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Happy Holidays
from the Stiletto Gang
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A Gift for You!
by Bethany Maines
It’s the Christmas season. A time to contemplate the things we’re grateful for. (I’m grateful for awesome readers like you!) Meanwhile, you’ve been running around buying gifts for everyone. Isn’t it time someone else gave you something? In honor of the holidays, I have done some arm twisting and procured a coupon for you.
Go here:
Click buy.
Use this coupon:
CP63U
And get High-Caliber Concealer for $2.99. That’s 63% off list price. Coupon expires on January 1st, so snap this up quick! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
High-Caliber Concealer, the third Carrie Mae Mystery is now available for sale in print and digital formats. Join Nikki, Ellen, Jane, and Jenny as they take on their toughest mission yet – a vacation. Nikki’s quiet visit to her grandmother’s farm is disrupted by drug smugglers, her ex-boyfriend and the sudden arrival of her mother (who is obviously hiding something). When the girls and her CIA agent boyfriend, Z’ev Coralles, also land on her doorstep, Nikki begins to wonder if she’s in over head. Can Nikki stop the smugglers, settle things with her ex, and stop her mother and grandmother from starting all out war over the mashed potatoes, all without revealing Carrie Mae’s secret’s to Z’ev? Nikki may be a High-Caliber Concealer, but this time it might not be enough!
Bethany Maines is the author of the CarrieMae Mysteries, Tales from the City of
Destiny and An Unseen Current.
You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video
or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.
“What Writing Means to Me” By Kathleen Donnelly
I had the privilege of meeting Kathleen this year at Killer Nashville and was in the audience when she gave this inspiring speech as she accepted the Lisa Jackson scholarship, which allowed her to attend the conference. After hearing her speak with such eloquence about the gift of writing, I asked if I could share her message with you as my December post. Through her words, Kathleen has reminded me of all the wonderful possibilities writing brings to this world. Already, she is a great writer. I look forward to holding her bestseller in my hands as I wait in line for her signature. Thank you, Kathleen, for this gift you have given to us. Happy Holidays!–Paula Gail Benson
My name is
Kathleen Mayger—or you can call me my pen name Kathleen Donnelly. Like most of
you, I’ve written my whole life about many different topics, but deep down my
passion is thrillers. I’m lucky to have a great day job with a company called
Sherlock Hounds Detection Canines—a drug dog company for schools. I enjoy
helping to keep schools safe with friendly canines.
Kathleen Mayger—or you can call me my pen name Kathleen Donnelly. Like most of
you, I’ve written my whole life about many different topics, but deep down my
passion is thrillers. I’m lucky to have a great day job with a company called
Sherlock Hounds Detection Canines—a drug dog company for schools. I enjoy
helping to keep schools safe with friendly canines.
When I first
learned about the Lisa Jackson scholarship, I knew I had to apply. Not only was
the conference amazing, but Lisa Jackson is one of my favorite authors and an
inspiration. A few years ago, a friend and I met at a coffee shop to talk about
the best subject ever—books. I had heard of Lisa Jackson, but never read one of
her books. My friend told me to get one and read it. I followed her advice and
bought the book, “Afraid to Die.” I couldn’t quit reading and I didn’t get any
sleep for the next few days.
learned about the Lisa Jackson scholarship, I knew I had to apply. Not only was
the conference amazing, but Lisa Jackson is one of my favorite authors and an
inspiration. A few years ago, a friend and I met at a coffee shop to talk about
the best subject ever—books. I had heard of Lisa Jackson, but never read one of
her books. My friend told me to get one and read it. I followed her advice and
bought the book, “Afraid to Die.” I couldn’t quit reading and I didn’t get any
sleep for the next few days.
Whenever I love a
book I go visit the author website. I like to learn more about the author and
their journey. Lisa’s personal story was inspiring and she gave me hope and motivation
to continue writing. But she also has a webpage for her causes and they are all
amazing and great organizations. And that is where she became more than a
best-selling author for me. So to win this scholarship was truly humbling and
an honor. If you haven’t visited Lisa’s website, I encourage everyone to do so
and see what she does to make a difference.
book I go visit the author website. I like to learn more about the author and
their journey. Lisa’s personal story was inspiring and she gave me hope and motivation
to continue writing. But she also has a webpage for her causes and they are all
amazing and great organizations. And that is where she became more than a
best-selling author for me. So to win this scholarship was truly humbling and
an honor. If you haven’t visited Lisa’s website, I encourage everyone to do so
and see what she does to make a difference.
Writing means so
much to me. To all of us or we wouldn’t be here this weekend. But I feel the
gift of writing is something that should be shared, and never forgotten. I get
up every morning at 5am because I love to write. I love immersing myself in a
world, figuring out how to put my characters in tough situations and then find
a way to get them out. I could go on and on about how that one to two hours
every morning is the best part of my day, but then I go to work and sometimes
it’s in our daily lives that we can be reminded of what writing means not just
to us, but to the communities around us.
much to me. To all of us or we wouldn’t be here this weekend. But I feel the
gift of writing is something that should be shared, and never forgotten. I get
up every morning at 5am because I love to write. I love immersing myself in a
world, figuring out how to put my characters in tough situations and then find
a way to get them out. I could go on and on about how that one to two hours
every morning is the best part of my day, but then I go to work and sometimes
it’s in our daily lives that we can be reminded of what writing means not just
to us, but to the communities around us.
Last year around
Christmas, I was cleaning out a closet and found some of my favorite books I
read while growing up. I didn’t know at first what to do with them. I decided
to donate them to a middle school I work with my drug dogs. I thought that school
could benefit from a few more books in their library. When I took the books in,
the librarian was so excited. I found out that she had a group of kids that she
already knew would not have Christmas presents. She believed every kid should
have a present over Christmas break and there was nothing better than a book.
She not only bought books for the kids out of her own money, but when I brought
in my box, she said, “Perfect. Now they each can have two presents.” I heard
later that the kids were ecstatic not only to have their very own presents, but
that the present was a book they could read over break. That was a reminder to
me that writing and books are a gift.
Christmas, I was cleaning out a closet and found some of my favorite books I
read while growing up. I didn’t know at first what to do with them. I decided
to donate them to a middle school I work with my drug dogs. I thought that school
could benefit from a few more books in their library. When I took the books in,
the librarian was so excited. I found out that she had a group of kids that she
already knew would not have Christmas presents. She believed every kid should
have a present over Christmas break and there was nothing better than a book.
She not only bought books for the kids out of her own money, but when I brought
in my box, she said, “Perfect. Now they each can have two presents.” I heard
later that the kids were ecstatic not only to have their very own presents, but
that the present was a book they could read over break. That was a reminder to
me that writing and books are a gift.
So when I get
hung up in the morning writing, thinking about passives, adverbs or this plot
hole that I can’t seem to figure out, I remind myself that writing is a gift.
Reading is a gift and I move forward. Because when I think about what writing
means to me, I have to think past me and what writing means in the bigger
picture. Remember that our writing does impact others whether it’s a kid who’s
only present for Christmas is a book or an aspiring author who reads a book and
says, “I want to write like that.” Books and writing give us the freedom to go
anywhere. Last Christmas the kids who received those books traveled the world
without leaving their homes. I hope that one of them will think to themselves,
“I want to write.” I hope that one of them will realize the opportunity given
to a writer by having the freedom to open their imaginations.
hung up in the morning writing, thinking about passives, adverbs or this plot
hole that I can’t seem to figure out, I remind myself that writing is a gift.
Reading is a gift and I move forward. Because when I think about what writing
means to me, I have to think past me and what writing means in the bigger
picture. Remember that our writing does impact others whether it’s a kid who’s
only present for Christmas is a book or an aspiring author who reads a book and
says, “I want to write like that.” Books and writing give us the freedom to go
anywhere. Last Christmas the kids who received those books traveled the world
without leaving their homes. I hope that one of them will think to themselves,
“I want to write.” I hope that one of them will realize the opportunity given
to a writer by having the freedom to open their imaginations.
I encourage
everyone, this amazing group of writers, to think about what writing means to
you and then how you can impact your own community at home. Realize that your
books and your writing do make an impression, that the hard work is appreciated.
Also realize that if we can touch one life and change it, then our writing is a
best seller. If we can motivate others to make a change in our community, then
we can realize what writing means to all of us.
everyone, this amazing group of writers, to think about what writing means to
you and then how you can impact your own community at home. Realize that your
books and your writing do make an impression, that the hard work is appreciated.
Also realize that if we can touch one life and change it, then our writing is a
best seller. If we can motivate others to make a change in our community, then
we can realize what writing means to all of us.
I can tell you that Lisa
Jackson, Clay Stafford and everyone with American Blackguard changed one life
right here. They have reminded me of my goals as an author, but also the bigger
picture. They have given me a gift and I promise to pass it on. I will remember
this conference forever and as I type away in the early morning hours, I will
not forget what writing truly means to me.
Jackson, Clay Stafford and everyone with American Blackguard changed one life
right here. They have reminded me of my goals as an author, but also the bigger
picture. They have given me a gift and I promise to pass it on. I will remember
this conference forever and as I type away in the early morning hours, I will
not forget what writing truly means to me.
Kathleen Donnelly
Passionate about
animals and the outdoors, all of Kathleen’s interests end up in the written
form one way or another. Her experiences being a part owner and
handler for Sherlock Hounds Detection Canines, a private pro-active drug dog
service that works primarily in schools, has been the subject of much of her
writing. Check out the website at: http://sherlockhoundsdetectioncanines.com/sherhound/http://sherlockhoundsdetectioncanines.com/sherhound/
She is currently working on a book with a female protagonist who’s a
K-9 handler for the National Forest Service. Kathleen lives in Johnstown, CO
with her husband and all their four-legged friends.
A Room of My Own
by Linda Rodriguez
This holiday season is a time of excitement for me. I am
about to get that room of my own that Virginia Woolf warned all women must have
to write: “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write
fiction.”
about to get that room of my own that Virginia Woolf warned all women must have
to write: “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write
fiction.”
How can this be, you might well ask? I have written and
published six books and have five more in various stages of the publishing
process. Surely, I have had a room of my own in which to do all of this. And
yes, I did have a lovely workroom that covered half of the upstairs floor of my
house. Large and airy with many windows and a balcony, which I never used
because I had so many bookcases in front of the door to the outside.
published six books and have five more in various stages of the publishing
process. Surely, I have had a room of my own in which to do all of this. And
yes, I did have a lovely workroom that covered half of the upstairs floor of my
house. Large and airy with many windows and a balcony, which I never used
because I had so many bookcases in front of the door to the outside.
This room was half writing office and half fiber art studio.
(At one point in my life, I was a professional fiber artist who made her income
from commissions and sales of her creations.) The fiber art studio was
well-organized with shelves full of baskets and boxes of spinning fibers,
yarns, quilting fabrics, spindles, a sewing machine table, a cutting table, a
quilting frame, two spinning wheels, several small looms, while downstairs in
the living room sat a large floor loom in place of a couch. The office had a
small antique desk with drawers used as a computer and printer desk set at
right angles to a huge, sturdy cherry dining table used as my main desk. It
also had a wheeled office-supply cart, two large bulletin boards, two metal file
cabinets, many large bookcases, stuffed full of books and overflowing the room
to range throughout the house. Off in one corner sat an old exercycle that I
could use for a break from writing or sewing or weaving. I loved this room.
(At one point in my life, I was a professional fiber artist who made her income
from commissions and sales of her creations.) The fiber art studio was
well-organized with shelves full of baskets and boxes of spinning fibers,
yarns, quilting fabrics, spindles, a sewing machine table, a cutting table, a
quilting frame, two spinning wheels, several small looms, while downstairs in
the living room sat a large floor loom in place of a couch. The office had a
small antique desk with drawers used as a computer and printer desk set at
right angles to a huge, sturdy cherry dining table used as my main desk. It
also had a wheeled office-supply cart, two large bulletin boards, two metal file
cabinets, many large bookcases, stuffed full of books and overflowing the room
to range throughout the house. Off in one corner sat an old exercycle that I
could use for a break from writing or sewing or weaving. I loved this room.
I have always had a problem with keeping a space all to
myself. Most wives and mothers will identify with this, I think. Our children
and husbands want our attention. They want to be where we are. And so, too
often, when I had carved a little space out just for myself, my husband and
children eventually, bit by bit, encroached on it until it was no longer mine.
But when I set up this workroom, I was ruthless. Children were grown, and my
husband had promised to stay in his own, even larger, office across the hall.
And it worked for six books.
myself. Most wives and mothers will identify with this, I think. Our children
and husbands want our attention. They want to be where we are. And so, too
often, when I had carved a little space out just for myself, my husband and
children eventually, bit by bit, encroached on it until it was no longer mine.
But when I set up this workroom, I was ruthless. Children were grown, and my
husband had promised to stay in his own, even larger, office across the hall.
And it worked for six books.
Then, breast cancer invaded my life. At the very same time,
my youngest son moved back home after getting his Ph.D. in Iowa. He moved into
part of my husband’s office, and my husband had to move many things over to my
office where he threw them on my big desk—“only for the moment.” It was a very
good thing that my son came home to live with us during this time since he was
able to take part of the caregiving load off my husband. But he brought all the
belongings that had furnished a large two-bedroom apartment in Iowa City. Much
of it wound up added to the pile on my big desk. My son moved my computer and
replaced it with his own on the computer desk, as he began his desperate job
search. I wasn’t using it at the time since I was in the middle of my own
desperate battle.
my youngest son moved back home after getting his Ph.D. in Iowa. He moved into
part of my husband’s office, and my husband had to move many things over to my
office where he threw them on my big desk—“only for the moment.” It was a very
good thing that my son came home to live with us during this time since he was
able to take part of the caregiving load off my husband. But he brought all the
belongings that had furnished a large two-bedroom apartment in Iowa City. Much
of it wound up added to the pile on my big desk. My son moved my computer and
replaced it with his own on the computer desk, as he began his desperate job
search. I wasn’t using it at the time since I was in the middle of my own
desperate battle.
Somewhere during that time—I’m not sure when—my son broke my
comfortable, over-twenty-year-old desk chair, and the combined weight of all
the “stuff” piled on it broke my big dining-room-table desk in half, split
right down the middle. Eventually, I grew stronger and needed to go back to
work, but my lovely workroom had been destroyed. The things piled in the room
were much too heavy for me to pick up or carry (probably why the desk gave up
the ghost under their weight). My son was. by this time, adjunct teaching full-time
at a university an hour’s drive away from our house plus the online classes he’d
committed to teach before that job came open, but he said he’d get me a new
office chair and a new desk and fix up my workroom when the semester was over.
However, he was hired as permanent full-time faculty at that university in that
other town and immediately put in charge of some key aspects of their
accreditation, which was imminent. He had to move down there immediately so he
could work seven twelve-to-fourteen-hour days a week for over a month. My
trashed workroom stayed unusable. I wrote two more books and most of a third on a laptop in my
recliner, not an ideal situation.
comfortable, over-twenty-year-old desk chair, and the combined weight of all
the “stuff” piled on it broke my big dining-room-table desk in half, split
right down the middle. Eventually, I grew stronger and needed to go back to
work, but my lovely workroom had been destroyed. The things piled in the room
were much too heavy for me to pick up or carry (probably why the desk gave up
the ghost under their weight). My son was. by this time, adjunct teaching full-time
at a university an hour’s drive away from our house plus the online classes he’d
committed to teach before that job came open, but he said he’d get me a new
office chair and a new desk and fix up my workroom when the semester was over.
However, he was hired as permanent full-time faculty at that university in that
other town and immediately put in charge of some key aspects of their
accreditation, which was imminent. He had to move down there immediately so he
could work seven twelve-to-fourteen-hour days a week for over a month. My
trashed workroom stayed unusable. I wrote two more books and most of a third on a laptop in my
recliner, not an ideal situation.
Now, for Christmas, my husband and sons are cleaning all the
heavy mess out of my workroom, giving me a new office chair, and repairing my great
old desk (my choice over a new one because it was such a wonderful workspace).
I am looking forward to the new year in my comfortable, organized workroom
where everything is within reach, and I can switch when I’m stuck in my writing
to some fiber art project, which always shakes loose the solutions I need in my
novels.
heavy mess out of my workroom, giving me a new office chair, and repairing my great
old desk (my choice over a new one because it was such a wonderful workspace).
I am looking forward to the new year in my comfortable, organized workroom
where everything is within reach, and I can switch when I’m stuck in my writing
to some fiber art project, which always shakes loose the solutions I need in my
novels.
Virginia Woolf was right. “A woman must have money and a
room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
REPLIES TO COMMENTS because Blogger…
Thanks, Margaret! It’s time for you, as well. Virginia was right.
Debra, you’re so right! It is just what the doctor and the muse ordered. Happy holidays to you–and to everyone else, as well!
Thank you, Judith! Enjoy the holidays with all of your new books. I recommended your novel to one of my developmental editing clients recently.
Yes, Kaye, it is lovely. I’m so looking forward to getting this workroom back in functional order. Merry Christmas to you, too!
Mary, you’re so right! I’ve often asked for help with some big project around the house, especially in later years as my health and strength have waned, but my boys would rather give me things. They’re very generous. My oldest has given me for Christmas a freezer when I wanted to replace my old one and a washing machine when I needed that, and my youngest totally surprised me with a big-screen TV and a machine to run Netflix (which he also gave me for a year) for my birthday a couple of months ago–because he had seen how much his helped me when I had bad nights during the cancer surgeries and broken wrist and decided I needed one. But household projects, usually not. I think it’s a time thing. They both find it easier to find money than time. So I’m really thrilled that they’re doing this.
What a Difference a Year Makes
By Kay Kendall
Last December my
husband and I were running an endurance test. He underwent three months of
daily radiation treatment plus chemo for his neck cancer. This understandably obliterated
the entire holiday season. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. Everything. By
my birthday around Valentine’s Day, he was beginning to feel a tiny bit better.
During his
treatments, every day I drove him to world-famous, justly revered MD Anderson
Cancer Center, and every day we passed by the same Christmas decorations. Our
favorites were the most lifelike eight reindeer of Santa’s that you would ever
hope to see—short of the real animals. They were so splendid that they cheered
us up as we passed them each day.
Well, Santa’s reinder are back
again now. And as much as I’d like to wipe out that awful time last year, this
holiday season is bringing it back to me in full, pulsating detail. Instead of
being depressed by the memories, however, I am determined to wallow—yes,
wallow!—in thankfulness.
I am thankful that
the specialty hospital is only eight miles from our home. For family and
friends
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| New Orleans French Quarter at Christmas** |
who stood by Bruce and me as we crawled through the long tunnel of
those months and out into the light. For being able to participate this year in
the travel plans we had made for last year’s Christmas in New Orleans.
Still, this season
is bittersweet. The good friend who took us into her family last year at
Thanksgiving and Christmas has lost her own battle with cancer. Another friend
was in a dreadful wreck on an interstate in New Mexico and will suffer the
consequences of his many cracked bones and torn aorta for the rest of his life, even though he
was quote-unquote lucky to survive.
is bittersweet. The good friend who took us into her family last year at
Thanksgiving and Christmas has lost her own battle with cancer. Another friend
was in a dreadful wreck on an interstate in New Mexico and will suffer the
consequences of his many cracked bones and torn aorta for the rest of his life, even though he
was quote-unquote lucky to survive.
Lots of old sayings
rush back into my head now. Like—you have to take the good with the bad. Life
has its ups and downs. And so forth.
rush back into my head now. Like—you have to take the good with the bad. Life
has its ups and downs. And so forth.
Truth to tell, I
get a bit scared when I contemplate the coming year, 2016. What will it bring?
Will I be ready for whatever comes my way? That’s when I just have to shut down
the Nervous Nellie part of my brain—and it is a pretty huge part, I admit—and adhere
firmly to the view that my cup is going to be half-full, not half-empty, come
what may. Even if I cannot convince myself that “my cup runneth over.”
get a bit scared when I contemplate the coming year, 2016. What will it bring?
Will I be ready for whatever comes my way? That’s when I just have to shut down
the Nervous Nellie part of my brain—and it is a pretty huge part, I admit—and adhere
firmly to the view that my cup is going to be half-full, not half-empty, come
what may. Even if I cannot convince myself that “my cup runneth over.”
Excuse me if I am
dwelling too much in platitudes. But I am telling you what is in my heart and
in my mind these days. I also must add the joy I felt at the grocery store two
hours ago when the customers smiled kindly at each other, the holiday music
played, and a toddler kept bringing me items from her mom’s shopping cart. She
was so sweet and charming. And best of all,
**our weeklong visit to wonderful New
Orleans with family—including our two delightful grandchildren. Kids at
Christmas are delightful. Their joy is contagious.
dwelling too much in platitudes. But I am telling you what is in my heart and
in my mind these days. I also must add the joy I felt at the grocery store two
hours ago when the customers smiled kindly at each other, the holiday music
played, and a toddler kept bringing me items from her mom’s shopping cart. She
was so sweet and charming. And best of all,
**our weeklong visit to wonderful New
Orleans with family—including our two delightful grandchildren. Kids at
Christmas are delightful. Their joy is contagious.
As the tee shirts
say—Life is good. It has to be. The only other alternative is unacceptable, and
will come all too soon to each of us anyway.
say—Life is good. It has to be. The only other alternative is unacceptable, and
will come all too soon to each of us anyway.
So, however and
whatever you celebrate this season, I hope you enjoy yourself and have family
and friends to do it with. I look forward to chatting with you again in 2016—which
I hope will be bright and healthy for us all. Rock on!
whatever you celebrate this season, I hope you enjoy yourself and have family
and friends to do it with. I look forward to chatting with you again in 2016—which
I hope will be bright and healthy for us all. Rock on!
~~~~~~~
Kay Kendall’s historical mysteries capture the spirit and turbulence of the 1960s. DESOLATION ROW (2013) and RAINY DAY WOMEN (2015) are in her Austin Starr Mystery series. Austin is a 22-year-old Texas bride who ends up on the frontlines of societal change, learns to cope, and turns amateur sleuth. Kay’s degrees in Russian history and language help ground her tales in the Cold War, and her titles show she’s a Bob Dylan buff too. Kay lives in Texas with her Canadian husband, three house rabbits, and spaniel Wills. In her former life as a PR executive, Kay’s projects won international awards.
What Have you Done or Are Doing for the Holidays?
Christmas is coming at our house. Since I’ve gotten old, our celebrations have changed a lot.
In days gone by, I, along with my children, and later grandkids, decorated a big tree and every corner of the living room. Now, my decorations are minimal–for two reasons.
1. I’m old and the kids have grown up and have their own houses to decorate.
2. I have three small great-grandkids who often come to visit. So my major decorations are stuffed moose that they can play with.
In those days of yore, presents were put under the tree and never opened until morning. Often, very early mornings. Now we can stay in bed longer on Christmas morning because we celebrate on Christmas Eve. That’s when we have our celebratory dinner–and open presents.
Who comes depends upon what their plans with what part of their extended family they plan to celebrate with.
No matter who manages to arrive we have a most wonderful time.
And no, I didn’t join the scramble for buying gifts either. My solution for the last couple of years is giving money to each family to spend as they see fit.
We have done some other celebrating. We had a wonderful dinner with the members of my writing critique group and their spouses. Good food and lively conversation.
We attended our church’s Christmas party which is amazingly wild and hilarious tempered with tasty finger foods. Everyone brings a wrapped ornament and the fun begins. I’m sure you’ve all played that game in some form or other–this version is one person unwraps an ornament, the next person can unwrap an ornament or take the first one, and so on. It get pretty wild.
I also spoke to a new Sisters in Crime group about how I’ve managed to write nearly 40 books. That was fun.
So, fellow gang members, tell us what holiday you celebrated or are celebrating and how you did or are doing it.
Marilyn
Falling in love with Dylan Thomas
One night, very soon, I will escape to the living room
with a glass of wine. The lights on the Christmas tree will glimmer and I will
turn on the CD player.
with a glass of wine. The lights on the Christmas tree will glimmer and I will
turn on the CD player.
No music.
At least not music as my teenagers understand it.
I will listen to Dylan Thomas recite A Child’s Christmas in Wales. I will listen to the music of words strung together like
pearls, perfect and shining brighter than the lights on my tree.
pearls, perfect and shining brighter than the lights on my tree.
I remember the first time I heard A Child’s Christmas
in Wales. I was a child, left in a running car (cut my father some slack—it was
the seventies and I was nine or ten, old enough to lock the doors). The day was
gray and foggy. My seat was warm. My father needed to speak with a mechanic…I
think. At any rate, I was left alone.
in Wales. I was a child, left in a running car (cut my father some slack—it was
the seventies and I was nine or ten, old enough to lock the doors). The day was
gray and foggy. My seat was warm. My father needed to speak with a mechanic…I
think. At any rate, I was left alone.
I sat in the Oldsmobile, listened to Dylan Thomas, and
fell in love with language.
fell in love with language.
Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when
there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats
whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day
in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and
we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the
motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says:
“It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down
and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”
there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats
whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day
in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and
we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the
motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says:
“It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down
and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”
“But
that was not the same snow,” I say. “Our snow was not only shaken
from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and
swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew
overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely
-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb,
numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards.”
Maybe one of these
days, I’ll tell my father the greatest gift he ever gave me was leaving me in
the car with Dylan Thomas.
days, I’ll tell my father the greatest gift he ever gave me was leaving me in
the car with Dylan Thomas.
Happy holidays to all!
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Julie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders.
She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean–and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is–she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions.
In addition to mysteries, Julie writes historical, romantic suspense. Her first romance, A Haunting Desire, was a finalist in the 2014 Golden Heart® contest and is available now.
She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean–and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is–she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions.
In addition to mysteries, Julie writes historical, romantic suspense. Her first romance, A Haunting Desire, was a finalist in the 2014 Golden Heart® contest and is available now.
Words of Death by Debra H. Goldstein
Words of Death by Debra H. Goldstein
When I was a child and read book titles like A Death in the Family, Death of a Salesman, Death Be Not Proud, they didn’t have much impact except to foreshadow an event that would probably impact the author’s story. It wasn’t a big deal that so much of literature includes scenes of death. Rather, death created drama or conflict – something important in good storytelling.
Now that I am older, I realize there was more than conflict or sappy sentiment being expressed by the writers. For the most part, each author had reached a point in life where friends and relatives die, where chronic illness and pills are standard fare for many, and where mortality is a topic thought about and just as quickly avoided.
The problem is that whether one stares death down or pretends it doesn’t exist, death eventually has the final say. During the past weeks, friends have lost parents, children and spouses. The funeral tributes have been lovely and varied, but all share the inevitable fact that the person now is but a memory.
We build upon the shoulders of those who came before us, but the memory of those individuals is only as good as how much we share our memories of them. A single heart and mind can retain the essence of someone for a lifetime, while a community, through named donations like a statute, park, or scholarship can help perpetuate an individual’s name for longer. It is the author who can remember a friend, a lover, a child into perpetuity.
The writer uses words to catch the meaning of one’s life, the individual’s characteristics, the smell of one’s cologne, and all the little details that comprise the person. These written word descriptions long bring to life Jay Follet, Willy Loman and Johnny Gunther as new generations meet them for the first time. Thank goodness.
Everybody Rotate
by Bethany Maines
It’s almost time to change the art in my office. I’ve had the same art since I moved in five
years ago and it’s now covered in layers of other art. It’s time to relocate, re-shuffle and change
up. Maybe you are not one of the people
who feels that deep need to redecorate periodically, but I happen to have it in
my genes. Returning home to find my
mother peeling wallpaper was cause for eyerolling, but not surprise. It works both ways though. On more than one occasion in my teen years I
decided to re-arrange my bedroom after midnight. My mother never once questioned these
decisions. Because she fully understands
that sometimes life would just be better if the furniture were NOT where it is
right now.
years ago and it’s now covered in layers of other art. It’s time to relocate, re-shuffle and change
up. Maybe you are not one of the people
who feels that deep need to redecorate periodically, but I happen to have it in
my genes. Returning home to find my
mother peeling wallpaper was cause for eyerolling, but not surprise. It works both ways though. On more than one occasion in my teen years I
decided to re-arrange my bedroom after midnight. My mother never once questioned these
decisions. Because she fully understands
that sometimes life would just be better if the furniture were NOT where it is
right now.
These are also good occasions for spring cleaning and
decluttering. Someone once said that
clutter items are just decisions you didn’t make. If you had decided where that item needed to
go, it wouldn’t be lingering there on the desk or kitchen table. Although, I suspect that the person who
originated that idea never had children.
Because the garbage can is not lingering on top my desk; it’s hiding
from my toddler.
decluttering. Someone once said that
clutter items are just decisions you didn’t make. If you had decided where that item needed to
go, it wouldn’t be lingering there on the desk or kitchen table. Although, I suspect that the person who
originated that idea never had children.
Because the garbage can is not lingering on top my desk; it’s hiding
from my toddler.
The problem with decluttering art, is that I’m either
removing my own work or the work of an artist I admire. It’s unfortunate, but apparently, I cannot
have ALL the art, ALL the time. I’m not
a Getty. I don’t get to have my own
museum. This makes me infinitely sad. My perfect house would probably look like a
library mated with the Guggenheim and married the Orsay. Unfortunately my current house looks more
like the product of a library and a 1910 bungalow who married a carpenter in
the 1950’s. Which means we have books in piles and art in piles and we had to
remove the weird scalloped molding over the sink when we moved in.
removing my own work or the work of an artist I admire. It’s unfortunate, but apparently, I cannot
have ALL the art, ALL the time. I’m not
a Getty. I don’t get to have my own
museum. This makes me infinitely sad. My perfect house would probably look like a
library mated with the Guggenheim and married the Orsay. Unfortunately my current house looks more
like the product of a library and a 1910 bungalow who married a carpenter in
the 1950’s. Which means we have books in piles and art in piles and we had to
remove the weird scalloped molding over the sink when we moved in.
So some art will have to go back in the closet and some new
pieces will have to get matted for display.
And then, maybe, I can get back to writing.
pieces will have to get matted for display.
And then, maybe, I can get back to writing.
Bethany Maines is the author of the Carrie
Mae Mysteries, Tales from the City of
Destiny and An Unseen Current.
You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video
or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.
Mae Mysteries, Tales from the City of
Destiny and An Unseen Current.
You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video
or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.
Ho, ho, ho. I’ve Stolen Your Identity
by Marjorie Brody
It can be a statement of admiration when someone emulates you. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so they say. It’s a very different situation when someone steals your identity, empties your bank account, maxes your credit cards, and pretends to be you while buying appliances at
various stores with your stolen checks.
It took me three years to resolve that chaos. One of the lingering problems is that our State refuses to issue a new driver’s license number even if someone steals–and continues to use–your old license.
I thought I had gotten over that theft. Thought I’d never have to go through something like that again. Then, last week, someone stole checks I sent in the mail to pay bills, altered them, and tried to cash them. Result? Once again, I had to change my banking account.
It’s taken me days and days of full-time work notifying direct depositors and direct payees of my new account number, making police reports, working with the fraud department of the bank to monitor activity on outstanding checks and checks that weren’t received by addressees. Paper work is piling up. My time is being gobbled away. It’s hard not to feel resentful.
But resentment gets me nowhere.
I take a break from my lengthy list of required calls and sit in the “blue room” in our home. Water flows down the rock fountain outside and splashes into our patio fish pond. The sound of cascading water seeps through the windows and soothes me. Guitars and books surround me. Across the room, I see a wooden wall plaque given to me by a colleague that says, “Your story matters.”
I think about the people who act without concern for the impact of their behavior on others, and wonder what their story is. Surely they have one. Every writer knows that even the villain sees him/herself as the hero of his/her own story. It’s not that I’m turning the other cheek—I will certainly press charges if the perpetrators are caught—but I refuse to let the perps steal who I am. They may steal my financial identity, make my fiscal life hell, but steal my heart and soul? No way!
So, whatever is going on for you this holiday season, I hope you’re holding on to who you are. Your story—and you as an individual—matters. I wish you the very best and I’ll speak with you next year.
Happy Holidays!
P.S. Crime Stoppers did catch that first thief—who looked nothing like me and even though I have “Check photo ID” written on my credit cards, store clerks never looked.
Marjorie Brody is an award-winning author and Pushcart Prize Nominee. Her short stories appear in literary magazines and the Short Stories by Texas Authors Anthology and four volumes of the Short Story America Anthology. Her debut psychological suspense novel, TWISTED, was awarded an Honorable Mention at the Great Midwest Book Festival, won the Texas Association of Authors Best Young Adult Fiction Book Award and was selected for the Middlesex County College Library list of 2015 Best Reads. TWISTED is available at http://tinyurl.com/cv15why or http://tinyurl.com/bqcgywl. Marjorie invites you to visit her at: www.marjoriespages.com.