Killer Fiction

Let's Talk About Press, Baby!

2009-07-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

(I'm at RWA right now but I'll post the winner of last week's contest next Weds. I promise. I double-dog swear with a monkeybutt chaser.)

I had an interview last week that appeared in Sunday's local paper. I thought the interview went well. That should have tipped me off. I have done interviews for years on various subjects. And most of the time, they go pretty well. Sometimes, however, they suck outright.

The reporter asked me about social networking. I said that I didn't have enough time to do it all and I was in awe of people who could do it and not let it eat up there whole day, weekend, lifetime, leaving them feeling empty and craving the sweet taste of gunmetal... oh wait...what was I talking about? The article opened with;

"Leslie ________ (he used my real name? why not my address and bra size too?) 42 years old (REAL AGE??? He sealed his death warrant. I'm thinking something with honey, popsicles and morey eels) has no tolerance for people who use Facebook, Twitter and other social networking sites."

Damn. He's got me. All those nights hunting those bastards armed with malt liquor and a baseball bat were wasted.

The reporter goes on to say, "Leslie is blunt and opinionated." Well that's nice. If they're gonna make stuff up, why not say that I have bubonic plague and use deviled ham as deoderant?

Then, as if he has a change of heart, he says that I'm "Witty and breezy." Oh yeah. That sums me up.

I guess it's possible to find better fiction in the newspaper than you can anywhere else.

I'm planning his death. Ideas?

The Assassin

Slaying the Closet Monster

2009-07-14T03:57:00.000-07:00

Hey Guys,

I'm on my way to Romance Writers of America (RWA) conference. Post your comments and I'll answer them this evening.

Have a great day!

Do you remember when you were little, left alone in a dark room to sleep all by yourself? I do. I remember it so clearly. Lying in the bed, Wilber my stuffed pig tucked close to my side to keep me safe, and my imagination working overtime.

Mom had already checked under my bed, so I knew the monster hadn’t hidden there. There was only one place left for him to hide in waiting--waiting for me to fall asleep and then he would creep out of the shadows and attack. And yet for the life of me, I couldn’t make myself reach for the knob and open that door. Without a doubt, I knew, the monster lurked in my closet.

Amazingly, I grew up without that monster ever showing his face. I don’t think I actually forgot about him during my teen years. I’d lie in that dark room, my imagination working overtime. Ahh, but it wasn’t monsters I imagined. It was David Cassidy, AKA Keith Partridge. However, occasionally when I’d hear a thump in the night, I’d tuck Wilber a tad closer to my side to keep me safe. (Hey, I really liked Wilber)

Eventually, I grew up. Felt more confident, secure. I knew what was real and not so real. So I gave up David Cassidy, but Wilber got to stay.

Then I became a mom and I had to do the nightly checks under the bed. And one night, my daughter asked. “What about the closet?”

While what I wanted to tell her was, “Hey, I did the under-the-bed check, I’ve given you Wilber, don’t push your luck,” I tapped into my maternal instincts instead, pulled up my big girl panties, snatched up Wilber to go with me, and I opened the closet door to show her no monster lurked in the dark creepy shadows of her closet.

Fast forward twenty years. Wilber has gone to rest in stuffed animal heaven, where I’m sure he has gotten his angel wings, pissing off everyone who ever said, “I’ll do that when pigs fly.”

Luckily, I’m not one of those people. Nope, I seldom say “never, ever.” My flaw is saying, “I’ll do it when I get around to it.” My hubby even bought me a coined-shaped rock that has the word, “roundtoit” on it, so when I say, “I’m gonna clean the closets when I get a ‘round to it,’” he says, “You already have one. Do you think you might be a procrastinator?” Now, Wilber flying around heaven doesn’t bother me, but my husband saying that plum pisses me off.

Why? Because whenever a flaw has a name, it becomes so much more. Yup, when a flaw gains a title, it becomes a “condition.” Oh, it doesn’t stop at that stage, because conditions quickly become syndromes and mental illnesses for which doctor even offers pills. And in a blink of an eye, you’ll see yourself, or someone just like you, on a reality show.

So, I’m sort of coming out of the closet and admitting it. I’m a champion procrastinator. Wait, let me take that back, I’m not a procrastinator about everything. But when it comes to cleaning out closets, I’m the queen of procrastination and a clutter lover to boot.

Something about a closet just says, “Toss anything in here and you don’t have to ever worry about me ever again.” Adding clutter to a closet feels natural to me. It’s almost as if I’ve been brainwashed by the closet monster to feed him clutter.

Have you seen the show Clean House that Oprah talks about? If so, then you pretty much have an idea of what my walk-in, unwalkable closet looked like before I slapped my husband silly for his roundtoit comment, prayed to Wilber for protection, got Oprahfied, and pulled my big girl panties up and came to a conclusion. The conclusion being that I was NOT taking a pill for my flaw!!! And just in case Oprah showed up, I didn’t want to be the one who killed her for fear she’d peek into my closet and have an intervention show about some clutter-loving, closet-cleaning-impaired romance writer who believes in monsters. So I did it. I confronted the beast.

Now as an older, wiser woman in her forties, I’ve learned a lot about childhood fears and monster myths. And I’m here to tell you that the closet monster really exists. Who else could have made such a mess in there? Yup, I came face-to-face with that monster, too. He had the face of my flaws, of my fears, but I held strong and armed with my roundtoit rock and Wilber power, and I did it. I fought the monster.

It wasn’t easy. I found clothes that fit me six sizes ago! The monster roared its ugly head and tried to go after my self-esteem. I counter punched by insisting I was on a diet. I found styles that should have never come into being, or at least not in my closet. So when the monster attacked my sense of style, I blocked that blow by insisting we’re all allowed one or two fashion faux pas.

I found cat food cans, which my dog Bosco--who passed away only a year after Wilber—would steal from the bathroom garbage and horde in the closet to lick clean. The monster tried to stab at my sense of cleanliness. I stood up to that one by insisting they weren’t dirty. Bosco had licked them clean.

So, the closet monster went back to my clothes. I found outfits that went out of style with David Cassidy. I had no defense for that one. I took that blow full force. Embarrassingly, I found clothes that still had tags on them. I fought off the attack of being wasteful by blaming a friend who insisted the outfit looked great on me. She’s now an ex-friend because I realized she didn’t have my best interest at heart. Those outfits brought that fact home.

Now I have to tell you, cleaning out my closet gave me a sense of power. I have since cleaned out my downstairs hall closet, my upstairs hall closet, and my extra bedroom closet.

Slaying monsters can be addictive. I won’t go so far as to say that it was fun. I hated doing it. But I’m glad it’s done. I won’t go so far to say I’ll never allow them to get that way again. Because I know sooner or later, I’ll give in, fall prey to my flaw, my condition, my syndrome, and I’ll start feeding the monster again by tossing objects into the closet that should be tossed in the garbage.

But for now, I’m enjoying my victory. However, to this day, or I should say night, when I lay in bed and hear a slight noise, the first place my frightened gaze shoots is to the closet door. And if left open, I will get up and close it and with each step I’ll wish I had Wilber clutched close to my side. Hubby doesn’t like to follow me to the closet.

So what about you? How do your closets look? What are you afraid of? What were you afraid of as child? Do you procrastinate? Come on, let’s share a little.

The Truth

2009-07-12T18:19:00.000-07:00

For writers, the truth is a big deal. Not the story itself, of course. That's fiction. But the emotion, the heart, the soul of the book has got to be the truth - the author's truth - or it can lie flat on the page. Stephen King says of his work that he always told the truth, and I for one, believe that (and great market timing) are what made him the best-seller he is.

We've all seen someone perform - at anything, really - and they're technically perfect but they lack something. Some spark that makes the difference between you connecting with the performer or just admiring their technical perfection. I believe that something is "the truth."

I am big on reality talent shows. Call me a sucker, but I just love to see normal people get a shot at something great. So I'm watching America's Got Talent and a few weeks ago, there was a chicken catcher from Kentucky on there who blew me away. Check out the video. Sorry they didn't offer embedding, but the link works fine:

Chicken catcher video

People were amused when he came out. Amused at the accent, at his job, at his simpleness. But when he started singing, not only did he have everyone captivated, I'm fairly sure no one was breathing.

That's not just talent. That's a gift. The truth.

Deadly DeLeon

Folklore in Fiction

2009-07-12T03:00:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone is enjoying their Sunday as much as I am. (I love summer! And the pool! And hot lifeguards!) To start the day off right, please join me in welcoming author R.F. Long to KF! She writes beautiful fantasy romance with just the right history mixed in. So, take it away, R.F...

People have always told each other stories. It's an ideal way of communicating, a method of passing information down through the generations. From the earliest times people gathered together and told each other stories. Some were funny, some were frightening, all of them served to pass on information, whether we recognise that information today or not. Like a game of Chinese whispers (where someone at the end of a line whispers something to the person next to them, who whispers it to the person after them, and son on until the original phrase is mangled and the last person must guess what the original was).

Coming from Ireland I grew up on folktales. Standing apart from myths and legends, separate from the story books, folktales abound here. They are the tales told to each other by the common people, the everyday folk (to borrow a phrase from a childhood TV program). People are inclined, not only to tell tales, but to elaborate on them, to add their own touches. Little flourishes, little hints to locate the story locally. Suddenly the stories happened to a friend of a friend, or my brother in law's cousin. They are stories that touch us, that resonate with us, so we make them our own.

Since the late 60s folklore acquired a new name - urban legends.

In using old folklore in fiction I find it key to keep this in mind. Though our folklore may have been written down hundreds of years ago, and kept alive orally for hundreds of years after that, these tales were the urban legends of their time (even if they didn't have an urban setting).

Folklore was always told as a true story. This happened, here, just over the hill, yesterday, a hundred years ago, in a land (or a galaxy) far, far away. But the belief in the story is never doubted. The storyteller is not saying - here is a fable to teach you to be patient. Instead the message is more likely to be - "Do you see that circle of stones over there? Never go there after dark and never, ever try to dig it up."

In my most recent release "Soul Fire" I've been blending the folktales of the Irish Daoine Sidhe with a modern setting. It's a rural village in England, surrounded by woodland. Rowan, the heroine, is second generation. Her grandmother left Ireland with a horde of folktales with which she entertained her orphaned grandchildren. Grams' stories prove vital when Rowan discovers that the Sidhe are not simply old stories, but very real. And very dangerous. Titbits of information regarding iron, milk and the changing seasons become vital clues to help her and her Sidhe lover Daire survive.

The Sidhe of Irish folklore are not the innocent fairies the Victorians loved so much. They are older, darker, and far more dangerous. Heartbreakingly beautiful, treacherous, noble, lost souls who do not really understand humankind. In these stories they have a tendency to treat people like animals - sometimes as a beloved pet, sometimes as something to catch and tame, sometimes as something to hunt. It depends on the individual Sidhe, and the individual human. I know people today who will admit that old beliefs die hard. They won't break a branch of a living hawthorn, or willingly cross a fairy ring. Our beliefs are part of us.

As mentioned above, folklore is not just ancient stories. When we children, in order to entertain us on long car journeys, my father made up a story about Fred the White Horse who looked after our family when we were travelling. He told it as he drove, and we all pressed up to the windows, watching fields go by, looking for a glimpse of him. Endless entertainment, and very quiet children. My sisters and I have grown up and have children of our own. My father is in his late 70s. Imagine his surprise when, unprompted, my 4 year old began to tell him that she say Fred on the way over. "Who's Fred?" he asked. "Oh, he's the magic horse that looks after us when we're travelling." Perhaps another piece of folklore has been born.

Working such a powerful sensation of "the other" into a novel is a challenge and a joy. I love research, which is just as well because there always seems to be another story or belief which can be incorporated. The trick of course is to pick enough, without overwhelming the reader. Elements of research need to add to the story rather than swamp it. In writing paranormal fiction, however, knowledge of folklore and beliefs, and their incorporation, can give a great depth to the background, a weight, not of history, but of tradition which helps carry a reader along. Whether it be Sidhe, vampires, or modern urban legends about serial killers and ghosts, touching on things buried deep in the reader's psyche, blending them with your own story, strengthens it.

And of course, adds a new layer to the ongoing folklore.

~R.F. Long

R.F. Long always had a thing for fantasy, romance and ancient mysteries. The combination was bound to cause trouble. In university she studied English Literature, History of Religions and Celtic Civilisation, which just compounded the problem.

Her latest novel "Soul Fire" is now available from Samhain Publishing. She is also the author of the fantasy novel "The Scroll Thief" and novella "The Wolf's Sister". You can find out more about her work on her website - www.rflong.com

She lives in Wicklow, the Garden County of Ireland, and works in a specialized library of rare and unusual books.
But they don’t talk to her that often.

A Well of Ideas

2009-07-11T03:00:00.000-07:00

Happy weekend, everyone! Please join me in welcoming the insanely talented Grace Draven to KF! She writes really cool, otherworldly, paranormal books that I will let her tell you all about. So, take it away Grace...

First up, many thanks to Gemma Halliday and the rest of the Killer Fiction gang for having me on board for a guest shot today. I’m Grace Draven and currently write for Amber Quill Press. All the juicy details about me and my double life as a spy can be found here:
http://www.amberquill.com/bio_Draven.html

I’ve been reading romance since I was twelve years old. Living in Madrid, Spain and lamenting the lack of American TV (especially cartoons and afternoon specials – you never outgrow Scooby Doo), I discovered a new and addictive entertainment in reading romance fiction when I picked up The Black Lyon by Jude Devereaux. I still have that book by the way. Thirty years later, it’s looking a little dog-eared but the glue has held up, and I still love the original cover art.

The love of reading romance turned into a love of writing it. These days I write mostly fantasy romance. The marriage of the two genres has always been something I’ve wanted to read and write. World building, sorcerers and magic, newly made cultures, etc. all mixed in with the hero/heroine romance dynamic—what’s not to like?

Oh, and I like to see hot men on the covers. Why yes, I am all about the eye candy. In fact, here’s some eye candy I had licensed from two talented artists for promotional stuff (bookmarks, etc) on my latest book, Master of Crows:

Nice, eh? ~Ahem~ Where was I? Oh yes…

I’ve had non-writer friends ask me where I get ideas for my books. To their surprise, I often say I get my ideas from them. Seriously, and forgive the cliché, but people are odd ducks in general. There’s a reason people-watching is a popular sport. We say things, do things and get ourselves involved in situations that are so bizarre that seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. It’s great fodder for a story, even a story that takes place on another world, in another culture and with different races.

I have a work in progress centering on a grimalkin (a cat who is a witch’s familiar) who is actually an elf lord doing time for an ancient crime. My heroine is a single mom with an autistic child. I’m a married mom with the most beautiful, seven-year old, fascinating, autistic son ever born (I can say this. I’m his mom). Some of the stuff he does and the behaviors he exhibits are strange and puzzling, but also endearing and sometimes funny. One day I’ll have to tell you the story of how I caught him sneaking into the bathroom to dip his fish sticks into the toilet. Yeah, I gagged too when I found out.

There’s also the time when I worked as a bookseller to put myself through college and sold a stack of books to a young guy who sauntered into the store wearing pajamas, pink fuzzy bunny slippers and Spock ears. He was one of our more normal patrons. Trust me; bookstores are not sedate, boring places to work.
My spouse will likely never forgive me for ruining potential sales at a gun show. He had a side business selling medieval replica swords and knives, so we purchased a booth space for the weekend, set up our stuff next to the family selling hand-crafted angels (you’d be amazed at what’s sold at a gun show). As I was there for company and support, I let him do the sales pitch and sat back to read the book I brought with me.

I’ll pause here to say that while I write fiction, I read an enormous amount of non-fiction—especially for research. Anyway, my choice of reading material that day, combined with what my spouse was trying to sell, probably didn’t entice the purchasers. Most browsers stopped by, checked out the swords, looked my way, raised some eyebrows and hurried away. It wasn’t until the show was nearly over for the day that my husband took a good look at the cover of the book I was reading with its bold title and large letters—THE HISTORY OF HUMAN SACRIFICE—and nearly had a coronary.

These are just some things I’ve personally witnessed, and they’re relatively mild. Stories from some of my wilder, take-no-prisoner friends have left me slack-jawed with astonishment or doubled over with laughter. Thing is, it’s all great material for a tale, and I’ve mined from these life experiences with gusto, incorporating them into stories, sometimes altering them to fit a world or time period but always keeping the spirit of the moment intact.
If I ever write a bookseller heroine, I have a wealth of knowledge from which to pull and funky instances to incorporate into the story. Kids provide endless ideas with their remarks, antics and often their unfiltered wisdom and honesty. Friends, neighbors, relatives—all are seas of inspiration.

So when someone asks me where I get my ideas? Dudes, that’s easy. Everywhere.

~Grace Draven

Ducks and Bears and Dinosaurs… Oh my!

2009-07-10T03:00:00.000-07:00

Only 82 more days to go until mini-me makes his appearance! And because some of you have been asking, I’m posting the latest bump picture. Though, bump is a very kind word at this point. I look like I swallowed a basketball. It’ more like a huge protrusion than a cute little bump. I’m at the stage where strangers are asking, “So, when are you due?”
“October.”
“Ohmigod, you have that long? But you look enormous?!”
“You do know I’m hormonal and outweigh you by a good metric ton, right?”
Luckily, I’m really slow, so they can usually get away faster than I can strangle them at that point.

But, nosy strangers aside, I’m totally enjoying one of the most fun parts of having a baby –shopping. Every time I leave the house I seem to come back with at least one cute little baby item. Teeny-tiny Nikes, little blue blankies, more onsies than the kid can possibly ever wear. My only complaint is the selection of boy clothes.

Ducks. Bears. Dinosaurs.

Every store I go into has racks full of little blue outfits with these three things on them. Once in awhile, just for variety, they’ll throw in a truck. But the makers of little baby boy clothes seem to think that every child wants to grow up to be a truck driver, a paleontologist, or… a duck. Seriously, what do water fowl have to do with babies? For that matter, what do large, extinct reptiles? Don’t these people know that if dinosaurs were still around they’d be eating the babies for lunch?

Tons of racks of little girl clothes in adorable pink, purple, greens, all kinds of styles.

The one boy rack – ducks, dinosaurs, bears. Give the poor child some dignity, will you?

So, I’m searching for places that have cool boy clothes, minus any weird animal affiliations. Got any good websites?

~Trigger Happy Halliday

It's Q & A Time!

2009-07-09T06:05:00.000-07:00

Since the release of my last Calamity Jayne book, ANCHORS AWEIGH, I've been inundated with questions and queries (and a few complaints) as to just what the heck I was doing--literarily speaking. Inasmuch as I had taken a self-imposed 'hiatus' to focus on obtaining my degree in Criminal Justice--and having achieved that particular goal--and with emails still coming in daily, I've decided to answer many of those questions here today.

Question 1:

Will there be any more Calamity Jayne books. (i.e. 'PLEASE don't stop the series!' 'PLEASE tell me there are more books coming!' 'I HAVE to know what happens with Taylor and P.D.' Readers MUST have a Calamity Jayne/Ranger Rick wedding!'...etc.)

Response: At this time there are no plans in the works for me to pen a seventh Calamity Jayne book. I'd love to continue the series at some point, but for now--for a variety of reasons, I'm moving on to other projects.

Question 2:

Will there be a sequel to FIANCE AT HER FINGERTIPS?

Response: Although there were plans for a sequel to 'Lawyer Logan' featuring 'CEO Clay' since I'm not under contract with Dorchester Publishing for any new projects at this time, plans for a second book have been placed on hold.

Question 3:

Just what the heck are you working on?

Response:

Quite honestly, I hadn't anticipated the heavy-duty time demands that came with the new job and increased classload coupled, of course, with those responsibilities that come with being the Head of the Household. I did not want any area of my life to be short-changed. All the aforementioned areas demand a high level of concentration, time commitment, and creativity. (Being 'creative' is a must when you are the mother of multiples.) And I SO didn't want to produce a project that, in my opinion, was not reflective of my best effort and abilities. Obviously something had to give. In this case, it was the writing. Now that my course work has ended and all future home improvement projects (with the exception of fall house painting) will be left to the professionals, I'm now back and focusing on my writing career with renewed energy and experiences that will, I think, only benefit and complement my writing endeavors from this point forward. To that end, I am working on a proposal for a new series which, I think, is very 'high concept' and has loads of potential. Since the project is still being developed and tweaked before it makes its way into the frenzied world of publishing, I won't elaborate. But it's the kind of project that has me waking in the night and grabbing my notepad and scribbling down ideas so that is a good sign.

Beyond this project, I am also returning my attention to a finished hard-boiled series that needs a bit of updating and some revision before it is shopped around. And, of course, I still have a completed Young Adult book sitting on the desk of a Penguin-Putnam editor waiting to be read.

I also have a American West historical romance I wrote ages ago that had promise but needs to be revamped, as well (you can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl) that I'm tinkering with. So, much as with my 'home improvement' undertakings, I am not limiting myself to one writing option. In this business, you can't.

So there you have it: What's up with Bullet Hole. Or as much as I care to disclose in this venue. Hehe.

I'm off to the dentist this morning (yay) but if you have any other questions you'd like to ask, bring 'em on.

Oh, and if you have any advice on how to keep furry little pests from nibbling on my tomatoes, do tell. ('Possums are particularly pesky.) My kids seem to have a problem with me lying in wait for them with a slingshot. I tell 'em it could be worse. I am, after all, a former cop...

Off to get 'crowned' at the dentist's office.

Talk to you all later!

~Bullet Hole~

"I'll Have A Martini. Two At The Most. Three, I'm Under The Table...Four, I'm Under The Host."

2009-07-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

A huge shout out to my girl, Dorothy Parker, for the title.

Last week's New Yorker Magazine had the best cartoon ever. And since there's probably no way I can get permission to show it here, I'll describe it.

It was called, "The Three Martini Breakfast." And the picture consisted of a man slumped over the breakfast table, a woman in a fetal position passed out under a chair, the breakfast on the stove was on fire, there were broken martini glasses and an empty bottle of vodka with a wide-eyed cat watching it all. Brilliant. Wish I'd thought of that.

So, just now my nine year old son is in the bathtub and he calls down, "Mom! Can you get me a glass of water?'

Me: I'm busy with my KF blog. Get it yourself.

Jack: I can't. You need to get it for me.

Me: Why?

Jack: I'm relaxing.

After grinding my teeth and counting to ten - an application that's usefulness goes WAY beyond the shaken baby syndrome years - I decide to ignore him completely and keep working on the blog. That's how important you guys are to me.

It's been a crazy week since I Shot You Babe came out and I've gotten a lot of e-mails from fans already (many of them who've read the book and are screaming, "NOOOOOOO," for some reason). I had a signing Saturday at the local Borders, an interview with the newspaper on Sunday and here and there have guest blogged on some great sites. I have another signing this Saturday at the Davenport, IA Barnes & Noble and a signing next week at the Romance Writers of America Conference in D.C.

In the meantime, I've got dishes in the dishwasher; laundry going so I can pack for my son's vacation with a friend (I can't believe he gets a #!%*! vacation!) and because I require clean underwear; am cleaning one catbox and two guinea pig cages; have bills to pay and today I put Sgt. Assassin on a plane to Iraq for the next year. That's him in the photo above. And yes, I know what he's looking at. And no, my head really isn't larger than his.

What you can't see is that he's now in great physical shape except for the broken ankle. He could probably wear my jeans if he wanted to. Life is so unfair.

As you can guess, I'm having a drink. A big one. With an orange umbrella (which looks weird sticking out of a beer bottle), ice cream sandwhiches (two...I'm not a total pig) and a complete lack of self-respect.

So this blog is unnaturally short. Blame Hellion. I was on the Romance Writers Revenge drinking virtual Bombay Bombers and a strange, smoking drink named Assassin's Last Call. And since I thought that was fun in a completely non-satisfying way (real alcohol is way better), I thought a little contest was in order.

Come up with a drink based on my series. You can base it on one of the characters, a scene or what have you. This weekend, I'll have some of my girlfriends over and we will test out these potions. Whichever one is best (meaning it tastes good and doesn't render us blind, fat or just plain pissed off) wins a complete set of the Bombay Series signed by moi.

Are you up to the challenge? I sure as hell hope so, because I could use a good amnesia-inducing drink. Let's see what you've got.

The Assassin

The Body Count

2009-07-07T03:52:00.000-07:00

Hey! Christie Craig here with a special surprise. Today, we have Candace Havens with us blogging about one of my favorite subjects: whacking people. She’s funny and a wonderful writer and speaker to boot. I got the pleasure of hearing her speak at one of my RWA chapters. So enjoy, and make sure you post a comment to be entered in her contest.
Take it away…Candace!

The Body Count

I’d never paid much attention to it, but a friend recently pointed out that I have a high body count in most of my books. That of course is because my books are usually about women who have to save someone, or the world, and well, stuff happens. I also have a mystery in all of my books, which usually means someone has to die.

In my latest release, Alex Caruthers is a Guardian Key responsible for keeping Earth free of dragons. That means she has to take a few out a long the way. These Dragons are up to absolutely no good, and she does what she must. For her, it’s just another day/night on the job.

But I noticed in my last book, “The Demon King and I,” that those folks who ended up dead in my books were a little familiar. I mean, I usually have someone in mind when I’m creating a character, though I might not always be aware of it. And I seemed to be killing those who annoyed me the most.

My writing is kind of a therapy for me, so evidently I’ve been offing folks who drive me crazy for quite some time. I went back and looked at some of my earlier books, and I did the same thing. I don’t think I’d care for prison, so this is probably a healthier way of accomplishing my goals. When I’m finished with the book, I’m kind of finished with the person.

So, if you have someone you’d like me to “take care” of in my next book, feel free to share here. You don’t need to name, name, just give me an idea of why you want them whacked, and I’ll take care of the rest. (Smile)

And make sure you check out her contest page at www.candacehavens.com. She’s giving away tons of prizes and has lots of ways for you to win! Make a comment today on this blog post, and you’ll automatically be entered to win one of the prizes. And don't forget to check out the treasure hunt!

Interesting Pets

2009-07-06T04:31:00.001-07:00

I hope everyone had a fabulous Fourth of July! I worked, as usual, but hey, books don't write themselves. I also tried to do some work in the garage, but it's so hot here that I had to do it in ten minute shifts. Maybe sometime in the fall I'll actually finish my current project.

Television and news stories are full of stuff about pets. Most all of us love animals and I'd guess that a huge portion of the population has pets, but some are just different than others. I have dogs and cats, and granted they're all unique and have their own quirks, but I have to say they're not the strangest pets I've had. The strangest had to be the ferrets.

I had two - one male one female - named Jake and Sydney (for those of you who remember Melrose Place). Ferrets are not the pet for everyone. They are stinky, for one, and you can't bathe them as often as they stink because they have sensitive skin. And like mice, anything they can fit their head through, they can squeeze their entire body through. So that "little" hole around the plumbing fixture behind the toilet can became a doorway into the wall and beyond for a ferret. Guess how you have to get the ferret out of the wall......yeah, you sorts have to tear out part of the wall and hope they decide to come back before they fall to the first floor. Have I mentioned that I hate sheetrocking?

And then there's the stealing. Ferrets are horrible thieves. They will take anything they can lift and store in their secret hiding place - usually somewhere you don't fit. And my ferrets were a tag-team pair. Sydney could unzip things, like suitcases and purses and Jake could run with the biggest of items. My brother came to stay with me for a bit after getting out of the military and darned near ran out of socks before we found their hiding place. Sydney would unzip his suitcase and away Jake went. There's nothing like watching a grown man chase a ferret running with a tube sock longer than him.

So what's the most interesting pet you've had?

Deadly DeLeon

Sharing

2009-07-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

Big news this week in the Halliday household. Mr. Big is moving in. :O

While I’m super excited to have him here, especially with Junior (who still needs a name, by the way) on the way, this feels like a huge step. I’m going to admit something: I’ve never actually lived with a guy. Okay, well, once, when I was in my twenties, I dated a guy who was my roommate, but that was different. We had separate bedrooms, separate bathrooms, each with our own personal space. This time around, it’s actual living together – day in and day out in your face sharing. As much as I’m going to be happy to see him more, I’ve never been real good at sharing. Specifically, sharing a closet. Mine’s already bursting at the seams, I have no idea how I’m going to fit all his stuff in here. I’ve already gotten rid of four bags of shoes (sob) to make room for baby. Where on earth am I going to put a grown man’s stuff, too? And what if he snores? Or leaves hair in the sink? Or the toilet seat up? Or if I feel the need to stomp away after an argument and childishly say “I hate you and I’m going home now… oh wait, you’re at my home now, too. Crap.”

Taking a deep breath.

I know once he’s here, most of the worries will float away. But, for now, I feel like a kid at the sandbox. I know it’s so much more fun to share and play with the other kids… but my toys are so much nicer than theirs. What if they break mine?

Okay, off to reorganize closet…

In the meantime, I hope everyone has a very happy 4th! I think we’re picnicking on Saturday, then going to see fireworks Sunday. Anyone else have fun plans?

~Trigger Happy Halliday

P.S. My Surviving Conference workshop starts Monday, but there’s still time to sign up for anyone who a) is going and b) wants to know how to make the most out of their experience. I’ll be specifically concentrating on pitching and snagging editor/agent attention while at conference. (I sold my first book with an elevator pitch at the RWA conference!)

Dumpster Diving With Bullet Hole

2009-07-02T13:08:00.000-07:00

I know. I'm late posting But I have a really, really good reason yet again. Exhibit A? The filled dumpster above that was delivered around 8 A.M. this morning. While I'm not certain this was the 'family time' my kids had in mind, it was certainly a family affair getting the monstrosity loaded. And not without a few--shall we say 'tense' moments. The first was when I informed the two children helping out that I intended to dismantle, demolish, or otherwise deconstruct not one but TWO rather intimidating shelving units--one in the bay of the garage and the other in my garage 'getaway' office.

My two reluctant laborers looked at me with the same puzzled-amazed-troubled look I get when I step on the scale at the doctor's office--the only time I step on a scale.

"You're tearing them both down?" the offspring asked.

I nodded. "Isn't it great? It will free up so much more space! Run and get the sledgehammer!"

My son's eyebrows met in the middle. "The same sledgehammer you pulverized the loveseat in the basement with a few days ago?" he asked.

I beamed at him. "That's the one."

My daughter who had missed out on that demo project looked at me just long enough to see I was serious and then took a step back.

"I think I need to change my shoes then," she said, looking down at her flip flops. "If I want to keep all my toes, that is."

"I think that's a good idea," I told her. "This could get a wee bit messy. You can borrow a pair of my steel-toed shoes," I offered. She declined.

At this point I must praise the previous owner of my home for the quality of his craftmanship on the garage shelves although 'praise' wasn't spilling forth from my lips as I did battle with his diabolical constructions. They were worthy competitors, but alas no match for one determined former cop armed with a sledgehammer and visions of pulling her truck into the garage without having to suck in her gut to get out the driver's door.

With the first gi-normous shelving unit out of the way and most of the soggy, ruined items from the basement loaded into the dumpster we had one more unit to go: an 8 foot long counter-type wall unit.

"I don't think there's going to be room in the dumpster for that one," my son suggested, a pitiful look of hope on his boyish face. "It's almost full."

"Oh ye of little faith," I responded. "There's plenty of room. All we need to do is---"

"I know. I know," my son said. "Grab the sledgehammer and start whopping on it."

I smiled. I'd taught him well.

Once that rather intimidating piece was beaten into submission and loaded, it was my daughter's turn.

"That's it. Right? It's full. Right?"

I chewed my lip and walked over to the shed.

"You know. I bet we can get these old lawn chairs squeezed in. Oh! And here's that ancient push mower! Let's just see if we can get the handle off and stuff it in, as well."

By this time my 'laborers' were getting a bit testy.

I'd just spotted a couple of old planters in the shed when a swarm of wasps suddenly dive-bombed right at my face, sending me flying out the shed door and down the middle of the street batting at the top of my head.

"Uh, if you guys think we're good to go, then we're good to go," I said, running a hand through my hair just to make sure nobody had hitched a ride.

I crossed my arms and looked at the overflowing dumpster and grinned. We'd loaded it in less than four hours.

Gotta be a record.

"Aren't you gonna call them to come get the dumpster?" my son asked, no doubt thinking the longer I had it, the more I'd find around the house that needed to be put in it.

"I'm doing it! I'm doing it!" I said, going over each room in my head to make sure I hadn't missed something deserving of a trip to the local landfill.

Hmmm. Maybe that old television stand...

"Mom!"

"I'm calling! I'm calling!"

Two hours later they picked up the dumpster.

Now you see it. Now you don't.

I walked into my now roomy garage bay and sighed. Decluttering is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Okay. So it took a flood to get me to Nirvana. I'm here just the same. Now I can relax and enjoy the 4th of July.

Oh wait. I work the 4th.

Ah, heck. At least I'll be there for the fireworks. And knowing me, you can usually count on fireworks!

So, how are you spending Independence Day this year? Are you working? (I feel your pain.) Camping? Spending time on a special long-weekend project? Visiting relatives? Going somewhere scenic or fun? Staying home and relaxing? How will you be celebrating this greatest country on God's green earth's special day?

Happy Independence Day from all of us here in the Heartland! Be safe.

~Bullet Hole~

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back Into The Bookstore...

2009-06-30T16:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Book Launch Day! Woo hoo! And my new website is up! Life is good. Like, new PRADA kitten heels that go with everything/calorie free cheesecake and a pet parrot who can insult people in Swahili - good.

See that stack of books up there? Those are MY books! I've always wanted to see a stack of my books. And not a stack of the same book, either. I know that seems like a strange fantasy - but it's been in my head since 2nd grade. My brother Nathan dreamed of becoming an architect. My sister, Jenny, dreamed of becoming a foul-mouthed electrician and appearing in one of my books one day. I wanted this.

Each book launch day has been special whether it's my first book or fourth and I've been sober for at least one of them. I always imagine the characters in that book having a red carpet moment, recieving adulation and praise while I stand there in my Maleficent costume and grin like a proud parent.

As I eat my Klondike Bar and drink my Moet Chandon White Star champagne, I think about this family that I created out of thin air. Hard to believe this series started with a dream brought on by indigestion.

It doesn't matter what I do from here. The Bombays will always be real and special (not like "short bus" special, but you know what I mean) to me.

So buy the book, check out the new website and beg me to write in a scene where you loofah one of my characters (Hellion, I still don't get why that's sexy). Me and the Bombays will be right here.

Have a great Fourth of July!

The Assassin

2009-06-29T17:46:00.001-07:00

((Hey, I'm on a roll writing my June 2010 release, so I'm cheating and posting a blog I wrote and was published over at www.Everyoneneedsalittleromance.com.

Oh, by the way, it's sort of appropriate, my June release is titled, SHUT UP AND KISS ME.

First Kisses

Do you remember your first kiss? Ahh, I do. I’ve been hesitant to blog about it because it’s one of those . . . extraordinary memories. And by extraordinary, I don’t mean . . . Well, let me just tell you about it.

I was thirteen and spending the night at my grandparents. My uncle, who was only two years older than me, also had a friend staying the night. Ahh, he was a hottie as well as what I considered an older boy. Probably fourteen and a half! After everyone had gone to bed, I heard someone say my name at the door. He said he couldn’t sleep and wondered if I wanted to talk. Yup, we’d shared a bit of dialogue earlier along with a few long lingering stares, but neither of us wanted my uncle to know we were intrigued in each other.

After I crawled out of bed, and put on my jeans, we sought out a place to . . . chat. My grandparent’s house had this old rambling floor plan where the rooms were built on to the structure one by one, but it only had one bathroom. We sat on a sofa, in the room connected to the bathroom. It was the only room away from the bedrooms with sleeping family.

We sat there and chatted for a few moments and even though he appeared as unsure as I was, he leaned in, slowly, and his mouth touched mine. Boy howdie was I nervous when I felt his tongue brush across my bottom lip. All I could think was that my first kiss was going to include tongue. (Hey don’t you remember talking about this when you were 11 and 12?) I opened my mouth ever so slightly, because that’s what I’d heard I was supposed to do, and that’s when it happened. A hiccup exploded from my lips. Not a light, cute noise, either. Nope. It was one that came right from the gut, pounces from the lips, and bounces off the walls. I mean, here was my first kiss, with an “older boy” too, and I got the nervous hiccups. Thank goodness he was sweet and said it wasn’t a problem.

After a few minutes of chatting (well, he did most of the chatting, I was too scared to open my mouth for fear another obnoxious sound would bounce out) he tried again to kiss me. His mouth drew near, his lips touched mine, and this time, the noise that exploded into the room wasn’t my hiccup. Nope, it was my granddad clearing his throat. And I should add that, with the exception of his worn-out tighty-whities, Grandpa was naked and his old-man gut hung over the edge of the weak elastic of his Hanes.

Older boy and myself just sat there on that sofa and stared at my grandfather staring at us. I opened my mouth to say something smart, something like, we were just talking, or something else equally unconvincing since he’d just witnessed the beginning of a kiss, but all that came out was another LOUD hiccup. Cute, older boy, shot up from the sofa and ran back to his bed, and I did the same.

Yup, my first-kiss memory could have been a tad better. Thanks goodness I managed to snag a few better kisses later on. And in spite of the fact that I had a less-than-desirable first kiss experience, I do love writing first kisses.

Not that I make the first kiss all that easy on my characters. Below is an excerpt from GOTCHA! of Macy’s “almost” first kiss. Set up: Divorced and hurt, Macy is finished with men. But when an escaped convict, (Tanks) is after her, and a hot and stubborn cop, (Jake Baldwin) is determined to protect her, she finds herself feeling things she wishes she didn’t. She’ll use just about anything to push him away, even if it includes discussing tampons. (I mean, don’t we all know how much men love talking about feminine protection?)

“I know that wasn’t easy for you,” Baldwin said as he pulled into her drive. His silence had ended right after they got back from buying the tampons. A part of her felt guilty for teasing him.
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
She would be, too. Jake Baldwin had offered her a helping—if exasperating—hand for the last eighteen hours, but it was time for her to stand on her own. Besides, even Jake’s partner seemed to believe Tanks was halfway to Mexico by now. The car had hardly stopped in her drive when she jumped out. Feet on her driveway, she dipped down to look at him though the window. “Thanks for…everything.”
Jake looked over at her as if he didn’t want to leave. “There’s going to be a cop driving by here every few hours. You’ve got my number.” He pointed to her purse, where he’d put his card. “If you need anything, call me.”
“I won’t need anything,” she said, holding fast to the belief that Tanks was long gone.
He took a deep breath. “I want to help, Macy.”
“You did.” But all things must come to an end. And this is it. Sayonara. Adios.
The seriousness in his eyes changed to a teasing twinkle. “I want to do more. But if you start spouting off again about feminine protection, I’m out of here.”
She smiled. Their gazes met, held for one second. She really did respect him.
Two seconds. She could really like this guy. She already liked him.
Three seconds. Crappers. This wasn’t just PMS.
She couldn’t look away. His smile tugged her emotions and tangled them tightly around her heart.
Enough! She didn’t need to start counting on a man to make her feel better. Hadn’t everyone in her life proven this? Heaven help her, the cliff loomed way too close. Jake didn’t loom quite close enough.
“Let’s have dinner tonight,” he suggested. “Somewhere nice. I could—”
“Nope.” She slammed the car door and stepped back, expecting him to drive off. Instead, he cut the engine, got out, and started around the car toward her.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
She took a backward step and held up her hand. “Yes, I am.”
He kept coming at her, like a man who knew what he wanted and planned on getting it. The way his masculine form swaggered closer brought more emotions banging around her heart. Her lungs: she couldn’t breathe. Her brain: she couldn’t think. Nerve endings throughout her body responded to his smile.
She started walking backwards around the car and, swallowing, forced herself to speak. “What are you doing? Um…if I gave the wrong impression, I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in any—”
“Liar.”
He stopped when he was almost on top of her, and she had the craziest feeling he might actually try for a kiss. All sorts of mental voices were screaming Run, but part of her wanted this, craved it. Needed it.
“Seriously, I don’t…”
He looked into her eyes, and she could have sworn he saw things she’d never intended another man to see. That she was a woman hungry for a man’s touch. A woman aching to lean on someone. A…
A woman just like her dear ol’ mom. “I mean, if you got the impression—”
He brushed a finger over her lips. “The impression I get is of a girl who’s scared. One who can be very difficult to put up with. But I think you’re worth it, and I think—” His attention shifted over her left shoulder and his face went stone cold. She tried to turn and see what had brought on the change, but he caught her by the arm.
“Get back in the car.”
“What?”
He pulled out his gun. “Get back in the car. Don’t argue.”
He pushed her behind him, yanked his phone out of his front pocket, snapped it open, and hit a button. “This is Baldwin. I’m at 417 Jackson Street. I’m going to need backup.”

Yup, poor Macy’s almost-first kiss with Jake gets interrupted when . . . when some crap hits the fan, but hey, at least I didn’t give her hiccups or have an almost-naked relative show up.

So what about you guys? Do you remember your first kiss? Come on, let’s share a little, I told you my story.

CC

Monday Morning Ugh

2009-06-29T04:20:00.000-07:00

Did NOT want to wake up this morning. Or maybe it's more accurate to say, waking up was okay, GETTING up was something I didn't want to do. I swear if my company would let us work 4 10/hr days instead of 5 8hr/days, I'd go for it and Monday would be my day off! I think it's the heat. We've hit those 100+ days here in Texas and it just seems to drain the life out of you.

I have a doctor's appointment this morning, so I'm going to be brief. Two things - first, see The Proposal! Excellent movie. Great script. Fantastic acting. Best romantic comedy I've seen in forever.

Second. I've been on my trying to exercise kick again and since the heat makes me not want to go outside, I pulled out some exercise videos I bought last year. Gave one a try last Wednesday. HIP HOP AEROBICS. Hey, it sounded fun. Well........right. Let's just say: there was hopping, and it was definitely aerobic, and I'm pretty sure I threw out a hip (or two - does the other side count as two), but I know I didn't look anything like an MTV video.

What the heck happened? I was a gymnast when I was young - I had balance. I had rhythm. Where did it go? Now, I'm sure I got a workout - and I'm positive the dog loved it. He hopped right along with me, barking - it was like having a little furry drill sargeant yelling at me. But heaven help us all if someone ever had a hidden camera in my house and posted that on YouTube. I'd have to leave the planet. I'm quite sure I'll never be auditioning for SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE.

I don't think it was quite as bad as the Latin dance dvd, but it was very close.

Oh well, must run hop in the shower. Everyone have a great start of the week and an even better end!

It comes in threes

2009-06-26T03:00:00.000-07:00

This week I was sadden to hear of the passing of Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson’s longtime sidekick. I grew up watching Johnny and Ed on the Tonight Show – at least when I could coerce my parents into letting me stay up that late. Or sneak into the living room undetected to watch. As a kid I always wondered why Mr. McMahon didn’t get to have a show of his own. All he got to go was sit there and provide chuckles whenever Johnny said something funny. But, as I got older, I began to appreciate how important his role in the show was. He was a wonderful example of how you don’t always have to be the star to be a great entertainer. I love this quote from him: “It’s like a pitcher who has a favorite catcher,’’ he said. “The pitcher gets a little help from the catcher, but the pitcher’s got to throw the ball. Well, Johnny Carson had to throw the ball, but I could give him a little help.’’

While Ed McMahon’s passing was undoubtedly sad, as one reporter put it, “He’s by Johnny’s side again.” A bittersweet, yet comforting thought.

However, when I opened Yahoo! Thursday morning, another celebrity death hit me even harder. Farrah Fawcett. I knew she’d been sick for some time, but something about someone so young and still so vibrantly beautiful passing away struck me.

The fabulous-haired former Charlie’s Angel was diagnosed with cancer three years ago, and her documentary, “Farrah’s Story”, which recently aired gave a very real look into her struggles. I watched and felt tremendously for both her and her family. The only bright spot being that the disease had brought her and Ryan O’Neil back together again, even prompting him to propose marriage. A very sweet thought that he was with her in the end.

And then… a few hours later, the yahoo! headlines (you see where I get all my news now, right?) changed unexpectedly from tributes to Farrah to the shocking news that Michael Jackson had just died.

Wow.

Considering the turbulent life he’s lead lately, that was the last thing I expected to read about him in the headlines. No matter what your opinion of him was (and mine’s certainly been mixed at times), that was stop-what-you’re-doing shocking. All I can say is that my heart goes out to his three children. And, yes, I’m glued to yahoo! now waiting for the latest reports on just what happened.

So, I’m hoping that’s the three. Because being the hormonal mess that I am, I’m asking everyone – celebrities and non alike – to please just stay put for awhile. ‘K?

~Trigger Happy Halliday

Whatcha Readin'?

2009-06-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

Every so often I like to inquire as to what you all are reading out there. All right. So I'm downright nosy when it comes to reading tastes and trends and likes and dislikes. I'm sure you will humor me given my streak of recent bad Karma. There's also the fact that any minute some guy is going to go down to the basement and decide where to begin jack-hammering my cement floor so he can install a baffle shut-off mechanism to prevent (hopefully) my basement from becoming a cement pond. Since I kinda, sorta need to be uh, available, my posting ops will be limited until later in the day. Oh the joys of home ownership.

Yesterday the triplets and I traipsed up and down the basement stairs countless times (okay, so I was counting but I stopped keeping track at twenty-seven) to bring ruined items upstairs and out to the garage to await the arrival of a roll-off dumpster. I still need to pull the stinky carpet off the stairs but that will be the very last thing I do since I'll have the plumbing dudes coming in and out over the next several weeks--my basement job being one of those relegated to when it is raining and the workers can't do their outside jobs.

I also need to locate a place to take my old computer monitors for recycling. I'm ashamed to admit how many I had downstairs.

But in between laundry, errands, assisting Mr. Plumber, pulling weeds and sorting through more paperwork, I'm going to read. And what will I be reading?

In the midst of going through boxes in my basement this past week I came across a book written by Ann Rule titled THE STRANGER BESIDE ME. The book is about serial killer, Ted Bundy. There are, I am sure, tons of books written about Ted Bundy but this one is unique in that the author, at the time a former policewoman turned fledgling true crime writer who lived in Seattle, had been contracted to write a book about the recent rash of killings of young women in the area. During that same time she also volunteered at a suicide and crisis prevention center in Seattle. It was at the crisis center Ann Rule would meet and become friends with a young man who worked the same night shift. That handsome, seemingly caring, young man with the engaging smile and quick wit?

Ted Bundy.

Grizzly, disturbing, baffling, yet altogether rivoting, Rule's book offers a rare insight into the psyche of a serial killer. I'm 'this' close to finishing the book but no closer to understanding the compulsions that drove Bundy or the seemingly laissez-faire way he was able to shift so effortlessly and quickly from 'friend' or 'lover' or the 'nice guy next door' to sadistic, remorseless, sociopathic monster venting his rage and playing out his gruesome fantasies on innocent young women. A diagnosis of anti-social personality disorder might explain the traits such an individual possesses but we still don't know why some people appear to never have developed a conscience. As I said, frightening stuff, but a fascinating read.

I also have a 'reader-lite' book at the ready that I read simultaneously with the non-fiction book I'm reading so I can kick back and be thoroughly entertained. I just finished Sabrina Jeffries, TO PLEASURE A PRINCE and enjoyed it immensely. Downstairs I also discovered a slightly damp Stephanie Laurens book, THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE, and I just started it a few days ago.

Okay. Your turn. What book is keeping you up past your bedtime or has your rapt attention at lunchtime?

Do share.

~Bullet Hole Bacus~

How to Spell M-I-D-O-L

2009-06-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

I'm on a rant today, folks. Sorry about that in advance.

So the British have decided to drop the rule, "I before E, except after C" eh? Mighty big of them, considering they foisted that stupid rule on us in the first place. Not that I ever paid attention to it, mind you. There were so many exceptions it was absurd. Rote memory is the only way to learn that crap.

And what is more bizarre than anything I can make up, people are rioting over this. Thin, middle-aged men with bad haircuts and tweed jackets are coming to fisticuffs over this. There was a guy on the radio yesterday who was screaming about how cataclysmic changing this rule would be. Bring on the apocalypse...if you can spell it, that is.

Personally, I think the British have every right to change English. It is the King's English and they did #@!% it up to begin with. Why don't they take the "u" out of "colour" and "flavour" while they are at it? And what about those stupid "k's" on "knowledge" and silent "p's" on "pneumatic?"

Perhaps I shouldn't complain, because I have a knack for spelling. I've always been pretty good at it. There's a trick to it, like doing math in your head - which is, by the way, something I can't do. But give me a word and throw in a French double twist and I've got it. I'd rather have another talent, like the ability to fly or a knack for not killing every plant in my yard. But no, spelling it is.

So with my love/knack/curse for spelling, you'd probably think I'd be a big fan of the National Spelling Bee, right? You couldn't be more wrong.

Here's an idea; let's take some little kids, make them spend twelve hours a day outside of school studying the dictionary to the point where they pass out on stage from stress to learn words that 1) rocket scientists don't even need to know how to spell and 2) every kindergartner can spell like a champion with spell-check.

Seriously. How is this going to help these kids later in life? It always comes down to medical and latin terms. Okay, so maybe if the kid becomes a doctor, and has no secretary, computer or dictionary, it might come in useful. Oh wait, that's impossible. Who will schedule their tee time?

I've seen documentaries on these spelling bee kids. They sadly watch their friends go play while they are quizzed by stage moms who think that spelling blah-blah-blah will take them somewhere in life. The big Bee is for eighth graders. Then it is over. The kid goes onto high school and can spell, but doesn't know who Beyonce is or how to use Facebook - a mortal sin in teenage wasteland.

Spelling is a useful talent...especially if you are an illiterate Amish newspaper editor. But these days, I just need to know how to spell the important medications...like Midol. Which I'm going off to shoot up now, if I can find a vein.

The Assassin

PLUMB CRAZY: In Defense of Plumbers

2009-06-23T03:43:00.000-07:00

Well, most of you know last Sunday was Father’s day. And what does that have to do with plumbers? Well, my dear old dad is a plumber. Yup, he calls it “shit work.” Ahh, but that man is good at snaking a drain and he wields a mean pipe wrench. His hard work put a roof over our heads and food in our mouths. He’s proud of his profession and he should be.

Nevertheless, when I went to write Divorced, Desperate and Deceived, even though I had originally included a plumber in the first book of the series who was mildly interested in Kathy,(okay he was plumb crazy over her) I was having some serious second thoughts.

I mean, my books are suspenseful and how suspenseful is a plumber’s job? Could I build suspense over what was stopping up the toilet? Can you see a leaky faucet being a big chapter hook that would keep you turning pages? In the beginning, I tried to come up with different scenarios. Maybe he finds a murder weapon in the drain? (Will a gun flush? I was gonna try it with a water gun, but then I couldn’t figure out how I would explain it to my hubby if it did flush and stopped up the john.) What if there’s a finger found in the garbage disposal? (That plumb disturbed me. Hubby’s gonna have to clean that drain out if it ever starts sounding funny, because my hands are not going in there again.) Maybe I should make this book a bit of a paranormal and he discovers a demon in the septic tank. (As bonkers as all those ideas sound, this is really the way my plotting goes in the beginning.) I tried, and tried, but my brain was clogged, so I basically flushed the plumber and was in search of a different hero with a more appropriate profession.

Why? Now don’t go accusing me of being a white-collar snob. But, let’s face it. Plumbers just don’t have great reputations or an exciting lifestyle. People assume If a plumber isn’t cheating you out of money by claiming some pipe needs to be replaced, resealed, or reblown, then they are bent over and giving you a peek at their famous, if not clichéd, plumber’s crack.

Now remember, I am the daughter of a plumber. And in defense of that profession, I want you to know that my daddy is an honest man and wouldn’t cheat a soul. Now about the other accusation . . . Yeah, the crack. Well, let’s just say I plead the fifth. But seriously, I don’t think it has anything to do with his profession, the poor man just doesn’t have any hips. But that doesn’t make him any less of a hero. Why if you ask some women they’ll even tell you that he’s quite the lady’s man.

However, since everyone I told that I was considering bringing in a new hero had conniption fits, I had to go back and flush out an idea that would work. And I’m here to announce that I’ve done a good thing. In defense of plumbers everywhere, we now have one hot, very seductive snake-draining hero, with a killer smile. And with hips, of course. (Sorry dad!) The fact that he wields a pistol even better than he does a pipe wrench, makes him a little more interesting than your average Joe.

Ahh, it was a fun book to write and while it doesn’t come out until late November, I got my cover and I decided to share it along with my back cover blurb.

“Christie Craig will crack you up!”
—New York Times Bestselling Author Kerrelyn Sparks

Of the Divorced, Desperate and Delicious club, Kathy Callahan is the last surviving member. Oh, her two friends haven’t died or anything. They just gave up their vows of chastity. They went for hot sex with hot cops and happy second marriages—something Kathy can never consider, given her past. Yet there’s always her plumber, Stan Bradley. He seems honest, hardworking...and pretty handy with a tool.

Plumb Crazy!

Kathy’s best-laid plans are about to hit a clog. The guy snaking her drain is handier with a pistol than a pipe wrench, and she’s about to see more action than Arnold Schwarzenegger. The next few days promise pursuit, passion and some very unhappy hit men. And at the end of this wild escapade, Kathy and her own undercover lawman will be flush with happiness . . . assuming they both survive.

Okay…so there you have it, my next release. And since we’re talking professions, let me ask you guys: What professions do you like the heroes and heroines to have in a book? What’s the craziest job you’ve ever done? What’s your dream job? What job would you never ever do? What’s the craziest job any of your friends have? Come on, share a bit.

~Crime Scene Christie

Killer Pizza Guy

2009-06-21T17:53:00.000-07:00

Those of you who've been reading my blog for years know that I used to be a corporate trainer and traveled all over the country. Now, traveling is an adventure in itself, and I collected many, many stories of frustration and blatant stupidity along the way. I think one of the most interesting things I found was the people that would say "Oh, wow, you get to see so many cool places." To which I replied "You know, the inside of the Hampton Inn pretty much looks the same everywhere."

It's not like I was on vacation. I was working. And believe me, after you've spent an entire day training the untrainable on software AND taking a rash of crap for all the things the salesman "promised" them the software would do and it doesn't, the last thing you're really interested in doing is the tourist thing. I used to laugh when I was in California. People would call and ask what I was doing. I would reply "It's 7:30 pm in California. I'm in bed." Hey, sometimes I was only in a city one night. Why try to adjust your internal time clock? So California 7:30 was 9:30 to me. Plenty late enough to be curled up in bed, the AC blasting, and reading a good book.

We had a great per diem to spend on food, and since I'm not one of those people who has a problem eating in a restaurant alone, sometimes I went out for dinner - just me and my Sony Reader. But more often, I picked up something on the way back to the hotel, knowing I was spent and wouldn't leave again once I'd hit my room and changed clothes. Some days were even worse - I didn't even want to stop on the way back to the hotel. On these nights, I opened the phone book and figured out who delivered.

So I was staying in Providence, RI and had had one of "those" days, so I headed back to the hotel and called for pizza delivery. Thirty minutes later, I got a call from the front desk, saying I needed to come downstairs and pick up my pizza. I said "can't you send him up?" They said "No, it was against the rules for anyone who wasn't staying at the hotel to go past the front desk."

Are you kidding me?

So I have to put on a bra and shoes and go hiking down to the lobby to meet the Killer Pizza Guy. I apologize, in front of the desk staff, for the stupid rule and making him wait, give him a great tip and then turn to the desk. I say "So were you afraid he was a serial killer, carrying a pizza, wearing a stupid pizza place uniform, with the pizza place sticker plastered all over his car, parked right in the middle of the drive?"

The manager said, "I'm sorry, m'aam, but that's the rules. We can't let anyone past the desk who's not a hotel guest."

So I said, "Really, well none of you were working when I checked in yesterday or when I left this morning, but you didn't even look up or acknowledge I'd entered the hotel when I strolled by about an hour ago. I guess if I'd been wearing a uniform that clearly indicated my purpose for being in the building, you would have asked me for ID then?"

Blank stares across the board. Really, do people not get how stupid they sound? If someone there would have said - "it's stupid, but they tell us we have to" then I would have agreed, commiserated with them for having to work for idiots, and gone about my bra-removing, pizza-eating business without even attempting to point out the fatal flaw in their logic.

I think I should start a movement. I'm going to start a petition requiring Common Sense 101 as a requirement for all high school educations.

The only problem is......the obvious lack of people qualified to teach it??????

Deadly DeLeon

They grow up so fast...

2009-06-19T03:00:00.000-07:00

My son is 9. Which, I’ve been informed is the new 13. And I believe it. The things he talks about I don’t remember even being aware of until I was a teenager. I’m not sure how I feel about him growing up so fast (Okay, that’s a total lie. I hate it!), but I’ve noticed a few changes in the boy lately, so I’ve put together a list.

Signs your child is about to hit puberty

After a shower he comes running to you saying:
“Mom, guess what? I have back hair! Wanna feel?”

The door to his room is always locked. Always.

Ipod buds have become permanently implanted in his ears.

When you comment on his “cute wittle dimples” he replies with:
“Yeah, I’m a chick magnet.”

There is never any food left in the house. Never.

He says he just saw a video on YouTube and wants to know if a “Master Baiter” is some kind of fisherman.

Girls have gone from “annoying” to “kinda soft and not too bad”.

His eyes seem to be able to roll all the way back into his head. But only when adults are speaking.

You are suddenly “Dude”, his music is “tight”, and his friends are all “gantgsa’, yo.”

He texts you from the next room to ask if dinner is ready.

And the most fun part about all this? I realized I’m going to have a toddler and a teenager at the same time. :O Lord help me.

~Trigger Happy Halliday

I'm gonna need a bigger dumpster...

2009-06-18T07:11:00.000-07:00

This blog post will be short and---well, not sweet. I awoke this morning to a flooded basement of epic proportions. I kinda knew something was amiss when the toilet wouldn't flush this morning. Have I mentioned lately that Iowa is becoming less and less appealing as a place to reside over the last several years? If it ain't six month long winters with one snow event after another, it's 500 and 100 year floods every year.

I've already ordered a dumpster to be delivered and as I type a pump is SLOWLY pumping water out of the basement. Unfortunately, there is more rain in the forecast.

Guess you know what I'll be up to for the next several days...

Hope your week was better than mine.

~Bullet Hole who is going to get the Morton 'When it rains, it pours,' Salt container and use it as a hockey puck while she thinks of ways to put the hurt on Mother Nature~

What Would You DOOOOOO For A Klondike Bar?

2009-06-17T00:30:00.000-07:00

So I'm looking through the ads in the paper and see that Klondike Bars are on sale. And I get to thinking that it must be thirty years since I'd had one. And then I think, hell, I'm an adult now! I can buy my own Klondike bars! Kind of like when I was 32 and explaining to someone how I couldn't possibly buy Apple Jacks because Mom never allowed us to get sugary cereals - before realizing I'd SQUANDERED HALF OF MY ADULT YEARS EATING GRAPE NUTS BECAUSE I DIDN'T THINK I WAS SUPPOSED TO BUY WHAT I REALLY WANTED.

But that's a story for my therapist...if I had one. Anyway, I hit the store and lo and behold! There they were - aluminum wrappers shining in the frosty mist of the regrigerated section! I bought all of them cuz basically, I had A LOT of catching up to do. Did you know they have a thicker, chocolate shell now? After eating five already today, the jury is still out on whether that's good or not.

So then that stupid jingle goes through my head as I'm tossing the last wrapper away. And I thought, "What would I do for a Klondike bar?" And I thought about this for a long time and then I realized the answer.

Not a whole helluva lot. I mean, come on! It's just a Dilly Bar without the stick, right? How much is it really worth? Fifteen cents? Even with inflation I'm sure the cost of a small brick of frozen milk isn't that much.

But Madison Avenue can't be wrong, right? And there are 1,256,777 videos on the web showing the extreme lengths people would go to for one. And while I'm especially impressed with the guy who does that thing with the llama, mayonnaise and twenty feet of hot pink plastic lanyard lacing, I decided to run a little focus group using my children on this very question.

Me: What would you doooooo for a Klondike Bar? (I believe there's a tiny clause on the wrapper that says one is required to sing it. Of course I also believe the bear on the wrapper is named Reuben Alejandro II and can read minds)

Jack: What do you mean? What does that mean?

Margaret: (looking over her glasses at me over her copy of Atlas Shrugged) Why are you singing? And why are you jumping around so much?

Me: I just had five Klondike Bars. But that's beside the point. (sticking the landing on a very awkward cartwheel) I asked you a question.

Jack: What question? What kind of question?

Me: What would you dooooo for a Klondike Bar?

Margaret: Duh. Go to the fridge and get it.

Jack: You're spinning so much I'm getting motion sickness.

Me: No! You don't get it! You're supposed to say that you'd do something totally crazy for this!

Margaret: That's stupid. It's just ice cream.

Me: Okay, but let's pretend you had to do something bizzare to have one.

Jack: Why? (sometimes I think Jack isn't really listening to me. But I might just be paranoid)

Margaret: He's got a point...for once.

Me: Just pretend then! Pretend you'd do something totally whacked out to acquire a Klondike Bar...to feel it in your possession! To taste the creamy goodness! (I manage four somersaults in a row and accidentally roll down the stairs)

Margaret: Okay. I'd run up to the store and buy one.

I'm not sure that proved my point. I'm not sure I had any point. But once the sugar buzz wore off and I collapsed, panting as the room spun around me, my shoulders aching from the sommersaults, I realized something. That there probably wasn't anything I'd really do for a Klondike Bar, now that I'd OD'd on them. And a small part of me died inside. And then I threw up.

The Assassin

Lessons From Watching a Wee One

2009-06-16T03:08:00.000-07:00

WINNERS! WINNERS!

Donna Marie Rogers & Refhater won the pizza cutters!!!!

YEAH! Send me your snail mail addresses at christie (at) christie-craig.com

Thanks everyone for playing along!

CONTEST! CONTEST! Check out the info below:

You know, some things in life you learn once, like don’t stick your finger into an electric socket. Some of them you have to relearn. I did some relearning and had some deep thoughts concerning infant care after babysitting my granddaughter for three days. Below are ten lessons I relearned about being with, and tending to, a precious little individual and some questions you might be able to help me answer.

1) Burping a baby on your shoulder can lead to some very interesting beige splatter patterns down the back of your black blouse. Check before leaving the house.
2) “Aaagoo, gooogooo gaga” may not sound like real words, but without a doubt they translate into, “I love you, grandmother.”
3) Throwing a hissy fit is a natural born instinct to insure we get our basic needs met. Too bad it doesn’t continue to work on husbands for basic needs such as diamonds and expensive shoes. (What? You mean it does work?)
4) One minute to warm up a bottle can feel like a long time when you have a hungry infant who slept longer than she was supposed to.
5) Something weighing less than twelve pounds can rule and rock your world.
6) Nothing is more beautiful or more inspiring than a baby’s smile

7) Lifting a child for hours on end is the same thing as lifting weights, minus the diaper changes, but it’s still a lot more fun.
8) There is something about being around a baby or a puppy that induces your cooing and baby-talk hormone. (To attempt to hold it back is unhealthy. And if your not extremely careful, you will forget and go out in public and use the same gooey sweet tone. I think the guy at the Dry Cleaners now thinks I have a thing for him.)
9) Nothing stirs the soul like the feel of a tiny fist wrapping around your finger. Who knew the nerve endings in the finger go straight to the heart.
10) Never, no matter how tempting , check a diaper by sticking your finger inside it. You’d think this would be the same as the electric socket, but nope!

Why do we do this?:

1) When we’re with a baby, why do we say things, like:
· “I’m gonna get me a bite of toe.”
· “I’m gonna pinch your nose off. Lookie here,” said with the thumb poked between two knuckles, “I got your nose.”
· “You are so sweet I could just eat you up.” (Do those not sound cruel? And then we wonder why they have nightmares?)

2) Why is it that after the first time the “index finger in the diaper” test proves to be positive, do we continue to do it? (Am I the only one who does this?)
3) Why, after a certain age, do we preach to our kids not to talk about bodily functions, but when they are infants, we are constantly saying things like:
· “Are you going poopy? Is my baby going poopy?”
· “I think I heard a toot. Did Lilly Dale toot?”
· “Let grandma hear you burp. Come on, give me a big burp. Oh, that was a good one.” (Now, I yell at my husband and nineteen-year-old for tooting and burping, but I encourage it in my grandbaby. What’s with that?)

Can you tell I had a blast?

Okay, and now I’m hosting one more contest to celebrate the release of GOTCHA! And the prizes are extra special. I was cleaning out closets, (I will blog about this soon—are your closets as cluttered as mine?) and I found the very last two GOTCHA! pizza cutters. You have two chances to win. Chance one: Can you tell me who was Mr. Dudley in GOTCHA? ((DO NOT POST THE ANSWER IN COMMENT SECTION. Send your answer to christie(at)christie-craig.com. Second method to win: Simple post a comment here today. Come on, all it takes is a few minutes to be entered to win the “limited edition” of pizza cutter as well as a notepad and pen and some Christie Craig note cards.

Movie Review - The Hangover

2009-06-15T04:31:00.000-07:00

I saw The Hangover this past weekend. I wasn't expecting much - how many times can you do the same story - bunch of drunk guys, and in Vegas, no less? I was pleasantly surprised.

The premise is that a group of three friends are headed to Vegas for a bachelor's party night two days before one of them is due to get married. The groom invites his future brother-in-law also who is very strange and a huge comic relief the entire time. He is so weird it makes scene almost uncomfortable and that's funny. So they go to Vegas, go out, and wake up the next morning with the room trashed and can't remember a thing. They had apparently been drugged. Oh, and there's one small problem - the groom is missing and they can't find him.

They call the girls and say they got comped another night and they'll leave early the morning of the wedding to arrive on time. The entire next 24-hours they spend backtracking through witnesses and ticket stubs trying to figure out what happened in order to find their friend. To say they got in a bit of trouble and some hilarious situations is an understatement. And there was a wrap-up at the end that was great.

If you want a great laugh, this is the movie to see. Like I said, I wasn't expecting anything good at all, and I actually got funny. Very rare - and very nice!

Deadly DeLeon