My Weblog

The Thrillzie of It All

by Hank Phillippi Ryan 

Oh, it’s such fun when there’s a new word. LOL was just okay’ed by the OED. And OMG, right? And a few dozen others entered the list of acceptable and now-useable-in-educated-society words.

 (NB and whoo hoo, fellow Scrabble players. Does that make you a happy camper? That’s also now acceptable.)

 But here’s a new one that’s now making the rounds in mystery-thriller world: Thrillzie.

 Thrillzie?

 From what I can glean, a thrillzie is sort of an amalgam of thriller-plus-cozy. A word to describe a book that has thriller aspects, but isn’t sexy or bloody or gory or violent or over the top. Like a cozy. A cozy thriller, you see? A thrillzie.

 So whaddaya think? My first reaction was to laugh. The evolution of genres is so interesting to watch—and even more interesting to be part of. Who’d have thought in addition to mystery and thriller and paranormal and chick lit and mom lit and hen lit and “literary fiction” and the newly-cool “a novel of suspense” that there’d be steampunk, and zombie-lit, and…what else is there? And I do admit, I’ve wondered, with our ever-increasing need to “label” every genre, if there could be a cozy thriller.

It's a tempting title. And certainly a tempting genre. (Ray Benson has just written the charming and adorable novel, The Black Stiletto. Ray, would you call it a thrillzie?)  

And isn’t there a market, say, for a fast-paced, action-filled, high-stakes high tension, excitingly-finished (I’m not going to say climaxed) novel about a smart, competent, clever and tough heroine?

What would you call that? Romancing the Stone, a movie, I know, that’s a thrillzie if I ever saw one. (And I bet I’ve seen lots of them.) What would I have called “Romancing” if I didn’t have the word thrillzie? What other moves and books are there that would fill that slot? My own DRIVE TIME, I bet, could be in that category. Would I want that? Hmmm.

We all just got over the controversy about “cozy,” remember?  (Just call them: traditional.) And though many readers and writers embraced cozy, it does have just a bit of condescension attached. Doesn’t it? It now means—cute, and crafty, and a book with no, um, unpleasantness of any kind. And “cozy” certainly telegraphs “written by a woman.”

But how about a Spenser for Hire book? Robert B. Parker (and we miss him every day) didn’t do sex and violence—in fact, part of the wonderfulness (oh, Microsoft Word isn’t liking that word, and is underlining it in red) of his books is how UN-graphic the sex and violence is. Which makes it even sexier. Right?

 

But hey, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in the room with Robert B. Parker when someone suggested he call his books “thrillzies.”

To give something such a diminutive name—and thrillzie certainly is, along with cutie and kittie and I don’t know, schatzie--is that a diminution of the value? Like: easy peazie? Or is it something to kiss on both cheeks and welcome into the family of writing?

I just Googled it, and “thrillzie” is not there. So we’re definitely in on the cutting edge. (OMG.)

 But do you heart thrillzie? (To “heart” something is now also acceptable.)

And now Microsoft Word is bugging me about using thrillzie. Underlining it in red. I just clicked on “add to dictionary.” And so it goes. Will you be adding it to yours?

Painting up a Story

by Toni L.P. Kelner

One of my family's favorite outings is a trip to Plaster Fun Time, a place that supplies plaster statues and plaques, paints, brushes, and space to combine them all without messing up my house. When the work is done, the spray it with a quick-dry finish so we can take our pieces home. Our house already holds more than a few of these plasters, ranging from Halloween and Christmas decorations to Pokemon and a bookworm. But as Steve, our daughters Maggie and Valerie, our friend Chelsea, and I painted today, it occurred to me that there some good lessons for writers at Plaster Fun Time.

Okay, I find good lessons for writers all over the place. There are two reasons for this. One, I am a writer and I'm terribly self-centered. Two, obviously my subconscious thinks I need all the writing lessons I can get. But I digress from the lessons.

 

Lesson 1: No two writers will ever write the same story, even if they start with the same idea.

Look at these three dragons.

Obviously they started out with the same plaster, but Steve painted his black and gold; Chelsea used blue and gold,with gold stripes on the back; and Valerie went with purple and violet. Three dragons--three visions.

Of course, I did know this from my experiences editing anthologies. My co-editor Femme Charlaine and I give our contributors two things to work with--vampires and birthdays, werewolves at Christmas, supernatural beings on vacation, supernatural beings remodeling their homes--and stand back to see what happens. In four anthologies, we've never had to ask somebody to make a change because their story was too close to another one.

This is why I'm somewhat impatient when I meet a writer who is worried about telling me his or her idea. It wouldn't matter if I wrote a book or story with the exact same idea. The two works would be completely different.

 

Lesson 2: Writers sometimes see things that nobody else does.

 One of the plasters offered for sale was a chubby Easter bunny, and when Maggie picked it up, I was expecting her to head for the pastels. Instead, she produced the figure below.

In case you don't recognize him, this is a pretty darned faithful reproduction of Oswald the Rabbit, a character Walt Disney and Ub Iworks created while working at Universal Studios.

Universal owned the little critter, so they had to abandon Oswald at Universal Studios when Disney went to start his own studio with Mickey Mouse.

Oswald and returned to public fame now, thanks to his appearance in the video game Epic Mickey. Maggie loves the game, and has become a fan of Oswald. So when she saw that bunny, she saw Oswald.

In the same way, when I was trying to write a short story about a courtroom, instead of coming up with a lawyer or judge, my first thought was pirates, because I'm a fan of pirates. Well, I'm a fan of pirate movies, that is. So I wrote "Skull and Cross-Examinations," and then a second story about pirate legal matters. To me, it was obvious. To most people? Not so much.

 

Lesson 3: Writers sometimes repeat themselves without meaning to.

While Maggie was painting her rabbit, I found one of my own. It seemed to me that this bunny had an evil look in his eyes, so I didn't go with a cute little Easter bunny--instead I painted something a bit more malevolent. 

Pretty original, huh? A vampiric Easter bunny. Nobody ever painted anything like this before.

Except me. Here's a plaster I painted on a previous Plaster Fun Time expedition, several years ago.

That's right. A vampiric bunny. Okay, the color scheme is a bit different, and this one has a friendlier expression, but is that really going to matter when he's chowing down on your blood?

The fact is, it's easy to fall into a rut. When you start out writing cozy mysteries, you tend to stick with it. If you're start out writing noir, that's the way you automatically start to write. In my case, I started out writing the Laura Fleming mysteries with a Southern accent. When I started to write the "Where are they now?" series, it was a chore to switch accents to something appropriate for a Massachusetts native. And currently I'm trying to figure out how the main character in my new series will sound. 

I'm pretty sure she won't be a vampiric bunny.

 

Lesson 4: Editing is good.

That newer vampire bunny of mine? He originally had a purple nose, and it was much bigger. The problem was that he just didn't look particularly scary with a big purple nose. So I had to cover over the purple nose with white--the Plaster Fun Time equivalent of an eraser--and then repaint the meaner version above.

How does this apply to my writing? Well, the Lesson 4 heading was originally, "Editing is a much-needed and valuable part of the writing process, and any writer would do well to keep that in the forefront of his or her mind."

 

Lesson 5: You have to know when to stop.

Yes, I did seriously consider ending this post with that--as implied in Lesson 4--but I thought just a little explanation would be good. As I was nearing the end of evil bunny painting today, I started wondering how to paint his evil little claws. Red from clawing somebody? Purple, to match his tail? Some other color. It was Steve who said, "Well, you could do something, but I don't think it would really add to him." And he was right.

The same is true when I'm on the last drafts of a manuscript. There comes a point when I change words--"ran" to "rushed", for instance--and in the next edit, I change them back--"rushed" back to "ran." That's when I know I'm no longer really adding any value, and it's time to let it be.

 

And that's why I'm ending this post here.

Guilty

By Elaine Viets

I was tooling down Bayview Drive on a fine Florida afternoon, headed straight for the mall.

Well, not straight. Bayview is a twisty street with handsome homes, large trees and lurking cops.

I wasn’t speeding. I was driving a sedate 30 miles an hour while the Rolling Stones roared "Paint It, Black." I sang along with them.

         

That’s when I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the dreaded flashing lights. A black SUV with artfully concealed red-and-blue police lights was behind me.

I pulled over, heart pounding. Rats! Caught by an undercover cop. Now I was going to get a speeding ticket. I could never talk my way out of them.

I should have stayed home. I’d wanted to shop for that Florida wardrobe essential, sunglasses. After I paid this ticket, I wouldn’t be able to afford a decent pair of glasses.

I turned off the Stones and waited for the cop. Where had I stashed my car registration – in the glove box or the center console? Would I have to rummage through fast-food napkins, pens and deposit slips while an annoyed cop added more charges against me?

Was my insurance card in my wallet or the car? I’d have to do more digging, which turned into frantic fumbling when I was rattled. I once handed a cop my Visa card instead of my driver’s license.

I admit it. I’m afraid of the police. When I see a badge, I assume I’ve done something wrong. Even if I wasn’t speeding, I was guilty of something – maybe driving down Bayview while having a Stones sing-along.

Blame it on twelve years of Catholic school. The nuns said I was sinful and punished me for terrible crimes such as talking in class and flirting with cute guys. I knew I deserved to be caught.

Blame it on my generation. We Sixties kids never met Officer Friendly. For us, cops were the enemy. I didn’t do drugs in school. I couldn’t afford them. All my money went for tuition.

Still, I was terrified of cops. Even cops in tennis whites, like the one walking toward my car.

Tennis whites? That was casual dress even for Florida law enforcement.

"Elaine," the cop said, "it’s your neighbor, Jerry."

Jerry lives in our condo building and works for a small-town force in our county. Bayview wasn’t his jurisdiction. It didn’t matter. I still felt guilty.

"Your husband says he left his road keys in your car," Jerry said.

"Road keys?" I said. "What are those?"

Jerry shrugged. "I don’t know. I saw him running after your car, waving and shouting, but you didn’t notice."

Of course not. I’d been miles away with the Rolling Stones.

That afternoon, Don had walked me to the car and retrieved his notebook from the passenger side. Then I drove off with six men on my mind – Mick, Keith, Brian, Charlie, Jack and Bill. Guilty again.

"Your husband says he can’t get into your condo," Jerry the cop said.

With fumbling fingers, I pulled our house key and Don’s car keys off my key ring.

"I’ll take the keys to him," I said.

"I’m going back anyway," he said. "You go on ahead."

So I did. Now I drove 25 miles an hour down Bayview. At the mall, I turned on my cell phone and called Don.

"What are road keys?" I asked.

"Beats me," he said. "I opened the passenger door on your car and left my keys in your car’s lock."

I got out and looked. The keys were still there, dangling in the lock. They’d survived the trip without falling off the car.

Since I didn’t have to pay that speeding ticket, I bought sunglasses. The good Polarized ones.

I didn’t feel the least bit guilty.

                                                             ***

Win an Advance Review Copy of my tenth Dead-End Job mystery, PUMPED FOR MURDER. Helen Hawthorne explores the wonderfully weird world of extreme body building in South Florida. She and Phil also investigate a Miami-Vice style death from the 1980s.

ARCs are given to professional reviewers. This is your chance to read my latest Florida mystery before it's at the bookstores. Go to  www.elaineviets.com and click on "contests."

 

Daddy's Girls Weekend!

by Mary Saums

 

Whoa, I am still recovering from last weekend.

Seven days is not enough time to get your mind back to everyday life, not after being at the world premiere of the most original and totally fun book event ever conceived. Daddy's Girls' Weekend, a mini-conference for readers and writers, made its debut on the Mississippi gulf coast. It's the wacky brain-child of author Carolyn Haines, creator of the "Bones" Mississippi Delta series starring Sarah Booth Delaney.  

 

Sarah Booth may be poor and the last of her family, but some of her friends are "Daddy's Girls", the pampered society-conscious daughters of wealthy parents. By showing contrasts between down-to-earth Sarah Booth and her D.G. friends, we readers glimpse that world too, a place where eccentricities are admired and you get extra points for being a little crazy. In a fun way, of course. 

That's why it didn't surprise me a bit when I heard about the peignoirs.

 

 

Right away, I knew this wasn't going to be your usual mystery convention. If you've been to one, you know that the days are devoted to panels or talks by writers and sometimes crime-related experts. You rush from one panel or signing to another, trying to squeeze them all in, and then have to go up to your room to flop down on the bed before you collapse. After a few days of that, there's usually a big banquet where everybody dresses up, award nominees are recognized and the winners announced.

The DG Weekend wasn't like that. Nothing was rushed. The speakers - one publisher, one agent, one screenwriter, two booksellers and two novelists - held sessions both days. So if you missed one Friday, you could catch it on Saturday.

Or, if you preferred, you could go on a shopping trip hosted by a bona fide Daddy's Girl. Nice. Or just hang out around the hotel on the bayou.

 

 

 

On Friday night, we all met at a nearby guest house to hear opening remarks (and bribes) from three gentlemen contestants vying for the title of Big Daddy. Publisher Ben LeRoy of Tyrus Books, Mega-Screenwriter David Sheffield and NYT bestselling author Dean James were great sports and all so funny. In this photo, Carolyn oversees their first competition - Limerick Writing.

 

 

 

Instead of a Saturday night banquet, the ladies got gussied up in fancy peignoirs, or flannel pajamas if that made them more comfortable, and the men in their smoking jackets. That's Dean with the pipe and author Julie Herman in her grandfather's luxe-cool vintage jacket.

 

 

 

The evening's Big Daddy competition allowed each contestant to choose a song from a list of twenty and either sing or dance to it. None were best pleased. With much hesitation, both David and Dean chose to dance, so long as one of the ladies from the audience would dance with them. I loved Ben's unique way of neither singing or dancing. Instead, he gave an intellectual soliloquy while "Everybody Dance Now" disco-thumped in the background. When the votes for Big Daddy were counted, Dean James was announced winner.

Ben, David and Dean judged the final contest of the weekend, the one for ladies' best outfit. Woo-woo moment: I found a strange image on a photo that looks to me like the ghost of a party-loving Daddy's Girl who wanted in on the fun:

 

 

 

And then came the best part of the whole thing.

 

Stories on the porch.

 

 

David talks about Elvis and other important Southern topics ...

 

 

 

... I hate that I missed most of this one because, from all the laughing, it must've been a humdinger. All I caught was something about a rooster. Those two ladies down there with the boas and cigarette holders were hilarious and are ones to watch.  

The book talks and sessions were great, the company was funny and inspiring. If they do this again next year, register early. You don't want to miss it!

For more photos and info, check the D.G. Weekend page and Carolyn's fan page on Facebook.  

 

What Makes the World Go Round?

I just got home from New York City. Despite the commonly held point of view that New Yorkers are rude and pushy, I did not notice this at all. To southern taste, the people I talked to may have been a little brusque, without adding any of the conversational curliques southerners enjoy, but none of them were rude. Granted, I was in a high-traffic tourist area where it's in merchants' best interest to be polite; but nonetheless, I was impressed.

I don't think that it's love that makes the world go round. I think it's good manners. William of Wykeham was right when he told the world, "Manners maketh man," and that was in the 1300s.

To me, being polite is a huge thing. I was brought up in the deep south, where manners were almost a cult fifty years ago. Though I see that changing with every passing year, it's a style that I hope never completely passes out of vogue.

As a writer, practicing courtesy is sometimes hard. Who hasn't wanted to catch up with someone who published a foul review of your work and give them a major dressing down? Who hasn't want to set an audience member straight at a signing, or put down an interviewer who asks an intolerably rude question? Sometimes I can feel the steam coming out of my ears. I don't mean you have to be a doormat when I advocate good manners; I mean a controlled reaction is always more effective than an uncontrolled one, and you're much less likely to end up on uTube with Charlie Sheen.

As a simple matter of practicality, bookstores are much happier to host your events if they have experienced you as a courteous person. There again, I don't mean you have to be a Pollyanna or do things you object to. Just saying, "Thanks for all your hard work on this event" goes a long way. Telling a reader you hope she enjoys the books is also a simple enough expression of appreciation for coming to a signing.

You'd think this would be common sense, and common practice, too. Yet I hear from bookstores and escorts and publicists over and over that this is not behavior that they can take for granted. I've heard horror stories about tantrums, out-of-line demands, and unprofessional behavior (including showing up for events seriously . . . impaired, shall we say).

I'm about to tour in May, and I'm trying to stock up on politeness before I go.

Putting Sleuthfest into practice

Last weekend, I attended my first Sleuthfest, a four-day event organized by the Florida chapter of the MWA.  It's devoted to crime writing, with emphasis is on craft and research.  In addition to classes with writers, editors, and agents, there experts in forensics (including the folks with the Broward Co. bomb  squad truck!).   Okay, I'll say it:  I had a blast (sorry!).  If you have the chance to attend, I highly recommend you do.  The organizers did a terrific job and I got a lot out of it.     

I attended as a panelist (you can see Femmes Elaine Viets and Toni Kelner, left); what's great about that is you get to jam with your colleagues on the topic of writing.  The questions asked by people who are learning to write (or are looking for that next step in getting published) are also great, because they force you to think in ways you might not have before.  

I've always said, the only thing better than writing is talking about writing; sometimes you need to relearn lessons you already know.  I was able to start applying what I got at Sleuthfest to a short story I've been working on this past month. 

Sometimes when I'm working on a short story, it comes very quickly, sometimes just a week or two.  This story was one of the ones that took longer, and not because it was a tricky subject or unusually complicated.  I was getting in my own way and not nearly focused enough.  Guest of Honor Dennis Lehane (shown here with SJ Rozan), in his keynote address gave his top ten tips for writing.  I'm not going to go into all of them—that's his class!—but the one helped me tame my story was his last, which is “just write the story.”  (I'm paraphrasing Dennis here--his exhortation was saltier.)  What I was doing was trying to put in all sorts of technical stuff and flash and I was getting hobbled by that before I had the story itself down.  It's a slippery mistake to catch; the only way I eventually caught it was by reading a paragraph that was giving me trouble for no clear reason.  Eventually, I figured I was trying to make the rest of the story work around it (and it didn't belong there in the first place).

Guest of Honor Meg Gardiner spoke during lunch, principally about her journey to success in publishing.  She repeated, over and over, that it's not just one thing, it's almost never a straight path.  I loved that; it kept me from freaking out when the story wasn't going as quickly or as straightforwardly as I had hoped it would.  It let me catch my breath while I figured out I actually had three different stories I was trying to tell, and only when I concentrated on the one I needed to write now, I could pare out the other stuff away.  Amazing what waiting until your head clears--for just a few minutes--can do to solve your wring issues.  I may joke about the line from Robert Heinlein ("when in panic or in doubt, run in circles, scream, and shout"), but chilling out works much better for writing.

And on another note:  While I was in Florida, I had the chance to visit the Morikami Musueum and Japanese Gardens with SJ Rozan and Al Abramson.  I highly recommend seeing the sights in the area where the convention is being held--it's good for you as a writer and as a person!  As we soaked up the sunshine walking through the absolutely splendid gardens, we talked about books, we talked about writing, and we talked about Japanese art and culture.  I know you join me in sending good thoughts to the people of Japan who have been affected by the horrific earthquake and tsunami.  If you can, perhaps you would consider supporting one of the agencies working to help there—thanks!

Writing in chaos

by Donna Andrews

For a writer, there's something deeply satisfying about sitting at your desk, surrounded by all the tools and supplies you need.  Computer humming away happily.  Dictionary and other reference books and files at hand. Ample supply of paper for any amount of printing out you need to do.  The right kind of audio for the task at hand--which in my case doesn't mean music, however soothing or inspiring, but peace and quiet.  A nice, long stretch of uninterrupted  writing time ahead.  And being on contract and under deadline, but not about to slam into that deadline.  That's the life.

But not, at the moment, my life.

Some months ago, I was happily typing at my desk when I felt water dripping on my head. A leak in my hall bathroom.  And since getting at the leak would require ripping the tub and surrounding tile out, I opted for a full bathroom makeover.  Since the leak had damaged the office ceiling, I added repairing that and repainting the whole room.  And for unrelated reasons, I had to take down the rod and shelf in my bedroom closet.  (Whose idea was it to put the attic access in the ceiling of the closet?  Not me. Probably the same person who put up the eight-foot shelf and rod with only an itty-bitty bracket in the middle for support.)

So I took everything out of my bedroom closet and stored it elsewhere in the house until the contractor can put up a new shelf and rod.  Actually two new four-foot shelves and rods, with ample support at both ends, and all of them removable, in case my pest control company feels the need to get into the attic again.  I also boxed up and stored the entire contents of my bathroom drawers and cabinets before demolition began on March 2.  Things got a little cluttered, but all hell didn't break loose until Sunday, when I started emptying out my office for the ceiling repair and paint job.

Oh. My. God.

I do not, alas, have one of those clean, spare, minimalist offices you see in decorating magazines.  I love the way those offices look--the vintage oak table for a desk, a few sleek, modern bits of office equipment sharing shelf space with designer tchotchkes and a manageable number of books.  I love the look, but after two seconds of dumbstruck admiration, I start wondering: where do they keep their stuff?  Do they have another office next door where they really work?  Where are their reference books, their papers, their envelopes in various sizes?  Don't they ever need a three-hole punch, a shredder, a stapler that really staples? Do they really get along with one tasteful two-drawer oak filing cabinet?

I don't have tasteful and minimalist.  I have stuff.

My entire living room is filled with the stuff from my office.  Stacks and totes of files.  Mountains of books.  Boxes of DVDs.  Mounds of office supplies.  The stuff that was on top of the cabinets and on the shelves is, for the most part, in the far corner of the room, unreachable for the duration.  Less inaccessible is the stuff from the various drawers and cabinets.  Though that stuff still isn't all that easy to reach either, because the last stuff I moved up--with help, in some cases, from my brother and the construction guys--was the furniture, which now surrounds the lesser clutter like the giant ramparts of a walled city.

Hmm.  That sounds rather grand and gothic, like a castle or a cathedral.  Actually, there's nothing grand about my living room, dining room, and kitchen at the moment.  If anything it looks rather like an episode of Hoarders.

My mind's a little cluttered, too.  And not just from the clutter that surrounds me.  The renovation process brings its own mental clutter. Who knew there were so many decisions to make in a simple bathroom renovation.  White fixtures or colored?  Chrome hardware or brushed nickel?  Twelve inch tiles or one-inch mosaic?  And the process of choosing colors for the walls nearly sent me over the edge.  I have too many favorite colors--lime green, turquoise blue, fire engine red, and deep purple, to name a few.  Unfortunately, most of my favorite colors are a little . . . intense for walls.  And the colors people seem to think are suitable for walls seem, well, bland to me. 

I finally picked a Benjamin Moore color called Apple Green for the office.  It's really bright.  Not quite a lime green, but almost.  Or maybe lemon yellow with a hint of green.  Whatever.  I am fully prepared to find that everyone else in the world hates the results, but just looking at it makes me smile.  And not just smile but feel a surge of energy.   Not a bad effect for an office.

I went for something called (don't laugh) Fairy Tale Blue in the bathroom.  It's an aqua, intense enough to keep me happy, but not so dark that it will turn the room into a cave.  I had to work harder at this choice, poring over a dozen or so swatches before settling on a few I liked.  Blue Lagoon?  Seaside Blue? Blue Lake? Passion Blue? Bahamian Sea Blue? Serenity? Caribbean Blue Water?  Cool Aqua?  Baby Boy Blue?  I narrowed it down to Bahamian Blue and Fairy Tale Blue after two trips to the Vienna Paint Store lugging the picture that will hang on the blue wall--a beautiful print called "Waiting for the Tide" by Alaskan artist Karla Morreira.  And after seeing samples of both colors on my walls, I reluctantly decided that while I liked Bahamian Blue better as a color, Fairy Tale Blue was the right one for the walls.  (That's Fairy Tale Blue at the left.  Look okay?  Not too dark?)

I'm a little relieved I don't have to tell people I picked Baby Boy Blue.

The workmen have departed for the day, and temporary peace has descended over the house.  I'm in the temporary office I've created on my dining room table.  I managed to move all the computer equipment and hook it up with no problems.  And the TV and the DVR--I like to watch TV while I play computer games.  It wouldn't be a bad place to work if I had a little more elbow room and could get past the whole Hoarders ambiance.  It will do just fine for the next few days.  It will probably be Monday or Tuesday before they finish the last of the painting and I can start moving everything back in.

Actually, I wouldn't mind that much if they took a little longer to finish.  The thought of moving everything back into the office is rather daunting. 

And in the meantime, life goes on.  As this week's construction went on, I reviewed the galleys of The Real Macaw.  After the workmen left yesterday I managed to revise a story I want to submit to a publication.  Both went out today.  And my editor has okayed the idea for my next Meg book, and I need to start getting into the rhythm of writing my draft. I'd rather have a serene uncluttered office to work in, with nothing but peace and quiet, interrupted occasionally by a bird call or the soft hum of the furnace coming on and off.  What I'll have, for at least a few weeks, is the sights, sounds, and dust of construction, with no walls to dull them.

But it's cozy here in my little temporary nest, and I can work here. We writers all dream of perfect working conditions, and do what we can to achieve them, but we all have to get used to carving out the time and space for our writing from the very imperfect conditions life gives us.

So if there's something life is keeping you from doing--what is it?  And how are you going to carve out some time and space to get back to it?

(And do you think I should have gone for the Bahamian Blue after all?)

Donna

Dogs Rule!

By Kris Neri

I love dogs. I love their playful spirits, that they live totally in the moment and especially that there’s at least a bit of goofiness in even the most dignified among them, and a lot more than a bit in most of them.

People who don’t like dogs will often insist that they don’t like them because dogs are pleasers — that they live to do their masters’ bidding. Most people who share their lives with dogs would probably take issue with that. Some dogs are kind enough to let the people they live with think they’re in charge, while others definitely wouldn’t want their owners to get that impression, since it would upset the balance of power. What dogs mostly excel at is training us.

We used to have a wolf-hybrid named Amanda, who has since passed on, who flunked out of obedience school twice. Two different obedience classes with different teachers. She disrupted the class to such an extent that whenever the instructor called for an off-lead exercise, during which Amanda was likely to gather up the other dogs and take them off somewhere, the instructor usually asked my husband and Amanda to sit that one out, so she didn’t train the other students in ways their owners probably wouldn’t want.

  

It wasn’t that she couldn’t do the obedience exercises — in canine terms, she was a genius. It was that she had too much pride to debase herself with an activity that she clearly regarded as pointless.

Like people, dogs display a variety of personal styles. They aren’t all unruly rebels like Amanda was, but they do all have ways of transforming activities to suit them. Another of our dogs who’s departed now, Jake, an Old English Sheepdog-mix, didn’t take such offense from the obedience training, he just seemed to regard it as boring. So he didn’t have to pay attention to the teacher’s instructions, he took to resting his paw on my shoe during class. When I moved my foot, it dislodged his paw, signaling to him that it was time to do something. There was a lot of doggie goofiness in Jake, but occasionally he showed great wisdom, too.

I often try to put pets into my writing. Not only do I think my characters will like having pets in their lives as much as I do, I assume my readers will enjoy coming to know my animal-characters as well. Whenever possible, I use the appearance of my departed pets, even though I allow the story to dictate their character traits, so I get to spend a little more time with them when I write about dogs that look just like them. In case you can’t guess from the description, Jake returns as Buddy in Dem Bones’ Revenge and Revenge for Old Times’ Sake. Amanda recently lent her appearance to a wolf-dog named Lobo in a story I just wrote.

If I’d had any doubt about how wrong that whole pleasing-theory is, my recent viewing of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show on TV would have disputed it. If dogs are all so gung-ho to do our bidding, why do even the best of the best need nibbles of food to be made to perform as they should during the whole minute they’re being judged?

Nearly all dogs live to eat. My all-time favorite doggie cartoon shows a ship sinking in the background. In the foreground there’s a lifeboat filled with dogs. The caption reads: “All those in favor of eating all the emergency food now, raise your paw.” Naturally, all paws are up. The title of this cartoon was, "Why Dogs Rarely Survive Shipwrecks."

At our bookstore, we serve pizza and wine to our book club. Our Cocker Spaniel Annabelle — named for the goddess/FBI agent-protagonist in my urban fantasy, High Crimes on the Magical Plane — loves pizza night so much, she starts drooling as soon as we set up the tables we use for the club. And she waits at the door for the pizzas to arrive, even before my husband leaves to pick them up. (If you’re wondering why we don’t simply have them delivered, not all the delivery guys have proven to be as smart as our dog.)

Dogs are characters. Anyone who’s lived any length of time with a dog who doesn’t regularly crack up over that dog’s antics, simply isn’t paying attention. Annabelle has decided the TV remote must be important or we wouldn’t keep touching it. Now when we watch TV, she hooks the remote with her claws and slowly pulls it toward her, and she keeps her paw over the buttons, all the while shooting us looks to see if we’ve discovered she’s assumed remote authority.

If you love dogs as much as I do, won’t you share some of your favorite stories?

BTW I also love cats, and I’ve shared my life with some great ones. I’ll write about my little feline monkeys another time. But if you feel like sharing some anecdotes about your cats, do it.

Wet and Wild

Hank: Beth Groundwater--one of the hardest working authors is the biz!--made me laugh with this topic. I'm nearing the end of a manuscript (crossing fingers) and looking for that one final twist--and I kept thinking--"I'm up the creek without a paddle."

And then Beth (whose new series stars a cool and fearless whitewater ranger who always has a paddle) suggested she write about this amazing Whitewater festival.

Ah, worlds collide.

by Beth Groundwater

 The First in Boating on the Arkansas (FIBArk) Whitewater Festival has a long history, with the 63rd one planned for Wednesday-Sunday, June 15-19, this year in Salida, Colorado. Its slogan is “America’s Oldest and Boldest Whitewater Festival.” Thousands of people converge on this small mountain valley town from all over the world to compete in and watch the events. As a whitewater enthusiast, I’ve attended FIBArk a few times, and I'll never tire of it. I look forward to coming to this wild, wet party for many years to come. It’s a great excuse to visit picturesque Salida, Colorado in the summertime.

 

 

 

The first FIBArk in 1949 featured just one race, a 57-mile long downriver race from Salida to Canon City at the bottom of the treacherous Royal Gorge. Of 23 entrants in a variety of two- and one-man watercraft, only two finished the race. Since then, this classic downriver race has been shortened to 25.7 miles, leaving out the Royal Gorge.

 It is still the longest whitewater race in the United States. But, this isn’t the only race in the festival any longer.

 Now there are a variety of long-distance and sprint races for kayaks, canoes, rafts, and stand-up paddle boards. There are rodeo events where boaters display gymnastic prowess, flipping and twisting their boats in the rapids. And there are junior races for youngsters. Multiple award ceremonies and parties last long into the night. 

My favorite event, the Hooligan Race, isn’t really a race. Teams build creative rafts out of anything that can float, pick a theme and dress up in costumes. Then they run those rafts in heats through the whitewater park in downtown Salida past huge crowds lining the banks.

The beer flows, the spectators jeer and cheer, and teams spray water cannons and hoses at the crowd. It’s not so much a competition for which raft is the fastest, but for which team of the surviving boats puts on the most entertaining performance.

Mandy’s boyfriend Rob plays to the crowd and to Mandy’s heart while riding in his Hooligan Race entry in Deadly Currents. You can see some of the creative rafts in past races in the photos below, including a giant turtle,

 

 

 

 

 

and a Katrina house.

 

 

 

 

 A fair is associated with the festival, including carnival rides for the kids, music performances, and booths selling a variety of food, crafts, and whitewater gear and boats.

 

   Also, a parade winds through town on one day of the festival, and other side competitions have cropped up, such as mountain bike races, a Frisbee golf tournament, 5K & 10K runs, a talent show and karaoke competition, skateboard and climbing wall competitions, and even a crazy river dog contest.

There’s never a dull moment!

    Deadly Currents, the first book in my new RM Outdoor Adventures mystery series starring whitewater river ranger Mandy Tanner, takes place in Salida, Colorado during the annual FIBArk whitewater festival. And like the actual river rangers who work for the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area (AHRA), Mandy both patrols the river and volunteers at various events during the festival. All the activity keeps her busy while she tries to figure out who killed local developer Tom King.

Have you ever gone whitewater rafting or kayaking? What did you think of it? Does your city/town put on a summer festival? What is its theme and what do you most like about it?

 

Remember, everyone who comments will be entered into a contest for a free copy of Deadly Currents. If you’d like to see what the other stops are on my virtual book tour, go to: http://bethgroundwater.com/2011_Virtual_Book_Tour.html

 and if you’d like to order an autographed copy of Deadly Currents, go to the website for Black Cat Books http://manitoubooks.com/ and click on "Contact Us”. Either call the phone number or fill out the form with your contact information.

Beth Groundwater writes the Claire Hanover gift basket designer mystery series (A Real Basket Case, a 2007 Best First Novel Agatha Award finalist, and To Hell in a Handbasket, 2009) and the Rocky Mountain Outdoor Adventures mystery series starring whitewater river ranger Mandy Tanner.

The first, Deadly Currents, will be released March 8th.

Beth lives in Colorado and enjoys its many outdoor activities, including skiing, hiking, and whitewater rafting. She loves talking to book clubs, too, and not just for the gossip and wine! Please visit her website at bethgroundwater.com and her blog at bethgroundwater.blogspot.com.