KILLER HOBBIES

My Fourth of July Staycation

2008-07-06T03:39:00.000-04:00

The end of the holiday weekend. I guess you could say I did a staycation. That word is going to wear thin soon. I keep hearing it on the news before they do a segment on people staying in town. Actually staying in L.A. isn’t without things to do.

When I was growing up we lived in a somewhat run down building. It had been built as a hotel for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. It only occurred to me later that was why all the rooms were the same size except our living room which was two rooms with a pocket door in between and must have been a suite.

Every summer I would fix up the back porch. Well, back porch was a generous term. It was more like a landing, so small there wasn’t even room for a chair. And so dark that the mother in laws tongue plant I put out there barely survived. Still, I would put my plant out and sweep the winter dirt away and sit on the steps and dream that someday I might have someplace a little bigger.

Now, I have a real backyard and even though it is many years later, every time I look at it, I think how lucky I am. There are orange trees and redwood trees and flowers and sun light and room for lots of chairs. So, the idea of staying home this weekend and spending it in my own backyard was nice.

It wasn’t totally a weekend off. I went into the city and signed HOOKED ON MURDER at a Barnes & Noble in a shopping area called The Grove. It looks like an idealized downtown of a small town. Last summer when I was in Iowa City, I realized it looked like The Grove, but it was real. The Grove has become the celebrity shopping area of choice.

I am still finishing creating the pattern for the filet crochet bookmark that will be in DEATH AND DOILIES along with a pattern for making a cuddle blanket. And there is the recipe. Putting the polish on the recipe is my family’s favorite part of my writing. They get to be the tasters. This time the recipe is for California Noodle Pudding, which I plan to make today. Even the cats and the dog are excited as they get to be tasters, too.

Instead of a barbecue, we went to a restaurant on the beach for dinner Saturday night. The drive to Malibu was a little eerie as there was a wildfire along the road the day before. We passed lots of blackened grass, but the fire was completely out. And all the smoke gone, which was a relief as it was blowing our way last night.

The beach is always refreshing and we had a view of the water from our table. Sometimes when we eat at this particular restaurant, dolphins swim by. None this time, but it was late. We got there just as the water and sky were melting together. The tide was coming in and a big waves crashed against the rocks right outside the window sending up a lot of something heavier than spray. Just a subtle reminder that in the past storms have sent the waves crashing through the restaurant.

I liked my Staycation. Did anyone else have one too?

I miss purses

2008-07-05T09:56:00.000-04:00

Recently, I noticed a purse on a young Starbucks customer. It caught my eye because it was made of pretty floral fabric, a stunning relief after the line up of brown and tan designer bags that I usually see as I people watch (I mean, write). Nine women out of ten that I see is carrying a version of the identical purse. The same print—usually the company’s logo repeated over and over again so that the purse becomes a walking billboard. When did this happen? Sometimes it seems like every purse in America has been hijacked and replaced with a Stepford bag.

I didn’t know a Coach from a Dooney & Burke until I received my education on the streets of NYC from a thirteen year old niece. She announced at lunch that she’d counted thirteen Coach, and six Louis Vuitton on the arms of the New Yorkers or tourists. In an hour. And I’d thought she was admiring the hustle and bustle of Times Square. Girl has an advanced degree in designer.

I miss purses. A purse used to be a window into a woman’s personality. Were you the type to carry a small clutch with only a comb and a quarter to call home with? Did you carry a bright red nylon parachute fabric bag, big enough to double as an overnight bag? What wonders lingered in the bottom of the tapestry backpack style with its zippers and inside pockets? Try to imagine how dull Let’s Make A Deal would have been if every woman searching for a stray bobby pin or stick of gum was carrying a designer knock-off. Boring!

I can mark the phrases of my life by my purses. When I moved from upstate New York to Long Island at the end of sixth grade, the fact that I didn’t have a “pocketbook,” the lexicon used there, was the impetus for much teasing. The black velvet clutch I borrowed from my mother in desperation sent the culprits into overload. I was saved from complete social ostracaization by a Christmas present from a favorite aunt who came through with a stylish bucket purse.

Macrame shoulder bag, the first good leather bag, the slick patent (that was a mistake), the purses came and went, first useful then discarded, as life changed. Each one a statement on my arm.

So I protest the mindless adoption of the designer bag. Perhaps that’s why, when I sewed this week, I made another Miranda bag.

Picture to follow. Camera swears the battery is exhausted, although I know it just had a refreshing nap less than a week ago.

In the meantime, what’s your favorite purse?

The chickadees—and the angels—watch over them

2008-07-03T21:57:00.003-04:00

The month of June has been filled with missions and memories.

Mission-wise, I attended my college reunion; threw a joint 80-th birthday party for my parents (who’ve been divorced for 50 years, but who’s counting? It’s the era of nontraditional families, after all); saw my mother through knee surgery; and, last but not least, visited my newly purchased cottage in rural Connecticut.

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, this cottage is not exactly “new” to me—it was my childhood home, decades ago: http://killerhobbies.blogspot.com/2008/02/house-part-2.html

What I didn’t mention in that post is the reason that I bought this particular property. I have a strong emotional connection to it, because it’s the home I shared with my sister—Suzanne—who died of leukemia when she was five years old (I was two at the time). She was buried in a little cemetery that lies within easy walking distance of the house. All you have to do is climb a small hill, cut through a wild blueberry patch and a thicket of old forest and you’re there.

My decision last summer to purchase the house last fall was purely, intemperately emotional—of all the places I’ve ever lived in my life, I’ve always viewed this particular place through a gauzy, nostalgic filter. When I conjure up a picture of “home,” I always think of this house, even though we moved away when I was nine years old. For decades, this dwelling has held a special place in my heart. When the property finally came back on the market last summer (I’d been scanning the multiple realty listings for years), I had to have it. It felt as if the house was calling out to me.
Last week, I did my first walk-through of the property since the purchase. (My neighbors must wonder who the crazy lady in California is who bought the old Browne cottage, and has been letting it sit ever since, uninhabited.).

To put it mildly, the place needs a lot of work. A lot of work. The walls are covered with soot; the inside of every appliance is colored orange from exposure to the undrinkable well water. At the very least, I’ll have to sink an additional fifty thousand dollars into the place to drill a new well and replace the septic tank.

I couldn’t care less. That day, I spent very little time doing the actual tour of the property. My real goal was to visit the cemetery where my sister Suzanne is buried.

Suzanne’s headstone looks well-tended and peaceful. It has an inscription on it, “Sleep in Heavenly peace,” which, my mother once told me, was a refrain from her favorite lullaby. Next to the grave is a tall evergreen that was planted at the time of her burial.

I spent a long time in front of my sister’s final resting place, reflecting on a life not completed. What would Suzanne have been like as an adult? What would life have been like for me, if I’d had an older sister all those years? Would her presence have made the trials of multiple divorces, addiction issues, and geographic disruptions any less painful? I feel that it would have. Family stories highlight how special Suzanne was, how gifted, how close we were as sisters. I feel cheated of a future that was lost. Hers was a life that was denied to the world, and to me in particular. Even though I never really got a chance to know her, I miss her. I miss her so, so much.

During visit to the cemetery, I stood silently at her resting place, not changing expression. I didn’t know how to feel. Then, as I was turning to leave, I spotted another grave. This one was much newer—you could tell by the engraved picture of the deceased on the stone facing. It was the portrait of a little boy, about ten years old. His name was Jeremy.

Jeremy died in 2004. On top of his headstone, there was a line-up of tiny toy cars and trucks. One of the trucks had fallen into the dirt; I picked it up and placed it carefully on top of the granite.

At the base of the headstone were several statues—two angels, a cherub, and one of a mother holding a baby. Next to that was a statue of a child holding a sign that said, “Miss You.” Someone—a sibling, perhaps?—had wrapped a child’s magenta fabric headband around the base of the sign.

I looked to the right, and for the first time, noticed a wooden bird house planted in the ground. Sitting on top of the birdhouse was a black-and-white chickadee. I remember chickadees from my days living in the house in Connecticut—if you held your hand out long enough, they would swoop down and sit on your finger.

I stared for a long time at the bird, who stared back at me, not moving. Finally, I got back in my car. As I was leaving the cemetery, I passed another birdhouse. A female chickadee was sitting on top of that one.

Somehow, the presence of the birds comforted me. It felt as if Nature’s spirit was keeping watch over Suzanne and Jeremy.

After all of that, what lingers in my mind is the inscription on Jeremy’s headstone:

“Life is a journey
Our paths are different now
Someday our roads will corss and we will be together again
Farewell my son, my little angel.”

At the base of Jeremy’s headstone was a little plaque that said:

“No farewell words were spoken,
No time to say goodbye
You were gone before we knew it
And only God knows why.”

When I think back on the sister I never had a chance to really know, those words give me comfort.

The Mystique of Series

2008-07-03T01:27:00.000-04:00

I’ve been writing for a while. My first published novels were mostly time travel romances, all of them stand-alone stories that had no sequels. I soon started writing Harlequin Intrigues, and, again, each story mostly stood by itself--although in one instance I was asked to write a book in a miniseries in which other authors wrote the related books.

And then I began writing the Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries. DOUBLE DOG DARE, which was published in June, is the sixth in the series, and Kendra will have at least three more adventures. I adore writing the Kendra books!

I’m also writing Silhouette Nocturnes. My first, ALPHA WOLF, will be a January 2009 release, and another one about a woman with Valkyrie powers will be published in June 2009 (the title isn’t certain yet). When I sold ALPHA WOLF, I had ideas for sequels, since the hero of the book is a werewolf who’s a member of a very Special Ops military unit, Alpha Force, composed largely of shapeshifters. At the time, I was told that sequels might not be in the cards, since there were already so many miniseries within Nocturne. That’s why I went to Valkyries instead of more shapeshifters. However, readers apparently like Nocturne miniseries. I’ll also have a Nocturne Bites e-published in January 2009--a novella, and my second e-story. (I did a short Kendra story for Amazon Shorts.) I haven’t written my Bites yet, but it will star a member of the Alpha Force. Perhaps there could be other Alpha Force stories to come. In any event, I’ve introduced some other Valkyrie sorts in my June 2009 book, and hope maybe to tell their stories, too. The possibility of one or more Nocturne series is a lot of fun, too.

So what’s a series? It’s more than one novel, where each follows in some way from the previous one(s). In a mystery series, there’s generally one primary protagonist who has a support cast appearing along with her (or him). In a romance series, though, each story focuses on the relationship between a different hero and heroine. There needs to be a satisfying ending regarding each relationship, in addition to whatever else happens in the plot, which also must be resolved. (I’m distinguishing a romance series from series romance here. Silhouette Nocturne, for example, is series, or category, romance. My Alpha Force novel and novella are potentially a romance miniseries which are Silhouette Nocturnes. Have I confused you enough?)

For someone who’s not the most organized person, I’ve found writing series a challenge. I have to keep track of people, pets, places, plots, time-lines, shapeshifters... lots of stuff! Thank heavens for computers. I’m able to keep lists of important details, and add to them as needed.

But I’ve always enjoyed reading other peoples’ series, and now I take great pleasure in writing them, too.

How about you--do you enjoy reading series? Writing series? What do you like most about them? Least?

--Linda

CONTEST, Golf, Singing

2008-07-02T06:32:00.000-04:00

About the contest: I’ve already gotten some very nice entries. I can tell it’s going to be hard to decide. I wonder if it would be legal to have a tie-breaker? No, probably not, since I didn’t announce one at the start. But some people can be very convincing in only a few words.
If you’re wondering what I’m talking about, I’m offering a contest, the prize to be about two pounds of quilting fabric, various patterns but all featuring chickens. Realistic, cartoon, artistic, chicks, roosters, hens. Even eggs. And chicken wire. This fabric is left over from a beautiful chicken quilt I had made last year.

So tell me in twenty-five words or less why you think I should award the chicken fabric to you. Go to my web site, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me via that. I’ll pay postage. Contest ends July 31.

I’m still intrigued by golf. A friend drove all the way from North Dakota to see the Ladies Professional Golf Tournament which took place just a few miles from our apartment. She had two tickets, but the friend who was coming backed out at the last minute, so she asked if I would like to go. Wow! Now, I’m arthritic, so I couldn’t do what my friend wanted to do, which was follow her favorite around the course. So I found a seat in the bleachers set up at the eighteenth green and watched them come in. One thing surprised me: how badly some of them putted! Okay the green was very fast and they were tired, but still. Anyway, it was a lovely setting, the magnificent Interlachen clubhouse in the background, a large pond guarding the second half of the fairway, tall trees and bright flowers and polite applause. It’s a different world. What I was surprised to learn was that I’m not anxious to be a part of that world. I just want to smack the ball hard enough to get to the green in two or three strokes. I don’t need applause or trophies or the rarified air of the private golf club. It might be a futile dream I do have. I played a par-three course on Saturday and it took me eleven strokes to finish the first hole – nine of them just to get to the green!

Oh, and here’s a golf hint for free: If you’re writing a murder mystery and want the weapon to be a golf club, don’t pick a driver. They look formidable, with that huge knob on the end, but they’re not all that heavy. Instead, choose a nine iron. They’re big compared to the other irons, and they’re heavy. Somebody, trying to help me out, went to a garage sale and bought me a whole set of golf clubs, and the bag. Paid five dollars. They are exactly what I need at this stage of my game. The clubs are elderly but good and not damaged. I think the seller went around collecting old clubs, because there were three seven irons, two five irons and two putters in that bag, along with the other clubs. Including that impressive nine iron.

Sunday evening our church put on a little recital. The three Eschweiler children, Ted, Phillip and Emma sang. They are twenty, seventeen, and fifteen years old. They sang some opera, some Broadway songs, and an arrangement of a hymn made just for them. They are so bright, competent, intelligent and level-headed (well, Phillip has a little bit of artistic temperament, but he also has the best voice), that it was another lesson in "not to worry." You know what I mean. My generation (how predictably like previous generations!) is sure the rising generation is going to rack and ruin and will tear down the country, if not the world, about their ears. But now and again I’ll meet young people like the Eschweilers and I know that isn’t true.

Everything I ever learned ...

2008-07-01T00:04:00.000-04:00

... I learned from quotes.

Call me shallow, but I love quotes. I hang on to those pithy, out of context words of wisdom that can get me through a crisis, inspire me, or confirm my deeply held beliefs. Or, simply make me laugh.

My husband loves quotes, too. In fact he comes up with several a day as he engages in his favorite pastimes: doing acrostics and cryptograms. Some of the quotes rate a place on the walls of his office.

Here are a few of his choices that have also worked for me. See if they do anything for you.

** Accept that some days you're the pigeon and some days you're the statue.

** If you're playing poker and you look around the table and can't tell who the sucker is, it's you.

** Always be wary of any helpful item that weighs less than its operating manual.

And one from Yogi Berra: If you come to a fork in the road, take it.

What are your words to live by?

My Sisters

2008-06-30T07:00:00.002-04:00

I awakened to the sound of my sisters laughing.

And I thought I was in Vincennes, Indiana, again. I reached down to touch my bedspread, a faded chenille. I squinted to see by the light of my aquarium, the one we bought in Evansville after I saved my allowance for months. I listened for the clink-clink-clink of Lady’s dog tags, as she walked from room to room, her beagle nose sniffing and her loving brown eyes taking us in. And I could smell the damp of the basement stairs which ran alongside the wall of the room we shared.

The sparkle of their laughter drifted up to me as I lay in my bed. Jane and Meg, my little sisters. We were here, all here, together in the same house, waking up under the same roof for the first time in years.

JANE ARRIVES

When Jane was born, my father told me, “Now you have a little sister. You’re responsible for her.” I was only three at the time, and it was a heavy responsibility. When she went back to the hospital after being diagnosed as anemic, I prayed, “God, I don’t know who this ‘Janie’ character is, but I hope she’ll be all right.” I remember that I was trying to be good by putting my shoes away. I said my prayer as I stared at the head-and-shoulders of hanging doll whose torso was a series of pockets. Grandma Marge had made the organizer. It was blonde like me, a preview of all of us “Campbell girls.”

THEN ALONG COMES MARGARET...

When Margaret was born, my father said, “She’ll be the best thing that ever happened to this family. You’ll see.” I had heard my mother tell a friend, “I want a baby so badly I can taste it.” I wasn’t sure why you’d taste a baby, and I hoped I’d find out. Margaret was breech, so Mom had to kneel butt-up on the floor for hours so she’d turn. Margaret obliged, and quickly then changed her mind and went back to her original position. Because I was ten, a ripe old age, I was in charge of carrying the basket of her diapers downstairs to our basement and putting them in the washer. The fates intervened briefly when the Kenmore motor burned out, sending the smell of burning rubber billowing through our house.

I did, and have, felt responsible for Jane and Margaret most of my life. Wrongly, I know, because they are both fabulous, capable women.

And I awakened to the sound of their laughter because they’d flown here, from their home in Florida, to care for me.

So I wasn’t in Vincennes. I wasn’t in that little house where I grew up. I wasn’t waking up in that sad broken-down two bedroom rental, with that warped screen door, featuring a prominent “S” for Springer, our landlord. I wasn’t back in that family of origin which draped such a heavy mantle of duty on my shoulders.

I was in my bed, hearing the arpeggio of my sisters’ laughter, trilling up and down. I was supposed to take care of them, but bless them, they came here to take care of me after my surgery on June 16. And as I lay there, and thought of them, and loved them, I thought, “It was worth the surgery just for this, this memory of hearing their laughter again."

**

THANK YOU

My thanks to so many of you for the kind wishes, the cards, the emails and of course, the prayers. Things were a little "rocky" for a while (don't worry, I'll tell all!) but I'm home and getting better every day. Please be patient, as it's taking me a bit to respond.

Still Good After All These Years

2008-06-29T03:09:00.000-04:00

I sent in my manuscript for Death and Doilies on Monday and other than getting caught up on laundry and house cleaning, my number one priority was reading. I find it hard to read fiction when I’m writing and before I start my fourth book, I wanted to read about somebody else’s characters.

I have been so wrapped up in mystery I wanted to read something different. I have a personal history with the first book I chose. The first time I read it I was in seventh grade. Our class had its own library made up of castoffs of the school’s library. We might have been allowed to take the books home on the honor system. In any case I loved the beat up book with the red cover so much, I never brought it back. I still have it here somewhere.

Even though a movie was made of it – a very bad movie at that – I thought the book was out of print and unavailable. My old copy too beat up to be readable anymore, so I thought it was lost to me forever.

By chance I was talking to a friend recently about books written in the form of letters, which my seventh grade favorite was, and I thought of www.amazon.com And how easy it is to find needle in the haystack old books – after all I’d found a children’s book I’d adored as a kid called Amos and the Moon. It was long out of print, but I still managed to get a copy in good condition. So, I typed the title into the search box.

To my surprise, I found out it was a classic of sorts and had been re published and brand new copies were available with extra information about the author. Of course I ordered it. The book is called Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster and was copyrighted in 1912. No, I’m not that old. Apparently when I read it in seventh grade it had been around a long, long time already.

I had to wonder how a book written almost one hundred years ago that I had last read in seventh grade would hold up. It’s the story of an eighteen year old young woman who grew up in a fondling home and is offered a college education by one of the trustees of the home. He wants to remain anonymous – she’s only caught a glimpse of him once as he was leaving and he reminds of her a daddy long legs spider. She’s to write him once a month to tell him about her studies.

The book is her letters to him. Once I started, I couldn’t stop reading. I loved it just as much now as I had in seventh grade. What a surprise. And there was even a mention of crochet.

Dead Men Don’t Crochet which comes out in December centers around Irish crochet. For anyone not familiar – Irish crochet is made with thread. It is most often has motifs of things like flowers or leaves that are joined into a collar or even a gown with crochet stitches so fine it’s hard to see them. It has a lacy appearance and got its start as a way for Irish woman to earn money during the potato famine. It also made lace type items available to more people as only very rich people could afford the Venetian lace it was based on.

In Daddy Long Legs, Judy (she’s the fondling/college student) talks about the clothes she gets a lot. It makes sense. After growing up wearing a uniform of blue gingham, who could blame her for getting excited about having gowns and lovely dresses. Her benefactor pays for her schooling and gives her a generous allowance so she won’t feel different than the other girls. She mentions getting things made of Irish crochet which at that time were contemporary. It was like seeing it from a different angle since when I was doing research, everything I looked at was old.

I guess maybe I didn’t get away from my writing as much as I thought. I have crochet on the brain. But it was nice to know that a book can hold up with time and be read by a seventh grader and someone way beyond and work for both ages. Wouldn’t we all like our books to be that good.

Chemical Reaction

2008-06-28T09:20:00.000-04:00

I’ve blogged before about how much I love research. This week I learned about cyanotypes. What fun!

I talked to Linda Stemer, owner of Blueprintsonfabric.com. She treats fabric, silks and cottons, with chemicals (potassium ferricyanide and ferric salt, if you must know) so that a reaction will occur when exposed to sunlight. This is an old process,discovered right about the same time as photography. It’s how architectural blueprints were made before giant copy machines were around.

Check out Linda’s website and poke around. Especially interesting is her link to the NY Public Library and the cyanotypes of Anna Atkins, the first woman photographer. Using images from nature, she made hundreds of prints. The ghostly images over a century and a half old are haunting.

Of course when I heard of this process, I start thinking of ways to use it in a Quilting Mystery novel. My experiments and my talk with Linda had my mind buzzing. You will have to wait until the publication of Ocean Waves, however to find out how blueprinting helps Dewey solve a mystery.

Here’s a photographic journey of the process.

This is what the treated fabric looks like. Kind of a pretty green.

Place your object on the cloth. I used a doily and some balsa palm trees. Put in the sun. I did this toward the end of the day and still got great results. Summer in California, you gotta to love it. Except for the smoke and the drought, of course.

After a ten-fifteen minutes, take to sink and rinse until water runs clear. I never photographed running water before and did this by accident. Very artsy!

Let dry flat. Ta-da!

Fact or Fiction? Deadly "Toilet-lid spider" and other urban myths

2008-06-27T00:09:00.009-04:00

Urban myths and legends. Ya gotta love ‘em.

A few years ago, I received a panicked-sounding email from a friend of mine, warning me about a venemous “Two-striped Telemonia Spider” that had been discovered lurking under the toilet lids in public bathrooms. I forwarded the email to my sister, who quickly informed me that the Two-striped Telemonia Spider is an urban myth.

She sent me to a web site called http://www.snopes.com/, where she’d checked out the story. Now, every time I read a scare story about some new threat or disease, it’s the first site I check out.

Here are are some of my favorite urban myths—click the links to the Snopes web site to find out whether they’re true or false.

A Killer Brew

More than a half-dozen people died in a beer flood in the 1800’s. Fact or Fiction?

Water woes

Reusing plastic water bottles can cause them to release carcinogenic toxins. Fact or Fiction?

The Case of the Vanishing Thighs

Thieves are stealing women’s thighs and replacing them with oatmeal (Okay, no matter what they say about this one, it really happened to me!). Fact or Fiction?

Penguins Need Sweaters

Following oil spills, crafters are asked to knit sweaters for oil-covered penguins. True or False?

The Freshest Loaf

You can tell which day a loaf of bread was baked by the color of its plastic twist tag. Fact or Fiction?

What about you? Have you been snookered into believing an urban myth, or discovered that something bizarre was actually true?

Personality Puppy

2008-06-26T01:31:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was Mystie’s six-month birthday. Mystie (short for Mystique) is my younger Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. We adopted her about 4 months ago, and she has been an absolute delight--as well as a real canine character.

I’ve been owned by Cavaliers for many years, and I have to say that Mystie is definitely unique. She’s cute, but that’s a given for Cavaliers. She’s the Blenheim coloration--white and red--although her fur is still puppy-short. Even so, her ears are growing into fluffy and long Cavalier ears.

It’s her personality, though, that’s so winning. We got her partly because Lexie, who is five years old now, became very needy after we lost her dear Cavalier friend Sparquie last year. Mystie and Lexie get along famously. I don’t think Lexie has much choice. Mystie always goads her into playing by chewing on her ears and growling. Lexie retaliates by chasing Mystie, or stealing Mystie’s favorite toy of the moment and playing with it herself. They generally make every night a two dog night, curling up together no matter what the temperature is.

Mystie is the first Cavalier I’ve had who doesn’t immediately wolf down her food. I’m sure she’s not starving, since I do reward good behavior by treats, and she seems happiest with her evening meals when I give her a little canned food with her kibble. But she doesn’t like eating only dry food, which is, I believe, healthier for her. We’ve tried a couple of different puppy foods, and she’s more inclined to eat them if we put some pieces on the floor for her. And, no, it’s not the shape of her bowl that bothers her, since we’ve tried changing that, too. We have to keep Lexie away from Mystie at mealtime, since Lexie eats her own food fast and then goes after Mystie’s. And, yes, I occasionally put a couple of pieces of Lexie’s food into Mystie’s bowl, and they get gobbled first.

Mystie’s favorite pastime is playing Renfield (as in Dracula). She loves to chase flies. Not only that, but she also seems to think all reflections and shadows are kinds of insects to go after. She’s absolutely buggy over beams from a laser pointer, so much so that we’ve stopped using one around her since she’ll hunt for that “bug” for hours after it disappears, going into closets and under and behind furniture--anywhere a little creature could hang out, if it were real. Her housebreaking is not perfect, but she loves to go outside, especially into our dog run, to tear around after the insects buzzing there.

Then there’s her lovability. She leaps over furniture in a single bound. She jumps onto furniture occupied by me and stops, puts her paws around my neck, and starts kissing me.

Do you get the impression I love this pup. You’re right! Even so, my intention has always been for Lexie to be the alpha of their pack, and I encourage it. I also make sure that Lexie gets a whole lot of individual attention, since part of the point of getting Mystie was as a companion for Lexie, not to usurp her place in our household. I couldn’t possibly ignore Mystie, even if I wanted to, but Lexie is much more sensitive and will go off by herself if she thinks she’s being ignored--or if she thinks our scolding of Mystie for her sometimes inappropriate puppy ways is directed at Lexie. I make sure that Lexie is treated like the royalty she is, the primary pup of our family. She gets a whole lot of lap time, as much as she wants and sometimes when she doesn’t want it! Like right now, as I’m writing this. Of course she’s the first puppy love of this household.

Mystie knows some of the rudiments of doggy commands, but I hope to take her to puppy kindergarten soon. I don’t want to do anything that will change her cute personality, but she needs more limits, just like a child.

Lexie has always been inspirational in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries. She’s absolutely the star of my series, since Kendra’s owned by a Lexie, too. But don’t be surprised if Kendra happens to meet a Mystie sometime in the future...

What’s your favorite puppy or kitty story? And how inspirational are your pets to your writing... or reading?

--Linda

A Contest, A Character

2008-06-25T06:37:00.000-04:00

I’ve been encouraged to offer a contest, but I couldn’t think what prize to offer. Then, going through our storage room and making a final sort of boxes left over from our move a year ago (!) I realized I still have rather a large quantity of quilting fabric. I’ve got my quilt, it’s beautiful, but I’m not going to make another. And here’s this lovely fabric, many varieties and colors with one theme: Chickens. Realistic chickens, cartoon chickens, artistic chickens, big and little. Even eggs and chicken wire. Black and white, bright colors, pastels. I don't know how many yards, maybe four? A couple of pounds, anyway. Some cut into squares, others in fat-quarter size.

If you would like this fabric, write and tell me why. Twenty-five words or less. I’ll even pay postage.

Go to my website, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me through that. Contest ends July 31, 2008.
All writers know the phenomenon: a character in a book suddenly rising and taking over the reins of his or her role from the author. Disconcerting and sometimes exciting – but sometimes it’s annoying. I have been inventing a new boyfriend for my gay character Godwin. Goddy lost his long-time lover quite a few books back, and was accused of his murder. Of course he didn’t do it, Betsy proved that. But since he got over the shock and mourning, he’s been kind of playing the field, date-wise. I have finally decided he needs to settle down, find someone really nice who is also good for him – and whom he can be good for. I came up with this gorgeous young man named Rafael Centillas, a naturalized American citizen born in Mexico. He was supposed to be aloof on the surface but kind and funny underneath. Sweet and perhaps a trifle shy. But the guy who walked into the needlework shop in this scene I’m working on is self-assured and just the teensiest bit abrasive. Fortunately, he still really likes Godwin. I think Godwin likes him, too.
I like a character who knows his own mind, and who will grow into a role in a book. But it’s annoying how, after two dozen novels, I can still lose control over a character right at the start. I’m tempted to tear down that scene in the novel and start it again. Re-boot, so to speak. But maybe I should just let him have his head, at least for awhile.

To stet or not to stet

2008-06-24T00:05:00.000-04:00

One of the last entries on my list of "things I wish I'd majored in" is copyediting. It's a tough job, requiring intense attention to detail while not losing sight of the bigger picture.

I do a decent job of submitting a clean manuscript, I think, proofreading meticulously. But, in the end I count on the copyeditor to not fall asleep during the Check for Quotation Marks run-through.

For the most part, I OK every suggestion the copyeditor makes. Only rarely have I used my power of STET.

Here are three instances:

1. The protagonist of my first series is Italian-American from a working class family (read, her father was a laborer). She refers to her parents as "my mother" and "my father." One copyeditor early on in the series wanted to change all those references to "my mom" and "my dad." STET, I cried!

If Gloria (or I) had ever said "Mom" or "Dad," we would have been accused of "acting as if you're too good for Revere" and forced to make the Stations of the Cross for penance.

2. I made a reference in one of my periodic table mysteries to a famous (to physicists) 1935 paper by Einstein, Podolsky, and Rosen. In the margin, the copyeditor wrote: Was able to locate Einstein; cannot locate Podolsky or Rosen.

I couldn't help wondering how long it took her to locate Einstein.

3. On another occasion, I mentioned Gloria's favorite candy: See's chocolate-covered raisins. The copyeditor wrote in the margin: on their website, See's doesn't sell chocolate-covered raisins.

Now, I know my See's. I was ready to write a long post-it about how they may not sell them on the website, but they are featured in their stores. My husband, an engineer always ready with the most practical solution, said, "Why don't you just send him some?"

So I did – I sent one pound of See's chocolate-covered raisins to my copyeditor and one to my editor. I've been a favorite ever since.

What are your copyedit stories? Do you look forward to reading the red or blue marks? Do any of you readers wish you could make your own copyedit marks?

Old wives' tales

2008-06-23T00:04:00.000-04:00

By Shirley Damsgaard

I spent a goodly part of my childhood on a farm, in Iowa, and everyone around me seemed old! My mother had been nearing forty when I was born, all my aunts and uncles were in their fifties and sixties, and my grandfather was over eighty. (Of course now that I’m of that “certain age”, my views on getting older have changed, but back then, everyone seemed ancient!)

Now what does one have to do with another? Well, because my entire family were farmers and had grown up in a different era than all my little friends’ relations, people in my family appeared to know “stuff” that my friends’ parents didn’t. They knew if the underside of the leaves on a tree were showing, rain was on the way. They knew when the cattle and horses grew heavy coats, fall was coming to an end and it would be an early winter. They knew that one hundred days after a fog, you’d have rain. My elders had spent their youth in a world without central heating, telephones, and before the coming of the rural electric cooperatives, electricity. They didn’t have the weather man telling them when a storm front was moving in, or if snow was expected. And because their livelihood was tied to the land, they paid attention to signs and The Farmer’s Almanac. Yes, folks, I’m talking old wives’ tales, and my family had hundreds of them!!! And most of them seemed to deal with luck, and/or, the weather.

Here are some of my favorites:
Opening an umbrella in the house is bad luck.
If you wean calves in the dark of the moon, they won’t bawl for their mamas.
Never put a hat on a bed.
If your ears burn, someone’s talking about you…if you nose itches, you’ll kiss a fool.
Never light three cigarettes with the same match.
Spilling salt is bad luck and to remove it, you must toss a pinch over your left shoulder.
If it rains on Easter Sunday, it will rain the next seven Sundays in a row.
Carrying a buckeye brings good luck.
Goosebumps mean someone just walked over your grave. (Honestly, as a child—that one never made a lot of sense to me. After all, how could someone step on your grave if you weren’t dead yet??)
It’s bad luck to walk under a ladder.
Potatoes must be planted on Good Friday.

And last, but not least, my favorite and one I truly believe in:
People act strange around the time of a full moon.

Oh, I forgot one. When I was pregnant with my oldest son, I decided to make sauerkraut.(Looking back now—I don’t know why I did it, but it must’ve seemed like a good idea at the time!) I think I put up about thirty jars of the stuff. The next day, I called my mother and proudly related my accomplishment to her. Unfortunately her response was “You know they won’t seal.”

“What?” I replied, thinking of all that hard work going to waste. “Why not?”

“You’re pregnant,” she said, “sauerkraut doesn’t seal for pregnant women.”

Now what the seals on Mason jars had to do with bouncing hormones was beyond me, and I was getting this advice from a woman who thought talking to her houseplants made them grow, but I didn’t argue. A few months later, I discovered that yes, indeed, the seals on at least half the jars had failed! Pregnant or not, I never made sauerkraut again!

So what are some of your favorite old wives’ tales?

Be the first to email Shirley c/o Joanna’s email at savetales@aol.com and we’ll mail you a magnet with Old Wives’ Tales on them.

**
Shirley is the author of the Ophelia and Abby Mystery Series. Her new book The Witch’s Grave is scheduled for release December 2008. Visit her at www.shirleydamsgaard.com

L.A. When It Sizzles

2008-06-22T02:08:00.000-04:00

Like Terri, I am going to be on the short side this week.

I have been back from Chicago for a week and it seems I went from the steam bath to the oven. Not that I have had time to notice since I am in the homestretch of finishing my third crochet mystery. It is either titled DEATH AND DOILIES or UNRAVELING THE CROCHET CODE.

I have been hovering over my computer non stop all week and have pretty much forgotten what day it is.. I did watch the news last night, or I think it was last night. and the weather man predicted something like 110 for Woodland Hills which is the next community over in the San Fernando Valley. It’s usually a little cooler here, which today probably meant 109.

It’s been too hot to want to go anywhere or do anything, which has made the week long hovering easier. I usually go to the gym almost every day, but this week I’ve been skipping. It was too hot even for yoga.. Thank heavens for sugar free popsicles.

Any crocheting I’ve done this week has been strictly related to the book. This book features filet crochet which is done with thread and is light and airy. It’s perfect hot weather crochet.. This is not the time to have a wool afghan draped over your lap while you finish the fringe.

My big news of the week is I am going to be talking about HOOKED ON MURDER, the first of my Berkley Prime Crime crochet themed mystery series live Wednesday morning June 25, on the AM Show on www.cableradionetwork.com It airs from 7:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. pacific time and is encored 9:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. and 12:00 a.m. to 1:00 a.m.

My thoughts have been on the Midwest and the flooding. For the past four summers or so, right around this time I have gone to Iowa City to the Summer Writing Festival at the University of Iowa. I have always stayed at Iowa House which is part of the student Union and right on the Iowa River. I have always requested a room with a river view and enjoyed sitting by the river watching the fireflies come out as it got dark.

It is one thing to see pictures on the news, it’s different when you’ve been there.

Maybe next week

2008-06-21T11:19:00.001-04:00

I had a brilliant idea for this blog. Witty, insightful, relevant. The words flowed easily and the post practically wrote itself. All of the readers were just so happy to stop by and get a dose of my particular brand of reality.

And then I woke up.

My problem with blogging right now is that I'm in having difficulty surfacing from my writing world. Ocean Waves is due at the end of the month, and I am spending all my time with Dewey and friends at Asilomar. The California coast alternates between brilliant sunshine and creepy fog. Dewey is hot on the trail of the bad guys, Buster is nearby yet inaccessible,and Kym...Oh poor, Kym.

That is the dream I cannot wake from. Not just yet.

P.S. I will be signing Wild Goose Chase in the real world. Wednesday, June 25th at Barnes and Noble in the Pruneyard in Campbell, CA at 7 pm. And Friday from 1-4pm at Always Quilting in San Mateo during Shop Hop by the Bay. Come see me.

Dating, cougar-style

2008-06-19T21:41:00.005-04:00

Let’s talk about dating and “cougars”—also known as women over fifty.

No matter what side of the golden-birthday suit you wear, doesn’t the mere sound of that subject make you wince?

In my circle, no matter how Zen we are about turning forty, the big Five-Oh is a whole ‘nother story. Fifty prompts a reaction that sounds a bit like a big cat hocking up a hairball. Hah-yack! It’s a tough dating market out there, especially for women who have to restart a long-dormant dating career due to divorce or other sudden bout of singledom. Men’s dating stock seems to increase in value with age, but we women often find ourselves stuck in a bear market. Or a depression.

During my recent college reunion, dating was a hot topic. During one of our late-night chatfests in the common room (a tribal ritual that involved the imbibing of copious amounts of spirit juice), a recent divorcee posed the following question: “How do I start the whole dating thing again?”

I leaned forward and offered up a tip from Mimi Morgan, a character in The Fat City Mysteries.

“Here’s a dirty little secret about men,” I said. “Men are all about packaging. You gotta take what you got and vamp it up.”

My theory was rejected by a unanimous round of head-shaking. This amazed me. Call me a plastic surgery junkie, call me a shallow-head resident of La-La Land, but I thought all women knew this basic fact about the male species—men's initial reaction to a woman is based on appearance. After that comes love and feelings (hopefully), but here’s the ugly truth: Looks. Do. Matter.

Here’s how one of my characters describes the Four Cycles of Love: 1) Breaking up; 2) Losing weight; 3) Plastic surgery; 4) Starting a new relationship.

Okay, so that character is really shallow. But she has a point. Back when we were in our thirties, to get prepared for dating we thought mostly about getting in shape, plus maybe buying some new clothes and make-up. When we’re over fifty, we may require a little extra intervention. I’m not talking about Sex and the City or face-lifts, but I am suggesting that we need to redress Mother Time in whatever way that works. It may be a little collagen or Botox, or yoga classes, but here’s the bottom line: you’ve got to look like you still like to do it. And that may involve pushing beyond our comfort zones.

In my own case, nothing makes me happier than a day when I’m alone in the house and I can settle into what Oprah calls “schlumpadinka” mode. Sweats, tee shirt, no makeup—you may know the routine.

Some weeks after our wedding date, when I first emerged in full schlumpadinka splendor, I looked at my husband and said, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” I realized he’d never actually seen me look like that before; I’d always been in dating mode. Poor guy. It was too late to back out—he’d already walked down the aisle.

Then, when I had to get some publicity event a couple of years ago, I reverted right back to dating-preparation mode. I took a hard look at some candid shots, then picked up the phone and dialed my best friend’s plastic surgeon for a consult. (This is LA, after all. We all have friends who have plastic surgeons.)

Two rounds of fat grafts, one eye lift, a professional photographer and one make-up artist later, I considered it all to be worth the trouble. Men didn’t cherchez le frump when we were twenty years old, and they definitely don’t when we’re fifty. But some women disagree that we should have to play that game.

“He should like me for who I am,” they object.

Well, yes, but consider this update from the dating battlefront: Every Friday night, my tiny seaside turns into a hunting ground for YOPPS (Young People on the Prowl). The town’s many bars fill with guys jammed in with girls who teeter around the boardwalk in tight skirts and stilettos. The only women over forty are the bemused married matrons who actually live in the town; all the Happily Marrieds are dressed in sweats and comfortable walking shoes.

But if one of those Happily Marrieds becomes a Suddenly Single when she’s fifty, she might want to refresh her dating memory with a couple of lessons from her YOPP sister.

Lesson 1: Cleavage never hurts.

Lesson 2: Stilettos hurt, but they often help.

What about you? Do you have any tips for reentering the dating game, at any age? Anything to avoid?

Working Dogs

2008-06-19T01:19:00.000-04:00

The American Kennel Club identifies dog breeds by group. One is the Working Group. But that’s not what I’m blogging about today. No, I want to cheer on the actual working dogs, dogs who fulfill a function that helps people, which people can’t necessarily do for themselves.

Some working dogs are companion dogs. There is at least one organization that provides canine assistance to people with emotional issues, such as post-traumatic stress syndrome. I can easily believe that people in difficult emotional situations are helped at least a little by hugging a non-judgmental canine companion who’s always delighted to be with them. Other dogs visit hospitals or hospices to help cheer up the patients, if only temporarily. I’ve also saved articles about local senior citizen homes where the seniors aren’t the only residents. Sometimes they’re permitted to bring their own pets, and other times the pets are there thanks to the homes’ management who understand that older folks who may have lost friends and family can be cheered tremendously by a happy pup.

Then there are the dogs who use their noses for people’s sake. Just this week, the news reported that a cadaver dog located the remains of a woman who had been missing for eight years. It was definitely not a good situation, but at least her poor family might reach closure now. Authorities brought the well-trained dog to the Mojave Desert, where he indicated interest in a particular spot. Sure enough, when the people dug, they found what the dog had scented.

Especially poignant these days are stories I read of military dogs who bond with their handlers in overseas assignments. Sometimes the soldiers ask to be buried with their dogs should they be killed while on duty. I’ve read that the dogs are sometimes given military ranks higher than their handlers’, both as an honor to the dogs for their devoted duty, and to ensure there would be some consequence to the handler should he or she mistreat his comrade in paws. Sometimes, the soldiers even work out a way to bring their canine partners home to the U.S. with them when their tour is over.

I write occasionally about working dogs in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery series. Kendra’s pet-sitting assistant Rachel sometimes takes her dog Beggar to a senior citizens’ home to help cheer the residents. Others compete in reality shows. But I have more working canines in some of my upcoming Silhouette Nocturnes. ALPHA WOLF, the first one, which will be published in January 2009, includes military canines along with their human shapeshifting counterparts. The second one, to be published in June 2009, with the working title MORTAL OPTIONS, stars a lady cop who happens to have Valkyrie powers--and a K-9 partner.

Okay, so I love writing about dogs as much as I enjoy reading about them. But nothing compares with having them in the family!

What’s your favorite working dog story?

--Linda

Summer Fun

2008-06-18T06:28:00.000-04:00

I’m going to a Saint Paul Saints game on Friday with two friends. Perhaps you’ve heard of this team. They are not major league, but they are whatever league it is that’s just under major. Our Minnesota Twins will occasionally pull a player from the Saints to join the Twins, or send one of their fading or misbehaving players to the Saints. I guess that makes the Saints a "farm team." Anyway, they play excellent baseball. I don’t go to Twins games, for several reasons. One is, they play indoors on artificial grass in a ballpark so huge you need binoculars to see anyone’s face. It reduces the event to a video game, distant and too perfect. The Saints play in a much smaller ballpark, outdoors, so we all get dusty and sometimes rained on and you can see the clenched faces and massive hands, and hear the grunts of effort when a ball is hit or thrown. The players are good; every game there is at least one play that brings the crowd to its feet.
And then there are the comic elements. The ball boy is a pig. No, not dirty – in fact, she is as pink and clean as it’s possible for a pig to get. She starts the season as a piglet, tempted to trot out to the pitcher’s mound by a man showing her a bottle. She is dressed in costume, a UPS shirt one inning, a tutu the next. Pigs grow fast; as the season draws to an end, the animal outweighs any of the players.
There are weird contests between innings, kids carrying liquids in tablespoons or rolling automobile tires in a race down and back along the third base line; adults dressing one another in gender-inappropriate, size extra-extra-extra-large clothing in a minute or less. Around the sixth inning there’s an Asian man who sings an old pop or disco song in a key of his own invention. There are weird prizes: if a named Saint slides into second base during the game, every person attending gets a coupon for a White Castle hamburger (which are popularly called "sliders"). A man in a parachute harness is hung on the right field wall; if a ball comes his way and he catches it, he wins ten thousand dollars. (Think about it. Right field fence, man unable to move left or right. I think that is the safest ten thousand dollars in the state.)
Then on Saturday I’m going to an ice cream social. We have these two great friends who make ice cream, sorbets, sherbets, and ices. Once each summer they fire up their great big grill and invite a great crowd of friends to come and grill their own meat, picnic on the lawn, and sample fabulous frozen desserts.
Which reminds me: Thursday I’m going down to Owatonna, about an hour south of the Cities, to visit Bob Larson on his cattle ranch and buy six or eight weeks’ worth of Scottish Highland meat. The cattle are those little creatures with long light-colored fur, bangs over their eyes, and horns a yard wide from tip to tip. They look like something out of a cave painting, and indeed they are a very ancient breed. Bob lets them run wild and chemical-free winter and summer. Now and again he’ll go round up two or three, fatten them for a week or so on corn, then send them to be butchered. It’s kind of strange to stand at a fence and look at them, beautiful and strange in the pasture, then go to the big old freezers in Bob’s garage and buy hamburger, steaks, roasts, and hot dogs made from their aunts, uncles and cousins. But I like that a whole lot better than the other choices.
Did I mention I’m not getting a whole lot of writing done this week?
I am just starting to set up a little book tour for Thai Die when it comes out in December. So far just two places locally and then The Mystery Bookstore in Omaha. Love that shop – and Kate takes her visiting authors out to dinner to a Bohemian restaurant just up the street. She has a "Stitch and Bitch" group that meets in the shop, and they’ll be in session the day I get there, December 13. Always fun, I’ll have to remember to bring a project along. If anyone has a suggestion for a place to stop along the way, or not too far out of it, let me know. And pray for good weather!

Searching For A Starry Night, A Miniature Art Mystery

2008-06-17T00:04:00.000-04:00

by guest blogger, Chris Verstraete

Thanks, Camille for hosting me!

With miniatures in common, for fun, Camille (Margaret) and I decided to swap questions and appear at each other’s blogs today. Visitors can comment at both our blogs for a chance to win books and neat prizes!

Be sure to stop at Chris’ Candid Canine blog http://candidcanine.blogspot.com for a chance to win a signed copy of Searching For A Starry Night and the chance to win a miniature party table!

“Searching For A Starry Night” is my first published book. It released June 15 and can be ordered on line or through my website: http://cverstraete.com/Starry_Night.html

About the book
“Searching For A Starry Night” is a mystery for ages 10 –15 focusing on the search, by teens Sam and Lita, for a missing miniature replica of Van Gogh’s painting, “(The) Starry Night.” A spooky family legend, a friend’s mischievous Dachshund named Petey, a crabby housekeeper and a dog-hating gardener/handyman all help – or hinder – the girls in their search. See details and a sample chapter at http://cverstraete.com/Starry_Night.html.

What's your favorite part of your book?
I think one of my favorite parts, actually a paragraph, involves Sam’s observation of her canine friend, Petey, the mischievous little Dachshund who “helps” solve the mystery of the missing miniature Van Gogh painting (Try saying that fast!).

Sam sprawled on her cot with a pencil, opened the book, and started a puzzle. Lita fell onto her cot and scribbled in her notebook. Next to them, lying on his blankets on the floor, Petey snored and turned over on his back, sticking his legs up in the air. Sam tried not to giggle as he rolled over to his side, reminding her of a Vienna hot dog without a bun. All he needed was relish, she thought.

Tell us about you, the kinds of work you’ve done, and your collection.
I think I’ve been collecting forever, or at least it looks that way! (lol!) I have enough stuff saved and stashed for future projects that I could start my own store. I have many favorite pieces in my collection, but a recent addition is a fantastic miniature oil of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” done by miniaturist Lucie Winsky. (See my blog, http://candidcanine.blogspot.com for more about the artist and the painting.)

I’ve had my share of jobs, too, waitress, newspaper reporter, freelance writer, waitress… notice a trend? Ha. I enjoy writing about all kinds of topics for various newspapers and magazines.

Is your main character someone you'd want to invite over to "play" and why?
I’d love to play with Sam and Lita! Actually I’d love to get a closer look at the housekeeper Mrs. Grace’s dollhouse collection if she’d let me. Well, actually I already know what many of her projects look like since most of her miniatures are based on things in my own collection.

What's in your character’s collection that you wish was yours - and will you make it in real life?
I did give crabby housekeeper Mrs. Drake a few other miniatures that I don’t have. She has a fantastic pink Victorian dollhouse that’s filled to the brim. I used to have a Victorian dollhouse that was painted lavender but it took up a whole wall in the living room. First house, so you know how that goes; we went overboard. We ended up taking it apart. (I hear all the miniaturists’ gasps. ha!)

What's your next mini project?
What isn’t in progress might be a better question, ha! I still have a Christmas tea shop sitting on my kitchen table partially done. Maybe I’ll finish it by next Christmas. I’m working on my witch’s greenhouse and have a witch’s bakery to do next. I never seem to finish on the given holiday, it seems. I want to make a Van Gogh studio, also. And never mind the other ideas that I’ve been saving things for. Photos of my miniatures can be seen by clicking miniatures at http://cverstraete.com.

Describe your dream mini project you hope to do one day.
I’ve love to do a house façade in a Tudor style with Paper Clay like Rik Pierce’s houses, http://www.frogmorton.com/ .I love the look of an exterior courtyard and façade in a roombox. I’d also like to do an elegant Brook Tucker type room http://www.brooketucker.com/ since most of my work is usually of more “everyday” type rooms.

How did you begin writing books? Your degree and education?
I have a journalism degree and write for newspapers and magazines, but fiction always drew me. I started writing short fiction and was having a lot of fun with it. Writing a book was a “to-do” for me, too. I have a couple adult mysteries in the works and a set of mystery stories I’ve been working on featuring Sam and Lita.

What inspired this mystery? Why’d you pick miniatures as a subject?
Family would say I eat, breathe and sleep miniatures. Ha! For the book, I thought a theft seemed the ideal crime to focus on.

Did you have a dollhouse (or other minis) in childhood - what did you have? What do you remember of it? What did you like about it?
Like most kids growing up in the 1950s, I had a metal dollhouse with plastic furniture. I don’t remember too much about it, though I do recall later not liking the house much. I think I was more of a “doll” person growing up. We always had stuffed animals. The Thumbelina doll was (and still is) my favorite. Now, I love to add dolls to my miniature rooms.

If a cyclone/fire/tsunami, etc were coming, what one miniature would you take with you when you evacuated and why? What is special about it?
I can’t pick one. I’d have to take all three: I loved planning my Tudor Tea Shoppe and my Teapot Shoppe. (Tiny teapots are addicting!) I also enjoyed planning the Raggedy Ann roombox. My Dogcatcher’s House was also fun to do. I like doing themed projects. I’d have to leave ahead as I’d have to bring other stuff like the miniature dolls, genealogy papers, and the real-life dog, too.

What have you made? What's in your collection?
Since you have a mortuary, I guess my haunted house is my comparable project. I’m a Stephen King fan and love scary movies, so it was great fun getting gory and coming up with strange ideas. And once I found a certain doll set on eBay, I knew I had to make an extra room for it. (Click photos on my website, http://cverstraete.com to see the haunted house. Warning: The back room is NOT for the touchy or squeamish!)

How'd you research your book?
I did do some reading on miniature art and Van Gogh, but didn’t want to get super technical in the book as I wanted it to be more of a light-hearted “fun” mystery.

What’s your craft background?
I’ve always been pretty artistic and crafty. I used to draw, too, and used to enjoy sitting on the radiator by the front window to sketch the houses across the street. I tried a lot of crafts. I think that’s why I enjoy dollhouses as you can do all kinds of different things for a project.

What’s next in your series is: name, release dates.
I don’t have a next –yet. I am working on a series of short mystery stories with Sam and Lita.

Have any funny moments doing miniatures?
I’m with you; I try to avoid the Super Glue. And as careful as I try to be, I always end up getting paint on a good shirt. I think my bad projects were so bad, they were best forgotten because I can’t think of one. Ha!

Describe your craftroom - where do you work on minis? Want to share a pic of your craftroom? C'mon show us!
I don’t have a specific room though I sure wish I did. I work at the kitchen table and am trying to keep things orderly (which never lasts!) I have things all over in my office and everywhere else.

This was fun! Thank you sooo much for hosting me!

Jane’s Time Management Strategy: Just Say No to Cookies

2008-06-16T00:08:00.000-04:00

For many years, I was the official “cookie baker” for my family’s holiday get-togethers. Chocolate chip cookies were my specialty, but I dabbled in sugar, chocolate, apple, creamy fillings, and other gourmet styles, too.

As the years passed, and I became busier at work, I grew less entranced with the prospect of baking dozens of cookies under enormous time constraints. In fact, to me, baking cookies for the holidays became a duty, not a pleasure. Then came the year when I was up past midnight completing the task. I was irritated and snappy. The next day, I grumbled to my husband that this had to stop. “I’m too busy to bake all these
cookies!” I complained. And, cleverly, I thought, I asked him to call my mother and tell her that I was no longer going to bake cookies. He declined.

The next year, as cookie-baking time approached, I girded myself, picked up the phone and said, “Ma, I’ve made a decision. I’m just too busy. This year, I’m not going to bake cookies. I’m going to buy them instead.”

I’d expected a long, sad silence, followed by, “All right, dear,” or some similar, kindly worded phrase that left me feeling inadequate and guilty. Instead, do you know what my mother said? “Sounds smart!”

And in that one flash of a moment, I learned an important lesson. I learned that what I’d perceived as an obligation had never, in fact, existed at all. My family thought I liked baking cookies. And I did! I just didn’t like having to bake them. I’d volunteered once, then a second time, then a third, until finally it became an expected part of family get-togethers. I could have stopped any time, but I didn’t think I could The sense that it was a non-negotiable duty was all in my own head.

I recall that story a lot when I’m struggling with time management issues. I really, really want to spend my time doing things I value—not doing things other people value—or doing things because I think other people value them—or doing things that have become part of a tradition simply because they’re been done in the past.

That’s pretty unconventional thinking, I know. Most people value traditions for their own sake. I don’t. I value traditions for the deeper meaning they convey to me at that moment in time. And those deeper meanings shift as my circumstances and needs change.

For instance, I used to decorate like a wild woman for every holiday. I don’t anymore. For Halloween, as an example, I used to suspend paper skeletons from the ceiling in front of windows, adding backlighting so they’d glow eerily as they fluttered. To say nothing of the spiders and cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns! Now I put a few mini-pumpkins on the fireplace mantle and call it a day.

Why the change? I liked my big-time decorations—a lot. It was fun to do and fun to live with. I don’t do it anymore because I don’t need the joy the decorations provided to fill a void and I’d rather spend my time doing other things.

During the period when I’d decorated every nook and cranny of my apartment, I was enduring a tough time in my life—my mother had died, my brother had died, my beloved cat had died, and I’d gotten divorced after a 20-year marriage—all within a year or so. Decorating provided joy during a joyless time.

Things are different now. I’m happily remarried and doing work I adore. For the moment, all is well in my world.

In the Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries, my protagonist, Josie Prescott, is an antiques appraiser who uses her knowledge of antiques to solve crimes.

Josie likes to cook. She uses the recipes her mother wrote out by hand in a leather bound book as she lay dying, part of her legacy to her beloved daughter. Josie likes it when the recipes take time. She doesn’t want to hurry when she cooks. To her, multiple steps and complex instructions mean that she gets to spend extra time with her mom.

That’s luxury! To be able to spend time as you choose.

All of Josie’s mom’s recipes are on my website: www.janecleland.net. (There are oodles of fun, free elements on the website in addition to the recipes, including several autographed book give-away drawings, an opportunity to pit your antiques appraisal skills against those of the experts in What’s It Worth? You Be the Judge, text and audio podcasts of excerpts, and book club discussion questions... and more. Sign up for the free newsletter, too!)

Time—we all have only so much of it. If you’re like me, you strive to spend it wisely, by your own definition of “wise.”

But if you bake cookies for the holidays, may I please have one?

Your thoughts? I’d welcome your comments.

Today's guest blogger, Jane K. Cleland, is the author of "Antiques To Die For." Visit her at www.janecleland.net

Signing in the Rain

2008-06-15T03:59:00.000-04:00

There must be something about the combination of outdoor book signings, Chicago and me that courts disaster.
BLUE SCHWARTZ AND NEFERTITI’S NECKLACE came out in September. It takes place in my Chicago Hyde Park neighborhood and the release coincided with a local children’s book street fair. The fair was even sponsored by 57th Street Books which happened to be Blue’s favorite bookstore. It would seem that all the planets, or whatever it’s supposed to be, were in alignment.
I remember that afternoon thinking how this was to be my very first time on the other side of the signing table. My friend Judy Libby even drove up all the way from Springfield to share the moment.
My signing time was toward the end of the fair and it was to be at a table on the street. The sky was white, but non threatening so I wasn’t worried. This is no lie, but as Judy and I walked the two blocks to the fair, something happened in the last half a block. It started to pour. Not drizzle, not light rain – pour. The kind of rain where it seems someone unzipped the sky and let a deluge fall out.
By the time we reached the signing table, it was covered with a tarp and frantic people were carrying books inside. Most of the fair goers were fleeing for someplace dry. The bookstore people were very nice and moved my signing inside. Meanwhile Judy troweled the bookstore for customers. She found some wet girls waiting to be picked up. They were just the right age for the book and several of them got copies.
When the mother’s showed up and the only shoppers were a couple of men, Judy and I left and went out to dinner. When we walked outside, the rain had stopped and the puddles were already drying up.
Flash forward to last weekend and my first signing of another book in Chicago at a street fair. This time it was the Printers Row Fair which is held in the South Loop. Julie Hyzy, the president of the Chicago area chapter of Mystery Writers of America as nice enough to give me a signing slot for HOOKED ON MURDER, a crochet mystery in their booth.
The sun was shining when I arrived at the MWA sideless tent. I took my spot at the table and all four of us signers had a stack of books and a ready pen. Lots of people came by and many of them stopped. My friend Mike Caselman came by with his family. Things were looking good and books were moving and then the wind started. Someone mentioned a coming storm and that we should cover everything with plastic when it came. It was hard to believe bad weather was on the way. The sky was still blue, though there were some big clouds.
The thing they say about Chicago weather – if you don’t like it, wait a minute – is no joke. Within minutes the dark turned dark and ominous. The wind snapped all the tarps people were putting over their booths, and the doors on the porta potties blew open and shut. A garbage can did cartwheels past our booth.
And then it started to rain. No drizzle or a few wet spots, it went directly too pouring again. It was raining so hard, it honestly looked like a sheet of water.
We covered our table with plastic and bravely held our signing spots. Though by now most of the people going by were running.
When I looked around, there were clumps of people under the canopies, and huddled under building overhangs. We all had the same idea. It rains, it pours, it stops.
Not today.
When the lightening started, a fair official came by and told us we had to evacuate our booth. Apparently the metal rod sticking up in the middle did a good job of attracting lightening and could have fried us if we stayed put. I found an awning on a building and hung out with one of my signing mates.
Could it get worse? The tornado siren sounded and then I heard a lot of emergency type sirens in the distance. The woman from the next booth, also under our awning screamed every time the lightening flashed.
As the rain finally began to let it, there was another tornado siren, but this time further away. When the rain turned to drizzle and people began to come out of their shelters, I looked at my watch. My signing time was over. I headed for the train and went home.
It turned out there was a damaging tornado on the south end of the city.
The funny thing is if both signings had gone by without incident, they certainly wouldn’t have been as much of an adventure or given me anything to write about. Who ever wants to hear about a good time? I guess there is definitely something to be said for disaster. But next time I do a signing, I think I’ll try inside.

How quilting and writing are alike, volume a

2008-06-14T12:49:00.000-04:00

Research for the writer is the equivalent of fabric buying for the quilter. A project reaches a point where you recognize you've got a gap. You don't have the right red, or the right action for your protag. So off you go to the library or fabric store.

It's inspiring, wonderful fun, but if you're not careful, research or fabric collecting becomes the destination instead of the journey.

I used to read the encyclopedia as a kid, marveling as I turned the page at what was in there. "Having" to do research is the freedom to go off a tangent. There, I find tidbits of information that lead me to places I hadn't imagined. See connections that weren't readily apparent. Truths that lie hidden. All of the things that make a story richer and more layered.

Walking into a fabric store is asking to be seduced. You're ready, hoping to find something that will transport you. Waiting for the colors to drawn you, the patterns to make your heart beat faster. The manufacturers know this, and over the last twenty years, have come out with new fabric lines, new designers, new color palettes every season. We struggle to keep up. We buy more than we could use in a lifetime, and slap a magnet on the fridge that reads "She who has the most fabric wins."

The trick for both is knowing when to stop.

Too noir for comfort

2008-06-13T00:20:00.003-04:00

I think I just checked into the Bates Motel.

Actually, it’s a nationally-advertised economy chain, but at the rate things are going, I’ll be amazed if I come out in one piece.

Here’s how it started: I was on my way to my mother’s house in South Carolina, and somehow got off course between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Palmetto State. At close to midnight, I pulled off the interstate and entered the lobby of a motel. It belongs to a chain that advertises on national TV, so I figured it had to be decent.

The night clerk, a portly, red-haired gentleman, actually tried to talk me out of staying at this establishment. If I hadn’t been drop-dead tired, he would have succeeded.

The first thing out of his mouth was, “If you’re used to mid-service level motels, this isn’t the place for you.”

By “mid-service level,” I’m thinking he meant the Ramada, or maybe a Holiday Inn Express.

Now, I’m no snob, and I was so bleary-eyed by this point, I would have accepted the room key to a pup tent.

So I said, “As long as you have wifi, I’m your gal.”

He took my charge card, handed me a map, and told me about a few things about the lay of the land, so to speak.

“This building here, this is where the truckers and prostitutes are,” he said, pointing to the farthest-outlying row of rooms on the map. “But you’re on the other side. Your room has a microwave and wifi. It’s nonsmoking”

I blinked. “Beyond nonsmokers, who stays on that side?”

“Mostly construction workers,” he said. “They stay here for months at a time. They get a little noisy, so be prepared. Do you want first floor or second?”

“First,” I replied. “How noisy do they get, as a general rule? Like, do they get knocking-on-doors noisy?”

He gave me a solemn look. “Yah. But we got security. Our guy’s got a crazy stare and one of his hands only has two fingers. So they don’t give him any crap. Gimme a call if they bother you and I’ll send him right over.”

That was vastly reassuring, I gotta tell ya.

As I drove around the building to get to my room, I saw a young woman in short-shorts and platform heels entering a truck. I have to assume she was not there for the wifi or the nonsmoking room.

There were three or four men hanging around the second-floor walkway as I parked in front of my room. They stared curiously as I unpacked my laptop and a pink stuffed horse I was taking to my niece as a present. Those men looked like they might be horse thieves, so I wasn’t taking any chances--Pink Horsie was coming with me.

My nonsmoking room has an acrid atmosphere that’s making my eyes water, so I think that part of the clerk’s description was a flat-out lie.

I think he was right about the prostitutes, though. And the noise in the parking lot is ramping up, so he might have been right about the party-hearty construction workers.

All I know is, if I hear a knock on the door, I’ll be calling on Crazy Seven Fingers, the security guard.

I can’t wait to make his acquaintance.