Happy Valentine’s Day
Violets are blue
Thanks, Stiletto Gang readers,
for being so true!
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Love,
The Stiletto Gang
Violets are blue
Thanks, Stiletto Gang readers,
for being so true!
Violets are blue
Thanks, Stiletto Gang readers,
for being so true!
Do What You Love & Love What You Do
by Lena Austin
Recently, I went to my critique partners with a problem. Sales were down, and my reviews were less than stellar. I believed this was directly related to the fact that I no longer enjoyed what I wrote. Frankly, I was sick of the stories I’d been telling. So much so I think my disgust showed in the writing.
Every word was pulled out of me like a reluctant tarpon from the sea, fighting every inch of the way. Writing had become mechanical, boring and a chore. I found myself resenting the obligation to sit down and write, knowing another deadline approached. I missed those glorious days when I sat at my keyboard with joy and tore pieces of my soul out to place on paper without a care in the world. I longed to find that piece of me I’d lost.
Perhaps some blame might be attributed to my anal-retentive attempts at perfection: Stimulus-reaction-perception-emotion-response, check the balance, check for passive, what’s the next GMC step in relation to the plot points, ad infinitum ad nauseum. Perhaps I’d gone too far, and stopped writing books I enjoyed in favor of the elusive goal of perfection. I may have come close to mathematically reconstructing the flower while missing the beauty of its flaws. Where was the fun in writing if I didn’t enjoy the books I wrote?
The last statement was so profound to me that I pondered the implications most of a day. Did I laugh insanely and toss my plots to the winds in shreds? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that strong. LOL! What I did was stop obsessing and let the characters speak. I listened to the small, quiet muse and found a new voice inside.
Her name was Madge Majesty, and she demanded that I step outside my usual genres and write a mystery. For months, I read and studied what made mysteries so intriguing. Surprisingly enough, I found myself hooked. Madge and her genre became a passion. I loved my story again!
I learned a lot from Madge and her friends. I hope to return to her world someday, and help her solve another crime.
________________
Lena Austin
http://www.lenaaustin.com/
Note: Lena Austin’s books are published by Changeling Press E-Books. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults only due to sexually explicit scenes and adult language.
Writing blog: http://depravedduchess.blogspot.com/
Recipe and Pagan blog: http://third-infinity.blogspot.com/
Low Carb Diet blog: http://fatfrogdiary.blogspot.com/
In Love with Austen
by Marilyn Brant
Thanks to Susan and everyone here at the Stiletto Gang for letting me visit today. Happy (early) Valentine’s Day, too!!
My debut novel, ACCORDING TO JANE, is the story of a modern young woman who has the ghost of Jane Austen in her head, giving her dating advice. The number one question I’ve been asked since the book came out this past fall is: “Why Austen? What is it with everyone choosing HER to write about lately?!”
Well, the short answer is that for me, anyway, Austen-love was in no way a recent phenomenon. I was first given PRIDE AND PREJUDICE as a 14-year-old high-schooler in English class, and I raced through the novel way ahead of the reading assignments. I loved both the story and Austen’s writing style immediately. She was so insightful about the way human beings thought and acted. Her characters were fascinatingly flawed, multidimensional and very real to me, and their stories timeless and universal. Reading Austen’s work instantaneously changed the way I perceived the behavior of everyone around me, and I spent the rest of freshman year (and much of the 1980s) trying to figure out which Austen character each of my friends and family members most resembled. I, of course, was the beloved and witty Elizabeth Bennet–at least in my imagination–LOL!
Even years later, as a teacher, when I found myself encountering difficult administrators, staff members or parents, it helped me to think of what Jane might have said about them. How she would have instructed her most heroic characters to deal with these frustrating individuals. So, my love and appreciation for the author started decades before any kind of zombie/sea-monster/vampire craze and it even pre-dated the famous Colin-Firth-as-Mr.-Darcy version of the P&P film!! (Although, who wouldn’t be inspired by seeing him all wet from jumping in lake, hmm?!)
I also spent a fair amount of time during my dating years thinking about how beneficial it would be to get romantic advice from such a wise and perceptive woman like Miss Austen, not to mention one who was a respected author and the person who’d written my all-time favorite love story. So when, as an aspiring writer myself, someone asked me which classic author I’d most want to borrow a few plot points from, I thought first of Jane. I wasn’t a historical writer by any stretch of the imagination, so I found myself wondering what a modern girl’s P&P experience might be like… What would Jane have advised a teen (one who was sort of like me or my friends) to do in tricky situations if, let’s say, she were witnessing prom night maneuverings or an evening at a local pick-up bar.
Since I was thinking about this and writing the first draft of the story in 2004, there were only two examples of modern Austen re-imaginings that I’d seen way back then: “Bridget Jones’s Diary” (the film and the novel) and “Clueless” (the film). Those were both certainly influences–and I loved them!–but films like “The Jane Austen Book Club” and wild novel spinoffs like PRIDE & PREJUDICE & ZOMBIES had yet to be released. And, though I’d read some Regency continuations, I hadn’t come across anything else in the contemporary realm back then, even if it might have been available.
I suspect that degree of unawareness wouldn’t be possible now. With so many sequels and variations on Austen-related books and so very many movie remakes, it would be incredibly difficult to avoid them these days. Had I known just how many writers were working on something Austen-esque during the time I was writing mine, I might’ve been too overwhelmed or intimidated to continue. I didn’t even know that Austen fan fiction existed until after my book was under contract–and there are thousands of avid fans writing it!
For someone like me who can’t get enough of Austen, though, being a reader and a movie-goer during this current boom of Jane books and films has been awesome. I think interest in her work reached a tipping point and crashed into the mainstream, largely because of the attention the stories got onscreen. With actresses like Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet, Keira Knightley and many others playing leading Austen heroines, and Anne Hathaway playing “Jane” herself in “Becoming Jane”–not to mention the allure of good-looking actors like Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Matthew MacFayden, Jonny Lee Miller, etc. jumping in to take on the roles of the heartthrobs–it’s not surprising that Austen’s characters started to appeal to a wider audience.
So, I guess that’s my longwinded way of saying that even though I had no idea there would someday be such a huge Austen craze, I’m still very glad to be a tiny part of it!
My next book, though, takes a different women’s fiction turn and doesn’t follow any of the Austen novels. It comes out on October 1st and is called FRIDAY MORNINGS AT NINE. It’s a modern fairy tale about three very different forty-something women, their three very different marriages and what happens a decade or two after the “happily ever after”…
And, because Susan’s my friend and the most excellent author of THE COUGAR CLUB, I’ll add that there’s one hot cougar-ish scene in my upcoming book that I had a blast writing!! My husband rolls his eyes whenever I talk about this male character, but I find the guy to be very charming (as figments of the imagination often are) and I wish I could meet him in real life. Plus, unlike my (pretty wonderful) husband, my hot fictional man COOKS! For me, this is an element of fantasy that I’d love to see more of in reality–LOL! What about you all? Do any of you have a fantasy trait like that? One you wish your mate would surprise you with?? If so, do tell!
May you all have a fun and romantic Valentine’s weekend. Thanks again for letting me spend a little time with all of you ;-).
Marilyn Brant lives in the Midwest where, before she became a full-time novelist, she worked as an elementary school teacher, a library staff member, a freelance magazine writer and a national book reviewer. She’s blessed to have a genuinely supportive husband and son, a loving family and a truly amazing group of friends, all of whom keep her grounded, sane and away from dangerous things like chocolate martinis (usually). She’d love to say she also has killer abs but–so far–this is still a fantasy.
Marilyn, thanks so much for visiting us today! We loved having you, and we can’t wait to read FRIDAY MORNINGS AT NINE! As an early Valentine’s Day surprise, Marilyn’s giving away one signed copy of ACCORDING TO JANE to a lucky reader who comments today. So comment away, and Marilyn will randomly draw a winner! We’ll let you know if it’s you!
Marilyn, thanks so much for visiting us today! We loved having you, and we can’t wait to read FRIDAY MORNINGS AT NINE! As an early Valentine’s Day surprise, Marilyn’s giving away one signed copy of ACCORDING TO JANE to a lucky reader who comments today. So comment away, and Marilyn will randomly draw a winner! We’ll let you know if it’s you!
It’s a Wild, Wild Life
Gentle whitecaps cresting on a sandy shore. Beautiful birds of prey—eagles, hawks, falcons—diving in and out of the murky depths to catch fish. River glass scattered along the shoreline, waiting to be picked up and dusted off. Kayaking on a tranquil summer’s day, the sound of your oars hitting the water the only thing you hear.
Oh, and rats. I forgot about the rats.
I live close to the Hudson River and enjoy everything about river town living. Except one thing: the rats.
Let me back up. It was a peaceful Wednesday night a few weeks back, all of us settling in to watch our new favorite show, “Modern Family,” when child #1 announced that she had no clean clothes and needed to do laundry. She was barely on the top step of the basement when I heard her scream and retreat into the kitchen, dropping her laundry basket and fleeing for the safety of the living room. Once there, she stood before me, shaking, and recounted the mouse that she saw flitting across the basement floor. As she was demonstrating how big it was—the distance between her hands indicated that it was a mouse the size of a newborn baby—I heard Jim call, “It’s not a mouse! It’s a rat!”
And so began a weeklong journey into rodent hell.
Jim frantically paged through the local phone book looking for a 24-hour wildlife service because I assured him that if the rat wasn’t gone by midnight, I was checking into a hotel. He managed to find a service who directed him to a private contractor of rat extermination, who I have dubbed, “Tom, the rat whisperer,” the kindest man I have ever encountered. He couldn’t come that night but promised to be at the house by one o’clock the next afternoon. He explained to Jim that rats can chew through old foundations to escape the cold and that was probably what had happened. He also admitted to being somewhat dubious to our contention that there was only one rat. Rats, it seems, do not travel alone.
My blood ran cold.
We all slept somewhat uncomfortably that night, tossing and turning, imagining that the sounds in our almost one-hundred-year old house were rats in the wall, rather than the sounds of old pipes and settling. I ceased eating. So by the time Tom, the rat whisperer, arrived, I was starving, sleep-deprived, and anxious beyond belief. He took one look at my haggard, exhausted expression, and set off to the basement.
He came up several minutes later and said, “Yep. You’ve got rats.”
“How many?” I asked.
“No telling,” he said, “but I do detect droppings and the smell of rat urine.”
And all this time, I thought it was the scent of my laundry detergent.
He led me around the house, pointing out all of the possible points of ingress. After a few minutes of this, I said, “I have to sit down.”
He lugged up the twenty-pound bag of dog food that we keep down there because there’s nowhere else to store it. “See this?” he asked, pointing to a small hole in the bottom. “Rats.”
I got it. We had rats. They had come in from the cold and were eating our needy Westie’s “Sensitive Systems” dog food. The one that promised a shiny coat and easy digestion. There were some well-fed, not to mention shiny-coated, rats living among us. Tom spent a few more minutes laying some rat poison in the basement—the one that makes them thirsty and yearn for the cold outdoors where there is a water supply—handed me a bill for far less than I would have anticipated and promised to be back in two weeks.
Because I am a “public sharer,” I posed this travail on Facebook (to Jim’s chagrin), and to my amazement, found more than a few friends had had the same problem. My friend, Susan, had one in her garbage shed. Two doors down, Ingrid and Bob wrestled three in two years, finding one beneath their dishwasher only the week before the still-surviving members of the rat population moved into my basement. Seems that our proximity to the river, in addition to wooded areas in close proximity, bring out our rodent friends. I had no idea. We’ve lived here for twenty years and have not seen a rat outside of the confines of the riverside park where we hang out in the summer. The thought of an extended family in our basement was just too much to bear.
It took me a week of living in complete paranoia—as well as lugging everyone’s clothes to the Laundromat—to conquer my fear and descend to the basement. Jim, brave soul that he is, had been down several times, only to report that there was no corpse in a trap, and no trace of anyone with whiskers and a long tail. I have since done several loads of laundry—the maiden load done with a hearty dose of liquid courage—and haven’t seen anything myself.
But if I do see anything that resembles a rat, you can rest assured that there will be a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn and we will be moving to a dee-lux apartment in the sky.
Tell me your wildlife stories, Stiletto faithful.
Maggie Barbieri
And a New Book for Me
Before the month is over, I’ll have copies of An Axe to Grind, the latest in my Rocky Bluff P.D. series.
Unlike my Deputy Tempe Crabtree series, these tales are told from multiple points of view–officers of the Rocky Bluff P.D. and members of their families. Rocky Bluff is a fictional beach community located between Santa Barbara and Ventura on the Southern California coast.
The story begins with the discovery of a headless corpse. The victim turns out to be a stalker and the suspects include the father, brother, and boyfriend of the young girl being stalked, as well as the victim’s foster father.
The romance between Detective Doug Milligan and Officer Stacey Wilbur is put on hold because of the investigation. Maria Navarro continues to have a problem with her mother-in-law.
Stacey is called on to investigate the report of a child molester. Barbara Strickland, a mother and the wife of the handsome public information officer, learns something surprising about herself.
During the investigation Doug disappears and Stacey sets out to find him.
Though this is a series, I’ve written each book so it can be read as a stand-alone.
Because the Rocky Bluff P.D. is small, they don’t have all the modern equipment larger cities have and most investigations are done the old-fashioned way. Asking questions, following clues.
I’ve had a great time writing about all these folks and have come to know them as well as I know any of my friends, and Rocky Bluff is as real to me as any of the many towns I’ve visited.
Having a son-in-law who was a 15 year veteran of a similar police department gave me the incentive to write this series. I really wanted to show how the job affects the family and what’s going on in the family affects the police officer on the job. I also wanted to show something my son-in-law pointed out to me, the police never work on one case at a time, as shown on TV and in the movies.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
A Little Respect Please
Wow, this year there are ten movies nominated for Best Picture by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – and I’ve seen exactly one, Up. I loved it. Did you know that it’s only the second time that an animated feature has been nominated for a Best Picture Oscar? Can you guess the other one? I actually think that one was more deserving of one of those gold statuettes.
Like most kids, I grew up on animation – when there were artists who actually sketched each cel, and computer-generated graphics hadn’t been invented. Think about how labor-intensive each animated movie was. Lady and The Tramp
Animated features, like comic books and now graphic novels, still seem to be the illegitimate children of cinema and literature. And yet, some of the best stories are to be found in these media. Graphic novels have captured an audience of young readers, especially boys, long lost to more conventional books. Graphic novels are among the highest circulating collections in public libraries. Today graphic novels cover a broad range of subject matter – fiction, nonfiction, sci-fi, fantasy, almost every classification found on library shelves. The 1986 publication of Maus, by Art Spiegelman, may have been told in comic book format, but the subject matter was anything but comic. In using this format to describe the horrors of the holocaust, Spiegelman forever changed the impact that this type of literature could convey. It won a “Special” Pulitzer Prize – but today, I wonder if it wouldn’t have competed with conventional books for the Literature Prize – no need for a special category.
Whatever you like to read and watch – I guess short of porn, but then I shouldn’t be judgmental on that either! – is a personal decision. Enjoy the escape!
Marian, the Northern Half of Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com
The Mid-Life Dating Game
Promoting The Cougar Club has me thinking (and talking) a lot about dating in mid-life. It’s a fascinating subject, perhaps because it’s not something most of us imagine we’ll ever do, not when we’re in high school and crush-worthy subjects are abundant. Worrying about possibly being single for the rest of your life isn’t even a big deal when you’re out of college and embarking in the real world, becoming bridesmaids in your friends’ weddings and pursuing your dreams instead of Mr. Right. Then all of a sudden you’re forty, and your mother’s bemoaning the fact that she may never have a grandchild. Or worse, she makes comments like, “If you get pregnant by that adorable guy you’re dating, it’s okay. I’ll be there for you. In fact, I can babysit whenever you need me.” And she does it with a straight face.
Initially, I didn’t dwell much on the fact that I was still single when I crossed the big 4-0. After ten years of working like crazy to get published and several more after that building the foundation for my career, I was just thrilled to be writing mysteries for Avon that were selling well. I loved being on the road, hanging out with writer friends, and meeting fellow book lovers across the country. It felt like heaven to me.
So while I was too busy to worry about becoming a notorious cat lady, my relatives apparently weren’t, something I realized at any/every family gathering. I believe it was at my brother’s wedding that a male cousin asked if I might be a lesbian. When I told him, “No. I like men,” he nodded and leaned in to whisper, “But it would be all right if you were.” Thank you, Dr. Phil. My sister (who is a year older and still single) never seemed to get as much scrutiny about her love life. Perhaps because the myriad dating stories she theatrically shared (she’s an actress at heart) made everyone afraid to comment or ask questions! By the way, she’s the real Cougar in the family, having dated younger dudes since high school. My family calls her “free-spirited.” As a kid, I imagined she’d grow up to be a go-go dancer or a magician’s assistant. Not the kind of gigs that demand marriage and stability.
I, on th
e other hand, had a lot expected of me. I was the responsible one, the driven one so I expected a lot of myself, too. I was all about setting the bar high and meeting my career goals, not sitting at bars trying to meet men. Besides, the guys I ran into at book-related events, in airports, or through set-ups weren’t ever people I could imagine spending two dates with, much less the rest of my life. Wasn’t there a study that said women over forty have a better chance of being killed in a terrorist act than they do of getting married? Let me tell you, dating when you’re over forty sometimes feels like a terrorist act, especially if you’re looking for guys your own age. Here’s Kat Maguire’s Facts of Life for Women over Forty from The Cougar Club, which sums up the situation rather neatly:
The older you get, the harder it is to find a single man your own age who isn’t either: (a) married or gay; (b) divorced with insurmontable baggage; (c) looking for a girl half his age.
The idea of finding a soul-mate sounded oh so appealing, but how to locate the pearl among the swine? I soon learned what I had to do was open my eyes a little wider. I needed to chuck the list of “must-haves” that I used to judge potential boyfriends in high school and–not settle–but realize that maybe lack of fashion sense isn’t the kiss of death, that a doctorate in computer science is far more valuable to a writer than a doctor of medicine, and that humor and wit outweigh bulky muscles by a long shot. I should have written a book about my epiphany before someone else did. (Because it’s too late now. I just heard about a book this morning called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough, which is really about looking for potential, not settling. It’s written by a 42-year-old single woman who had a baby via a sperm donor because she set her standards so high she blew off every guy she might have/could have/may have loved).
I feel extremely fortunate that I met Ed at a time when I was satisfied with the direction of my career and feeling very happy with myself. I still look back and shake my head, amazed at how events lined up so fatefully in 2005, leading to the introduction to my husband. So many “ifs” could have taken us in separate directions: if my mom hadn’t sent in an email to St. Louis Magazine asking them to consider me and my sister as “top singles” for that year’s issue, if they hadn’t selected me, if I hadn’t filled out the questionnaire, if I hadn’t made friends with Jeremy Nolle (Ed’s former co-worker) at the magazine shoot, if I hadn’t been talking to Jeremy when Ed showed up at the Contemporary Art Museum for the party the magazine threw…if so many little pieces of the puzzle hadn’t come together perfectly, I would have missed finding my own Mr. Right. (Ed and I honestly think that our deceased grandmothers had a hand in things somehow, meeting up in Heaven and saying, “Oh, your grand-daughter is single?” “Wait, you have a grandson?” You know the drill.)
I had always felt independent–lived independently–so much so that I imagined it would be very hard once I fell in love with someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. My family used to tease me about a comment I made long ago that even when I married I’d want a duplex so I could have one side and my husband the other. “I need time alone!” I would insist while they quietly chuckled. My mom even mentioned this in her toast at Ed’s and my rehearsal dinner.
As it turned out, I never feel like Ed and I have enough time together. We’ll be celebrating our second wedding anniversary on February 24, and I love him more now for all the things we’ve been through together than I did when we were at that dewy “OMG, I could just suck face all night” falling-in-love stage.
If I hadn’t been part of the mid-life dating game, I wouldn’t have married an amazing man (who just happens to be younger)…and I would never have written The Cougar Club. The moral to my story: ladies over forty, it ain’t over ’til it’s over! Or maybe it’s that there’s always a book in everything. Hmm.
Mysteries Fill the Bill
Georgia Davidis Malone lives happily in a Philadelphia suburb with her fantastic husband and wonderful (most of the time) children. While having practiced as a civil litigator, Georgia now works as a chauffeur, housekeeper, laundry service and cook (a/k/a stay-at-home mom). The chauffeur part of the job enables her to indulge in her second love (after family), reading mystery novels. Thanks to her family for understanding that, sometimes, dinner is takeout because Georgia became so engrossed in a book (just reading it, not even writing it) that she lost track of time.
Donna Parker. Nancy Drew. Trixie Belden. These were the first mysteries I remember reading, teenage sleuths who lived lives filled with adventure and danger. These three sleuths provided a respite during the teenage angst years. It was to mystery that I escaped and mystery which still provides my solace. Whether legal, historical, English country house or humorous, police procedurals, female detectives, and romantic suspense, to name a few categories, mysteries are my “drug” of choice.
Mysteries assist in learning about life. Dame Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple lived in a small English village for all her “life” and yet she understood people better than many others who had traveled the world. According to Miss Marple (and I’m majorly paraphrasing here), one could see all manner of human behavior in a small village, which psychology could then be transferred to the world at large.
Mysteries provide resolution. In a mystery, particularly a “cozy” (my favorite type), the problems presented in life can be solved. At the end of a few hundred pages, all the loose ends are tied up and answers to all questions provided. If only all the problems of life could be so easily answered.
The books, especially those written during the Golden Age of mysteries (mostly the 1920s, ‘30’s and ‘40’s), provide puzzles that can be solved by the reader. In the mysteries I love, whether in a country mansion or an academic community, there is a finite list of suspects for whatever the crime happens to be. Like Sudoku and crossword puzzles, the mysteries exercise one’s mind but there is always an answer provided at the end (not necessarily found in real life, though).
Mysteries are a great place to escape, whether to revisit a place I’ve already been or to discover somewhere I’ve never visited. I’ve traveled the world through mysteries, to places I’ll probably never see (whether the Botswana of Alexander McCall Smith, the Africa of Suzanne Arruda or the Australia of Kerry Greenwood) and to places I’ve seen and love to visit time and time again (the England of Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Anne Perry, G.M. Malliet or the Greece of Mary Stewart).
There are so many writers whom I adore reading, including the writers of the Stiletto Gang (two [Maggie Barbieri and the northern half of Evelyn David] of whom I was privileged to meet, at the 2009 Malice Domestic, and who are really fantastic people and authors). Some of my other favorites include the writers I’ve already mentioned, as well as other writers whom I met at Malice Domestic: Louise Penny (who is also a wonderful person and fantastic writer), Ann Parker (who is especially nice and very modest), Cathy Pickens (whom I saw on a panel and who had me and my sister in stitches for the entire time), Elaine Viets, Rhys Bowen, JoAnna Carl, Krista Davis, Dana Cameron, Mary Jane Maffini.
(And now a plug for Malice Domestic, which was an awesome experience. As I tell people, it was like the Hollywood of the mystery world — at least for me — and I was thrilled and agape the entire time at the lineup of authors who attended!)
There are then writers whom I wish I could have met but who were before my time: Georgette Heyer, Margery Allingham, Josephine Tey, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Erle Stanley Gardner, John Mortimer, and Rex Stout. Finally, there are those writers whom I still may have the chance to meet and, in the meantime, heartily enjoy and anticipate their books: M.C. Beaton, Elizabeth Peters, Jacqueline Winspear, Margit Liesche, and the list goes on and on.
In an age where the greatest mysteries, both big and small (whether Osama bin Laden will ever be caught, whether my house will ever approach the cleanliness of my mother’s) remain unsolved, it’s nice to be able to escape to a different life, but with a story that will always provide answers. Mysteries fill the bill perfectly.
Georgia Davidis Malone
Why I Don’t Outline
Toni L.P. Kelner never knows how her days will end up–maybe it’s because she is writing in several directions at once. In mysteries, Who Killed the Pinup Queen?, the second in her “Where are they now?” series, is just out. In urban fantasy, she edits anthologies with Charlaine Harris. Death’s Excellent Vacation is due out in August. In short stories, she has her first noir story coming out in March in Carolyn Haine’s anthology Delta Blues and a paranormal courtroom drama in the MWA anthology Crimes by Moonlight. Kelner has won the Agatha Award and a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, and has been nominated for two other Agathas, four Anthonys, and two Macavitys. She lives north of Boston with author/husband Stephen Kelner, two daughters, and two guinea pigs.
People often ask me if I outline my novels. I do if the editor requires it, but I may as well not bother. I’m not good with advance planning.
Even in real life, my days rarely end up as expected. The day I thought I’d finish a short story turns out to be the day I have to nurse a sick daughter. The week I meant to knock out the first few chapters of a novel, my other daughter had half days because of mid-terms. The interview scheduled for a time when my husband could get the girls to their clubs? He went to Australia.
Is it any surprise that my books rarely end up as planned?
Here’s a synopsis of Who Killed the Pinup Queen?, my second “Where are they now?” mystery:
Freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper has never had it so good. She’s become the darling of every formerly famous star in the country hoping to become famous again. The editors know it, too, so the assignments arrive daily. The checks are rolling in–she’s even shopping for a condo.
And she’s never been so bored in her life.
If she’d wanted to be an industry shill, she’d have become a publicist. Still, as a freelancer, it’s hard to pass up money, especially when it means getting rid of her latest roommate. If that means writing puff pieces about the former cast members of “The Ranchers,” a long-running Western that was even cheesier than “Bonanza,” how can she complain?
It’s while researching something that really interests her–a piece about pinup gals of the fifties–that she finally gets a whiff of a real story. It turns out that squeaky-clean Ranch gal Paige Henrickson started out posing for girly pictures. At first Henrickson begs Tilda not to reveal her secret, but when Tilda points out how much money there is to be made selling pictures and memorabilia, Henrickson embraces the idea, and Tilda writes “Breast of the West.”
Then Henrickson is found dead, and Tilda is determined to round up the killer.
Suspects include the man trying to open a dude ranch modeled on the fictional one from “The Ranchers;” Henrickson’s family, who hated the idea of her becoming notorious; former cast members, and a frighteningly devoted fan.
Whoever it is, he’s gunning for Tilda next, and he wants her dead, not alive.
Sounds pretty exciting, but it has nearly nothing to do with the book I actually wrote. And I can’t blame a kid or my husband for the changes.
First to go was the condo hunt. I decided that one successful story—the one I from in the previous book in the series—was not enough to make Tilda sought after. And without her being in demand, I couldn’t use the stuff about her being bored. Instead, I inserted a subplot about Tilda being offered a fulltime job.
I still wanted to write about pinup queens and TV cowboys, but I came up with a different fictional show that Tilda liked. (I don’t remember why I switched from “The Rangers” to “Cowtown,” but there must have been some reason.) The pinup queen story split off, and my murdered pinup had nothing to do with the cowboys.
Having Tilda trying to convince a pinup queen to go public slowed the pacing to a crawl. So I put the initial meeting with the pinup in as back story, introduced her briefly, then killed her off right away.
And that list of suspects? I lost interest in most of them. The family? Too obvious. I kept a niece, but the rest got relegated to a page. The guy starting the dude ranch? Other cast members? Now that the pinup queen was separate from the cowboys, that didn’t make sense. The freaky fan? Too easy. Time for a new set of suspects. I changed the murderer, too, more than once.
The fact is, it doesn’t matter if I outline ahead of time or not. The book never looks like I expected it to look. I like it that way—I never get bored.
Come to think of it, I think I meant this blog to be about guinea pigs.
Toni L.P. Kelner
http://www.tonilpkelner.com/
Dreaming
How’s your dream world treating you?
I’ve read some writers say that a dream gave them an idea for a book. I could never put anything I dream into a book. Not only are my dreams vivid, in color, but they are also weird.
After I quit smoking, for years I dreamed I was still smoking.
I dream about the house I grew up in–though I’m an adult in the dreams and the house was demolished for a freeway.
The house we had in Oxnard is often the setting for my dreams. We remodeled that house several times, and I’ve dreamed about it in all the different stage s of remodeling. The neighborhood around the house doesn’t resemble the true neighborhood at all. The houses are huge, three and four stories and in stages of disrepair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any houses like that, yet I’ve dreamed about them many times. I’m usually trying to get somewhere.
One night recently I dreamed about a lady who goes to our church. She offered to take me home and we drove on a narrow mountain road (no, you don’t have to take a mountain road to get to my house) and all of a sudden she drove down another steep road that went right into a huge lake. She couldn’t stop and there we were. She couldn’t swim so it was up to me to save her. I woke up and have no idea how that ended. I’ve turned the woman down a couple of times when she’s offered to drive me home, just in case, but I finally rode with her and she managed to get me to my house without driving into the drink.
I’ve had a recurrent dream about driving high into the mountains and finding the road impassable because of snow and getting out and trying to hike to the place I needed to go. (I would never drive into the mountains on my own–and I’m not all that fond of snow so I’d never get out and hike in it.)
My most frequent dream is being in most any place: camping, a large hotel, someone’s house and trying to find a bathroom. If I do find one, there’s no door, or long lines waiting for only one bathroom, or a bathroom with no toilet. When I wake, of course I need to make a trek to my own bathroom.
I’ve dreamed that I could fly several times. All I had to do was stand in a corner, raise my hands over my head and off I went–and I could actually go right through the ceiling and up into the sky. (Sounds more like astral projection than flying.)
I dream a lot about writing conferences and not being able to find my way to where I’m supposed to be going. If I’m presenting in my dream, I can’t find my materials, or they are all jumbled up.
Though I can certainly figure what sparked a lot of these dreams, others are a puzzle. Many of them border on nightmares, but I kind of enjoy them.
So what kind of dreams do you have? Do you dream in color or black and white? Can you figure out what your dreams mean?
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com/