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My Old Muscles, My Elastic Mind

By Kris Neri

Getting old can suck. I developed a bang-up hamstring muscle pull last month. A nasty one that started with my aching knee and didn’t let up until it wrapped around my hip. The really frustrating part is that every time I think it’s on the mend, I try to begin the Tai Chi regimen my New Years resolutions called for way back in January, and it flairs up again. While it is making some progress, I’ve finally accepted some of this pain will probably be with me until January 1 rolls around again next year.

So…what does that have to do with getting old? Sure, younger people suffer injuries, too. But their bodies seem more resilient than mine is these days. I didn’t even develop the muscle strain in some cool, hip way, like rappelling down a cliff. No. My 17-pound cat slept on my knee during the night, and I didn’t manage to move him before twisting my leg.

Muscles become less flexible, joints tightening, eyesight goes — heck, even my hair’s root day rolls around with increasing urgency, and if I could still remember my natural color, it’s getting harder to verify.

No question, as Betty Davis once said, “Old age is not for sissies.”

But maturity, if that’s what I’m achieving, isn’t all bad. Because while my body slowly fuses into a pre-dead fossil state (okay, a hamstring injury, coupled with a 2-story house, has me feeling like Methuselah), my mind seems to be growing more elastic. I get it…what Oscar Wilde meant when he said, “Life is too important to be taken seriously.”

I understand so much now that I didn’t appreciate when I was younger.

I now get that what other people think of me doesn’t matter one bit. They see the world through their filter, as I do, and if that means I have to live without their approval, I’ll survive. Maybe even thrive. But I also understand that we’re all entitled to basic respect, and if someone doesn’t give that to me, they shouldn’t be surprised to find themselves off my radar.

I get that the stuff of women’s magazines — how I should look, what I should wear, how much I should weigh, wear my hair, etc., etc., etc., — holds all the value of cow pies. Well, I never really cared about that stuff, I just thought I should.

I get that fear hobbles us more effectively than muscle strains. But that it’s in our power to cut it out of our lives, just that it’s in our power to open ourselves to the joy we too often push aside, as if we’re somehow undeserving of it.

I get that limiting ourselves to the kind of people we’ve always befriended, the people just like us, only permits us see through eyes just like our own — while seeing life though the eyes of people we might have avoided at one time will grant us entry to vistas we never imagined.

I get that none of us gets through life unscathed. Tragedy enters every life. We all walk through passages of brilliant sunlight, but we also all know what it’s like to trudge through darkened tunnels that seem to go on forever. But if we never knew sadness, how could we appreciate joy? If we never experienced sorrow ourselves, how would we ever learn compassion?

That’s the gift of maturity. Am I wise? Oh, no! I’m still very much a work in progress, and I muddle through every day. It’s just that I feel more comfortable in my own skin. Instead of rushing to the judgments I’ve been programmed to hold, I now find myself living for the fun of finding truths in unexpected guises.

And I’m betting this is just the beginning. From my middle-aged roost, rather than dreading crone-dom, I welcome it, even if I don’t want it coming at me too fast. I never expected the time of rigid muscles to lead to a new flexibility of ideas, of an unexpected confidence in my right to laugh at the stuff I once used to sweat.

So what does it matter if I have to hold books at arm’s length to read them? I see more now than I did when my vision was 20/20.

Convention Friends

I'm proposing a new category of friends. There are friends you grew up with, friends you've known since you had children the same age as theirs, friends you go to church with, or maybe drinking friends. Then there are convention friends.

I was sitting at a table with several other writers and a reader or two at some hotel or other somewhere in America. One reader listened for a while and then said, "You sound like you all know each other." We do all know each other. All of us go to from two to four conventions a year, and some of us tour with new books, as well. We're on panels with each other, we sign with each other, we've known each other for years.

(As a matter of fact, last year I  played leapfrog with CJ Box for three weeks. He signed at a store, I'd sign the night after, in, say, Phoenix. Then I'd fly to Portland and his posters would be up in the window to announce he'd be there the next day. But we never met face to face.)

Though we've known each other for years, it's a strictly  limited knowledge. I couldn't tell you the names of Nancy Martin's children, or how Elaine Viets' mother's health is, and yet I'm very fond of both Nancy and Elaine. They might not know the same things about me. But we're friends.

There are some writers whose friendship extends beyond this, of course; there are writers whose kids I could identify at twenty paces. But most of us have huge blank spots in our knowledge of our fellow writers.

We're intensely curious about each others' homes, I've noticed. If I know writer X has spent the night at writer Z's house, I'm sure to ask them what the house was like. It's like seeing a familiar creature in its true habitat. I mean, as far as I'm concerned, Denise Swanson lives in a hotel lobby, and Steve Brewer lives in the bar. That's where I see them.

I've also noticed that at the opening of MWA Board meetings, when all of us have called in and we're chattering before being called to order, one or two of the board members always bring up the weather where they are. This is especially interesting in winter! And I always wish I could see my fellow board members, see them in their own lair. "Hey, guys," I want to ask, "Are any of you in pajamas?" Since our meetings are in the afternoon, that's not too likely, but you never know.

It's part of the great unknown area when you have convention friends.

MOODY MUSE

Marlys Millhiser

The muse is a "she" for a reason, just like mother nature. God is a "he," why? God only knows.

I have a heroine who can be a hero when need be. She’s an imposter and is able to change clever disguises incredibly fast. I, too, am an imposter, but incredibly slow. I overheard my husband, talking about me to his cousin on the phone the other day. "Oh she’s here–with her laptop somewhere. Yeah, writes most days. No, she’s self-motivated. Has to be–no regular paychecks, supervision, office hours, real job description, performance reviews, staff meetings, daily feed-back from peers."

I felt so much better. I figured I was crazy. "Self-motivated" has a nice ring to it and is so preferable to lazy. Then again, I do tend to sit around a lot. When you think about it, most bloggers are self-motivated too. I’ve turned down offers to teach others how to write. I don’t even know how I write. Every story is different even in a series. I know I screw up a lot. But hey, I’m self-motivated, so who’s counting? I am. Out of the eighteen novels I’ve completed, I’ve only sold fourteen.

Also, I’m a tad superstitious. Do I want to dis the muse by claiming to know how to go about writing fiction? She has moods, you know. Then again there are many more people making a living teaching how to write and sell fiction than there are selling manuscripts to editors and agents. I envy people like our Kris Neri who can do it all. Author and teacher, proprietor of a bookstore–now there’s a bonafide expert.

I am within inches of finishing another book manuscript. I just killed a major, though not leading, character. Actually, I didn’t shoot her, another character did–he was also a favorite of mine and in turn a third character shot him. And it all had to do with a sort of smouldering pride that, once challenged, resorts to violence. This is a large cast and there are all kinds of people, some real villains, who should have bought it, who really deserved it, who will live to die another day probably in their beds.

Life’s not fair, neither is death but I didn’t plan it this way because I don’t plot. Stories sort of evolve. This is an historical series so we’re talking mainly rifles rather than hand guns. So at close range it can be really grizzly. And we’re also talking parody so it’s possible to be grinning through our disgust. And there’s no cowboys or Indians. There is a sheriff with steely, empty, pale, metallic-blue eyes who’s reputation is legendary. Whose secret is he’s not very bright and is too vain to wear spectacles. At least he’s smart enough not to load his rifle or own a horse.

These are the days when prostitution is open and organized and straight forward, of mining and narrow gauge railroads. Saloons and churches are rampant. I can walk about six county blocks to the beginning of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and follow an admittedly broken up (by subdivisions) railroad bed laboriously dug into the mountainside for miles that never saw tracks, was never even used as a stage road. Just abandoned for better sites or ore or promises. The investment scams were so like today’s–I’ve decided history doesn’t repeat itself , history just doesn’t change that much–the scammers now have television, junk mail, and the Internet to help them loot your bank account, talk you out of the equity in your home, etc. Wherever riches are promised for little thought or effort, scammers thrive and they can be based anywhere in the world. So hang on to your wallet and your mortgage and your savings and read about crime in mystery novels instead of your diary. We Femmes are here to help, educate, and not scam you. Our books are damn cheap, compared to–oops, sorry. There’s the door bell again. Signs that read "Private Drive" and "No Solicitors" don’t work. We have neighbors who keep dogs for this very reason. The pitch often starts with, "Do you realize how much more the land your house is on is worth than the house? You could make a killing on a sale, pay off all your debts and for a very small fee we could help you--"

And, God help me, my moody muse strikes again and I long for the good old days when citizens of Boulder County carried rifles.

Back to school

By Dana

So far March is turning out to be a season of flashbacks.  I’m dragging out thoughts that have been left in that box in the back of the attic for a while.  It has to do with going back to school. 

This comes in the form of three timely coincidences.  A high school friend of mine contacted me and we met up last week.  That was very cool, and it brought back a flood of memories generated more than twenty years ago: time travel in a coffee shop.  If I could go back and reassure my 18-year-old self, I’d tell her:  go for what you want and don’t worry about being afraid.  Ask out the cute guy with the dark hair; he'll say no at first, but the two of you will end up getting married.  Go into archaeology; you'll start off doing fieldwork and end up writing novels.  Really.

That 18-year-old self would probably eye me askance, say, yeah, whatever, and crank up the B-52s.

Another school moment:  I’m going to be the guest artist at a local high school literary evening next week.  I’m excited and nervous about it.  I want it to go well:  I respect the ambition and energy of the students who are putting together the event and don’t want to let them down.  As I jot down my notes, I fret over what I can say, but the thing to I need remember is that it’s exciting to talk to other writers about the process.  I'm sure I can give the students something to think about in terms of craft, and I know I'll get insights from them, too.  The thing is, talking to writers can also be very scary, especially showing them new work (which may be a part of the literary evening).  You’re laying your guts out on a plate for the world to pick apart, and it can be agonizing.  But the reason we writers finally end up writing is that we want to share our stories more than we're afraid of being made vulnerable.  Getting over that fear teaches us.

In my own working world, I'm going back to school as well.  My new book is not about Emma and archaeology, it’s not historical, it’s not a mystery, it’s not something I've ever tried writing before.  I’m learning a new genre, and in some ways, that's like starting out for the first time.  It’s hard work, but I’m so in love with the idea of this story that I’m willing to sweat it out, to sacrifice huge chunks of ego and self-doubt to get it done and then make it better. 

I know other writers who’ve been in the game longer, and I get the impression that you never really stop learning, and you never really lose that feeling of vulnerability.  You just learn better skills and better tricks to deal with the new, scary, fun experiences you create for yourself.  For me, this means turning my first draft over to people I trust as friends and writers and critics to help make the book better.  In Good Will Hunting, the characters talk about how someone is perfect until you start getting to know him well.  Showing a new work to someone is a leap of faith and I find it always helps to think:  these folks aren't here to rip me down.  They're helping me improve something that I love, they're helping me make it a better story.  You can only be grateful for that, and squash the inhibiting little imps of pinched ego as best you can.   

Why I like hanging out with mystery writers

by Donna Andrews

"And then the police came to tow my car away."

My writer friend, Ellen Crosby, was describing her week.  Most of the bits of news she shared weren't conversation stoppers.  We're near neighbors and fellow critique group members, so we know a lot about each other's daily lives, families, and writing projects.  But I'd somehow missed hearing that she'd done something dire enough to get her car impounded.

"Um...towed your car away?  Why?"

I was relieved to find that Ellen hadn't become a scofflaw.  Her family's oldest car, an ancient Ford Escort that her family had driven all over two continents, had developed transmission problems and they'd had to replace it.  But instead of selling the Escort, they'd decided to donate it to the Fairfax County Police. 

How cool is that?

Ellen warned them that the transmission was going, but the officer she talked to arrange the donation said that wasn't a problem--they were pretty handy with cars.  And he told her all about the exciting new life her car will be leading now that it has joined the force.

First, the Escort will get a major overhaul and tuneup in their shop, and then they'll take it down to the ops center and let the rookie cops chase it around the track for a while, practicing their high speed car chase skills.  Sometimes, by way of a change, they might plant various illegal substances in the car and turn the bomb-, arson-, and drug-sniffing dogs loose on it. 

Of course, no matter how skillful the repair staff at the police operations center are, sooner or later its age will catch up with the Escort, and it won't be able to give the rookie cops much of a workout.  At that point, the car will suffer one of several fascinating fates.  The bomb squad might get to blow it up.  Or the SWAT team could shoot it up.  All, I hasten to add, for educational purposes.  Or they might turn it over to the fire department, which also has rookies to train.  The fire department could set the Escort on fire, so the rookies can put it out, or they might just let the rookies cut it into little bits while learning to use the Jaws of Life.

I confess, I'm slightly envious. Of the cops and fireman, that is.  None of the training I got in my day job ever involved blowing things up or setting things on fire.  I'm even just a little envious of Ellen's Escort, which is not only better traveled than I am, but is about to lead an exciting new life in law enforcement.

At the moment, my 1999 Honda Civic, aka Son of Zero, is still running quite nicely. So I  won't tell it just yet that when the time comes near for it to go to that great auto body shop in the sky, I'll probably turn it over to the Fairfax County Police Department.  Because that's the sort of thing a mystery writer should do.

Mystery writers are also prone to startling passersby with statements like "I put a dead body in one of the bathrooms of that house"--said by Marcia Talley, when driving through an elegant street in Chestertown, Maryland; and the body in question appeared in Occasion of Revenge, not in real life.  I've done the same thing myself.  "This is where I killed off Eddie Stallman," I've been known to say, when driving down a certain tree-lined street in Arlington.  Eddie, of course, is a character (in Delete All Suspects). Incidentally, readers should be wary of trying to hunt down all the locations used in a writer's books.  Some of us make fictional places up--there is no town of Caerphilly on a real Virginia map, only in my Meg Langslow books.  And sometimes we use places where tourists shouldn't venture.  Laura Lippman turns pale whenever she hears about someone making a pilgrimage through Baltimore to all the places named in the Tess Monaghan novels--some of those places she only went to because was a reporter covering crime stories, and even the most hardened criminals have some sense that killing off reporters isn't good publicity.

A few weeks ago, I was a speaker at the Bay-To Ocean Writer's Conference in Wye Mills Maryland.  I was introducing myself to another of the speakers, a writer named Candice Poarch.  And she looked very familiar.  Suddenly, it dawned on me.

"Oh, we've met before!" I exclaimed.  "At the Fairfax County Jail!"

Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I think people nearby began edging away from both of us.

"When we toured the Fairfax County Jail as part of the Fairfax County Citizens Police Academy," I elaborated.   People relaxed and sidled closer again.

Of course, I didn't explain, because it would have been too complicated, that unlike Ellen and Candice, I hadn't been able to sign up for the Citizens Police Academy and was only there at the jail as Ellen's guest. I'm still trying to get a chance to go.

Some people (and cars) have all the fun.

It's an honor to be nominated...

by Toni L.P. Kelner

I love award shows. I enjoy the pageantry, the award show banter, and the statistics. (You know, statistics like, "This is only the third time the director of a Best Picture nominee did not wear a cummerbund with his tuxedo.") And I absolutely adore a good acceptance speech.

Well, this year, I might get a chance to make one of my own. My short story "Sleeping With the Plush" was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Short Story of 2006.

For those of you not familiar with this award, it's given at Malice Domestic, an annual convention dedicated to the traditional mystery. (For a list of all the Agatha nominees, visit www.malicedomestic.org.) Since Malice was the first mystery convention I attended, this nomination means more to me that I can possibly say. Which doesn't mean I won't try to say it anyway, should I win.

Of course, since there are four other stories nominated, I only have, at best, a twenty percent chance. So no matter how good my acceptance speech is, I might very well not get a chance to use it. So, just in case, I'm going to give my speech here.

Imagine me in the banquet room at Malice Domestic, dressed in a charming outfit with my hair and makeup perfect. (If you could subtract a few pounds and/or years while you're at it, that's okay, too.) I've just heard my name called, and after smooching my husband, I gracefully making my way through the room with a warm smile for everybody I pass, and climb the stairs--without tripping--to accept that lovely teapot. And this is what I'd say:

Thank you all so much! I cannot tell you how much this means to me.

Yes, I know I said that already in the blog. Pretend you haven't just read it, and move on.

I want to thank Linda Landrigan at Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine for publishing "Sleeping with the Plush." My friends Charlaine Harris and Dana Cameron, and my agent Joan Brandt helped immeasurably by reading the story and fixing as many of my mistakes as they could--they're the best cheerleaders a writer could ask for. And most importantly, always, I have to thank my husband Steve, who is the best spouse any writer could want. I don't think I've ever written a thing without his help and support.

I then pause to let the audience say, "Awwww...."

And finally, at the risk of my speech being longer than the story, I'd like to thank all the editors out there who support short fiction. I love mystery short stories, and if it weren't for the editors, I wouldn't be able to read them or publish them. So thanks to Linda again, and to Janet at Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and to Kate, Susan, and Ruth at Level Best Books and all those other magazine and anthology editors, for giving short stories a home.

Another pause, for the audience to applaud the editors, all of whom I hope to sell stories to in the future.

Thank you all!

Wouldn't that be swell? Of course, I'm more likely stumble up to the platform, wearing a wrinkled outfit I spilled salad dressing on during dinner, and I'll be lucky to remember my own name, let alone this unrehearsed bit of gratitude. I would almost certainly get my tangue tongled up and end up saying something embarrassing, like, "You like me, you really like me." But that's okay. And it's okay if I never get a chance to make any kind of a speech.

Because it really is a tremendous honor to be nominated.