My Weblog

A college memory

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

At some point during my college career at the University of Virginia I took a course called Women in Literature. As I remember it, the class was intended to be disruptive--in a genteel, erudite, academic way, but still, disruptive. We were to read only women writers, many of them minor and forgotten figures in a literature whose pantheon consisted mostly of dead white men, and take them as seriously as . . . well, as they weren't usually taken.

It's been a few decades, and it's possible that others in that same class would remember it differently, or not at all. But this is what I remember.

It was a small class, maybe 25 students, and only three of them male. But you had to give them a certain amount of credit for taking Women in Literature at all. And they certainly joined enthusiastically into the classroom discussions.

About that time I read an article. I think it was an article that the professor teaching the class recommended; possibly she even included it in the optional reading list. At any rate, I read it: an academic study that measured the amount of time men and women spoke in mixed groups . . . like for instance, classrooms. The men in this study talked more than the women. A lot more. And they interrupted the women, who tended to stop talking when interrupted; and on the rare instances when a man was interrupted--probably by another man--he was likely to keep talking, thus refusing to accept interruption.

At my classes over the next few days, I was quieter than usual, observing what went on during discussions--and that article was right. Even in our women in literature class. Men were only 12% of the class, and yet they did close to half of the talking. I counted how many times they interrupted the women--and how few times the women interrupted them. And it wasn't just perception--I actually hid a watch in my notebook and timed everyone. The researches were right.

I went off and brooded over this for a while. And then I decided that at our next class, I would talk like a man.

I came out swinging. As soon as our professor asked the first discussion question, I plunged in and talked. Instead of politely conveying my thoughts as succinctly as possible and then stepping aside for the next speaker, I kept talking as long as I had something to say. I interrupted the men, even if I had nothing new to say, or nothing to say at all. (Actually, that doesn't happen too often. I can almost always think of something else to say.) When they tried to interrupt me, I just talked louder. It helped that I have a relatively low voice for a woman, and had learned a few things about projecting it from hanging out in the drama department. The whole trick of talking louder to keep someone from interrupting you worked pretty well, to the consternation of the (male) interrupters.

The other women were mostly stunned into silence. It was me and the boys, and I held my ground. Before the class ended, the men began protesting my behavior to the professor.

Who, bless her heart, figured out pretty quickly exactly what I was doing. And when one of the men became so incensed that he was on the point of storming out, threatening to report me to . . . I'm not sure who . . . she 'splained it all. Much spluttering and vehement protesting. I may have produced the log I'd kept of the last class or two. The professor tied my experiment into some of the discussions we'd been having about women's voices being silenced so articulately that I'm sure a few students suspected she'd put me up to it. But she hadn't. My idea.

It didn't change the world, this experiment of mine. I'm not even sure it changed my life. But it was very satisfying to have pulled it off, and satisfying to think back on it.

In fact, the only depressing thing is that I'm not sure a modern-day experiment would produce appreciably different results.

Hmm . . . might have to try that sometime.

 

Here Comes the Judge

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about my first cousin twice removed, Florence Ellinwood Allen.

In 1922, Florence was elected to the Ohio Supreme Court, making her the first woman to serve as a judge of the highest court of a state. She served as an Ohio Supreme Court Judge for almost twelve years until 1934 when President Roosevelt appointed her to the Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit. No woman had previously been appointed to the United States Court of Appeals.

My cousin Florence was born on March 23, 1884 in Salt Lake City, the daughter of Clarence Emir Allen, a mining engineer, and his wife, my great-great aunt Corinne Tuckerman.  The family moved back to Cleveland where, in 1904, Florence graduated from Western Reserve with a major in music. Her father sent her to Berlin to study as a concert pianist, but an injury (I never learned what!) squashed that ambition.  While in Berlin, however, she worked as a correspondent for a New York magazine called the Musical Courier which led to her being hired as music critic for the Cleveland Plain Dealer when she came back to Ohio in 1906. 

By this time, Florence had become interested in politics and law, which led to a master's degree in political science from Western Reserve. She would have gone on to earn her law degree there, too, but at the time, Western Reserve law school did not admit women. Undaunted, Cousin Florence took classes at the University of Chicago law school, then transferred to New York University, working part-time for the New York League for the Protection of Immigrants to help pay her tuition. She got her law degree in 1913, graduating with honors. She returned to Cleveland and was admitted to the Ohio bar in 1914.

Cousin Florence made only $25 during her first month as an attorney, and all she could afford for her office was two chairs and a borrowed typewriter.  She told a reporter in a 1934 interview, "I had no clients. And I had no money. But I had great hopes.” 

Florence realized what she needed was experience, so she volunteered for the local Legal Aid Society, where she not only got that experience but got involved with women’s suffrage. Her mother (who had graduated from Smith College) had taken young Florence to see Susan B. Anthony and Anna Howard Shaw.  The belief that women should be treated as equals under the law must have resonated even more with Florence as a result of her struggles to be taken seriously as an attorney. She became active in the Women's Suffrage Party and began challenging local laws that limited women's participation in the political process.

In 1913, Florence and a law school friend took part in the "Votes for Women" pilgrimage. Demonstrators, led by Jeanette Rankin of Missoula, Montana, marched from New York City to Washington D.C.

Later, she argued one particular case that went all the way to the Ohio Supreme Court: thanks to Florence’s efforts the women of East Cleveland got the right to vote in municipal elections.

In early 1939, when Supreme Court Justice Louis D. Brandeis was about to retire, some of Florence's supporters tried to persuade President Roosevelt that it was time to nominate a woman, but William O. Douglas was tapped for the job instead. For the next few years, every time a vacancy occurred, Allen's supporters would again suggest her, but to no avail.  President Truman seemed particularly reluctant to appoint a woman to the high court, saying it would make the male judges uncomfortable. They wouldn’t be able to “sit around with their robes off and their feet up and discuss the problems." 

After a long and distinguished career on the U.S. Court of Appeals, Cousin Florence died on September 12, 1966 after falling and breaking her hip. She was 82.

I don’t have to wonder what Cousin Florence would think about what’s going on in Washington, D.C. today. She once said: "It is a shocking thing when a judge of your high office is shown to have betrayed the truth and his honor, and I sentence you to the penitentiary."

Go Flo!

New Kid on the Blog

Catriona writes: It's a big day at Femmes Fatales today. We're welcoming our newest blog sister. (Well, I say "welcoming"; it might feel more like badgering to the newbie herself, since the rest of us old lags each chose a nosy question and fired it at her.)

So,without further ado, get ready to meet debut author, Malice Domestic old-timer, shark afficionado, peddler of gummy treats to unsuspecting Scottish immigrants (still not over it), former federal government employee, and author of the Willa Pennington PI series . . . 

Aimee Hix!

Dean: Welcome to the Femmes, Aimee. What was the first mystery you ever read?

It was definitely a Nancy Drew but I’m not sure which. My aunt bought me a giant box full of them at a flea market when I was six or seven. I’m pretty sure my favorite one was The Mystery of the Ivory Charm. It was so exotic with the man in the turban and the carved ivory elephant. The Secret in the Old Clock made me uncomfortable with Nancy breaking open that clock in the middle of the night in a creepy field. See, we were never allowed to touch the grandfather clock in my grandmother’s creepy house (in the same town as my aunt lived where I spent the summers) which had this creepy basement garage we weren’t allowed to go in and I was sure that was because they kept dead people in it (do not ask me why I thought there were bodies down there probably an older cousin trying to scare us younger kids). I am sure I transferred that feeling of unease to the book cover. I was possibly even reading it at the time something creepy happened like a storm or the bear getting loose from the county fair (true event).

 

Toni: What was the first book you LOVED?

Oh, I love this question. I thought I loved books but then I read one that made me realize what LOVING a book was all about. I was thirteen and a high school sophomore. I was sick. I had been chronically ill for a while and I was very behind on school assignments. My English assignment was Rebecca by Daphne DuMaurier. That first line, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again” was all it took. I was pulled into a story in a way I’d never been before. It wasn’t just that I could see the story in my head but I felt it in every part of me. I’ve read it at least 50 times since. I even named my daughter after it. I’m sure she’s grateful my favorite book didn’t turn out to be Moby Dick. 😊

 

Donna: How does a book start for you—a character, a murder method, a plot twist, a random bit of dialogue?

Yes. All of the above. I was a psych major in college before I got sidelined with my interest in statistics. There are so many things that can spark my imagination. I’m fascinated by why people do what they do. For my Willa Pennington, PI series, the stories are very much driven by social issues/crimes that resonant with me and I’m passionate about exploring. My main character Willa wants to make the world a better place but she’s not even aware of it much of the time. She goes about seeking justice and helping people the only way she knows how. And she evolves becoming more self-aware with each person she helps or helps her.

I have a book planned, a standalone, that examines what it means to be a person, the framework for self-identity. I have several cozy series ideas I want to explore. There’s thriller I’m starting after I finish book number three in the Willa series. I have a Southern Gothic idea. I’m working on several noir short stories/flash fiction.

Catriona: Is it too intrusive to ask . . . what’s your writing dream? 

Tough one. Since I’m so early into what I hope is a long career, I’d have to say it’s having a long career. I do have hopes/plans for a bunch of books, so another part of that dream of a long career is getting to explore the different genres I want to try. I truly feel like all stories are mysteries at their core. Will the family end their estrangement? Will the girl realize she doesn’t need the boy after all? Will the rebel alliance destroy the empire? What is the most compelling mystery in this situation and how can I approach it to make other people care? That’s how I approach writing. And life.

 

Joanna: What does your working space look like?

A mess. And anyone who really knows me is probably laughing and saying, “Yeah, that means there are different color pens in the same holder.” But no, it’s an actual mess. We’re currently re-doing the living room/dining room combination room/main floor of our house so we’ve moved things out and storing them in my office has made the most sense. And I have stacks of books and papers that I can’t store properly because my storage is blocked so it’s just one teetering pile of stuff and it’s making me a little crazy.

 

Marcia: What writers influenced you? Who are your role models?

I don’t think we’ve got enough time or space for that list. 😊 I try to learn from every book I read. Which has turned into a bit of a problem with being able to merely enjoy books now because I’m dissecting them to see how they work. And books are really more than just the sum of their parts. I think you can feel that ineffable piece that makes a book resonant but like the wind you can’t see it directly, only its effects. Writers that consistently do that, the indescribable oomph that infuses the story, are who I turn to over and over again and, luckily, there are a bunch of them.

But my big role model (this isn’t a writing/author answer, sorry) is Queen Latifah. She decided at the age of eight; before it was a thing, she was the one who made it a thing; that she knew her worth and wanted her name to reflect it. Eight! She knew she was a queen. She’s had an incredible career as a pioneering female rapper and has always made music that reflects her values and beliefs tackling social issues like domestic violence and street harassment/catcalling. She’s also an amazing singer and has released soul and jazz albums as well as hip-hop. She’s an actress, a model, a philanthropist, a television and movie producer. She even has her own makeup line for people of color with CoverGirl. She’s a renaissance woman and has done it all one her own terms - as a Queen.

 

Kris: What's your writing process like?

I spent so many years working a day job that required so much precision and planning that my creative endeavors get a bit chaotic - in a good way. I have a tendency to question everything, again a holdover from the former day job, so I actively try to thwart that when I’m writing so I can just let the story flow. My mentor, Matthew Clemens, likened it to planning out a road trip. If you have a strict plan for anything other than starting at point A and hoping to end at point Z then you could miss all the amazing things that would make the road trip really special. So, I guess my writing process is leaving room for the unknown, the daily inspiration, the surprises that make it worth the trip.

 

Hank: What was your biggest break?

I’ve been so fortunate to be a part of the mystery community. So many people have helped me, taught me, mentored me, raised me up, supported me that I felt ready to start my writing career. To that end, I’d have to say being introduced to Malice Domestic in the early aughts by a friend named Susan Horowitz (I put her in my first book as a way of thanking her/commemorating the event). If she hadn’t told me about Malice who knows where I’d be. I know I wouldn’t have so many amazing and talented friends.

 

Elaine: Tell us about your book already!

Which one? 😊 My very first book ever, What Doesn’t Kill You, is the first book in the Willa Pennington, PI series which came out in January 2018. It’s the story of a favor that goes terribly wrong and young woman who can’t stop sticking her nose into the mystery. Not even when fate gives her a mighty whack to her ego and her oldest friendship.

My forthcoming release, Dark Streets Cold Suburbs, releasing January 2019, is a follow-up with the characters from the first book plus a few new ones. Willa is deep into her apprenticeship and her police detective friend/mentor asks her to help solve a cold case nearly twenty years old. Of course, Willa has trouble staying out of trouble.

Alexia: Dogs play an important role in your life. How do you integrate your pups into your writing life? And what's your opinion on cats? At the risk of coming off sounding downtrodden, I identify with rescue dogs probably a little too much. I love them all, they all break my heart, and want them all. I currently have three and I’d have a dozen more if space, finances, and my husband permitted. My babies usually sit with me while I write. Either under my desk or on the bed next to me.

I was sick with vertigo while writing Dark Streets Cold Suburbs so I would basically blanket fort on my bed every day and get my word count in. My late dog, Karma, who had been diagnosed with a terminal cancer just as I was beginning the book, laid next to me as I wrote. Since I knew she would be leaving us I wrote her into the book. She traveled to the Rainbow Bridge three weeks after What Doesn’t Kill You was released.

I like cats just fine. They’re not my “thing” though. Maybe they seem too self-sufficient to me. I guess I like being needed.

Catriona again: "I like cats just fine" was a wise choice of answer on a blog with Miranda James and Elaine Viets. Nicely played, Hix. Nicely played.  

And now over to the blog readers to carry on peppering Aimee with the questions we missed . . . 

Guest post! The (Wo)man Behind The Curtain

Catriona writes: It's my deep pleasure to be welcoming to Fatal Acres today someone I know a bit and like a lot but usually have to admire from afar because all we ever get a hot minute at Malice - passing in the hall, waiting for the lift - and then pouf! gone again. In fact, it only really hit me how badly overdue this catch-up was when I read that ANNETTE DASHOFY - who I reckoned must be on book three by now, right? - is launching the seventh Zoe Chambers mystery, Cry Wolf, in which paramedic and deputy coroner Zoe tackles another thorny case, in the sweet spot Annette has made her own. What would we call it? Catty corners to cozy? Grit with heart? Put it this way, if you're looking for realism without grimness, warmth without whimsy . . . these are the books for you.

Take it away, Annette!

I’m sure there are writers out there who aren’t introverts. I’ve met a few. But I suspect the majority of us fit into the category of being quite happy to hunker over our computers in solitude, content to keep the company of the people who live inside our heads.

Confession: I for one, embrace the days when I can stay home, wearing yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt or sweatshirt, weather depending. My characters chatter away without one word of criticism regarding my slovenly appearance.

However, once the book comes out, I must rifle through my closet in search of grownup clothes. Do my dress slacks still fit? How many times have I been photographed wearing my favorite blouse?

I have to take a closer look in the mirror. Yep. It’s time to get my roots touched up.

Instead of basking in the solitude of my home office, I must go out in public. And speak. And put on the appearance of comfort in front of a crowd.

Recently, I made a mental connection between my public self and the Wizard of Oz.

To be more accurate, I made the connection between my private self and the man behind the curtain.

Only a few people have been privy to the nerdy disheveled person who resides in my cave, no makeup, uncombed hair, ratty clothes. My husband of course. And, I realize, the gang at my chiropractor’s office. I rarely bother with makeup when I go there because as soon as I plant my face into that piece of paper covering the slot on the table, all mascara, eyeshadow, and blush are gone or smudged beyond repair. The other day, I had a lunchtime author event followed by my chiropractic appointment. I walked into the office wearing my public face and my hair styled…and received a round of wows!

It was great being told how nice I looked, but the compliments reminded me of my normal, day-to-day author-at-work appearance.

More than that, when I’m wearing my Wizard of Oz public face, I can get in front of a room of strangers and chat away. At home, I don’t even like to talk on the phone!

Not long ago, I was involved in a conversation about women “of a certain age” becoming invisible. I’ve reached that point and relish the anonymity. My introverted self happily slinks around the local Rite Aid, picking up a bottle of aspirin—or a chocolate bar—without anyone taking a second look. Sometimes I take it a step further by donning a ponytail and baseball cap.

In the coming weeks though, I’m doing my book promotion stuff. Dressing up. Curling my hair. Maybe even polishing my nails. And stepping in front of library and bookstore crowds (I hope!) or behind book festival tables to talk about Cry Wolf, the seventh in my Zoe Chambers Mystery Series.

If you happen to see me, I’ll be doing my utmost best to be charming and funny and outgoing. But know that behind the public face is the introvert (in yoga pants and a sloppy sweatshirt) happily hiding behind the curtain.

Catriona again: I went through my Malice archives and found this evidence that when Annette does step out from behind that curtain . . . wow! (I'm being Vanna here, in tribute to a belter of a dress.)

 

Bio:

USA Today bestselling author Annette Dashofy has spent her entire life in rural Pennsylvania surrounded by cattle and horses. When she wasn’t roaming the family’s farm or playing in the barn, she could be found reading or writing. After high school, she spent five years as an EMT on the local ambulance service, dealing with everything from drunks passing out on the sidewalk to mangled bodies in car accidents. These days, she, her husband, and their spoiled cat, Kensi, live on property that was once part of her grandfather’s dairy. Her Zoe Chambers mysteries have received three nominations for the prestigious Agatha Award. Cry Wolf (September 2018) is the seventh in the series.

www.annettedashofy.com

 

Help! A Weather Event Is Coming

By Elaine Viets.

"Weather event."
The first time I heard this phrase was last year during Hurricane Irma. The massive storm was bearing down on South Florida. It was a menacing Category 5.

The governor ordered a mass evacuation. Don and I and the cats hit the highway –- along with about a million other Floridians -– to find safer shelter. No one knew which section of Florida Irma would hit: Would she slam Fort Lauderdale? Pulverize Palm Beach? Or kick the Keys?

We hunkered down at a friend's house in Boynton Beach and watched a lot of TV as Irma stalked our shores. By hunkered down, I mean we ate junk food, played with the cats, and ate our friend Ann's wonderful cooking. Sure, the wind howled and rattled the hurricane shutters (excuse me, the weather event shutters) but basically we were safe and snug until Irma blew over.

That's what everyone I knew called the storm – "Irma." Or the "hurricane."
All except the TV newscasters. They called it a "weather event."
Huh?
That sounds like something you'd sell tickets to. A weather event makes it sound like we had a choice:
Me: Did you go to the September Weather Event?
My Friend: No, I missed it. I was watching Netflix.
You can avoid most real events. You can just say no, send polite regrets, or promise to come next time.
But there's no avoiding a hurricane.

So far as I can tell, no live human outside of broadcast uses "event" in that sense. Except the National Weather Service. They have a list of "weather events" for your area, ranging from snowstorms to tornadoes.
"Weather event" downgrades the danger. It's one thing to be hit by a hurricane – but to have your house destroyed by a weather event?

Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz didn't have a weather event. It was a fearsome Kansas tornado.
The Carolinas have been through a horrifying weather event this year. Hurricane Florence missed us. Here in Florida, it's still hurricane season. It doesn't end until after Thanksgiving -– and then we are truly thankful.
As I write this, tropical depressions and waves are forming in the Atlantic.

I'm praying they're all non-events.

*******************************************************************************************

Get a different kind of storm. Brain Storm, the first Angela Richman mystery is now part of Kindle Select. Buy it here: https://www.amazon.com/Blonde-Angela-Richman-Death-Investigator-ebook/dp/B07BRZ4FT9/?tag=ebbdaily-20&src=ebb-nl

Is *that* Paul Revere?

by Catriona McPherson of the Femmes Fatales.

I didn't know whether to cheer or spit at the news that Central Park, NYC, is about to welcome its first statue of a woman. (A real woman, that is; as opposed to Juliet and Alice (although Alice was based on a real girl, I suppose)). Anyway, the design is unveiled of the future monument in honour of Susan B Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton:

Now, I love NYC. One of the few gripes I've got about moving to the US was that I was exactly as far from Manhattan after as before. However, on my first visit to Boston in July this year, I came to the conclusion that, at least for statues, at least for me, Sox beat Yankees. [ducks]

The statues on Commonwealth Avenue provided a lovely afternoon of education and entertainment. (And then there's the other one - see below). For a start, there are three statues of women there already! A beautiful bronze of Phyllis Wheatley, the African American poet:

 

who I believe was the first African American person to have a book published in the USA. She's there along with founding mother Abigail Adams:

 with whom you would not mess, right? And Lucy Stone:

 

I've got to admit, the conversation about Lucy Stone went thus:

Neil: Who?

Me: Lucy Stone. Did she sew the flag?

Neil: They don't think that one that sewed the flag actually sewed the flag though.

Me: But was it her that didn't? Lucy Stone?

Then we fired up the Google.  And I'm not apologising; that's the whole point of statues - to make you start to learn stuff.  (She was a suffragist and abolitionist. An early persister, we could say.)

Commonwealth Avenue's got its fair share of the other kind of statues of women. Take this monument, which made me laugh out loud:

Patrick Andrew Collins, Irish immigrant, union organiser, Mayor of Boston . . . and two mightily fed-up looking caryatid-type-chicks who needed the money. It's not really funny. Women who need the money are still doing work just like this at boat shows and car expos every day. (In another blog, I'll go into the billboards of America maybe; where delicious burgers and gorgeous women tempt you to stop and trustworthy men sell the insurance.)

But you know who we never found in all the tramping around Boston admiring the architecture and public art? Paul Revere. We kept walking up confidently to a bronze of a bloke in the right sort of clobber and finding out that he wasn't Paul Revere.

Not Paul Revere

 

Also not Paul Revere

My favourite monument on Commonwealth Avenue isn't fun in any way. It's the moving - heart-breaking, really - memorial to nine firefighters who died responding to the Vendome fire in the early 1970s. Their names are recorded, along with quotes from witnesses, but the heart of the statue is this:

My absolutely favourite statue in the whole of Boston (surely the favourite statue of every crimewriter) isn't on Commonwealth Avenue. It's not far away, on the corner of Boyleston and Charles, and I was thrilled to see that it's not on a pedestal, so you can go up and sling your arm round the subject, like you're both on a panel at Bouchercon (as you might have been if the timeline was just a little different). It's Edgar Allan Poe! It's our very own founding father in all his miserable glory.

He's got a human heart tumbling down his coat hem, a sheaf of papers swirling around him, and Nevermore's making his presence felt. When I was there, there were a handful of fans beaming into his incredibly unbeaming face. There was also a young person who asked in a loud voice, while strolling by, "Why does Sean Penn have that bird?" And it's a fair point, when you look closely.

Not Sean Penn

So tell me what I missed in Boston, if you know. (Where is Paul Revere?) Or tell me about your favourite statue where you live. I make a bid for the West Lothian kelpies. Aren't they grand?

 

 

 

Fragments

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

Cute baby, right? Pretty sure it's me. Not 100% sure, but I think if this had been my brother, my parents would have taken a few of us together, and there's only one baby in this sequence of pictures. Eventually I'll go back and check the original slide to see if it's dated or labeled.

I'm most of the way (I think) through the massive process of having my parents' slide collection digitized. I'm sure at one time they were all neatly organized, but over time any organization fell apart.  Organizing them in any meaningful way is going to take a lot of detective work. So for now, I'm just reaching into the hoard and pulling out a few fragments of interest.

Mom and Dad with an unidentified collie dog. Possibly Skipper, who belonged to my maternal grandparents. Pawpaw, my Hornsby grandfather, loved collies, and they had at least one. Possibly several, but I like to think this was the legendary Skipper. Somewhere in my files I have his pedigree.

My mother, flanked by both sets of my grandparents. Jay and Ruth Andrews on the left, Marjorie and William Henry ("Bee") Hornsby on the right. Although my mother was an only child, both of her parents came from large families that mostly stayed around the Yorktown/Newport News area of Virginia. My heroine's large and close-knit family comes partly from my childhood experience of Mom's family, both the Langslows (whose name I stole for Meg) and the Hornsbys (whose name seemed a little too famous to steal thanks to my second cousin Bruce.) But it also came partly from Dad's family, who had spread out from Kansas to half a dozen midwest states. I didn't know until I was around 12 or so that Grandma Andrews was actually Dad's stepmother--his blood mother died while he was in the Army during World War II. And it took me a while to sort out which of my cousins were technically stepcousins. But we were one big, sprawling family when we were having fun at reunions with the several dozen aunts, uncles, cousins, and eventually cousins once removed.

Mom and Dad getting their wedding license. I could complain that whoever took this picture wasn't a professional photographer and was a little weak on the whole concept of focus. Or I could just appreciate the fact that it exists.

No idea when this was taken, but if I could, I'd steal Mom's outfit.

 

That's me, lower right, in the blue bonnet and coat, looking a little overwhelmed by the Easter egg hunt. I have a lot of Easter pictures, which suggests it was one of the few times we got dressed up enough that Dad felt inspired to take photos.

More Easter shots. The photos don't show the struggle that probably went on to get me into those elegant little outfits.This is not how I remember my childhood.

 

Yeah. That's more like it.  How we survived summer back when air conditioning was something you went to a movie theater to enjoy.

The camera also came out at Christmas

That's not a manger scene in the background, it's a Marx Toys Ben Hur Playset. I could probably date this photo by figuring out what year they were hot.

And at birthday parties. My grade school best friend Gail and I often shared a birthday party, since our birthdays were a week or so apart. I think Mom and Mrs. Gurtler forgot who was supposed to bake cupcakes and both brought some. I'm the one behind the right-hand set of candles.

Pretty much anytime we got dressed up, Dad would take our picture. I think this was for a wedding. I do not seem enchanted at the prospect.

If you thought photobombing was a modern idea . . . nah. That's me, sneaking into the shot behind Mom and Dad's good friends the Havens, Doris and Dexter and their daughter Penny. Must hunt down Penny's email and send her a copy.

Visits from relatives were always good for a few shots. Here I'm with Mom, my aunt Anna Mae, Grandma Andrews, and my brother at the ruins of Roswell Plantation.

Or vacations.


No idea what the occasion for this was, but delighted to have a picture of Honey, the family dog.

 

 And it's scary sometimes how much we are like our parents. More than a few flakes of snow and Dad would dash out to take pictures of it. I'm the same way. This is the house my grandparents lived in during my childhood--which, oddly enough, has a connection with my books, since I used it as my model for describing Parker Blair's house in The Real Macaw.

That's as literary as it gets today, folks. But knowing how the writer's brain works, I'm hoping the rediscovery of all these bits of my own past will spark a plot idea for a future book. Eventually. For know, I should get back to revising Terns of Endearment.

 

Taking a deep breath!

After a whirlwind three weeks, I am back home in Annapolis, Maryland, chained to my desk as I put the finishing touches on the 17th Hannah Ives novel, Tangled Roots. Husband Barry is helping by slipping thin food under the door.  

Had a wonderful time in the U.K., the highlight being an appearance with Ann Cleeves and Kate Charles at the Lit&Phil, a marvelous historic library in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a city familiar to anyone who is a fan of Ann's VERA novels (and the T.V. series of the same name.)  The event was organized by the amazing Jackie Collins of Newcastle Noir fame.  

Flew back to the States on Tuesday, quickly repacked and the following day, headed off to St Petersburg, Florida for Bouchercon.  Femme Donna pretty much nailed Bouchercon in her blog (see below).  Suffice it to say it was wonderful to catch up with old friends, meet with my publisher, sit on a panel with one of my literary heroes, Martin Edwards and -- although I didn't plan it that way, manage to dine four times at Birch & Pine where the food was amazing!

Deborah Crombie, me, and Sasscer Hill

Yesterday, I was delighted to see that an article about me in fall issue of UP.St.ART, a slick, color Annapolis magazine of art, culture and life became available all over town in art galleries, high-end shops and restaurants. Thank you Leigh Glenn for the insightful interview and to Caitlyn Mae, the amazing photographer. She was so professional during the shoot -- and using a real camera, too! -- that I was astonished to learn that she was a high school senior. Caitlyn's got a great career ahead of her.

 You can read the article here!  

In the meantime, we are battening down for Hurricane Florence and praying for the safety of our friends all up and down the Intracoastal Waterway.  Stay safe, stay dry.

 

Rediscovered, or Reading What I Need To Read

by Leigh Perry/Toni L.P. Kelner

A few weeks ago, I heard dripping noise as I was sitting at my desk. I looked around,and realized water was dripping from my air conditioner down the wall, onto the top of one of our bookcases, and down the front of the bookcase. In fact, it had been dripping unnoticed for some time. Some of the books in that shelf were soaked.

This particular bookcase has two shelves of mass market paperbacks, a shelf of oversized books, and one shelf of the books I've written myself. First off, let me reassure you that my books are  okay. The water didn't make it down that far. But the water did hit a bunch of books by Dick Francis, David Gerrold, William Gibson, and Dorothy Gilman. (Yes, our paperbacks are in alphabetical order by author, then title.)

I laid the books out on the bathroom floor, hoping they'd dry out enough to keep. Unfortunately several of the others are mildewed, and I'm going to have to toss them, but some are okay. I had the best luck with the Gilman books, and I wonder if it's because they're relatively short by today's standards.

I had not read any of the books on those shelves in years, and wondered if I should bother keeping the ones that survived, let alone replacing the ones that were ruined. So I picked up The Amazing Mrs. Pollifax, the second in Gilman's best known series, and I was hooked instantly. I read several more in the series, and just yesterday picked up one of her last four books, Incident at Badamya. It's in reading that book that I started to think that this might be some sort of dharmic incident.

I'm afraid that Dorothy Gilman is mostly forgotten these years, even though she was awarded a Grand Master Award by the Mystery Writers of America in 2010. She started out writing books for young people in the late 1940's, and they were published under her married name, Dorothy Gilman Butters. In 1966, she published the first of the Mrs. Pollifax series, The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax, and it was darned unexpected. It's about a sixty-something-year-old widow with grown children who's bored with her gardenias and pushing the book cart at the local hospital, so she volunteers her services to the CIA. They start using her as a courier in exotic locations all over the world, intending that she will never be in danger. This goes horribly wrong almost immediately and she continues to survive peril for 14 novels. The books are enormous fun, and one of the best parts is mentally picturing the extravagant hats Mrs. Pollifax wears. (Sometimes she even smuggles passports in them.)

Throughout the series, Mrs. Pollifax learns more and more mysticism from the various characters she encounters, and though her feet are firmly on the ground, she does believe more and more in the idea of fate and synchronicity. It's as if she shows up in these unexpected places and rescues people because on a cosmic scale, she's meant to do so.

In between the Pollifax novels, Gilman published ten non-series books, and that gentle mysticism is even stronger in some of those. And that description very much fits Incident at Badamya. The book is set in a war-torn Burma, where the daughter of two dead American missionaries is trying to get to Rangoon, so she can sail to the US to live with her aunt. Jen has spent her whole life in Burma, and knows it far better than she does her own country, but is obeying her father's last wish. When she tries to reach a steamer, she's captured by soldiers who confine her with a group of Europeans who are being held for ransom. The Europeans seem like stock characters at first, but as the captivity continues, Jen learns their secrets.

There's a woman who killed her abusive husband in self-defense, and another who endured a philandering older husband but for four short weeks, had a perfect affair with a near stranger. A third woman has lived an entirely self-effacing and boring life, but on one night, shared secrets with a crew of safari guides in the veldt. I haven't read far enough for all the secrets to be revealed, but as I was reading this evening, one really struck home, and made me think that maybe there's a tiny bit of cosmic dharma at work.

One of the men in the group claims to be a travel writer, and when they pool resources, he contributes a book he says he found in his cabin. From the description, it's a paranormal romance novel, though I think they were still calling books like that gothic romances. The women take turns reading it to pass the time, even though he turns his nose up at it, and one of them realizes that the man himself wrote the book. She confronts him, and humiliated, he confesses. Though he'd spent five years writing what he considered an important novel about the human condition, both the reviews and sales were disastrous. On the verge of ruin, he wrote what he calls a work of trash, and it was instantly successful. So he's continued to produce them, under a pen name, and is ashamed of himself. Only when the women tell him how much his book has entertained them in this difficult circumstance does he realize there might be some value in his work.

Which brings me to my trip to Bouchercon this past weekend. I was there, along with several past and present Femmes, and though I love spending time with my peers, it's hard not to feel inadequate. There were people there writing books about important issues like racism and sexism, people writing big & complex thrillers, people writing about the violence of the streets. And I was talking about mysteries featuring a wise-cracking skeleton sleuth.

Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. Providing escapism and entertainment is a noble pursuit, and I do sneak in themes of racism, sexism, and other important -isms. But it's easy to feel daunted sometimes. So this theme in this particular book, pulled out for the most random of reasons, spoke to me in a way it didn't when I first read it.

I'm still peeved about the books that were ruined, but I'm really glad to have rediscovered Incident at Badamya at just the right time to read it when I needed to.

 

 

 

Note: I recommend all the Dorothy Gilman books highly. Some are still in print, and others are available in used copies, so check them out! Just keep them dry.

A Day for Contemplation

Catriona writes: I'm always happy to hang out with Eileen Rendahl (aka Lillian Bell), in person, in books, or in blogs, but I'm especially glad to welcome her as guestblogger today. I'm not American and I didn't live here in 2001 so, no matter what empathy I can bring, I know I never really get what this day means in the hearts of people who were at home here back then. It feels right to hand over to Lillian/Eileen today. She's a writer - and a person - with a heart the size of Jupiter, and wisdom to match. Welcome!

Lillian writes: I cringed a little when I saw the release date for my book. September 11. It’s not a day I feel like celebrating much. It’s certainly not a day to post funny blogs about my lighthearted cozy mystery set in a family funeral parlor in northern California.

We all remember how we felt that day and in the days that followed. I remember the sadness and the fear and the heartbreak. I visited the National September 11 Memorial and Museum last year when I was in New York City and felt just like I had on that day in 2001. My family walked out of the museum almost unable to speak.

So yeah. Not a great day to make merry.

It is, however, a day we can honor what makes mystery such a great genre. People love reading (and writing) mysteries for a lot of reasons. There’s the challenge of the puzzle. A lot of people like solving mysteries, following the clues, testing their powers of observation. In a fictional setting, it’s safe and fun and keeps your mental faculties sharp.

In a mystery series like mine, there’s also a set of characters to follow and a place to get to know. It’s a fun (I hope!) escape into someone else’s world.

The thing I love most about reading and writing mysteries, however, is how they restore balance. Certainly, there are examples out there that don’t have happy endings, but even those books tend to expose what has gone wrong, at the very least.

In fiction, I can explore a bit of our dark sides and bring that darkness into the light. I can make death make sense, when it so often doesn’t in our real lives. I can show there was a reason for it, even if that reason wasn’t a good one. Then, I can make sure that the person who did wrong is punished and put my fictional world back to rights.

In the days after September 11, 2001, I would have loved for someone to make everything make sense. I would have loved for someone to restore balance to my world. So while September 11 isn’t a great day to celebrate, it is a day for me to contemplate why I write what I write and what it means to me.

Why do you like mysteries? What is it about them that keeps you coming back for more?

 

Lillian Bell lives and writes in northern California and feels very lucky to be doing what she does where she does it. She also writes as Eileen Rendahl, Eileen Carr, and Kristi Abbott. She is hoping to add one more pseudonym so she can be a basketball team all by herself. 

 

www.EileenRendahl.com
www.KristiAbbotAuthor.com
www.Lillian-Bell.com