My Favorite Book
Like all other writers, at every personal appearance I’m asked the same things: “Who’s your favorite writer? What’s your favorite book?”
My answer has come to be, “It depends on which week it is.” I have read so many books and found so much to admire that I have no one clear response. Sure, I have writers that I often recommend to people who like my books. But that too can depend on which books of mine they’ve enjoyed the most. If they’ve liked my conventional mysteries, I can safely recommend any of my blogbuddies on this site. Or I can advise them to read Margaret Maron, or Carolyn Hart, or Eve Sandstrom, or Denise Swanson.
If they’re readers who like something edgier, I can tell them what pleasure I’ve found in Laura Lippman, or Robert Crais, or Lee Child, or Karin Slaughter, or Charlie Huston.
If you tell me you like writers who write both mysteries and science fiction, well, I’ve got a list of those, starting with Barbara Hambly and stretching a mile.
Out and out urban fantasy? Jim Butcher, Kim Harrison, Kelley Armstrong, Carrie Vaughn, Kevin Hearne, Benedict Jacka, Mike Carey . . .
Much edgier fantasy? Oh, gosh, just a few: Richard Kadrey, Lillian Saintcrow, Rob Thurman, Laurell K. Hamilton.
And that’s just living writers. Don’t get me started on dead ones.
So please, if you see me in person, be prepared for a long answer if you ask me who my favorite writer is.
And if you really care who I’m reading, you can find out what books I’ve read for the past two years; at least, the ones I’ve enjoyed. Just visit my website (www.charlaineharris.com) and click on BOOK & BLOG. You can find out there.
There are so many great books out there. The only problem, as I see it, is finding the time to read them.
Charlaine Harris
June 25, 2014
June 24, 2014
Wearing Purple.
Catriona writes: When I was a kid, my whole family used to go out picking brambles (blackberries?) along the old railway line near our house. I loved it - hacking through the undergrowth, filling my bucket with glistening fruit, competing with my sisters to see who could gather most (never me - I was the shortest) and then waiting for my mother to turn them into the most delicious jelly and jam. Good wholesome, thrifty, family fun. Until one time two boys and two girls from my class walked past and saw my dad, in his old clothes, with fern fronds in his hat to keep the midges away. Snap! I went from being part of a big happy family on a jaunt to being a loser who would never be in the in-crowd. It made me cringe for years. Now it makes me cringe that it made me cringe. But I still remember the sharpness of realising I didn't belong.
Today's guest post brought it right back again. I'm delighted to welcome to the Femmes, the wickedly funny San Francisco writer, Susan Shea, who's exploring belonging, not belonging and the damage done in her new novel MIXED UP WITH MURDER later this year. It's the third mystery featuring the smart and gutsy Dani O'Rourke, an art gallery fundraiser in the city, and it's a treat for anyone who loves to dive into a new world in the hands of a writer who knows it inside out (which is everyone, right?) Welcome, Susan!
To be a Femme Fatale even for the day and under the brilliant and charming Catriona’s cloak is a pretty heady experience. It got me thinking about the business of belonging and how the desire for it or the resentment for lack of it fuels so much bad behavior. Of course, thinking about that leads directly to thinking about crime, right?
People, most people anyway, want to be liked, and why not? We’re social animals, we want to be included in the tribe, allowed to get close to the fire on cold nights, and get a share of the mammoth that the hunters brought back. We work hard to show that we fit: We have the clothes and the haircut and eat only organic vegetables. If we’re young, we have more pressure and more hoops to go through in the ritual of passing into the enviable state of Coolness: tats and piercings and music, and slang, and attitude and, and and. For young people, it’s almost endless, and all so you can sit on the section of the low wall outside school that is reserved for the chosen. Adults sometimes figure it out and can walk away healthy. Otherwise it’s alternately depressing, paranoia-inducing, and infuriating, but mostly, if you’re a kid, stressful.
But let’s say you’re extremely rich, and let’s further say you’re not the brightest bulb. Wealth came to you from someone else’s purse and you have managed to piddle large amounts of it away. You’re no more secure than the kids in eighth grade, although you’ve developed a haughty attitude that intimidates some people. But do they like you or just feel they have to suck up to you? When you spout your ideas on, say, world peace, are those serious-looking faces thinking, “A jerk, but if I pretend to be interested, maybe some of that money, or a trip on the private jet, will blow my way.” And, if something you’ve done threatens to make you the butt of a thousand nasty jokes behind your back, and you could stop it from coming out, would you be tempted? *
As you read stories woven by the Femmes, you see ways in which belonging or not drives bad decision-making, building one wrong move upon another until someone arrives at a place where murder seems like the best or only option to handle their problems. Read the newspaper, where you see this played out in white-collar crimes, gang violence, misogynistic cruelty, teenage mayhem.
It’s a depressing topic, and I’m sorry I got off on it. But I have a new Dani O’Rourke novel coming out later this year (MIXED UP WITH MURDER) and like the others, this atavistic desire to belong and fear of being an outcast motivates at least one bad actor in the story. Lest it sound too grim, my novels are considered witty and even laugh out loud funny at times. Foolish people making foolish choices – the human comedy!
* If you are the first person to say which of my previous novels in the series (MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT or THE KING’S JAR) this character comes from, and you post it on Femmes, I will send you a copy of the new book when it comes out later this fall. Don’t say who it is – no spoilers – but make sure we can reach you to arrange the delivery.
June 20, 2014
Phoenix Comicon
by Kris
Earlier this month, I spent four days at the Phoenix Comicon 2014, one of my favorite appearances of the year.
One of the strongest draws for the public is always that they get to garner autographs and take photos with various famous actors. Across from our table was Mark Sheppard, of Dr. Who and Warehouse 13 fame, along with other shows, and we were just down the way from Bruce Campbell of Burn Notice. Nathan Fillian, Stephen Amell, John Rhys-Davies, Julie Newmar, Adam West, and so many others also put in appearances.
The best part for me is that I get to see good friends, some of which I
only see at PCC. It’s always great spending time with my regular table-mate, Chantelle Aimee Osman, as well as our Authors Alley neighbor and good friend, NYT Bestselling science fiction author Mike Stackpole, author of I, Jedi and too many other great novels to name.
The panel programming is always first-rate. This year I appeared on the Crafting the Mystery panel, with Sister Femmes, Charlaine Harris. I also appeared on the Crossing the Streams panel, which dealt with those authors who write cross-genre works. And I did a little speed critiquing for a talented group of aspiring authors.
The vendors in the Exhibition Hall aren’t what you find at other trade shows. One of my favorite booths were the one selling Super Hero Stuff
because what super hero doesn’t need...well, stuff? Since one Dr. Who briefly thought fezzes were cool, there’s always a good selection of fez dealers.
The funniest booth, operating under the name Twiggs & Berries, sold elaborate, inventive cod pieces. What well dressed man ever has enough of those?
The parade of costumes at fantasy cons always dazzles. Everyone pays the most attention to the elaborate, custom-crafted costumes, and naturally, I marvel at those as much as anyone, though my favorites are usually the ones people make themselves. They might not be as showy, but they’re always imaginative.
The organizers of this event deserve huge applause. If any problems do pop up, they must deal with them instantly, because I never hear of them. And that the attendance has spiked so dramatically every year has to have made organization a challenge, but they consistently handle it with aplumb. The Guest Services staff especially always takes such good care of us authors.
The absolute best part? Where else can I see 77,000+ people having more fun than should be legal without going too far from home?
June 18, 2014
Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
As Nat King Cole used to sing, "Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, Those days of soda and pretzels and beer ..." Recently, I've been busy with Camp Grandma, hosting three of my grandchildren -- thankfully, not all at the same time, and no beer involved -- for sailing camp here in Annapolis. Meanwhile, twenty-eight miles to the north in Baltimore, my good friend, author Sujata Massey, is thinking about summer, too. Sujata writes:
Summer officially started for me this week. My teenaged son and daughter are at liberty for the next 77 days. I still wake up at 6:30 a.m., but it’s not to rush around coaxing people down to breakfast. It’s quiet time to sit on my front porch in an Adirondack chair with coffee and the newspaper.
The Baltimore summers are known for thick, steamy weather, but the mornings are usually cool with a soft, whispery breeze that runs through the tall, hundred-year-old oaks and maples on our street. Each morning, that breeze seems to whisper that the kids really might sleep till 9 a.m. On an early summer morning, I visit with our beagle. He seems to mumble that he will take a walk with me later. But when I put the leash on him, he won’t stir from the couch. Just as my kids are loathe to depart the house for the pool just down the block or anywhere else.
At a school auction this spring, I foolishly purchased a package of family outings. We now own multiple admissions to Roundtop Mountain, Luray Caverns, Frederick Keys Baseball and the Maryland Science Center. Looking at this package makes me feel like I’ve got a hopeless job.
But who’s really at fault? This summer, I pledged to swim at the pool daily. After that I hope to prepare some incredibly healthy and summery thing for dinner that everyone likes. Some of those meals will be picnics at the pool. I will invite a family or two for a barbecue on the deck. What the hell, we should invite the whole neighborhood to a potluck party with an outdoor film screening of a great classic! Of course, I’ll do all of this after I’ve written four pages of good fiction every day. I will write in the morning, naturally. When everyone’s sleeping!
But that goal seems elusive. And the latest book I’m part of didn’t exactly involve new writing. I’ve slipped one of my backlist mysteries about the perils of flower arranging in Japan—THE FLOWER MASTER--into a book bundle of five previously published mysteries, along with Libby Fischer Hellmann, Christine Kling, Zoë Sharp, and Julie Smith. Because these novels feature brave and energetic women, we are calling it KILLER FEMMES.
Big books seem part and parcel of summer. For a lot of people, this means a Russian novel or something similar they meant to get through in high school. For me, it’s a whole shelf-load of Indian classics. But summer reading also means beloved ‘beach books’ that get warped from water, as well as loads of novels stored on an E-Reader. Both are easy pleasures that you don’t have to leave the porch to enjoy. It’s a delight to find fun older books that are vanishing from libraries as E-books with stylish new covers and every word crisp and intact. Believe it or not, that’s how I’m locating some very old Rabindranath Tagore novels—free because they are in the public domain!
Summer seems long--but like any novel, I know that it will have unexpected twists that I don’t know about yet. And perhaps our family’s lethargy is not exactly laziness. We are living in the moment, gazing with wonder at the novelty of unstructured time. Hanging on the porch feels good.
Sujata Massey is the author of The Sleeping Dictionary, a historical suspense novel set in British colonial India, and ten mystery novels. She is a former Femme Fatale (from the snail-mailed newsletter days), something that may have subconsciously influenced her titling of Killer Femmes, an E-Book at Amazon, Barnes&Noble Nook, iBooks and Kobo.
Twenty-Six Years Worth of Laughs
by Toni L.P. Kelner
Today is Steve's and my twenty-sixth anniversary, and I've found that this is the Original Pictures anniversary. That seems pretty darned appropriate, because after all these years, my memories of my wedding day are kind of divided up into special moments--mental pictures, as it were--and some of 'em are pretty original. You see, while no wedding goes off perfectly, I think we had more than our share of glitches,
First off, I was nearly late for the wedding. No, I didn't have cold feet. The guys doing my hair and makeup ran late. Then, when I got back to my parents' house and was ready to zoom off to the church when my mother announced that (1) we had to go pick up one of my bridesmaids--my sister Robin--and (2) we had to stop for gas. And did she stop at a full-service place? No, she went self-service, and I refused categorically to pump gas on my wedding day, with my nails, hair, and makeup all done. Another bridesmaid--my sister Brenda--did the honors. It's a shame the photographer wasn't with us then.
We got to the church and got dressed as quickly as we could. Once we were ready, my nervous mother pulled out a cigarette to smoke during the short walk to the front of the church. Only Father McSweeney, the priest who was there to marry us, said, "You can't smoke in here." He grabbed the cigarette out of her hand, walked outside the door, and lit it himself to smoke. Again, the photographer missed an opportunity.
We get to the church and and my father escorts me down the aisle. Now the night before, during the rehearsal, that aisle had seemed endless, so as I walked I took time to nod and smile at friends and family. Meanwhile, poor Steve is up at the front of the church trying in vain to catch my eye so he can give me that "I'm so happy to be marrying you" look. Instead, by the time I stopped working the crowd, I got a "HELLO! I'm up here!" look.
But there was plenty of sentimentality when Daddy handed me off to Steve, and lovingly said, "She's all yours, sport." Well, for Daddy that's sentimental.
During the service itself, we got another special moment when I tried to put Steve's ring on and it wouldn't go. Because it wasn't his ring. It was mine. Father McSweeney mixed them up somehow. So he leaned down and very quietly said, "When we turn around, switch rings!" I thought we were the only ones to notice until I heard snickers from the bridesmaids.
After that things went smoothly. Mostly. Well...
Brenda went back to the dressing area and couldn't find the shorts she'd worn to the church, and didn't locate them until the middle of the reception when she put her hands on her hips and noticed she was still wearing them under her bridesmaid gown. (That's one picture the photographer did manage to catch.)
Speaking of bridesmaid's gowns, they were made by different seamstresses, and two of them wouldn't stay buttoned so bridesmaids Robin and Liz had to be sewn into their dresses. And speaking of photos, my sister/bridesmaid Connie came out of a door during the reception to hear the photographer say, "Squeeze in!" She obeyed, and was included in a family picture. That would have been fine, except it was Steve's side of the family,which didn't include Connie.
Plus I forgot to bring my luggage with me to the wedding, so after the reception, I drove off with my father to grab it. I was still in my wedding gown, and Daddy was in his tux, and the car had the "Just Married" stuff. So people would honk and wave, then see the two of us and I know they were thinking, "Jeez! He's old enough to be that woman's father!"
So yeah, not a perfect wedding. Instead we started our marriage with a whole lot of laughs, which set the stage for our marriage. Laughter has added to our good times, and always helps us through the bad times.
And just to prove that we did have one picture-perfect moment, here's my favorite wedding picture.
June 16, 2014
What’s the ultimate mystery?
HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: We were talking the other day about history class, and, basically, how we wish we'd listened. I said--okay, silly I know and I was reductio ad absurding--history is SUCH good story, you know? WIth a great plot, and compelling characters, and constant conflict, and fascinating motivations and endless mysteries. And now, by chance, here is the amazing (see below) and brilliant and brave Andra Watkins to prove it.
What’s the ultimate mystery?
I’ve been asking myself that question my whole life, from my first yellow-bound date with Nancy Drew to my introduction to the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Mysteries gnaw at the imagination. They seethe in the soul.
Why did ________________ happen?
We want to know.
That’s how I found my ultimate mystery.
Suppose a man, a very famous man, was found dead in an empty house early one October morning. According to witnesses, he spent the night alone, though none of them entered the home or saw him between the time he retired for the night and the moment they found him dead. One gunshot wound to the head; the other to the abdomen.
He was thirty-five years old.
By sunrise, he was buried in an unmarked grave. No investigation. No one examined the body or performed an autopsy. Conclusions drawn from hearsay evidence would dog the memory of the man for decades, while historians made careers over the study of one dilemma: Suicide? Or Murder?
All the while, Meriwether Lewis, one-half of the Lewis and Clark exploratory duo, languished along an ancient road in Tennessee.
And I wondered……
What would Lewis do if he were given more time? If he could have another adventure, find his own redemption, what might that look like?
That’s the ultimate mystery: What someone who died too soon could have accomplished, given the time.
My debut novel To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriwether Lewis offers a solution to that mystery. In a page turning thriller, Merry finds himself on his last chance to solve the mystery of his death and redeem his soul. To find answers, he must help nine-year-old Emmaline Cagney flee her madam mother in New Orleans and locate her father in Nashville. They navigate the haunted Natchez Trace, where Merry must cross his own grave and duel the corrupt Judge, an old foe who has despicable plans for Em.
Merry start his journey in a New Orleans bar with one drink: A Thunderclapper, my effort to solve the mystery of what the dead drink. I commissioned this boozy concoction for my novel, and I can tell you, it’s no mystery what a couple of these will do. I’m convinced a Thunderclapper can wake the dead. But you can try one for yourself. I’ve reproduced the recipe for you here.
The Portland Book Review calls To Live Forever “a compelling read. Pages turn of their own volition. Courageous and wonderfully told.”
My creative readers came up with the Top Ten Reasons You Should Read To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriwether Lewis.
1. You aren’t really certain what happens after we die.
2. You worry that you will be forgotten when you are gone.
3. You are the father of a daughter…or the daughter of a father.
4. You thought Hwy. 61 was the only famous road in Mississippi.
5. You figured Lewis and Clark just fell off into the Pacific Ocean when they made it to the west coast.
6. You did not realize there was a worse American traitor than Benedict Arnold.
7. You thought that the Natchez Trace was a precursor to the Etch-a-Sketch.
8. You liked Huck Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird and always wondered what happened to Elvis Presley’s twin brother.
9. You believe in magic.
10. You want to play a part in discovering a new great American novel.
Download To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriwether Lewis:
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/to-live-foreverandrawatkinsnookversion-andra-watkins/1118590470?ean=2940148267980
Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/to-live-forever-an-afterlife-journey-of-meriwether-lewis
Follow me at my website: andrawatkins.com, and you can check me out on Google+, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, YouTube and Goodreads.
Read the novel and weigh in on one of American history’s enduring mysteries.
Did Meriwether Lewis kill himself? Or was he murdered?
HANK: Wow. SO interesting, huh? Ad see below for even more wonderful info.
Please visit me at andrawatkins.com and tell me what you think.
*************************
Andra Watkins is the author of the novel To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Merwether Lewis, published by Word Hermit Press.
To launch her book, Andra is the only living person to walk the 444-mile Natchez Trace, a 10,000-year-old road from Natchez, MS to Nashville, TN. She walked the Trace as pioneers did. Fifteen miles a day. Sleeping in the modern equivalent of stands. Her eighty-year-old father accompanied her for a five-week father-daughter adventure near the end of his life. Andra finished her trek in 34 days.
For more information about Andra, you can visit her website at andrawatkins.com.
You can purchase her novel in paperback and e-book formats at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBook and Kobo.
Play ball!
by Donna Andrews
I've spent a lot of my spring watching baseball. One of my nephews played on a Little League AAA team this spring. His more sports-crazy brother played on a Little League majors team AND a travel team. This meant that most weeks we grownups had to get one or the other of them to a total of three practices and six games.
It's a good thing I like baseball.
In fact, I like baseball so much that before too long I want to use it in one of my books again. Meg Langslow's kids will be old enough for Little League soon. I might just have to make her husband, Michael, the assistant coach.
I'll have to wait until they're ready for kid-pitch, though, because I already had some fun with T-ball in The Real Macaw. I wanted to have Meg overhear some town gossip and I figured what better place than the bleachers, while she was watching her honorary nephew, Timmy:
Out on the field, the coach and various parents who'd volunteered or been drafted as assistant coaches were herding the Caerphilly Red Sox toward their bench. Someone had applied generous daubs of eye black to all the players' cheeks, making them look more than ever like a small but savage tribe about to go on the warpath.
I peered down at my own small savages. Josh was fast asleep. Jamie was awake, and happily watching a small, faceted toy, rather like a miniature disco ball, that hung from the roof of the carriage, twirling and glittering in the slightest breeze.. . . Odds were both boys would want something soon, and probably simultaneously, but for now, I could bask in the pleasantly warm April air and relax.
Or maybe not. Over on the Red Sox bench, Timmy and one of his teammates had begun hitting each other on the helmet with their bats and giggling uproariously. Where was the bench coach? And for that matter, where was the other kid's mother?
I should do something. But the bench was a good ten feet away from the bleachers. I looked around and spotted someone I knew from the pediatrician's office.
"Could you keep an eye on my twins for a second?" I asked her.
She nodded, and I strode over to the bench and grabbed the end of the other kid's bat just as he was about to pound Timmy's helmet.
"Stop that," I said.
"We're wearing helmets," the other kid said. "It's not going to hurt anything."
He pulled at the bat, trying free it.
"Bats against the fence unless you're actually batting." I was quoting one of the few T-ball rules I'd learned so far. I pulled a little harder and gained possession of the bat. "You, too," I said, holding out my hand to Timmy, who prompted surrendered his blunt instrument. He wasn't a bad child, just a little easily misled.
I hooked the bats into the chain link fence behind home plate and returned to my seat by the baby carriage.
"Thanks," I said to my temporary babysitter.
"You're welcome," she said. "You saved me the trouble of walking over there. That was one of my monsters trying to bludgeon your kid."
I wasn't quite sure how to respond, but fortunately I didn't have to. She was soon immersed in a conversation with two other mothers about logistics for a birthday party. A birthday party to which Timmy hadn't been invited. Maybe I should start working to improve his social life.
The Caerphilly Red Sox took the field. Timmy was playing the pitcher's position. Of course since in T-ball the kids whacked a stationary ball set atop an overgrown golf tee, "pitcher" was a purely honorary title for an additional infielder. I smiled and waved, in case he was watching. The Clay County Yankees coach hauled out the tee, placed a ball on it, and began coaxing the first batter to take his place at the plate.
Veteran T-ball parents will doubtless recognize this scene. Or later, after Meg has had a conversation with one of the neighbors:
"Oh, no," someone behind me said. "They're swarming again."
Swarming? I looked around, expecting to see a cloud of some kind of insects, and ready to throw myself between it and the twins. But no one else seemed alarmed, and I realized that the speaker was pointing to the ball field. One of the Clay County Yankees had gotten a decent hit, and several of our Red Sox were competing to see who could reach it first.
In fact, the first, second and third basemen, the left and right shortstops, and the left and center fielders were all running madly in the direction of the ball. I understood what the other mother meant by swarming. The only players not involved were the right fielder, who appeared to be taking a nap; the catcher, who was so weighed down by his protective gear that he could barely walk; and Timmy, who was watching a bug crawl up his arm.
"Play your positions! Play your positions!" the coach was shouting.
"Jason! Get back on first base!" one mother shouted. "Jason, I mean it! Now!"
Other mothers and a few fathers shrieked equally futile instructions. The kids were ignoring them, and had ended up in a small, writhing heap in the general vicinity of where we'd last seen the ball.
The Yankee runner had reached first base and was watching the action, perhaps wondering if she should try for another base. In a real ball game, she'd have been crazy not to. By this time, three of the Red Sox were wrestling for the ball, while the coach and one of the fathers tried to separate them, and the rest of the team stood watching and cheering them on. The Yankee batter could probably have made two or three circuits of the bases by the time one Red Sox player emerged holding the ball.
But in T-ball, there was either a rule or a longstanding tradition that you only got one base when you hit the ball, so after looking longingly at second, the runner sat down on first base to untie and retie her shoelaces half a dozen times.
"Positions!" the Red Sox coach shouted, giving various players gentle shoves in the right directions. "Positions!"
But it took a while for the game to resume, because one of the players who had not won the fight for the ball ran off the field to be comforted by his mother, and another sat down in the outfield and refused to get up. And when the Red Sox coach finally got all his players upright and back where they belonged, someone finally noticed that there were two Yankee runners on second base. It took several minutes to sort out which one belonged there and which one should have continued on to third when the batter got her hit.
Yes, that's T-ball as I remember it. I also recall the first time I saw the boys practicing in their back yard. Sometimes it took them two, three, four, even five whacks to hit the ball—the slightly oversized ball sitting motionless on the giant golf tee. How was my brother going to deal with the realization that neither of his sons was going to be a good baseball player?
Actually, my brother wasn't worried, because he'd seen the other kids on their teams. Anyone who could hit the teed ball in under six whacks was clearly a future Babe Ruth. Some of the kids could go several dozen swings before finally connecting with the ball.
It's fun to think of their progress over the years. I remember the days when the sight of one of the opposing team's runners trying to steal a base would cause all of us on the bleachers to cringe while the coaches yelled “Eat it! Eat it!” Which appears to be Little Leaguese for “Please, just get the ball back to the pitcher, because anything else you try to do will only make things so much worse.”
I can remember when the approach of a pop fly would cause most of the fielders to hunch their shoulders, close their eyes, and stick out their gloves in some random direction until the sound of the ball hitting the grass reassured them that they weren't going to get beaned this time.
I still remember the first time one of my nephews actually caught a pop fly. He was so excited that it took him quite a while to figure out what to do with the ball, but that was okay—all the base runners were equally dumbfounded and only began running to tag up when the nephew started his throw. In another small miracle, he got one of them out.
Now they all pepper the ball around like tiny pros, and attempted larceny at third is only sometimes successful.
Yes, I really ought to start thinking of how to work a baseball game into one of my books. I don't do child jeop, and killing off an umpire would be too cliched. But I have a parent in mind—I call him Actuary Dad. He had calculated, to the penny, exactly how much he'd spent on his son's baseball gear, and was often heard to utter things like. “What's wrong with his helmet? Do I really have to buy a new one? I've already spend so much on his gear that it's costing me $32.87 a game.” Or “Damn, that canceled game means I'll paying 41.30 for each game he actually plays.” Sounds like the perfect murder victim to me. Can anyone beat that?
And it would be good to have a baseball related project, now that I'm about to go cold turkey on baselines and diamonds. The travel team playoffs were this past weekend. The last of the regular Little League playoffs would have been, too, if we hadn't had so many weather-induced postponements. The nephew's Majors team will be playing for the pennant tomorrow, and if they win, in the finals on Thursday. And after that--
Wait a sec. One of the nephews made All-Stars! My baseball jones can continue unchecked for a while.
But I still think a baseball book would be a good idea. First thing is to think of a title. Any suggestions?
Oh, and speaking of titles, I'm running a contest over on my Facebook page. Posting a few titles readers have suggested, asking people to pick their favorites and tell me how I could use them. Check it out here.
June 13, 2014
TWISTS AND TURNS
June 11, 2014
Trip of a Lifetime
I've written before of the influence Nancy Drew has had on my reading and writing. She also whet my taste for travel through the adventures she had over the years, both in the United States and abroad. Nancy traveled to fascinating-sounding places like Moon Lake and Shadow Ranch early on in the series, but in the 1960s, Harriet Adams decided to take Nancy further afield: Kenya, Scotland, Peru, France, and Turkey.
In the years since I first read those books I have been lucky enough to travel to three of those countries, namely Scotland, France, and Turkey. Peru and Kenya are still on my last. In a book called The Mysterious Mannequin, Nancy heads off to Istanbul, thanks to a coded message in a Turkish rug and the mysterious mannequin of the title. While in Istanbul she visits the famous Grand Bazaar and the Great Cistern. It all sounded so exciting and mysterious when I was a kid.
Recently I followed in Nancy's footsteps. I flew to Istanbul with friends as part of a tour, and we visited the sites that Nancy saw. For me, the most important site in Istanbul was the church of Hagia Sophia (Holy Wisdom), or Ayasofya as it is known in Turkish. This famous church has a long history, but the church that stands today was inaugurated in December 537 AD by the Emperor Justinian. It later became a mosque, and these days it is a museum. Standing in Hagia Sophia was a thrill for I felt surrounded by nearly 1,500 years of history.
We also visited Topkapi Palace and the Blue Mosque. Both of them are impressive, but for me Hagia
Sophia soars above them, with its magnificent dome that has stood for fifteen centuries. Inside Hagia Sophia there is a place where there is a set of circles on the floor, called the Omphalion. This is where the Emperors of the Eastern Roman Empire were crowned. I stood there and gazed at it, imagining Justinian and his successors in that spot. The center and largest circle in the group is the coronation spot.
Long ago, when I first read The Mysterious Mannequin and was fascinated by Istanbul, I never imagined that I would travel there or that I would actually see these amazing sites. Now that I have, I'm thinking that I might have to devise my own fictional adventure set in Istanbul.
June 10, 2014
Smoosh and Scatter
By Catriona
I was at a wedding on Saturday, the second American wedding I've been to, and I think I'm getting the hang of it now - fewer kilts and more sunshine for a start.
That's the first notable difference between a Scottish wedding and a California one. It was outside! You couldn't hold a Scottish wedding outside because it's raining. (I just clicked over to Weather Underground to check and yes: 6pm, Monday 9th June, 58F, light rain.)
But at the Butterfly and Iris Garden in the Placer County hills on Saturday, the sun shone and fans and parasols were provided. As well as pashminas for later in case anyone not dancing like a disco dervish started feeling chilly. I didn't need one.
Then there are the tinkle-sticks. ????? A wand with a bell and ribbons for the guests to shake as the newlyweds walk down the aisle. Only I thought the Best Woman said "tickle-stick" as she handed mine to me and so I goosed a groomsman with it. But only under his arm so it was okay.
And there doesn't seem to be a scatter at California weddings. This is where one of the happy couple throws a bag of coins up in the air for children to fall on like little hot, over-dressed piranhas. They were my favourite bit of a wedding when I was wee, even though the local parish church was halfway up a steep hill and you needed some skills to stop the money rolling to the bottom and into the sea.
But there's the cowbell here that we don't have. A cowbell gets passed round the guests during the reception and every time someone rings it the newlyweds have to find each other and kiss. I'm not sure Scots could cope with as many PDAs as this produces.
And we don't do the cake smoosh either. I knew about it, so on Saturday when the groom took a handful of wedding cake and custard-pied the bride, I wasn't horrified. My husband, who watches fewer rom-coms, on the other hand . . . "Ooh, it's all starting to kick off now," he said. 'Did you *see* that?!"
Yes, I suppose, to be completely honest, I have to admit that Scotland's dysfunctional drinking culture probably results in more wedding-day punch-ups than you get here in CA. This is probably why the cowbell and cake-smoosh will never take on over there. I could see some feisty Scottish bride, well-refreshed, reacting to yet another kiss or the ruination of her make-up with a swift right hook.
Nothing of that sort happened on Saturday. It was beautiful from start to finish and I was honoured to be there.
I'm going to leave off now by sending this - my favourite wedding poem - to Robin and Irina. It's by a Scottish poet, Janet Paisley, who wrote it for her son and it gets me every time. I can't imagine how Janet managed to read it out at her child's wedding without sobbing and blowing nose bubbles.
With These Rings
You are fresh words
on the old stone of time
Here silence honours you,
here now the earth turns,
the sun beats, the rain sings.
You are not adrift
among the wheeling constellations
but held by the hoop of love.
Ancient as the ring of standing stones,
prophetic as a ring around the moon,
marriage is.
Wear your vows well
when laughter is the wine between you
or when night lies like a bolster
down the middle of your bed
May the cold shoulder of the hill
always afford you shelter.
May the sun always seek you
however dark the place.
We who are wordless
know thorns have roses.
And when you go from this day
the burnished stars go with you.
When you go forward from this day,
the love that grew you
grows with you
and marriage is struck,
iron on stone, hand in hand.
