alien years and when they turn 20 they can be beamed back down so they can be human again. But, I suppose this is life and sooner or later my son will think I'm great again, and we'll actually have conversations and he'll give me real hugs like he did when he was a little kid. I miss those days!

But those precious days aren't all gone. I have a five-year-old daughter (Kaitlin) who is under the false belief that I can walk on water and I am perfect. Now, I will admit that when I took Kaitlin to school for her first day of Kindergarten and had to say good-bye that I walked to the car with tears blurring my way. She is the sweetest, happiest child I know. I suppose we go through these years with them as little ones, and fall so deeply in love with them, that that's what gets us through to the other side of teenagedom and on into adulthood. I am already finding that I miss her presence in the house (and she's only been at school for an hour!) I'm used to calling out her name and making sure she's okay in her room--that kind of thing. She went to pre-school last year, so I wouldn't think it would be such a big deal, but Kindergarten represents the year that the baby is really growing up. Although, I'm happy to see summer go, it's hard to see her go and be a big girl. I know it's a good thing, but it isn't easy.

Then, there is my middle kid. He's twelve, and he has a very similiar personality to me. He's a creative type and a people person with a bit of a funny bone. We made a very tough transition in the past month with him. His name is Anthony and I divorced his dad (who is also Alex's dad) when Anthony was two. The boys have always lived with me. Three weeks ago, Anthony came to me and said that he wanted to try the year with his dad. That was so hard! I wanted to put my foot down and say, "No way!" But as I thought about it, I realized that if I didn't let him go and do this that when he became an adult he'd resent that I never allowed him that experience. My hope is that he can't stand it over there! (I know--terrible!) I miss him a lot, and I now can see the flip side of what it's like to be the weekend parent. It isn't easy. So, Anthony did move in with his dad and started school last week. I am proud to say that he was placed on all honors classes! But, boy, do I miss him day in and day out.

As hard as it is to see them grow and go, I also realize that it's God's way of helping me grow and let go. It's how I will (hopefully) become a better parent, writer, wife and friend. It's how I will learn to be better to me. It's God's way of reminding me that there is still a "me" inside to take care of. And so now that summer has passed, I am left here in the house to take care of me and to write to my heart's content.

How about you? Anyone with first day of school stories? Or, end of summer stories?

Cheers,
Michele

Going to the Dogs

I promise not to make every post about weddings, but I this is actually more about inappropriate behavior than weddings (even though the inappropriate behavior did happen at last night's wedding). And it does follow my theory that weddings are a microcosm of life . . .

When did it become socially acceptable to dress up one's dog and bring it to a black tie event? Sure, it was a tiny dog but just because Paris Hilton does something, doesn't make it okay. Actually, maybe if Paris Hilton does something that should be a big warning. Miss Hilton is not known for her sense of propriety.

The high point of the dog attending the very formal and very expensive wedding on a rooftop overlooking the U.S. Capitol was when his owner let him relieve himself on the place card table. Yes, you heard correctly. I will admit that the place card table was covered entirely in grass to serve as the miniature lawn for the floral Washington Monument in the center of the table, but that is no reason to let a dog (however tiny) poop on it. The high point of my evening was explaining to the florist what was in her grass when she came back to pick things up.

This takes me back to inappropriate behavior. What is wrong with the world? I feel like every week I'm treated to more horrifying displays of bad manners from the people who try to walk down the aisle right behind the bride (even though they are late and should wait discreetly for the processional to end, thank you very much) to the guests who want me to adjust the lighting of the entire ballroom to suit them (hello, it's not your wedding) to the young women last night who complained loudly that the moderate rooftop breeze was blowing so hard they were afraid it would fling food into their faces as they ate (now, mind you, it would have to be almost gale force winds to blow a filet mignon off a dinner plate and into someone's face).

Maybe everyone thinks they can behave like celebrities such as Paris Hilton and be demanding and self-absorbed. Maybe I'm old-fashioned and think there's something to be said for being a gracious guest who enjoys himself without complaining. Who knows? Maybe I'm just an overworked wedding planner who doesn't like dog poop on a place card table.

Sob Story

I’m a sap. I tear up at just about everything from weddings, commercials, books, baptisms. You name it.

Twice this week I’ve found myself in tears.

The first time happened last Saturday while headed to a signing at Aunt Agatha’s Mystery Bookstore in Ann Arbor, Michigan. So there I was on 75N on my way to meet up with fellow author Sharon Short, minding my own business, listening to the radio, when I heard it.

Tim McGraw’s song, My Little Girl (lyrics here).

Oh. My. Gosh.

The song, featured in the new movie Flicka, is sung from a dad’s perspective about his little girl. If you have a daughter—or are a daughter, you need to listen.

And if you see any pictures of me from that book signing, you’ll understand the state of my makeup.

Then on Tuesday, I started my morning off in tears. I made the mistake of picking up my husband’s copy of Sports Illustrated. No, it’s not usually a magazine known for making grown women cry, but Rick Reilly’s column titled "Making Up for Lost Time" in the August 21st issue is nothing if not a tearjerker.

The story is about a man, Mark Lemke, who wrote in trying to rectify a past mistake. He asks Mr. Reilly if he could submit a Faces In The Crowd feature about his son, who was a golf prodigy in Iowa. Yes, was. In July, the man’s son, Cory—who was also his best friend—died tragically in an accident at 19 years old. The grieving father is now facing all those should-have-dones, and the Faces in the Crowd piece is just one of the many items on his to-do list. My little recap of this article is not doing this story any justice whatsoever. It’s a beautifully written tribute about a father to a son and a painful reminder not to take any day with your loved ones for granted.

So, if you decided to listen to Tim McGraw’s song, or to read Rick Reilly’s story, I just have one piece of advice—keep the tissues handy.

Flu

Hi everyone...

This will be brief, as I woke up this morning with a raging case of the flu. Must be from cleaning the grout with a toothbrush and bleach yesterday (maybe they did drug my popovers).

But I am back in Austin, and wanted to welcome Laura to the Cozy Chicks... maybe tomorrow when I feel half human, I'll have a chance to respond to all of those witty posts!

Off to bed now (reading The Other Boleyn Girl in my more lucid moments, and enjoying it immensely). More soon!

Karen

SCHOOL OF ROCK

Crisis at Chez Smith! (Yes, I really am Mrs. Smith in my other life.)

Mr. Smith's son (I'm not disowning my own off-spring, by the way, there is a previous Mrs. Smith and a couple of bright and talented and attractive Young Smiths in a far off and distant land) was supposed to start college yesterday. Last night he broke the news to the folks that he would like to take a year off and study music.

I'm sure you can supply the resulting sound effects without any help from me. Or Young Smith.

This is the closest I have ever come to seeing Mr. Smith truly rattled. Well, speaking of rattles, he was fairly rattled when he found a rattlesnake in our garage a while back, but this is a different kind of rattled.

I was unguarded enough to say, "Well, after all, it's not that unusual. I took a semester off after high school."

"I CAN'T TELL HIS MOTHER THAT!!!!"


Ohhhkaaaaaaay.

And, in point of fact, that semester off was kind of a waste (I really need it NOW). You can't become a writer in a semester. Little did I realize at the time, like Dorothy overlooking the happiness in her own backyard, I was already "A Writer" having sold poems and published short stories and articles for years.

So I asked the obvious question. "What does 'study music' mean exactly?"

Apparently Young Smith wasn't sure.

Which is not entirely unexpected.

What was unexpected was that my opinion, as the--er--house musician, was sought.

Who me?

Lemme think....

Meanwhile Pere & Mere Smith are frantically phoning colleges, scrolling the Internet, scouring the land for a music program. Parental Units running amuck. Ah, it brings back memories...

When Mr. Smith paused for breath, I said, "So does he just not want to go to college?"

No no no, apparently that was not the deal--although the fact that Young Smith waited till the last second to drop the bomb makes me wonder if perhaps that is the deal, because otherwise aren't we really just talking about a Change Of Major? If he's planning on completing an actual course of study, then he's going to have to take all the boring basic stuff anyway, and putting it off gains him nothing. Take it from one who has been there and put off doing that.

"He's so passionate about the music," said Mr. Smith, all proud and touched and panicky.

Well, of course he is. And that's a good thing. But--and I never thought I'd hear myself say it (and nor, I think, did Mr. Smith), that has nothing to do with it.

Being a musician, like being a writer or being happy, is not a destination. It's a way of life. Young Smith became a musician the minute he picked up a guitar and played his first gig.

That doesn't mean he's going to make a living at it. Although I hope he does--it's a blessed thing to earn your living doing what you love. Not everyone gets that.

If he does really want to earn a living at it, then here's advice from someone apparently well on her way to becoming an old fogey, Young Smith needs to be playing now, hunting down the gigs, honing his craft, writing his songs, practicing till his fingers bleed--he needs to be working at it every free minute of every day. Starting last night when he made his mind up to pursue this course.

That's not to say he should quit school because an education is a value all on its own--in fact, it's a gift--and besides, if he's anything like most of the musicians I know, including myself, he's going to need a day job.

Yes, Young Smith, I'm sticking with the Parental Units on this one. You need an education. Everyone does.

That said, there is no substitute for experience. Study is useful, but you don't learn by studying, you learn by doing. Well, I mean, you learn some things by studying. You learn about Ancient Greece by studying and you learn to read music, for example, but...don't sass your elders, Young Smith! You know what I mean.

Pursuing a dream doesn't mean abandoning all reason or responsibility--and having a Plan B doesn't mean you're preparing for failure. Sometimes success takes longer than you planned, and in order to be able to stay the course, you have to have resources and options.

In the meantime, Young Smith, I salute you. You've figured out what you want to be when you grow up. Play it loud, kid.

Chaos

Chaos. Yep. That about describes my house right now. I decided to have some minor (and I mean minor) maintenance/repairs done this month. New tile in the kitchen and upstairs and downstairs baths, new fixtures upstairs and downstairs baths, new vanity downstairs bath. Nothing huge, mind you. Not a biggie, right?

Ye Gods! My house is . . .well, it's half my house and half the contractor's workplace. Now, I've used these guys before. They're excellent. Excellent craftsmen, workers, nice guys, do great work, etc, etc. But, still. . .ye Gods! Everything in my dining room is in my living room so the floor can be done. The kitchen is pulled apart so the floor can be done. My stove is in my garage. The refrigerator is in the living room. At least it's plugged in. So when I need something all I have to do is climb over the Norfolk Island pine and squeeze between the antique armchair and the sofa. Not a biggie, right? Riiiiiight.

Of course, when you have no stove, you can't cook. Not a biggie, I said. I was in full-fledged booksigning mode anyway all weekend. Signing at Denver's Tattered Cover on Friday night and speaking w/panel of writers, then out of town on Saturday. I'll simply eat out. Well, today is Monday, and due to the crush on the installer's time, the kitchen floor has been delayed. Which means the stove stays in the garage, thoroughly confusing my two dogs who aren't even allowed in the house anymore. They have to keep the stove company at night. In the garage. You wouldn't want all those pots and pans to get scared, now would you?

And did I mention the bathrooms? Oh, my, yes. Just a little inconvenience. Not a biggie. Just the upstairs bath has a sink functioning but not toilet. Okaaaaay. Only one bathroom toilet so far, and that's downstairs. But I'm told tomorrow brings a new day, er, I mean a new toilet. Upstairs. Amazing how you miss those little things you take for granted. Like a functioning bathroom.

In fact, the installer promises to have the kitchen all done tomorrow. And that means, maybe, a stove by the following day. One can only hope. Meanwhile, it was a deli stop for dinner again tonight. I wonder if the dogs will miss the stove when it leaves the garage and returns to the kitchen.

I have to admit, the tile looks great in the bathrooms. And the small amount already done in the kitchen looks great. So, I guess all the chaos will be worth it. Once it's over. It will be over, won't it, guys? Uh, guys?

Good Ideas Gone Bridal

Hi from the new kid on the block! I'm so excited and honored to be a part of such a deluxe group of writers. For those who don't know me, I write the Annabelle Archer mysteries featuring a wedding planner who just happens to stumble across dead bodies while she plans fabulous weddings. I do actually plan weddings for a living but have yet to find any dead bodies (although I must admit that there are a few bridezillas I dreamed of killing).

As I sit at my desk writing this, I'm surrounded by boxes upon boxes of wedding paraphernalia for a wedding next weekend. I'm trying to ignore the fact that I still have to put pictures in over one hundred miniature frames, fill stacks of tins with M&Ms customized in the bride's wedding colors, and assemble fifty welcome bags. At least these are run-of-the-mill wedding tasks. While not exactly exciting or stimulating, they don't border on the bizarre. Believe me, after planning well over four hundred weddings, I've seen bizarre.

I've had a bride order a stretch limo for her wedding gown to ride in (alone) from the shop to the church. Then she spent a few days debating which color of limo would look best with an off-white dress. Seriously. I think she actually lost sleep over it. Then, again, that was the third dress she purchased so maybe a little anxiety was understandable.

That wasn't as creepy as the bride who'd already purchased her gown and had it on display in her living room when I met with her for the first time. If the fully accessorized mannequin wasn't enough of a tip-off, the dusty stacks of years worth of wedding magazines sent off major bridezilla warning lights. The warning lights became full-fledged alarms when I realized that she wasn't even engaged yet!

Then there are the bad ideas that thankfully never see the light of day. Like the groom who wanted to name all the guest tables after Bruce Springsteen songs and the bride who thought having slot machines during cocktails would be festive. I'm grateful that I talked a couple out of listing their cats' names on their invitations and even more thankful that Muffy, Snuffles and Mittens didn't attend the ceremony as ring bearers and flower kittens.

I'm not always completely successful in reigning in my clients, though. Although I was able to convince a couple of die hard Stars Wars fans that a little George Lucas goes a long way in a wedding, I wasn't able to talk the bride out of surprising the groom with a life-sized replica of Yoda as a wedding present. Normally this wouldn't have anything to do with me but someone had to get Yoda to the hotel and sneak him up to the bridal suite during the wedding. Guess who? You can imagine the stares I got as I drove to the hotel with Yoda strapped in to the passenger seat next to me.

Wedding planning may look glitzy and glamorous, but it's usually far from it. If I'm not hauling a car full of welcome bags to every hotel in the city or assembling several hundred origami favors, I'm probably fulfilling some unusual bridal request like chauffeuring Yoda to the wedding. I should look on the bright side. At least Yoda and I got to use the HOV lane.

Retr-oh-no?

I’ve spent a lot of time in the mall and various department stores over the past couple of weeks in preparation for school starting. The boys have gotten the prerequisite torn jeans, graphic tees, and preppy button-down shirts.

But my daughter is at that age where she’s not quite little girl, not quite teen yet, aka the tweener. So she now owns a mix of graphic tees (one is “I love my hamster” –how cute is that?) sweet florals, and also the slightly more grown up tank top with shrug. But none of those ridiculous mini-mini skirts. I have to draw the line somewhere! I also struggle with buying shoes for her because the selection jumps from cutesy flats with straps and flowers or bows to clunky heels. The only sleek casual shoe for tweeners is a ballet slipper, which she despises and I love. (I, ahem, lost that battle.)

But shoes are a blog for another day.

While shopping I couldn’t help but have flashbacks. To my own tween years. Of brightly colored (mine were purple) suede sneakers, of long, down to your knees shirts, of skintight leggings, and even of those Madonna elbow-length gloves.

Why the flashbacks? Because these types of clothes are back on the racks, in stores from the Limited Too to Target.

And I’m not sure what I think of it. Part of me thinks the 80s should stay in the 80s. And part of me thinks longer shirts can only be a good thing (if I never see another midriff I’d be very happy). Oh! And tapered jeans are back “in”. My favorite pair of jeans in high school were tapered AND had a pleated waist, which just last season would have been a huge fashion faux pas. But now tapered jeans are one of the hip, hot must-haves of the school year.

I’d be okay with another of this year’s trends, the “skinny” jeans, if they didn’t bunch up like leg warmers at the bottom.

And yes, I had a pair of leg warmers back then too. And loved them. But don’t think I’m ready to revisit that style.

Plus, should my past fashion sins be passed on to my daughter? Should I just say no and skip the latest fads (stirrup pants will hitting shelves any day now, I’m sure)? Or, dare I say it, suck it up, buy the leggings, and let her have fashion stories to pass on to her kids?

What do you all think?

~heather

P.S. All of us Chicks are happy to welcome Agatha winner, fabulous author and cool chick Laura Durham to our, ah, flock. She'll begin posting this Sunday, and we hope you'll pop in and welcome her.

Almost time to head home

We left Bar Harbor yesterday morning (I had a noon signing at Longfellow Books in Portland, which is a beautiful store in the old part of town), and I was sad to say goodbye for another year. We had a wonderful time -- I was responsible for the demise of five lobsters (Abby recognized one of them from looking in the tanks before dinner, which made eating it a bit uncomfortable -- it had an unusual broken antenna, evidently) and an equal number of popovers. We also spent a lot of time combing the rocky beaches for sea glass -- we found a few tantalizing aqua shards, doubtless from ancient canning jars, and two of pale lavender -- and picked up a pair of sea glass earrings from Lisa Hall in Northeast Harbor.

All in all, it was a magical ten days, and has me fantasizing all over again about winning the lottery and moving (for the summer, anyway) to a cute little cottage off the coast. And I'm also gettting excited about cooking again, after almost two weeks of creating nothing more challenging than PB&J and microwave popcorn. It helps that we've spent a lot of the last day or so in Portland watching the Food channel and drooling. (We don't have cable at home.)

I'm also remembering that the nice thing about steering clear of housework for a week -- Eric takes care of it all for me when we're camping or vacationing -- is that I'm actually anxious to get back to it. We'll be back in Austin on Sunday, and I'm hoping some of this renewed domestic energy translates to actually repainting my kitchen and living room -- and dealing with the mounds of paper in my office. Perhaps even sorting through my seven-year-old daughter's closet and getting rid of all the 2T dresses.

Since it's in the 100s in Texas, I'm going to have to find something to do indoors -- particularly after highs in the 70s for two weeks.

We'll see.

In the meantime, I plan to have one more black raspberry ice cream cone, enjoy the cool weather for two more nights... and do two signings, one at Waldenbooks and one at Borders, tomorrow. If you're in Portland, hope to see you there! (I think the schedule is at my web site.)

See you soon!

COZY UP

As a general rule--or a genre rule--cozy mysteries don't get a lot of respect.

Oh, sure, readers love them, but reviewers often take a tolerantly dismissive view, and publishing houses usually reserve the big bucks for hard-boiled and thriller writers (or those writers in stilletos, be they the artists formerly known as chick litters or the scarlet women of erotica).

There's something about a happy ending that just doesn't carry the same emotional resonance as a tale about an alcoholic PI blowing some worthy villain's brains out and then being really depressed about it. I mean, all those cats and good friends and delicious meals...how can you take that seriously? The lack of sex and violence alone surely tells us that these books are the stuff of unhealthy fantasy. What's next? A commitment to truth, justice and the American Way?

(Okay, maybe not the American Way, because some of the very best, i.e. subversive, cozies are written by British people--and surely you haven't forgotten what they did to us in that movie by Mel Gibson!)

From my perspective (and keep in mind that I'm married to the guy who runs The Thrilling Detective Web Site) it all comes down to whether you like your fantasy on the rocks or...in a glass like a civilized person.

Okay, perhaps that is not fair to Mr. Thrilling who is actually very particular about his glass, or rather mug--and a properly frosted mug at that (the glassware, not my husband). But I digress. The point is, these hardboiled and noir novels that tend to garner the criminous laurels are every bit as unreal as crime-solving Siamese (cats OR twins) or nosey landscapers/wine experts/inn keepers/literary scholars/yarnshop owners. Is a sunrise less real than a sunset? Is Disneyland further from the truth than the New York or Los Angeles that we see portrayed on TV and the movies?

It's a matter of perspective. You can focus on the gutter or you can focus on the stars. They're both there. Granted, you shouldn't be afraid to look at what's lying the gutter, but you also shouldn't be afraid to look beyond.

I'm hearing lately that the cozy or light mystery is a really hard sell. That the market has been saturated by these books, and publishers are now looking for something different. Meaning thrillers, paranormals, erotica...what else am I forgetting? Stuff with incest and headshots is always popular with the serious crime crowd. Because we just don't get enough of that in real life.

(Truth be told, most of us DON'T get much of that in real life, and I for one am not complaining. I'm sorry that anyone gets that.)

Basically my thought is, you write what you enjoy writing, and if you write well, you will sell it (though possibly not for as much money as you would like). There's no point worrying about what will sell or what won't, because this stuff is all cyclical anyway. You can't write strictly for the money because there just ain't that much money in it for most of us; you've got to feel some passion for the work--and for me that passion comes from trying to share a little of my belief that good is more powerful than evil, love is real, hard work pays off, everyone deserves a second chance (ONE second chance). I'm not so out of touch with reality that I believe these things always occur--far from it--which is why it is important that we cozy writers provide a safe haven for those who need it. Which is a lot of us a lot of the time.

I could say a great deal more on the topic (and probably will in the future), but for now, I'm interested in what the rest of you think. What is it you like about cozy mysteries? Are these novels "important"? Are these novels more or less unreal than other crime fiction sub-genres?

Promotion--Part II

Promotion. We all gotta do it. When I speak to beginning writers at conferences and workshops, several express amazement that we novelists are responsible for all those promotional expenses. It's a common misconception. Most people "assume" that the publishers pay for all the promotion. After all, they published the book. (And grateful we are that they did, mind you). But, no----we novelists pay for all those postcards and postage and conference fees and conference hotels/motels and airfares to and from and car rentals and, and, and. . . and all of it. Advertising in magazines---that's us. Websites? That's us, too. And, it's not cheap. I freely admit that I sank my first modest advance entirely into promotional costs---postcards, mailings to bookstores and knitting shops, website, conferences, etc.

Why? I'm told that "in the old days" novelists didn't have to promote their books as much. Well. . .maybe so. But that was then. This is now. And now. . .the publishers EXPECT you to promote your books. Like it or not, it's part of the "expense of doing business." I understand business expenses. After all, I was a CPA for years and had mostly small business clients. And you know what? Every one of them had to "invest" in their business. Equipment, supplies, shop rental, all the overhead that goes with opening a shop (electricity, phone, heat, etc). No matter if it was a physical therapist building a clientele, a hairdresseer starting a salon, a garage mechanic fixing cars, or a day-care provider. Each and every one of them INVESTED in their businesses. They had to.

And so do we. Most of us pubbed novelists hope to build successful writing careers, and promoting our books helps to do that. It also can lead to some serendipity. Since the first two knitting mysteries in my series became bestsellers, my publisher made book #3, A DEADLY YARN, which came out this month, a Featured Release for August. What does that mean? It means THEY start paying for some special promotion for the books, such as:

A DEADLY YARN is now in the dump. The dump is the cardboard display unit in the front of all the bookstores, like Barnes&Nobles, Borders, mystery stores. Most people assume the bookstores put their favorite books there. Au contraire. Publishers pay bookstores to place their selected titles in those dumps in the front of the store. All I can say is: "Thank you, thank you, thank you. . . ."

And---the publisher included DEADLY in a 2-page color spread in the mystery magazine, The Strand. There's DEADLY with all those "other" established novelists. I was floored. It's beautiful. And I am grateful, yet again.

So, investing in your business, whether writing or anything else, is smart business. It not only gets your creation "out there" for people to see, but it also stimulates others to invest as well.

Getting Older

How do you know when you're getting older? Well, duh, there are a few obvious answers to that one like birthdays, and grey hairs, and some of that other stuff. But there are also subtleties that aren't so subtle because they hit you over the head and you think, "Oh, God, I'm too old for this." Last night I was bashed over the head with one of these as my husband and I went to see Ben Harper play here in San Diego. Now, Ben is mellow, the music is great and it was a beautiful night to be at the embarcadero. The problem was (this is that bash over the head) that when I looked around at all the faces in the crowd they were at least ten years younger than we were, and all I kept thinking was in a few years my sons will be in this crowd. That is a frightening thought! And, not because it was unruly or anything, but it's just frightening to have them grow up in some ways. In other ways it's wonderful. The frightening part of it all is knowing that they'll start driving (next year for one of mine), knowing that they'll have that first heart break and there won't be a lot I can do about it, watching them leave and start their lives hoping and praying they make wise decisions, and hoping and praying I gave them what they needed. The wonderful thngs about watching them grow up is seeing them mature and have meaningful conversations with you, and knowing they have a big wonderful future ahead of them with tons of opportunities.

It also means they get older and so do we. I realize that I probably would have enjoyed listening to Ben on the CD at home with a glass of wine or cup of tea than heading out to a concert. Then again, that's me. I'm a homebody, so maybe I'm not really getting all that much older. It's just I like to be at home with my kids before they all leave the house and go off to live their own lives.

Lady Godiva rode though the zoo and ended up with a monkey on her ___.

I’m totally addicted to reruns of the Match Game (the 70’s version) on the Game Show Network, and this is just the sort of suggestive question host Gene Rayburn would ask one of two contestants, who would then have to match their answer with the answers of six celebrity panelists, all lackluster TV personalities of the era.

My favorite celeb regular, Charles Nelson Reilly, makes me laugh every single episode with his trademark pipe, oversized glasses, crazy outfits, witty one-liners, and saucy, comic mugging for the camera.

His banter with another show regular, Brett Somers—a sassy know-it-all type famous for her sharp tongue, merciless teasing, and the different wigs she would wear on the show— was simply hysterical. (Brett was also married for 19 years to Jack Klugman, who most of you know is one of my favorite actors because of his years on Quincy, M.E.)

And I want to know—what did women find so appealing about Match Game regular Richard “Dickie” Dawson? (I, ahem, personally think that nickname was probably very apropos, but I won’t go there.) Female contestants swooned over Richard. And they never said his name normally. It was always came out as a sighed “Richaaaard” — complete with batted eyelashes. He was so obviously a smarmy playboy that I can’t see his appeal, but he was entertaining with his quick-witted double entendres—and who doesn’t love a British accent?

In the other three chairs sat celebrities who changed weekly. Top left chair was the man-of-the week. Bottom left was the bimbo chair—the airhead who was lucky if she could spell (she usually couldn’t), and the bottom right chair held the funny lady (Betty White was a semi-regular in this spot).

The show seemed to be more comic improv than game show, the contestants sometimes forgotten when the celebs’ one-liners started flying. Gene, with his long microphone (I keep hearing Shrek’s “Maybe he’s compensating for something” in my head) and cheesy accents (you should hear him read questions with a Godfather voice) enjoyed being amidst the chaos, trying to keep up with the personalities.

The show pushed the envelope of risqué for those days, when the word “sex” had probably never been uttered on TV. Breasts were “bosoms,” butts were “fannies” or “backsides.” Reruns of the show are charming flashbacks to days of old, where the art of subtlety, double entendres, and wit provided the entertainment instead of blatant in-your-face salaciousness.

What I love most about this show is that my whole family can watch it—and laugh—together. And we do. So, if you’re looking for a show in this day of TV-14 and TV-Mature ratings, check out Match Game. And be prepared for a humorous blast from the past.

~heather

P.S. My answer to the Lady Godiva question would be “head,” (I would have been booed by the studio audience for sure), but if you said something a bit more bawdy, then you’d have been a perfect contestant for the game!

It's all about the food

I don't know if it's just me, but when I'm at home, I'm a pretty sane eater. Lots of fruit and veggies, a splurge on a low-fat ice cream, grilled chicken breast for dinner -- you get the picture.

And every time we plan on taking a vacation, I make the same vows. I will NOT eat an entire pound of fudge in one sitting. I will walk past the Jordan Pond ice cream store without ordering a double scoop of raspberry chocolate chip. I will go to Jordan Pond House for tea and limit myself to one popover.

Yeah, right.

One of these days I'll come to grips with reality and just start packing two sizes of shorts when I leave home.

We've been in Maine since Sunday -- the weather has been fabulous, the water cold and blue, and the food... fabulous. And abundant. Did I mention abundant?

The first day I was pretty good. I packed a few granola bars and ate about twelve apples. Then we had dinner... a lobster dinner, complete with clam chowder, drawn butter, and a big ol' slab (that's my Texan talking) of blueberry pie. I did, in my defense, choose mashed sweet potatoes over french fries.

But it's been downhill ever since. Popovers, ice cream, fudge -- you name it, I've shoveled it in. With relish, and only a little bit of guilt. I mean, how can you sit on the grassy green in Bar Harbor without a big ice cream cone in your hand? How can you 'just say no' to an overstuffed lobster roll? How can you turn down the third popover when they come to the table steaming in their little baskets?

Besides, how much damage can I possibly do in fourteen days?

I'll let you know when I get brave enough to approach my bathroom scale.

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Walkin' in L.A.
Walkin' in L.A., nobody walks in L.A.
Walkin' in L.A.
Walkin' in L.A., nobody walks in L.A.

MISSING PERSONS, Spring Session M

I don't think of myself as a "car person," but I love my little RAV4. I love that front wheel drive and that V6 engine. I love how it handles, whipping up and down the mountain curves of my daily trek. I love all the big windows, the better to see the scenery flying by.

I love the special CD my husband made me--126 of my very favorite songs all on one CD (you can do that with MP3s, did you know?). I zip along singing my lungs out on such ecclectic fare as "Try Me Again" (the Ronstadt version), "Coming Up Close" (Aimee Mann), "The Wind in the Wire" (Randy Travis) and "Early Morning Rain "(Peter, Paul & Mary).

When I'm not singing I'm listening to Books on Tape. I find audio books really help the drive go quickly--and it's a long drive. An hour both ways. What I find is that I'm more willing to try a book out if it's being read to me. It's not like reading is exactly an active sport, but something about passively sitting there (well, as passive as one can be driving--what with all the requisite ranting and raving involved) makes me a bit more patient with books that I might otherwise give up on after a few pages. That's how I discovered I love M.C. Beaton and Rex Stout, and learned that I have a low threshold for Elizabeth George (A TRAITOR TO MEMORY did it for me). I spent many jolly miles listening to THE DA VINCI CODE and Elizabeth Peters.

Overall I'm a safe and courteous driver. Yes, I drive a little too fast, but I'm otherwise careful and my reflexes are good. I always pull aside for cars that are faster and crazier than me--it's my little contribution to the general harmony of the universe.

But I have certain...um...peeves as a driver. Some of them are reasonable, some are possibly unique to me.

For instance, one thing that really bugs me are people who do NOT pull aside on a long, windy mountain road despite many turn-offs and the fact that a 12-car-long line of irate drivers are trapped behind the oblivious driver. I do not get that level of obliviousness. How the heck does anyone have the right to hold up everyone else? I mean, it's the LAW. You are supposed to pull over! All I can say is it is very lucky the new RAV4s do not come equipped with machine guns.

Another thing that bugs me--actually terrifies me--are the idiots in that 12-car-long line of trapped drivers who get fed up and then try and pass--generally on a blind curve--risking ALL of our lives AND our supper plans. These are usually the people you catch up to at a stop sign later on down the road. Blabbing on their cell phones.

I probably shouldn't even get into people yapping on their cell phones when they should be noticing the signal has changed. all I can say is, it's a good thing the new RAV4 does not come equipped with a snow plow.

Pretty much everyone now has a cell phone. Even I have a cell phone, though it is truly never on--and then only as a last resort. I resent the whole idea of cell phones. I resent the notion that I must always be accessible. Yes, I know it is wonderfully useful to be able to phone home to get word on whether pickled artichokes will do or if only the fresh will suffice. But am I the only one who sees the decline of civilization in the fact that airports, markets, malls are crowded with people talking to...people who aren't present?

It really really offends my sensibilities when jazzy little sports cars drive below the speed limit. A little over or right at the limit, but UNDER? Isn't it funny that everyone who drives slower than us is a moron--and everyone who drives faster is a maniac?

It also gets under my skin when people cut in front of you and THEN give a little flick of their turn signal. What's that supposed to mean? Because to me it translates to "Hi! I'm AN IDIOT!!!!!"

Those TVs that people install in their vehicles so they don't have to talk to their children...those bug me.

Those really bug me. My sisters and I learned to sing on long drives with our parents. We sang Beatles songs and Peter, Paul and Mary songs and Burl Ives sea chanties. We listened to our Dad fill us in on California history and geography and you name it. I understand that many professionals also recommend occasionally talking to one's children in an informal setting.

I HATE Hummers. With a passion. Yes, I know I shouldn't use the word hate. But I do. Talk about conspicuous consumption. Yeah, honey, you need a brightly-colored military vehicle to drive to Starbucks. Oh. Mah. Gah. And here's one of those zen master questions for you: Is it that bad drivers are attracted to the Hummer or does driving a Hummer turn one into a bad driver? Today I witnessed a blonde hummer-bird nearly run over a man in the crosswalk--and when he yelled at her, she flipped him off. I don't think it's just an L.A. thing.

I don't like personalized license plates or bumperstickers, either. (I really am a crank, aren't I?) But that's because most of them are not very witty. I don't mind the witty ones. I just don't understand the need to announce to every passerby that one is Christian or Republican or kind to animals or an ABBA fan. People who do that kind of thing standing on the sidewalk usually live out of shopping carts, so why do folks think it's okay to identify every hobby and thought so long as they are on wheels? Did we ask?

Okay, I do understand the whole My Kid Was An Honor Student At Greenjeans Elementary. I just don't understand why--with all these honor students--no one can read anymore.

I could go on and on--just like my morning drive--but I'll spare you my thoughts on "people" who park in handicap spaces when they aren't handicapped and those who pass on the right-hand side when everyone else is waiting to lawfully merge. (Like the rest of us never thought of that?! HELLO.)

Cars are a fact of life--and like I said, I love my car. Cars are also a staple of crime and mystery fiction. How many times do we watch the hero or heroine (or hapless prolog victim) get into their car at night only to have the fiendish killer sit up behind them? Am I the only person on the planet who bothers to glance at my back seat? How come all these darn car alarms going off in parking lots and on my street late at night are never functioning in movies?

There are some great, classic car chases: BULLITT and THE FRENCH CONNECTION--and, more recently, RONIN. Most car chases don't translate well onto the printed page. The best-written car chase I ever read was Mary Stewart's MADAM, WILL YOU TALK. Sometimes when I'm driving I work out plot points and various story details--but generally I'm too busy watching the rearview mirror.

New Life for DYING

Those of you who only know about my Berkley Prime Crime Knitting Mysteries will be clueless as to the reference in this post's title line. "DYING" refers to the title of my first amateur sleuth mystery, DYING TO SELL, which features a real estate agent sleuth and is set in the actual Fort Collins, CO, where I live. It talks about Colorado, real estate, sprawl, and all sorts of fun real estate stuff, in addition to having the sleuth, Kate Doyle, walk into her client's home and find him murdered---stabbed in the throat. As I said, lots of fun stuff.

DYING TO SELL was the very first mystery I wrote and was finished and submitted to my agent, Jessica Faust, of BookEnds, Inc. in late 2002. I then started doing some non-fiction articles from January 2003 through that June. In May 2003, I went to interview some knitters for an article, and I fell down the rabbit hole into that wonderland of color and texture and knitting. And.....the rest is history as they say. Four months after I sat down at the knitting table with those friendly folks and learned how to knit, Kelly and her friends "walked on stage" and started spinning their stories. And I started writing them down.

What has this got to do with the first mystery, DYING TO SELL? DTS was out making the rounds of publishers while I was discovering and writing Kelly and her friends. I was frolicking with them while DYING, well....well, DYING TO SELL was getting rejected. Over and over again. The editors all said how much they loved the characters, etc. It was the real estate angle they didn't like. In fact, they didn't think it would would sell.

Having written well over a million words of historical fiction (and only selling the western) before I even wrote the first mystery, I was well-acquainted with rejection. Ohhhhhhhh, yeah. I have a very thick rejection file. Years of rejections of my various historicals.

The Musketeer novel set in FRance in mid-1600's: I learned most editors either didn't like France as a setting (back in the early 1990's when I was pedding this one) or they didn't think it would sell.

And the sagas I wrote----well, we won't even talk about them (well, just a little) 1) Medieval saga, set in England in mid-11oo's, battles, bloodshed, and betrayal; 2) Turn of the century, 1886-ish, struggling Irish, corrupt senators, Robber Barons: Feisty little Irish Catholic Lass rises from the streets of Foggy Botton to the heights of Washington Society (and New York), etc, etc-----you get the picture. Big, meaty, juicy (think mini-series), wonderful stories that took years of research and years to write each one. And they're still sitting in boxes on the shelves of my office.

One editor's comment went something like this: "Love these characters. Uh, how long is it again?" End of discussion.

Sorry---digressed again. Bad Maggie. Bad Maggie. Stories never lose the power to capture you. Those big ones are kinda like Black Holes. Get too close and they suck you in. Slurp.

What's the point? Well, dear readers, the point is that writers write. That's it. Sorry there's no punch line. When we finish one novel, we send it out there and do our darndest to sell it, but meanwhile, we're writing another novel. We have to write the stories----even, gasp! --- if they never sell. We can't worry about that. We're storytellers.

So----while I was writing the proposal for KNIT ONE back in the fall of 2003, DYING TO SELL was still making the rounds and still getting rejected. In January 2004 my agent submitted the knitting mystery series proposal and it sold in one week. I nearly fainted.

Then, guess what? In March of 2003, DYING TO SELL sold to Five Star Mysteries, a wonderful smaller press that does all its mysteries in hardcover. I was ecstatic. I knew that hardcover would limit the readership, because not everyone can afford to buy a hardcover. That was okay with me. DYING TO SELL with Kate Doyle and all her friends had been given life. It was pubbed in October 2005 and sold out its first three print runs (albeit smaller than the knitting mystery print runs). I was ecstatic once again. Hooray for Kate.

And now---DYING TO SELL has new life once again. The paperback rights for DYING TO SELL have sold to Worldwide Mystery Book Club (part of Harlequin) and will be released in paperback through their book club in Sept or Oct 2007.

Is there a moral or a lesson in all of these ramblings? I don't know. Writers write. Keep getting your stuff out there even if it gets rejected, get it out again. Think outside the box. And never...never....give up on a story. Ya gotta believe.

Trains, planes and automobiles. Not really--just planes

So, Heather has the 12 year itch and I have the six year. Yup, I don't think I could do another six years here. For one, i am worried about my family's hearing. You heard me right--hearing. We chose a lovely Spanish style home in what is called the Loma Portal area of Point Loma in San Diego. It was quite a fixer and my husband could not see the potential in it that I could. I won that battle (obviously), and so we moved in and we fixed, painted, replaced, added on, and took away. The house is very charming now. Although, I can tell you that a fixer upper never truly gets fixed, especially one built in 1938. It doesn't happen. You will constantly be fixing, replacing and doing. I guess that's why it's called a fixer upper! Oh, and typically you will find some sort of otherwordly guest living in a house of this age who has forgotten that he or she was supposed to take up residence in a condo in the sky, not remain in your bedroom. But, that is an entirely different story that I hope to get to one day.

So, back to the airplanes. When we bought the house, we were well aware that we would be directly in the flight path. In fact, if anyone is ever interested in the schedule in and out of Lindbergh Field, just ask. I can typically tell you which flight is which and where it is going, at least I like to pretend I can and this and seems to give my friends a good laugh. Or, maybe they are just humoring me. Yeah, I know, we are an easy crowd to please, especially after a glass of wine on my back porch as Southwest 922 headed to Salt Lake City flies over. Okay, so we get the house and we did have concerns about the planes, but the realtor assured us that they start out at 6:30 in the morning and quit flying at 11:30. I thought, "Hey, I can handle that." Oh not to mention the neighbors who insisted that we would get used to it. Imagine to my horror as we'd lived in our house for a month and I was huge and uncomfortable and totally bitchy being eight months pregnant, when all of a sudden in the middle of the night, out of nowhere is this loud whoosh. That is really the only way I can describe it, although a woosh just doesn't seem loud enough, just know it was really, really loud, and my exact words were, "What the bleep (you can fill in the blank, I am aware that we are running a PG blog here) was that?" My husband jumped out of bed to see FED EX flight # 37 landing from the opposite direction. Yeah, they land all night long. They don't take off, but they can land, and if they change direction for any reason, they come straight over the house and they are a lot lower than when they take off. This is what happened and the summer time is the worst because we get this heavy marine layer and the planes have to change direction because there is no visibility. That thought always comforts me.

Well, the years have come and gone--six of them, and the FAA and The San Diego Port Authority has had to put in double and triple paned windows in the houses in our neighborhood. We all have new air conditioners to drown out the noise during the summer--that is if you can handle the energy bill--and we have learned to do the Pt. Loma pause. That's when you're on the phone and one goes over, you simply stop talking until it's flown on by. People who live here understand the concept. And, we turn the TV up really loud when need be, and we have learned that all you have to do is raise your voice when you're visiting with someone. So, I guess you do sort of get used to it and learn to live with it, and really I know that I can't justify my complaints because we chose to live here and we aren't moving unless I hit the bestseller list and make oodles and oodles of cash. I know, I know, I'm laughing hysterically too at that line! Basically, we won't be moving anytime soon.

So, I guess I'll just turn up my music and be thankful that the house is charming, even if loud and occupied by a past resident. I don't really know why I shared this with you, but it's Monday morning and those suckers are shooting off one right after the other, and so I figured if I wrote about it, I'd feel better and know what? I do, even as United Flight 122 going to Houston, TX flies over.

12 year itch

By Heather

We’ve all heard of the seven year itch in regard to marriage.

But what about houses? Is there a year? Has anyone heard? Because I think I’m going through it right now.

This month marks the 12th year we’ve been living in this house. The house was brand spankin’ new when we moved in, and we were in heaven. A two car garage—hooray! All that cabinet space in the kitchen—woo-hoo! A spacious walk-in closet—giddy-up!

Fast forward twelve years.

The garage is stuffed to the gills and desperately needs organization.

Ditto with the kitchen cabinets.

Ditto on the not-so-spacious closet. It’s cramped and crowded with everything from Easter baskets to the huge bathroom mirror I pried off the wall a year ago when updating that room. Oh, and some clothes. Not that you can tell because of all the junk in there.

Half our double-paned windows have condensation in between the panes, so you can’t see out of them.

The carpets are clean, but worn. And I’m so over the grayish-blue color.

The basement, the dining room-turned-den, and the master bath all need repainting.

I’ve found myself ogling houses for sale. Snatching up those little brochures attached to the signs.

Just, you know, in case.

Do I really want to move? Nah. I like my house. It’s comfortable, cozy. Sure, it needs some work, but it fits (snugly) us just fine.

This 12 year itch is really a classic text book example of want versus need.

Do I *need* a new fridge? No. Ours works. My Dr Pepper is cold.

Do I *want* a new fridge? Absolutely! One with a water and ice dispenser. Oh, to dream.

So, am I the only one fighting this itch? If you’ve been through it, how do you get over it? Other than move that is?

~heather

Romance RX?

Well, I talked with my agent yesterday morning and learned that the book I am currently writing (and am about 200 pages into) is no longer a paranormal mystery.

It’s now a paranormal romance!

Why, you ask, am I suddenly writing a romance? Well, apparently my juicy romantic plot and the popularity of paranormal fiction among romance readers drove the decision. And since it was a cross-genre book to start with, it was just a matter of deciding which category to name it.

Now, this may sound strange, but this news actually came as a bit of a relief – I have a lot of threads going, and now I can move some of the sleuthing off-stage and focus on some of the storylines that have really captured my attention. (Like the ones involving handsome Scandinavian werewolves and keeping a lid on those pesky animal impulses.) But it’s an interesting shift for me, because although I’ve read hundreds of mysteries, the romance section of my bookshelves is very sparsely populated.

So, I’m going to toss the ball out. I’ve torn through Mary Janice Davidson and Charlaine Harris, and they’ve left me hungry for more. I also love Elizabeth Buchan and Alison Pearson, even though they’re not strictly romance. And Diana Gabaldon, who I discovered a mere six months ago, rocked my world. So much so that I spent weeks under the covers with Jamie Fraser… in a totally literary sense, of course.

But I know there’s a whole world out there that I’m missing.

I’m packing up for a trip to Maine in a couple of days, and plan to make a bookstore run before I go, so I’m throwing it out to all you romance lovers out there. What should I buy? Who are your favorites? Who’s going to leave me panting for more? (More books, that is…)

I’ve got my pen and paper at the ready!

After all, Tomorrow IS another day!

My mother used to call me "Scarlett."

Not for my fiery red hair--I was tow-head for most of my childhood.

No, she was referring to that eternal optimist and brilliant time manager, Scarlett O'Hara from GONE WITH THE WIND. "Okay, Scarlett," she would say after I made some passionate, heart-rending plea for a reprieve on that looming execution date. "One last chance."

I was, alas, a procrastinator. I think that the procrastination gene often accompanies the writing gene. It does in my family. Actually, in my family, the procrastination gene accompanies ALL our genes. We come by it naturally. "IT" being the ability to postpone...just about anything we aren't keen to do.

But that's the funny thing. I love to write. Writing is to me as oxygen is to...well, everybody else.

Why, then, do I find so many pressing reasons why I simply do not have time to write--often with actual ink-on-paper deadlines confronting me?

I read an interesting post on this very topic by Dr. Susan O'Doherty at Buzz, Balls & Hype.

According to Dr. Sue, procrastination "is simply an early stage in the creative process."

I've often thought writing is like gardening. You have the germ of an idea which is buried deep in your subconscious, it lies there warm and dark and...er...germanating. I haven't worked out all the details--frankly, I'm weak on the whole botany thing, but eventually the germ becomes a seed--or possibly a viral infection--the outcome being essentially the same: the idea bursts into startling, vibrant life and culminates in pages and pages of story...or streaming eyes and nose. Often both.

Dr. Sue goes on to warn of the danger of forcing creativity. Rushing to completion on an artificial schedule could result in mass-produced widgets rather than amaryllis. And I must say, I've never had much luck forcing daffodil bulbs--or creativity.

Her point, and I love this point and plan to print it out to show to unsympathetic people at strategic moments, is that we aren't necessarily sabotaging our careers by postponing "engaging with the material." Sometimes we aren't ready to engage. And of course there is no point engaging the enemy if you aren't truly prepared to fight the good fight. Dr. Sue talks about the value of daydreaming, and I think this is a wonderful reminder.

The truth is there are so many valid and unavoidable disruptions to writing (that SO ANNOYING Real Life stuff of day jobs, beloved family & friends, myriad commitments including desire for at least some ragged semblance of spiritual life, etc.) that it is difficult to give ourselves permission for anything that doesn't appear to be directly and immediately tied to a scheduled writing project. Things like reading someone else's book or taking time out to go see a movie or...just doodling down ideas for a story we haven't pitched to anyone yet.

Maybe this is due to the fact that for many of us there is a little bit of guilt tied to all that time spent writing, anyway. I mean, we love it so much, how can it be work? REAL work--as in, work in the eyes of our spouses, friends, family who don't write and don't "get it." So if there's that little twinge over spending so much time writing instead of being with those who want to spend more time with us, how much harder is it to justify time spent...daydreaming?

But I think Maggie touched on this with her post about her all-too-brief mountain get-away. We have to take the time to restoke the creative fires, whether that means indulging in one of those eight-hour video rental marathons (ice cream optional) or giving into the luscious temptation of a towering TBR stack or simply taking a few hours to dream.

Isn't that sort of what we do? Put our dreams on paper for others to read and share? And isn't that a trippy and wonderful thing to get paid for doing? Replenishing the well of dreams is necessity. So, really, when you look at that way, a little procrastination could be an investment in the future. Silver pennies in the bank, as it were.

If only I could have thought of this argument many years ago when I was on Last Warning for finishing up my homework....

Promotion--Part I

I love booksignings. It's a good thing, because I do a fair amount of them when promoting my mysteries. Right now, I'm getting ready to jump back into "promotion gear" because the third in my Berkley Prime Crime Knitting Mystery series is coming out today, August 1st. I'll be doing signings all through August and almost to the end of September all over Colorado. Then---I'll start to travel. See my website for August/Sept appearances if you're interested. www.maggiesefton.com

Sound glamorous? Not really. I can only afford to travel where I have friends and family who'll put me up (on the sofa, in a spare room, w/the dog--I'm not picky). So, my "touring" schedule is actually a "freeloading on friends and family tour."

And the reason for the frugality? Because I have to pay for everything from my modest promotion budget, which I've squirreled away from my advance. In case I neglected to mention in a previous post----we authors are responsible for all of our promotional expenses. Yes, I know the "stars" have escorted tours paid by the publishers, but---believe me---most of us working writiers pay our own way. To conferences, booksignings, everything. Maybe in the future, all of us Cozy Chicks may become stars. Who knows? It sure would be nice. Until then-----it's up to us.

The reason I decided to post about the promotional or "selling" side of this business is because I regularly meet people all over who assume that our publishers are paying our way. Ahhhhh, we can dream. . .

Now, I happen to love booksignings. I love going to new places and meeting new people. But then, I'm very sociable. Not all writers are. I have many good friends who are fine writers, published writers, but they really don't enjoy doing the promotional side of the business----in other words, selling the books. And, let's face it, that's what booksignings are all about. We authors sincerely enjoy meeting readers and sharing experiences, but we also enjoy it when readers buy our books. Particularly, those of us who made the scary leap into full-time writing, in hopes of supporting ourselves with our writing income some day.

I know what it's like to sit at a table in a bookstore and sell no books (that's none, zilch, nada). Years ago when my western historical romance was published, I charged into booksignings at every bookstore that would have me. And it was a depressing experience. Not only did I rarely sell one of the books, but most of the time I was totally ignored. ("Like, totally, dude.") The only people who came up to talk usually asked one of two questions: one, where was the rest room? Or, where were Tom Clancy's books?

Now, it's ten years later and I'm writing mysteries, and-----wonder of wonders----they're selling! Wow! Believe me, when I say I'm overwhelmed and grateful beyond belief, I mean it sincerely. Maybe that's why I do a lot of booksignings. It's such a high for me now.

Do booksignings help your career? Yes, I think everytime we authors put ourselves out there to meet readers and the public, it builds our "visibility" so to speak. Maybe just a little bit, but it helps. Will booksignings make your book a bestseller? Wellllllll, that's a bit of a stretch, but they can certainly help build your fan base, or readers who like your books. And if you're writing a mystery series, like all the Cozy Chicks are, it's definitely good to got out and meet your readers. I love it, so I'm lucky. It's not "work" for me. It's fun. Lots of fun.

Another time, in upcoming posts on promotion, I'll talk about some of the other things I do to promote my mysteries. Just in case some of you are thinking of taking the plunge into this crazy world of book publishing.