Brooke Terpening joins The Stiletto Gang

Hello to The Stiletto Gang members and readers! I never saw myself joining a gang, but here goes!  My first blog shares an important aspect of my life outside of writing. I look forward to connecting with you!  ~ Author Brooke Terpening

~~~

March 22, 2024, 2:32 pm.  People gathered in the corner of the Boulder King Soopers parking lot and bowed their heads in a minute of silence. Behind them, ten trees stood witness to the tragedy of ten senseless deaths. Moving among the employees, friends, and family were three therapy dog teams. Some people wiped away tears as they hugged a dog; others smiled and thanked the handlers for being there for them. In turn, the dogs accepted each person, understanding their needs.

I was honored to be one of those teams. My labradoodle Teagan and I have been with Boulder Strong Comfort Dogs since the shooting massacre at our local grocery store three years ago. The Comfort Dogs are experienced teams, certified with a national organization. Additionally, they must have served at least one year visiting in hospitals and medical facilities.

Teagan at Boulder Police Department

Our dogs go wherever needed to relieve stress and anxiety. First responders, police, and district attorneys look forward to our visits. Seniors at assisted living facilities often are unable to have a pet and suffer from loneliness. I find noncommunicative people will open up to a furry face. A late-stage Alzheimer’s patient reminisced about her own animals. An autistic boy’s parents were amazed when he spoke for the first time in months to my dog.

At Colorado University, our “canine counselors” lift the spirits of homesick students preparing for exams. They snuggle, clown, and pose for selfies. Some students even plan their schedules around the visits and are regulars. One graduate level computer science student attended over ten therapy dog events in one and half years. Another remarked, “This is the best part of exams!”

Each dog develops a fan club. Many have become quite famous on campus. They are a bit like a cross between a super-hero and a rock star—they wear a cape, a.k.a. a vest, and carry their own “business” cards. At hospitals, nurses collect the cards and keep special treats for the visits.

Because the dog wears a vest, many people assume they are service animals. While working with Teagan, I’m often stopped by a stranger, who asks, “May I pet your dog?”

And the answer is an unequivocal yes. Unlike a service dog, which is trained to perform a task for only their owner, a therapy dog’s job is to put smiles on faces and provide comfort for everyone. These dogs and their handlers undergo a rigorous testing process to earn certification with established organizations. To serve in a hospital, veterinarians perform behavioral and psychological evaluations to ensure the dog can handle startling noises, unusual movements, and sudden emotional outbursts.

Often, the next question is, “What makes a good therapy dog?”

Any breed can excel at this work, but all share certain characteristics. Basic obedience skills are a must. Obedience can be taught, but you can’t teach a loving nature and calmness in crowds. They must tolerate dozens of strangers petting them during a visit. As a handler, I need to be alert to signs of stress in my dog and know when to take a break.

Some visits are harder than others. Several years ago, I was visiting a hospital with my first therapy dog, Mango. I knocked on a partially closed door and saw a young woman in bed eating a meal. A tray, dishes, coloring books, pencils, and notebooks lay scattered across her bed. A visitor sat quietly in a corner. I expected them to decline the visit, but to my surprise, the patient dropped her fork and exclaimed, “I need to see the dog.”

Mango at Tree at Life Boulder Resource Center

She smiled, excitedly cleared off her bed, and asked if Mango could join her. I placed him beside her, and she wrapped her arms around him. Mango snuggled closer and put his head across her lap. She stroked him and didn’t speak for several minutes. Then, she whispered to him how much she missed her dog but pets weren’t allowed in hospice care.

She wished she could, because, unlike others in long-term hospice, she was still in a wheelchair and could take it outside. She rocked Mango gently in the dimly lit room while her visitor watched with a small smile. The visitor, the young woman explained, was her roommate, also in hospice.

Her eyes glistened (as did mine) when she repeatedly said this visit was just what she needed. She buried her face in Mango’s fur and hugged him hard while a nurse administered pain medication through her port. While the medicine lulled her, I quietly moved Mango out the door.

Yes, scientific studies show petting a dog or cat will increase endorphins, reduce stress, and lower blood pressure. But more than that, a therapy dog will look directly into your soul with loving eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the best medicine is medicine for the soul. And sometimes that medicine is nothing more than wrapping your arms around a dog.

About the Author:  Brooke Terpening, a technology geek, semi-retired attorney, and crime fiction buff, lives and writes in the Rocky Mountain Front Range. She’s had a life-long affair with mysteries and computers. After earning a Master’s Degree in Information and Computer Science, she worked as a software engineer and director for various startups in North Carolina, the Bay Area, and Colorado. Development of several software patents led her to law school with the aim of becoming a patent attorney herself. Along the way, she took a life-changing detour into criminal defense. When she left Florida and legal work behind, she studied the craft of writing in Denver’s Lighthouse Book Project. Since then her writing has won multiple contests and awards for her unpublished crime novel and short stories.

 

Chicago Angels—by T.K. Thorne

This is a true and funny story that happened a few years ago. It’s about angels and life and Bob.

I was thrilled that my book had won a national award but didn’t think it was worth a trip to Chicago just to get a photo made. Sister Laura, however, was hyped about it. She had worked hard with little credit—editing, designing the original awesome cover, marketing, and supporting me at every step of my novel about the wife of Lot (Angels at the Gate). She also wanted us to attend the BEA (Book Expo America), which was happening simultaneously.

A few days before our flight, Laura fell and hurt her ankle. BEA requires lots of walking, but she was determined to go, even if she had to get a wheelchair. Where most people would have rented one, my always-check-a-thrift-store-first sister borrowed an old wheelchair from a thrift store. It was heavy and squeaky, and not knowing its history, she had cleaned it with Lysol, which was a prudent sanitary move but, unfortunately, set off the explosive-substance detector at the Birmingham, Alabama airport.

So, wheelchair, Laura, and all of her stuff had to be hand searched. And they confiscated our wheelchair, in case it was really a bomb, I guess, promising it would be at the gate waiting for us when we arrived in Chicago.

Not.

No wheelchair at the gate when we landed in Chicago. Had it exploded somewhere? We finally track it down in baggage. After a start like that, we are surely over the hump. All we have to do now is get outside the terminal because Laura has arranged for her friend, Bob, to pick us up. I’d never met Bob, but he was Laura’s friend. What could go wrong?

Bob, it turns out, is 82 years old. His car is about the same age and smells strongly of gasoline. I have visions of someone in front of us throwing out a lit cigarette. Are we going to explode after all? Will the Lysol on the wheelchair add to the incendiary mix?

Bob hops out and loads us up, pulling stuff randomly out of the hatchback area to get our suitcases and the wheelchair in and then crams piles of boxes on top of them, keeping the hatch down with bungee cords. When we get in the car, I politely mention that the boxes totally block his vision on one side.

“I’m used to it,” he says, pulling out into the rain and the insanity of the Chicago airport traffic.

The “it” he is “used to,” I realize, is not being able to see . . . omg!

I text our hostess. *Landed. If we survive Bob, will be there soon.*

Miraculously, Bob gets us where we are going, an area several miles north of Chicago in Edgewater, where Laura has arranged rooms at a friend’s cousin’s condo. Why, my always-check-a-thrift-store-first sister had reasoned, stay at an expensive hotel? It is a lovely place, but this is the award night, and I am worried about us getting back into Chicago. That ride was not part of the Bob-bargain, so we are on our own. That’s a good thing, right?

At Laura’s insistence, we forgo a taxi because we are so far away, but Laura has called the Chicago Transit Authority, and they assured her that all the metro train stations are handicap accessible. Still, it is no longer raining, and we leave the condo early, me pushing the squeaky, cumbersome wheelchair that I learn randomly applies its right brake and jerks hard to the right. I should have had a clue that the plans made by a woman who borrowed a wheelchair from a junk shop, not to mention, Bob, might warrant follow-up. When we arrive at the nearest station, we find there is, indeed, a way to get a wheelchair into the station. But “handicap accessible” does not stretch to a way to ascend the many stairs to the subway platform.

Reversing course, we head to next station down the line, which does have an elevator and where we meet a nice young man with the Chicago Transit Authority who helps us up to the platform. I ask his name.

“Angel,” he says.

My first thought is how appropriate—the name of my book is Angels at the Gate! WAIT! The name of my book. . .  omg, I have forgotten a copy of my book (necessary to hold when getting picture taken at awards.) The last thing the publicist said was, “Don’t forget a copy of the book for the photo.”

I leave Laura on the platform with Angel, hurrying back to the condo. By this time, my feet are aching in my boots (which I am wearing because my skirt rises too far in front for knee-high stockings, and I will die before wearing pantyhose.)

I grab a copy of my book and switch my boots for sandals. Still need the socks, because this is Chicago, not Birmingham. I look down to see two bright pink big toes peeking out through holes in the socks.

Whoops, sandals not going to work for photo opt. I grab boots for later donning. By the time I get back, we are running late. We set the brakes on the wheelchair but, besides randomly engaging, they are not that spiffy about staying engaged. At the first lurch, Laura rolls down the aisle. I am running after her trying to catch her before she crashes at the other end.

A second angel jumps from her seat and shows us how to lock in the wheelchair. Who knew? We are from Alabama.

The clock is ticking. The whole purpose of the event is to get that photo op. We are a long way from our stop, the closest one to the (Sears) Willis Tower with an elevator.

As we discuss strategy for when we exit, a third angel pops up from her seat—apparently getting a signal from above (or perhaps watching our entrance) that there are some Alabama girls in need of assistance—and plops into the seat next to me.

“You’re going to Willis Tower? I work near there.” She kindly explains which way to walk from our next stop. We are so late now that we must take a cab.

Holding our breath against the olfactory assault in the train elevator (known as a subway by locals, even when it is above the ground), we descend to the street. I step out into the roadway and hail a cab for the first time in my life. (Again, I live in Alabama; a household is incomplete without two cars and a pickup truck.) A cab stops and looks us over, shaking his head at the wheelchair and driving on. I hail another cab, who also shakes his head at the wheelchair. We push on to Willis Tower, rolling through the puddles and treachery of cracked sidewalks. We are now very late.

I push the rickety wheelchair as fast as I can until we hit a crack in the sidewalk that stops us dead, shoving the wheelchair handles into me and nearly dumping Laura, book, and boots onto the sidewalk into a puddle because, yes, of course, it is now raining again.

Willis (Sears) Tower is massive. We enter and proceed via elevator to a winding corridor down to the security station, surely close to our goal, only to find we are at the wrong door and have to be escorted through the labyrinth of the Tower to the service elevators in order to reach 99th floor and the Independent Publisher’s party and awards announcement. We are finally here! We register, pick up our ID’s and a program . . . from which we learn “Historical Fiction” is #15 on the list and they are now announcing #26.

We missed it. All the way from Alabama to Chicago . . . and WE MISSED IT!

I wheel Laura to the bathroom. I feel worse for her, since she really wanted this, and it is as much her award as mine because cover design and layout are also considered, along with the story and writing.

While waiting for her, I notice we are sort of “backstage” to the awards announcer, and a beautiful young woman is standing (on the stage) with her side to me, so close I could touch her with a step. She is obviously connected to the proceedings. Hearing one of my father’s oft-repeated life lesson in my head— Only the squeaky wheel gets the grease— I take that step and tap her shoulder between photo setups, whispering that we had difficulties and just arrived, and is there any way we could go out of order? She steps out of the big room and consults a list, asks my name.

“T.K. Thorne.”

She brightens. “Oh, you are T.K. Thorne? I loved your book!”

“You read it?”

“Yes, I really loved it; it was my favorite book out of all of them.”

There are 80 national categories. No idea how many submissions in each category or how many she actually read, but that’s a lot of books, even if she meant in my category. As far as I am concerned, I am happy.

Dianu. (Hebrew for “it is enough.”)

She graciously arranges for us to get called up, Laura hobbling at my side. They put a huge medal worthy of the Olympics around my neck and, to my delight, around Laura’s too. And I have the book in hand! Success! Photo snaps.

 

You wouldn’t have even seen the pink toes. We head to the bar.

 View out the Willis Tower, drink in hand  View out the Willis Tower, second drink in hand

Over the next several days we encounter angels and references to them in rather odd ways. In addition to the transit guy named Angel, another “angel” (whose friend is Angela) shows me how to use Uber (Yea! No more wheeling for blocks to the train station); the Egyptian uber driver mentions his son’s name is translated as “Angel in Heaven”; and a book publicist at the Book Expo America (BEA) advises me to “listen to my angel.”  I keep looking for a flutter of wings out of the corner of my eye!

On our last day, Bob picks us up, and we load wheelchair and baggage. After bungee-cording his car hatch down (not because of our luggage, just normal procedure), we are off to the airport with an extra hour . . . just in case. It is bitter cold, but I roll down my window because I can’t afford losing any more brain cells from the fumes. There is so much stuff in this car, it is unidentifiable. I try not to think about what all could be in there and just hope there are no rodents that live near my feet. This time I am in the back seat, and I reach for the seat belt. I actually find one, but there’s no buckle, so I just loop it around one shoulder. There’s a chance if we hit something at just the right angle, it might help. Laura is in the front seat. “What’s that noise?” she asks, forehead wrinkled in concern. Is it the engine?

“I don’t know,” Bob says. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

Laura: “Sounds bad.”

Bob: “Unless the wheels fall off, I usually just turn up the radio.”

I couldn’t make this up.

Postscript:  Despite appearances, Bob was one of the many Chicago angels, for sure. He has spent most of his life traveling around the world helping people in disasters, which is how he and Laura met. I really wish I could spend more time with him and hear his stories . . .  just not in his car.

T.K. Thorne writes about what moves her, following a flight path of curiosity, reflection, and imagination. Check out her (fiction and nonfiction) books at TKThorne.com

Lucky Number Thirteen?

photo from Pixabay

By Lois Winston

Triskaidekaphobia is defined as the fear or avoidance of the number thirteen. There are some people so paranoid about the number that they won’t live on the thirteenth floor of a building. Many hotels completely skip the thirteenth floor, going from the twelfth to the fourteenth because people will often refuse to stay in a room on the thirteenth floor.

I was born on the thirteenth. Maybe that’s why I’m not a superstitious person. I’d hate to go through life thinking my entire existence has been cursed ever since I couldn’t hold out another twenty minutes before making my way down the birth canal.

Truthfully, I’ve never given much thought to the so-called unlucky number. I also don’t avoid black cats, knock on wood, or toss spilled salt over my shoulder. However, I’ve been thinking a good deal about whether I should worry because my upcoming new release is the thirteenth book in my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series. Sorry, Knot Sorry is currently on preorder and will release June 4th. Suddenly, I’m keeping my fingers crossed (LOL!) that none of my readers suffer from Triskaidekaphobia.

The origin of the unlucky thirteen is often traced to both Christianity and Norse mythology. At the Last Supper on Good Friday, Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus, was the thirteenth guest to arrive. Likewise, the god Loki was the thirteenth guest at the feast of Valhalla. After arriving, he tricked another guest into killing the god Baldur.

However, in some cultures, the number thirteen is considered lucky. Prior to World War I, thirteen was considered a lucky number in France. The numeral was a good luck symbol often found on postcards and charms. Thirteen is also considered lucky in Italy where it’s thought to bring prosperity and good fortune, especially when it comes to gambling. The same is true in Spain. In Egypt, it’s associated with prosperity and blessings.

Although many countries have a negative reaction to the number thirteen, quite a few have mixed feelings about it, and many simply view the number as ordinary and free of any superstition.

What about you? Are you superstitious? Post a comment for a chance to win a promo code for a free audiobook download of any one of the first nine Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries.

 

Sorry, Knot Sorry (preorder now, on sale 6/4)

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery, Book 13

Magazine crafts editor Anastasia Pollack may finally be able to pay off the remaining debt she found herself saddled with when her duplicitous first husband dropped dead in a Las Vegas casino. But as Anastasia has discovered, nothing in her life is ever straightforward. Strings are attached. Thanks to the success of an unauthorized true crime podcast, a television production company wants to option her life—warts and all—as a reluctant amateur sleuth.

Is such exposure worth a clean financial slate? Anastasia isn’t sure, but at the same time, rumors are flying about layoffs at the office. Whether she wants national exposure or not, Anastasia may be forced to sign on the dotted line to keep from standing in the unemployment line. But the dead bodies keep coming, and they’re not in the script.

Craft tips included.

~*~

USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. Learn more about Lois and her books at her website www.loiswinston.com where you can also sign up for her newsletter and follow her on various social media sites.

PERIL IN PINK, OUT NOW!

By Sydney Leigh,

Hi everyone! After what felt like a very long wait, my new book baby is finally here. PERIL IN PINK is the first in The Hudson Valley B&B Mystery Series, published by Crooked Lane Books. It’s a modern cozy and I can’t wait to tell you a little more about it…

Schitt’s Creek meets Only Murders in the Building in this sparkling debut mystery.
It’s the grand opening of The Pearl B&B in Hudson Valley, and owner Jess Byrne has prepared the ultimate, Insta-worthy welcome, complete with her ex-boyfriend—reality singing sensation Lars Armstrong—performing live. As guests check in and mimosas are poured, Lars arrives with his stepdad-turned-manager Bob in tow. But things go south when Bob is found dead, and Lars is the prime suspect.

After a desperate plea from Lars, and knowing the reputation of her B&B is at stake, Jess agrees to help clear Lars’ name, but the more she digs, the less sure she is that he’s innocent. Especially when he’s found at the scene of another murder.

With the guests under lockdown, the B&B in the press for all the wrong reasons, and a killer on the loose, Jess is in over her head. With the help of her best friend and business partner Kat, Jess is determined to uncover the truth before Lars is put behind bars and The Pearl is permanently cancelled.

Have you ever stayed in a Bed and Breakfast? 

Sydney Leigh spent several years running a seasonal business, working in the summer so she could spend cold months in cool places. Now she writes mysteries and thinks about murder. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and served on the board of Crime Writers of Canada from 2018-2021. Peril in Pink, the first book in the Hudson Valley B&B Mystery Series comes out in March 2024 with Crooked Lane Books. You can find Sydney at www.sydneyleighbooks.com

New Short Story Anthologies

by Paula Gail Benson

Three great new anthologies are on the horizon. Please add the following to your “to be read” lists:

Dark of the Day: Eclipse Stories, will be released on April 1 (in time for the April 8 total solar eclipse). The anthology is edited by Kaye George and published by Down and Out Books. Stories are by Eric Beckstrom, Paula Gail Benson, Michael Bracken, John Rogers Clark, IV, Bridges DelPonte, Cari Dublei, John M. Floyd, Kaye George, Debra H. Goldstein, Toni Goodyear, James A. Hearn, Laura Oles, Katherine Tomlinson, Joseph S. Walker, M.K. Waller, Carol L. Wright. (I’m very proud to be included with these terrific authors!)

Donna Andrews, Marcia Talley, and Barb Goffman edited Three Strikes—You’re Dead!, an anthology of sports mysteries coming out April 23 from Wildside Press. Every author in it is a member of the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime. The authors are: William Ade, Kathryn Prater Bomey, Maddi Davidson (the pen name of authors Diane Davidson and Mary Ann Davidson), Lynne Ewing, Barb Goffman, Sherry Harris, Smita Harish Jain, Adam Meyer, Alan Orloff, Rosalie Spielman, Shannon Taft, F. J. Talley, Robin Templeton, and Joseph S. Walker.

Malice Domestic announces its 18th Malice Domestic anthology titled Mystery Most Devious, edited by John Betancourt, Michael Bracken, and Carla Coupe Malice Domestic and published by Wildside Press. The anthology will include stories by Mary Adler, Sue Anger, Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier, Susan Love Brown, Joslyn Chase, Leone Ciporin, P.A. De Voe, Christine Eskilson, Roberta Gibson, Hope Hodgkins, Smita Harish Jain, Jackie McMahon, Linda Norlander, Josh Pachter, Jill K. Quinn, Jennifer Slee, and Sarah Stephens. It’s due to be released with a book signing at Malice Domestic in April.

Happy reading!

 

A Historical Mystery Based On The True Story of Marie-Joseph Angélique

This past holiday there was a special present under the tree – my new novel Conflagration! This is the seventh book in BWL Publishing’s Canadian Historical Mysteries series, and it takes us back almost three centuries to New France and an era when slavery was surprisingly and sadly commonplace. I’d like to share the opening pages with you.

Chapter 1 – Montréal
Friday, April 9, 1734

cover of book Conflagration! by donalee MoutonMud is everywhere. It defines Montréal in April. The snow continues its laborious melt, the ice in the St. Lawrence jostles the shoreline, the clouds hover relentlessly close to earth, and everywhere there is heavy, wet, sticky muck. It adheres to the sides of shoes, the bottoms of coats, and the brims of hats whipped to the ground by winds, there one minute, gone the next.

I look down. My boots are caked in grime, a primordial ooze from the earth, from under the sea, from crevices unknown. I will spend much of this evening cleaning heels, toe caps, and outsoles only to have more mud adhere tomorrow. These caked brown scars are visible reminders that I am not at home. Not at home in this town. Here I have no roots, no history.

Home is Acadie, another world away in another part of New France. My home, admittedly, has mud, but it is the mud pigs roll in to cool their skin, the mud farmers use to build dykes, the mud kids make patties with under the spring sun. Montréal mud is a nuisance, a bother, a reminder of life’s inconveniences.

I am feeling sorry for myself. I am missing my family. It happens. I accept the ache, acknowledge its origins, and move forward, literally through more mud. I remind myself of Madeleine, my wife. She makes life in here bearable. She makes life breathable.

The afternoon sun hides behind clouds. But even in disguise, its demise for the day is evident. Soon it will be dark. I need to push onward, deliver these papers, and make my way home before nightfall. Before the mud becomes invisible, and treacherous. The ground is still hard and much of it frozen; mud will not break a fall, but it will cause one. I need to be careful. For Madeleine.

* * *

map of Montreal 1734

Map of the St. Lawrence River, 1781 Joseph F.W. Des Barres, River of St. Lawrence, from Cock Cove near Point au Paire, up to River Chaudière Past Quebec, 1781. London: I.F.W. Des Barres. Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec

A heavenly aroma greets me as a walk through the front door. We live several streets away from the merchants’ quarter, on rue Saint-Antoine, closer to where I work as a court clerk. Madeleine knows somehow today was a long day and a hot beverage will be welcome. The tea, a Bohea blend infused with orange peel, is a special treat. It helps to warm my chilled bones and reassure my feet they will work tomorrow. Madeleine places my boots at the front door. I will tackle them later.

Supper is hot and satisfying, smoked ham with potatoes, cabbage, and onion. More tea follows the meal. As does conversation. This is our time. Madeleine listens with her ears and her heart. This is my favorite time of day.

And I talk about mud. My wife knows I am not really talking about mud but about Montréal, this town that is my home and not my home. “There is mud in Acadie,” she says gently. She pats her stomach, almost absently, and reminds me that soon this town will also be the home of our first child.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the least I can say. What I can do is make our conversation what it should be and what it usually is: meaningful.

“I was in the lower town today.”

Madeleine smiles. “I bet it was muddy.”

“I saw a Panis slave. My guess, she is from the Fox Nation. Sold to someone here.”

“You see slaves every day. Yet you remember this one.”

“You are, as usual, right. I saw several slaves today on rue Saint-Paul alone. And a young servant girl. It all disconcerts me still.”

I am familiar with slaves. We have slaves in Acadie, but they work the farms, the field, the land as we all do. They seem part of the landscape. Perhaps they do not feel that way. I say this out loud to Madeleine. She does not dismiss the notion as odd as it may be in this town of 3,000 people that includes hundreds of slaves, maybe more.

“Do these slaves look differently to you? Do they act differently?”

They do not, and they do. “It is the vacant stares, the abbreviated eye contact. It does not sit well in my heart.”

“Another cup of tea will solve that.”

I will come to realize that what I see is the look of those imprisoned. It is the face of those who have no means of escape. Later I will associate it with the wall that surrounds Montréal.

I hate that wall. It closes me in. It is supposed to make me feel safe. It doesn’t.

Learn About The Author

Learn more about donalee on her author website: https://donaleemoulton.com/

Dreaming of the Perfect Writing Tool

By Barbara J Eikmeier

I wrote an entire novel in my dreams the other night. It was a suspense thriller with a mysterious murderous. The plot was riveting and the characters vivid in my dream world imagination.

When I woke, I knew I’d dreamt a novel but didn’t remember a single detail. How frustrating is that?

Whenever I have a clever idea for a story, I make notes. If it’s for a current project I prefer 3 x 5 cards, a holdover from my college days where I learned to write nursing care plans on little cards. In novel writing I use them for scenes – it’s easy to shuffle them around as the narrative is coming together. And I’m a big fan of spiral notebooks, although it’s sometimes hard to find my notes when I need them, and it takes extra time rewriting as I type into the computer. If only there was a tool that would convert my hand written notes to digital text.

I went so far as to buy a second hand gadget without really understanding what I was buying. (Oh the woes of buying second hand!) It had a small tablet sized screen and an electronic pen. Surely, it would work. I asked my techno-savvy daughter to teach me how to use it. Alas, it was a graphic design tool, not intended for text at all. A graphic designer herself, my daughter happily took it off my hands.

Like most writers, I conduct informal research in airports. I’ve observed the introduction of all sorts of gadgets by watching what people are using on flights. Do you remember the short lived series of Samsung phones that were the size of an Ipad? The only place I ever saw anyone use that phone was on an airplane. Then there was that time I thought a lady had left her dental floss on the seat. Her visual relief at noticing the small white case seemed out of proportion for dental floss. Come to find out they were $100 ear buds, common place now, but cutting edge at the time.

On a flight a few months ago I saw a businessman using a slim notebook sized gadget with an electronic pen. When I ran into him in the terminal during a connection I asked him about it. He gave me the name, along with a glowing review. Then he surprised me by pulling it out of his carry-on and showing me a few pages during a 3 second tutorial. I wrote ReMarkable 2 in my spiral bound notebook and proceeded to my next gate where I jumped on the internet and looked it up. 5 Star Reviews across the board. I sent a text to my daughter who replied instantly, “I’ve heard it’s good.”

Using a bit of mad money I had stashed away, I order the ReMarkable 2. I’ve had it for about three weeks now. I’m still learning which features are best for me, but so far I’m loving it.

Is this the tool that will replace my towering stack of 49 cent spiral notebooks? Will it clear my kitchen counter of endless to-do lists? After all, I can still handwrite those beloved lists on its opaque paper like surface. Will the text conversion work well enough for me to cut and paste into a manuscript or in Skrivner, finally breaking me of a decades old habit of using 3 x 5 cards?

I think the answer is yes, it will do all those things. What it won’t do is capture that complete novel from my dreams.

Do you use a digital notepad? Has it increased your productivity?

Barbara J. Eikmeier is a quilter, writer, student of quilt history, and lover of small-town America. Raised on a dairy farm in California, she enjoys placing her characters in rural communities.

Reading the Same Book Twice

Reading the Same Book Twice

by Saralyn Richard

 

 

I’m always surprised when a reader tells me he’s read one of my books multiple times. As a voracious lifelong reader, I find myself muttering, “So many books, so little time.” I’m on a personal mission to read as many new books as I can, and I don’t take the time to re-read any of them.

I feel the same way about movies. I’m stunned by the number of times my husband can watch a classic movie favorite. I recently asked him how many times he thought he’d seen “Casablanca,” and he estimated more than 100. “Do you continue to see new things in it each time?” I asked. “Absolutely,” he said, and, as a viewer, he is moved by the story in different ways each time, too.

 

That thought gave me pause. I wonder if I re-read Gone with the Wind today, would I have a whole different take on it than I did when I read it at the age of sixteen? Or how about Catcher in the Rye, or To Kill a Mockingbird?

One of my loyal readers, a dear friend, makes it a point to read my books three times. I’m honored that she spends so much time with my characters, and I’m intrigued, too. I asked her over lunch if she would elaborate as to why she does this, and what she gets out of it. Her answer was enlightening.

She said, “The first reading is a light, quick skip through the story, mainly following the plot. The second reading is more intense. That’s where I pay close attention to the clues and the path on which they are leading me. The second reading is more process oriented. The third reading is more holistic. By this time, I’m able to enjoy the whole package of the story. I can see how the setting, characters, plot, and theme work together to form a perfect whole.”

“Wow,” I said, flattered that she has taken the time to analyze, synthesize, and evaluate each of my books. Her higher-level thinking makes my heart sing.

And it makes me re-think what it means to be a reader, rather than a consumer of books. For many years I taught a literature course entitled, “Literary Tapas.” The class read short pieces of literature and analyzed them using Socratic questioning. Through the questioning, we were able to get at some incredible insights and meanings, no matter what genre or time period the literature came from. And we always read it twice.

Now that I think about it, I might enjoy reading a few favorite books again, savoring the journey as I go. How about you? Are there any books you’ve read or would like to read twice?

 

Saralyn Richard writes award-winning humor- and romance-tinged mysteries that pull back the curtain on people in settings as diverse as elite country manor houses and disadvantaged urban high schools. Her works include the Detective Parrott mystery series, two standalone mysteries, a children’s book, and various short stories published in anthologies. She also edited the nonfiction book, Burn Survivors. An active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, Saralyn teaches creative writing and literature. Her favorite thing about being an author is interacting with readers like you. If you would like to subscribe to Saralyn’s monthly newsletter and receive information, giveaways, opportunities, surveys, freebies, and more, sign up at https://saralynrichard.com.

 

The Difference Between a Shamrock and a Four-Leaf Clover

by Paula Gail Benson

On March 1, Terrie Farley Moran, author of the Read Em and Eat mystery series and current author of the Jessica Fletcher novels including Murder She Wrote: Death on the Emerald Isle, posted the following on Facebook: “Welcome to March, the month of St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. Please remember that the SHAMROCK has THREE leaves and decorate accordingly. This is my annual public service announcement.”

 

I’ve thought a lot about Terrie’s PSA, particularly since noticing several companies offering jewelry that had four-leaf clovers instead of shamrocks.

For instance, Talbots features a pin with a lady-bug perched on a four-leaf clover:

Talbots Jewelry

 

Betsy Johnson has a necklace that has a four-leaf clover and horseshoe:

 

Betsey Johnson Jewelry

The shamrock, as Terrie mentioned, is associated with St. Patrick, who is said to have used it to demonstrate the concept of the Holy Trinity, three persons in one God, when teaching the Irish about Christianity.

According to his biography in Britannica, Patrick was born in Britain, captured, and sold into slavery. The six years he worked as a herdsman in Ireland made him turn strongly to his religion. In a dream, he saw a means of escape, but encountered more servitude before being reunited with his family. After his return to Britain, he received a letter asking that he come back to Ireland. Although concerned about his abilities and safety, he did go and is now recognized as Ireland’s patron saint and national apostle.

In her article, “Four Leaf Clover Symbolism and Good Luck Meaning,” Dani Rhys provides a quote from John Melton, written in 1620, as the first mention of how people viewed four-leaf clovers: “If a man walking in the fields find any four-leaved grass, he shall in a small while after find some good thing.”

Rhys also notes that the four-leaf clover is likely connected to the “luck of the Irish” because it grows more often there than in other countries. “Abundance in this case means there is about 1 four-leaf clover in every 5,000 regular three-leaf clovers in the European Island, whereas there is only 1 four-leaf clover in every 10,000 three-leaf ones outside Ireland.”

I’ve been fortunate to have kept a shamrock plant alive in my office for several years. It looks a bit straggly but continues to thrive.

Also, my uncle had an amazing capacity to find four-leaf clovers in a field of green grasses. When he passed away, his wallet contained a collection of many pressed four-leaf clovers.

Whether you seek luck or symbolism, may you have the clover that suits you best! Happy day after St. Patrick’s Day!