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Close that Border?

by Kris Neri

I have a controversial confession to make: My grandfather was an illegal alien.

It didn’t used to be controversial. It didn’t even used to be interesting. Other people always had way  better anecdotes about their granddads than I did, since mine died before I was born, leaving me absolutely no personal stories to tell about him. But lately, this fact has become quite controversial, and maybe even, uncomfortable for me.

Though my grandfather came to this country illegally in the hope of finding a better life than he could in his birth country, he married a legal resident, and eventually received U.S. citizenship. Still, if the beliefs touted in my home state of Arizona today had been around then, the government might have declared his marriage a sham. If Arizona had had its way decades ago, with its demand to repeal the Fourteenth Amendment — which declares that any child born on U.S. soil automatically receives citizenship — my mother might not have been recognized as a citizen, and she could have been deported to the country she’d never seen. Even more importantly, I would not have existed.

It’s hard to think of yourself as never having been born. It’s equally hard to accept that others might not see you as belonging in the country you regard as a central part of your identify. I’m a proud American, an informed voter and I think I’ve made valuable contributions to our society. But the laws and beliefs of too many in my home state would have denied my family three generations of making those contributions.

Don’t get me wrong — other than sometimes driving with a lead foot, I follow the law. I believe a  nation has a right to secure its borders, and I don’t think people should be crossing them illegally. I’m also aware that it could present a threat to our national security. But I also believe in the words on the Statute of Liberty, Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Surely that describes most of the poor wretches who illegally cross our borders. I also understand that immigration is a complex issue. If we didn’t create a demand for cheap labor, if we didn’t have so many low-end jobs that most Americans don’t want to do, would people keep streaming into the U.S. for that work? If we didn’t have cheap laborers to pick our lettuce, would we be paying ten bucks a head instead of a dollar or two?

I also have to wonder if it matters that my grandfather’s name was Patrick O’Brien not Juan Gomez, that he came here illegally from Ireland, not Mexico. That his skin was fair, not brown. That he spoke English from the moment he stepped illegally off that merchant vessel that docked in New York. Is that what’s at the root of the anti-immigrant fever?

Maybe, maybe not. While I’ve never felt any scorn as a result of my ethnicity, history tells us that when the Irish were streaming into this country in great numbers, they were also reviled, that postings for jobs often read, “No Irish Need Apply.” (I must confess I learned most of that history from Rhys Bowen’s wonderful Molly Murphy series, not my family.) Maybe the anger we’re seeing today is simply the initiation rite we demand of every group that comes to this country, before we accept them as our own. Or maybe it’s simply that in bad economic times, we need to blame someone else for our troubles.

Perhaps the problem is that when we get angry at whole groups, we fail to remember that those groups are made up of individuals, not too different from us. A wonderful book that depicts a small band of folks who cross our southern border, and which tells its tale with warmth and whimsy and charm, is Into the Beautiful North by Luis Alberto Urrea. Of course, the migrants who cross the border in Into the Beautiful North don’t come here to work, but to recruit former Mexican illegals as for-hire soldiers, to bring them back to their town in Mexico to fight the drug cartels. Not exactly the usual situation, but I defy anyone to read Into the Beautiful North and not see the immigration situation at least a little differently.

Granted, every group reshapes our country a little. And change threatens some people, and threatened people come out fighting. But do we really want to deny ourselves the work that today’s migrants, documented and otherwise, perform, not to mention to the contributions they and their descendants might make for generations to come?

I don’t. But maybe I don’t get a vote.

 

Oh, No. Not AGAIN.

Decision-making is pretty interesting, isn't it? Think how many we make every day. And how so often, we make a decision without consciously thinking about it.

Someone asks--the red ones or the black ones? And usually, it doesn't take long to decide--often, we choose in an instant.  Or when you're kind of lost, and someone says--Turn left here, or right? And you say--right. You decide.  When we're writing, sometimes we choose a word  or create a scene (if we're lucky)almost without thinking about it. Which movie? What TV show? What book? Yes, yes, we can do it.

But here's the one that  always stumps me. What's for dinner.

This decision, I cannot make. Help me. Please. Help me.

The other day I added up who many times I've made dinner, and it's shocking/astonishing/ridiculous. Say Jonathan and I have been married for thirteen years. We have been, fourteen in Septempber. That's 356 days a year. On Friday, we usually go out, that's our date night. On Thursdays, Jonathan makes dinner. And more about that in a minute.

But that leaves thirteen years times fifty two weeks a year times five days a week (minus the aforementioned Fridays and Thursdays) so that's 260 dinners a year. So take away--well, say 60 for events and outings and parties and etc, and that's generous but I don't want to exaggerate this (you now me), and that means I have made 200 dinners a year for the past 13 years, and even though I'm not the most enthusiastic at math, even I can figure that means I've made 2600 dinners.

TWENTY SIX HUNDRED DINNERS.

Now let me say, it's not the actual cooking of he dinners that distresses me. I like cooking, it's fun, it's creative, it's not difficult, it's rewarding. You get to make something out of nothing, there are rules that work, you get to try new things, you get to make it pretty, you get to present a nice concoction to someone you love, and you get to share it.  And it might be delicious. All good.

But after TWENTY SIX HUNDRED DINNERS  I just can't think of anything new to make.

"What would you like for dinner?" I ask Jonathan. "Oh, anything," he says. "It doesn't matter." 

SIlence, silence. It does matter, and I'd love to make something that he'd like, so JUST TELL ME WHAT THAT IS. 

 We try to eat healthiy. so that narrows the field a bit. We love whole wheat pasta (there are some good kinds like Bionature). The carry out salmon from Whole Foods, with garlic green beans and brown rick, is pretty deilicious. Brown rice sushi. Also good.

But I bet you I have made EVERY chicken thing there is onthe panet. Don't even talk to me about chicken. I like it, I do, roast chicken with lemon and broiled chicken and picatta and cacciatore and curry and barbeque and stew. Grilled chicken on salad, one of our staples. (We even have a chicken and salad song, but it wont translate to a blog.) Stir fry, also good.

Hamburgers with blue cheese and sweet potato fries. Grilled shrimp. I make a mean rack of lamb.

TWENTY SIX HUNDRED DINNERS.

One day, at I'd say maybe dinner number twenty-two hundred, I lost it. I said sweetheart, can we share this dinner thing?  Now you know Jonathan, he's wonderul, he said sure, I'll talke over the whole dinner process.

Aww. NO, I said, I'm happy making dinner. Just--how about his. ON Thursday, you're in charge. Don't even ask me what I want, just do it. Pizza, fine, Carry-out, fine. Chinese, Thai, Mexican, fine. WHATVER. Just tell me what itme to be at the table.

Oh, let me tell you, it's wonderful. I come home from work, I mess around, organizing and doing all the little things you can do that take up all the time, and then around 8pm, I hear, "dinner's ready!"

Oh. It fills my heart with joy. If you get a chance you should try this deal. It's fabulous.

But then, soon, it's my dinner day again. And if I have to make chicken one more time I wil--well,, fill in the blank.

So, sisters, help. Do you have any wonderful go-to dinner recipes?  Even if they're chicken? I don't need the whole recipe, I can figure it out..just the recipe title. Just the idea. And Ill be back to you when I hit twenty-seven hundred and let you know what we're cooking up.  

Ah. Today's Tuesday...so let's see....

 

 -    

They Have Done the Impossible!

by Toni L.P. Kelner

Last night and the night before, I sat through an extremely long production of The Sound of Music. The lighting was bizarre, the sound quality was awful, the sets minimal at best, and the actors were clearly new to the game. The chairs weren't even comfy. In short, I had a wonderful time.

You see it was my daughter Valerie's school play, and it was the first time most of these kids had been on stage. The drama club teacher, Mr. Tay, had never directed a show before and the school had never done a play before, let alone one as complex as The Sound of Music. It has a large cast, lots of singing, several settings, and an insane number of costume changes. (Valerie was playing Marta, one of the Von Trapp kids, and needed five whole costumes with a wide variety of accessories. Multiply that by seven, just for the kids!) And they only had seven weeks to put it all together!

Given all those limitations, it was insane to even consider doing this play. But they did, and succeeded gloriously. No, it wasn't a perfect production. (Except for Valerie's performance, of course, which was flawless.) There were missed lines, scenery mishaps, and other glitches. That didn't matter. It was still incredible.

It's like the old joke about a dancing bear--it's not how well he dances that's the issue, it's the fact that he dances at all. So whether or not every line and every note was perfect, the fact that these kids got up there and sang and danced and acted was the amazing part. Seeing that a eighth-grade girl could be convincing as the governess Maria, or that a sixth-grade boy could sing Captain Von Trapp's part so beautifully, or that a faux Mother Abbess could be convincingly comforting, or that a a young Frau Schmidt had comic timing... That was just gravy. (And did I mention how wonderful Valerie was as Marta?)

I was particularly struck by the difference between the two performances. Or rather, the way in which the kids behaved beforehand. When I dropped Valerie off at the school before the first show on Friday night, she was tense and anxious, and the other kids I saw were even more nervous. But after the show, when they realized they'd actually pulled it off, they were freakishly happy. Then Saturday, when I dropped her off again, the kids were confidently heading backstage, joking and laughing. The Saturday show was better, too, more confident and assured. That was the real magic.

In the show Firefly, Captain Mal Reynolds says, "We have done the impossible, and that makes us mighty." So I offer a virtual toast to the cast and crew of the 2011 SJS Drama Club Production of The Sound of Music--particular Mr. Joshua Tay--who have done the impossible and been made mighty!

I Wrote a GREAT Blog

I just want you to know that I wrote a great blog yesterday. It was witty and clever, and all about frequently asked questions. I wrote about questions people asked me while I was on tour this past two weeks, and gave my answers. I don't know where this blog went, because I thought I posted it yesterday. But when I checked our website today . . . there it wasn't.

Do I love "True Blood"? You betcha. Not only do I think Alan Ball is a bona fide genius, but I genuinely enjoy the show in all its undoubted excesses. And speaking practically, I'd be a fool to bite the hand that has publicized me so generously. Do I approve of the casting? Absolutely. While no people in the world can match my inner Sookie, Bill, Eric, or Arlene, the actors in the series are doing their best to embody the spirits of the characters.

Do I know all the actors? Yes, most of them. They're universally polite to me, and that counts for a lot. We're not close buddies, because geography, age, and separate interests generally preclude that.

Do I visit the set? Every now and then.

Do I help write the scripts? No, because I'm not a scriptwriter. Here's our working arrangement: they don't tell me how to write the books, and I don't tell Alan's talented writers how to make their scripts work.

Am I happy? Yes, absolutely.

Invasion of Brood XIX

by Mary Saums

 

It's hard to believe it has been one year since the big flood in Nashville. The last couple of months tornadoes have ripped through Tennessee and all around us. And this week, yet another unnerving natural phenomenon ...

... The undead clawed out of their graves at midnight. They crept to the shelter of trees, slithered up trunks and waited while the town slept. In the still of morning, thousands of pairs of red eyes twitched awake when the first human left the safety of her house. They needed no signal. As one, they fell from branches and flew toward her, emitting their hellish alien screeches which made the old woman throw up her arms, scream and wish she had put on a Depends pad. 

That's right, Brood XIX, our 13-year cicadas, are back and terrorizing Nashville this week. You walk down the street, minding your own business, when all of a sudden thwack, you're pummeled by flying insects. LOUD ones. 

They don't hang in groups of three, as above. It's more like an army. 

Some like to play paratrooper and fall from trees onto your head as you walk underneath.  

While you bat them away, you're also crunching the ground troops crawling all over the place like a battalion about to take over the world...

Squish.

...or not. Eewww, it's THEM! and they've ruined my shoes.

Writers try to re-create real life in their stories. But an exact replication of real life is usually too boring for a book or movie plot. Adventures and conflicts have to be added into the characters' daily lives, even if they're only writing about bugs. The writer has to balance that fictional high drama, taking care not to add anything too over the top. Otherwise, as readers, we all feel like we're watching a bad '50s B-movie with unbelievable, poorly developed characters who are always doing stupid things.

One such character or incident, two at the max might work,

but anymore than that

stretches my suspension of disbelief

to the breaking point.

And without that suspension, the whole fictional world, so carefully built,

falls apart.

Even so, I must say I do like bigger-than-life villains since it's only fiction.

 
 

And, of course, their counterpart bigger-than-life fictional heroes.

 

 

 

Yeah, those are good escape reads which is why I like them. My real life is totally boring in comparison. As you now know, since the highlight is a swarm of flying prehistoric-looking arthropods. 

Boring is good. Many people in this world aren't so lucky. My husband and I made it fine through the flood last year but a lot of folks are still struggling to recover.

I'm thankful my family and friends in Alabama weren't hurt during the tornadoes. And I'm thankful for the real heroes in this world, the ones there when we need help,

 

 

who get us through our worst times

 

when it looks like there's no hope

 

and those who give hope instead of doing a fly-by and going fishing.

 

That's something more suitable for fiction.

As annoying as it is to have a cicada drop into your shoe or get trapped inside your windshield and make such a racket that you check your torso for bullet holes, they do have a redeeming quality.

Late in the evening, when humans have settled down on their patios with nice cool drinks, and the moon and the stars have taken their places, the cicadas put on a concert. They're still loud but somehow the night mellows it all out. Like the difference between the sound of a single violin and a full orchestra.

Together we re-enact a scene performed for millenia, since humans could hear and cicadas could rub their little wings together. It's more than a comforting sound that rises and falls in the night. It vibrates way down into our genes. Our innermost parts recognize it as something primal, important. So we sit and listen. We let our minds go and relax.

The cicadas mate and die. Poor sods. They don't get to experience much of the beauty of the world. That bit of providence falls on us.     

 

 

Tai Chi for the Chiseled

 

Tai Chi for the Chiseled

By Elaine Viets

You’re looking at a champion. That’s Iris Kyle, an award-winning bodybuilder.

The bodybuilders in "Pumped for Murder," my new Dead-End Job mystery, are dying to look as good as Ms. Kyle.

And my detective, Helen Hawthorne, gets an upclose look at competition bodybuilding.

She and Phil are newly married and living in South Florida. They’ve opened a private eye agency, Coronado Investigations. Helen is still working a dead-end job, but now she’s undercover for their first client, Shelby. The sweet little blonde bought her chubby hubby a gym membership, and he developed a killer body. Suddenly, her man looked like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel. Unfortunately, he there was no romance for Shelby. She suspected her husband was cheating and wants proof.

Helen takes a job as a receptionist to find out if Shelby’s suspicions are true. While working at the gym, Helen watches a promising young bodybuilder.

Debbi has been working hard to become a successful bodybuilder. Women bodybuilders have to be lean and muscular, but they also need to know how to pose to display their muscles. These are not runway model poses, but highly structured ways to show off muscle development.

Take the Front Double Biceps Pose. Debbi pressed her heels to the floor, flexed her calves and hamstrings and raised her arms. She pushed her glutes back and raised her elbows until they were slightly above her shoulders, then squeezed her biceps hard – but not so hard that her body shook. Then she did it again. And again. Until her trainer told her to stop.

"It’s not enough to have a good body," the trainer told Debbi. "You have to know how to show it. Do it again. Keep your chin up and smile."

Helen thought Debbi looked like an animated anatomy chart. She could make out the lean muscles in her jaw and forehead even from a distance. Mountain ranges of muscle jutted along the young bodybuilder’s shoulders and down her arms. Helen was tempted to pound out a xylophone tune on her corrugated abs.

Debbi’s trainers put her through those grueling poses for more than an hour.

"I’m exhausted watching her," Helen told Carla, a coworker.

"It’s intense," Carla said. "Like tai chi for the chiseled."

Tai chi looks easy, too – until you try it.

Competitive bodybuilding takes time and discipline. Some women bodybuilders live on two ounces of chicken a day – and nothing else. No fruit, no vegetables, no bread or chocolate.

When they get close to the competition, these women may cut their water intake to an ice cube. Some won’t drink any water for a day or so before a competition, for fear of looking "bloated."

This is usually where someone asks me, How can women do that to themselves? They look weird.

So do the multi-facelifted, not to mention the fashion victims parading through the pages of People magazine. You saw the hats at the royal wedding.

In their own world, women bodybuilders are admired for their lean, stripped down physiques.

If you work out, will you have muscles like these female bodybuilders?

A trainer told me, "Ninety percent of women won’t develop those kinds of muscles. It takes more testosterone than women normally have. I love these women who come in here and are afraid to lift two-pound weights because they’ll get huge. Heck, their purses probably weigh more."

I guess we all do a little weightlifting.

                                                                  ****

I’m Pumped for Booksellers. Win a $50 gift card to your favorite bookstore, online or on land. Just click on Contests at www.elaineviets.com

Impolite

by Dana

In a recent a guest post for “Meanderings and Muses,” I wrote how I first encountered my character Anna Hoyt, and how it became harder to write her after I'd learned a few of her secrets.  A new story, “Disarming,” appeared in the June issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.  A third Anna story, “Ardent,” finds Anna on the way home to Massachusetts where she rediscovers her first and true love.  What will she do to save him?  You'll have to check out Cape Cod Noir when it hits shelves in June.

I encountered this conundrum again, when I was asked to write an urban fantasy story with an erotic edge.  I knew I wanted to revisit the Fangborn, and I figured out the most bang for the buck (if you'll pardon the expression) would be found with a story about Claudia Stueben, a very buttoned-down character.  “Love Knot” will appear in The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge in August.  Check it out:  Toni Kelner has a story in this volume, too. 

Writing this, I suddenly realized what one of the major road blocks can be to  writing a follow- up story (or in fact, any new character).  

It's totally, completely, major-league impolite. 

I'm sure the readers of the Femmes Fatales were raised right.  You wouldn't go up to a stranger (I hope) and ask, “What are your deepest fears?  What secrets are you hiding?  What makes you horny?  What have you done on the wrong side of the law?” 

That's what we're doing, every time we tackle or revisit a character.  We're delving deeper into parts of humanity polite people pretend don't exist in real life.  That's why fiction is powerful:  it gives us a safe way to experience feelings and events we'd ordinarily walk a mile to avoid.  That's why mystery writers and readers are so interesting: they're willing to go there, come back, then talk about it in a civilized fashion.

It's hard, overthrowing social training, to explore a character.  Even in the mildest of social dramas,it seems...prurient, a peeping-tom's habit.  But it gets easier, once you realize it's safe to do so, and it's imperative a writer ask those impolite questions.  Maybe realizing what you have to do doesn't make it easier, but it gives you a place to start. 

Writing.  It seems like such a genteel occupation from the outside.  But even Jane Austen would tell you:  It ain't for the squeamish.

Malice Wrap-up

by Donna Andrews

This year I had the wonderful honor of serving as toastmaster at Malice Domestic--and with a fabulous slate of honorees: Guest of Honor Carole Nelson Douglas, Lifetime Achievement Winner Sue Grafton, Poirot Award Winner Janet Rudolph,  Fan Guest of Honor Anne Murphy, and as the Malice Remembers honoree the late Lyn Hamilton. 

A weekend as toastmaster is perfect training for today's job: to introduce my fellow Femmes Fatales, who will share a few of their Malice memories.

Elaine Viets:
Malice Domestic is really a big family reunion, and it was so much fun to see my friends and mystery family again. Femme Donna Andrews was an outstanding toastmaster and kept the weekend running smoothly. Got to spend time with Kris Neri and Mary Saums. Hank and I had fun on a panel with Margaret Maron, Nancy Pickard and Dorothy Cannell called "Things We Wished We Hadn't Written."

We can't wait for next year when Femme Dana will be toastmaster. We missed Femme Charlaine, but she was there through her writing. I signed my short story in her anthology Crimes by Moonlight.

On the road for my new Dead-end Job mystery, Pumped for Murder.
Elaine

Kris Neri
One of the high points of my Malice was my panel, “All in the Family.” Even before we began, the lights in the panel room wouldn’t go on. Not all the lights. Most of the audience was well-lit, it was merely the panel table looked quite mysterious cloaked in darkness. Rather than finding it dismaying, I considered it a perfect touch. Readers always ask those of us who write quirky mysteries how we think of the madcap antics we put in our books. But quirky things happen all the time in real life! Besides, once the hotel staff determined they really couldn’t get those lights working, they brought in standing lamps, which gave us a nice ambience.

It was also fun for me to get to appear on a panel with my former student, Kaye George, author of Choke, her first Imogene Duckworthy mystery. To hear her talk about some of the elements from the book, which we actually worked on in class, was a real treat for me.

But the best part is connecting with great friends…rooming with SoCal friend, Linda O. Johnston, author of Beagle Mania…my dinners with writer Greg Lilly, author of Scalping the Red Rocks, and super-fans and longtime friends, Pat “Kenpo” Tracy and Jacquelynn Morris…spending time with Femmes Donna, who’s fortunately on the mend, and Elaine, who couldn’t look any more gorgeous, and Mary, who was still so excited about appearing at the Edgars…and being with Femmes Toni and Dana, both dazzling in their banquet finery (see photo at right). Good times!

Kris

Dana Cameron:
Malice was a bit of a blur--so much to do, so many people to hug!--but I was happy to have the chance to say hello to all the Femmes there: Kris, Elaine, Toni, Mary (also fresh from the Edgars!), Hank (Agatha nominee!), Donna (Agatha nominee and an outstanding Toastmaster!).  My
time was divided between talking about my Fangborn short story "Swing
Shift" (which made me very happy with an Agatha nomination), and
recording a podcast for Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine of my Anna Hoyt
story "Disarming."  The third story, "Ardent," will appear in Cape Cod Noir.  Finally, I'm thrilled to announce that I will be Malice's Toastmaster next year, and hope to see everyone there!

Dana

Toni Kelner:
This year's Malice Domestic was a whirlwind of events.  I had meetings, hallway and bar conversations, meals with good friends, and panels galore. (At left: Katherine Hall Page and Femme Hank at the auction.)

I moderated one on the travails authors go through to get their books right, and with that topic, moderating was all I was qualified for.  After hearing about Beth Groundwater and whitewater rafting, JoAnna Carl and boating, Vicki Delany and police ride-alongs, and Sandi Ault and SWAT training, I decided I was best suited for internet research.  I was a panelist on the taboo panel, and to confess to dropping the F-bomb more than once in my first "Where are they now?" book, Curse of the Kissing Cousins.  (To acknowledge that, I was wearing earrings made to look like tiny bombs, with F in red on each.)  I think I can safely say that no Malice panel has seen quite so much blue language.  As for my other panelists, Julie Hyzy has put a fictional child in jeopardy, Joanna Campbell Slan wrote about a secret society, and Jeri Westerson talked about a medieval serial killer.  Despite our being such a gang of ruffians, moderator B.K. Stevens kept us in check.

I always enjoy the big events at Malice:  Opening Ceremonies, Agatha Banquet, and the Dame Agatha Tea.  Toastmaster and Femme Donna Andrews did a terrific job with all three, despite battling laryngitis, and one of the best moments was when Femme Dana was announced as next year's toastmaster.

With all that, was it any wonder that I was worn slap out by the time I got home?  But don't worry--I'll be rested up for next year!

Toni

Mary Saums:
My Malice week was so much fun but very different from previous years. Usually I get to town early to visit with friends in the area and hit a few museums before the convention starts. This time, I went to New York City beforehand to attend MWA's Edgar banquet. You know I shopped. And walked. And ate wonderful meals, snacks, second breakfasts, etc. The banquet was awesome. Fellow Femme Dana Cameron was totally gorgeous in her evening dress and composed as she presented at the Edgar award ceremony. Both of us chaired Edgar committees in 2010 and therefore announced the winners in our categories. I was pretty nervous since my category, Best Novel, was the last one of the night. To recover, the next morning I headed down to Malice. For the first time in many years, I wasn't an official Malice participant. Instead, in the daytime I worked some on my current manuscript or had lunch with friends Dean James, Carolyn Haines and publicist Rebecca Crowley. At night, there's only one thing to do at Malice - head to the bar to re-connect with other friends. Always a fun time!  

Mary

Donna:
Me again.  Before I turn over the podium--er, make that the blog--to the next Femme, I'd like to share a few words and thank a few people.  (At right: the Simply the Best panel: Nancy Pickard, Louise Penny, Harriette Sackler, Femme Hank, Heather Webber, Femme Donna.)

I had a great time.  Even with the remnants of this year's dire respiratory bug still audible in my voice--not to mention the cough that was fading with every day but still not quite gone--I had a great time. 

I loved hearing Rhys Bowen and Mary Jane Maffini share their memories of Lyn Hamilton.  If I thought I could have done it without either coughing or choking up, I'd have made an audience contribution and shared my memories of moderating a panel that included Lyn at Left Coast Crime 2011 (in Anchorage).  I contemplated a few of Lyn's titles--The Moche Warrior, The Xibalba Murders, and The Etruscan Chimera--and made an executive  decision that my panelists would prefer to introduce themselves.  I told Lyn later in the bar that I'd have been one for three on her titles--at least I did know how to pronounce "chimera."

Dan Stashower did a great job on the toastmaster interview.  The "Simply the Best" panel, with Louise Penny, Nancy Pickard, Hank Phillippi Ryan, and Heather Webber, was a blast--what fun  to be nominated in such a slate!  And Hank and Katherine Hall Page once again did a fabulous job as auctioneers.

In fact, if I went on to describe my whole weekend, we'd all OD on the words great and fabulous.  Some highlights: my fellow panelist, Joelle Charbonneau, who's a singer and a voice teacher as well as a mystery writer, gave me some fabulous advice on restoring my cough-ravaged voice.  (Think Cold-Eeze strawberry and cream flavor.  Reduces the swelling of the vocal cords.)  Malice Grant winner Robin Templeton was kind enough to mention that I'd been helpful in getting her winning manuscript into shape.   (The first and last photos on this blog were taken by Robin wearing her photographer's hat.) And finally being able to cheer when Femme Dana was announced as next year's toastmaster. 
'
In fact, here's the whole slate for next year:
Guest of Honor: Jan Burke
Toastmaster: Dana Cameron
Lifetime Achievement: Simon Brett
Malice Remembers: Tony Hillerman
Poirot Award: Lee Goldberg
Fan Guest of Honor: Ruth Sickafus.

You might want to register soon.  I haven't heard for sure, but I think this year's Malice sold out.  And there's a rumor Femme Charlaine might be clearing room in her schedule for Malice 2012.  

So that's it, Femme readers.  We had a lovely time.  And we hope to see you next year in Bethesda!

Donna

Home Sweet Loved-and-Hated Home

By Kris Neri

Femme Donna’s recent blog that dealt with her house-renovation woes brought to mind my own love-hate relationship with houses and home renovations.

I love houses. Big ones, small ones. I like their interesting architectural details and the way they’re put together. Mostly, though, I love the touches people add to make them unique.

When I can’t quite fall asleep, sometimes I design a house mentally until I drift off. The resulting efforts  are never good — form fouls function more than following it in my semi-sleep state, with rooms just springing out in odd places. Oh, I’m sure I’ve come up with a few exceptional design ideas, but I can’t remember them.

I’ve always harbored a secret fantasy of inheriting an old wreck of a house, filled to the rafters with fascinating junk. I love the idea of remodeling it, transforming it from a hovel to a jewel. Not for the financial gain, but the adventure. Since nobody in my family has ever owned such a place, the odds of one coming into my life seem slim. But I gave the experience to my protagonist Tracy in Revenge for Old Times’ Sake, so I got to sift through the belongings Tracy's daffy movie star mother left in her monstrosity of a house, which I’m slowly remodeling from the comfort of my desk chair and my laptop. 

 The thing is, while I’ve never had the fun of picking through all the stuff filling a house like Tracy’s, I have completely remodeled a home. Strangely, given my fantasy, I must confess it wasn’t any fun at all! The house we owned when we lived in California made the poor choice of standing in the way of the 6.8 Northridge Earthquake. Every room in the house had to be repaired or rebuilt. The damage was so extensive, we had to move out before the repairs could be made. And given the lack of rental housing after the earthquake, especially for people with four pets as we had at the time, we had to live for most of that year in a rental RV parked in our driveway.

Despite the cramped quarters, it should have been great, a part of my fantasy come into being. But I   hated it all. The daily wrangling with the contractor and his crew, as they fell farther behind, the battles with the insurance company, the endless mistakes, and the many trips I took to hardware and design stores. Still, I should have recognized it as the chance to reshape a house that I’d always longed for.

It’s probably fair to admit that my love of houses and home remodeling is limited to the virtual realm.

 That’s why my favorite TV shows are House Hunters, House Hunters International and, in a pinch, Property Virgins. In case you're one of the few people who has never seen them, they're mostly lamely-scripted, semi-reality shows, in which we watch strangers search for a new home. For a house-loving voyeur, there is nothing better than watching one of these shows. They let people like me see homes of all sizes and price-ranges throughout the world. What could be better? I record them so there’s always a selection on my DVR. They’re also especially great for busy people, since there’s probably only eight minutes of fresh content in a half-hour show, making it easy for DVR viewers to zip through the rooms and yards, before moving onto the next house hunt.

If only the people looking at the houses weren’t so lame. First-time buyers with limited budgets expect palaces. House-hunters who take pride in never cooking require showcase kitchens. People spending millions on a home whine about the color of the paint. I find myself shouting at the screen, “You’re spending two million dollars on a house — you can afford a can of paint.” During some shows I shout so much, I have to mute the set and just content myself with looking at the pictures, or it agitates me too much.

What can I say? I might love houses, especially in the virtual realm, but my favorite house-buying shows are also the shows I love to hate.