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Double Booked

By Elaine Viets

See all these books? They can be yours if you’ll help the Femmes Fatales.

We’ll even autograph them.

We need you to answer a short survey so we can give you a better blog.

I know, I know, we’re good. But we want to write the best possible blog. And we can’t do that without you.

We have two surveys. We’d like you to take one. Fill out the survey and you can enter a drawing to win at least 16 books.                                                    

One survey is for readers of this blog – the Femmes Fatales – and our sister blog, the Lipstick Chronicles. Hank Phillippi Ryan and I blog for both. You could say we get around. The Femmes are frequent guest bloggers on The Lipstick Chronicles and vice versa. Nancy Martin was just over here at the Femmes.

If you don't read the Femmes Fatales or the Lipstick Chronicles, please take the other survey. It's for people who like to read blogs -- just not our blogs. (We forgive you. We'll even reward you with books if you win. Just help us out, please.)

What do we want to know?

We’re asking what you like to read. What you like to see. What topics would you like to see more? Less? What about our blog layout: Is it boring? Complicated? Just right?                            

You can tell us. You won’t hurt our feelings. We won’t see your names, except if you win the drawing. Even then, we won’t see what you said about us. The Sterling Ad Co. will read your actual responses.

Do that for us – take the surveys – and all eight Femmes Fatales – Donna Andrews, Dana Cameron, Charlaine Harris, Toni L. P. Kelner, Kris Neri, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Mary Saums, and me, Elaine Viets – will sign and send you one of our books.

But wait, there’s more! as they say on the infomercials.                                                

The Lipstick Chronicles authors, including Brunonia Barry, Diane Chamberlain, Heather Graham, Harley Jane Kozak, Nancy Martin and Nancy Pickard, will send you one of their bestselling novels.

Margaret Maron will give you a choice of her latest book, "Sand Sharks," or if you’re willing to wait till November, her novel, "Christmas Mourning." I’ll send you my new Josie Marcus Mystery Shopper novel, "An Uplifting Murder" in November or the hardcover "Half-Price Homicide" now.

Just fill out one of these surveys. No matter which survey you take, you’re still eligible to enter the drawing for some 16 autographed books.

Come get your very own library of bestsellers.                                                             

Survey 1: TAKE THIS SURVEY ONLY IF YOU READ THE LIPSTICK CHRONICLES OR THE FEMMES FATALES. 

 http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/sterling_mysteryblogs 

Survey 2: TAKE THIS SURVEY IF YOU DO NOT READ THE LIPSTICK CHRONICLES OR THE FEMMES FATALES. YOU WILL STILL BE ELIGIBLE FOR THE BOOK DRAWING. 

 http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/sterling_goodblogs

  

     The deadline is October 3. Members of the Sterling Ad Co. will pick the winner. Spend a little time with us and we’ll give you hours of good reading.

PLEASE NOTE: If you answer "neither" to the first question in the Femmes-TLC survey, go down the take Survey 2. You're still eligible for the drawing if you complete that survey.

                                          

 

                                                            

Writing in hard times

by Donna Andrews

I'm in the final throes of revising a manuscript that's due at the end of the month.  Right now I like saying "at the end of the month" because it calms me and makes me feel as if I have a vast expanse of time to tinker with my manuscript, instead of FOUR MORE DAYS.  (Maybe I should start thinking "end of the quarter."  No.  I don't need to be that calm.)

And I'm doing the usual end-of-book dance, gyrating wildly between "No!  It's not ready! I need more time!" and "Hallelujah, I can kick it out the door soon!"

About this time in the life cycle of any book, I become eager to get on with the many things I'm shoving aside to make time for the book. Eager, and even a little anxious about how long that "as soon as the book is done" list is getting, so I start doing a few of them.

One thing I did was schedule a routine eye exam last Tuesday.  At least I thought it would be routine. And it seemed routine until the doctor said she didn't like the look of my optic nerve.  It was a little diffuse.  Not crisp.  Maybe a little swollen.  She wanted me back in the next day so they could run more tests.

Did I ever mention that I'm a hypochondriac? I really shouldn't be allowed to watch medical shows on TV, because I'm way too suggestible and can so easily become convinced that I have whatever the patients have.  The only one I allow myself is House, because his patients are always so incredibly ill with so many dire symptoms that even I can usually avoid thinking, "Whoa!  That's me!" And there's nothing worse than arming a hypochondriac with a new symptom and access to the Internet.  Trust me, if you Google "swollen optic nerve," you don't find anything you want to come down with.

So, more tests on Wednesday.  The vision field test was interesting--you peer through a lens and focus on little flashing dots that can appear anywhere on the screen.  (And if you blink, you miss one.  What if you blink too much?  Are they making allowances for blinking? What happens if I flunk the test?) And they took a photo of the inside of my eye that clearly showed that the central blob in the right eye was a bit larger than the corresponding blob in the left eye.  The blobs, apparently, were my optic nerves. My doctor wanted me to see a neuro-opthalmologist. 

Being referred to a specialist is a mixed blessing for a hypochondriac--especially if it's a specialty that's both hard to spell and something you never heard of before.  On the one hand, your health issues are being taken seriously!  Appropriate, highly skilled attention is being paid!  On the other hand--yikes! 

Luckily I was able to schedule an appointment with the neuro-opthalmologist the next day, Thursday. And I forbade myself to do any more Googling, because I know myself too well.  Read me a list of symptoms and I'll start talking myself into having some of them. All of them!  (Anyone else remember that ghastly House episode about leprosy?)

To my relief, the neuro-opthalmologist pronounced my optic nerves to be just fine.  The right one appears swollen in the photo, but it's not.  Apparently I'm just lopsided.

I never thought I'd be so thrilled to find out I was lopsided.  For a couple of days, I was almost giddy with relief.  I wanted to run around celebrating my fabulous lopsidedness and my newly regained ocular health. 

But did I mention that I have this book due?  So after a few burbling emails and phone calls, I sat down and went back to working on the manuscript.  Just as I had Tuesday and Wednesday night.  Putting aside joy to buckle down and work was just as hard as putting aside worry.  I have to admit that I didn't do as much work as I wanted to do any night last week. But I kept plugging away.

I know some writers who have elaborate writing rituals.  Playing the right music, burning candles in some scent that's supposed to encourage creativity. I write in unscented silence, but I will confess to a sneaking fondness for large, uninterrupted stretches of time.  My idea of a perfect writing day is one where I can wake up, amble down to the computer, and settle down to write as long as I like with no interruptions on the horizon, not even a lunch with a good friend or an MWA dinner meeting with a fascinating speaker. 

These days, life doesn't provide many perfect writing days.  Somehow the books get done anyway. 

They get done a little more easily if life doesn't throw me too many curves like last week's eye health scare. 

But whenever I'm tempted to whine that I can't possibly focus on my writing because of something that's going on, I remind myself of what happened on September 12, 2001. I didn't do any writing on 9/11. But I'd just quit my day job to write full time, so on September 12 I sat down at my computer and gave it a try.   I didn't write much that day--a couple of paragraphs.  And I wasn't sure they'd make it into the final book.  I was working on Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon at the time, and I wasn't sure I could even begin to write any of the funny scenes.  But since I'm an outliner, I knew that toward the end of the book, Meg and some others would be held hostage by the villain.  And she would make a wisecrack.  And . . ."

What kind of heartless cynic are you?" Rico exclaimed."How can you make jokes at a time like this? This is serious!"

"Very serious," I said."Or at least way too solemn.

Which seemed to baffle him. He stared at me, and looking back, I could see that I was doing so from the other side of a gap--in fact, an uncrossable chasm.The chasm between people who take life very seriously and those of us who laugh to keep from crying.The people who stand around lugubriously at funerals saying things like, "At least he didn't suffer" or "Doesn't she look lifelike?" and those of us who want to tell tall tales about what a wonderful old reprobate he was and imagine how she'd laugh if she could see the sideshow.The people who sob long-neglected prayers on the steps of the guillotine and those of us who know God will forgive us if we have to banter with the executioner to keep our courage up, as if laughter were a gauntlet we could throw in the face of death.

Or maybe I'm just a heartless cynic.

"Sorry," I said."Just ignore me.It's how I cope."

It's how I cope, too.  So that's how I got through the Great Eye Panic of 2010.  Joked when I could.  Vented to friends when I had to. And tried to keep plugging away at the book. 

Come to think of it, when you're going through stressful times, there are worse things than having a book deadline to distract you.

And now, back to the book.

Saving Local Stores: One Brick and Mortar at a Time

by Kris Neri

I’m a pretty independent sort. I don’t follow fads, my novels are published by independent presses and I write about adventurers who march to the beat of their own unconventional drummers. I'm so independent that, with my husband, I own an independent bookstore, The Well Red Coyote in Sedona, Arizona.

The Well Red Coyote is a great store, if I do say so myself — voted Best Bookstore in Sedona for five years in a row, every year we’ve been in business. What we've created is more than merely a store that sells books, but a real community gathering spot. All of the fiction authors who appear in our store present writing workshops, and our nonfiction authors offer seminars on their books’ subjects. We also offer live music concerts, everything from blues and rock, to inspirational and Native American flute. All always free. This imaginative approach has worked well for us — turnouts for our author events are mostly exceptionally good.

Yet even in an offbeat place like Sedona, independence is becoming an endangered species. Despite their vocal support, we're losing some of our old customers to online sellers.

I hear the same story from booksellers all over the country. It isn’t just bookstores that are suffering, either, but independent stores of all kinds. Stores with character and charm, which lend distinction to their communities, are just disappearing. Everywhere.  There are a few of us hanging on out there, mavericks on the road to big-box Sameville. But it’s a struggle, especially in this punitive economy.

The recent loss of so many independent bookstores concerns me the most, not just as a fellow bookseller, but an author. From the author’s perspective, there’s something to be said for every form of bookselling. But most mid-list authors, and those who began in the mid-list, will say their careers depend on the hand selling of independent booksellers around the country.

What will happen to mid-list authors when independent booksellers aren’t around anymore to recommend them to their customers? And, readers, won’t some of you miss that service?

Now there’s a way that customers everywhere can save the beloved stores in their communities. The campaign is called “The 3/50 Project: Saving the Brick and Mortars Our Nation is Built On.” The Project 3/50 asks everyone to think about three businesses in their communities that they would hate to see close. Then it challenges them to spend $50 a month combined in those three businesses. That’s not $50 more than they’re asked to spend, it’s the same $50 they’re spending in corporate-owned stores. It’s money they’ve already allotted in their monthly budgets.

The Project 3/50 tells us that if only half the employed population spent $50 each month in locally owned businesses, it would generate more than $42.6 billion in revenue. That’s billion, with a B. For every $100 spent in locally owned independent stores, $68 returns to the community through taxes, payroll and other expenditures. If you spend that in a national chain, only $43 remains locally. Spend it online, and absolutely nothing comes home. And online sellers usually pay no local sales tax, which most communities need to support schools and other local services.

It only takes one person to get the ball rolling in every community. I know which three stores I want to help save in my town. How about you?

 

Love, Literally

HANK:  Yes, I know it's fiction. But one of the wonderful things about good fiction is that sometimes, it seems real. And my dear pal Jessica Park has done some serious, serious reseach into this realm.

 

 

JESSICA PARK: 

We’ve all had crushes on fictional characters. Swooning, drooling, heart-pounding crushes. It’s particularly easy to pant over a film character, because we have a visual to egg on our lust. I know many a girl who has swooned over Jason Bourne.

Although, let’s be honest, that has more to do with Matt Damon than the character he plays.

But crushes on literary characters are sometimes even more fun. Reading gives us a different perspective on a character, and we get to know our crush on a deeper level. Plus, our own imagination has the freedom to play around with the layers. Yeah, it’s fun.

 

 I did a very formal survey on Facebook. You would not believe the detailed structure of this study, but it was extremely complex and multi-faceted. (Oh, fine, I asked something like, Have you ever had a crush on a literary character?) I put out a ban on “Edward” or “Jacob” as allowed answers. It’s my study, so I can do what I want. Answers included a bunch of Mr. Darcy fans, of course, because what gal hasn’t fallen totally in love with that dashing hero? Surely a few boys have, too, although I’m not sure if Mr. Darcy is a gay icon. Probably. 

  

 Other responses included: Laurie Lawrence (Louisa May Alcott), Gilbert Blythe (Lucy Maud Montgomery), Roarke (J.D. Robb), Painter Crowe (James Rollins),  Joe Pike (Robert Crais), Ramses (Elizabeth Peters), Sean Donahue (Heather Webber), Marco (Kate Collins), Marcus Quinn (Madelyn Alt), Dutch (Victoria Laurie’s Psychic Eye books), and Myron Bolitar (Harlan Coban), Ranger (Janet Evanovich), Captain Wentworth, Henry V.

(HANK: Oh, that was me. Henry V. I'm just saying.)

 

Also one goofy boy offered up Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, but I’m not counting this because it’s abnormal. And throws off the nice curve of hot (and mostly mentally sound) characters.  

 

I’ve always been partial to Sam Gianneli from Linda Barnes’ Carlotta Carlyle series. Really, it doesn’t get much better. Except for one: Lewis Cole from Brendan Dubois’s ( www.brendandubois.com) Lewis Cole mysteries. If you haven’t read these books, you are missing out on one total hottie dream. Dead Sand is the first in the series, so rush out and snag yourself a copy. Cole is a former DOD analyst, with an unexplained past and unexplained scars. He lives in NH and writes for a local magazine--a gig he demanded when he cut a deal to escape his past--and works as a P.I. Basically, Lewis is a babe. Strong, smart, driven, best friends with a powerful mobster… Plus, he’s a romantic at heart, despite his willingness to play the field a bit.

 

 Okay, so we’ve all fallen a wee bit head-over-heels-in-love while reading. What I hadn’t realized until I wrote RELATIVELY FAMOUS (http://yaauthorjessicapark.blogspot.com) was that it was entirely possible to crush hard on a character that I created. I had developed a bit of a crush on Owen from the Gourmet Girl mysteries, but nothing like what I “felt” for the father in my YA book. I didn’t set out to get all giddy and puppy-dog-eyed over Mark Ocean, but it happened. He’s a jerk. Well, initially he’s a jerk. Self-absorbed, materialistic, vain, narcissistic.

 

 He’s so Hollywood-driven, that he’ll use his newly-discovered daughter, Dani, to revive his sinking acting career. He feigns interest in Dani during the few free moments he has while juggling a slew of vapid, bikini-clad twenty-somethings. He’s just loathsome. Sauntering around in front of the paparazzi with a teenage daughter, just to give the impression that he is a devoted family man and deserving of better roles? Ick. He’s vile. And no Brad Pitt-type family man.

 

But then… we start to see that there is much more to this macho cretin. He has a past. Not only is Mark actually an extremely talented actor, but he is capable of meaningful, deep love. Like what he had with Dani’s mother, Leila. With Dani’s forceful nudging, Mark agrees (for the sake of his image) to date an incredibly non-Hollywood type woman, Olivia. Despite his resistance, he falls for her in the most powerful way. As I wrote about Mark’s transformation from shallow, self-serving schemer to deeply invested father and boyfriend, I sorta fell for him.

 

 Weird, huh?

 And somehow silly. I mean, I wrote the guy, for God’s sake. It felt creepy. But at a certain point, Mark began to write himself. He told me who he was, and it was just up to me to translate his character onto paper. What I loved most about him was that he was never entirely hopeless. He had made mistakes and bad choices in his life--which is something we can all relate to--and writing and watching his struggle to let his walls down was very appealing. Even when he was behaving terribly, there were layers of his old self that would seep through, letting me know that there was a really decent, loving guy underneath the superficial smarm.

 

When I finished writing the last chapter, I honestly had tears streaming down my face. I was going to miss him. He started off so smug and over-confident, and ended up open and almost painfully vulnerable. That willingness to put himself out there and embrace the new relationships in his life pulled at my heart. Major crush. Major. I missed him when I finished the novel.

What about you? Have any literary characters made you weak in the knees?

 Jessica Park

 http://yaauthorjessicapark.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/jumby24

www.twitter.com/JessicaParkYA

http://whatthekidsays.blogspot.com

 

 

Please, and (fill in blank)

 I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder. 

                  ~G.K. Chesterton

The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.                       ~Oscar Wilde

 

HANK: Your Mom always told you to do it. Forced you to do it. Ahhh...you'd wail, as ten year old. Do I HAFTA? Yes, she'd say, you do.

 

 And now that we're all grown ups, we write thank you notes all the time. Don't we? 

 Don't we?

 And now, the extremely polite (and extremely successful) Nancy Martin shares a secret: Mom was so right.

 

(Thanks, Nancy!)

NANCY MARTIN:

Here’s what I know about the publishing industry: Thank-you notes make a difference.  

  Here’s the story of my first inkling:

 My first book was a 725-page historical romance which I wrote while I was pregnant with my second child. (Did my hormones have something to do with how long it was? Maybe.) I finished the book on a Friday, and my daughter Sarah was born the following week.

(Talk about a deadline!) The book sold to a publisher a couple of months later, and I managed to get through the editing process without too much angst. (My editor’s first request? Cut 200 pages. Ack! But I did it!) I had been an English teacher before I decided to take a stab at a career writing books, so my manuscript was pretty “clean,” as they say—not too many grammatical mistakes or typos. (Quite an accomplishment, if I do say so myself, because it was written—and re-written—on a portable typewriter. I should have bought stock in White-Out.) My editor even complimented me on my “clean” manuscript.

So I wasn’t prepared for all the appalling red marks on my pristine pages when I first opened the copy-edited version of my book. The copy editor had made hundreds—perhaps thousands!—of corrections to my work. That first reading of the copy-edited ms was incredibly educational . . . and humbling. What a lot to learn!

Having been brought up by a mother who’s a stickler for good manners, I dutifully wrote a thank-you note to that hard-working copy editor. A month later, my phone rang. It was Joan, my copy editor. “I’ve never received a thank-you note before,” she said with amazement in her voice. “And I’m now an acquiring editor. Would you be interested in writing books for me?” You bet!

We agreed that I would write six category romances for her, and my writing career took off. Since then, I’ve written nearly fifty books, and I’ve worked with many, many copy editors. Most have been wonderful. (Only one was a stinker who insisted on changing something in every paragraph for no apparent reason except she just didn’t like my style, I guess.)

 Even now, I still learn something about our language when I open a copy-edited manuscript.

This week, I spent two days reviewing the pages of my next Roxy Abruzzo mystery—called STICKY FINGERS, which will be published next April. While reading the copy editor’s notes, I was reminded of the rules concerning serial commas and interjections, plus the spelling of such words as “jerkwad,” which is one word, not two. (Isn’t the English language wonderfully capricious?) And I was thankful that she caught my mistake sending a full coal barge down the Monongahela River, not up. And how come it was raining on one page, then dry on another. And what happened to the dog that was in a truck one minute and invisible the next? Copy editors save writers from looking like dingalings. So they deserve thank-you notes.

 As do booksellers. I drop a note to booksellers after I’ve visited their stores. Do you? It’s a way of buying goodwill, yes, but also just being nice to nice people. I send my agent a fun gift at Christmas. To my editor and publicist, too. I try to do favors for people who ask because . . . well, it banking good karma, I guess. (Just don’t ask me for a blurb. I’m terrible at blurbing.)

I thank readers who email me, too, if they don’t block their email address. Writing is a lonely profession, so it’s important to create a network of supportive friends.

 A note can make a big difference. Have you written a thank-you note lately? To whom? For what? I gathering thank-you note stories, so tell me yours.

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

Nancy Martin is the author of nearly fifty popular fiction novels including the Blackbird Sisters mystery series and the Roxy Abruzzo series. In 2009, she was awarded the Romantic Times lifetime achievement award for mystery writing. She serves on the board of Sisters in Crime and is a founding member of Pennwriters. She teaches writing workshops and blogs at The Lipstick Chronicles.

The Viets Guide to a South Florida Hurricane Season

By Elaine Viets                                                       

Hurricane Earl turned to be the biggest bust this side of Playboy. Igor has been promoted from a tropical storm to a hurricane. Meanwhile, another storm is brewing off the coast of Africa.

Welcome to hurricane season in the subtropics. When we first moved to Fort Lauderdale, we had no idea how to handle a hurricane. After Rita, Ike, Charlie, Katrina, Wilma and other blowhards, we’ve learned how to deal with them.

I grew up in Tornado Alley in St. Louis. When a tornado was sighted, warning sirens would blare. We had maybe two minutes to run for the basement before our house exploded over our heads.

In a hurricane zone, we have days before the hurricane hits. The weather service starts tracking the windy troublemaker shortly after birth and follows it for more than a week. That’s enough time to pack up the family, the pets, the computers and the wedding pictures.

 For our first hurricane, Rita, my husband Don and I decided to stay in our beach condo and watch the storm. After all, Rita was only a mild Category One. Dumb idea. We had to put down the hurricane shutters, so it was like being trapped in a cave. The wind howled like a wild beast and threw trees, coconuts and bricks at our shutters. Both cats were Velcroed to my chest for 48 hours, shaking in fear. At the height of the storm, Don and I sat in the bathtub in the only windowless room in the condo. I thought soap scum was going to be my last view on this earth.

For the other hurricanes, we evacuated. As soon as the TV news gave the storm a category and the maps showed it heading our way, it was time to leave.

Here’s what I don’t tell my worried relatives: There are only three highways out of South Florida – 1-95, the Turnpike and A1A, and that one runs along the ocean, so it will be flooded.

The other highways turn into six-lane parking lots. If we take them, we’ll run out of gas three hours out of town and become trapped in a traffic jam.

Fortunately, most people do not understand Florida geography.

On the TV news, you see fleeing families sleeping on cots in crowded gyms and churches. These shelters are for the poor. The rich and the spendthrift, like us, book a room at a hotel inland. The question is: where?

During one major hurricane, some South Floridians fled to Orlando, four hours away and definitely inland. The Mouse got hit. Others ran to Punta Gorda on the west coast of Florida. They got slammed, too.

We usually go to a Holiday Inn about 40 miles inland to wait out the storm and hope we don’t get flattened by spin-off tornadoes. Aunt Betty called us when we were sitting in a hotel room, watching some poor drenched TV reporter. "I saw the news," my aunt said. "Are you okay?"

"It’s touch and go," I told her. "We’re running low on bath towels."

Here’s another advantage to evacuating to a hotel: We can take our cats. Most shelters don’t accept animals.

During a hurricane, hotels have a "don’t ask, don’t tell" policy: As long as your pets are quiet, they can stay in your room.

Don carried the cats to our room up the back stairs, the pet caddy draped with his raincoat. The sly *-cats didn’t make a sound.

"Never thought I’d see the day I’d be sneaking cats into a hotel," he said.

 

 

A Burning Love For Books

 

by Mary Saums

As we approach 9/11 this year, we have even more worldwide crises to think about than usual. More natural disasters, more economic instability and, most exasperating of all, more displays of intolerance and hatred. Bring on the day when everyone, down to the last misguided delusional preacher/ ayatollah/ rabbi/ priest/ Stepford priestess televangelist, will make love for all others and peace on earth their first priority.

Until then, let's remember that we readers and writers have at least one very special bond with people all over the world - our love of books.

We talk a lot here at the Femmes Fatales blog about the agony and the ecstasy of being a writer. Sure, I'm like everybody else. There are times I want to pull my hair out from fixing and re-doing chapters over and over. But we have it so easy these days. Thank goodness for computers.

 

 

I'm so thankful that, however agonizing, my favorite authors persevere so I can kick back and enjoy their stories.

We bookaholics couldn't make it without books. That's why we always have something to read no matter where we are or what we're doing ...

 ... like walking down the street ...

 

...  or when we're supposed to be on vacation ...

 

... and sometimes even at important meetings.

 

We will go to a book sale in any kind of weather.

 

We know books are good for sharing quietly with friends ...

 

... and fun to read out loud ...

 

and in times of trouble, they provide a little solace ...

as with this man, a Pakistani flood refugee, who stops for a while to read.

 

Here, books mean more than something for entertainment ...

... they are symbols of justice and closure, printed trial records long-awaited by this gentleman and many others in Phnom Penh, when their jailor and torturer so many years ago was finally brought to trial.

 

Books are important to us, no matter how old we are ...

 

 

... or where we are.

 

 

They provide a light in what is at times a dark world. We receive educations and sometimes learn smaller things like how to cope and get by one more day.

This will sound weird, but two books that helped me when my father died weren't spiritual self-help types. They were science fiction. One was To Your Scattered Bodies Go, the first Riverworld book by Philip Jose Farmer. The other was I Will Fear No Evil by Robert Heinlein. Both could've been put in a thematic sub-category called The Afterlife with a Twist.

I didn't read them because of that. Different friends just happened to recommend them at the time. Books can be like stray dogs and cats that way. They find you when you need them.

So be open to whatever book calls your name. It may be doing so to help you out.

Here's to the booksellers, librarians, publishers and all others whose work brings books into the world - may they all prosper!

What current popular movies have you not seen yet? What's holding you back?

I was interested in Dana's account of trying to act like a sane, calm human being when you're meeting people you really admire. I have exactly the same problem, and with some of the same people cited in other messages. Michael Connelly is one of the nicest guys around, but he would never be described as bubbly. I reined myself in so severely around him that I probably didn't even register, in an gut-wrenching effort to match his cool.

Meeting Diana Gabaldon was just as much a wonder for me. Anyone who can make characters and the past come alive the way she does . . . well, I'm in awe. Luckily for me, she couldn't be nicer, because I'm sure I was grinning like a fool.

And in spite of the fact that I made an idiot of myself once with Kevin Sorbo (switching from literary icons to screen icons) this year I managed to have a very pleasant conversation with him in San Diego at ComicCon.

Not so with Nathan Fillion. I sigh every time I think about my two abortive attempts to become acquainted. I have completely gotten off on the wrong foot with this actor, whom I admire intensely. (I'm sure he'd be surprised to hear we'd been on any foot at all.) I introduced myself to him at a party and he was obviously far more interested in continuing his conversation with his friends. The way to meet a celebrity, if you want to be cool, is this; you get your publicist to approach their publicist to ask if they're open to an introduction. I am hardly ever cool, and I blew it again this year with Nathan Fillion, when I actually had a conversational point I wanted to make. I didn't want to talk to him just to say I'd done it, in other words. But (go figure) he was more engrossed in his conversation with Alec Baldwin, and simply didn't want to chat.

Well, I think I'm discouraged enough by the Fillion encounters to kiss any chance we had of being buddies goodbye. I admit to being so squelched by this encounter that I missed opportunities to bother lots of other famous people, so they probably owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Fillion. Sometimes it really is better to admire from a distance. I was once in the same green room as Michael York, and my publicist very kindly asked me if I'd like to meet him. But I turned her down because I simply couldn't think of what I'd talk to him about.

There are some writers I've never gotten to meet that are on my list of people I admire, people who've given me hours of pleasure without even being in the same room. I hope that my path crosses theirs sometime along the road, and I hope I hold my cool when I meet them. Practice saying with me, "I love your work. I bought it in hardback."

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Writer Crush

by Dana

Most of the time, when I get to meet writers or performers I really enjoy, I manage to behave myself. I may be happy, maybe a little overeager, but relatively normal. But there are a few times I've embarrassed myself badly. I'm not going to name names, because it's happened in front of people I'm proud to call friends today and I don't want them remembering what a jackass I made of myself when we first met.  I use the term “jackass” advisedly: braying, too many teeth showing, the works. And I'm not going to name names because I may actually meet them one day and I don't want them to run away screaming from me...

Like the guy I met at a writers conference, whose work I've adored forever. I went into a downward spiral of effusiveness that I blush to recall. He was very nice, and I eventually dug my way out of the sandpit I made for myself, but it still rankles. If I couldn't come up with something witty on the spot, why couldn't I have just said, “Hey, I love your work” and left it at that? He didn't actively avoid me the rest of the time, but there was this panicked look in his eye, whenever we were in the same room...

Other times, I've gone completely the opposite direction and clammed up, and I mean, completely. I couldn't hear what I was saying. Whispering.  It's not like I was trying to be clever and mysterious.  People who know me will tell you: silence, mysterious or otherwise, is simply not a component of my nature. I just got tongue-tied, one step away from genuflecting and squealing “We're not worthy! We're not worthy!”

Sigh. I wish I was cooler.

I had a chance to do a lot of reading on vacation, and two writers in particular stood out for me (remember, I'm not discussing people I know personally!) 

Stephen Fry. The man is a genius, and I do not use that word lightly.  I'll watch anything he's in, I'll read anything he's written, just for the pleasure of his use of language.  And not just erudite, he's insanely thoughtful and compassionate and can express that, too.  While atching him interviewed by Craig Ferguson, my computer melted down.  I'm serious.  Favorite book: The Liar.  Most recently enjoyed:   Stephen Fry in America.  Don't miss his blogs.

Suzanne Collins. I read first two books of The Hunger Games  series while on vacation and was just in awe. I rushed home to order the third book, which I promptly devoured. No, not quite: I actually paced myself, because I knew it would be the final book. That hasn't happened since I neared the end of Keri Hulme's The Bone People.  I love Collins' take on the post-apocalyptic novel (watch for a future blog on that). She's got storyline, she's got characters, she's got pace, and not a false note anywhere. Get these books, now, if you haven't already. 

Okay, gentle readers: Who has a war story? Or who would you happily embarrass yourself in front of?