Murder, I Write

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Not too long ago, an author friend and I sat down for lunch. He was kind enough to tell me about the book he was working on. A book about war and his heroine’s descent into evil.

He finished speaking and looked at me expectantly.

I sat in stunned silence.

He waited.

I stalled with a sip of water then said, “It doesn’t sound very redemptive.”

His lip curled into a slight sneer. “It’s not redemptive. There’s nothing redemptive about war.”

I was too busy enjoying my shrimp, grapefruit, and avocado salad to argue that there might not be anything redemptive in war, but there should be in fiction.

It’s a conversation I’ve thought of often. I do not have an MFA. I do not write literary fiction. I do write to promote a political agenda. I write to entertain.

And to me, part of being entertained is an ending that keeps the story’s promise. If it’s a mystery, the murdered will be caught. If it’s a romance, the two star-crossed lovers will find happiness. If it’s historical fiction, the protagonist will learn and grow against an interesting backdrop.

Can I tell you a secret? I didn’t like Gone Girl. Not one bit. Why? SPOILER!!! Because for all that Nick goes through, he is not redeemed. His life is going to be awful. Maybe worse than when the book began. Gillian Flynn writes an engaging novel but to my mind, the ending broke its promise with its readers.

A reader who picks up a Country Club Murder knows Ellison will find a body (or two). They also know that Ellison will have to deal with her difficult Mother and a host of other problems as she struggles to unmask the killer. Finally, they know that at the end of the book, the murderer will be revealed and order will be restored (until Ellison finds the next body–but that’s another book).

It’s a story promise I vow to keep.

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.


Her latest book, Watching the Detectives, releases May 23.

Are Blogs Passe?

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Are
Blogs Passe? by Debra H. Goldstein

When my first book, Maze in Blue, a mystery set on the
University of Michigan’s campus in the 1970’s was about to be published, I was
advised to quickly create a website, social media presence, and a blog. The
result was:
Website: www.DebraHGoldstein.com
Twitter: @DebraHGoldstein
Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/debra-h-goldstein-72473a11/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DebraHGoldsteinAuthor/
Personal blog, “It’s Not
Always a Mystery” – www.DebraHGoldstein.com/blog
I was set, or so I
thought. What I discovered during the time that elapsed between the original
publication of my 2012 IPPY award winning Maze
in Blue, its reissuance by Harlequin Worldwide Mystery as a May 2014
selection, and Five Star’s 2016 publication of Should Have Played Poker: a Carrie Martin and the Mah Jongg Players
Mystery, was that technology changed what was needed to attract readers. Websites
had to be more interactive and mobile friendly, pictures and crafts demanded a
presence on Instagram and Pinterest, and besides having a personal blog, it was
beneficial for emotional support and reaching other readers to be part of a
group blog, like The Stiletto Gang.
Of course, even though it
meant redesigning my website, devoting more time to social media, and writing
three blog posts a month (I write the
Stiletto Gang blogs posted on the 2nd and 4th Fridays
of the month and alternate having a guest post or one by me every other Monday
for It’s Not Always a Mystery), I
complied. In my free time, I enjoyed life, produced twenty short stories that
have been published and a few still looking for a home, and wrote the first
book for a new series that will soon be shopped by my agent.
In five years, both the
world of publishing and suggested means of connecting with readers has

changed
significantly. One of the most discussed things is the role of the blog. Some
argue, there are simply too many, so none are being read. Others contend blogs
are the only thing giving readers a consistent way of interacting with an author
by providing an opportunity to read and comment on their thoughts and
activities.

Personally, making blog
deadlines is sometimes onerous, but I’m always glad when I complete one. I like
sharing a bit of myself with you. I also enjoy reading blogs written by others.
I always read everyone’s postings on The Stiletto Gang because we are all so
different. Although I may not always write a comment on the blog itself or when
it is reprinted on our Facebook page, I respect and value the different views
we express.
But, what do you think
about blogging? Do you think they have served their purpose? Do you look
forward to them? Do you prefer ones written by individuals like It’s Not Always a Mystery or group blogs
that appear more often, but are written by more authors like The Stiletto Gang?  

Prejudice and Fake News

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by J.M. Phillippe

I have been reading comments on stories about Trump’s outrageous lie over the weekend that Obama had Trump Tower wire-tapped and here is how it seems to go: Trump wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t think it was true, which means there is proof of it, and we need an investigation to find that proof – of the thing there currently is no proof of.

This is very different than the stories about Trump’s ties to Russia where journalists are pointing out facts – all these people tied to Trump talked to the Russian ambassador and other folks at these times, while these other things were happening, and these particular Trump aligned folks then lied about it. 

A real story starts with facts and sees where they lead, and a real journalist lets the facts create the theory. 

A conspiracy theorist starts with a theory, and then insists there must be proof of it, and any failure to find the proof just proves how powerful the people responsible for the conspiracy are. In selling a conspiracy theory, facts are irrelevant, and fear and outrage are all that matter. 

This is how you can tell fake news from real news: did it start with facts, or with theory? Is someone drawing conclusions for you, or letting you draw your own? Is there a clear line of events you can trace, or a corkscrew of situations that only add up to something if you follow a particular twisty path? 

And, as always, follow the money. Find the motivation. Not a secret motivation that only makes sense if you’re a Bond villain or part of the MCU, but a real, human motivation like, I dunno – protecting your known and unknown financial ties to a foreign country.

Take any particular bias you have against the people involved in a story out of the equation, and ask yourself: does this make sense? 

That’s the beauty of logic – it’s not interested in what we want to be true, but in finding out what actually is. 

The horror of conspiracy theories is that they are only interested in what you (and your biases) want to be true, and never care about – or can find any tangible connection to – what is actually true. They only make sense through the lens of bias. They justify prejudice and hatred, and in fact only exist to serve that purpose. 

And that’s what I kept reading – comments about hate for Obama that gets to continue to be justified by a story that paints him as a villain capable of any evil act. Because Obama is evil, the story must be true. The story must be true because Obama is evil. There is no room for actual facts in that equation. Prejudice is its own proof.

The solution to fake news isn’t more facts. What researchers know is that facts don’t change minds, and in fact, there have been some studies that show that being presented with new facts can actually make someone double-down on their prior (often irrational) belief. If you want to get rid of fake news, you have to first attack the thing that makes people want to believe in it in the first place: prejudice. 


My first training on bias and prejudice was when I was studying journalism as an undergrad. Journalists are trained to try to be as objective as possible. How?

You have to be willing to be wrong to follow facts instead of prejudice. You have to be able to handle the idea that the facts may not lead where you want them to, and that your beliefs may be challenged in a way that may even force you to change them. You have to commit to the idea that truth is more important than comfort. You have to be able to tolerate the tension of not knowing all the answers and not jumping to any conclusions. You have to find sources — as many as possible and as close to the center of the story as possible — to make sure you have all the information possible. 

This is what ethical journalists do, every day. If you want to learn to consume media the same way the best journalists report it, you have to start in the same place as journalists do – by identifying and moving past your own prejudices. And if you want to convince someone else that what they are reading is fake news, you have to first convince them that they have ulterior motives for believing it —  you have to convince them that they are reading through the lens of prejudice. Only once they recognize WHY they are so willing to believe the story — why they will believe anything of someone they hate or a group they know little about (and often fear) — then they can start to see the facts from a more objective point of view. Maybe they’ll even be convinced. 

Or, maybe they’ll just form new prejudices. 

***
J.M. Phillippe is the author of Perfect Likeness and the short story The Sight. She has lived in the deserts of California, the suburbs of Seattle, and the mad rush of New York City. She works as a family therapist in Brooklyn, New York and spends her free-time decorating her tiny apartment to her cat Oscar Wilde’s liking, drinking cider at her favorite British-style pub, and training to be the next Karate Kid, one wax-on at a time.

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

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by Linda Rodriguez
This photo sums up how I’ve been
feeling lately. It’s an internet meme that’s really all about the
political chaos and turmoil we’re all facing every day in 2017—or
so it definitely feels. And while it’s absolutely appropriate for
that part of my life and everyone else’s right now, unfortunately it
fits just about everything in my life at this moment.

National politics completely
aside—which is definitely something to say since it’s been such a
dumpster fire this year–the new year came in mean and rough in my
homestead. We’d decided a month and a half earlier to downsize our
lives, sell our big old house, and move to a much smaller, newly
renovated with new everything, single-floor dwelling, and I was
excited about it, although I dreaded the necessary trial of purging
42 years of family life and possessions. For that month and a half
things went well. It was exhausting, and my husband and I weren’t
happy to realize that it was going to take even more time and work
than we’d originally thought—where did all this stuff come
from?—but I had scheduled our necessary work, step by step and room
by room, and we were making good progress.

On the last day of the year, however, I
was scheduled for my regular six-month chemo infusion. I had planned
for this in my schedule, marking at least a week out of use.
I had come to the point where the chemo only really made life
difficult for me for a week or so. I’d found ways to get around the
longer-term issues and manage to work with them bothering me anyway,
so I only expected to really lose one full week. This time, however,
I had to have an extra infusion because my blood tests weren’t as
good as they should have been, and this new infusion blasted out a
month from my schedule. I was knocked flat for almost 30 days that I
hadn’t anticipated losing. I rescheduled with our buyers.

At the end of that month, I started
being able to work on the house again and worked furiously to try to
make up time. In a little over a week, though, I had to leave for
AWP in Washington, DC. I lost a week to AWP and came back in bad
shape, so I lost a few days after arriving home to recovery. Just as
I began to get on my feet again, the illness that had been
circulating at AWP and forcing a number of attendees to spend all or
part of their time confined to their beds hit me, as well. There went
another ten days. So I’ve basically lost the first two months of this
year, and the move that I thought we’d be able to make in March is
more likely to take place in May or early June.

On top of all that, we arrived home
from DC to find that our elderly cat, whom we never think of as
elderly because she’s always been so spry and active and youthful,
was ill. After consultations with the vet, it became clear that she
is probably dealing with a terminal illness. We have opted not to go
with any invasive procedures since she’s not in pain nor likely to
be, according to the vet, but simply weakening and slipping away. She
was a rescue and is terrified of the vet’s office or anywhere but
home (which is why we always make arrangements to have her cared for
in our home when we have to leave). For now, we are trying to tempt
her to eat and spending a lot of time giving her affection, and she
actually seems to be getting better. The vet says she might even
spring back for a while, a month or even a year or so. Either way, when
her time is up, she will go peacefully in her home with the people
she loves around her.

Minnie (short for Mrs. Miniver) is the
best cat I’ve ever had, and I’ve had cats most of my life. She’s the
smartest and best behaved. She knows the rules of the house, and she
never breaks them. She’s a great mouser. She’s sweet and
affectionate. She hides when strangers come—as I said before, she’s
a rescue and had a rough life before coming to us fifteen years ago.
When we brought home our most recent dog, a large, boisterous,
bumptious hound, Minnie quickly established her dominance, and to
this day, she bosses him, who could eat her in one mouthful,
mercilessly.

Thus, slowly and weakly, I’m getting back
on my feet, way behind on my downsizing, and nursing a probably-dying
cat, all in an America run by people who not only don’t seem to know
anything about it, but who seem to be determined to destroy it, with
new reports of possible treason daily. And each morning does seem to
be a major damage report. So I remind myself each day of what the
great Eleanor Roosevelt once told us and demonstrated over and over
in her own life. “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
And get up to start dealing with it all once again.

A Promise to Yourself

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by Sparkle Abbey

Each January our agent asks us for a business and marketing plan for that year. We don’t exactly look forward to it, but we are goal setting, planning kind of women, so we don’t mind. Part of our business plan includes an author mission statement. That’s not unusual. Every business should have a mission statement, and being a published author is running a business. We have goals and objectives, we need to know our target audience, and we need to be aware of our strengths and weaknesses. Makes sense.

But what about a personal mission statement—one that guides our actions, behaviors, and the way we treat others? A description that defines who we are and puts our dreams into words.

A personal mission statement takes honest introspection. You have to know what brings you joy, and causes you sorrow. You have to take an accounting of your strengths—and your weaknesses—a critical observation of your behaviors and patterns. The kind of statement we’re talking about brings focus and purpose to your life. Think of it as a promise to yourself.

Here are personal mission statements from two very successful women:

Denise Morrison, CEO of Campbell Soup Company

“To serve as a leader, live a balanced life, and apply ethical principles to make a significant difference.”

Oprah Winfrey, Founder of OWN, The Oprah Winfrey Network

“To be a teacher. And to be known for inspiring my students to be more than they thought they could be.”

What if everyone had a personal mission statement? A positive sense of purpose? We could change the world.

What about you? Do you have a personal mission statement?

If not and you want to create one, but have no idea where to start, check out Time Thoughts. Not only do they provide great tips and guidelines, they also have a number of sentence templates that you might find helpful as a jumping off point. Keep in mind, your personal mission statement isn’t static. It can change and grow as you discover new things about yourself and enter new seasons in your life. 

Leave a comment and inspire us with your personal mission statements! We’ll start with one of ours: “To live life fully and honestly. To be kind and compassionate to those around me. To always chose joy.”

Sparkle Abbey is the pseudonym of two mystery authors (Mary Lee Woods and Anita Carter). They are friends and neighbors as well as co-writers of the Pampered Pets Mystery Series. The pen name was created by combining the names of their rescue pets–Sparkle (Mary Lee’s cat) and Abbey (Anita’s dog). If you want to make sure you’re up on all the Sparkle Abbey news, stop by their website and sign up for updates at sparkleabbey.com.

Sister Love, True Confessions by Juliana Aragon Fatula

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Louise, Emma, Rose 1998

March Madness or March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. March reminds me that spring is about to spring on us in big and little ways. This photo of my Mom and two of my aunts reminds me of the strength of the bond between women,  sisterhood.

This month’s post is dedicated to my little sister, Lynette Aragon, may she rest in peace. I’m going to tell you about how she taught me the meaning of sisterhood.


Lynette and Juliana Aragon 1980’s

We are only two years apart, she would have turned fifty-eight in April. I will miss her and her great sense of humor. Even while death was beating on her door, she kept her cool, her attitude, her grace.

She shared stories with me all the time. She knew I was writing a novel and asked me about it when we talked. I told her my plan to record our family’s stories and my belief that as long as your name is spoken, you are not forgotten and live on. I plan on writing poems and stories about her and keeping her memory alive. She led a life full of mischief and drama and she left with a whisper.

Lynette liked to wear sneakers and peddle pushers. She kept her hair permed, colored, and styled. She went to beauty school and one time she asked me to be her model so she could pass the final exam and graduate. She cut and styled my hair and graduated. I love her. I love her more every day. She confided in me secrets. We shared secrets. We shared a bedroom growing up. She babysat my baby boy, so I could return to high school.

On by 30th birthday, I went a little crazy. I drank and cried in my beer until I blacked out. She rescued me. She put me in the backseat of her car and burned out of the party by the river and drove up and down Main Street. Dragging the gut is the name we gave it.

I bopped and bipped and slid and slopped in the backseat unaware that I was on display for the entire Main Street audience. She pretended she was in a parade and gave the beauty queen wave as she passed all the bars, taverns, saloons, liquor stores, and churches. My body kept sliding down because I wasn’t wearing a seat belt and she drove kind of wild (she probably had been drinking at my birthday party).

River Walk and Birthday Party Spot

She pulled up at the liquor store, ran inside, bought cigs, and straightened my body out in the backseat and stuck a cigarette in my mouth. She messed up my hair that was already a mess and put lipstick on my lips. Then she slapped me. Really hard. She slapped me and slapped me again. My sister, Lynette, or Skitter as we called her, had some issues with me that were unresolved, so she gave me the rough stuff. She laughed. She doubled over laughing at the predicament of my drunken state and hopped back in the driver’s side and burned out of the parking lot with me flopping like a bobble head. I wish I had video.

A million things could have gone wrong that night. I seriously could have fallen in the Arkansas River and drowned while the party raged on. I could have been eaten by Zombies. DUI? Arrested? Lost? Missing? Yikes. She really did save me that night. I know I made it home safely thanks to her rescue. She saved me in many ways. It wasn’t long after this incident that I gave up drinking. I realized I had a serious case of alcoholism.

When I create characters for my stories, I remember to make them human by giving them flaws. We all have them. Making bad choices doesn’t mean we are bad people. It means we are human. Humans make mistakes. I learned from my mistakes. I had a serious drinking problem and my characters have issues, secrets, tell lies, hold grudges, want revenge, have egos and dangerous ideas. My sister, Lynette, had flaws. She also had a heart of gold and she loved unconditionally. Through my writing, Lynette will live on in fiction. She can live to be eighty or a hundred instead of only living 57 years. The power of the written word. She leaves behind three sons and seven grandchildren. She had friends who adored her. She was unique. She was Skitter.

My husband and I share 27 years of sobriety together. He knew my sister for 27 years. I’ve known her for 57 plus years. That’s a long history, que no? I have photos of her, some are not flattering, but I would never show them to anyone because she was so beautiful; her disease stole her beauty, her health, her life.

She confided in me her deepest darkest secrets and we shared similar heartaches. She showed me that sister love, sisterhood, is stronger than death. I’m  dedicating this post to her life. So what if she slapped me. I probably had it coming, que no?