Too Much of a Good Thing … is Filling My House

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I’m Amy Alessio, a YA librarian and an author. I was delighted to meet half of the fabulous Evelyn David team at the Love is Murder conference. I told her to hurry up with the next book, and she suggested I help with a guest blog spot.

I have my own blog on Vintage Cookbooks to share my addiction to old cookbooks, and I have fun failing to make some of the old creations. (Think lots of lard.) I also blog for the Love is Murder conference and for Echelon Press’s Teen Scene.

Blogging is an excellent way to procrastinate writing my own fiction. I have some librarian books published and I have a short story published in The Heat of the Moment, an anthology by Echelon Press which benefits the victims of the CA wildfires (anthology pictured on the nightstand). My YA mystery is with an agent.

I read almost as voraciously as I eat baked goods. In addition to books I review for Teenreads.com and Crimespree magazine, I bring home several books a week from the library. To narrow it down, I love romance, mysteries, especially those with Chicago authors like Michael Black, J.A. Konrath, Tom Keevers and Julie Hyzy, fantasy, teen books, any kind of chick lit, anything with a librarian character or by a librarian, anything written up in People magazine, anything with food on the cover and maybe the occasional non-fiction. Cookbooks also of course.

This week I’ve had the flu, so I’ve been reading 3-4 books a day. Yes, even with my four year old at home some of those days. It’s amazing how much you can read during a Backyardigans episode. Sounds like a dream, right? One was a romance anthology on chocolate. Another was the new Carole Matthews Chocolate Lovers Club or something like that – it had to go back before I ate it. I also read Mary Kay Andrews’ new one about two cooks who fall in love, complete with tomato soup cake recipe. Yesterday I broke down and made a chocolate cake. Really – you can’t read that stuff forever and not eat something really naughty.

I’m also reading Kate MacAllister’s Aisling Grey series. I like the occasional paranormal romance, like a MaryJanice Davidson, or Jayne Ann Krentz/Jayne Castle (who used to be a librarian), but I think this is my first dragon series. These are great spicy fun. I think she’s writing mystery under a pseudonym too. Having a pseudonym is like waving a red flag in front of a librarian, by the way. We love tricky questions.

So you see it’s imperative that I have an entire library at home. On top of the nightstand is what I want to read soon. In the nightstand are my all time favs and autographed books. Under the bed are mainly YA I want to read less soon. Then – there are the 300 cookbooks. They are in 5 locations, that I can remember, in the house. Most of those cost very little at antique or used book stores. Who else would want a Blender or Meat Stretcher cookbook from 1970?

It’s interesting that while my son is adopted, he has similar book habits. Next to his bed is the first pile, photographed here. Then there’s the dresser and the bookshelf. He may have to clean them up soon, though – to make room for more of my cookbooks!

How many books are in your nightstand? Ok, now how many are hidden in your house?

Amy Alessio

Well Caramelized

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Can we talk hair this week? For years I did my own. Color. Trimming. I did it, myself. Of course I mostly wore my reddish brown hair in one long braid down my back so any mistakes were easily hidden.

Just before Murder Off the Books was published I decided I needed to do something with my hair; something that would leave the 70s behind and look good for book signings.

I made an appointment with a local hair salon. I told them I needed a cut, color, the works. I also warned them that I had long hair and to plan on slotting me in for more than 30 minutes. They assigned me a brand new hair stylist; I think she’d just been out of school a week or two.

Nicki, was about 20 years old, cute, and very soft-spoken. I was lulled into a false sense of security. Nicki talked softly, but knew which end of the scissors were which. She immediately, and in my own opinion with very little show of regret, cut off twelve inches and asked how much shorter I wanted to go. With my voice an octave higher than when I entered the salon, I advised that was far enough on a first date.

Nicki then took a hard look at my color. Coloring long hair at home is no easy feat. You’ve got to fashion an outfit from garbage bags, layer the bathroom floor with newspapers, and make sure you have plenty of alcohol (the rubbing kind) for clean up, and the other kind for afterward. Then you sort of massage the color into your hair, using clips to keep the uncolored from the colored, as you work your way around your head. I thought I’d been doing a really good job. Apparently not.

Nicki searched through the strands and asked which color I liked best, the dark brown ends, the lighter top where I have a few (very few) gray strands, or the middle part which had a kind of reddish cast to it. I shrugged. She waved a bunch of hair color samples in front of my face. She asked me to pick two that I liked; one light, one dark. I did. She said no. She picked two. One was kind of beige, the other was blonde. Nicki said those two colors would really lighten up my face. I hesitated. She countered with, “Just for the summer.” Thinking back on it, I’m not sure why I agreed. It was January.

Nicki is an artist. She applied the color to my hair with a paint brush and with the same precision that I imagine the Masters used on their oil paintings. She did one color, then applied the second color to select strands. Ninety minutes later, I was caramelized. I also had enough foil on my head to get great TV reception.

Whatever nervousness I might have been feeling about the cut and the color, all disappeared after Nicki directed me to the shampoo room. Did I mention that Nicki is the best shampooer in the world? Total head and neck massage, no pulling, water temperature just right, perfect positioning of the towel under your neck, and she takes her time. Shampoos twice, then conditions.

My hair looked better than it ever had. The color was wonderful. The cost was in the same range as my car payment. I don’t know if my face was looked lighter, but my mood was. The cost was worth every penny.

It’s been just over a year now. I have to make my appointments with Nicki well in advance. She’s very popular and she only works a few days a week. I’ve tried to interest her in my book, but she says she’s not really into reading.

Oh, well. No one’s perfect.

Evelyn David

What I’ve Learned from Watching TV

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The best thing about reading all of my co-bloggers’ entries is that I learn something new about them every week. Last week, it was that Marian (like me) can’t write sex scenes. And the week before that, it was that Rhonda loves television, seemingly, as much as I do. I almost wept with joy. Because I don’t know if it’s the same where you live, but I seem to reside in an area where television is both disdained and deplored.

I consider myself pretty well-read and educated, yet I love television and feel that some of my most important life lessons have come from watching the tube. And my all-time favorite show? “The Brady Bunch.” God forbid there is a marathon on TV Land, because I’ll drop everything. I drop Bradyisms into conversation with regularity.

Let me share a few of the things I’ve learned.

At a recent dinner party, one of our friend’s sons threw a ball and knocked over a vase. My reaction? To exclaim, “Mom always said, ‘Don’t play ball in the house!’” a classic line that was uttered by Bobby to Peter after Carol had admonished the boys about horseplay in the Brady split level. Most of the partygoers nodded in agreement; they knew that the Brady’s had this gem and many others. What could be more true after all? I also learned some wicked cool cheers from one of the cheerleading episodes. Who, after a glass of wine or two, hasn’t gotten up in the middle of the living room, shouting “F-F-F-I-L, L-L-L-M-O, O-O-O-R-E, FILLMORE JUNIOR HIGH!” just like Greg’s girlfriend?

Just me? I don’t believe you. Come on. Come clean. It feels good.

Other things I learned:

Never wait for the man to ask your hand in marriage. For an example, see Sam the Butcher’s courtship of Alice. Fortunately, my husband proposed with a bit more expediency than Sam, who at the end of the series, was still courting Alice, bringing her ground round as a romantic gesture of his love. Alice? Still single.

If you see an idol in Hawaii, DON’T PICK IT UP! Otherwise, you’ll lose the surfing contest, have a tarantula crawl up your leg while in bed, or misplace the important architecture blueprints. It’s just not worth. You can buy an idol at the local giftshop that probably doesn’t have a hex on it or will bring a pox on your family.

If you don’t have a boyfriend, don’t pretend that you have one, and especially, don’t give him the pretend name of “George Glass.” Everyone will see right through it, no pun intended. And then you’ll just look pathetic. (That means you, Jan.) Do it the old-fashioned way and pretend you can’t do your French homework so that the cute guy in your French class will come over and help you. It worked for me. (I can’t speak a word of French, by the way, despite a French major and a French-teacher husband.)

If you want to make a lot of money, not work very hard, and take a lot of vacations, become an architect. Did anyone work less than Mike Brady? Sure, he talked about the Anderson account incessantly, but I never did see him actually work on the Anderson account. Those Andersons must be pretty ticked off by now…and have limited shelter options if their architecture needs were left up to Mike Brady.

And I learned that family is all you need, love and understanding solve every problem, and all the words to the Davey Jones’ song, “Girl.” I challenge you to top that with something that you learned from reading a newspaper. Can’t come up with anything? I didn’t think so.

Maggie Barbieri

What’s Next?

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Sometimes trying to think up what to write on a blog is daunting. You’d think a writer wouldn’t have a bit of trouble coming up with something. Unfortunately, it isn’t always that easy. This week has been filled with the piddly things that take away from what I’d really like to be doing–working on my own novel, of course.

Instead I’ve made trips to the bank–twice for the church. No, I’m not the treasurer, nobody in my right mind would let me take care of figuring out the church’s finances–but I am the church clerk which means I’m the second signer on all the checks.

Ever so often, the treasurer has me sign about a hundred checks so they’d be ready when she pays the bills. While I’m doing that, I’ve often thought how marvelous it would be if I were autographing my books instead.

Having said what I did about the church finances, I also must admit to finishing with my income taxes. Yes, I do them myself. These wonderful program to do your taxes on the computer have made it almost like a game. (I did say “almost”.) My biggest problem with math has always been adding (even with a calculator), but the computer takes care of all that.

I’ve also been to the grocery store, done the laundry, written a newsletter I get paid to do, attended a meeting, got my hair cut, done some promotion on the Internet, read a zillion emails (almost an addiction), and started packing for Epicon. Yeah! I can hardly wait.

Oh yes, I’m also busy with a ghost writing project that’s taking a lot of time. Not really something I would write on my own, but rather fascinating just the same. And yes, I do get paid for doing it–actually much more of a sure thing than what comes in from my own writing.

And by the way, the virtual book tour I’ve been on has paid off–at least the Amazon numbers for Smell of Death are far lower than any of the rest of my books, except for Deadly Omen which continues to do well. Lower numbers means the books are selling–at least one or two.

So, now that I’ve bored you with what a mystery writer does when she’s not working on her own mystery, I’ll sign off until next week.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

How Shall I Kill Thee?
Let Me Count the Ways

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If you’re tired of death by bullets (and I still like a good Glock 9mm to do the trick), there are lots of other options. You might consider the more high-tech thallium or stick to the old-fashioned, but still effective, stiletto.

Murder can be accomplished in lots of ways. Personally, I’m intrigued by spontaneous human combustion. Years ago I read a great Scottish mystery where the victim dies ostensibly under those circumstances. Of course the killer has manipulated the situation so that it appears that the body burned of its own accord. I wish I could remember the author or title. Help please??

Since Evelyn David knocked off her first victim, we’ve gotten quite adept at new and interesting ways to commit murder. Should it trouble me that my favorite bedtime reading is Murder and Mayhem: A Doctor Answers Medical and Forensic Questions for Mystery Writers (D.P. Lyle, M.D., St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2003)? On the other hand, I’m a firm believer in the 50-page rule. Somebody’s got to be dead in the first 50 pages or generally speaking, I’ve moved on. Heck, in Murder Off the Books and the forthcoming sequel, Murder Takes the Cake, somebody dies in the first paragraph. Now that’s how to get the show on the road!

I enjoy, probably more than I should, discovering new ways to commit murder. But here’s a word to the wise. Remember that your Internet research is fair game for the prosecution should you decide to use your murder skills in real life (elimination of the spouse who leaves dirty clothes on the floor or the neighbor with the windchimes on the porch). I came across a news story recently about a woman who was on trial for murdering her husband. Chief among the evidence arrayed against her were her Google searches for “instant poisons”, “undetectable poisons”, and “fatal digoxin doses.” And then apparently the coup de grace was her search for “how to commit murder.”

Sometimes you don’t really want to kill – just maim slightly. A wound that permits your injured hero or heroine to still be healthy enough to foil the bad guys. I spent hours trying to find a gunshot wound that wouldn’t require major surgery so that one of our characters could be released from the hospital within six hours. Of course, when I was writing that scene, I had other worries. Even with the correct wound, who could guess how long the hero would sit in the Emergency Room waiting to see a doctor?

But then I remembered – this is fiction. I can move our hero to the front of the line, have him see a brilliant doctor with a wonderful bedside manner without filling out 30 pages of financial information, and get his bullet wound repaired with a liberal application of Crazy Glue.

Okay, I know. Fiction does have limits and your plot has to be believable. Some of what I just wrote will have to be deleted; probably everything except the bit about the Crazy Glue.

Evelyn David

http://www.evelyndavid.com/

Deleted Scenes

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Award-winning investigative reporter–and now Agatha nominee–Hank Phillippi Ryan is currently on the air at Boston’s NBC affiliate, where she’s broken big stories for the past 22 years. Along with her 24 EMMYs, Hank’s won dozens of other journalism honors. She’s been a legislative aide in the United States Senate (working on the Freedom of Information Act) and worked at Rolling Stone Magazine with Hunter S. Thompson. Her first mysteries, Prime Time and Face Time, were best sellers. Air Time and Drive Time are coming soon from MIRA. And this just in: Prime Time is an AGATHA nominee for Best First Mystery.

Thirty (or so) years ago, when I was just starting as a TV reporter, my first news director (think Lou Grant) gave me some advice that baffled me at the time. He said, “The hardest part about writing a news story is deciding what to leave out.”

I was such a newbie, I thought the hardest part about writing a news story was—well, everything. But as I began to learn my craft, I realized he was right. You don’t have to “empty your notebook” into your story. You don’t have to tell everything you know.

And now, writing mysteries, isn’t it the same?

When I finished the first draft of Prime Time, I joyfully took the floppy disk with my dear first novel on it to the Kinko’s down the block from Channel 7. “Could you print this for me?” I asked. I lowered my eyes, then looked modestly back up at the copy kid. “It’s my novel.”

“Sure, lady,” he said. Not that impressed. But I was—exultant—that soon I would soon see my very first manuscript printed out on actual paper.

Two hours later, I returned as instructed. This time the kid said, “Oh, you’re the one with the novel.” “Yes,” I replied, fluttering my eyelashes, wondering if maybe he had a sister or mom who would eventually love it.

He bent down under the counter, and pulled out a ream box of paper. “Oh, thanks,” I said, and turned toward the cash register.

“Hang on,” he replied. He leaned back down under the counter, and pulled out another ream box of paper. “Here’s the rest of it,” he said, placing it on the counter. “Guess your book’s pretty long.”

I had neglected to number the pages. But, turned out, it was 723. Seven hundred and twenty three pages.

And that meant Four. Hundred. Pages. Had to go.

Which brings us back to my news director. He was right again. I had to decide which of my precious words to leave out. More on that in a minute.

Last night, my husband and I watched a pretty good movie on DVD. When it was over, I clicked to the deleted scenes. “Why do you always want to watch the deleted scenes?” Jonathan asked. “They’re deleted.”

But you know why. Those deleted scenes—and the reasons the director gives for cutting them—are a little private seminar-on-the-couch on how to decide what to leave out. It works for movies, it works for our mysteries.

For instance. One scene by itself was perfectly good. But the director explained it had to be cut because it would slow the action.

In my head, I rewound, and played that part of the movie back including the deleted scene. He was right. It would have dragged.

He moved on to another very well-acted scene, where two characters slowly learned more about each other. I don’t think I imagined the regret I heard in his voice, as he described how tough it was to inform the actors that this emotional and well-shot scene was going to hit the cutting room floor. But, his analysis showed, nothing was really learned. The plot wasn’t advanced. Sorry, guys. Cut.

Finally, he showed a scene near the end. It took place in a living room, where a phone call brought good news that a missing father was coming home, and the viewer saw that his son had been born in his absence. It was sweet and touching.

Nope. It pulled the punch, the director said. How much better, he explained, to pick up the action with the father arriving home. To have the viewer see the baby—for the first time—at the same time the father did. Yes, of course. Much better.

Deleted scenes. The director loved them when he shot them. But—even more– he loved what was left without them.

Of course, part of the difficulty with cutting is fear. Fear you’re going to ruin something. Fear you’ll never be able to put together words so nicely again. Fear you’ll cut the wrong thing.

But you’re the director in your mystery, right? You yell ‘action!’ every time you begin to write. And the characters (sometimes) do what you say. Part of the fun of cutting is seeing the sleek, fast-paced page-turner that emerges–as you begin to compile your own reel of deleted scenes.

It’s your power. Your strength. Decide which words to leave out. Do it. You’ll never miss them.

Hank Phillippi Ryan
http://www.hankphillippiryan.com/

Where Are My TV Shows?

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Ever since I was old enough to understand that those tiny people in the box were telling me stories, I’ve been hooked on television. And each year since I was about five years old, I’ve had a couple of favorite programs; my shows. Something I looked forward to each week, my little escape from a not-so-glittery reality.

My brother and I used to watch Dark Shadows, hiding behind a blanket on the sofa, knee socks tied around our necks to prevent vampire bites and drinking cold sweet tea in goblets – to mimic Barnabas’s brandy snifters

For my shows I’ve given up much and suffered mightily: I’ve done chores early so I could watch the original Cinderella; rushed through homework so I could see the Big Valley; fought bloody battles with my sibling for control of the tv remote (and before that the tv knob) so I could watch Here Come the Brides and Emergency; skipped high school play practice to watch the movie Sybil; developed 24-hour illnesses so I wouldn’t miss a minute of a Cagney & Lacey marathon; considered changing my major in college so I wouldn’t miss Ryan’s Hope; and warned people I would not be answering the phone or door or tolerating any conversation whatsoever during my Wednesday night episode of The West Wing.

And today? I love Medium when I can find it and remember the day it’s airing. Where has all the excitement gone? I mostly channel surf now. Remember the thrill of getting the Fall Preview edition of TV Guide? I’d pick out my new shows for the year by pouring over the blurbs and photos. Then I’d fix my tv watching schedule with the skill of an air traffic controller – my old favorites plus four or five new ones that I would sample. If I didn’t like the new ones, there was always time to give the second stringers an audition.

Not any more. New shows come and go within the first couple of airings. The older shows don’t stick to any discernable schedule. And if you miss an original episode because of breaking news, weather advisories, or power outages? Don’t count on seeing it during the summer reruns. Reruns are scattered during the regular season and the summer has morphed into a reality-tv nightmare.

I admit it. I love dramas and light romantic comedies. I’m not entertained by watching people eat fresh cow tumors or some other stomach-churning oddity. I don’t like watching people being ridiculed by other people. I want the good guys and gals to win; the evildoers to get their just rewards; and the hero and heroine to ride off into the sunset at the end.

Where are my tv shows?

Evelyn David

Sex Sells (but that doesn’t mean I’m going to write about it)

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To start, more spoilers: Alison and Crawford do have a relationship that involves sex. I just don’t think about it—or write about it very much. I have had some interesting feedback from interesting sources (that means you, MOM) about why my books are so chaste. About why I don’t include explicit sex. About why, in “Murder 101,” after only meeting a few days earlier, Alison and Crawford didn’t jump into bed thereby acknowledging and putting a name to their lust.

The answer’s simple: I grew up Catholic and I have to live in this world.

Let me explain. Point #1: Catholicism. I, like Marian, had a very religious upbringing but of the Catholic variety. There were nuns, priests, virgins, guilt, more guilt, and CYO basketball. That’s it. Nothing else. When we weren’t going to church, or trying to make up sins to confess at the tender age of eight lest the priest get the impression that we thought we were perfect (god forbid), or playing basketball, we were thinking about one of those things. Because to think about anything else—including and mostly SEX—was a mortal sin. And we all know what you got from that: a big, black blemish on your soul. That was your first-class, one-way ticket to HELL. I’m sure that there are many people out there who grew up in a similar fashion who have led productive lives and written erotica even but the message that was given to me—“Virgins RULE!” (one that I have now embraced given that I have a teenage daughter)—was taken to heart. I have matured somewhat since that time, but the idea of writing about what goes on in one’s bedroom—even if the “one” is a fictional character—is anathema to me.

Point #2: living in this world. I have two children—one not even a “tween” and one a full-fledged teen—and a husband. I live in a very small town which is, technically, not even a town—it’s a village. The ‘town’ is where we go to do the really exciting stuff. I shop locally, worship just an eighth of a mile from my house, am a member of the PTA, and try to lead a relatively upstanding life. Could you imagine the looks I might get if I walked into the local gift shop, half of the town having just read something I had written that included the words “throbbing member” (and I’m not talking about those of us who get worked up at Booster Club meetings) and trying to purchase a hostess gift? I can’t.

After the publication of my first novel I ventured down to the local ball field to watch my husband play softball. His teammates consist of a bunch of mostly forty-something dads, all of whom I know. One of them—we’ll call him “Bob” because that’s his real name—asked me why Alison and Crawford hadn’t consummated their relationship at the end of “Murder 101.” At this point in time, I was hard at work on “Extracurricular Activities” and nearing the point where my two main characters might have to steam things up a bit.

“I have trouble writing sex scenes,” I said, rather bravely I thought.

He thought for a moment. “We could help you!” he said, motioning toward the rag-tag group of softball players, some practically in traction after playing the first inning. I had a hard time envisioning any of these hurting puppies in flagrante delicto, never mind just making it to their cars to drive home. “We could write them for you!”

A couple of the other dads looked in his direction. One mentioned that with his dislocated finger, he wouldn’t be able to pick up a pencil or type on a keyboard. Another mentioned that his leg hurt so much that the only thing he’d be doing would be begging his wife to rub Ben-Gay on it. Another mentioned that after that night’s game, he was retiring from softball entirely. (They have a hard time staying ‘on topic.’ Especially when balls are flying around. Baseballs, that is.)

One of the other teammates finally spoke up with some helpful information. “Yeah, we could help her. She’d then have some of the shortest sex scenes known to literature in her book.” He looked at me, an eyebrow raised pointedly. I immediately regretted that I had entered into the conversation and felt sorry for his wife.

I gave it my best shot. I really did. But I kept thinking that the readership of the novels I and my fellow “Stilettos” are writing aren’t buying them for sheet burning, hang from the chandeliers sex. (Please tell me I’m right.)

My dear friend, Annie, mathematician and preschool teacher extraordinaire, has kindly read every one of my manuscripts before I ship them off to my editor. She could see where things were going—Alison and Crawford were getting hot and heavy and the inevitable was to occur. Her husband, raised in a more “open” environment, kept encouraging me to let loose and write some torrid sex scenes. I did my best, but my best kept ending up with Alison and Crawford having case after case of coitus interruptus. I couldn’t see the job through. I asked Annie if she was disappointed, having just read my second manuscript.

She looked at me, relief crossing her face. “Not at all. I didn’t know how I was going to look at you if you had written some explicit sex scenes. I just don’t want to know you like that.”

And hopefully, dear readers, you don’t either.

Book Launch

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My book launch for Smell of Death was Saturday. I live in California but during the winter you never know what the weather might be like. We’ve had plenty of sunny days since the beginning of the year, but this wasn’t one of them.

That was the first of the problems. Three storms in a row rolled in since Wednesday, with Saturday’s forecasted as the “biggie.” The weather wasn’t the only problem.

My major publicity was in our local weekly newspaper which comes out on Thursday–mine didn’t show up in my mailbox until Saturday morning. I have no idea if the rest of the deliveries were as late.

First we stopped at our local coffee and sandwich ship, Coffee Etc., where the owner had graciously agreed to bake cookies for the event. (I don’t bake anymore–it’s one of the things I’ve given up in my old age, like ironing.) Wow! She’d made a tray of the most beautiful cookies–two kinds–lemon (tasted like eating lemonade) and chocolate chip with raspberry drizzled over the top. Also yummy.

We took them and my books, table, etc. to the Visitor’s Center. We also manned the Visitor’s Center for the afternoon. Which is fun, because people stop by to find out if they can get to the giant Sequoias from here. You can, but yesterday you couldn’t get far without chains because along with the rain came lots of snow at the higher elevations.

The launch was scheduled for one, so we had plenty of time to set up. We also visited with the editor of the local paper who had the morning shift for the Visitor’s Center. She ended up staying through most of the afternoon because interesting people stopped by–not necessarily to buy books.

However, six of my fans displayed their loyalty by coming despite the foul weather and bought books. (I’ve done worse at book store signings.) While we were there we met a lovely woman from Oklahoma and her sister who had recently recovered from brain surgery. The gal from Oklahoma lived in Moscow, Russia, for a year and told some fascinating stories.

One of my granddaughter’s highschool teachers and a friend stopped in and the teacher assured me Jessica’s boyfriend was wonderful. (We already knew that.)

One of my fans who always buys any new book I’ve written dashed in for a minute and stayed for a half hour as she brought me up to date on General Hospital (the soap).

All-in-all, we had a good time, sold a few books, and ate lots of delicious cookies.

Marilyn
http://www.fictionforyou.com/

Let’s Talk About Sex

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Charlaine Harris, who writes the hysterical Southern vampire mystery series, swears that her books took off once she started putting sex into them.

Oy! I went to an Orthodox Jewish Day School through sixth grade (substitute Rabbis for nuns, keep the rules, and you get the picture). Try as I might to construct a love scene that involves nudity, I’m convinced that I will get struck by a lightning bolt at the first sign of heavy breathing.

Hey, I like sex – but even writing that sentence has me checking to see if Rabbi D is clucking over my lost soul.

Here’s the problem. My characters are two middle-aged adults who have been around the block a few times. At some point (should it be in Book 2? Hold out for Book 3?), they’re going to go steady, get lavaliered, maybe even get pinned, or the 40-something equivalent. In any case, there’s a point in an adult relationship that would suggest that somebody is getting some. So practically speaking, sex needs to be part of the Mac Sullivan-Rachel Brenner equation. Plus, circling back to Charlaine Harris, sex sells. What to do?

When I first started writing fiction, I described a love scene to my husband. I could see him trying to figure out how to phrase the question. Despite years of marriage and four kids, he thought he knew me, but perhaps, there was still a surprise to be had. Finally, he decided the direct approach was best. “Are you writing smut?” “No,” I answered indignantly. “I subcontracted it out.”

I suppose we could just have constant “fade to black” moments in our books, much like the Doris Day movies of the 1950s. It was a time when Hollywood was still peddling the idea that a “good” 30-something woman (Virginal Doris was 35 in Pillow Talk) would wait for a diamond on her left hand before any kiss would be permitted. Forget about any tongue involvement in those encounters. Kisses that ended up with the heroine actually sleeping with the hero, after the obligatory “fade to black,” still were not much more than a peck on the lips. Even I could have written those “sex scenes.”

We haven’t put it in the acknowledgements, but the Southern half of Evelyn David has agreed to write all steamy scenes. We don’t like to call it smut. We prefer to think of it as romance. Besides, she’s not worried at all about stray lightning bolts.

On the other hand, the Southern half is a Southern Baptist. Sex scenes don’t bother her a bit, but she is appalled at foul language. Put a damn in a sentence and she worries that her Mom will be disappointed in her. Me? I know words and combinations that would make a fleet of sailors blush. I don’t worry a bit if the good Rabbi will think I need to say any special prayers.

We’re finishing Murder Takes the Cake, the sequel to Murder Off the Books. Here’s a spoiler so don’t read the next sentence if you want to be surprised…but on page 98, there is a kiss. More of the Doris/Rock variety, but hey, there are 250 more pages before the exciting conclusion. A lot can happen between the sheets (of paper, that is). I’m making no promises, but I’m checking out rubber tires to sling around my waist…to ward off lightning bolts.

Evelyn David